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.
Beneath the roiling storm, rank after rank of Erastonians swarmed the undulating Crescent Hills south of the Kalin River at the edge of Setian territory. Black blotted out the once green fields, now as barren as a diseased womb. Stefan’s forces had stripped them to keep supplied as well as to prevent the encroaching army from having any sustenance off the land they invaded. Every time lightning flashed, metal glinted amongst the advancing blackness. Above the horde, flags flew the gray fist enclosed around a black lightning bolt.
AWOOOOOOO! AWOOOOOOOO!
The Erastonian horns continued to bellow doom, followed by drums rumbling in the distance as if the buglers had called down the thunderstorms boiling behind them. Stefan’s stomach knotted as he watched them slowly wash over the fields like a great wave of sewage. His recent victory over their forces did nothing to help. This army dwarfed that one.
He stifled the urge to call for an immediate retreat and turned away. Duty was a burden, but one didn’t get to be Knight Commander without shouldering the load or by panicking. Today, his duty was more than any man should have to carry. Any sane man. Right now, two other concerns nattered for his attention.
The first was his growling stomach. The second … well the second he would deal with while he ate. He prayed Guban’s information was wrong.
Stefan inhaled deeply, the faint whiff of food bringing another grumble of protest. He savored the sweet aroma from lingering cook fires before the stench of the waste pits drowned them. He hawked and spat. The phlegm spattered on the dry ground, appearing wet for a moment before the parched earth swallowed the moisture.
“Cadet Harvan, tell Knight General Kasimir to await my signal. Afterward, run fetch Knight General Garrick,” Stefan ordered.
“Yes, sir.” Harvan leaned his lance against the white canvas and ran off.
Stefan had been surprised to find Garrick, scarred face and all, with a full cohort when he returned from his victory over the Erastonians. Apparently, the King sent him to help with the upcoming battle. Garrick had shown open displeasure at High Shin Clarice and her Ashishin cohort, voicing his opinion several times. A time existed when Stefan might have dismissed the man’s malcontent as part of his distrust for Forgers.
From the small incline near his tent, Stefan studied his forces as they maneuvered into formations below, spreading to the south, banners flapping in the breeze. Forty–one Setian cohorts in all—four legions—two consisting of heavy foot, one of light foot, and the other contained the dartan cavalry. Three quarters of their number were Dagodin. Not as many as he wanted, but enough for now. The others were regular soldiers. Today, he would make sure the majority survived.
A grimace passed across the Knight Commander’s face at the single cohort of Ashishin standing to one side. Use who and what you must. Like the rest, they waited, four hundred strong, garbed in crimson tunics and pants with colored diagonal stripes down the front. Their matching, hooded cloaks hung deathly still. The Lightstorm insignia highlighted the back of each cloak. At their head were several High Shin and Pathfinders. While the other legions milled and fidgeted, this formation stood with an eerie, motionless silence.
Satisfied with the preparations, Stefan strode to a nearby table laden with food. He heaped slices of quail breast, slabs of deer, and cheeses and fruits from bronze platters onto a plate. Then he poured himself a tin cup of watered kinai wine from one of several flagons. If he died today, he would do so with his belly full.
“May Ilumni keep me strong to lead my men this day and the next,” he uttered in reverence, cup held up before him.
The Knight Commander threw his head back and emptied the cup’s contents. Fire racing down his gullet, he scrunched up his face. Within moments, the slight weariness from days and nights with little sleep in preparation for this encounter seeped from his bones.
A strong vibration against his leg reminded him of his sword’s presence and of the task ahead. His face curdled into an involuntary scowl before he casually rested his hand on the pommel. The vibration subsided until it became a near indiscernible thrum against his palm. Schooling his face to calm, he turned to the clink of armor.
Knight General Garrick Nagel stood behind him, his dark hair giving off a brighter than usual sheen, his chest an oak’s trunk covered in silver armor filigreed with gold. Deep–set eyes of ebon steel stared back at Stefan in a scarred face hewn from granite. Garrick knuckled his forehead and bowed, but his eyes never strayed from the Knight Commander’s own. He strode next to Stefan.
“Knight General Garrick,” Stefan held out a cup, “any word from the Scouts or Envoys?”
Garrick’s eyes narrowed at the title. Stefan suppressed a small smile.
“Not as yet, sir,” Garrick answered, his voice a rumble as if he spoke from deep within his chest. He took the cup with a slight nod of gratitude.
Stefan poured the Knight General a drink from his flagon. “Have the men feasted as I asked?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Kinai juice or wine?” Stefan’s stomach growled again; a reminder that he himself had not eaten in almost a full day.
“Juice, General. They’ll have fervor and strength to spare.” Garrick downed the kinai in two gulps, his eyes narrowing with the first swallow.
“Good, good.” Stefan stroked the prickly stubble under his chin. “You know what I say: If a man’s to die, he may as well do so on a full stomach. Better if he dies after making love to a woman. Unfortunately,” he pointed at their surroundings, “there are never enough women soldiers to go around.”
Garrick scowled at the mention of female soldiers. Like many, he considered fighting a man’s job and women good only for tending home or bedding. “If you say so, sir.”
The man had not always been a stoic one, but he became so ever since the day he almost died to the Erastonians. Garrick walked and talked but something else in him perished that day.
“Time’s changing, Garrick,” Stefan said. “Either we change with it or get swamped under by the likes of them and worse.” Stefan gestured with his head toward the Erastonian army.
Garrick shrugged. “Maybe, but women aren’t the answer.”
“What’s the answer then?” Stefan asked. “Having their women train and fight alongside them have worked for the Erastonians. They easily outnumber any other force and their fighting prowess cannot be denied. Why won’t it work for us? How do we stop other kingdoms from following in their footsteps? The Astocans? The Cardians? We’re losing because of our ways. If we don’t explore every avenue, how do we win?”
“With fire and steel, not soft womanly wiles. That has always been the Setian way.” Garrick spat to one side then gripped his sword hilt in a huge gauntleted fist. “Strike first and show no mercy. There’s no greater advantage than surprise and fear.”
“Sometimes, sometimes, indeed,” Stefan said while stroking his beard, “but there has to be other ways that don’t require killing. How long will we continue to ravage the land we intend to live in? What will we leave for our families?”
Garrick’s lips curled. “This is war. You fight and you die. It’s your kind of think—” He stopped mid–sentence as Stefan arched an eyebrow.
“It’s fine.” Stefan smiled, but didn’t let the expression touch his eyes. “I know. It’s my kind of thinking that’s made the Setian and Ostania as a whole, soft. I have heard it before.” Sword thrumming against his palm, he picked out a slab of quail with his other hand and began to chew, his gaze on Garrick.
The war horns blared again as if to remind them they still had a battle to fight. Drums rumbled their response. Out on the Crescent Hills, the Erastonians had finally drawn to a halt. They covered the plains completely, not a patch of brown earth showing among their ranks.
Stefan eyed his dartan cavalry as they wheeled into position. “I can give you one of the new mounts if your leg can handle riding.”
Garrick flinched so slightly Stefan almost missed it. “No. They don’t take to me or my men.”
“Oh?”
Despite their location off to one side, the dartans swung their necks and kept their attention on Garrick’s cohort. The animals’ mewls were indiscernible from the drums, horns, marching feet, and jangle of armor, but their open mouths and swaying heads spoke of displeasure.
“I think they’re too used to your men. Does the King know about them?” Garrick’s brow wrinkled.
“Not yet,” Stefan said. He licked grease from his finger. “I wanted to wait to see how they fared in a battle before I reported their use.”
“And the Ashishin?” Garrick spat to the side again.
“Nerian won’t be pleased, but we needed to try something new. Even he can understand that after so many losses.”
Garrick grunted. “Do you wish to go over the plans with the Captains or address the men again, sir?”
“Neither,” Stefan answered. “Like you said, this is war. We fight and we die. Even outnumbered five to one. No need to talk them to death is there?”
Gaze focused on the Erastonian horde, Garrick shrugged.
Delicately, now. Stefan tilted his cup. “Can you bring me another flagon, please?”
Garrick strode over to the pitchers of kinai wine at the table’s far end.
“You should eat.” Stefan picked up a slice of deer and tossed it into his mouth, chewing but not tasting. “After all, we might die today.”
The look on the Knight General’s face gave a subtle shift to confusion before he smoothed his features. He plunked down the flagon next to Stefan. “I’m not hungry, sir. I just want to get on with the battle. Wipe these arrogant fools from the world.”
Stefan glanced out among his legions, noting the shift in Kasimir’s troops. He finished the last of his deer then wiped his hand on his tunic before responding to Garrick. “You know my policy, Garrick. No man under my command fights on an empty stomach. Should they fall, I will have them go the gods well fed. So, is it that you aren’t hungry or that you know you won’t die today?”
Knight General Garrick stiffened. “I’m always prepared to die.”
“Good. Then die.” Stefan drew his sword and struck.
Garrick barely managed a half–choked shriek.
Stefan’s blade, still vibrating, sliced through the Knight General’s neck with a faint hiss. Blood spurted in a black geyser. Mouth agape, Garrick’s head tumbled from his shoulders. The sword’s vibration abruptly died.
As the head spun through the air, the illusion shattered, and a transformation began. Elongated lupine jaws, rows of sharp fangs, a lolling tongue, and stiff, black fur replaced Garrick’s face.
The black–furred wraithwolf’s head landed on the ground with a thud.