Aegis of The Gods: Book 00 - The Shadowbearer (17 page)

P
ART
2

A
LLEGIANCES,
H
OMECOMING,
S
ANCTUARY

C
HAPTER 20

T
obal had once been a prosperous Harnan town at the edge of the Mondros Forest. Now, the dead and scavengers inhabited its streets and rundown buildings. They hung out of windows, lay on the russet–splattered cobbles, perched on the roofs, or dug into their next meal. The stench of death overrode that of char, and the day’s heat made it worse. The odor crawled up Stefan Dorn’s nose and threatened to choke him. Covering his mouth with his hand, he fought down bile.

Crows and ravens pecked at bloated corpses. A lapra, its muzzle and body the size of a large dog, perched on four of its six legs as it tore flesh from a young girl’s remains. The brown–furred beast ignored Stefan’s approach. His arrow took the creature in the chest. The lapra keeled over. Their caws a chorus of protests, the scavenger birds took flight in a black ripple.

“This is all they leave behind,” Elder Hurst said in a quiet voice. Near seven feet, like most Harnan, his shoulders slumped as he regarded the carnage. “May Humelen and the Forms embrace them,” he prayed.

Behind the Harnan rode High Ashishin Clarice in her crimson robes with its silver sleeves. The dark–haired woman kept her face expressionless and back straight, but from her pallor, Stefan could tell she found the slaughter troubling.

This was not the first such town he’d seen after an Erastonian attack, nor was it the second or even the tenth. He’d witnessed too many massacres to count now. Most times the inhabitants were Setian. Since the day the Unvanquished had been defeated, almost fifteen years ago, the Erastonians proved to be an implacable enemy. They spared no one.

However, the dead within the town did not compare to what shadelings wrought. People who died to Erastonian swords were still able to see the gods. Shadelings took a person’s life
and
their soul. They created more of their kind from death. That was the future if both the Erastonians and Nerian weren’t stopped. The genocide was beginning with the Setian. Where it would end, Stefan wished he knew.

Since that first day, Nerian had not taken part in any further battles. He remained in Benez as the Erastonians countered his armies at every turn. Stefan was sick of defeat and his people’s suffering, but before he could take on Nerian, he had to deal with the invaders.

“They can be turned aside,” Stefan said. “But for that I will need help.” He nodded to the High Shin. “From both of you.”

“You bring this cataclysm down on our people and now you beg for assistance?” Elder Hurst shook his head, lips curled in disgust.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Stefan said, “but the Setian have lost more than anyone.” Even as he said those last words, he regretted them.

Elder Hurst’s face darkened with a rage so intense, Stefan thought the man might attempt to attack him. If not for the High Shin’s presence as an intermediary, and the fact the Harnan followed Formist worship, which preached serenity, Stefan would have spurred his horse to avoid the Elder’s possible strike. As it was, Hurst muttered a prayer and calmed himself.

“Words can’t convey how I feel.” Stefan hoped the man heard the sincerity in his voice. “This was never my intention. If the choice had been mine, I wouldn’t have ventured into Everland.”

“There is always a choice,” Clarice said.

“Simple enough to say when your family isn’t about to die,” Stefan said in bitter retort.

“Why should we help you?” Elder Hurst drew rein next to the piled remains of children. “You caused all of this. Why should we not call our people back to the Nevermore … to the safety of the Stone?”

Shuddering, Stefan averted his eyes from the corpses as a sudden picture of Anton and Celina among them formed in his head. He took a moment before he answered. When he did, he met the Elder’s pitiless gaze. “The Erastonians won’t stop until they suffer a defeat, but at least they are human. Retreating to the Nevermore will not save you. On the other hand, if Nerian wins,” he gestured toward the bodies without looking at them, “things will get worse. We must act now while there’s a chance to prevent further suffering for your people.”

Elder Hurst peered all around him, a pained expression on his face. “Suppose I and my people agree, how do we win? We have been powerless to stop them and as yet the Svenzar have remained out of the conflict.”

“We’ll beat them by using something they cannot anticipate.”

The Elder frowned.

“A good general doesn’t give away any secrets,” Stefan said. “Let’s just say it’s something no one has seen before.”

“You expect me to believe this?”

“I’m asking you to trust me. I too have lost many in all of this, and I still stand to lose much more.” Stefan stared Hurst in the eye. “What I propose is the only way.”

“And that is?”

“Once we show the Erastonians we’re capable of beating them, we then offer them an alliance against Nerian.” Stefan prepared himself for the outburst that would follow.

To his surprise, Elder Hurst said, “Using the enemy of your enemy ….” The Harnan’s gaze swept toward the distant Nevermore Heights and the green slopes that appeared to bleed into the clouds. “Another man might seek only revenge, but I am not any other man, Lord Dorn. I understand the importance of survival.”

“Then you agree?”

Elder Hurst gave a long exhale. “Yes, but understand this … you must secure the one victory to give our people hope before we commit everyone.”

“Praise Ilumni,” Stefan muttered under his breath.

“Where do we start?”

“Well,” Stefan nodded to High Shin Clarice, “that’s one of the reasons we came here. High Shin, is he still following?”

“Yes,” Clarice said. “He crossed from the woods and is at the south end of town.”

The Knight Commander wheeled his mount and slapped his reins, sending the horse bolting down the main avenue to their south. Ravens and crows flapped from his path, cawing their annoyance. Hair streaming behind him, he swept by homes, many of them little more than burnt shells with their doors hanging askew.

Black flashed among the houses a few hundred feet away. It flitted between several structures before resolving into a man in the dark armor of an Erastonian. He was heading for the town’s outskirts in a dead sprint. His legs ate up the ground faster than Stefan’s horse galloped.

Stefan flapped his reins harder, but the distance between him and the scout did not close. It increased.

The Erastonian scout passed the last few homes and into the open field. Less than two hundred paces separated him from the towering evergreens of the Mondros Forest.

Perfect.
The Knight Commander drew rein, bringing his stallion to a grinding halt. He leaped off the saddle, snatching his bow as he did so. As he sought the calm of the Shunyata, he took an arrow from the quiver on his back. He nocked it, aimed, drew, and fired.

Before the twang of the bowstring subsided, he shot again, several feet to the left. Then he loosed another arrow to the right.

Stefan didn’t watch the arrows’ flight. He kept his gaze fixed on the Erastonian. “Left or right,” he said under his breath.

The scout made a sudden dodge to his left. The first arrow missed, but the second one punched through the back of his thigh. The man cried out as he pitched forward into the grass.

Knowing he had all the time in the world, Stefan slung his bow back onto his mount. From next to his saddle, he took a skinning knife. Torture wasn’t one of his favorite things, but the scout had information he needed.

The Knight Commander took one more look at the corpses within Tobal. He took particular note of several flayed and nailed to the door of an inn. A tune called
The Bitter Onion
came to mind. It was a dark song that told of a man who sought revenge against those who took his family. Whenever he captured one, he set an onion beside them and peeled their skin from their bodies in imitation of the vegetable’s many layers. Stefan whistled the rhythm as he strode toward where the wounded scout was dragging himself through the field.

C
HAPTER 21

“Y
ou have done well, Vencel,” Stefan said. “And you, Master Gavril.” He nodded to the Banai. “This is better than I expected.”

“Is least I could do,” Gavril said. The bald–headed Banai spoke slowly in a garbled accent. He had a tendency to leave out some words. “You saved me from arena. Brought me home. I am in your debt.”

Merchant Vencel shrugged. “Nerian ruined trade. Taxes are so high in Benez I don’t go there anymore. The other major cities are almost as bad and he’s taken a particular interest in the black market too. In times like these a man has to seek a new future.”

Dressed in his usual silks, Vencel often made it seem riches were his only concern. Yet, he was more loyal and honorable than many soldiers.

“It good doing this,” Gavril said. “Your men work long hours. They make good Banai.”

Stefan laughed. Kasimir would cringe if he heard himself referred to as one of the short, bald–headed race. “Without you two, this wouldn’t be possible. All these years of breeding and training raised this many.”

The two men puffed up with pride.

“This day was a long time coming,” the Knight Commander added as he took in the vast, lush plains with their abundant orchids. He sniffled, suppressing another sneeze from the perfumed scents. In the distance to the east rose the Ost Mountains. They had chosen this location for the abundance of dartans and its remoteness at the edge of Banai territory.

In the field below them was the focus of Stefan’s enthusiasm, pride, and hope. Dartans. Thousands of them, all with the spaces cut into their shells to allow a rider. Each of them trained to be more docile by the use of shocksticks, the Banai beast–taming methods, and breeding. That day, back in Seti at the arena, a plethora of ideas had come to mind when he saw what he’d dreamed of long ago: a dartan under control and used as a mount. Not only were the beasts faster than the Erastonians by far, but he’d tested them against the sharpest swords, even
divya
. It was near impossible to penetrate their armored skin or the carapace on their back.

Swords slashing at imaginary foes, spears jabbing, Kasimir and six thousand of Stefan’s men rode the animals, wheeling them in tight formations. Despite being twice or three times the size of a large horse, the beasts ran with speed and grace. Unlike riding a horse, there was no uncomfortable jounce. Their padded feet made little noise on the ground. In nondescript clothing, the soldiers hunkered down in the saddle within the cutout. The seat itself was a separate hump within the space to allow the men’s legs to drop to the side with their feet resting on notches carved from the shell. It had taken Stefan several months to learn to ride the creatures, and he thought himself decent at the task. His men made him appear clumsy.

These dartans were the latest stock, not needing shocksticks to be controlled. He could picture a battle now, the dartans charging, barreling anyone from their path while their jaws tore into an enemy soldier’s flesh. Precise attacks from the riders finished the job. Mastering weapons atop the mounts would take additional work, but his men already had a good grasp for the technique.

Stefan waved to Kasimir. The time had come to put their new mounts to a test.

After days of hard riding northwest, that would have normally taken several weeks on horseback, they arrived at their destination—an encampment at a series of hills overlooking the meandering banks of the Tantua River where it split off to form the Kalin River. Moss hung like soggy, disheveled hair from the trees along the muddy banks of swampland. Stefan grimaced at the foul air’s taste that managed to drown out the mustiness of his three thousand strong dartan cavalry. At this time of year, the water should be flowing freely, but the recent lack of rain made that near impossible. In the distance farther north, a wall of gigantic evergreen trees marked the border of the Mondros Forest and Harnan territory.

Banners depicting a mountain range ruffled in a breeze that did little to alleviate the day’s humidity or the smell. The flags dotted the sprawling encampment. Tall, gangly soldiers dressed in leather and cloth armor blanketed the undulating hilltops. Each wielded a long–hafted greataxe. Between their hair color, which ranged from sandy brown to russet, their size, and their mahogany skin tones, the men could have been chopped from the same tree. The last time Stefan had seen this many Harnan Stoneguards was in his campaign against them.

One more battle standard stood out in the midst of the Harnan Stonewall banners: the Tribunal’s Lightstorm. Three people, a female and two males, strode forward, separating themselves from the army. Stefan expected Elder Hurst and High Shin Clarice, but the last man was a surprise. Pathfinder Kaden’s armor and deadly stride were unmistakable.

Stefan raised his hand as he slowed to a walk a few hundred feet from the army. Spreading to his sides and behind him, his cavalry followed his lead. “Stay a few steps behind, and no one speaks but me,” he said. Without waiting for the reply, he set off at a trot toward the Harnan and the High Shin.

“Hail Elder Hurst and High Shin Clarice, Pathfinder Kaden,’ Stefan called as he drew rein in front of them.

They acknowledged him with a slight tilt of their heads. Elder Hurst’s gaze roved over Stefan’s mount then shifted behind the Knight Commander. The Harnan’s graying brows rose, and he gave an appreciative nod. High Shin Clarice’s mouth hung open. After a moment, she snapped it shut. Kaden gave Stefan a respectful bow. The Knight Commander suppressed the urge to smile.

“How close is the Erastonian force?” Stefan asked.

“In a few moments, they will be topping the rise on the other side of the plains below,” answered Elder Hurst as he turned and pointed up the hill past his army.

“And the Svenzar?”

A pained expression overcame Elder Hurst. “They will not come. They said you refused their offer once and made an enemy of them. You must prove yourself now.”

“Fair enough.” Stefan expected as much.

“A–Are you certain this will work?” High Shin Clarice still seemed distracted by the dartans.

Stefan kept his face expressionless, but smiled inwardly at her obvious nervousness concerning what he required of her and the other Ashishin. “When it does, will I have both your aid?”

“You have my word,” Elder Hurst said without hesitation.

The High Shin eyes widened at the quick response, but she quickly masked her reaction and said, “And mine.”

“Have your men make way,” Stefan ordered. He snapped his reins and headed toward the hill’s crest.

Crows and ravens darkened the sky, their caws masked by the thunder of boots and the blaring of war horns. A wave of Erastonians swept down the hill several thousand feet away. Their black armored mass seeped across the fields.

Stefan knew their strategy. First came the rush of light–armored infantry with greatswords and spears, protected by whatever Forging their Matii employed. Several other waves would follow, including the plate wearing troops, the cavalry, and the Forgers themselves.

Compared to the other armies he’d faced, this one was smaller, numbering maybe fifteen thousand. His men had already confirmed the information he pried from the Erastonian scout. The commander who led this force not only spoke Ostanian but was also said to be the greatest Erastonian war leader. Stefan had seen enough recounts of the man’s exploits to believe in his skill. This battle needed to end swiftly.

Stefan kept his dartan cavalry out of sight, and he himself stood below the hilltop with only his head visible. Sword raised, he waited until the Erastonians reached the plains. As he expected, the next infantry rank crested the hilltop. He brought his sword down.

Dartans bounded up the hill, past him, and down the other side, padded feet making rhythmic thuds as they built their pace. The first five hundred of Stefan’s cavalry galloped at about half speed. Moments later, the second wave, consisting of a thousand dartans began their charge, after giving the first rank time to gain distance. They would build to three quarters the dartan’s speed.

The last cavalry rank came in two sections: the first one a thousand deep moving at a dead run. Behind them would come what made High Shin Clarice’s eyes widen—dartans with two seats carved into their shells. One of Stefan’s men occupied the front seat while an Ashishin sat in the rear. High Shin Clarice herself sat behind Stefan.

Below, the charging dartans mewled. The drums from the Erastonians beat faster as the two sides closed. From Stefan’s vantage point, the impending clash resembled a black stream flowing down to swallow the grey trickle of the dartans. But his second wave was rapidly catching up to the first.

Stefan gave the signal and the third cavalry rank bolted. By the time their mounts gained the field, they were at full gallop. Clarice hissed as Stefan brought his sword up and down again to send his line into the charge.

The wind whipped at him as he bounded down the hill. Ahead, the battle unfolded.

The first wave suddenly parted, peeling to either side moments before they could crash into the Erastonian infantry. Through the space sped the second wave, now at full speed.

When the two sides collided, gray slammed into black. The Erastonian line crumpled like dry parchment.

Stefan’s first wave then joined the melee, swinging swords. Blood flew and Erastonians died. Dartans snatched black–armored men from the ground and flung them into the air. Armor tore under crushing jaws and piercing fangs.

By this time, the plate wearing Erastonians were charging across the field. Stefan’s cavalry wheeled and turned away as if to flee. They charged back toward him in a tight line, keeping the final charge hidden. The heavy Erastonian infantry was close behind. At the last moment, they made a precise split.

In a wedge formation, Stefan’s third rank tore into the Erastonians with the same devastating effect. His first and second lines wheeled around the sides and closed the trap. The milling mass of Erastonians at the front struggled to escape the dartans, impeding the progress of the ones behind.

A roar of voices announced the Harnan, who had used the riverbed to gain a flanking position, as they joined the attack. By the thousands, they streamed up from the moss–covered trees. The Pathfinders were among them, silver armor sullied by mud and grime. Where their
divya
blades struck, Erastonians perished.

Sweeping down the line of dartans, Stefan goaded his five hundred on, knowing they needed to act before the Erastonian Matii engaged. Sweat pouring down his forehead; he picked out the Erastonian cavalry riding down the distant hill. Men in armor galloped ahead of Matii in robes.

“Now,” Stefan shouted to Galiana.

As his group rounded the edge of the battling mass, a bright light bloomed in the sky: the signal for the Ashishin to commence their attack.

Lightning scoured the distant hillside. The ground exploded with the impact, its roar washing away the clash of steel. Erastonians, horses, dirt and stone flew.

Loud thumps sounded behind Stefan. Balls of fire arched into the air and dropped among the enemy forces. The same attack repeated from every dartan carrying an Ashishin.

The Erastonian Matii countered, eventually erecting a shield. Lightning and fire peppered its surface.

Before the enemy Forgers began their attack, leather–clad Harnan Stoneguards appeared atop the hills behind them. They had come up from the Kalin River itself. They brought death with them.