The Shadowbearer (An Aegis of the Gods Book)

Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

War horns ruptured the still, humid dawn in a long undulating bray. A cacophony of trumpets, barked orders, and frantic shouts echoed from outside Stefan’s pavilion. Fifteen years of refining their plan and of plotting came down to what he began today.

Stefan sat up, grimacing at the poke of an offending sprig of grass through his blanket. Sleep gnawed at his restless bones as he struggled to his feet. The dying flame from the tent’s sole lamp glimmered woefully, providing just enough light for him to find and pick up his sword belt and scabbard. He buckled it on and touched his hilt.

The weapon had saved him from shadeling assassins several times since the first night in Benez, alerting him to their presence with its vibrations. More often than not when he used the divya, he killed. He marveled at how he always sensed the sword. The caress at the back of his mind was a constant reminder of the bond.

With a sigh at the longing to be with his family, he ran his hands down his clothing to smooth the rumples of his uniform. Sparing a moment, he kissed the pendant of Thania. Then, with as brisk a stride as his tired legs could manage, he headed for the tent’s slit for an exit. Waif–weak fingers of dawn’s light greeted him as he ducked through the flaps and stepped outside.

The two Dagodin cadets appointed to guard his tent snapped to attention, shiny lances held high. Boots thudding in unison, soldiers were marching by in ordered formations, the Quaking Forest banners flying above them. Not far from those flew the Tribunal’s Lightstorm. Forest green Setian uniforms and armor stained and dusty, the troops followed the commands of the Knight Captains yelling ahead of them. His men knuckled their foreheads when they became aware of his presence. He acknowledged them with a stiff nod. They continued to file by, the younger recruits’ eyes shining with fervor; the veterans’ expressions either blank or of ice–hearted resolve.

Shoulders sagging, Stefan expelled a breath. He didn’t deserve the faith his men placed in him all these years. They would die. Eventually. He should have become numb to that certainty after witnessing well over a half century of war. Of death. Of destruction. Making friends only to see them perish; grieving when members of his family joined the legions and died in battles he himself led. But try as he might, he couldn’t shake the pain in his heart, the melancholy surrender when he witnessed the butcher’s bill. Not even after his most renowned victories.

All of this for what? The whim of a power hungry king? The need to expand borders? The craving to resurrect an empire long dead? The vanity of a man deluded by visions of grandeur? A man tainted by darkness? Well, no more. Nerian’s schemes went beyond all moral standards and honor. What is a man without his honor? An empty shell to be filled by corruption. The plague eating at Nerian was blacker than a moonless night. Stefan was tired of watching men die, families shattered beyond repair for this cause, this abomination of an alliance Nerian had formed.

Fifteen years. He sighed. Was it that long since I last saw Thania and the children? What does Anton look like now? Was he strapping and strong like me in my youth? Did the gods bless Celina with her mother’s beauty? Both would be eighteen now, a man and a woman grown. Would they even remember him? He’d given up what may have been his last chance at fatherhood for what? This? No. You gave up that chance for your children’s safety, for the freedom and livelihood of not only your men, but also your people. He gazed out to the horizon and the distant Erastonian advance, his expression twisting into a scowl.

The dawn air brought no relief to the promise of another sweltering day of death. Pallid twilight pricked the sky where clouds massed like puffed mounds of gray ash, the occasional jolt of lightning illuminating their bloated underbellies. Heartbeats later, a distant peal of thunder followed. Stefan wiped at sweat already beading his forehead, his gaze following the rumble of tens of thousands of marching boots.