by Simpson, Terry C. ; Wilson-Viola, D Kai; Ordonez Arias, Gonzalo
In one hand, Kachien held several sheets of paper. She waved them before her. “These soldiers were looking for you.” Her unyielding gaze took them all in.
Ancel took the papers, reading them wordlessly before passing them around. Drawn on the first sheet was a likeness of him and Charra. On the others were Mirza and Danvir. Mirza hissed and Danvir swallowed.
“And they carried a map of this side of the river. The path they have marked leads to your home,” Kachien added.
All Ancel’s earlier worry about Kachien’s darker side fled him, replaced by concern for Eldanhill. She’d saved their lives yet again. Ilumni smiles on those who follow him in many ways. Maybe Kachien was his way of smiling on them. Either way it was an issue for him to worry about later. He turned to Mirza. “How far are we from the bridge?”
“At least three days.”
“I still think using the bridge is a mistake,” Danvir said. “I have a feeling either Dosteri or Sendethi troops will be there.”
Mirza shook his head. “Unlikely. You’ve taken that route yourself many times. Only the quarry workers and miners use the path through the Red Ridge Mountains down to that bridge. All others take the ferries. If we stay as we are, we’ll skip the ferry landings.” He looked from Kachien to the map she held. “May I?” She passed the map to him. Mirza opened it up. “Look.” He pointed as they drew closer around him. “Here and here are the landings.” The areas he indicated were farther north and toward the Kelvore River. “We’re about here. From the route these soldiers marked, they assumed we would go for the ferries. We stay wide, push hard and we make the bridge. No one will be the wiser.”
Kachien nodded, a respectful gleam in her eye as she regarded Mirza. He’d discussed this idea before, but she’d insisted on them heading to the ferries instead of the old bridge.
“I agree with you, Mirza,” Kachien conceded. “This way will be safest.”
Danvir groaned. “That’s all we need now. Someone telling him, he’s right. We won’t be able to live this down for a week.”
Ancel couldn’t help his smile. Mirza gave Danvir a smug look and shrugged. In return, Danvir snickered.
Kachien climbed onto her dartan, the beast’s massive carapace dwarfing her slight form. “We have no time to waste. I intend to not only reach the bridge, but be in your home in three days.”
Ancel’s brows climbed his forehead. “You plan to push us until they drop?”
“If I have to. These soldiers weren’t alone. There must—”
Charra’s low growl cut her off.
Ancel’s head snapped up as his daggerpaw bounded down the slope to them. Kachien had already whipped her reins and sent her dartan galloping up the hill. Everyone else followed suit. Before she reached the hilltop, she dismounted and snuck up the remainder of the way. Without thinking, Ancel did the same.
When he peeked over the other side, he was at a loss for words. At least forty armored soldiers, with the Charging Boar flying high, trotted toward their position on horses. One of them, in leather rather than the chainmail the others wore, dismounted and inspected the ground. He stopped, stared toward the hill where Ancel and Kachien hid and pointed. A tracker. The soldiers kicked their horses into a gallop.
Kachien’s hand pulled at Ancel. “Go! Now! We have to flee.” She ran for her mount.
Wide-eyed, Ancel scrambled onto his dartan. “It’s a regimental squad,” he said to the bewildered expressions from Mirza and Danvir.
Recognition and fear swam across their faces.
“Mirza,” Kachien called from her mount, her voice a little more than a whisper. “Lead the way. Push as hard and as fast as you can. Our only hope is to tire their horses.”
Behind them hooves drummed and armor jangled. Shouts rose from over forty throats as the soldiers urged their mounts on.
Sweat beading his forehead, Mirza maneuvered his dartan to face the north and slapped his reins. The beast took off. Hands tight on his reins, Ancel followed.
CHAPTER 40
“You should at least hear the message she carries,” Knight Commander Varick said from the tent’s rear as he scratched his scraggly beard.
Ryne’s eyebrow arched. “That a command, Varick?”
The Knight Commander smirked and removed his gauntlets. “As if you would follow it anyway. All I’m saying is if the Tribunal sent her, at least hear what they propose.”
“Because I allowed High Shin Jerem to bring me here doesn’t mean I trust the Tribunal. Even assuming they’re who sent her, I’ve heard enough from them,” Ryne snapped. “If she makes a single threatening move, I’ll kill her. I’m giving you and them, fair warning. There’s been enough grief wherever she’s shown her face. You yourself said she’s almost a Raijin.”
Varick drew a deep breath. “I’ve tried sending men to talk to her, but so far they’ve been unsuccessful. At this point, if the Tribunal’s High Ashishin did send her, and you kill her, they’ll just send someone else, someone worse. Maybe Pathfinders or even a full Raijin. It won’t be like last time.”
Ryne shrugged. “Then I’ll pray for Ilumni to show mercy on their souls like the others.”
“Listen to yourself, Ryne. Killing won’t stop them hunting you like it did in the past. It’s not that simple anymore. They won’t grant you a third pardon. No matter how many battles against the shade we win.” Varick scowled and paced to the table with its maps of Ostania showing military positions.
Ryne strode to the front of the tent. Unlike before, he didn’t need to stoop. Outside, a few feet from the entrance, Sakari sat on a crate, staring at the thousands of white canvas spread below the Vallum of Light. Sunlight glared from the towering, ever-shining wall in a near blinding effect.
“Death’s always simple, Varick. We spend our entire lives dying.”
Varick snorted. “Easy for you to say. Try telling that to the mothers who watch their children get slaughtered in these forsaken wars.”
Ryne turned back to Varick, crossed the distance to the table, and pointed to the locations listing the shadeling army’s last known positions. “Exactly why I refuse to go to the High Ashishin. I’m more important here than I ever will be answering questions about a power I don’t even understand. I’m needed here, at the front lines. We both watched too many die, friend. My soul craves for revenge. It sings for battle against the shade. I can no more shun its calling than you can relieve yourself of command and leave your soldiers here. Or leave these people to the shade’s mercy.”
Varick sighed. Even in his intricate silver armor, Ryne could tell his broad shoulders slumped. “Ryne, there’s going to come a time when the High Ashishin will no longer accept no for an answer.” The aged Commander craned his neck and gazed into Ryne’s eyes. “It’s not like you can hide.”
Ryne met the smaller man’s hard eyes with a cold stare of his own. “I’m done hiding. And I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way.”
“Even me?” Varick asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
Ryne refused to answer. The tight lines around the Knight Commander’s eyes softened. Ryne looked away from Varick and pushed the thought of ever having to fight the man from his mind. “I’ll think about it on my way to Felan Mark.”
Knight Commander Varick let out a whoosh. He sifted through the papers on his table and handed Ryne his personal pass—a gold insignia engraved with a sword surrounded by lightning. “Show this to the guards, and only state once that you’re there to see Miss Adler.”
Ryne nodded and strode toward the tent’s entrance. “Varick.”
“Hmm?”
“Warn her. Let her know I decide when I feel like meeting.” Ryne didn’t wait for an answer. He raised the tent’s flap and ducked outside.
Several hours later, Ryne shook his head at Irmina’s annoying persistence. She’d followed him from the Knight Commander’s encampment all the way to Felan Mark. She tried to hide among the mix of Ostanian locals behind him, but her aura stuck out like a bright light.
“As you wish.”
Ryne broke the link.
“Sir, do you have business here?” asked one of the four scarlet armored Dagodin guards with his neck craned to peer into Ryne’s face.
“Yes.” Ryne produced the pass for the guard’s inspection. “I’m here to see Miss Adler.”
The guard eyed Ryne’s leather armor and his sword suspiciously. After a moment, he said, “Follow the long hall. Don’t touch your weapons as you walk and you’ll be fine. Someone will meet you once you’ve passed inspection inside.”
Ryne nodded, and the guardsman signaled behind him with his silver spear. The soft clink of well-oiled metal gears churned within the armory’s thick, steel walls. The massive gate slid open with a brisk motion, and the spiked portcullis rose. Ryne entered, and the gate and portcullis slid shut.
Metal walls surrounded him, drab, gray, and featureless. A long, well lit hallway stretched ahead, lamps in metal sconces hanging at measured intervals. The hallway continued as far as he could see. Ryne made sure to keep his hands away from his sword as he strode forward.
Half an hour and a few twisting halls later, Ryne stood at a bladesmith’s shop within the armory. In front of him stood a short, gray-haired woman, lines creasing her forehead, nose, and beneath her eyes. The woman’s young student, a girl with smooth, pale skin and long blonde hair, cast nervous glances in Ryne’s direction. A few feet from them, a bulky smith wearing a thick apron poured molten silversteel into a cast. Ryne opened his mouth.
“Shh,” the wrinkle faced woman said. She gestured to the girl. “Close your eyes, Millie. Feel the Mater flowing within the metal—the elements that make everything what it is.” Her voice had become a hypnotic drone. “Seek each individual essence of Mater as they form the solid blade. You need to find the light among those essences. When you do, guide it, help it to flow apart.”
Ryne searched both the teacher’s and the student’s face for any kind of strain he would have felt. The goading power, the struggle for control, the emotional battle he experienced when he touched Mater. In their faces, he saw none. The same as he noted with most Granadian Matii he met.
The bladesmith held the cast steady, and the diminutive, old woman’s voice murmured like a gurgling brook in the background. His focus fixed on the mold, Ryne lost himself in the teacher’s voice. The liquid metal’s acrid smell hung so strong he could taste it.
The teacher’s soft monotone continued. “Just as the Mater is about to complete the weapon’s creation, gently guide the light you separated back into it. That will complete the imbuing.”
Ryne found the calm pool in the center of his being. He opened his Matersense, his bloodlust a distant buzz he easily ignored. Essences around him and within the molten steel bloomed. They swept about the room in sharp-edged transparent swirls, enhancing his vision.
Each essence became vivid despite their transparency. Streams of fire flared, melting the metal and rising in waves, the heat, light, and energy essences all working together. Water and air essences flowed to make up the liquid byproduct and steam. Both the Streams and Flows worked to create the superheated air in the smith’s shop. The liquid began to solidify giving it the element of Forms.
Light in a white luminescence intertwined with everything in intricate patterns. Shade essences filled the void in the shadows cast by flames within the forge and lamps on the walls. They too, a part of the Streams. A flow of light slid away from the whole and formed a thick ball.
“Guide the light into the metal now,” the gray-haired teacher whispered.
The elements of Mater snapped together. As they did, the light rotated and slammed into them. A tiny concussion of air brushed Ryne’s hair from his face. A small section from the ball of light dissipated and joined its origins.
In the mold now sat a shining, silversteel core. Light glowed from it in flickering waves.
Ryne’s eyes widened at the newly imbued metal. It was the first time he’d seen an imbuing. He released his Matersense, and the glow disappeared, the metal appearing as ordinary, highly polished steel.
“Next time, be more gentle, my dear. The light essences will pass into the steel without force. The gentler you are, the stronger the imbuing will be, and the fewer essences you will lose. In turn, the stronger the divya you will have created.”
“Thank you, Miss Adler,” the girl said, her broad smile lighting up her face.
Miss Adler gave the girl’s shoulder an encouraging pat. “Now, watch as the smith crafts the weapon.” She turned to Ryne. “Follow me.”
She led them from the room and down a long, lamp lit hallway with vaulted, steel ceilings. Miss Adler walked with a swift, purposeful gait unhindered by her long dress, but Ryne still needed to shorten his steps by a great degree to make sure he did not pass her. As they walked, he couldn’t help but open his Matersense again with the reaction of his Scripts to all the Forgings around him.
Beneath his feet and through the steel floors, he sensed the magmatic essences of fire powering the armory’s vast forges. Water essences ran through pipes around him to every room. Forms abounded and metallic scents permeated the air as hammers rung on metal, and steam swished from bellows.
Craft rooms lined the hallway, each occupied with a Matus and a smith. Some contained three people—a teacher, a student, and an artisan. In other, much larger rooms, there were double bellows, and those rooms held up to four Matii and several weaponsmiths. All around, Matii drew on the essences as they imbued weapons into divya.
Signs above the doors announced shield, axe, hammer, sword, and scythesmiths. Figures painted on the thick steel walls in reds, blues, and yellows next to each door depicted the artisans. The clangs and rings from the metalwork flooded the hall in a ceaseless din.
Ryne followed Miss Adler to the end of the hall. Two Dagodin, in white uniforms with red stripes on the arms—a stark contrast with the dark gray metal around them—stood in front of a blank wall. One soldier moved his silver-hafted lance to one side, turned to the wall, and a heavy metal door slid open. Ryne and Miss Adler passed through. The door slid shut behind them, and the sounds from the smiths cut off abruptly.
“So, Knight Commander Varick sent you?” Miss Adler said as they continued down another hall.
“Yes, he said you were the one I needed to speak to.”
“Oh? How’s the old bat doing anyways? The last I saw him, his face looked like old leather, worn and dry. Tried to convince him to eat more and maybe take a break, but he refused.”
Ryne smiled. “Much the same. Grumpy, rude and still in command at the Vallum.”
“Good to know much hasn’t changed with him.” Miss Adler stopped at a door and pushed it open.
Ryne ducked inside. Miss Adler entered, locked the door behind them, and dropped a steel bar in place.
“One can never be too cautious,” she said in response to Ryne’s questioning look. She took a seat at a large oak table. Filled bookshelves lined the walls behind her, and in one corner sat a small cot. “I would offer you a seat, but judging by your size, you wouldn’t fit in any chair I own.”
Ryne shrugged and stood across the table from her. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
“So, why’d Varick send you?”
Ryne unsheathed his greatsword. With a quick move, the old woman brought a longsword up from beneath her table.
“Like I said, one can never be too cautious,” she said at Ryne’s raised brow and kept her longsword between them.
With great care, Ryne laid his sword lengthways on the table. The grip stretched a foot past one end, and the blade stopped at the other. Ryne fixed his gaze on Miss Adler’s piercing blue eyes. “Varick said you’re the only Dagodin he could think of who may be able to tell me about my sword.”
The wrinkles on Miss Adler’s face
doubled as she frowned and pointed at the runes running along the blade and hilt. “What are those?” She rested her sword next to Ryne’s weapon and traced her fingers along the markings.
“Scripts,” Ryne said and paused. Miss Adler raised her face to him and squinted. Ryne continued in answer to her apparent confusion, “I can use them to manipulate almost any element of Mater to empower my sword. It’s like imbuing except my weapons are already crafted.”
Miss Adler’s head jerked back ever so slightly. “I’ve never heard the like. I don’t think it’s even possible. Imbuing can only happen when the components are at their base levels. Before Mater has already formed the item.” She shook her head. “As I look at your sword, I see nothing but a plain, oversized greatsword. It’s not a divya.”
Ryne reached down and held the sword’s hilt. Through the Scripts on the sword, he touched the light essences around him. The Scripts shifted and swirled as he drew light into the weapon until first its Scripts, and then the sword itself glowed white. Miss Adler gasped. Ryne released the weapon, and the white light faded as the Mater receded back into the air around them.
Miss Adler stared from Ryne to the sword. “I’ve spent over seventy years creating divya, and I’ve never seen anything like those Scripts. There isn’t an Imbuer or a Dagodin I know who can manipulate Mater within a divya that way. We can only imbue and wield them. Once a divya is created, only the essences imbued within it can be used. We cannot increase or change their properties. I would’ve said no one can but…” She gestured to Ryne. “A long time ago, I read about something like this, but I always thought it a myth.”
Ryne’s heart leaped. After so many years searching, he would take even a myth if it meant progress. After all, he was living proof myths held some semblance of truth. “Where? Can you show me the book?”
“It’s in the possession of the Tribunal at the Iluminus’ great library. I could request—” She stopped talking, her eyes narrowing as his body stiffened at the mention of the Tribunal.
