Aegis of The Gods: Book 00 - The Shadowbearer (6 page)

C
HAPTER 6

H
elmet under one arm, back straight in his burnished armor, Stefan and his army marched to Benez’s gates and its walls hewn from black feldspar. The clop of their horses’ hooves on the cobbles matched the outpouring of celebration from the people. He smiled as he took in the cheering masses, but his wife’s absence overshadowed his triumphant moment. Absently, he raised a gloved hand to rub tenderly at the charm. Long ago, when they had identical pendants crafted, he and Thania made an agreement: Whenever he returned from battle, she would wait on the ramparts directly above the gates next to the King. Stefan checked the parapet again. There was no sign of Thania.

King Nerian, black hair done in long braids, golden armor gleaming, was on the battlements in his usual place though. A smile plastered on his face, the King stared down at Stefan and the Setian army. Stefan acknowledged the King with a nod and placed a fist to his heart. The sight of his mentor—a man he thought of as a father—brought a jumble of emotions flooding through him. He hoped all was well.

Stefan peered farther along the walls trying to make out if any of the noblewomen in their frilly, colorful dresses was his wife. Unable to pick her out, he searched among the crowds on the King’s Road before the yawning black gates and the portcullis. Peasants and the less fortunate, many in their feast day best, lined the street, breaths rising in feathery mists with autumn’s chill. Their jubilation brought a fleeting smile to his face. Admittedly, the sweaty stink from the press of so many friendly bodies was something Stefan did indeed miss.

But none were his wife. Not the folk held in check on the street by lines of guards, not the ones at the windows of the shabby buildings, or crowded on the rooftops. Children ran beside the path, waving, and dogs darted back and forth, barking and nipping at the horses as if they too reveled in greeting the Unvanquished.

“Feels good to be home,” Garrick shouted. He clapped Stefan on the shoulder.

“Yes, it does.” Stefan offered a strained smile to his friend.

The procession continued up Benez’s winding streets with the Cogal Drin Mountains looming above and behind, the city ascending on the lower slopes. The crowds grew thicker as they drew closer to the massive amphitheater built squarely between the ending of the slums and the beginning of the middle class’ brick and mortar edifices. People hung out the amphitheater’s windows, cheers rising in a roar to drown out all else. They showered the soldiers with flowers. A few women flashed their privates to the amusement and appreciation of several warriors.

Their surroundings changed to more affluent neighborhoods, cleaner streets and a network of drains to carry the stink of sewage away from the city, and so did the people’s garb. Rich wool and moleskin blends became the main fare among the folk. Choice of clothing again altered as they trekked even farther into the Upper City. The people here wore the most expensive silks and satins but made certain to cover their shoulders in ermine scarves or cloaks. The avenues widened, became pristine, and lined by gardens, fountains, colonnades, and villas, many with spires rising into the sky against the backdrop of the Cogal Drin’s expansive fangs.

The Royal Palace sprouted before them, Seti’s Quaking Forest flying from the highest points. Stefan frowned at the omission of the Tribunal’s Lightstorm banner. The castle reminded Stefan of a delicate off–white flower tinged with blue on its towers, spires, and parapets. The rugged battlements, the guards with watchful eyes, hands on weapons, and the many murder holes lining the castle’s surface proved the appearance to be a lie. The Royal Palace was a fortress.

Still, no sign of his wife. Hopeful that one woman he picked out with velvet hair almost to her waist and a lithe frame could be Thania, he paced a little ways from his men. His heart sank when she turned, and an unknown face greeted him.

“People of Benez.” Nerian’s voice boomed above the din. The King stood on the palace’s walls with his arms outstretched, golden armor glinting. His lone bodyguard, dressed all in black with a long cloak to match, was only a few feet away. The noise from the crowd died. “I give you … the Unvanquished.”

Wild cheers followed. People danced and capered in the streets and threw hats high. Many showered the army with flowers.

“In honor of their return,” the King’s deep voice rose higher still over the cacophony, “games will be held in two months.”

The jubilation pitched to new heights. A tap on Stefan’ arm made him glance down.

“The King requires your presence immediately.” The man who spoke wore black. He was of average height with a face plain enough to fit in anywhere, but Stefan never forgot those eyes. The way the silver flecks within them shifted to hide the green of his irises was disconcerting and made them appear to witness everything at once. The man was Nerian’s bodyguard, Kahar.

How had he gotten down from the walls so quickly?
Taken aback, Stefan paused for a few moments before he nodded, tossed his helm to Garrick, then dismounted to follow Kahar.

Without the bodyguard speaking or even making a gesture, the crowds parted before the sinuous man. Each person appeared oblivious to his presence, yet still made room for him to pass. Together, they strode up the steps, into the western tower, around winding stairs, and onto the battlements.

“Stefan,” King Nerian proclaimed. A wide smile on a face still wearing the past summer’s tan made him appear a darker shade than his usual olive. The King did not look as if he aged a day.

“Sire,” Stefan replied, going to one knee.

“Oh, my son, stop, no need for formality. Not here.” Nerian strode over, and they embraced, the King having to bend a ways to get his arms around Stefan.

Stefan was not a small man. At a little over six feet, he was taller than many a Setian, but next to the King he always felt small and not only from the man’s stature. Nerian was at least a foot, maybe two, taller than him. The King often reminded Stefan of the pictures of giants from books in his youth. In the three years since Stefan was last home, Nerian’s chest was wider, face more angular, his eyes harder. When Stefan met the King’s gaze, emerald beads came to mind.

“Let me look at you.” Nerian held him at arm’s length. “Not bad.” He pursed his lips. “A little worse for wear, but you look … healthy.”

“Same to you, sire. You’re more fit than I remember.”

“Ah, if only I felt that way.”

Mind drifting to Thania, Stefan gave a pensive frown.

“What troubles you?” Nerian asked.

“Where’s Thania? She’s never missed a day when I return.”

“Ah. Yes.” Nerian was grinning now. “She is well.” His voice lowered. “I am not supposed to be telling you this, but she prepared a surprise for you.”

Stefan arched an eyebrow.

“Not to worry. Trust me. You will love it.”

“Yes, sire.” Stefan still couldn’t help the trepidation gnawing at him.

“So,” the King’s demeanor became serious, “Cerny said you did not receive his message well.”

“The man’s overbearing and incompetent. Why did you promote him anyway? Because he’s an Alzari?”

“Yes, he can be.” The King paused for a moment. “Still, I had my reasons beyond him being a powerful Matii. Walk with me. Let us escape the crowds.” He nodded out toward the revelers in the streets.

A wind nipping at them, they walked in silence for some time until the palace’s battlements met with the city walls. Guards greeted them, bowing deeply to the King and putting fists to hearts at the sight of their Knight Commander.

They were traveling along the southern wall when finally Nerian spoke. “What do you think of what Cerny had to say?”

“Nothing good,” Stefan admitted, breath rising in feathery mists from the evening’s chill. “Why another war so soon? And against whom?”

The sun played off the King’s resplendent golden armor of interlocking plates as he stopped. His oversized hands gestured out to the vast city from the slums before the gates here in the south to the villas and spires rising up the slopes of the Cogal Drin Mountains to the north. Citizens crowded the streets. “For them of course, the people, the Setian. We deserve to rule all of Ostania as we did in the days of old.”

I thought you’d given up on that.
Stefan suppressed a sigh.

A time existed when he and Nerian plotted on how to bring Seti and Ostania to their former glory, holding dominion over most of Denestia. But the Tribunal shattered those dreams when they united the Granadian kingdoms in its present empire under the ideals of Streamean worship. During the Luminance War, when the shade swept out of the Great Divide in Everland, Felan and then Seti itself ceded to the Tribunal for protection and assistance. The Felani, however, had recently broken away from the Tribunal. Still, with its influence stretching far into Ostania, the Tribunal was a near immovable force now.

As the thoughts flitted through his mind, a sense of satisfaction overcame Stefan. He and Nerian had managed to carve an empire for the Setian within Ostania. He could live with such success. A whisper of sound made him look over his shoulder.

A few steps behind, Kahar trailed. The King’s bodyguard was like a ghost, always seeming to fit in wherever he went, and most did not notice he was there until it was too late. The man’s too plain appearance, placid demeanor, and shifty eyes glinting with the dying sun gave Stefan the chills.

Bracing himself against the King’s possible anger, the Knight Commander said, “The men deserve a break, a time to rest. Haven’t enough died a hard death already?”

“Death’s always simple. We spend our entire lives dying.” Nerian shrugged.

Those words again.
“Do you intend to resume our attempt to conquer the Nevermore Heights?”

Nerian’s brow wrinkled. “One day, not now. Our campaign starts in Everland with Erastonia’s fall.”

The words brought a slight relief to Stefan. He considered warning Nerian about the Svenzar, but first, he needed to voice a protest for his men. “I promised my men—”

“I know what you promised, and I commend you. Your words gave them something to fight for besides simple glory. ‘Give a man a purpose he believes in with all his heart, and he shall accomplish great things.’ You have taken
the Disciplines
and implemented them in ways well beyond my imagining when I taught them to you.”

Despite the concern for his men, Stefan’s chest swelled with pride. “So you’ll let them have some time before you start this new campaign? Or, at least seek volunteers first? Plenty among them would gladly remain soldiers.”

Nerian paused and rested a hand on Stefan’s shoulder. In his mentor’s shadow, Stefan felt inconsequential as if caught up by some irresistible force. A glimpse of regret flashed across Nerian’s emerald eyes.

“You are like a son to me, but I cannot promise you anything,” Nerian said. “I will try to limit how this reflects on you, but I must do what is best for our budding empire.”

“I understand.” Stefan resisted the urge to pull away from the King’s grip. “But it’s not right.”

“Come now.” Nerian chuckled and gave Stefan’s shoulder a squeeze before releasing. “You sound almost like the little boy I met all those years ago. Sometimes we need to be hard.”

“I know.” Stefan gave a half–hearted shrug as he stared off at nothing. “If there’s anything commanding men has taught me, it’s that one constant. Still, I don’t have to like this or what it means for men who have already spent most of their lives in service.”

“Duty,” Nerian said, his expression thoughtful, “can weigh on a man until it buries him like an avalanche of snow. Yet, if you strive hard enough, if you keep working, you will find a way to dig out from under its weight.”

“Unless it kills you first.”

“There is that.”

“Are you sure there’s no other way around this?” Stefan glanced out to the setting sun, its glow lighting the sky in purple shades that made the Cogal Drin’s rocky shoulders even more beautiful. “Maybe leave it to the Granadian Tribunal? They owe much to you. After all, you backed them for years. Without you, they would not have a presence in Ostania.”

“I would not take it that far. I believe they would have found a way at some point.” Nerian stroked his oiled beard. “Their refusal is partially why I am undertaking this action.”

“They refused to help? Why? This concerns the shade, and it’s not as if they know of your plans for Seti’s full revival.”

Nerian clasped his hands behind his back. “According to their High Ashishin, we effectively drove the shade back into Everland and the Rotted Forest. They feel invading Everland itself and breaching the Great Divide to eradicate the shade’s minions once and for all is not worth the risk.”

“Despite the ruin the beasts brought the world since their creation?”

Nerian pointed out to the southwest where a distant white glow suffused the horizon. “The Granadians think they are safe behind their precious Vallum of Light. Why should they feel any different when the Sanctums of Shelter has protected them from the Great Divide for countless centuries?” A sneer played across the King’s face. “They are not overly concerned with what happens to this part of the world, unless it interferes with their plans.”

Stefan almost said he agreed. They themselves might be better served leaving well enough alone. Ostania had survived for a millennia defending against the shadelings. Either the giant, black–haired wraithwolves that at times stood like men, or the darkwraiths—creatures of smoky mist in the shape of men. More often than not, the shade’s taint transformed some hapless adventurer seeking fame or fortune in the crevasse that was the Great Divide into one of the beasts. Stefan cringed at the pictures his mind conjured from the years he’d done battle against the monsters.

However, the tomes of the Chronicles spoke of a time when the creatures would rise again to scour Denestia. Supposedly, if the prophecies were to be believed, the Setian would pave the path to free the world from doom. Thinking of the books conjured memories of Stefan’s old wet nurse, Shin Galiana who often told him the stories. To many, they were little more than myths. Stefan wasn’t so sure.