Terry Simpson - The Shadowbearer

Stefan stood slowly, drawing himself to his full height. “I’m sorry. Need? Did I miss when they appointed an Alzari above me? Delay? Are you sure that’s what you want to tell the King concerning the news of our latest defeat and the Erastonian advance? The message was delayed?”

“T-That’s not what I meant.” Ballard stumbled over his words, swallowing several times.

Eyebrows rising ever so slightly, Stefan stared the man down.

“General,” Zar Ballard added in response. He loosened his robes about his neck.

“I didn’t think so,” Stefan said. “Now, I thank you for saving my life, but our King won’t care one way or another. Any other survivors reported from the Crescent Hills?”

“No, sir, not even our scouts returned.”

Stefan shook his head in feigned grief, his hand on his forehead. “So many brave men,” he whispered, his voice steeped in regret. “All dead. All because of me.”

“It is not your fault, sir. How could anyone know the Erastonians would have such numbers or be this strong?”

“You don’t understand, do you, Zar Ballard?”

Ballard seemed to mull over the words, but his eyes lacked recognition.

“Do you know what happens to those who fail of late?”

“General, I–I have heard stories, but surely …”

“Have you ever seen anyone flayed?”

Ballard nodded numbly.

“Good.” Stefan allowed his tone to take on a knife’s edge. “Take care such a punishment doesn’t happen to you should I suffer a second failure in not reaching the King in time.”

The Alzari was speechless.

Stefan’s stomach protested mightily. “Now, I distinctly remember asking for a meal.”

“It should be here any moment, sir,” the young female Ashishin said, a small smile playing across her lips that Stefan was sure came from witnessing the horror written on her superior’s face.

“General,” Ballard said tentatively. “You should rest at least another day. If you aren’t fully mended and you take the Travelshaft, you risk-”

“I know the risks. Death using the Travelshaft to get the dire news I bring or death because I didn’t deliver such news in a timely fashion is still death, Zar Ballard.”

The Alzari bowed in quiet acquiescence.

A young cadet entered, carrying a tray heaped with food. What looked to be a roasted pheasant in a thick sauce, slices of bread, a blood orange, and several pink fleshberries. Next to them was a flagon and a cup. Peppery smells drifted from the dish, intermingled with the tantalizing scent of the fleshberries.

“I suggest the fleshberries first, sir,” Ballard said. “They help with the mending process.”

Stefan almost rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to inform the overbearing man this wasn’t his first time being wounded and mended. Instead, he nodded and strode over to the table where the cadet placed the food before bowing, knuckling his forehead to Stefan and leaving.

After he muttered a brief prayer, Stefan pulled out a chair from the table and sat. He poured a cup of wine, popped a few fleshberries into his mouth, and washed them down. The kinai wine only added to the sweetness of the berries. Well distilled kinai at that, fermented in precise amounts. The taste was so familiar Stefan raised his cup, swirling around the contents, his brows drawing together in a lumpy frown. The quality of the drink was impressive. Not many knew the secrets of producing such a near perfect vintage.

The better the kinai wine or juice, the stronger the restorative and energy inducing properties, or so Thania said. Only by picking the fist-sized, red fruit at the right hour, during early dawn or late dusk, could one be assured the essences were absorbed at their most potent. Impressive indeed . The liquor reminded Stefan of his wife’s brew. He sighed and resisted the instinctive urge to reach for his pendant.

“You made this?” Stefan held up the cup to Zar Ballalrd.

“No, General. I brought it in from the capital. I only use this vintage on rare occasions such as this.”

The wine might well be his wife’s after all. Stefan nodded. To put the thoughts of Thania and the children out of his mind, he tore off a leg from the pheasant and chewed. Every time he sipped the kinai, memories flooded him: Thania in the kitchen, preparing lunch, little Anton running around a flowerbed with Celina giving chase.

Will I ever be given another chance to see children of mine grow up? Very few Matii had ever given birth to more than two children in their lifetime. A side effect of Setian longevity many said. In a different world, he would have surrendered his extended life span for a chance. He hoped what he was doing now meant a better life for Anton and Celina. He thought of nothing more horrific than a world overran by the shade, and people losing their souls to its taint.

Stefan tore into another piece of pheasant before pushing the remainder away, his appetite gone. “I dawdled long enough.” He stood. “Is my mount ready?”

“Yes, sir,” the female Alzari said.

“Lead the way then.”

The two Alzari turned as one and headed outside.

Before he took a step to follow, a sudden bout of dizziness swept through him. He borrowed a moment to steady himself. Mouthing a silent prayer that Ballard hadn’t stayed longer to witness his weakness, Stefan headed to the tent’s exit. The Zar might be stupid enough to force the issue of his health and send someone else with a message to Nerian. Events were already on a precipice’s edge, needing only a nudge or some mistake to come crumbling down.

Outside the tent, a dozen mounted Dagodin waited, silver armor gleaming. They snapped to attention at the sight of Stefan.

“An honor escort, sir,” Zar Ballalrd said. “And protection should you have unwanted visitors in the Travelshaft.”

Stefan almost groaned. Taking more men into Benez wasn’t something he relished, but offering a protest wouldn’t sit well. Not for who he used to be, and not with the Svenzar raiding the Travelshafts at their leisure. Head held straight, he stalked by the men.

At the end of the line, his dartan was snuffling at the some meaty carcass. The Dagodin’s horses whinnied. His mount swung its head toward them and mewled. The horses pranced before the Dagodin brought them under control.

“He’s been well fed,” Zar Ballalrd said.

“Thank you.” Stefan braced himself as he mounted, making sure he showed no weakness when he climbed into the saddle. Once he was secure, his shoulders reaching slightly above the front of the shell, he beckoned to the lead Dagodin whose pin and four tiny golden swords on his breast named him Captain. When the man reached him, Stefan said, “Keep your men close. If you see Svenzar, ignore them. We have no goods. I don’t care what is being transported in the minor channels. The last thing I need is to lose men foolishly. Remind your men that they’re safe as long as they stay within the central channel.”

“Yes sir, General Dorn.” He snapped his reins and returned to his men, addressing each one personally. When the Captain finished, he nodded to Stefan.

They set off at a trot, padding along a worn path toward Karsten’s western outskirts. The backdrop of the town’s stone edifices stood more than four stories high, poking above the surrounding walls. Guards dotted the bulwark and the occasional square tower. Outside town, Setian forces in tents occupied most of what had been farmland. Many of the soldiers watched as they rode by, some saluting to Stefan and the Captain, while others practiced formations, or lounged about as they awaited orders.

As Stefan expected, the central road itself was empty. Laborers and soldiers spread along the edge for the spectacle. Stefan waited for the Dagodin to draw next to him, six per side. He nodded and flapped his reins.