Terry Simpson - The Shadowbearer

Guban nodded. The man’s hair was done in thick locks as if he once had braids he left untended. The same style coiled under his chin. Even without his armor, the Erastonian was twice as wide in the chest as Stefan and at least a foot taller. The fact he was on his knees made his appearance no less formidable.

“Tell me why I should listen to anything you have to say? Without you, your King loses much of his momentum, why should I release you?”

“I have a secret that is important to you,” Guban said. His eyes carried a hint of defiance despite the purple and black bruises and the bloody gash across his face. One hand was missing a finger and several nails.

“I could have you tortured again.”

“Ask your men how that has worked.”

Stefan scowled. Not once had Guban cried out in pain or protested when put to the question. “What is so important about this secret?”

“It is a means to begin freeing your people from this dark King’s grip.”

“You have seen our new forces. We stand a better chance of beating you back now, or at least stopping your advance. With you gone, defeating Nerian is assured. Why would I give that up?”

“Your King is stronger than you think. Like me, you value your freedom and your people.” Guban stared Stefan in the eye. “You are a man of honor. In this, we can help each other and ease the bloodshed. I have our King’s ear. He will listen to anything I suggest. I cannot guarantee he will agree, but he will listen.”

A part of Stefan distrusted the Erastonian, but something about the man, his eyes, or his willingness to suffer made Stefan want to hear he had to say. “Go ahead then, tell me.”

As Guban began his story, Stefan’s eyes widened.

War horns ruptured the still, humid dawn in a long undulating bray. A cacophony of trumpets, barked orders, and frantic shouts echoed from outside Stefan’s pavilion. Fifteen years of refining their plan and of plotting came down to what he began today.

Stefan sat up, grimacing at the poke of an offending sprig of grass through his blanket. Sleep gnawed at his restless bones as he struggled to his feet. The dying flame from the tent’s sole lamp glimmered woefully, providing just enough light for him to find and pick up his sword belt and scabbard. He buckled it on and touched his hilt.

The weapon had saved him from shadeling assassins several times since the first night in Benez, alerting him to their presence with its vibrations. More often than not when he used the divya , he killed. He marveled at how he always sensed the sword. The caress at the back of his mind was a constant reminder of the bond.

With a sigh at the longing to be with his family, he ran his hands down his clothing to smooth the rumples of his uniform. Sparing a moment, he kissed the pendant of Thania. Then, with as brisk a stride as his tired legs could manage, he headed for the tent’s slit for an exit. Waif-weak fingers of dawn’s light greeted him as he ducked through the flaps and stepped outside.

The two Dagodin cadets appointed to guard his tent snapped to attention, shiny lances held high. Boots thudding in unison, soldiers were marching by in ordered formations, the Quaking Forest banners flying above them. Not far from those flew the Tribunal’s Lightstorm. Forest green Setian uniforms and armor stained and dusty, the troops followed the commands of the Knight Captains yelling ahead of them. His men knuckled their foreheads when they became aware of his presence. He acknowledged them with a stiff nod. They continued to file by, the younger recruits’ eyes shining with fervor; the veterans’ expressions either blank or of ice-hearted resolve.

Shoulders sagging, Stefan expelled a breath. He didn’t deserve the faith his men placed in him all these years. They would die. Eventually. He should have become numb to that certainty after witnessing well over a half century of war. Of death. Of destruction. Making friends only to see them perish; grieving when members of his family joined the legions and died in battles he himself led. But try as he might, he couldn’t shake the pain in his heart, the melancholy surrender when he witnessed the butcher’s bill. Not even after his most renowned victories.

All of this for what? The whim of a power hungry king? The need to expand borders? The craving to resurrect an empire long dead? The vanity of a man deluded by visions of grandeur? A man tainted by darkness? Well, no more. Nerian’s schemes went beyond all moral standards and honor. What is a man without his honor? An empty shell to be filled by corruption. The plague eating at Nerian was blacker than a moonless night. Stefan was tired of watching men die, families shattered beyond repair for this cause, this abomination of an alliance Nerian had formed.

Fifteen years. He sighed. Was it that long since I last saw Thania and the children? What does Anton look like now? Was he strapping and strong like me in my youth? Did the gods bless Celina with her mother’s beauty? Both would be eighteen now, a man and a woman grown. Would they even remember him? He’d given up what may have been his last chance at fatherhood for what? This? No. You gave up that chance for your children’s safety, for the freedom and livelihood of not only your men, but also your people. He gazed out to the horizon and the distant Erastonian advance, his expression twisting into a scowl.

The dawn air brought no relief to the promise of another sweltering day of death. Pallid twilight pricked the sky where clouds massed like puffed mounds of gray ash, the occasional jolt of lightning illuminating their bloated underbellies. Heartbeats later, a distant peal of thunder followed. Stefan wiped at sweat already beading his forehead, his gaze following the rumble of tens of thousands of marching boots.

Beneath the roiling storm, rank after rank of Erastonians swarmed the undulating Crescent Hills south of the Kalin River at the edge of Setian territory. Black blotted out the once green fields, now as barren as a diseased womb. Stefan’s forces had stripped them to keep supplied as well as to prevent the encroaching army from having any sustenance off the land they invaded. Every time lightning flashed, metal glinted amongst the advancing blackness. Above the horde, flags flew the gray fist enclosed around a black lightning bolt.

AWOOOOOOO! AWOOOOOOOO!

The Erastonian horns continued to bellow doom, followed by drums rumbling in the distance as if the buglers had called down the thunderstorms boiling behind them. Stefan’s stomach knotted as he watched them slowly wash over the fields like a great wave of sewage. His recent victory over their forces did nothing to help. This army dwarfed that one.

He stifled the urge to call for an immediate retreat and turned away. Duty was a burden, but one didn’t get to be Knight Commander without shouldering the load or by panicking. Today, his duty was more than any man should have to carry. Any sane man. Right now, two other concerns nattered for his attention.

The first was his growling stomach. The second … well the second he would deal with while he ate. He prayed Guban’s information was wrong.

Stefan inhaled deeply, the faint whiff of food bringing another grumble of protest. He savored the sweet aroma from lingering cook fires before the stench of the waste pits drowned them. He hawked and spat. The phlegm spattered on the dry ground, appearing wet for a moment before the parched earth swallowed the moisture.

“Cadet Harvan, tell Knight General Kasimir to await my signal. Afterward, run fetch Knight General Garrick,” Stefan ordered.

“Yes, sir.” Harvan leaned his lance against the white canvas and ran off.