Terry Simpson: The Shadowbearer

Stefan’s men stood fast, staring down the incoming enemy that outnumbered them at least two to one. Not a single man among the Setian shifted or flinched. They simply waited.

Another flight of bolts tore into the Astocans. Empowered by battle rage and kinai, those pierced in the chest managed a few more steps before they fell. Where the steel-tipped projectiles sliced or severed a limb, that Astocan still attempted to drag himself to the melee.

Ignoring the onrushing forces, Stefan focused on his men and studied the smoothness of their reaction. His soldiers shifted positions instinctively. Their ranks curved at the far ends and collapsed inward with the shieldbearers taking up the foremost positions. Behind them, the pikemen formed a column four lines deep with more swordsmen at their back. To the rear stood the ordered scorpio file, still shooting.

More steel bolts thrummed death into the Astocans.

Yet, their charge did not falter.

Neither did the scorpios.

The Astocan cavalry drove forward, well ahead of their infantry now. When the enemy reached within forty feet, the Setian shieldbearers shifted. The pikemen adjusted their stances and dropped down to brace the pikes into the ground behind them, using the small bucklers at their elbows for support. Into the small spaces opened by the shieldbearers, the twenty-foot spears jutted out.

Too late and moving too fast to pull up, the Astocan cavalry slammed into steel instead of men. Horses died and sent soldiers crashing to the ground. The force of some of the sudden impacts propelled Astocans into the Setian ranks.

The Setian front line took a step back. Simultaneously, the pikemen yanked out their spears from the dead or dying. They shifted, allowing a space between each man, and the next file assumed their places. The movement was seamless. Unable to breach the formation, the next wave of horsemen died, impaled on steel.

Stefan saw he was wrong about one thing.

The Astocan cavalry were not simply archers but trained infantry also. Roaring as their battle rage took them, the ones who flew into the Setian lines that hadn’t sustained grievous wounds lay about them with short swords. Their blows sheared through steel and lopped off limbs. More often than not, it took three or more of his men to down one crazed Astocan. When the last one fell, the Knight Commander let out a relieved breath. The second rank of his swordsmen replaced the first. Stefan shifted his attention to the remainder of the Astocans.

Depleted by more than half, the charge waned while their men still died to the firing scorpios. The drum rolls and triumphant horns faltered, cutting off mid note. By the fifteenth flight of steel bolts, before their main infantry ever reached the Setian front lines, the Astocans broke.

The barrage of projectiles did not end. The Astocans were well within the scorpios’ thirteen hundred foot range. Winches cranked to increase their trajectory. The machines fired again and again. Bolts split skulls, punched through backs, and some cut limbs in half. Fleeing men fell.

Out of habit, Stefan took the pendant that hung from the chain around his neck and kissed the likeness of his wife. Soon, they would be together, but for now, there was a little work left. If they were lucky, maybe a quarter of the Astocans survived. Face a mask, Stefan said, “Call off the scorpios. Kasimir, Garrick, leave as many alive as you can, but bring me their General’s head.”

“King Nerian’s orders were to kill everyone,” Cerny protested.

Garrick clapped the smaller man on the back. “Do that and who would tell of our glorious victory then?”

“But the King-”

“Doesn’t command this field.” Stefan spared a glare for Cerny. He nodded to Kasimir and Garrick. “Send eagles to the other forces and let them know we no longer need them here. Have them head to Castere and take control of what’s left of the Astocan government. I’ll see you back at my pavilion when it’s done.”

“What of the King’s tithe as well as the number to be enslaved?” Garrick raised a questioning eyebrow.

The thought of slavery curdled Stefan’s insides. He didn’t object openly, but his refusal to partake in the negotiations after the victories spoke for itself. Once in a great while someone mistook his concern for softness until his sword proved differently. “Send word to the King that as usual he can have one of the High Council relay his demands.” Nerian wouldn’t be pleased, but then again, he was accustomed to Stefan’s way of doing things. Sweeping victories in return for some leeway was a good tradeoff.

The two Knight Generals put fists to hearts and rode toward their legions.

“Cerny,” Stefan said, the corner of his lips curling. “I don’t care if you’re slotted to be the next Knight Commander. Object to my commands in front my men again, and I will have you flogged and sent home to the King with your back and ass bloody.”

At first, Cerny’s mouth dropped open, and his complexion paled. Then he gathered himself and stiffened. “I’ll have-”

“Are we clear?” Stefan made his eyes blank pits, his features expressionless.

“Yes, sir, Knight Commander Dorn.”

Without another word, Stefan signaled to his escorts. Not caring if Cerny followed, he wheeled his mount to face the neat Setian tent lines spread before him less than a mile away. He set off at a trot.

Inside his tent, Stefan’s gaze drifted to the map of Ostania and all its kingdoms. Three of them now belonged to Seti-the three that mattered the most. Next to the map was an artist’s impression of the Great Divide far to the north in Everland-a jagged tear in the earth that went on for miles. Depicted crawling from the edges, creatures of pure night slunk up from the chasm. Shadelings, every one of them. People fled before certain death. He kept the artwork there as a constant memorial of the darkness that once plagued Ostania. A reminder of why he fought these campaigns.

As he stroked the prickly stubble under his chin, Stefan mulled over the message Cerny had delivered from the King. “Is that all? I need to let my men know they have earned their peace.”

“Look,” Cerny whispered, eyes shifting nervously to the tent’s entrance. “I advise against this.”

Stefan scowled at the man. “And I advise you to keep this news to yourself. If I even hear a word of it from any of my men … an inkling … a whisper ….” He let his voice trail off but deliberately slid a hand to his sword.

Cerny’s head bobbed up and down as he averted his eyes. “As you say, sir. How soon will you speak to your men so Selentis and I can be on our way?”

“Cerny.” Stefan took a deep breath. “You’re trying my patience. Stop, please. Also, I don’t care if she’s outside or how you feel about them … when speaking of Alzari in my presence use the proper title and show respect.”

After sparing the Knight General an additional glare, Stefan stepped outside, his armor clinking as he ducked through his tent’s flaps. Overhead, Denestia’s twin moons shone in a cloudless sky, casting the surrounding countryside in silvery blue. He breathed deep, rolled his neck, and worked the tightness from his back and shoulders. The smell of food, the cackle of laughter, raucous song of drunken soldiers, the tinkle of music, and the giggle of women greeted him. Campfires and torches lit the encampment as his men reveled in their victory. They drank, gambled, gorged themselves on a myriad of dishes, or rutted with whores.

He signaled to the green and gold robed Alzari Matus who stood guard outside his tent-one of King Nerian’s own. The woman, who along with Cerny, had brought the news from the King. News he never expected. “Zar Selentis, if you will be so kind, I need everyone to hear me.”