Terry Simpson: The Shadowbearer

Prelude to War

From the notes of Jenoah Amelie — First of the Exalted

I must make these notes before the voices call to me again. Of late, I cannot tell which of the essences they are. Is it light or heat? Or gods forbid, the shade? Does the earth beneath my feet speak to me? Is the very air around me whispering in my head? Or the water I drink? Maybe, it is not the essences within the elements of Mater at all. Maybe, it is all my imagination.

What they promise is so overwhelming. Twice, I have almost given in to their call. Is this what the others experienced when the madness took them? I must defend our actions while I am still capable of coherent thought.

Some would argue that the formation of the Pathfinders was a desperate act, that the men and women who make up their ranks are nothing more than murderers. Some would say we think of ourselves as gods for doing as we did. What were we supposed to do? Sit back and watch the world burn? Again? Did not the war between the gods and the Eztezian Guardians destroy enough of the world?

We, all Matii, are appointed with protecting and saving the people of Denestia first. The same mandate the gods gave to the Eztezians when they created them. When we use Mater-the very essences and elements that drive our world-to destroy, we are betraying the sanctity of our forefathers, and blaspheming against Ilumni himself. We realized the fear of insanity and eventual death when wielding Mater is not enough to deter those who crave power. A more definitive action needed to be taken.

The formation of the Tribunal has worked well for a time. However, the volatile change in Mater has brought about a rift with our brothers and sisters. We once held all the descendants of the Eztezians who form the Matii we know today: the Ashishin, the Alzari, the Namazzi, the Svenzar, the Skadwaz, the Desorin, the Rendorta, and the Toscali, under our roof. They each had a position and title of honor here from which they could govern.

But they have not agreed with the need for harmony. Thus, they have broken away and ventured off to form their own kingdoms, the majority of them across the sea in Ostania. We fear nothing good will come of this.

Already the separation and those dedicated to individual gods and religions are beginning to show. Wars have been declared. Crusades for one religion or another have sprouted. We, the Ashishin, must a find a way to sever ourselves from this strife.

Knight Commander Stefan Dorn surveyed the battlefield below him from his vantage point astride his horse. The oncoming Astocan army stretched in a long line that disappeared into the shadows of the mountains behind them. The Setian Knight Commander grimaced. “Fools. They’re dead.” With a shake of his head, he let out a resigned sigh. “Prideful and stupid to the end.” It pained him to see such a waste of good men even from his enemies. Their general should have listened to reason. Together they could have averted the upcoming bloodshed.

“The way the Astocans would tell it, it’s bravery of the highest degree.” Knight General Garrick Nagel shrugged, broad shoulders made even wider by the pauldrons of his plate armor. He twirled his mustache around his thick forefinger. “They give their lives for pride. To claim they bent knee to no one. They would say their gods and people deserve nothing less.”

Atop his brown gelding, Knight General Kasimir Edsel snorted. “Too bad their gods aren’t fighting the battle.” With the recent sunny days, the Knight General’s skin had tanned to a deep brown.

“Indeed.” Stefan nodded. As a believer and leader of the Setian, he understood how a man might wish to have the deities on their side in a battle like this, especially if that man was an Astocan. He pursed his lips as he scratched at the annoying black stubble under his chin and studied the enemy.

Spread like fangs, the peaks of the Sang Reaches cast long shadows as the sun blazed in the cloudless skies. From their depths, the Astocan army boiled in numbers to dwarf his Setian forces. The smell of horse, sweaty men, and metal choked the air as his cavalry spread to his left and right. Up ahead his infantry advanced.

“I still don’t understand your concern for them,” Garrick said.

“You wouldn’t,” Kasimir replied. “Not after what they did-”

Stefan cut Kasimir off with a glare. It served no purpose to remind Garrick of the past. “They’re men with families and livelihoods like us.”

“Never like us,” Garrick snapped. “Lose this battle today and they would enslave us all, rape our women, and pillage our cities.” Nostrils flaring as they often did when he was angry, Garrick pulled so hard on his mustache Stefan wondered if his friend felt any pain at all. “So you’re right, Kas, I wouldn’t understand, not after how they made me suffer. But I know what it means to you, Stefan.” He nodded to the Knight Commander. “You have way more honor than I ever will.”

“Thank you.” Stefan dipped his head and let out a slow breath that Garrick held his temper in check. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, old friend. You’re as honorable a man as I have met, regardless of how you try to hide it.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the thin form of Knight General Cerny as the man made to say something. The Knight Commander spurred his horse forward a few steps. The King’s errand boy could wait a bit longer.

Drumbeats rolled from across the battlefield. Blaring horns and the stomp of marching feet joined in. The jangle of weapons and the trundle of carts from Stefan’s army of Setian played accompaniment. In tight formations, armor dull and dusty, his infantry lines awaited their commands.

A buzz-like flies alighting on a bloody corpse-filled the sweltering air. Arrows darkened the sky, shot from the blackness beneath the drab grey and green mountains.

“Incoming!” boomed the voices of the silver-armored Setian Knight Captains. Their warning rose unnaturally over the trumpets and drums echoing from the enemy’s ranks.

Stefan’s infantry legions brought forearms up to shield the eye ports of their helmets.

The buzz grew in intensity. Arrows began to land, pinging harmlessly off imbued steel plate.

“Be ready!” the Knight Captains yelled as the barrage ended.

Several horns blared down the cavalry lines to Stefan’s sides.

He brushed a stray lock from his face then raised the looking glass to his eye. Despite their location at the base of the mountains some six hundred feet away, the encroaching Astocan soldiers sprang into his vision as if he stood among them. Their archers were preparing another volley.

“Infantry … Formations,” Stefan called out.

The trumpets relayed his order.

Two ranks of shield-bearing swordsmen marched forward. Spread from left to right, they made up the vanguard. A similar formation of pikemen wielding twenty-foot spears followed them ahead of an additional double rank of swordsmen. Behind the column of foot soldiers were Stefan’s ranged legion consisting of bowmen, operators, and Cardian slaves. In unison, over twenty thousand sabatons stomped. The impact with the parched earth resounded-a mocking challenge to the Astocan archers’ efforts.

“Return fire,” Stefan said.

Amid horns announcing the command, the trot of a horse’s hooves accompanied Knight General Cerny’s appearance next to him. Cerny made to speak, but Stefan spared the small man a look, eyebrows raised. Cerny’s mouth snapped shut. With a gloved hand, Cerny dabbed at his sweaty forehead.