Terry Simpson - The Shadowbearer

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.

“You 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.