The gods’ power struck.
Whisk.
Ancel leaped up onto the highest tower in Randane. Below him, the city churned in flames, ashes, and blood.
The ashes of my people. The blood of my people.
In the main square before the temples dedicated to the gods of Streams, and at the steps leading into the king’s castle, shadelings had Eldanhill’s refugees lined up. Eyes aglow, daemons flicked out strands from their heads while walking on spindly legs like giant insects. The black hair, or whatever it was, ripped into the prisoners. People Ancel knew. Many he considered friends. Some who were family. His people. Those he’d sworn to help protect.
Sela flew from each person as they died.
The daemons screamed. All across the city came matching replies.
A portal twisted open. Some sela flew into it, while the remainder zipped into the dead and living alike. Those alive grew in size and power. The dead, shifted, got to their feet.
Shadelings. Every one of them.
Whisk.
He heard a roar. Through his helm’s visor he saw wave upon wave of shadelings charging across a rolling plain to him. Wraithwolves, darkwraiths, daemons, vasumbrals, other creatures, skittering like spiders, some appearing as if risen from the grave. Their fetid stench reached him even where he stood. He could make out the sweat, spit, and other bodily fluids as they came, worked into a fervor in their bloodlust.
Behind him, he heard a bellowing reply. To his left, Mirza stood, scythe spinning in his hand, Mater glowing from it. Behind him were rank upon rank of soldiers, faces grim against the tidal wave of flesh, fangs, claws, and steel. To his right was Irmina. Daggerpaws by the thousands spread near her along with scores of mountain men. Overhead, eagles wheeled and cried.
She raised one hand. Sparks appeared in the air. Each grew into living, silver, translucent ovals.
Ignoring the onrushing shadelings, he turned to his army. Too many battle standards to count flapped in the breeze. He knew them all. The most prominent represented each type of Matus still residing in Denestia. The Lightstorm, the Waterwall, the Guardian Wall, the Quaking Forest, the Stone, the Searing Fist, the Thirty-two Winds, the Icebound, the Black Halls.
He watched himself as he raised his fist.
Warriors in cloth, skin a deep bronze, stepped forward from the phalanxes. Faces a mask of calm, each one bore a massive two-handed mace slung over their backs. They strode to the front of his army. Muscles bulged in their arms as in unison they freed their weapons from their harnesses and swung.
The earth roiled with the impacts. It rose, a living creature in a massive swath of rubble, dirt, and blocks of stone that tore apart the enemies vanguard.
As sudden as it heaved, the earth subsided, calm and flat as if it had not just raged. To the front of the horde stood a man in black armor, hand on the hilt of a greatsword that punctured the starving ground.
He motioned to Ancel. “Come!” he shouted.
Ancel smiled. If in death he could help save his people, he would gladly give of himself.
Whisk.
Nine netherlings came forward, one by one, to bestow an Etching upon him. With each gift, his power continued to grow. War after war followed, with him leading the Setian to victory. Their enemies lay decimated before them. On the day he gained his last Etching, he broke the last seal on the Kassite.
The gods returned to the world swathed in destruction. The nine netherlings stood before them, matching their strength.
The gods fell.
The world burned.
Whisk.
Irmina sat on the ground in front of the brown, rusted gates. Shadows capered all around her. Tendrils caressed her and the man she cradled in her arms. Tears streamed down her face.
“I cannot save you, my love. I cannot even save myself.” She wailed.
Ancel looked up into her eyes, red rimmed with grief. A cough wracked his body as he squeezed her hand feebly. Life leeching from his body, he was drifting away. He tried to savor the scent of bellflowers from her underneath the sweat, but the only whiff he caught was of death. “Do it,” he whispered.
Sobbing, she lifted him and stumbled to a stone altar before the rusted gates. No, not rust, but brown, mottled, rotted flesh. She laid him on the altar.
A disheveled figure in tattered clothing shuffled over to him. The figure placed a tome by his head.
“Give in and he shall save you. The shade is his to command and so shall it be yours. Beg him, praise him,” a disembodied raspy voice said from the hungry shadows that licked out all around them.
Thoughts of his friends dying, of his parents, and of a world destroyed assailed his senses.
“Give in, and all shall be well again.”
He wanted revenge. Someone would have to pay for the suffering him and his people endured which now clouded his senses. A voice whispered that it was not real to him. A familiar voice but he ignored it. He was in too much pain and seeing Irmina suffer crushed his heart. The images of destruction stood etched into his skin, seared his being. Below him, Irmina knelt, head bowed, waiting patiently.
Etched into my skin. He attempted to draw on his Etchings. Nothing happened. He no longer had them. He didn’t think he ever had them.
No. This wasn’t right. He rolled off the altar.
The creature that was Irmina stood. “Almost,” it whispered, death’s stink even stronger now.
Whisk.
Faster and faster the visions came. Futures and pasts. Wars and rumors of wars. Lands and names changed. Friends and family dying. From each he garnered information. A lie here. A truth there. A picture formed. A mosaic to rival any ever created. In the center of it all, he remained, resolute and steadfast. He did not know where they originated, but at every turn temptations reached out to him. At every turn, he defied them. The visions built to a blinding crescendo, blurring into one.
Whisk.
Whisk.
Whisk.
He would not give in, no matter what he witnessed. Perseverance in the face of his doubts. Strength to conquer any weakness. He would prevail.
“Finally,” a voice unimaginably smooth and cold said, “finally, the Aegis’ last piece.”
Ancel opened his eyes.
The silver of the zyphyl extended itself to him. A huge bulbous form pushed out from the center of the silver mass. A single eye opened like dancing flames. It spoke.
“A cycle passes in the Planes of If,
A curse and a gift, the creator’s bane walks the land,
Stretching through time, he reaches his hand,
For any who can right the seeds gone wrong,
Streams of light singing a dark song,
Forms of the land open a path,
Flows fill an empty void,
Finally together as one the three who they dread,
Two thought dead, one willfully misled,
Heralding the end of the era when gods lay slain
Materium wielded and waste lain
Resurrection lies within both life and death,
The time when all breathes a last breath
The world battered to a dying husk,
All in the name of the Nine’s lust,
Yet hope dwells within the Entosis,
Guarded and kept by the blood of the Aegis
Through destiny’s doors
And from within a temple’s floors
It begins and ends with Etchings.”
“What … what are you,” Ancel managed.
“Ah,” the zyphyl said. Ancel could imagine the thing smiling. “One who asks the right questions.” The eye turned. “I am but one who stands between many worlds, a keeper of time, a bringer of dreams,.”
“Nightmares a
re more like it,” Ancel said dryly.
“Yours are more volatile than most, but so … so …,” the eye turned, “fulfilling.”
“Why me? Why show me the things you did?”
“It is in your blood. You, more than most others, have manifested a power deep within what makes you. Eztezian. Netherling. ‘Tis a coupling not seen before. One thought not possible.”
“Are you saying my parents aren’t Stefan and Thania?”
The eye shifted, rotating right to left. “Of course, they are.”
“But you said … Never mind. What you showed me. Was it real? Was it true?”
“It is all real, all relevant. Maybe not to your time and place but in another. It is all choice. You chose well.”
“You said I’m the last part of the Aegis. What is it?”
The eye did a full rotation. “A concept, a power, an idea, a shield, a person, many persons, you, your brother, your sister, Irmina, your mother, your father, the gods, the world.”
Confused, Ancel frowned.
“Man must have faith. A belief. You have it in you. Many have preyed on that weakness. Man must have power. They crave it. The sentient creatures of all the worlds crave power. There are those who will upset balance for such. The gods have forgotten that which they were created to do. This world leans toward chaos. When the Annendin returns to reclaim the gods, he will see their failure. The world will be scoured. But man must have faith. You have it in you. So do many others.”
“Faith in the gods? In the Annendin?”
“In yourself. Follow the paths you believe are true. The answers will come.”
“Will I find the ones to save the world?”
“This world as you know it is doomed.”
“So what’s the point?”
“The world is so much more than the land, Ancel.”
Ancel stopped, his mind searching for answers. “It’s the people.”
“Ah.”
“Can I save them?”
“No one person can do so. There is no one savior. Yet—”
“Man must have faith.” Ancel understood now. “I must give it to them. Hope. Hope is what they require.”
“As the world must have harmony. I gave you the keys. Follow the path.”
Hands dragged at Ancel before he could ask another question. Cold to the touch, a substance covered his body and face. When his head came free, he saw Ryne and Galiana pulling him away from the zyphyl’s silvery embrace.
He didn’t remember much of the dreams he had inside, but the conversation was as clear as the blue skies above until darkness folded him in its grasp.
Chapter 46
Galiana sat in a lavishly furnished room provided by King Tozian, Torandil’s ruler, at her request. The room smelled of whatever flowery musk the Dosteri used to freshen their carpets. She studied Ancel’s prone form. She’d fed him kinai. All she could do now was wait. Almost a full day inside the Travelshaft had equated to a week in time on the outside, and a distance covered that would have taken two months. If not for what happened with Ancel it would have taken a day on the outside. Still, what should have been impossible, Halvor had made probable by refining the balance between the zyphyl and the Forms. But at what cost?
She’d never seen a zyphyl physically latch onto someone. People lost themselves to the visions long before they made it to the exit. To have one of the creatures try to hold onto Ancel was more than troubling. It was frightening. What had it shown him?
Ever since the occurrence, Ryne had become more agitated. He and Mirza waited outside the room with Ancel’s Pathfinders. Charra would have none of it, insisting to be close to his master. She still regretted not being able to question Ancel about the beast. But so far, Charra posed no threat, and its intentions were for Ancel’s well-being. That wasn’t good enough for her considering what it had done to the Quintess and the others, but for now it would have to do.
Her thoughts drifted to Irmina and Eldanhill’s refugees. She hoped Irmina managed to convince the Exalted to spare the lives of the council members. The refugees were of a greater concern. Neither they nor Kachien had made it to Torandil yet. They were several weeks late. Nothing good that she could think of would have caused such a delay.
Added to that dilemma was Jillian’s disappearance. According to the other elders, she’d been gone for months, supposedly researching stories of shadelings somewhere to the north. The woman’s absence worried her, considering what they were about to face. They could use Jillian’s input and her eagles. Why the woman would disobey her orders and leave the planning for their trip from Torandil in someone else’s hands was not acceptable.
Galiana stood and walked over to one of the large windows looking out onto the city. Considered an architectural wonder by many, Torandil sat at the edge of the Hallowed Cliffs, overlooking Bluewater Bay and the many islands and ships dotting its surface. Black basalt, sandstone, bloodstone, and feldspar mixed in with cobalt made up the ordered buildings within the city. Sunlight reflected from them in a myriad of colors that never failed to leave her breathless. She stared across to where the bay’s water caressed the sky, one melding into the other like entwined lovers.
Beyond that horizon lay Ostania, Seti, and the city of Benez. Beyond that horizon was a new beginning. One begun by bloodshed and would end in more before it was done. But it was a beginning nonetheless.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Enter.”
Jerem strode in quickly followed by Ryne. White hair sprinkled with silver strands, Jerem appeared almost emaciated beneath his silver robes. Events had to be taking a great toll on him, yet, he still had a light step to his walk.
“We have a problem,” Jerem said.
“Well, good day to you too,” she replied.
“No time for niceties. We’ve been betrayed.”
She frowned. “By who?”
“Kachien. She’s taken the refugees to Randane.”
A chill eased down Galiana’s spine to match her mounting consternation. “Why Randane?”
“There’s only one reason I can think of. The Bastion. Whoever controls the city must be able to use its power.” Robes swirling about him, Jerem paced back and forth across the carpet. “It makes what the Assembly did even more worrisome.”
Galiana waited for the man to sort his thoughts.
Jerem continued to pace, head down, brow furrowed tightly. He stopped and looked at her. “Why would the Assembly withdraw their forces from Randane knowing the possible threat a Bastion in the hands of its enemies might cause?”
“They did what?” Galiana couldn’t hold back her shock. A Bastion in the wrong person’s possession could be used to circumvent the Vallum’s protection.
“The only Tribunal forces close to Randane are those stationed at Eldanhill under Exalted Leukisa and Ordelia.”
“Two of our own,” Galiana mused. “Your orders or the Assembly’s?”
“Theirs, which means they know where their allegiance lies. I believe the others are of the Shadow Council.”
“That or they belong to the Nine. What do you think, Ryne?” She glanced at the giant man who’d stood silent as he listened.
“It could be worse than simply belonging to the Nine,” he said. “One of them could be one of the Nine.”
“What makes you think that?” she asked, even as she prayed for Ryne to be wrong.
“Too many coincidences, too many pieces moving in concert, too many things in favor of the Nine’s goals. It’s like watching a senjin game without rules unfold. They’re overwhelming us because they can cross zones they aren’t supposed to be able to. We’re stuck in our area while they have us outnumbered and outmaneuvered.”
“You sound as if you’re saying we do not stand a chance,” Jerem said.
“If we don’t change the rules, maybe. At this point, it’s in our interest to assume there are no rules. The Nine intend to replace the gods. The White Council’s primary purpose is to release Ilumni. The Shadow Council wants the same for Amuni. Those don’t exactly fall outside of what the Nine need. The Gray, on the other hand, wish for things to remain the same, for the people to rule themselves, beholding to no gods.”
“Which is no different than it always was,” Jerem pointed out.
Jerem’s lack of surprise or questioning of what the Nine might be registered with her. As usual, the old bastard knew more than he was willing to reveal. She would take the issue up with him at some point, but now was not the time.
“Yes, which supports my line of thinking,” Ryne said. “In order to replace the gods, the Nine need an influx of power. I believe the conflicts started by the Tribunal over the years were more than to just increase the longevity of the Ashishin. Suppose, that like Amuni’s daemons, the Nine have been siphoning sela into the Nether?”
“What made you think of this?” Galiana asked, skeptical but still pondering if it all of it was possible. If it happened to be true, then this Nine Ryne spoke of had been gathering power for millennia.
“What I saw in the zyphyl.”
“And you believe those dreams, those temptations?” Jerem’s expression made his opinion clear.
“Mere dreams for those not an Eztezian.” Ryne let out a breath as if releasing a great weight from his shoulders. “For us, they are the futures, the past, the present, the many possibilities that exist.”
“The Chronicles,” Galiana whispered in awe.
“Yes, and they can get a hold of you, drive you in ways you might not wish. It’s why we banished the zyphyls o the farthest reaches of Everland.”
A knock at the door stopped Galiana from offering her opinion. “Who is it this time,” she called.
Aegis of The Gods: Book 02 - Ashes and Blood Page 33
