Etchings of Power (Aegis of the Gods)

by Simpson, Terry C. ; Wilson-Viola, D Kai; Ordonez Arias, Gonzalo

  Rough hands snatched Ancel from behind. He twisted, and a fist as hard as a brick struck him on the side of his face, and his sword clattered onto the cobbles. Stars danced in his vision coupled with the ground rushing to meet him. Before he could muster a coherent thought, he found himself struggling to catch his breath as a boot mashed his back and kept his face pinned into a rancid puddle among the broken cobbles. His eyes stung from the bilge. Sputtering to catch a breath served to fill his nostrils and mouth with the foul smelling and even worse tasting runoff.

  A loud growl echoed in the alley.

  From somewhere in his stupor, Ancel heard the frantic cries of the guardsmen. He thought he recognized Danvir’s deep bellow. Was that the sound of steel clashing against steel?

  As Ancel regained his senses, the man above him cursed. The weight of the boot against Ancel’s back lifted. Retching up the filthy water, he crawled to his knees. Sure enough, the metal clang of swords and the shouts and grunts of exertion sounded all around him. Mixed in were moans, plaintive cries and Charra’s snarls and growls.

  Head down, eyes still stinging, Ancel could just make out armored legs stumbling about. He reached out blindly along the ground until he felt his sword hilt, then he struggled to his feet. Lightning flickered, brightening his surroundings. Thunder rumbled and drowned out the noise of the rain drumming against the slate roofs and pattering on the cobbles.

  Danvir and Mirza, swords in hand, stood over the bodies of two dead guardsmen. Charra cooed next to two others, their armor pierced in over a dozen places by his bone hackles, their blood pouring like the deluge.

  The daggerpaw’s gaze was locked on a slim figure dressed in clinging gray pants and a shirt. A black cloak hung limp as the person inspected the corpses of the other soldiers. Honey colored hair spilled down the figure’s shoulder and back. There was no mistaking the dual short swords that seemed to drink the light from the alley’s lamps.

  The bells of the Streamean temples tolled.

  Lightning skittered across the sky once more, casting the alley into daylight for several heartbeats. The killer turned to them.

  Sword held out before him, Ancel edged closer to Charra. How didn’t I recognize those eyes earlier?

  “Come,” Kachien said, sheathing her black weapons. “We have to leave now if you wish to live.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Ryne Shimmered across the field.

  Decades had passed since he last used this ability. So much so that he’d almost forgotten the rush it brought. Every time he Shimmered, it felt as if he stood at the edge of a precipice and flung himself into the depths. His stomached clutched with the sudden falling sensation. The light beam where he would land pulled until it swallowed him, and they became one. To a person without the power to see, he would vanish and reappear at the location he targeted. To those who could see, he simply moved at blinding speed.

  “Go! Kill, tear, maim, destroy. The world is at your fingertips. Take them, they deserve death. They killed yours. You kill theirs. One good turn…” On and on the deep voice droned whenever his Scripts drew in more Mater, the energy caressing his ears with vengeful whispers.

  His head filled to the brim with the words as his body embraced the need to kill. The voice built into song. A chaotic opera with blaring instruments playing a rousing rhythm. Sakari had named it his kill craze, and rightly so. Ryne cackled with the thought. A maniacal sound he didn’t recognize as his own voice.

  The second voice attempted to find purchase, but this time it gibbered. “No. Calm yourself. Harmony. Seek it. Calm. Kill only if you must. Draw back, peel away. Subdue the power of the Scripts.”

  Ryne sneered. He slammed his thoughts shut against the second voice’s pleas.

  Heat exploded from him like the mouth of a volcano, an insane cackle erupting from him once again.

  A grin splitting his features, he reached the middle of the field and spun to face his pursuers. He’d yet to meet man or beast who could hold onto Mater longer than he could without losing their sanity or dying from the pressure on their mind and body. The languishing shadelings proved no different.

  Across the myriad copses, rutted trails and open fields, the shadelings now ran instead of Blurring. As expected, with their long leaps and bounds, the wraithwolves had separated themselves from the darkwraiths in the long chase. They continued to open the distance, so lost in their own murderous frenzy they no longer ran as a pack.

  The first beast leaped across the trail to Ryne’s field. Ryne Shimmered to the wraithwolf before it landed in the knee-high grass.

  He drew his sword with his right hand. The Scripts triggered. Light raced down the blade as if a fire chased fuel, and the sword rose in a backhanded slice to meet the leaping wolf.

  Green eyes winked out as the creature’s head parted from its shoulders. Before the slice reached the highest point, Ryne was already drawing the weapon down and sheathing it. The wraithwolf’s flesh dissipated like ash blowing on the wind, the powdery substance never reaching the ground, the smell of roasted meat filling the air.

  The next wolf gained the field. Ryne repeated the same attack. With each kill, the pressure from his kill craze eased a miniscule amount. Clouds scudded across the sky as the sixth wraithwolf managed to land among the grass while Ryne was finishing off the fifth.

  Black fur ruffling with the wind, the shadeling bounded through the grass, muscular arms and legs pumping, its eyes ablaze, snarls issuing from its gaping jaws. Ryne relaxed as the beast drew shade, Blurred, and emerged within reach of him. Hot breath and froth from the shadeling’s maw brushed Ryne as its jaws snapped. Long, poisonous claws slashed.

  Ryne stepped around the attack, and within the same motion, he called on the Scripts of the twin moons. His arm flashed up in a circular motion and back down, the move mimicking the shape of the moons. The wraithwolf’s left arm went flying into the night followed by a pained scream from the monster. Ryne sheathed his greatsword.

  The shadeling retreated, circling him tentatively. Ryne dropped his sword arm, inviting it in, and the wraithwolf took the bait. It Blurred once again, swiping and snarling at his right side.

  This time, Ryne pictured dust swirls carried on the wind and moved with his Scripts. He spun beyond the slashing claws in a full rotation. His sword came out and up. The strike lopped off the creature’s right arm. The wraithwolf mewled in terror with the loss of two limbs as it stumbled forward and fell, the acrid aroma of its burnt flesh rising in smoky wisps.

  As the twin moons cleared the clouds, their silvery surfaces illuminating the field, the wraithwolf struggled up onto its legs. Smoking stumps were all that remained of the arms. No blood flowed from the wounds. Ryne’s lips twisted into a hideous smile with the knowledge that the cauterized wounds wouldn’t allow any living appendage to grow back.

  The wraithwolf teetered for a moment before steadying itself. Frothing slobber flew from its maw, and with a piteous cry, it pushed off those powerful legs and flew headfirst. Ryne leapt up on currents of air essences, one with the Flows. His sword swooped down like the leathery wings of the legendary Hengen etched into his Scripts. No sound passed from the monster as the head went spinning. The black-furred body shriveled and dissipated.

  Shuddering, Ryne turned to face the other wraithwolves. The fight had taken longer than he wanted. The beasts, however, stayed on the other side of the trail, pacing back and forth, green-eyed gazes never leaving him. Within moments, several darkwraiths joined them. These too did not cross the threshold. Instead, they waited.

  Ryne’s insides burned with the craze. He hadn’t killed enough to abate its pull. His body trembled as he fought to resist the urge and rush into a headlong attack. Cackling maniacally, he focused on the gathering shadelings. They would be his release. Here, he would begin to avenge Carnas. Here, he would make right what happened to Kahkon. Here, he would appease his power.

  If he died in the process, then he would finally be released from a world that never was his. A
world where he’d wreaked havoc, where he’d sown suffering, fear, and grief. Such a fate would be just repayment. Faces of the dead flitted through his mind. The time was now. He commanded his Scripts.

  The second voice came roaring into his mind, this time it didn’t gibber or plead. It questioned and ridiculed his foolishness. What of the good he’d done? What of the many lives he’d saved over the long years? Did those not counterbalance the suffering he caused? What of his purpose? What of the one who would show him the way that Halvor mentioned? Was he willing to die without knowing? What of the shadeling army and the suffering and chaos it would bring?

  Caught between the warring voices, Ryne threw back his head. He didn’t abandon his hold on his Scripts. Instead, he pictured those depicting the Forms—the earth, the mountains, the metals, the trees and brush around him. Through the Scripts, he drew on the essences of the earth that pressed dirt into stone, stone into metal, and metal into precious jewels. The power of the Forms built within him like the vast Nevermore Heights to the north. With it came strength, an unwavering determination, steadfastness to match the very bedrock forming those mountains.

  The fire of his kill craze and his rage slammed into the wall he erected. The Streams tried to envelop the Forms, tried to melt the stone, but was instead absorbed and spread across the wall’s surface. The heat within him subsided, held at bay for the moment. Ryne inhaled deeply, his body trembling and weak with exertion.

  Mind clouded with doubt, Ryne studied the gathered shadelings. In his weakened state, he couldn’t trust himself not to succumb to the will of his power, to revel in his bloodlust. He took hold of the light once again and Shimmered away until he crossed the field into a stand of trees, occasionally glancing behind him to make sure the shadelings still waited for the ones lagging. Satisfied, he headed to the biggest tree he could find.

  Ryne’s head throbbed and his arms and legs felt like large logs he could barely lift. He made sure he was deep enough within the tangled growth around him to remain hidden from the shadelings. Once more, he touched the Forms and Forged, pulling stone and earth, roughly his size, from the ground. His mind touched the drawings of men on his body, Forging the rocky mass into a construct in a man-like shape. With the last bit of strength borrowed from the Forms, he slammed both the light and earth essences into the construct. In the same act, he Shimmered high up into the tree branches.

  Once secure, he sent the construct sprinting away from him and out the stand’s other side. As he did so, he collapsed against a thick branch, the last of his strength spent. His gaze followed the aura from his construct as it sped across the land.

  Behind him, the shadelings wailed.

  Not long after, the trees shook and brush thrashed as the creatures chased after his creation. Ryne counted them to make sure they all passed by. Still, he refused to move from his precarious perch slumped against the branch. Whether it was from sheer exhaustion, caution or both, he couldn’t tell. He simply waited. Laying there with his face against the rough bark, he lost track of time.

  When the howls and wails sounded miles away, he heaved a sigh. He mustered what strength he could and clambered down from the tree, breaking branches along the way. Close enough to the ground that he could do no great harm to himself, he pushed off and let himself fall. He hit the ground with a thud and a grunt.

  Climbing to his feet was an exercise in pain. Ryne gritted his teeth against what felt like broken ribs, his breath wheezing through his lips as he used stunted trees for support. When he found some semblance of balance, he stumbled more than he walked or ran through the woods. He couldn’t grasp the elements for help, not even if he wanted to. He fought tooth and nail not to fall on his face no matter how much the ground called to him.

  The lump that spoke of Sakari’s location grew larger as he traveled. Hours later, after crossing too many pastures and copses to count, he arrived at a steep cliff face. He followed an old goat path along the cliff’s base until he came to a small slit. There, he waited until the moonlight beamed on the crack in just the right way.

  A hand appeared from the crevice and snatched him inside. Brief disorientation followed.

  “I watched you through the link.” Sakari’s voice sounded distant. “You almost gave in to the craze.”

  Ryne shook his head against the cloudy focus in front his eyes as if he peered into a foggy mirror while a muted buzz played in his head. He took in his surroundings.

  They were in an Entosis similar to the one Halvor had hidden inside. Moonlight sparkled from above, lighting crystals along the walls that glowed in sparkling pinpoints. He lay at the edge of a pond. Somewhere close by, night insects chirped.

  “What were you thinking, drawing so much Mater with your Scripts?”

  Ryne’s lips were chalk, parched and dry. A million cobwebs enveloped his mind. He tried to shake his head again, but the motion became a feeble tilt. “I wanted to st…to stretch muscles…”

  “Stretch them? You almost ripped them asunder. Some poor village or city would have felt your wrath then, to the tune of thousands dead.”

  Ryne sensed concern in Sakari’s voice. He almost smiled. It was the first time he’d ever heard any change from the man.

  Sakari continued, “Do you feel this?”

  A hand passed across Ryne’s chest. He frowned at the sudden feel of cool air. Confused, he looked down to see his chest piece had been removed. “Yes. I’m cold.”

  “No,” Sakari corrected, “Not just cold. You are sweating. You broke the seal on your body when you did the last Forging. Mater is leaking from you. If you had held onto the essences much longer while creating the construct you would have perished or gone insane.”

  As if I’m not insane already. Ryne eased up to a seated position. “Praise Ilumni I didn’t succumb then. May he keep it so.”

  Ryne fell forward and Sakari caught him. This time he didn’t push his companion’s hand away. Not that he could even if he wanted.

  “Relax, we need to stay here a few days for you to mend,” Sakari said.

  Without trying, Ryne could feel the Mater around him. Similar to the other two Entoses he knew of, the elements gathered here in their most primal forms, stronger than any normal places in Denestia. They seeped into him as they worked to mend the damage to his body and mind. He wanted to tell Sakari they couldn’t spare even a day. Instead, he lay back, looked up at the sky, and allowed the elements to do their work.

  CHAPTER 27

  Shin Galiana Calestis made no attempt to lessen her harsh tone. She spoke slowly, stressing each word as if trying to drill them into Headspeaker Valdeen’s head that shone with the sheen of sweat. “You were given specific instructions to make sure the boys came back with you. How could you let this happen?” She rapped her staff on the Council chamber’s floor as she counted off each issue. “Deliver the kinai. Allow the boys some pleasure. Bring them home. Simple tasks.”

  Edwin Valdeen dabbed at his bald head. His other hand fidgeted on the tabletop. The man had arrived late that night without the boys. Galiana had called the meeting immediately, but it took several hours before all the Council made it to the Whitewater Inn. Outside, a rooster’s crows announced the lateness or rather earliness of the hour.

  Valdeen’s eyes and mouth twitched as he surveyed the other Council members. Without his preening arrogance, the man was a sagging shell. His gaze settled on Galiana for a brief moment before he looked away. “I-In case you didn’t notice, they’re not boys anymore, they’re men. And they follow whatever Ancel does. He and his friends decided they wanted to stay for a few extra days. What was I to say? No? You yourself know the mood he’s been in. Who knows what he would’ve done if I tried to stop him.”

  “Bullshit,” Devan Faber blurted. Mirza’s father stared down the Headspeaker, his eyes cold pits.

  “A moment, Devan,” Galiana said, and Devan nodded. Galiana knew Edwin’s real reason was more the fact he wanted Ancel to have nothing to do with his daughter. She too
k in the Headspeaker with an unwavering stare. “I would advise you not to forget yourself when you address me, Edwin. As for him being a man, you are correct. I had hopes his involvement with your daughter would help, but that does not appear to be the case. We shall give them another week before we send to Randane and have the regiment escort them home.”

  “And you better pray to Ilumni nothing happens to our sons,” Devan Faber warned.

  “What about these other reports,” Guthrie asked. The portly innkeeper, and Danvir’s father, whose inn they used as a meeting place cast his gaze around the large lamplit room to all the other Council Heads at their respective seats. All but one were dressed in their red Dagodin uniforms. “Should we send out our own patrol to meet them along the road?”

  “I don’t know about you, Guthrie, but I’m all for it. I’m not willing to risk my son’s life if some renegade Dosteri have decided merchants are fair game,” Devan said. Where Guthrie’s unrestrained eating habits shaped him, years toiling in the cliff quarries and mines marked Devan. Since taking over as mine foreman, he worked even harder, and his boulder shoulders and arms banded with thick muscular slabs had grown. “He may not act his age, but he’s still my son,” he added.

  Guthrie nodded.

  A smile, quickly masked, played across Shin Galiana’s face. In the bright light provided by the lamps in their sconces around the walls and on the table, she studied the two men. They had always been close, and they would have already discussed this action between them.

  “I think you two are exaggerating as usual,” Rohan said. Galiana found herself leaning forward to hear the man’s thin, reedy voice. “I don’t believe the Dosteri would be so bold as to strike this far north. And it’s not like our boys cannot protect themselves. They have all almost completed their Dagodin training. As for the rumors from Ostania, the last real threat to us was what…over seventy-five years ago. The Bastions and the Vallum protected us then, and they will now. If the Tribunal felt an army in Ostania was a threat, they would’ve sent for us.” Rohan took a sip of water when he finished.