“What if one of the Ashishin does go mad?” Kasimir arched an eyebrow.
“We let their Pathfinders deal with them,” Stefan answered.
“I don’t know.” Garrick shook his head skpetically. “The Pathfinders themselves worry me. What makes them so different from a Shin, Zar, or any other Forger? Why are they immune to the elements’ effects? Another thing, if they do know a way to keep their madness at bay, why keep it secret?”
“Does it matter?” Stefan shrugged. “The Pathfinders never fail to do their jobs.”
“Not that we’re aware of,” Garrick countered.
“Regardless,” Stefan spared a glare for his big friend, “they’re the ones we rely on. Now, if you two don’t mind, I need you to visit the villages, collect the apothecaries, and head to the encampment. When you leave, send in Pathfinder Kaden.”
The two Knight Generals stood, bowed, and left the tent.
Stefan rubbed at his throbbing temple. Other than the difference in elements each could Forge, Alzari, Ashishin and Pathfinders were the same or should be. So why were they so far apart in control? Did their strength in particular essences within each element create the disparity, decided who went mad? No, he doubted that. Someone would have resolved such an issue long ago. He’d inquired after the Pathfinders and the Ashishin in general once, but his questions resulted in silence. On more than one occasion, he was told to direct his questions to their ruling Tribunal. Stefan shook his head. As a free Ostanian, setting foot in Granadia was not an option. Not if he wished to live.
Still, the plan to mend the Astocans was a risky business. Chances were they might overwork the Ashishin. Doing so could result in more bloodshed. But the lives saved by their work and the modicum of trust such a compassionate act brought was what mattered. Ostania needed to be whole again. For that to occur, the Astocans must see the Setian meant well.
Stefan closed his eyes and worked his neck from side to side to relieve some tightness. He wondered what his wife was doing at home in Benez right now. The sweet scent of bellflowers from the candles tickled at his nose. Thania’s and his favorite. He sighed. Gods knew he wanted to be in his villa again. He pictured his triumphant return and the cheering masses. More than them, he anticipated the sight of Thania on the wall awaiting his arrival.
A rustle announced the tent’s flap opening. Stefan eased his eyes open. A smooth–faced cadet stepped inside.
The young man placed a fist to his heart and gave a stiff bow. “Sir, Pathfinder Kaden is here.”
“Send him in.”
The cadet ducked outside and moments later, Kaden entered. As with all other Pathfinders, he wore filigreed silversteel armor. The torchlight played off its surface, highlighting the fine craftsmanship. At Kaden’s hip rested a sword in a leather scabbard chased with the same metal. The Pathfinder’s eyes were dark things obscured within the port of his full plate helm. The small golden shield worked into Kaden’s breastplate was the only thing differentiating his armor from his fellow Pathfinders.
King Nerian’s words rose fresh in Stefan’s mind: ‘The Pathfinders protect us from the Ashishin and the Ashishin from themselves.’ The words lent Stefan some comfort. Things existed that were beyond men like himself or his Knight Generals. For those, he needed Matii like the Ashishin or the Alzari and inevitably men like Kaden and those he led.
Kaden knuckled his forehead to Stefan. “Sir, I assume this means we leave for the encampment at dawn?” Despite the helmet enclosing his face, Kaden’s voice was deep, clear, and vibrant.
To the point. Stefan nodded. “Yes. There are more wounded Astocans than expected. Quite a few from our earlier skirmishes, in fact. Your Shins will be mending near fifteen thousand men.” Stefan wished the Pathfinder’s entire face was visible, but the narrowing of Kaden’s eyes told him enough. “Can they can manage?”
“If we had a few weeks or if I had more than a thousand Ashishin plus your Alzari, yes, but you want this done in days. Why? It’s not only the lives of these Astocans at stake. There is a possibility I will lose some of my own men as well.”
“I understand, Pathfinder Kaden.” Stefan stared through the slit of an entrance to his tent and into the night. “A King once said to me, ‘a good commander is one who shows an interest in the plight of his enemy, especially after their defeat. Such an act goes a long way in turning the mind of one’s enemy to seeing more than a simple conqueror.’ ”
“A wise man. But what of my Ashishin? Essentially, you might be working them to death, and putting your men as well as what’s left of the enemy you’re trying to save at risk at the same time.”
“Doesn’t your Tribunal proclaim the Shins as servants to all?”
Kaden regarded him in silence for a moment. “Fair enough.” The Pathfinder tipped his head. “Whatever is the Tribunal’s wish, I am but an extension of their orders.”
“Good. Now, do you think your Pathfinders will be able to prevent any Shins from losing control?”
“We can try, but there are no guarantees in this. However, if one of them does succumb, we should be able to stop them before they do any damage.”
“That will have to do,” Stefan said.
“Knight Commander?”
“Yes?”
“Why did King Nerian summon the Alzari back to Seti?”
“I’m wondering the same thing myself,” Stefan answered.
“If something should go wrong tomorrow, Nerian’s decision will be partly to blame.”
“Then let’s make sure nothing does.”
CHAPTER 3
In the shadow of the Sang Reaches, Stefan surveyed what remained of the Astocan encampment. Located in a vale with a tiny pass for an entrance, the expanse of fields had been quite defensible with an easy retreat into the mountains. Too bad the positioning was all for nothing.
Burned and ripped canvas, broken poles, and ramshackle wagons spread in a haphazard fashion about the ground. Hanging from a tree branch was the corpse of one of the Astocan captains. Below him, another soldier leaned on the trunk, a spear driven through his chest. The acrid pall of smoke hung so thick Stefan covered his mouth to choke down a cough. Brown, tattered brush crowded once verdant fields. Pieces of weapons glinted amongst the trampled grass. Stefan’s men had gathered the majority of the Astocan soldiers and led them off. A few of the remaining officers had managed to flee into the mountains. The ones left behind were incapacitated by their wounds. Some lay on makeshift litters, while others rested on grassy mounds. Moans and groans echoed among them. Many were unmoving and silent—eyes staring sightlessly.
One Astocan—skin so dark it shone—coughed and attempted to rise to his feet as Stefan approached. Several punctures from what must have been scorpio bolts and a missing arm prevented the soldier from doing much more than getting to his knees. The man clasped a hand to the two thin slits at the side of his neck that always reminded Stefan of a fish’s gills. The matching ones on the other side fluttered open and closed. Red trickled between the Astocan’s fingers, and he crumpled.
An Ashishin wearing the colors of a Devout priest hurried to his side. She placed a hand on the soldier’s chest. Blood oozed from the wounds and bubbled from the man’s mouth. Head down, the Devout prayed. An answering rattle issued from his lips. He gave a final kick and lay still.
Robes a brighter red than the dried blood on the ground, Ashishin Matii moved from one man to the next, mending those not too far gone. Soldiers beyond the point of saving were passed on to the Devout. Dressed in white and gold, these higher ranked Ashishin bent to offer prayers for the dead and dying. More often than not, the mortally wounded chose to convert to the Streamean religion the Devout preached and accepted the blessing of a god whose warriors bested theirs.
In close proximity to the menders were the Pathfinders. Displayed on their cloaks as well on each Ashis
hin’s breast was the Lightstorm insignia of the Granadian Tribunal—an illustration of three lightning bolts striking in front of the sun. Each Pathfinder’s hand rested on his sword. They had eyes only for the Ashishin.
Seeing the Matii at work with their guardians keeping watch, Stefan wondered again about the King’s message and his actions. Why did Nerian withdraw all his Alzari? This was the last battle. He knew they needed them to save as many Astocans as possible. Why did Nerian require the few Forgers they possessed? And for what campaign? Why was the King willing to risk the men’s ire by having them go off to war once more? The questions roiled on. Only one threat came to mind that would need the attacking power and prowess of the Matii.
Shadelings.
A chill passed through Stefan, and he shivered, covering the tingle by running his hand up the back of his neck and stroking the hair standing on end. He breathed easier knowing that the combined might of the Ostanian kingdoms had driven back the black monstrosities years ago. Thanks to the Tribunal’s help. On rare occasion, a report came in from the far north or northeast of a sighting. A massive hunt followed until they destroyed the creature in question. Stefan found it hard to believe a sizable incursion had occurred without his knowledge. At least not one dangerous enough to warrant the King’s actions and the message of a new call to arms that Cerny had delivered.
Controlling his mount with his legs, Stefan shifted to get a better look at Kasimir and Garrick. “I still can’t decide if I should break the news to the men or how.” He’d spent the previous night mired in sleeplessness and nightmares. In his dreams, his soldiers mutinied and caused a war that brought Seti to its knees. Hopefully, events would not be so bad. The thought did little to lessen his sense of dread or his dislike for the King’s orders. Such had been the dreams that he’d awoke red–eyed and weary.
“Do as you always have,” Garrick said. His mount sniffed at the ground then snorted. “Tell it like it is.”
Kasimir nodded his agreement.
“Maybe that would be best,” Stefan said. Impaled on a pike not far from him was General Dedrick’s head. A slight breeze ruffled the Setian Quaking Forest banner tied to the shaft below the ragged stump of a neck. “I still can’t help the sense that many of our men won’t be pleased. I feel as if I failed them.”
“Nonsense,” Garrick said. “The men followed your command because of who you are and what you have done. They’ll know you wouldn’t force them back into duty if it could be avoided.”
“I still don’t understand why the King feels the need to continue the campaigns,” Kasimir added. “Except for the Harnan and Svenzar lands, we have claimed all of Ostania for ourselves. Does he intend to attack those two again?”
“Don’t forget the Felani,” Garrick said.
“Meh, the Felani are the Felani. They will continue to hide behind the Vallum of Light.”
“Unless he’s found a way to root the Harnan and Svenzar out of their mountain strongholds, I don’t see why he would bother,” Stefan said. “Such a feat would take more Matii than we have.” He nodded toward the Ashishin.
“Involving that many Forgers in an active battle wouldn’t be worth the risk,” Garrick said with a shake of his head. “At least I don’t think so. Why—”
A scream cut off Garrick’s words. Stefan whipped his head around to peer in the direction of the sound, twisting slightly in his saddle.
In the middle of the encampment a young Ashishin Forger stood with her hands and face raised to the gray skies. Her keening intensified until his ears hurt. The slight breeze rapidly became a gale.
Ragged, tearing sounds followed as canvas, dirt, debris, and fragmented weapons swirled into the air around the woman as if a miniature tornado formed. The wind snatched the pike bearing Dedrick’s head and flung it into the sky. Corpses flew from the ground. Wounded soldiers clung to the closest things at hand, even if it was only brush. When their hold failed or the gale ripped the foliage from the earth, the soldiers screamed as the storm swept them away. Their voices lasted only moments before the wind’s howls drowned them out.
Stefan’s horse whinnied and pranced. Cloak whipping about him, he yanked on his reins as he realized his mount was being drawn inexorably toward the tempest’s center and the lone Ashishin. Pebbles pinged off his armor, and dust stung his eyes. The clouds above rotated to match the wind, forming a gray maelstrom. From its center, the sun shone through to illuminate the Ashishin’s form shrouded within the mass of glinting metal, swirling debris, and bodies.
A man–shaped glint of silver crashed through the vortex to land a step behind the Ashishin. One of the Pathfinders. The soldier’s sword flashed up.
One hand formed into a fist, the Ashishin spun. The silver–armored Pathfinder’s blade took her head in a spurt of blood. In the same motion, he dropped to one knee and stabbed the earth.
As the Ashishin toppled, the storm died. The debris swirling around her fell. Bodies, stone, dirt, wood, and weapons rained to the ground in a deadly deluge. Stefan sucked in a breath as they dropped toward the Pathfinder.
But the man simply kneeled, both hands on his sword hilt. Anything falling toward him spilled to the side without touching him. It appeared as if a small dome had formed two feet above the Pathfinder. Not once did anything strike him. The debris piled until it hid him from view.
The rain of rubble ended, and Pathfinder Kaden stepped forward. “Shin!” he yelled and pointed at the mound of rubble burying his brethren. “Shield.”
Four Ashishin gave nervous bows as they hurried over. Each one took up a position to form a rough box at the four corners of the mound.
“Free yourself, Pathfinder Clarus,” Kaden called from where he stood a few steps beyond the Ashishin.
The mound exploded outwards. Rubble struck invisible walls between each Matii. Clarus staggered to his feet.
“Help him,” Kaden ordered, “and have your fellow Shin take a break until tonight.”
The Ashishin bowed and hurried to Clarus’ side. Kaden wheeled his mount and headed toward Stefan.
The Knight Commander glanced around to check on Garrick and Kasimir. Dust coated their armor and their faces were grimy, but beyond that and their unkempt hair, they seemed no worse for wear. Both Knight Generals peered toward the other Ashishin as if expecting another outburst.
Garrick was the first to turn to Stefan. “This is why they’re not worth the risk in a battle.”
“There would be no risk if your King hadn’t pulled the Alzari.” Pathfinder Kaden reined in next to them. His eyes glittered deep within his helm. “With the amount of wounded here what did you expect?”
“Bah. A few more Astocans dying here or there would have been fine,” Garrick countered. “The blame is partly yours too. If you hadn’t allowed your Matii to Forge for so many hours without rest—”
“Stop it, Garrick,” Stefan commanded. “I asked Kaden to do this. It’s my fault this happened as much as it is the King’s for withdrawing the Alzari.”
Garrick gave a grudging nod and mumbled an apology to Kaden.
Stefan focused on the damage the Matus had inflicted. Not as many bodies as he expected stood out in the rubble. He’d once before seen what happened to a battlefield when a Forger lost control and went insane with no Pathfinder to hold them in check. The results were blood, mangled flesh, and death on an unimaginable scale. He shuddered. If Clarus had been a moment longer, everyone in the vale would have perished. Maybe, I should count us lucky the man reacted when he did. However, he simply couldn’t. The prone forms of the dead Astocans gnawed at him. “Although I blame myself, Kaden, we spoke on this.” Stefan eyed the Pathfinder coolly. “What took so long?”
Kaden shifted in his saddle and gazed at the Ashishin who were heading toward tents clustered near the entrance to the vale. Their Pathfinders escorted them. “That one was stronger th
an she should have been. Not to mention the elements here have been acting strange. See for yourself.”
Stefan paused for a moment as he considered what Kaden asked. As with any Dagodin like himself or Garrick and Kasimir, he had the ability to see or rather, sense the elements of Mater and their essences. However, he was unable to manipulate them—to Forge. A deficiency he was thankful for, but what he witnessed moments before still made him uncertain. Suppose the voices that haunted Mater, those he’d heard at one time during his training all those years ago, surfaced? What if he failed to resist their temptation?
“I can assure you, Knight Commander, that in all my years as a Pathfinder, traveling with various Matii, I have yet to see a Dagodin fall to the madness.” Kaden’s voice was filled with certainty, and not once did he blink.
Stefan sucked in several breaths, and then opened his Matersense. Power swirled in bands representing the three elements of Mater. Inside those bands, the individual essences within each element stood out in a myriad of colors. They existed in everything, from the ones he recognized to those he could not discern. They twisted, stretched, and congealed in a chaotic mass.
Many hues of blue and transparencies represented water and air essences contained within the liquid element of Flows. They threaded upon the breeze, the coolness of which promised rain. Within the murky blanket above, they coiled.
Among the fields, the sheer rock faces, and the forested slopes of the Sang Reaches the tiny differences in browns, greens, and metallic glints stood out. Those displayed earth, wood, and metal essences within the solids that were the element of Forms.
The sun’s glow peeked through a crack in the clouds. Gold and white brightened the sky for the briefest moment. Darkness wavered in and out of view among the shadows. The humidity from the day still hung in reddish orange. Those hues and bands represented light, shade, and heat essences—all belonging to the energy from within the element of Streams.
As he took in the wonder of his Matersense, Stefan became aware of what Kaden meant. There was an overflow of power among the essences. It was almost too much to bear—as if they reached for him, swirled within his head, his sight and sucked at him. With a gasp, he released his sense.
Aegis of The Gods: Book 00 - The Shadowbearer Page 3
