Terry Simpson - Ashes and Blood

By the time they reached Eldanhill’s walls, several guards had already come to escort them. The soldiers cupped their hands over their mouths and noses and glanced back at the giant who now lay on a two-wheeled dray drawn by two horses. The flatbed cart trundled through the ankle high slush covering the Eldan Road’s cobbles. Boots squishing in the muddy snow, Ancel strode next to the stranger, pointedly ignoring the curious looks from townsfolk. Several dogs chased the dray for a moment, barking at the unconscious man before Ancel shooed them away. The absence of nosy children running by to point or stare in awe was as out of place as the signs and results of the Sendethi attack on Eldanhill.

Forty-foot wooden walls and the towers along its length were the first of those. Inside Eldanhill, they’d rebuilt much of the buildings destroyed during the siege. Stone and woodwork of new construction stood in stark contrast to the charred, skeletal remains of some homes. From the top of the Streamean temple’s clock tower flew two banners: the Setian Quaking Forest and the Dosteri Guardian Wall with its shield emblazoned against a background of battlements. Soldiers in beige Dosteri uniforms or Setian green marched down the road. Some dotted the towers along the ramparts.

A few of the big, rawboned Seifer and Nema mountain men still sauntered along the streets, quick to show their teeth, imitating their pet wolves and daggerpaws. Several gathered around a clear area near the stables, cheering or pumping their fists at a group of six clansmen. Some leveled taunts in their guttural language or attempted to curse in Granadian, their accents slurred, making Ancel smile with the way they mispronounced many words.

In the open space, the six mountain men played a game of senjin. They tossed the leather ball between them while tackling each other with a myriad of moves in an attempt to score in a small marked off area divided into six even parts. On each team, one of them stayed back to protect his goal, by rule not allowed to cross zones to join the melee. At present, those on offense appeared to have the upper hand as they stepped out of the other defender’s designated area to gang up on one opponent. A few swift kicks and punches later, the contest became two versus two in the final area. From the bloody faces and reddish snow churned under by their boots, they took their sport seriously.

Life had changed in Eldanhill. The smithies worked around the clock now, creating weapons and armor, the clang of their hammers near incessant. The attack and construction of the new wall gave more work to the stonemasons than they could handle, and they often brought apprentices in from Harval, deep within the Red Ridge Mountains. Mining and quarrying had become a required profession. Any able-bodied men, when not on soldiering duty, took up the task.

Several retired Ashishin helped to imbue some of the weapons being crafted into divya . The process was not only tiring but also a great risk of their control. Only the strongest attempted it. Townsfolk who remained, and lacked the ability at least to become Dagodin, still learned the sword and went through the rigors of soldier training. The classes at the Mystera had almost tripled with refugees pouring in from a few of the other small villages, farms, and towns in the Whitewater Falls region.

Once the shadelings lost their leader, they resorted to raiding whatever they could manage. The outlying villages and farms suffered the brunt of these attacks from the remnants of the wraithwolves and darkwraiths. At least until Eldanhill’s Dagodin cohorts set to work in cleaning up the menace. Eldanhill expected no help from the Tribunal. Supposedly, they considered all of Sendeth as part of the same uprising to overthrow their rule. Their first task appeared to be to cut off the infection at the head.

The allied army of Sendeth and Barson had practically disappeared overnight, amid reports the Tribunal had struck Randane itself, sending Pathfinders into King Emory’s Palace. War raged daily around Randane’s walls. A Tribunal army several hundred thousand strong also marched for Barson.

The other territories had stayed out of the conflict, not wanting to incur the Tribunal’s wrath. There still had been no retaliation to Eldanhill raising the Setian banner, but Stefan insisted a response was inevitable.

So, Eldanhill prepared, and in the meantime, they sent those too young or old to fight to the Red Ridge Mountains. Dosteri forces guided them from there in a long trek across eastern Granadia and to the Dosteri capital city of Torandil. There, they were to wait within the safety of the city’s walls.

Ancel wondered when and if Eldanhill’s own Mystera would close like all the others. Although he had no confirmation, he guessed they would make a mass exodus from Torandil, head to Ostania, and reclaim Seti. His true heritage. The thought seemed unreal. Dreaming of doing a thing, in this case going off to war beyond the Vallum of Light in Ostania, was vastly different from the reality. Even if it was not on the side he’d imagined.

“Any idea where he came from? Or why he stinks like that?” Mirza’s reedy voice interrupted his thoughts. His friend scrunched up his nose.

“None.”

“But you have an inkling who he is.” Mirza cocked his head to one side, the bush under his chin reminding Ancel of red sand.

“I suppose.”

“Suppose my ass,” his friend said, some of his old playfulness coming through. Hair reaching to his shoulder, Mirza had filled out in the past months, spending most of his time practicing with the Dagodin after receiving an early promotion by Shin Galiana. He’d also become versed in the Disciplines of Soldiering . His Setian uniform appeared as natural on him as the clouds were to the sky.

“Fine.” Ancel gave him a bemused smile. He leaned forward so his father couldn’t hear. “He’s the one that’s supposed to teach me.”

“I figured as much once I saw Mr. Tapestry Man here.”

“It’s been him all along.”

“Huh?”

Ancel rolled his eyes at Mirza’s confused frown. “The link,” he whispered.

Mirza’s lips formed an O.

“Right now it’s the size of a senjin ball with him this close to me.”

Mirza groaned. “Don’t remind me of that damn game. I bet one of the Seifer I could make it to the end of the field untouched.” He turned the side of his face to reveal a mottled bruise. “I was on my ass before I made it halfway across, and he’d taken the ball, scored, and had the nerve to dance. Never saw the big brute coming.” He shook his head. “I need to find out how they move so damn fast.”

Ancel covered his mouth to suppress his grin. “Next time, leave senjin to me. I keep telling you speed isn’t all that matters.”

“Whatever. So who shot him?” Mirza glanced at the giant.

“Da did.”

“And he lived?” Mirza whistled. “Why? Didn’t you tell your father?”

“We were fighting off some wolves and the man showed up. Stepped out of the woods with that monster sword in his hand.”

Mirza glanced over at the weapon the giant still clutched. “I’d have shot him too.” He snorted. “How’d wolves manage to hurt Kach?”

“I don’t know, but they’ve grown smarter.” He replayed the images of them feinting before they attacked, how they’d tried to hide that he’d wounded one of them, and shook his head in disbelief. “They set a trap for me.”

Mirza chuckled.

“What?” Ancel said, glowering at him.

“The wolves set a trap for the trapper. If you don’t see the irony …” Mirza’s voice trailed off.

“Anyway,” Ancel said, “Kach and Da held them off while I escaped with him.” He nodded to the dray. “By the time they caught up, she had that bite on her leg.”