Terry Simpson - The Shadowbearer

He crested the hill, pushing his chest out to make himself appear to ride with all the pomp necessary for a General, even a defeated one. The dartan’s massive size added to the effect. Behind him, hooves drummed a constant dirge. The thought of Cerny’s escort almost made his shoulders sag, but he refused to show any weakness. Part of him was still Stefan the Steadfast.

Across the wide valley, Benez’s gray edifices rose before the soaring, black feldspar walls. From the small dwellings within the slums to the larger buildings, the city’s structures wound their way up the valley and onto the mountainous slopes upon which the Royal Palace was built. The Palace itself sparkled with the evening sunlight. What may wait inside sent a chill through his bones.

Fifteen years .

Alongside the road, travelers pointed at Stefan and his escort. Others made way for their passage, keeping their heads down and eyes averted. Stefan frowned. The Setian he remembered were a proud, happy people, always walking with their heads up, pride for their soldiers evident. Even the ones who were lesser off. The expressions now were often grim, hateful. More than one person spat as they rode by. Many shuffled, backs bowing under the weight of belongings they carried. The wagons held up along the road were bursting to overflowing with both people and personal items. The press of unwashed bodies reeked. For the first time, Stefan noticed soldiers searching some of the wagons and at times carrying off the owners or walking away with young men under guard, their mothers wailing in protest.

Stefan slowed until he rode alongside Cerny. “What’s happening?” He nodded toward the young men.

“The King needs recruits in order to take on the Erastonians. He recently passed a new law. Every able-bodied male must serve in the army.”

“What?”

Cerny shrugged. “King’s orders.”

“Not everyone is born to fight, Cerny. What the King is doing is-”

“I understand,” Cerny said, nodding, “but if I were you, I’d keep those thoughts to myself. Of course, I could pass on your sentiments if you would like?” His eyebrows rose inquisitively, and he rubbed at his nose, his lips twitching ever so slowly into a cruel smile.

“No, if I need to, I’ll speak to him.”

“Fine.”

“Are all these people fleeing Benez?”

“They’re trying to. Most aren’t allowed to leave, at least not before inspection. The King believes the Erastonians have infiltrated among us. The dungeons overflow with suspects.” Cerny sounded almost pleased by the prospect and the gleam in his eye said as much.

Stefan ground his teeth. Rumors had reached him of how bad life had become, but this was terrible. Something else drew his attention. There was tenseness to the air, a poised readiness, like a rockslide waiting for the one boulder, the one weakness to send the stones tumbling. While some people did appear cowed or resigned to whatever fate would befall them, others seemed ready to attack, fists clenched around anything resembling a weapon. Often it was their hands balled into fists, but that was the extent of their protests. The gestures gave him hope. There might be a way other than fleeing after all.

First, he had to convince Nerian only a few survived against the Erastonians and that Garrick’s entire legion perished. A tall order if there ever was one. The occasional vibration from his sword when some soldier passed close or the mewl of his dartan toward one person or another lent to his sense of dread.

For all intents, he’d known this trip might be a suicide mission.

By the time they reached the city’s walls, evening sun had given way to twilight and that had surrendered to dusk. Denestia’s twin moons had risen, shining sentinels so large they gave the illusion they were within reach. Shadows elongated, covering the land in creeping fingers. Stefan and his escorts were the last allowed through the gates before the enormous metal structures rumbled shut, black slamming on black. The steady stream of people attempting to flee Benez had continued until the gates closed and soldiers denied any further passage. Travelers along the road bedded down wherever they were, not giving up on their quest for freedom.

Torches lit the wide-cobbled King’s Road, their light pooling on the huddled forms of those who’d bundled up against the night’s chill. As was the norm, the temperature within the valley, and in Seti in general, varied to one extreme or the other, with daylight often bringing sweltering heat and the night, a bone-chilling cold. For Stefan, his years away from Seti on the campaign almost made him succumb to the change. He clenched his jaw to combat the cold and give his body a chance to adjust.

Thoughts preoccupied by worry for his family, Stefan studied his surroundings. The slums, he expected to be in disarray, but they extended farther into the city than ever before. Garbage, the stench of old feces, and clogged sewer drains permeated the air. The city’s neglect was shocking. Not only did refuse line the streets, and a god-awful reek filter from the sewage system, but many buildings were in disrepair. Once prosperous inns were shuttered and dark. What music tinkled through the night was muted and melancholy. If the people outside appeared dreary and downtrodden, those along the road were corpses, eyes blank, expressions dead.

What, in Ilumni’s name, has become of my beloved city? Even as he asked the question, Stefan knew. The touch of shadelings was sucking the life from the living.

Soldiers patrolled by constantly, prodding one person or another with their tasseled spears, ordering them to move along before curfew set in. As one such guard put it, ‘Either huddle a bundle, get off the road, or take a blade to the gut. Your choice.’ The rule seemed to be no movement along the streets after a certain hour or face the dungeons or worse.

With the clop of their horses’ hooves and snorts playing accompaniment, they ascended into the Upper City. Stefan fought hard to ignore the steady string of vibrations from his weapon. Several times, he resorted to yanking tight on his dartan’s reins to dissuade it from attacking a person. The sights here were as depressing, with more than one notable villa now overrun with creepers and vines, their previously manicured gardens choked with weeds. Dust and debris blew along once pristine flagstones.

The few nobles out, who would be dressed in extravagant clothes, all wore darker colors. They pulled their cloaks tight around them, and kept their hoods up as they too hurried, averting their eyes from Cerny and the Kings’ Guard. The way the nobles appeared to be in a rush and often made nervous peeks toward the guards, it was obvious the curfew applied here as well.

On more than once occasion, when his sword reacted, the person in question gave an almost reverent bow to Cerny and practically ignored Stefan. The dartan ensured they kept a safe distance. Stefan made note of every face he encountered during such occurrences.

Up ahead the Royal Palace loomed, dreary and foreboding. The effect wasn’t simply from nightfall. The walls themselves appeared darker, not the near shining white Stefan remembered. Slowly spreading with night’s advent, like some black creature encroaching on the lamps and torchlight, shadows clung to every crack, crevice, overhang, battlement, and murder hole.

To Stefan’s surprise, a smaller than usual guard contingent kept watch along the colonnade leading to the stairs and wide entrance. Whereas the King once had several dozen servants greet visitors, only two did so, taking the reins of Stefan’s and Cerny’s mounts. The eyes of the one that took the dartan’s chains flickered fearfully. With a few words, Stefan reassured the servant the mount would be fine, warning him not to tie it near the horses. The King’s Guard dismounted and tethered their horses on nearby posts. Not saying a word, Cerny waited patiently.