“Or that,” Stefan shrugged, “but I would rather Knight Commander when you’re in the confines of my home.” A man must maintain some semblance of control even when certain events are out of his hands.
The other Knights struggled to their feet amid moans and gritted teeth.
“Take your men to the menders, Carim. Good fight. Pay each of them a gold eagle.” Stefan smiled at the open mouths and grins from his soldiers. The reward was enough money to keep them going for several weeks of drink and women. They deserved it; their time here in Benez was almost at an end.
Stefan waved to Kasimir and Garrick to join him as the young Knights shuffled off with the help of their counterparts. Both with the new pins and stripes of their rank on display, the two Knight Generals arrived at his side by the time he pulled his tunic on and buttoned up his shirt.
“Aren’t you supposed to get slower with age, Stefan?” Kasimir asked.
“And weaker?” Garrick added with a shake of his head.
“Must be my wife’s cooking.” Stefan grinned as a servant brought over a cup filled with kinai wine.
A thoughtful expression crossed Garrick’s face as he twirled his mustache. The corner of his lip twitched.
Cup in hand, Stefan chuckled. “No, you can’t twist my words to make Thania think I spoke ill of her culinary skills.”
With a shrug, Garrick said, “Was worth a try.”
Stefan took a deep gulp from the cup, swilled the wine around, and then swallowed. The liquor coursed down his gullet in a trail of fire. Moments later, he felt as if he could fight a dozen battles. After he emptied the cup, he led the way out the oak doors and into the stairwell.
“How’s the training and recruitment gone?” Stefan asked as they headed up the steps.
“Both have been exceptional,” Kasimir said.
Garrick nodded his agreement.
“Numbers?”
“We replaced a third of our normal legions with new recruits,” Kasimir said. “They took well to the rigors of our training regimen. You can thank Garrick for that.”
The bear of a Knight General smiled. “Someone had to push them. The others who aren’t joining us this campaign were only too happy to help.”
Glad he would at least hold up his promise of peace for some of his older warriors and for those who wished to be with their family, Stefan issued a silent prayer to Ilumni. “Good,” he said. “Just in time too. The King has summoned me today. There’s no doubt our forces will march within the next few hours.”
“Knight Commander?”
“Yes?” Stefan frowned at Kasimir’s tone and grim expression.
“What are we going to do about the Erastonians? We know nothing of how they fight.”
“Not even from the Scouts?”
“No, sir,” Garrick answered. “The Heralds have not received word from any of the Scouts. Every party we sent into Everland disappeared without a trace.”
Stefan stroked his chin. This wasn’t much different from what they’d faced against the Astocans until they actually met them in their first battle. So why do I have these nervous flutters? “We’ll improvise if we should have a need. Use the same formations if we can. It’s a few months march from here into Everland. By then we should have some reports.” Stefan hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. “Garrick, you let the men know to prepare. Kasimir, when you get a chance, check on Merchant Vencel.”
“Yes, sir,” both men said together.
They spent the rest of their time discussing family and the enjoyment of their break without the rigors of war. It was good to see his men in such high spirits considering they would again be leaving on a campaign. Stefan thought about visiting Anton and Celina before his trip to the Royal Palace, but decided to wait. He led Garrick and Kasimir out to their mounts.
The dying sun pricked the horizon as they said their goodbyes and departed. The two Knight Generals rode off toward the west where they could prepare the army for their long march at the entrances to the Travelshafts.
The onset of summer meant the celebration of Soltide. It signaled another successful harvest season for Seti’s bustling economy. The festival lasted weeks. Accompanied by tumblers, jugglers, and musicians, the revelers in costumes featuring outlandish colors and bits of lace that left little to the imagination, danced along the avenues. At least the nobles had on that much. Stefan could only imagine what the more free-willed common folk wore or didn’t wear.
Two stagings-one of the more expensive types of costumes-set on drays pulled by Cardian slaves, rumbled along behind the procession. The first staging was a woman covered in the plumages of several birds, their colors even more beautiful in the evening sunlight. The second was a representation of the god Humelen. This one was a man with mountains and forests painted onto his skin along with imitations of precious metals stuck to his body. Earth, wood, and metal-the solid essences that made up the element of Forms belonging to that god.
Original. Stefan nodded, quite impressed by the creativity. The staging of the god was sure to win a prize at the contests later in the evening.
Stefan rolled his eyes at the blocked streets ahead and turned down one of the side lanes. This one wasn’t as crowded, but he needed to make another detour as it became more congested. Soon, he gave up riding altogether, choosing instead to dismount. After a bit, he left his horse at one of the few stables still open during the festivities. Weaving his way through the throngs became easier, and as he drew nearer to the Palace, the crowds lessened.
Lamps and torches lit the streets now as the sun had fled the sky leaving the pallid light of Denestia’s twin moons as the night’s herald. Up ahead, a staging blocked off an avenue. Rather annoyed now, Stefan cut down one of the few small alleys in the Upper City. Save for four inebriated revelers cavorting down the road, the alley was conspicuously empty. The three men and one woman waved to Stefan, laughing and singing in god-awful tones.
The revelers were within six feet of him when his sword gave off a subtle vibration. He frowned and touched the weapon’s hilt to make sure of the sensation. An attempt to remember where he experienced it before proved fruitless. In the next two steps, the sword thrummed against his palm so hard that he swore it wanted to leap from the scabbard of its own volition.
A scuff of a boot moving stealthily. The sound was too purposeful for a bunch of drunks. By instinct, he ducked. A blade sliced the air vacated by his head.
“Do not allow him to draw,” a guttural voice said.
The words were like a gargle of spittle deep within a throat, more growl than speech. A hand clamped onto Stefan’s wrist with frightening power. Stefan stared down into a chiseled face with glittering coals for eyes. The man grinned. Stefan’s nose twitched at the fetid stench rolling off the would-be assassin.
Aided by the speed and strength from his touch on the divya, Stefan’s hand darted to his left hip. He whipped out his dagger from its sheath. In the same motion, he sliced down and across the hand restraining his own. There was a surprised yip, followed by a snarl. The man’s grip loosened.
The sword still vibrated like a madly beating heart. Stefan whipped his hand out and spun as the other three attackers attempted to assist their accomplice. Instead of whirling to escape, he used his momentum to bring himself into the first man. Eyes widening in surprise, the chisel-faced man didn’t have a chance to move as Stefan stabbed. The sword punctured his assailant’s gut. Stefan ripped up. Warm bowels gushed onto his hand and uniform.
The man grunted and a dying breath hissed from between clenched teeth. Stefan kicked him off and stumbled backward to make space for the other three assassins.
A choked howl issued from the man he’d gutted. Stefan’s gaze flitted from the three accomplices to the form thrashing on the cobbles, fluids leaking from the gashed stomach. The man’s eyes changed to a glowing, feral green.