Ashes and Blood aotg-2

by Terry C. Simpson

  A growl rumbled deep in Charra’s throat from where he lay next to the fire. His ears pricked up, and he gazed off toward the Greenleaf Forest.

  “We’re being followed,” Mirza said.

  “Hmmm.” Ryne swilled the tea in his mouth then swallowed. “I thought Charra and I were the only ones who noticed.” He gave Mirza a respectful nod.

  “Two men on our left,” Kachien said. “Another two on the right.”

  “Don’t forget the one ahead of us.” Ancel pondered why the clansmen would be trailing them this far from the mountains or from Eldanhill or following them at all for that matter. “Mountain men. Nema.” He shrugged at the curious looks his companions gave him. “Charra came back smelling like another daggerpaw.”

  “Good.” Mirza drew his spear next to his leg. “If any wolves pick up our trail, they’ll go after them first. Unless of course, they decide our horses are easier meat.” He smiled wickedly.

  “I worry about you sometimes, Mirz.”

  “In that regard, you’re better than me. I worry about me all the time.”

  “What if they try to stop us?” Kachien took a sip from her cup. “They have been told not to let anyone approach the winery.”

  “Since when?” Ancel furrowed his brows.

  “Your father gave the order some time ago. Galiana told me not to let you go there either.”

  “Good luck stopping him when his mind is set.” Mirza picked up a rock. “This stone … his head. Same thing.”

  Kachien smiled. “Which is why I did not bother to mention it.”

  “Why wouldn’t they want me to visit the winery?”

  Ryne unfolded his legs and stood. “It’s the place where you gained your Etchings and lost your mother. The one place where your emotions may overwhelm you.”

  “So if you know this, why take me there?”

  “I told you, I needed to see the divya.”

  Ancel sensed Ryne was hiding something. “And? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I need to see just how much control you have.”

  Ancel narrowed his eyes as Ryne avoided his gaze. “Fine, I’ll leave it to you to tell me everything when we get there.”

  Ryne took a deep breath. “I have a suspicion about this divya of yours, but I need to see it to be certain.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “What are we waiting for then?” Spear in one hand, Mirza stood and brushed snow from his leather pants with the back of his other hand that still held the small rock. “Let’s get this over with and head back home. These Nema are beginning to annoy me.” He threw the rock toward a snowy mound. The mound grunted and gave a slight shift. “You’re lucky that wasn’t my spear,” he yelled.

  They mounted and left. Not more than thirty feet farther on, a Nema clansman, clad all in furs to match his surroundings, stepped from within the trees.

  The man held up a stump of an arm. “Hold dere.” A daggerpaw loped out from the woods to stand next to him.

  “We’re simply passing through to my parents’ winery,” Ancel called.

  “I know where you’re going. I can’t allow it.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Ryne stepped up between Ancel and the Nema.

  Half a dozen more of the clansmen emerged from the tree line. Opposite them, two more slipped from behind an unusually big snow mound.

  Bone hackles hardening to match the Nema’s daggerpaw, Charra growled. The rasp of steel on leather came from Kachien who now held her two daggers and controlled her mount with her legs. Mirza had stabbed his spear into the ground, unlimbered his bow, nocked an arrow, and aimed at the mountain men.

  “Orders,” the Nema said. “You understand dis. When de finders give an order, you obey.”

  Ancel frowned. “My father gave you these orders?”

  “De finders, but dat don’t matter. Turn back before we make you.”

  Ancel didn’t see Ryne move. One moment, the giant was standing between him and the Nema, and the next, he loomed over the man. The daggerpaw growled. Ryne sent the beast flying with a lazy wave of his hand. Spears and axes rose in the hands of the other clansmen.

  Ryne snatched the leader by the throat and lifted him off his feet. The words Ryne uttered were in the Nema’s guttural tongue, each word ending in a snarl as if he wanted to hawk and spit.

  The mountain men froze, weapons held above their shoulders. Slowly, they lowered them.

  Ryne’s scathing words continued for a few moments. He dropped the Nema on his ass when he finished.

  The clansman scrambled away on his hands and knees, his stump struggling for purchase in the snow. When he finally stood, he bowed profusely to Ryne. His fellows repeated the gesture.

  “We’ll be fine from now on,” Ryne said, returning to the group.

  “What did you say?” Kachien asked. “And how is it you speak their tongue.”

  “I told them a little bit of their history, among other things. I also told him the next time he threatened my ward, I would skin him.” Ryne bared his teeth. “There’s all kinds of stories about what us Eztezians eat. As for their language, a better question would be if there’s a tongue I don’t know.” Lips curling into a smug smile, he headed up the road.

  Ancel stood in awe, watching Ryne’s back before he remembered to cluck to his horse and follow.

  The afternoon sun bathed them in its meager warmth as the winery drew within sight. Memories of the night when the black-armored man dragged his mother from the burning ruins rushed back to Ancel. If he strained, he was certain he’d be able to smell the smoke from the conflagration. He took a deep breath of fresh air and drove the thoughts from his mind.

  The path wormed its way between the hills before opening up into an expanse of flat land blanketed in snow. The Greenleaf Forest grew to the western edge of the property. Encased in an icy grip on the eastern side were the vast kinai orchards. Remnants of several buildings lay under mounds of powdery fluff. Blackened timbers and the soot-covered walls offered a stark contrast.

  A silver spire rose from among the rubble. No snow or ice clung to its surface. No char sullied its shine.

  As peculiar as the polished metal appeared, the area around the spire itself was stranger still. Not only had someone cleared the debris near the structure, but the fifty foot swath of land was barren, devoid of any signs of life, its soil darker than the building’s charred remains.

  “What is that thing?” Mirza asked.

  “A divya,” Ancel replied.

  “A better question is who cleared the area, and who made those?” Ryne pointed toward footprints in the snow. They led several hundred feet away until they disappeared into the kinai orchards.

  “The clansmen?” Ancel offered, but even he was skeptical.

  Kachien swung down from her saddle. She landed knee deep in snow and slogged through it until she reached the edge of the area where the first tracks began. There, she bent and inspected the prints, lifting her head every now and then to gaze along the path they marked. Seemingly satisfied, she stood and used the route she made to return to them. “Not the mountain men. They wear broad leather boots covered with furs. Those tracks are smaller, precise, which means a richer, more professional cut.”

  Ancel immediately scanned his surroundings, making certain they hadn’t missed anything or anyone, but he picked out nothing else out of the ordinary. He frowned at Charra who continued to stay close to them. It wasn’t like him. The daggerpaw usually went his own way. “Something isn’t right.” He eased his hand to his sword hilt as a nagging itch of someone watching them slid up his spine.

  “Really?” Mirza’s eyes darted nervously from side to side. “I mean, there’s only a weird divya that no one but your parents seemed to know about and strange footprints. Not to mention the lurking clansmen.”

  “Besides that.” Ancel cocked his head to one side, shoulders tightening.

  The wind moaned among the trees, kicking up swirls of snow. Branches clicked against each other like
bones adding a haphazard beat to the gust’s dirge. To the north, the Whitewater Falls was a distant roar. Mirza’s horse snorted. Their breathing was the only other sound.

  “It’s too quiet. Do what you came here for.” Ancel said to Ryne. He took his bow from his back and nocked an arrow.

  “I need a fire first,” Ryne said. “A big one. You two keep watch while Kachien and I collect wood.”

  Ryne and Kachien set about gathering any loose timber nearby. They ventured to the Greenleaf’s edge several times. A half hour later, Ryne signaled that they had enough. The piled wood reached up to his waist.

  A flick of Ryne’s hand and the wood burst into fire. The wind picked up, fanning the flames until they licked and soared, their heat melting the nearby snow. For Ancel, the temptation to dismount and warm himself near the flames grew near unbearable. He backed up his horse as the heat grew to blistering proportions. Ryne, however, stood near the blaze as if the heat did not touch him. No sweaty sheen showed on his brow or arms. Eyes narrowing, Ancel picked out the shifting Etchings as they rolled across Ryne’s skin like a multicolored snake emerging from its den.

  “Be ready for anything.” Ryne strode to the fire’s far side. He took three massive leaping bounds and flew through the air, a living rainbow in the shape of man. He landed with a crunch among the black soil ten feet from the spire.

  The divya lit up like a lance of blue-tinged lightning. A thunderous boom followed.

  Power washed across Ancel in heated waves. Mounds of dirt blasted out from around the spire. The concussion knocked him sideways off his horse. He crashed into the ground, stars dancing through his vision. Shaking his head, he climbed to his feet with a groan. His horse thrashed in the snow as it struggled to regain its footing. As his sight returned, he glanced toward the divya.

  Within the backdrop of soil and the luminescence arcing down the spire, Ryne stood encased in a blue nimbus. The power crackled around him.

  Another sound reached Ancel, this one akin to a sword slicing empty air.

  A chill raced down his spine, bringing bumps along his arms. He recognized the noise. He’d heard it when the black-armored man had opened a portal, and when he himself summoned the netherling.

  Across from Ryne, near the tracks leading to the orchards, a horizontal slash appeared in the air. It opened into the shape of an eye before spinning on its axis to a vertical position. Beyond the slash, a city sprang into view as if seen through a nebulous membrane. The streets spanned to various structures, crisscrossing higher and higher until they disappeared in the sky.

  From the portal leaped several soldiers garbed in silver armor filigreed in gold or crimson, the Lightstorm insignia on their breasts. Full plate helms hid their faces, leaving only black slits where their eyes should have showed.

  Ancel recognized them at once. His breath caught in his throat.

  Pathfinders.

  Chapter 21

  Deep within the Shunyata, the inferno crackling at his back, Ryne ignored the swish of the opening portals, his focus solely on the divya. As he suspected, the artifact was a Chainin. With whatever catalyst used, whoever bore a Gift could create incredibly powerful Forgings. Even more so if they also held the correct Key. Ancel’s sword was the Key to this one.

  He recalled the location of four more. One within Benez’s walls in Seti, another not too far south from his current location, one in Cardia, and the last in Everland.

  After analyzing this particular divya, he understood how the Setian and the Tribunal’s members lived countless years. While he’d written the Chronicle of Undeath, the main question within the books was how the Eztezians survived as long as they did. He’d pondered that one constant among them for years on end, but not once did he consider kinai as the source. Why? Why didn’t he realize what was plain to see? Even when Sakari mentioned how he tapped into Mater around them for vitality as the kinai did at the Spellforge hour, he’d not considered the fruit. He shook his head. The answers to a lifelong question had been before him, and he never acknowledged its presence.

  Another question nagged at the back of his mind. Did the Setian or the Tribunal understand the Chainin’s primary purpose? The divya kept one of the wards on the Kassite intact, and in turn helped to seal the Nether. Activate enough of its power and one risked shattering the respective ward. Whoever had taken Ancel’s mother must have known this. They’d pushed the boy until the essences carried him over the edge, and he accepted their power. Coupled with the Key, Ancel had unwittingly broken the ward, releasing Prima essences-the power required by the Nine to rule over men and gods. What creatures were now able to cross unhindered from the Nether and the realms beyond? Ryne shuddered.

  Opposite him, beyond the Chainin, soldiers shifted into formations, the inferno reflecting off their armor and weapons. Matii, every one of them. Among their number stood a man and a woman in gold robes with crimson and white along the edges. Stripes lined the sleeves.

  The man had no aura.

  Ryne grimaced. To the left and right of the High Shin, arrayed in a loose formation, were a dozen others in silversteel armor, their faces hidden behind full helms. Above them flew two battle standards: the Lightstorm and the Golden Road of the Pathfinders.

  “Cease whatever you intend,” boomed the man’s voice.

  Ryne glanced over his shoulder.

  Swords brandished, several of the Tribunal’s Dagodin marched through the snow and took up positions in front of Ancel and the others. Both young men had their bows drawn, fletching to ear. Kachien was shifting from side to side, daggers in hand.

  “No.” Ryne faced the High Shin once more.

  The auras around the female High Shin and the Pathfinders bloomed brighter. Mater drew together in ever thickening bands. The essences built until they entwined with that already in the air around the Chainin. They formed complete elements, triggering those imbued within the silvery surface. Light flared from the divya, followed by a thunderous crack. The power amplified tenfold.

  “The time is now,” whispered the voice of malevolence within the essences.

  “Use our power as you will,” said the softer voice that often advised caution.

  “We are yours,” added a third, deeper yet more insistent resonance.

  “You are mine,” Ryne stressed. He linked the heat of the bonfire with the bands of essences, and then forced that power into his Etchings depicting the sun’s eternal flames. “High Shin … Pathfinders! You are aware of what I hold. Return the way you came or burn.”

  Shocked expressions abounded. The man simply looked on. The Tribunal’s Matii hesitated for a moment before they again pulled on more of the elements.

  Smiling, Ryne accepted their gift. The power roiled up into him in a searing wave. He concentrated on the Chainin. “Heat to balance metal. Heat to evoke passion. Passion is unrelenting.”

  “No!” yelled the male High Shin.

  Behind him, Ryne heard multiple crackles and swishes. Portals opening and closing. He unleashed the essence of the Streams he’d summoned when he invoked heat’s Tenet.

  Liquid flame shot out from an Etching on his arm in the shape of a bird. The conflagration grew to the size of a house. Its wings cast shadows like gigantic blades, the wind when they flapped buffeting him. The representation of the essence enveloped the Chainin.

  The silversteel divya began to melt, collapsing into itself. A thick puddle of slag formed, steam rising off its surface in hissing spurts.

  Heated blasts washing over him in ever-increasing amounts, Ryne chanted, “Cold to balance fire. Cold to evoke temperance. Temperance is all encompassing.”

  Another essence of the Streams swept forth, this from the Etchings of the great North, its snows, icy expanses, and frozen peaks. A miniature mountain with shining eyes grew next to Ryne. When it reached its full height, it spanned thirty feet. Like an avalanche, the summons swallowed the flames and the heat. Liquid metal pooled on the black soil and cooled. The flow became a trickle before it sto
pped altogether, frozen solid.

  Ryne released his hold on his Matersense and staggered from the protective zone around what remained of the Chainin. Body shivering from the sudden, immense cold, he keeled over onto something soft. When he finally managed to focus, he realized he’d fallen face first into snow. A shadow fell across his face.

  “What happened?” The shadow resolved into Ancel, eyes wide with awe, fear, and concern.

  “T-The flames d-didn’t generate enough e-energy …” Ryne hugged himself to calm the spasms, “to properly summon the essences of fire. I had to use my own body heat.” He’d known the risk when he tried. Neither heat nor cold belonged to him, and his use of them was restricted. The High Shin, or whatever he was, had left him no choice. Better to destroy the Chainin than allow it to fall into the wrong hands.

  “Take it easy,” Ancel said. “We can rest here if you need to.”

  Ryne waved him closer. “No. We can’t. I think the Chainin was the only reason the Tribunal hasn’t attacked Eldanhill yet. With your mother gone, I suspect they wanted to use the divya for themselves and find out if anyone else in your town could harness its power.”

  “Then why did you destroy it?”

  “I … we can’t afford to let them have it.” Ryne gasped for breath. Using two Forges of that magnitude at once while feeding the essences his own sela left him drained. “The Exalted wish to rival the gods. They will do whatever it takes, including kill any that stand in their way.”

  “Well, we can’t carry you.”

  “In the bags, there’s kinai juice,” Ryne wheezed. “Bring it for me.”

  Ancel left and returned moments later with a waterskin. Ryne gulped down the contents, some of the sweet juice dripping on his cheek, neck, and down his chest. His Etchings shifted to absorb the spillage.

  The energy and Mater imparted from kinai surged through him. His back arched with the rush of pain and ecstasy it brought. The effect would only be temporary. Combined with the trek to Ancel, this Forging had cost him more sela than was wise to use. The essences stored within his Etchings were almost depleted. He needed an Entosis as soon as possible.