Terry Simpson - The Shadowbearer

“As you say. Ready?”

“Yes.” He steeled himself.

Without another word, she raised her hand, palm facing outward.

There was a swish, like a blade cutting the wind. A jagged slice appeared before them as if a serrated blade punctured the air then sawed its way down. The slit opened into a convex shape much like an eye but with the corners at the top and bottom instead of left and right. Inside the opening was a dark surface. Through the portal, he barely made out the hills around Karsten. The view was akin to looking through the wavy haze of baking desert sands. To either side of the image, blackness beckoned.

Together, they stepped into the rift.

The world twisted. Stefan snapped his eyes shut against the inertia. The sensation imitated a leap from a vast height, spiraling into some unseen pit. His stomach dropped and heaved. Blood rushed to his head. Heartbeats later, solid ground caressed his feet. Rain and wind whipped at him. Thunder pealed.

“We are here,” Galiana said.

Stefan opened his eyes. Sure enough, she had Materialized them within the hills north of Karsten. The rain, falling in lancing sheets, blotted out much of their surroundings.

“The mount.” Stefan trembled against a bout of pain that wracked his body. “You had someone bring it right?”

“Of course. The dartan will appear as if it ran for days to get you here.” She sloshed over to where the animal was chained against a tree.

He shambled after her, clutching his side, rain soaking through his already waterlogged uniform.

Galiana patted the beast where it hunched, now appearing half as formidable as earlier. She offered what help her diminutive body allowed as he mounted. Each movement was an exercise in pain for him, but he needed to bear the agony for a little longer.

“Goodbye, High Shin Galiana. I’ll see you in Benez,” Stefan said.

“Remember the Disciplines, ” she replied. “Persevere.”

Stefan bowed once to his old teacher. With a grunt, he whipped the reins to send the dartan off toward the town, grateful that a jarring jounce did not accompany the splashing of its feet as it ran. In the growing dark, he lost track of time.

Body and wounds throbbing, the encampment at Karsten’s outskirts abruptly loomed before him. Stefan almost fell from the saddle. He leaned listlessly, offering no protest as several rough hands helped him down.

“It’s General Dorn,” a voice yelled through a wavy haze. “Someone fetch the menders.”

Blurred faces hovered above him. Grass or some other surface cushioned his back. Raindrops peppered his face. When did I lie down? Then the hands were whisking him away on the back of a wooden dray, wheels rumbling on cobbles. In several places, cool wind brushed against his exposed flesh. Above him, thunderclouds boiled in a gray quilt often punctuated by cyan lightning flashes. The dray stopped.

Hands again grasped him. They should have added to his pain when they dragged him out of the deluge, but he felt little. Torchlight greeted him, and he squinted against its glare. Moments later, gentler fingers stripped his clothes from his body. Someone sucked in a breath.

“Within inches of his life,” a female voice said.

“The work of a Matii.” The second voice was a harsh, masculine hiss.

“And at least one or two swords.”

Stefan wanted to smile, but the fingers slid down to the wound on his stomach and pried the edges apart. A spittle-filled gasp left his lips.

“Hold him down,” said the first voice.

Someone gripped his arms and legs. Another held his face and slipped a thick cloth into his mouth.

“So you don’t bite off your own tongue.” The person above him was hazy, but he made out long hair. “This will hurt.”

Searing heat tore through him. By comparison, the burning made what Clarice had done seem like hands warmed over a campfire. He tried to scream, but the cloth already opened his mouth as wide as it could go. All that came out was a muffled sound. His sight became nothing more than bright lights. As fast as this fire spread through him, freezing cold followed, chasing the heat. Kicking and thrashing, he arched his back, but the arms held him steady.

After a final spasm, he succumbed to blackness.

“General Dorn,” said the female voice he remembered.

Stefan eased his eyes open. The brightness of noon greeted him. He winced at the sudden exposure to light. Softness cushioned his back. The sweet scent of perfume or the soap she bathed with tickled his nostrils.

“Sorry.” Footsteps drifted away from him, and the brightness lessened.

When the steps drew close once more, a young female’s face accompanied them. Dark hair spilled about the shoulders of her green Alzari robes.

“How long have I been out?” Stefan sat up.

“A full day.”

“A day?” Stefan’s mind whirled. Enough time for Nerian’s people to reach the battleground at the Crescent Hills. They would have found several thousand dead Erastonians and the pyre left by the Ashishin. The Erastonian habit of cremating corpses in any battle they won came in handy. With the enemy occupying the area and guarding the pyre, Nerian’s spies could not have gotten close enough for a better inspection. Stefan pulled the sheet from over his body and stood before realizing he was still naked. The Alzari averted her eyes.

“Your new uniform is hanging in the corner. I’ll inform Zar Ballard that you’re awake. He’ll want to make sure you’re well enough to travel.”

“No need. I feel as strong as an oak.” His stomach growled. “And hungrier than a Harnan herder after a fast.” His appetite didn’t surprise him much. Mending took sustenance from the wounded as well as energy from the Matii doing the Forge. He strode over to where his uniform lay on a table.

“I’ll send for food.”

“Good and something to drink.” Stefan paused. “Something strong.”

“Yes, sir.”

Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Have someone bring my dartan. Tell them to treat him as they would a bull if he’s stubborn. Also, send word to the Travelshaft that I’ll be on my way.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stefan listened for the swish of the tent’s flaps lifting and her footsteps outside before he expelled a breath. The first part had gone well. He inspected the results of the mending. Where once he had gashes, his skin was now smooth and supple, unblemished, and a healthy tanned ginger color. Even the simulated slice and thrust of a sword through his side was unmarred. Prior scars on his chest and arms remained.

For a moment, his vision blurred as the exhaustion from the mending took its toll. The back of a nearby chair became his support. He yearned to lie down, but he’d lost enough time. After fumbling with his britches, he managed to get them on without tripping over himself. The buttons on the matching green shirt and embroidered coat proved a much harder challenge, but eventually he was buttoning up the coat. The day’s heat didn’t suit wearing the jacket, but the coming visit with King Nerian required formality. Anything to help dissuade suspicion. Stefan was sitting in the tent’s lone chair tugging on his boots when the Alzari returned.

“General, I’m Zar Ballard,” a man announced.

Stefan turned to the male voice he recognized from the night before. Today, the tone was smooth, confident. The man behind the voice was a reflection of that sound: chest up, back straight, hair slick with oil. His robes were pristine. The young, female Alzari stood behind him. Something about the man’s demeanor annoyed Stefan.

“You need more rest. Delaying another day will not hurt,” Ballard said, the words sounding more like a command than a suggestion.