Terry Simpson: Ashes and Blood

Cloak hanging limp from his shoulders, Ancel Dorn stopped where crimson tinged the white fluff near the trap. A drop here, a drop there, before they increased in regularity. The spots became spatters and then lines of red meandering to the distant tree line where snow dressed the forest in white as if preparing it for the long slumber. A satisfied smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

The hunt always brought a certain sensation for him: a soothing calm to go along with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The promise of a kill, however, now that offered a different story and sang the opposite song. A song that sent a tingle through his body.

After another bout with nightmares that seemed all too real, dawn found him here in the Greenleaf Woods where winter’s chill strengthened its grip. Although no gusts yet howled through the trees whose mostly skeletal limbs reached to the curdled sky, the temperature made him glad he’d chosen to don furs over his leather armor. Some leaves clung to life despite the hoarfrost enveloping their branches and trunks like icy mold. He listened, hoping for the telltale crunch of feet through snow, but he heard nothing. Neither the twitter of birds nor the forest animals’ chatter. The air was expectant, an indrawn breath waiting for release or for the last gasp of death.

The imminent danger might have worried someone else, a person of lesser constitution, but not him. Better this, to hunt and to kill, basking in the thrill of stalking a deadly adversary, than to wake sweaty and fevered from the horrors of his dreams. The visions of the wall to his old home exploding, a man swathed in all black stepping through flames dragging Mother behind him by one arm. Nightmares of himself standing within a city he knew only from stories as he faced the wrath of the gods. From the ghastly images where he used his new power to kill friends and family, bringing the world to ruin.

Ancel grimaced with the memories, squeezing his eyes tight against the sudden pounding in his ears. After a few deep breaths, his racing heart eased. A breath of winter played against his face, bringing with it the crisp scents of the forest and the sharp odor of blood. He opened his eyes and bent to inspect the metallic glint the white drifts should have hidden. Carmine splotches, bits of grey fur, and flesh covered the jagged edges of iron teeth.

But there was no corpse. At least not that he could see.

Frozen red flecks, crushed grass, and brush, carved a path through the snow. The trail led from the clearing out into the woods where weak light filtered through the trees but revealed little of the forest floor. Almost any mound or dappled shadow could hide the wolf.

Several dozen paw prints marred the lily-white fluff, headed in the same direction as the wounded animal. As he suspected, the beast wasn’t alone. The gray wolves of the Kelvore Mountains weren’t known to abandon their pack mates. Lately though, they took to the woods in greater numbers than he remembered. Wolves were creatures of habit; change did not come without a reason.

The remaining folk in Eldanhill blamed the beasts for the lack of game when there should have been plenty. It was almost as if the people preferred to deceive themselves than admit the truth. They went so far as to act as if the ancient protections still held, that the monsters of old could not cross into Granadia, despite the proof provided by the attack on their homes.

He entertained no such absurdity. The images of the dead rising to become monsters before soldiers struck them down and burned them were imprinted in his memory. He had his own idea as to the dearth of forest animals, but he kept it to himself. Dredging up the horrors of the past few months would not go over well with the survivors and the glut of refugees despite the existence of sufficient proof. Regardless, the presence of this many wolves played well into his goal.

A mournful howl, followed by another less than a mile away, confirmed his suspicions. No need to rush. The distance provided him with ample time.

Ancel pulled off his gloves and stuck them behind his sword belt. His skin had long lost summer’s stain and now stood almost as pale as a typical Granadian. Almost, but not quite. How he’d not wondered about the difference in the past continued to baffle him. It wrote itself in his deep pinewood color as it flowed in his blood. Long ago, when he traveled to one of the towns or cities here in Sendeth, he should have realized he did not quite fit.

Brushing off the thought, he focused on the task before him. He took a cloth from his pocket, cleaned the trap, and then undid a water pouch at his hip. A twist and a pull opened the stopper and let out the scent of the oily deer blood mixture. This, he sprinkled onto the trap. It wouldn’t quite overpower the smell of the wounded wolf, but another curious and desperate one would be along for sure. By now, the snow in the mountains drifted too deep, and the recent storm had driven much of their food down into the lower lying areas. Unfortunately, for the wolves, the reason most folk wore weapons, avoided the woods, and whispered amongst themselves, also made short work of the game.

Out of habit, rather than actually feeling winter’s bite, he drew his cloak around him and eased away from the trap, making sure to sprinkle his trail with deer blood. When he finished, he pulled his scarf up over his mouth, steam rising in warm wisps before disappearing.

Despite the cold, his mother would have liked the weather. Winter had always been her favorite time of year. “The quiet,” she would say, “the beauty covers the land yet still reminds you it mustn’t be taken lightly. Much like life itself.”

Pain jarred his insides like a punch to the gut. He grasped at his chest where the pendant carved in the likeness of his mother’s face hung from the chain around his neck, hidden underneath his furs and leathers. As he squeezed the metal, the hurt eased, once again forming a hollow, an emptiness he lacked the ability to fill.

Similar to the resonance from sword in the scabbard on his hip, the pendant’s bond vibrated deep within him. The link gave him one of the few hopes he still clung to in earnest. The near indiscernible thrum from the piece, from the silver of the hair, and the golden tint of the gems in the eyes, beckoned to him. It offered a promise as slim as it felt. His mother was out there. Somewhere. Possibly still alive. He clung to that sliver of faith.

Two other hopes, more like reassurances, were his sword and the intricate tattoo-like artwork on his right arm that spread to his chest on the same side. His Etchings. The ‘gift’ bestowed upon him by the netherling. What those two promised him was quite different.

They oozed power that spoke of a reckoning on his enemies when he mastered them both. From time to time, the Etchings still ached. Not as much as when he first gained them, or as bad as the pain in his heart when he thought about his mother, but the hurt reeked of his failure as much and more as the stink of death. He squeezed his eyes shut against the rush of emotions. Against the rage, disappointment, and grief. Not that it helped much, but he still had to try before they overwhelmed him. There the pain was now, stabbing him like tiny daggers in his chest.

With agony came his doubts. What if Shin Galiana is right about me, about my power? What if I’m destined to become an Eztezian Guardian? Is their fate to be mine also? Expected to protect but instead decimating all before me. His father often said life waited for no man, and destiny was nothing more than one bold enough to take his future and shape it. Suppose those words were only wishful thinking, simple encouragement?

Ancel tried in vain to calm the tremulous flutter of his heart as he considered the possibilities. Too often of late, the burden of recent events threatened to drown him. Not many things helped subdue the current flood. He reveled in those that did. Two were before him.