Terry Simpson - The Shadowbearer

“Survival? Is that what you call it now?” Clarice smiled, showing perfect teeth. “Not once did you revel in the glory of battle? The pride of conquering all before you for his King? I seem to remember a name. Stefan the Steadfast, Stefan the Undefeated, wasn’t it? A man so loyal to Nerian’s ideals he could not be swayed either on or off the field.”

Kasimir shifted uncomfortably in his saddle.

“He’s dead,” Stefan said, making his tone as icy as his expression.

“Good,” Clarice replied, golden flecks flitting across the whites of her eyes. “He must remain so if your men and those you hold dear in Seti are to survive all this.”

“Let me worry about who I am.” Stefan turned from her to peer down at the Erastonians once more. “Are your Ashishin ready?”

“I will be the only one accompanying you.”

Drawing his brows together in a tight frown, Stefan faced her. “Against them? Even after the way they defeated Nerian’s Matii. Why-”

“Exactly. Nerian’s Matii. Not the Tribunal’s. Nerian is no fool. He sent his weakest, many of them not fully trained. He wanted those legions to fail, to die. A ploy so the remaining kingdoms continue to back him against this ‘unstoppable’ force. Sometimes, men only act when they are threatened. Often, others must see you deliver a victory for them to fall in line. Demand they overcome after you prevail .”

“ The Disciplines ,” Stefan whispered.

“Yes. Almost everyone is dancing to Nerian’s tune, including you.”

“I take it you discovered what he’s after?”

“We have our suspicions, but we’re not sure.”

Stefan barked a laugh. “So many years spent ‘enlightening’ the masses yet you lack answers to what the man does.”

“That is why we are here, why we agreed to help you in this endeavor. The Erastonians seem to know why Nerian turned to the shade and how. One thing is certain. All of Ostania will fall and feed the shade if he is not stopped.”

“Yes, while Granadia hides behind its precious Vallum of Light, protected from the shade’s reach.” Stefan’s lip curled. “Instead of crushing Nerian, his shadelings, and these Erastonians, you bide your time while my people die.”

“Did we not help you ally with the Harnan and bring you a victory? Until your Councils agree to our requests, our help ended there.”

Kasimir growled under his breath, his dark face growing darker. He opened his mouth to speak.

A look from Stefan stopped him. Inhaling deeply, Stefan deliberately moved his own hand away from his sword hilt. “You’ll change your mind if whatever shadelings Nerian musters break through the Vallum.”

“That,” Clarice said with an air of finality, “will never happen. It will take more than shadelings to breach the Vallum.”

“For your sake, I hope they don’t. Come, Kasimir.” Stefan flapped his reins, sending his dartan down the hill.

Stefan didn’t want to admit it to himself, but Clarice was right. He could think of no way for the King to breach the Vallum of Light. On the other end, the Erastonians were steadily gobbling up Ostanian lands. Nerian was fighting a battle on two fronts and losing badly. So why do I feel like there’s something I’m not seeing?

He touched the hilt of his sword for a sense of comfort. Except for that night in Benez, the divya had done nothing more over the years than grant him its speed and strength. Was it really the key to what Nerian wanted to achieve?

Gritting his teeth, Stefan urged his dartan on, the beast flitting across the faded brown grasses and empty fields in a gait so smooth it felt as if he flew. If not for the thoughts swirling through his mind, he would have thrown his head back and enjoyed the cooling breeze.

Ahead, the Erastonians shifted, three of them separating from the smaller force, black armor glinting in the meager sunlight struggling through the thunderheads above. The silence accompanying them was more disconcerting than if the drums and horns continued to beat and bray.

Stefan slowed, allowing Kasimir and High Shin Clarice to draw abreast of him. Kasimir simply nodded, while Clarice’s eyes blazed. Stefan smirked. High Ashishin had a habit of thinking they decided who should move and when. While that held true most of the time, he intended to deny the woman any satisfaction. He needed her angry enough to do her part.

A High Ashishin’s power was something to fear, but it was no different to facing a skilled swordsman in battle. He was wise to be afraid of either, but he could never let the emotion show. Showing fear, not fear itself, is a weakness. Fragility leads to death. He had no immediate plans to die. Not even on a full stomach.

As they drew closer to the three Erastonians, Stefan frowned.

The men no longer wore their oversized helmets. Their pale, almost corpse-white faces contrasted immensely with their armor. Black, wooly locks wrapped their heads. Matching beards coiled beneath their chins. One stood ahead of the others, the large spaulder on one shoulder carved in the shape of a lion’s head marking him as their King.

Behind him was Guban. Guban’s gaze shifted from the King to one of the other men. Not once did he meet Stefan’s eyes.

Something wasn’t quite right. “You may get to prove how strong High Shin are after all, Clarice.” Stefan eased his hand toward his sword.

Black leather rippling around his wide form, the King took a step back. The Erastonian soldier on his left strode forward, drew a short sword, and promptly slit his own throat. Blood spurted to the ground as he dropped to his knees, bent his back, and bowed in supplication facing the Setian.

A moment later, High Shin Clarice hissed. “I’m afraid I will be of little help. That one sacrificed himself so he could Warp the Mater around us. He has prevented me from Forging.”

Stefan hauled on his reins, bringing the dartan to a halt, its neck tossing and turning at the scent of blood. Beside him, Kasimir brandished his sword.

“They can’t Forge either, correct?” Stefan kept his eyes trained on the two remaining Erastonians.

“Yes,” Clarice said, her voice strained.

“Put away your weapon.” Stefan didn’t look, but the rasp of metal on leather confirmed Kasimir obeyed the order. “Stay here you two. Wait for my signal before you come to me. High Shin Clarice, at no time should you let them know you speak their tongue.” He expected her to protest being ordered, but she rolled her eyes and nodded instead. A yank on his reins sent his dartan walking forward.

Guban stepped in front of his King, his gaze sliding from Kasimir to Clarice and back to Stefan. One hand rested on the hasp of the axe at his hip.

When Stefan came within six feet of the Erastonians, he made a spectacle of slowly raising his fist above his head. As he lowered his arm, he unfolded his index finger and pointed at Guban. In a sudden move, he brought his hand down across his body and up, imitating a quick slash.

A foot taller and heavier than Stefan by far, Guban flew to the side as if the wind snatched him up and flung him several feet. He hit the ground in a jumbled heap, dirt kicking up where he landed among the ploughed furrows of the field.

The Erastonian King’s eyes widened then narrowed. His hand snaked down to the sword at his hip. He said something in his native tongue-a series of rolling yet harsh words. When he appeared to realize Stefan didn’t understand or care, the King took two steps back and made to turn.

Stefan pointed at the King before clenching his fist and acting as if he lifted a heavy weight.

Caught in mid step, the King froze. He rose a foot off the ground and hung suspended.