Terry Simpson - Ashes and Blood

Despite his faith and the clearer spaces around him, he remained unconvinced of his relative safety. Shadelings hadn’t been spotted in more than two months now. He’d hunted down several to appease his anger, need for revenge, and to prove himself. When those outlets expired, he turned to hunting the regular wolves. Suppose there was some stray shadeling everyone missed? Finding the Eye, he worked the thought from his mind.

Within the Eye, he took in all around him. Auras bloomed in the form of colors across any living thing. The insects, the birds, small cretins foraging among the undergrowth, even the trees. It was like looking at the world through a rainbow. Over time, he’d learned each color represented the essences that existed within everything. They also gave him a hint of intention. From what he saw, nothing threatening existed within his surroundings.

Late afternoon was dragging on into evening and the cold day becoming colder. Seen through the cover of oak and cedar, white and gray saturated the sky like dirty milk. Heralds of a snowstorm. Snowflakes trickled through such openings to land on his cloak and leather-armored arms, dissolving before they accumulated. The white of frosted leaves and branches, and in some places icicles from frozen water runoff, sprinkled the area. Ancel crunched a passage through, breaking the stillness around him. He shushed the horse to calm whenever a wolf howled.

More confident than before, he weaved his way through, gaze focused ahead so as not to allow the fear of pursuit to overwhelm him. The cold became a needle pricking in his gut and tingling his toes, heightening the sense of urgency within him. He goaded the horse on.

Gray and white flashed across his periphery. He tracked the movement, the beast tearing through undergrowth to reach him. A breath whooshed out of him when he realized it was Charra.

The daggerpaw needed no commands. Charra bounded ahead, crashing through any obstacles in the way that wasn’t a tree. His bone hackles lopped off saplings as if a blademaster hewed a path.

Ancel urged more speed from the horse. With Charra clearing the way, their speed doubled, and he resorted to jogging to keep up. He flirted with the idea of mounting, but the position of the ropes around the shoulders and down the saddle appeared to be a pain his balls could do without.

The next hour dragged by with the horse laboring, steam rising from its mouth as it snorted and flicked its head to one side. Ancel slowed their progress, giving the animal time to rest. He removed the waterskin from the saddle and finally stopped. Chest heaving in deep breaths, the horse bowed its head as Ancel let the water run into his cupped hand below its mouth. The mount slurped greedily at the liquid.

Deep indentations marked where the ropes had pressed against the horse’s shoulders. Sweat coated its brown hair. Stefan’s mount was used to frolicking or going on short runs not this sort of physical labor.

Ancel strode around to the litter to inspect the giant. His chest still moved at the same steady rate. The arrow wound no longer bled, but Ancel still worried. The man’s skin, where not covered by the Etchings, had grown more discolored, more frostbitten to where his lips were a ruinous black.

Whatever was happening, they needed to reach Eldanhill and Galiana Calestis as soon as possible. Ancel hurried back to the horse and set it moving again. The litter edged forward, and soon they were travelling at a steady pace. Ancel tugged on the reins for a little more speed.

The trip stretched on. He no longer heard the noise of the wolves behind him. Birds twittered and flitted from branch to branch. A rabbit hopped near their path before stopping to give them a curious glance then bounding away in a blur. The cold seeped in deeper and the snowfall increased, quickly accumulating on his cloak. He hunkered down within the folds of the garment.

The crunches of following feet sounded nearby.

One quick step drew him even with his father’s saddle. He removed his bow from where it hung and turned to face the noise. His hand went up to his quiver, and he nocked an arrow without thought and aimed toward the footsteps. Swirls of snow and an oak tree obscured his vision.

When the first form jogged from behind the tree, tension eased from Ancel’s shoulder and arms, and he brought his hand from the arrow’s feathery fletching. The shape resolved into his father in his sleeveless, hooded fur jacket. Kachien appeared soon after, moving with a slight limp. Ancel drew fletching to ear again at what followed behind them.

Several wolves, heads low to the ground, slunk back and forth across the path he’d carved through the forest. He counted at least six or seven. More were sure to be close by, out of sight, possibly flanking them. Sure enough, he picked out flashes of gray among the trees farther to their east and west. The animals intended to cut them off.

“Pass me your quiver,” Stefan wheezed as he reached him. Blood decorated his fur and leather armor.

Ancel slung the strap from across his shoulder and back and passed it to his father. By this time, Kachien arrived, her limp a little more pronounced. Her clothing displayed several rents, exposing tanned flesh. Blood trickled from paw scratches in those areas. The holes from bite marks on her thigh were plain to see. She shivered profusely. Ancel removed his cloak and fur and threw it over the diminutive woman’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said between clenched teeth, fixing her golden hair over the fur.

“We only managed to escape because one of the packs decided to make a territory challenge,” Stefan nodded to where more gray forms slunk through the distant trees to the east.

“How much time do we have before the fight’s decided?” Ancel asked.

“Not much. These fellows appear just to be tracking us until then.”

“It makes no difference now,” Kachien said, her voice strained. “Look.”

Ancel glanced to where she nodded. The end of the Greenleaf Forest was in sight. Beyond were five-foot stone pillars-supports for an unfinished fence or wall of some type-stretching for several thousand feet. Unless the wolves intended to attack them on open pastures, they were safe. Even if the animals did attack, the group would be well within sight from Eldanhill’s towers. Help would be forthcoming.

The mumble of a deep voice made Ancel look back toward the litter.

Discolored face and all, the giant propped himself up on one arm. His emerald gaze took them in. Something flickered behind his eyes when they passed over Stefan, and he muttered, “Y-you … dead …” Then he focused on Kachien, features hardening, the recognition unmistakable. He lifted his sword and pointed at her. “A-And you-” He collapsed in a boneless heap onto the wood, his eyes fluttering shut.

Ancel gave them both an incredulous stare. “Do you know him?”

His father shook his head.

“Yes and no,” Kachien said.

Ancel frowned.

“Remember I told you I had a task to protect a boy and watch a man in Carnas?”

Thinking back to that time in the Randane’s sewers, Ancel nodded.

“He is that man.”

Irmina waited patiently as she’d been doing for several hours now, inspecting the foyer and marveling at its cleanliness. Anything to keep her attention off the angry voice emanating from the inner room where the Exalted resided. Paintings decorated the closest wall. On the other side were bookshelves lined with glass-encased tomes, the vellum within as fragile as a mummified carcass. The dead-eyed expression of the High Shin standing before the shelves dissuaded her urge to approach the cases.

Back the way she came, silver-armored Dagodin stood guard at evenly spaced intervals on a bridge that spanned the library below. Small lightstones hanging from chains around their neck, several dozen High Shin drifted among neat piles of aged books, stopping to jot down notes. Irmina yearned to go down into the Iluminus’ renowned Great Library and question its Custodians. The annals beckoned to her with promises of unraveling the truth of her family’s demise. Surprisingly, the entire area lacked the mustiness of old paper. It was devoid of odor. The missing scent evoked a sense of emptiness.