by Simpson, Terry C. ; Wilson-Viola, D Kai; Ordonez Arias, Gonzalo
The song from Sakari’s sword drew Ryne, its tone crooning a soothing rhythm he knew too well. He stood.
Sakari stopped mid strike, sheathed his sword, and strode to the fire in his gliding gait. With an exaggerated bow, Sakari indicated the open space within the clearing.
Ryne strode to the center of the area where a light breeze prickled the hairs on his arms. He unsheathed his sword, the Scripts etched into the hilt pressing against his palm as he lifted the weapon in front his face in a salute to the gods. His movements came slow and easy. Strange and sweet at the same time. He’d disciplined himself to practice daily but hadn’t done so since the Nevermore Heights, and this felt as if he’d been locked in a windowless room for months until one day someone let him out into the open air.
He flowed through the basics, repeating every parry, cut and strike like a lost lover’s kiss. The swish from the slick carpet of mud and leaves under his feet became a part of him, and he glided through it unhindered.
Speed increasing as he progressed into Stances and eventually into Styles, his blade became a whirlwind in his hand, lighter than thistledown. Ryne’s swordplay built into a soothing melody that played within his head. In his mind, he poised upon a pond covered in floating lilies, his steps never disturbing its smooth surface. The melody built into an orchestra played at a ball, but strain as he might, the music remained at the edge of his hearing, barely discernible.
As he often did, he strove to reach the music, and as usual, it remained beyond his reach. He settled to listening to the faint notes, allowing his body to move in accordance to the tune. He danced, his feet drawing a trail through the ground in the patterns his mind wove. Nothing else existed, but the distant melody and his sword.
When Ryne sheathed his sword for the final time, two hours had passed, and the sun had burnt off the early morning mist. He strode toward Sakari and the now smoking embers, his thoughts clear. Sakari acknowledged Ryne with a nod. Without a word, they climbed onto Thumper’s back and left the glen. They stayed to edge of the Fretian Woods before cutting clear across the Orchid Plains.
The first two days were uneventful, filled with pushing Thumper and only stopping for six hours a day to rest, hunt, eat, and for Ryne to practice the sword. Ryne chose a circuitous path to avoid any towns, usually staying close to the Tantua River, whose meandering path flowed out from the Mondros Forest to the northeast. Along the way, they saw no smoke from burning structures. Good news for the settlements, but it bothered Ryne. Where was this army? He’d made sure to bypass any areas where one could hide such a large force, but to be able to hide any sign at all should have proved impossible.
On the third day, they reached the first kinai farm in a fertile stretch a hundred miles before the Astocan border. Fields of wheat, corn, cabbage heads sprouting like green-white balls, and the bushy sprigs from carrots spread in small patches before them. Beyond those fields stood large kinai orchards, the rounded, leafy trees growing in neat rows.
“Strange,” Ryne said when no one came to greet them as they crossed up onto the road leading to the farm.
The fields were empty at a time when harvest should be bountiful, and the farm filled with the bustle of working folk, trundling wheels, and the cries from laboring pack animals. From his vantage point, the farmhouse, the barn, and the storage sheds appeared deserted. Guard dogs that should have barked their challenges slunk away instead. Several yellowbeaks sang a mournful chorus.
“Do you think they finished their harvest and all left for market?” Sakari asked.
Ryne noticed what Sakari meant. Where there should have been red kinai clusters, only green leaves showed. “I’m not sure.” The pink fluff from the harvested fruit carpeted the ground, often shifting with the breeze. A trace of the kinai’s sweet smell still caressed the air. “Maybe they prefer not to have anyone here after harvest in case raiders strike.” Ryne doubted the words even as they left his mouth.
“Should we stop?”
“No. Something here doesn’t feel quite right,” Ryne said. Maybe, the sensation came from the yellowbeaks’ keening. Whatever it was, he did not wish to stop. “Let’s move on.”
The next farm they reached was the same. At the third such farm, Ryne stopped at the orchard’s edge. “Maybe one farm I could begin to understand, but three? All abandoned?” He shook his head. “This goes beyond just being odd.”
Sakari shrugged. “Raiders?”
“I thought so too at first,” Ryne pointed to the orchards, “But the crops have been harvested too cleanly at every farm. And they’ve taken every farm animal and any stores.” He glanced around, examining the field cautiously, then dropped from Thumper’s back. “This isn’t natural. And we’ve seen no signs of a struggle. Up here, almost every farm employs mercenaries at this time of year. It would be near impossible for the small bands raiders prefer to do all this.” Ryne motioned for Thumper to stay and he and Sakari strode deeper into the orchard.
No more than fifty feet in, Ryne found the patterns he sought. There were too many footprints in the fluff and soil. Too many for farmers and the extra hands they hired for harvest. Too many for raiders who generally hunted in squads of fifteen men or less. There were enough tracks for a small army.
“You think these are from the same forces that attacked Carnas and the clanholds?”
“Maybe. If they decided to split into smaller compliments for this work.” A sudden stillness prickled against Ryne’s skin, igniting uneasiness. “Do you feel that?”
“The disturbance in the air? Yes.”
Ryne opened his Matersense. The world blossomed as if he viewed it through a magnifying tube tacticians often used to survey a battle. Smells sharpened. At the corner of his vision, he saw the same distortion as he did in Carnas. The razor sharp edges of the elements of Mater he was accustomed to were now smudged. Hidden among the perfumed scents from the harvested kinai wafted a slight decayed aroma mixed with what he could only describe as a wet dog’s stench. The same scent from Miss Corten’s, the strange woods with the half-formed wraithwolves and from within Carnas. Ryne released his Matersense.
“The air is the same as Carnas,” Sakari said before Ryne could utter a word.
Ryne nodded as he surveyed the field before them. Six murdered men at the kinai patches around Carnas, the clanholds destroyed, his entire town slaughtered, and now these farms, devoid of people and kinai. Yes, this army advanced, but what did it all mean? Sooner or late, he would find his answers. He hoped it would be sooner.
They left the fields, collected Thumper, and headed to the buildings. Each one was as empty as the orchards. Within the farmhouse, the furniture was intact, children’s and adults’ beds made up and boots still at the front door. Rotting food sat on the kitchen table with a pot of tea and a pitcher of juice. Maggots crawled across what might have been venison and a baked chicken. The food’s rancid smell filled the air. They found no corpses.
By the time they left, night had come. Ryne had no wish to camp close to the farm, so he pushed them for a few miles until they found a copse of trees he preferred. There, they built a small fire within a hollow and cooked lapra meat Ryne had preserved with salts the day before. While Ryne ate, Sakari went off to keep watch.
When he finished his meal, Ryne resorted to sword practice once more. The farms joined Carnas foremost on his mind. Hagan, you and your pipe… As Ryne remembered each of his friends, the action soothed him. Sometime later, he completed his practice, and found sleep’s solace.
Ryne woke abruptly from his slumber. The fire was nothing more than glowing embers, its smoke a faded scent. Thumper’s humped form was a mere silhouette in the night. Overhead, a cloudy veil occluded the twin moons and the stars, the resulting darkness enveloping the copse. He felt them coming before Thumper’s plaintive mewl or before he sensed Sakari through the trees.
He leaped to his feet and sprinted to Thumper. The dartan did not need much encouragement and stood ready, his neck swinging from side to sid
e. Heart racing, Ryne snatched up the reins and leapt onto Thumper’s back.
Moments later, Sakari burst through the brush and sprang into the saddle behind him. “There are at least twenty of them.”
“Twenty-six,” Ryne corrected. His Matersense revealed all before him. He extended his sight and smell well beyond their normal range by using the air and its endless void as part of the element of Flows. Within this sight, the dark became late evening.
The black auras he depicted with this increased range engulfed the night itself. They shone with their blackness, making the night appear as nothing more than a gray shadow.
At the head of the interlopers bounded eight wraithwolves. From time to time, they sprang up on two legs like men, sniffing the air before dropping onto to all fours to leap again and again. Elongated muzzles adorned their faces, and thick hair covered arms and bodies, muscles pumping with each movement. The fetid stench of wet dog’s fur mixed with decayed flesh rolled from the beasts in waves. As one, the wraithwolves stopped and lifted their snouts toward the copse. Green eyes glowed.
A chill prickled Ryne’s skin at the things that followed behind the wolves.
At first, he thought they were humans, but as his sight touched them, he knew differently. These creatures glided instead of running, similar to Sakari, but where Sakari’s feet touched the ground, these men did not. They also possessed no solid forms. They appeared as mist or smoke in the shape of men. Wherever they passed, the elements around them distorted from sharpness into dulled edges. They easily kept pace with the wraithwolves.
“Darkwraiths,” Ryne whispered. As he turned to whip Thumper’s reins to send him running, bloodcurdling howls echoed into the night. He glanced over his shoulder.
The wraithwolves no longer ran. Instead, they swelled, and he sensed more than he saw the shade they pulled within themselves. Then they vanished. They reappeared from the shadows themselves some twenty feet closer.
Ryne dismounted. “The wraithwolves just Blurred,” he said without looking up at Sakari. The thrill for impending battle fluted across his skin. “There is but one place we can find safety. Take Thumper there, I’ll meet you.” He held up the reins as Sakari leaped into the forward saddle.
“As you wish.” Sakari flapped the chains and sent Thumper speeding through the copse.
The darkwraiths screeched a keening wail. Ryne focused on them. They too Blurred, using the shade to leap from shadow to shadow.
Ryne calmed his battle energy and reached through his Scripts to the elements of Mater stored there. The celestial bodies etched into his skin came alive with his touch. Their light filtered from among the Streams.
The heat he had ignored when he first embraced his Matersense raced through Ryne’s body like wildfire on dry tinder. His toes curled, and he leaned his head back. A morbid grin twisted his features. He no longer needed to hold his bloodlust at bay. He no longer need to calm himself. The voices called, and he embraced them, allowing the Scripts to work. Above him, the clouds parted to reveal the moons.
Hagan, you and your pipe, your body ripped in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Vana and Vera, impaled on the floor and ravaged. Kahkon, bloody and torn. Lara, your throat ripped out. None of you deserved to die in such a way. The fire within Ryne burned brighter.
He painted a mental picture of himself as a fleeting luminescence, and his Scripts took over, adding the moons’ light to theirs. The two Forged together. An ethereal glow bathed Ryne’s body.
The shadelings drew closer, eyes burning embers among the shadows.
White flames flared within Ryne as his bloodlust burst forth with the Forging. He threw his head back, a smile twisting his lips, the thirst to kill filling him in a wave. Ryne’s battle energy and lust intertwined as one, long lost lovers in a wanton embrace.
Greedily, his Scripts gobbled up the coupled energy and emotions mixing them with the Mater within him. The glow from the essences subsided, absorbed by his Scripts and body.
Using that power, Ryne Shimmered from one moonbeam to the next, appearing thirty feet from where he once stood.
Behind him, the shadelings howled and wailed.
CHAPTER 24
Irmina teetered in the saddle. Her eyes snapped open, and she lurched upright for what felt like the hundredth time. I must stay awake…cannot allow myself to fall asleep now. Shadowy cobwebs clouded her vision, and fatigue weighed on her body. She shook her head. If there was a time she wished sleep would abandon her, it would be now, but slumber clung to her like a needy baby.
Pain lanced across her stomach and back. With each laborious step Misty took, Irmina’s legs and ass chafed and burned more, the normally soft padding used on her saddle having long outlived its usefulness. If she dismounted now, she would find her skin bloody and raw. Her wounds felt as if someone stuck a red-hot poker into her flesh before trailing the metal tip down her skin. But his weapon hadn’t been a poker had it? Had he used a dagger? At times, she was unsure.
Humid air adding to her need to close her eyes if only for a moment, she swayed again. She could, couldn’t she? Shut her eyes and rest? When next she leaned to one side, her eyes fluttered then drooped shut before she forced them apart again by sheer force of will. Or was it the sweat from her brow now burning her eyes that made them open?
Teeth gritted in determination, she forced herself to an upright position. A fog-shrouded hand rose to her face and slapped her. It took her a few slaps and stinging cheeks before she realized the hand was her own. Her stupor cleared enough to take in her surroundings. Night hung heavy, and the surrounding foothills evoked a feeling of something watching her. Shivering despite the hot, heavy air, she glanced down. Her bloody uniform, what was left of it, clung to her in tattered silver and red rags.
At least Misty’s holding up well. As if Amuni heard her thought, the dartan chose that moment to stumble to four legs before pushing herself back up onto six. How long has she run this time? Irmina would’ve trilled a command to rest if she could have, but her mouth was dry as brittle clay.
A painful mewl resonated a few feet from Irmina. She looked toward the sound. Ormand’s black dartan followed not too far away, but from its unsteady gait, the animal wouldn’t last much longer without rest. Languishing behind Ormand were two more Dagodin Knights atop mounts. All that remained of Ranoda’s cohort. Three left out of over four hundred. Her chest heaved with the thought. With every step, the distance between her and the men increased.
She knew she needed to do something, but what she couldn’t truly say. Her mind tried to function, but mired in a stupor as it was, her rational thoughts found ways to delve into a nightmare. This is a nightmare, isn’t it?
She shook her head again and slapped her face a few more times. Some nagging in the back of her mind insisted she avoid the areas engulfed in the shadows cast by the hills. She tried her best to comply. But when she trotted deep into one such passage where even the moons were hidden from view by several rock outcrops and hardy trees, memories of what occurred in her office rushed into her mind in disjointed dregs.
A black nightmare seeped through her window, blotting out all light from outside. The thing congealed until the blackness resolved into a manlike shape made from shadows. Red eyes appeared and froze her where she stood, while howls rose in a chorus outside.
The many books she’d studied about the Shadowbearer War flashed through her head. Shadelings in the form of smoke or mist bearing black blades had swept down on many cities then, and slaughtering all before them. She’d etched the pictures of the darkwraiths in those books into her mind.
Even as she recognized the creature, her body refused to respond. Heart aflutter, she screamed at her trembling limbs to move as the shadeling’s sword rose inexorably in billowing, black hands.
With a crash, the door caved in to reveal Knight Caden and several other Dagodin. That singular act broke her from the fear riveting her in place. Her sword left its sheath with the speed of thought and turned aside the
incoming blade.
Black metal met glinting silversteel in a caress of sparks that showered in a cascading arc.
A sharp pain scoured her back. Twisting away from the agony, she came face to face with Jaecar, a dagger in his hand, and the young Cadet who served the food clinging desperately to his back. She threw herself away from the Alzari, his next slice passing a hair’s breadth from her chest. As she hit the carpet, she rolled and bounced to her feet facing the darkwraith.
From pure instinct, her left hand rose, and she Forged Mater. Flames roared out from her palm in a scorching wave to meet the shadeling. The creature wailed just as a concussion rocked the room, knocking it back through the window with a shower of glass and throwing Irmina off her feet. Heat washed into her face from the blast and matched a similar rush thrumming within her. Before she could crawl back to her feet, Jaecar was on her again like a miniature whirlwind.
The Cadet lay to the side, his bowels spilled, blood pooling under him.
As Irmina attempted to parry the Alzari’s high slice, he changed direction and caught her across the stomach. Her uniform parted like silk. Warmth gushed down her abdomen to her loins.
Snarls and spittle flying from his lips, Jaecar yelled in a language she didn’t recognize. He swept in again, but she was never given a chance to defend herself as Knight Caden and his men intercepted the Alzari and drove him toward the window.
Irmina’s chest rose and fell in shudders as she sucked in deep breaths. A hand snatched at hers. Deep in the heat of battle, a craving to kill rose with her Forging. She almost took the arm attached to the hand until she looked up to see Ormand. She sought the harmony deep within her mind to abate the Streams’ thirst for life in return for its gift.
