by Simpson, Terry C. ; Wilson-Viola, D Kai; Ordonez Arias, Gonzalo
Breath quickening, muscles tightening, Ryne’s bloodlust rose in a red torrent, filling his body, his eyes, stiffening him. Hagan, you and your pipe. Vana and Vera…
Ancel reached a tentative hand to his sword. It had become a habit although he didn’t need to touch it to tell the weapon was there. The soothing warmth of his bond to the sword told him it sat in the scabbard at his hip. The same for his mother’s charm around his neck. He could feel the warm link of his mother through it, calling to him in earnest.
“We go on foot from here,” A grimace played across Galiana’s pale face as she dismounted on the path several hundred feet before the last turn to his parents’ winery.
Gloomy twilight hung in the air. Clouds scudded above, so dark and thick they choked out any semblance of the setting sun. Shadows cast by the oaks and pines of the Greenleaf Forest lay across their path, making the road in the distance near invisible before it disappeared at the next bend. Thicker still was the silence around them.
Kachien dismounted next, her eyes flitting from side to side to take in their surroundings. Ancel and Guthrie followed soon after. The innkeeper secured their mounts before leading the animals among the trees, returning a few moments later. Charra remained next to Ancel, his gaze riveted on the woods.
“What does my mother have to do with any of this? Why would shadelings be after her?”
“Everything,” Galiana answered, her white dress standing out within the darkness of the area.
“I don’t understand,” Ancel said.
“You soon will,” Galiana said. I—” She stumbled on the uneven ground.
Guthrie caught her. “Are you sure you’re up for this, Shin Galiana?”
Sagging against Guthrie for a moment, Galiana squeezed here eyes tight and took several deep breaths. When she opened them, she spoke again, her voice a hoarse reflection of itself. “There is no one left but me who could do this. Now I know why they attacked at the Spellforge Hour. It was to tempt us into expending as much power as possible to save Eldanhill. It will still be another day before any of the other Matii are recovered as much as I am. Whoever or whatever that man in black was who defeated Stefan, he will return. After all, dawn is when power waxes greatest for males. Whatever he plans will happen soon.”
“Let’s rest for a moment,” Guthrie implored.
Galiana gave the innkeeper’s hand a gentle touch and a squeeze. “A moment we do not have. Follow.” She pushed herself from Guthrie’s arms and headed toward the winery. “As for your mother’s purpose, let me ask you. How does the sword feel?”
Ancel glanced to his hip tentatively. “I-I-It feels like it belongs.” More than that, the sword felt like an extension of his own body.
“Like your mother, the weapon is a Key. A Key only certain Setian can be bonded to.”
Setian? Kachien’s words to Jillian came flooding back and his stomach knotted. “What do the Setian have to do with us?”
“Most of Eldanhill’s Council are Setian. Most folk in Eldanhill are either Setian refugees or from one of the old clans before the Shadowbearer War.”
Ancel felt dizzy. He stopped in his tracks. “Th-That’s impossible. The Setian no longer exist.” A nudge from Charra set his legs moving again.
“Oh, we do,” Galiana said. “But you and most others have always been taught differently. Seventy years of teaching such a thing all across Denestia can beget such a belief.”
“The Devout?” Ancel whispered, wide-eyed.
“Yes. You’ve always been the smartest of my students.” The pride in Galiana’s voice was plain. “That’s but one of their roles.”
Ancel swallowed. How much of what he’d learned had been a fabrication? “If we’re Setian, why hasn’t he Tribunal killed us? Surely they know?”
“They do, but they need us as we need them.”
“Why?”
“How has the Tribunal ruled for nearly a thousand years?”
In his mind, Ancel leafed through books on Tribunal politics. “They maintain a hold and involvement in Granadian politics, through the use of Ashishin to enhance everything from inventions, education, trade, crops, mining to health to even military stability. By establishing the Streamean religion here in Granadia, they united the once feuding kingdoms under a common premise of enlightenment through worship while still maintaining individuality. They quelled any upstart rebellions, destroyed the shade in numerous wars, flung back every invasion from the Erastonians to the Everlanders, and Granadia has prospered ever since.
“They appoint new Exalted every fifty years who are staunch backers of all it means to be a High Ashishin of the Tribunal. Through rigorous trials, their Order is maintained. None can become Exalted without the trials.”
“True, indeed. But it is more than just an appointment. The Exalted have been the same High Ashishin for the past five hundred years.”
Ancel frowned. She couldn’t mean the same exact people could she?
As if sensing his uncertainty, Galiana continued, “The Tribunal procured a method to extend their lives. But not without a price. Their method required them to take a life, but it cost them their youth, their vitality. The need only increased with each use. In the end, driven by this need, the Tribunal started war after war to procure the necessary sela. Sometimes, they resorted to attacking villages in the wilds of Ostania under the guise of slavers or raiders.”
Speechless, Ancel could only stare. Galiana’s words made the Tribunal out to be much like the shadelings.
“Until they discovered we Setian possessed the secret of using essences absorbed and reproduced by kinai to halt aging altogether. Then came the Shadowbearer War. In return for our safety, for the preservation of our race, we agreed to serve the Tribunal, providing them with our Forging.”
Ancel’s fist clenched on the sword’s hilt. In essence, his people were little more than slaves. He looked over to Kachien, but she showed no reaction as if all this was old news to her. “What has all this got to do with my mother and the shadelings?”
“Immortality is a thing all dream of, even those who serve the shade. Our Forging is the closest thing to it. In our Forging, your mother is the Key. Like few among the Setian and other races, she possesses a special Gift. As do you. Her Gift is the ability to Forge every essence into one to form Prima Materium. The primordial origin of Mater itself. It’s a requirement for the life extension to work. Her Gift is unique.”
Galiana stopped and turned to Ancel. She held his gaze. “Not only does the shade want her for this, but they seek you, Ancel. You see, the Setian are the descendants of the Eztezians.”
This time, Kachien started.
Ancel’s mind reeled.
“Kachien told me your power manifested. The colors you see around any living thing is called an aura. It signifies the Mater possessed by that creature. With it, you can identify anything from lifeline to intention, good to evil. And that’s just the cusp of what I know. No one knows what else you can do. According to the Chronicles, such power shows in those who become Eztezian Guardians. If a Bloodline Affinity is perfected, such a person’s mind can be delved into and provide the locations of the Chroniclers—the great men and women who could see all events and possibilities, past, present, and future. In turn, this would lead to the discovery of the remainder of the Eztezian Guardians.
“We could not only face another Great Divide if they are unsealed, but we must consider that a way has been discovered to use the Eztezians to break the seals they placed on the Nether. The very seals which have already been weakening. We know the Tribunal learned their Forge from one of the few Skadwaz who escaped the sealing three thousand years ago. But we never knew if we had destroyed them all until recently. We—
A screeching wail resonated through the air, followed by several screams. Charra’s loud, grunting bark answered.
The wail and screams came from the direction of the winery.
Ancel broke into a run.
CHAPTER 49
The thrill of battle energy surged through Ryne. He, Sakari, Irmina, Jerem, Varick, and Refald stood at the front of the army massed to depart below the Vallum of Light. The flood of auras from the tens of thousands of soldiers filled his vision in waves.
Jerem had brought an entire legion of crimson-garbed Ashishin. One cohort accompanied Ryne’s group destined to defend Castere. The other nine cohorts were stationed with Clovis, Strom, and the other Knight Captains for their defense of Cendos and Bastair. Ryne’s group consisted of an additional two legions of infantry led by Varick and Refald. The clink of armor and weapons and the mutterings of thousands of voices ran down the ranks as soldiers shifted impatiently while they waited.
“All are in order,” Varick said.
“Good,” Jerem said, his wrinkled face a mask of concentration. “Remember, allow the Ashishin to engage first.”
“I’d still rather you be there to command them and to help,” Varick said, ready to argue once more that having a High Ashishin with his men would be invaluable.
“There are other more pressing developments that need tending to. Rest assured, my Ashishin will follow whatever commands you give.”
Varick bowed.
“Ashishin, prepare,” Jerem called, his voice reflecting the strain of whatever he did.
Ryne reached through his Scripts to touch his Matersense. All around him, he felt every Ashishin do the same. He immediately fled into the calm center of his mind, locking away both his bloodlust and the warring voices. His battle energy built to a sweet resonance to match his thumping heart. A grim smile parted his lips.
“We depart,” Jerem declared.
As before, first came the tearing sound as if the world itself around them ripped. Wind howled. The air in front of them coalesced until a slash formed, and the falling sensation struck.
Seconds later, there was a deafening roar. The ground below them heaved. Lightning split the air. Fire lit the night, and heat washed over them in waves. Ryne squinted. Men and animals screamed.
They stood on a wall lit by sputtering torches, lamps, and dying flames. Not just any wall. The battlements of Castere’s Inner Ring.
Blue armored Astocan soldiers covered the ground, many with gaping wounds, some groaning and others shuddering in the final throes of death. Among them were Amuni’s Children, their black armor showing great rents that oozed bodily fluids. Darkwraiths and wraithwolves stood out among the dead and wounded; the former like slimy puddles in the shape of men. The reek of spilled innards and burnt flesh was still fresh.
Spread from where they appeared, out into an ever widening circle, the ground was scorched and blackened, flames still roaring up into the main flagstoned avenue of the Inner Ring and down into the Mid Ring. Where Jerem had placed them, above the single gate to the Inner Ring, not a single being stood that didn’t belong to the Granadian army.
Ashishin spread out into small groups with deadly efficiency, burning whatever moved to a crisp. Dagodin swept out, some forming a circle around Varick, Refald and the Knight Captains, while others went about the task of taking swords to anything moving not dressed in Granadian colors. Howls and wails echoed from below.
“Man the battlements!” Varick yelled.
Farther along the bulwark, Astocans fought Amuni’s Children and shadelings. The Granadians struck from behind, tearing into the enemy. Bolstered by the attack, the Astocans surged forward. The shade army disappeared beneath the crush of the two armies.
Up the avenue, within the Inner Ring, the Forged flames died. The Astocan army rushed back down toward the gates. Within the Mid Ring, the same occurred, but it was the shade’s minions that surged up through the open gates, spilling into the courtyard and avenue.
Behind and below them, the city boiled black with Amuni’s Children and shadelings. Out in the Rainbow Lakes, warsailers and a myriad of other vessels burned. All along the walls that stretched into the water, Namazzi Forged great gouts of liquid into huge waves in an attempt to decimate incoming enemy ships. Shadelings Blurred up onto the walls, tearing the Astocan Matii apart. The Outer Ring was a mass of burning structures. Gigantic spears of flame sailed into the air and flew deeper into the city, sparking new fires within the Mid Ring. Smoke billowed into the air, blotting out the stars and painting the dark sky black.
Ryne turned his attention back to the chaos at the gates. If they lost the gates, their attack would fail. “Irmina, Sakari, with me,” he commanded.
Not waiting to see them comply, Ryne leaped from the battlements into the Inner Ring’s side of the wall. While falling, he drew his sword, touched his Scripts and fed light and fire essences into them. As his feet touched the ground, he also took a hold of earth essences. He landed among several thousand shadelings and Amuni’s Children. Glowing red and green eyes regarded him for a moment, the expressions on every face one of stunned silence.
Not waiting for their recovery, Ryne slammed his sword into the ground. At the same time, he drew on his Scripts again, picturing the same bubbles around the men and women in battle drawn there. Similar bubbles sprang up around himself, Irmina and Sakari as they landed beside him. Ryne triggered his Forging through his weapon.
In a ring and a roar, the ground exploded. Debris, men and shadelings were hurled into the air.
The earth became a living thing with dirt and stone for hands and teeth, ripping men apart. Fire and light rippled out in a thousand tongues, scorching all Ryne had targeted as he’d fallen.
The rubble, blood, and gore struck against the shields Ryne had Forged. As the earth died to a mere undulation, and the flame and light subsided, he leapt forward onto any enemy still standing before the gates.
Beside him, Sakari was a whirlwind of movement, sandy hair streaming as his sword licked out, lopping off arms, legs and heads like mere twigs.
Irmina’s hand glowed. Flames leapt forth from it in circular balls. Where they struck, they punched through armor and flesh alike. Any man or creature that managed to get close to her met death at the end of her blade.
Within moments, no living enemy stood inside the gates.
Ryne looked back to see the Astocans streaming down to the courtyard. “Close the gates,” he yelled.
Several men rushed to a gigantic winch on the side. Metal rang on metal, followed by skin crawling screeches and the clang, clang, clang of gears rusty from nonuse churning against each other. The gate rumbled shut a few agonizing inches at a time.
Irmina continued to shoot her flames into the army roiling outside the gates. From above, lightning tore into them, called down by the Ashishin lining the battlements. The ground heaved under the shadeling army a few times and toppled many from their feet.
When the gate crashed shut, a huge cheer went up. From the Astocans came awed whispers of Blessed Ashishin. Many bowed. Within the next few minutes, Refald’s infantry stood at the head of the Astocans before the gates.
A familiar figure with a head wrapped in bloody bandages stepped forward. “They’ve taken the keep,” Rosival said. “It was Voliny himself. He betrayed us. We’ve managed to secure the way.”
“Go, Ryne,” Varick yelled from the walls above. “We shall hold this until the last of us falls or you complete your task. Go!”
Taking Sakari, Irmina and several Ashishin, Ryne raced toward the keep.
Ancel battled against the Sendethi soldier in front of him. Deep within the Eye, he barely heard or noticed the other soldiers nearby or the howls and cries of the shadelings. His opponent forced him to use every trick he’d learned. Ancel dodged, twisted, parried, and changed into every defensive Stance he knew. Not once did the Sendethi allow him a chance to attack. Sweat beading his forehead, Ancel was pushed farther back until he stood on an incline.
Breathing hard, Ancel waited for the man’s attack. Confidence shone in the soldier’s eyes as bright as the flames licking out from the winery. The Sendethi’s sword slashed.
Ancel leaped. But not away, toward the man. He judged the distance perfectl
y. His foot landed on a gauntleted fist, and just as it touched, he pushed off, flipping into the air, sword swinging. Ancel’s weapon cleaved helmet and head in a shower of blood and brains. As the soldier was falling to one side, Ancel landed and rolled, coming up in search of another opponent.
In the middle of the fracas, Shin Galiana stood, fire streaking from her hands in multiple fist-sized balls. Occasionally, lightning split the sky to strike shadelings close to the winery. On the ground lay the ravaged bodies of the servants, eyes wide in horror, chests, and throats mangled. Those who’d tried to run were face down, backs mauled and ravaged, rents torn into their skin, dark puddles oozing around them.
Off to one side Kachien darted with that uncanny speed of hers, black blades near invisible as she carved through man and beast. Guthrie strode among the enemy, swinging his two-handed greatsword. Anything in its path was sheared in two. Every kill the man bellowed, “In Ilumni’s Name!”
Charra stayed close to Ancel, hamstringing men, or diving bone hackles first into shadelings. His great jaws and knife-like claws tore fur, flesh and gouged armor with impunity. He did enough to maim before retreating to defend against any who approached Ancel.
Abruptly, lightning rained down from the sky in great, jagged lances, so incandescent, that for a moment it blotted every form from sight and etched every shadow in sharp edges. A noiseless concussion thumped Ancel in the chest, almost knocking him from his feet. He flung a hand up to cover his eyes and used the other to maintain his balance. Spots danced through his vision, after images burnt into his retinas. When his sight cleared, shadeling and men lay dead all around Galiana, brunt to a crisp, the aroma of their scorched flesh and the metallic scent of the lightning bolts heavy in the air.
Galiana collapsed to one knee. Roaring, Guthrie rushed to her side. He was able to help her to her feet before Ancel reached them.
Ancel’s head whirled around to a crackling sound. Flames licked out the windows of the winery and timber crumbled. A roof collapsed. A lump rose in Ancel’s throat. He cried out.
