Terry Simpson - The Shadowbearer

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.

Part of Nerian’s words rang true for the Knight Commander. Granadia’s Tribunal had done what none else accomplished: Their Dagodin, Ashishin, and High Ashishin had driven the creatures from their land and helped Ostania accomplish the same. Why should they risk more for kingdoms unwilling to convert to the Streamean religion despite all they’d done to help in the past?

“Would you care if you were them?” Stefan asked.

“If I were them, the world would already be mine to do with as I wish,” Nerian replied absently, his gaze seemingly locked on something in the distance.

Stefan frowned. This was not the Nerian he remembered before going off to war. Sure, they were both ambitious and both lived for glory, but the sound in the King’s voice spoke of a longing, a need to make the entire world bow to him. When they shared their dreams in the past, they wanted the Setian to stand above all but without oppression, without tyranny. Nerian sounded almost … jealous. “You intend to take on the Tribunal, don’t you?”

Nerian’s gaze shifted to the Knight Commander.

Stefan almost flinched at the cold pits there. “Why? They helped to give us much of what we hold now.”

“Give?” Nerian scowled, showing his teeth. “They gave me nothing. All I have I took.” He paused. “You helped me take. You, my son, are the only one I need to thank for what we Setian accomplished. The rest are fodder.”

Stefan opened his mouth to tell the King he was wrong. Without the men who worshipped them, the men Stefan convinced to follow him and the King’s wishes to their death, they would have nothing. The same men Nerian now denied the peace Stefan had promised them. Had it not been for them, the Setian would be a shell of their current glory. How had the King changed so much in three years? The man spoke as if life was little more than a tool to be sharpened, used until it broke, cast away, and then replaced. Stefan bit his tongue. Instead, he said, “Thank you, sire. You honor me.”

Eyes again drawing to something distant, King Nerian nodded as if he expected nothing less than gratitude. “The Tribunal wishes to make it seem as if they have no real interest in Ostania or even Everland, but indeed they do. They may not be able to rule us by force yet, but they conquered many Ostanians mentally. If only I saw it sooner.”