The Shadowbearer (aegis of the gods)

by Terry C. Simpson

  Thoughts preoccupied by worry for his family, Stefan studied his surroundings. The slums, he expected to be in disarray, but they extended farther into the city than ever before. Garbage, the stench of old feces, and clogged sewer drains permeated the air. The city’s neglect was shocking. Not only did refuse line the streets, and a god-awful reek filter from the sewage system, but many buildings were in disrepair. Once prosperous inns were shuttered and dark. What music tinkled through the night was muted and melancholy. If the people outside appeared dreary and downtrodden, those along the road were corpses, eyes blank, expressions dead.

  What, in Ilumni’s name, has become of my beloved city? Even as he asked the question, Stefan knew. The touch of shadelings was sucking the life from the living.

  Soldiers patrolled by constantly, prodding one person or another with their tasseled spears, ordering them to move along before curfew set in. As one such guard put it, ‘Either huddle a bundle, get off the road, or take a blade to the gut. Your choice.’ The rule seemed to be no movement along the streets after a certain hour or face the dungeons or worse.

  With the clop of their horses’ hooves and snorts playing accompaniment, they ascended into the Upper City. Stefan fought hard to ignore the steady string of vibrations from his weapon. Several times, he resorted to yanking tight on his dartan’s reins to dissuade it from attacking a person. The sights here were as depressing, with more than one notable villa now overrun with creepers and vines, their previously manicured gardens choked with weeds. Dust and debris blew along once pristine flagstones.

  The few nobles out, who would be dressed in extravagant clothes, all wore darker colors. They pulled their cloaks tight around them, and kept their hoods up as they too hurried, averting their eyes from Cerny and the Kings’ Guard. The way the nobles appeared to be in a rush and often made nervous peeks toward the guards, it was obvious the curfew applied here as well.

  On more than once occasion, when his sword reacted, the person in question gave an almost reverent bow to Cerny and practically ignored Stefan. The dartan ensured they kept a safe distance. Stefan made note of every face he encountered during such occurrences.

  Up ahead the Royal Palace loomed, dreary and foreboding. The effect wasn’t simply from nightfall. The walls themselves appeared darker, not the near shining white Stefan remembered. Slowly spreading with night’s advent, like some black creature encroaching on the lamps and torchlight, shadows clung to every crack, crevice, overhang, battlement, and murder hole.

  To Stefan’s surprise, a smaller than usual guard contingent kept watch along the colonnade leading to the stairs and wide entrance. Whereas the King once had several dozen servants greet visitors, only two did so, taking the reins of Stefan’s and Cerny’s mounts. The eyes of the one that took the dartan’s chains flickered fearfully. With a few words, Stefan reassured the servant the mount would be fine, warning him not to tie it near the horses. The King’s Guard dismounted and tethered their horses on nearby posts. Not saying a word, Cerny waited patiently.

  Expressions somber, their boots echoing in the spacious courtyard, the King’s Guard marched over to meet them. As they drew closer, Stefan’s sword began a slight thrum. He rested his hand on the weapon, and the sensation subsided. They lined up five on each side, one row in front Cerny, and the other ahead of Stefan, and marched up the stairs.

  The gigantic metal doors, at least twelve feet tall, inched open. Light pooled out from the interior to meet that of the torches hanging next to the entrance. Creaking on hinges as if they hadn’t been oiled in ages, the doors swung inwards to reveal Kahar with his hood thrown back, silver and green eyes glinting.

  “You men take to your patrols,” Cerny ordered. “If I have need of you, I’ll send for you.”

  The King’s Guard bowed and turned stiffly to obey the command.

  Behind Kahar stretched the main hall lined by pillars with lamps in sconces.

  Cerny coughed into his gloved hand. “After you, the King-” He cut off when Kahar’s eyes shifted in his direction.

  The prospect of accompanying Kahar almost made Stefan cringe, but he squared his shoulders and stepped inside. Cerny joined him and the doors groaned shut.

  Stefan tried his best not to contemplate how they closed without Kahar touching them. Instead, he focused on a distant point down the hallway to give off the impression he was staring the bodyguard in the eye. Kahar turned and strode away; silky movements making it appear as if his feet never touched the carpeted floor.

  A slow breath escaped Stefan’s mouth, but his relief was short-lived as the pungent stench of rot and moldy fur made him cough. A sudden clamminess crept down his spine at the scent he recognized.

  Wraithwolf.

  His hand slid down to the comfort of his sword’s hilt. Coupled with the carpet’s stink, which reeked as if it had been wet but not cleaned in months, if not years, the long hall began to feel constrictive despite it being at least fifteen feet wide. With his other hand, Stefan loosened his collar trying to make it easier to breathe. Not once did Cerny react to the foul odor.

  As they walked, Stefan kept his gaze shifting from the side to side into any shadowed alcove or corner. He started at what he thought was a flurry of movement only to realize it was a trick of the capering flames within the lamps when they played off the images of men, beasts, and battles on the many paintings and tapestries or off the statues along the hall. At any moment, he expected the shadelings the King employed to leap into the open and tear him limb from limb, but none did. In fact, not once did he notice so much as a guard by the time they traveled the length of the hall.

  “You should not have returned,” Kahar said as they entered an antechamber. Despite the palace’s emptiness and silence, the man’s voice lacked an echo.

  “Why is that? I always return to the King, regardless of what happens.” Stefan’s voice reverberated.

  “You were defeated. Again.”

  Stefan shrugged, trying to appear braver than he felt. “Was this loss so different than the others? The Erastonians are stronger foes than Nerian anticipated.”

  Kahar said nothing.

  They passed into a large room decorated with cushioned benches and chairs. The stark desolation of the castle only added to the chill that had crept into Stefan’s bones upon reaching Benez. He wanted to hug himself. Instead, he drew the cloak tighter around him, making certain to keep the material clear of his sword.

  “The Erastonians are not half as strong as they think,” Kahar finally said when they entered another antechamber. “In another time and place, you would have defeated them.”

  Stefan bristled at the remark. “You mean if the King had bothered to give me the best of his Alzari or fought them in full force. Why would he let his armies face defeat after defeat?”

  “Why indeed? Did the King not tell you about the hope, the belief he gained when he saved the Unvanquished?”

  Stefan growled under his breath at the mention of the name. “He didn’t save them. He killed them. Now look what’s become of Benez. The people are without hope. They’re fleeing. The soldiers themselves, all but the Alzari, appear as if they expect the end any day now.”

  “The end is soon, but not the one many expect.”

  “Nerian can’t hope to win against the odds he faces. The Erastonians, the Felani, the Svenzar, the Tribunal’s Ashishin with an allied Granadia at their back. He must-”

  “You sound as if you side with them,” Cerny interrupted.

  In his mounting anger, Stefan had forgotten about the man. “No. I sound as if I have some sense.”

  “Whatever happened to the man who believed he could not lose?” Kahar asked. “The man who followed the Disciplines? The man who believed in perseverance?”

  A twinge of sadness crept through Stefan. “He died,” he whispered.

  Cerny chuckled.

  “We both know the dead can be reborn.”

  Stefan missed a step. What did Kahar mean by that? Could he know
…?

  They entered the last hallway and the long stretch before the throne room. Kahar stopped and faced Stefan. Heart thumping in his chest, Stefan met the man’s silver-flecked gaze, not flinching once. Demand bravery by overcoming your fear.

  “What happened with Garrick and his men was a warning to you that you could do no more here,” Kahar said, face blank. “The Svenzar tried to warn you off, but you still would not listen. So no, I do not believe Stefan the Undefeated, Stefan the Steadfast is dead. He stands here before me, a living example of what a man who lives and breathes the Disciplines can become. You stand before me defiant, facing me down even though you know I am more than what I appear to be. You worked for years now to find a way to save your people, to defeat Nerian. Your presence here is proof of who you are.”

  “What-” Cerny blurted. He took several steps back.

  Stefan reached for his sword.

  Kahar’s hand on his stopped him. He never saw the bodyguard move. “That will be of no help here. Do not attempt to draw on whatever meager power it gave you over the years. The divya was not meant for you but another. You are simply its carrier for now.”

  No matter how much he strained, Stefan could not break free of Kahar’s hold. The man seemed not to exert any pressure, but his hand held fast all the same. Finally, Stefan gave in with a nod and relaxed.

  Kahar leaned in closer. He had no scent. “Have faith in yourself. Ilumni will show you the way,” he whispered.

  Stefan frowned at the bodyguard’s words. “Have you told any of this to the King?” he asked, matching Kahar’s pitch.

  “No, but King Nerian has a way of perceiving things. He always has. Not many can hide what they do from him.”

  “So what is it that you want?”

  “For you to live … as you must. This is why I do not understand why you chose to return.”

  Stefan stared Kahar in the eye, his face becoming a mask of its own. “Because I have a people to defend. A wife, a son, and a daughter to save.”

  The corner of Kahar’s lips twitched. He bowed. “Go. Save them then. They are in the throne room. But remember two things. Do not draw your sword against him, and no matter what he offers, no matter what you see or think you see, do not willingly give it to him. The weapon is your family’s birthright.” He turned and strode back the way they came, the door closing behind him of its own volition.

  CHAPTER 31

  Stefan stared at the closed door.

  “What he says makes no difference.” Cerny regarded him with a sly smile. “You can’t hope to defeat Nerian.”

  Thoughts spinning, Stefan barely noted Cerny’s remark. Then, Kahar’s words hit him. ‘They are in the throne room.’ He spun on his heels to face the room’s entrance. “No.” He whispered. “No.” Gut clenching, he sprinted down the hall. When he reached the door, he didn’t bother to push, choosing instead to slam it open with his shoulder.

  Flames crackled in the braziers next to the pillars and in the three large hearths along the walls. Unlike the rest of the castle, the throne room was hot. Up on the dais, dressed in ebony armor, Nerian slouched, his throne barely visible behind his massive form. On either side of him sat Anton and Celina. There was no sign of Thania.

  Cerny rushed into the room. “Sire-”

  King Nerian stopped him with an upraised hand. “So the wayward son returns,” Nerian’s voice echoed throughout the empty chamber. “Children, go greet your father.”

  They glanced over to Nerian as if uncertain.

  “He is your father, isn’t he? Go on.”

  They stood. Stefan’s eyes widened, and if not for the circumstances, he would have smiled at how much they’d grown. Anton was almost Stefan’s height, his shoulders broad, hair coal-black. Celina was also tall, but she had her mother’s silky tresses and dainty shape. Both were dressed in finery. Despite the years, their features were unmistakable.

  One foot in front the other, Stefan reminded himself as he willed his feet to move and began to walk toward his children. At first, Anton and Celina took slow, uncertain steps, then their pace quickened, and eventually they ran. Tears in his eyes, Stefan broke into a run to meet them.

  “Father,” Anton said, breathless when they met near the room’s middle. “Is that really you?”

  “Yes,” Stefan replied. He grabbed them both in his arms and hugged them.

  “Of course it is silly,” Celina said. “He’s almost the same as when Mother lets us see him in her divya. The one that resembles him.”

  The pendant of Thania hanging around Stefan’s neck was heavy and cold against his skin. “Yes. Yes it is,” he whispered. He hugged them even tighter.

  The moment seemed to go on forever, him hugging his children, and they squeezing him in return. They cried the entire time.

  Finally, Stefan released them. Wiping at his eyes, he asked, “Where’s your mother?”

  “She abandoned them,” Nerian said from across the room.

  How did the King hear what was said from so far away? “She would never do that,” Stefan shouted. He searched his children’s faces to confirm he was right. Sadness reflected at him.

  “She’s been gone for days,” Anton said.

  Celina shook her head, mouth downturned. “The same day Uncle Nerian’s King’s Guard showed up at our home.”

  “Uncle Nerian?” Stefan repeated.

  Anton shrugged. “It’s what we called him for years. Mother said Uncle used to look after you like you were his son.”

  Stefan took in the throne and the stranger sitting upon it. “That was a long time ago. He’s no longer the same man. Did your mother give any idea where she was going?”

  “I know, but I doubt they would.” Nerian chuckled.

  A squeeze of his arm made Stefan look down. It was Anton’s hand. When he met his son’s eyes, Anton’s expression pinched with concentration.

  “He cannot hear us now, Father,” Celina whispered, lips barely moving. “Anton is making sure of that.”

  She had positioned herself to block the King’s view. The strain on Anton’s face revealed the boy was Forging. Stefan nodded to show he understood.

  “Mother left when the King sent his Alzari for all of us,” Celina said, her voice still low. “By the time she realized what was happening it was too late. We would have fought them off, but there was no way to win. No one knows where Mother went or how she escaped. So we have sat here, playing the innocent niece and nephew to the King while hoping she returns with help. Father …” Her voice cracked a little. “We’re both scared. We saw what the King does to those who fail him. A-And the creatures that stalk these halls, often trying to get in here … We can hear them growling late at night. We can smell them. A-Anton says they’re shadelings.”

  “They are,” Stefan said. “The King has turned to the shade.”

  Celina sucked in a breath, her gaze darting toward Nerian. A dip of Anton’s head and the unsurprised expression on his face said he suspected as much.

  “What are we going to do?” Celina asked, her hand gripping Stefan’s even tighter, fingers cold and clammy against his palm.

  “Enough of the whispering,” Nerian called. “Enter.”

  The double doors to the chamber’s left side swung open. In pairs along the shadowy hallway, nine figures entered the room. Stefan’s sword vibrated violently against his leg.

  The first four were wraithwolves, fur rippling, mouths lolling in toothy grins.

  Darkwraiths entered after them. Long black cloaks hid their bodies, and their feet never appeared to touch the ground. Smoky mist danced around them. It coiled up like a living thing to hide their faces in a translucent hood from which red eyes glowed.

  Even as seeing the shadelings here, so obviously under Nerian’s command, came as a shock, nothing prepared Stefan for the person trudging between them. His heart felt as if it had been ripped from his chest. Dressed in blue, tattered, bloody clothes, her face a mask of welts was Thania.

  “No, no �
�� no … no,” Stefan whispered. Fresh tears welled up in his eyes.

  The group positioned themselves next to Cerny. A slow, triumphant smile spread across his features. “I told you I would take your place.”

  Choked cries escaped from Celina and Anton. Stefan managed to prevent them from running to their mother. He did not know how he kept his ground or stood despite the weakness in his knees, but something deep within told him he must.

  His pendant bloomed with warmth. He reached a tentative hand to the charm before he stopped. Why hadn’t he felt the same from the children? Thania’s words rose fresh in his mind. ‘Our pendants, the pieces of us I imbued into them, now also contain a part of the children’s essences. The day you do not feel its warmth, our love when within its presence is the day you will know something is amiss. But even then, there will be hope.’ He should have realized what the pendant’s coldness meant when the children came near, but he was so overwhelmed by his emotions he’d missed its importance.

  Stefan made to ease his grip from Celina’s, but a warning look flashed across his wife’s face.

  A chuckle began behind him. The sound built into a hearty laugh. By the time he turned to face throne, it was a cackle.

  King Nerian’s mad laugh rose to a feverish pitch before he sputtered into silence. The only other noise within the room came from the flames crackling atop the braziers.

  “I apologize, but I could not help myself,” Nerian said. “The expression on your face when you saw your wife, the way she tried to warn you … This whole scenario is priceless. The deception almost worked too.”

  “What-” Stefan began.

  “Oh, come now,” Nerian said. He pointed at Thania. “That … is your wife. Those,” he gestured at Anton and Celina, “are not your children.”