“No, Damal,” Ryne corrected. “I found it.” He caressed his Matersense. What he once thought was his bloodlust, a craving to kill, clung to him like an extra layer of skin and he allowed it to. The voices in his head were different sides of an argument like magistrates at court. They were the living entities that inhabited Mater itself arguing who should live and who should die. And Ryne was the final judgment.
Bars of shade flew toward Ryne from the daemons. From Bertram shot forth a streak of black lightning turned sideways. The ground rumbled as the Alzari worked the Forms sending stone, tiles, and the earth itself rippling toward Ryne, tossing corpses unceremoniously aside. In leaping bounds and gliding gaits, the shadelings rushed toward Ryne, howling and wailing with their eagerness to tear him apart.
Around Ryne, his Scripts shone bright. No, not Scripts. Scripts were what Matii could once do on divya to add more power. On a living being, these were Etchings, and only a netherling could do such an imbuing.
Defensive Forgings from the Namazzi and Ashishin flew out to meet the incoming attack. Air, in gale force winds, howled from the Namazzi, and light and fire from the Ashishin. The opposing essences collided, followed by a roaring boom.
The force of the explosion blew Ryne off his feet. Matii, soldiers, and shadelings were thrown back, arms and legs mangled, bodies gashed. Some slammed against what remained of the walls and pillars that leaned listlessly. Smoke billowed and flames licked around the room.
Blood streaming from his ears and nose, and rasping for breath in the hot air, Ryne struggled to his feet. Irmina lay near him, her face and clothes blackened messes. Her chest rose and fell in barely discernable increments. Of Sakari, there was no sign.
Swaying as he stood, his face impassive, Ryne touched his sword’s hilt. A gash ran down the side of his face, opposite the old claw marks, and cuts and burns marred his body. His Etchings worked to mend him.
Bertram and the daemons crawled to their feet. So did a few of the Alzari and whatever remained of the shadelings.
“Brother,” Damal said. “They come. Are you ready?”
Ryne gave a weak nod. Bracing himself, he reached toward his new link. Mater flooded him from a thousand, no, a hundred thousand, no, from more sources than he could count.
Time slowed. Forges flew out from Bertram and the daemons. Forms tore the ground from the Alzari. Lightning, bars of shadow, fire, and earth flew forth. Death raced toward Ryne.
“Recite with me,” Damal commanded.
“Light to balance shade. Light to show honor. Honor to show mercy,” Ryne said in concert with Damal. Ryne’s Etchings bloomed brighter than ever before.
“Shade to balance light. Mercy to Gift death. Death to those found wanting.” Shade billowed within Ryne’s Etchings.
“The elements of Mater must exist in harmony.” Ryne’s voice rose with a wind that howled through the air.
“Why do we exist, brother?” Damal shouted.
“To help the helpless. To defend. To build. To destroy. To judge.” Ryne’s voice echoed above the groans of the dying, above the wind, above the elements streaking toward him.
“Declare judgment,” Damal whispered, and he disappeared.
Ryne thrust all the power roaring within him and without into his Etchings. He chose the ones depicting an army of giants facing down a vast gathering of shadelings.
The shapes of the giants leaped from his body. One by one, they grew until they stood twenty feet tall, heads reaching past what pillars still stood. Etchings covered their bodies. One bowed to Ryne.
It was Damal.
The Eztezian Guardians turned toward the surging Forges and Amuni’s servants before them. Massive greatswords bounded into their hands.
The world became a white blaze as the Eztezians unleashed their power in the Audience Chamber and all through Castere. Wherever they appeared, anything serving the shade perished.
CHAPTER 51
Ancel stood before the netherling with his head bowed. So did Galiana, Kachien, and Guthrie. With a mere wave of its hand, the creature had swept the shadelings into ash.
“I know you feel the link to your new master. He will teach you all you need to know of your Gift,” The netherling said, his voice a deep growl. “There are a few of us here in your realm. Not all represent the interests of your kind. You must seek them out while you learn. Use your pet.” White eyes regarded Charra. “He himself is one of us.”
Ancel gaped. Charra, a netherling?
“And now for your Gift,” the netherling announced. “There are twelve sets of these. We provide you with ten. The other two we do not know how to obtain and have never possessed them. We do know they will be required for you and your people to prevail. Hold out your arm.”
Ancel reached a tentative hand out, his palm up, expecting to receive weapons of some sort. Instead, throbbing pain shot through his arm. Back arching, he screamed. The pain increased until white danced before his eyes, blades and fire scoured his skin, and his head pounded as if it would burst. He would have fallen to the ground, but somehow the pain itself kept him erect.
“This is the first set of your Etchings. They represent the essences of light among the Streams. Like the other essences, they will speak to you from time to time. Heed what they say, but the choices you make are yours. This is my Gift to you. As you master it, others will come to you to pass on the other Gifts.”
Tears streaming down his face as the pain subsided, Ancel glanced at his right arm. His clothes had been shorn from half his body and hung in tatters about him. Up his arm and across his right chest was the most beautiful artwork he’d ever seen. The Etching displayed the sun, moon, and stars in various scenes, sometimes with lightning illuminating dark skies. The Etching writhed and throbbed.
A slash appeared in the air again. Behind it, what was left of the winery still smoked, timber, stone, and brick black to match the ground for thousands of feet. As before, the slash formed into an eye that opened onto a void.
The netherling stepped through, the armored plates on its back chiming with his movement, and the portal closed.
Ryne stood outside what remained of Castere Keep. Below, most of the fires were petering out and smoke rose in the air. The twin statues of Aeoli and Hyzenki still stood tall in the great lakes. For reasons, he couldn’t quite place, he felt no elation at having destroyed Bertram and the threat from the shade’s army. The victory seemed hollow, incomplete. The innocents slain in Carnas and elsewhere were still dead. Nothing would change that. Not even if he swept the land with the rest of the allied Granadian and Ostanian forces to hunt down what remained of the army. He looked northwest to where he felt his new link out across the sea in Granadia.
“So what now?” Irmina asked. Her Ashishin uniform was torn in too many places to count, but at least she’d been mended.
“I must seek him out as Halvor said. He needs me.”
“Who?”
“The one who provided me with the power I needed. He will need you also. After all, you saved me. I cannot thank you enough for that,” Ryne said. A shadow crept across Irmina’s face. Ryne assumed it was from the pain.
“I just did as was needed.” Her shoulders drooped, and with a sigh she asked, “So who is this person?”
“A youth named Ancel.”
Black rain fell around Sakari. He reached for the barrier, wincing, expecting the normal pain that would have prevented his passage. None came. The Kassite had already thinned here. Untouched by the torrential downpour of inky rain, or the storming winds, he drew from the abundance of shade coursing around him. Forging a rift at the thinnest point of the Kassite, he stepped through. He Materialized, already kneeling, in the absolute black of several shadelamps. The near blinding umbra forced him to bow his head and close his eyes. He took a moment and gathered himself. He still hadn’t fully adapted to his ability to see within the dark as clear as a bright, sunlit day.
Sakari remained on his knees in the middle of a red-carpeted, marble
walkway. At first, the malefic form seated upon the throne didn’t react to his presence. A gray haired woman with wild, silver-blue eyes lay at the form’s feet. Normally, Sakari wouldn’t have ventured this far in, but the Master had demanded he come directly to him as soon as the battle concluded. He kept his head down.
Something cold brushed against his skin, and he forced the thudding beat of his heart to a tenuous vibration. Freezing tendrils of Kahkon’s shade touched him, probing, begging for him to flinch away in fear. Bumps crept along his skin where it touched, but he didn’t budge. To do so meant death. He had no intention of feeding his Master’s hunger.
“You bring news?” asked Kahkon’s disembodied voice in a near chuckle. The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
“Yes, my Lord,” answered Sakari. “It has happened as you prophesied, sire. Prima Materium has been released. Eztezian Bertram perished in the undertaking. The first seal is broken.”
A soft laugh issued from the roiling darkness on the throne. “He lost control when she wounded you, didn’t he?”
“Yes, my lord,” Sakari said, maintaining a neutral tone.
“And the sword?”
“The young man still possesses it.” Why would a sword be of any concern to one such as his Master? Sakari dared not ask. Instead, he made a mental note of it.
“Good. Take a contingent of Vasumbral with you to establish our reign here. Scour the land until you find the boy and his ilk. Kill them all. Bring this pitiful world to its knees. Feed the advent of Amuni.” The malevolent cackle of Kahkon’s voice echoed within Sakari’s head before dwindling away just as the darkness sitting on the throne faded and the tendrils of shade and the woman with it.
Sakari stood as the blackness congealed, somehow making an even darker blotch within the umbra.
A sound drifted through the air like a dry rasp of metal on leather mixed with the crackle of a fire. Tentacles stretched out, followed by a long, slithering body as broad across as a wagon. The form writhed and coiled and stretched, at times appearing to be joined by vertebrae, but no beginning or end came into sight. Hundreds of miniscule feelers fluttered under the bellies of the beasts, some touching the ground to drag, while others appeared to sample the air. Sakari spat. He didn’t like them, but like any other tool, the Vasumbrals would be used.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-8da0b1-b612-8045-e2aa-aaa6-ddd9-1fa226
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 05.05.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.24, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Terry C. Simpson
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Etchings of Power aotg-1 Page 48
