Terry Simpson - Ashes and Blood

Rawbone shifted closer, reaching out and grabbing her reins. “Look here, lil miss. I’ll have none of your lip. Now, move it or lose it.”

“Lose it.” Irmina drew her sword and relieved the man of the hand still holding her reins.

Blood painted the silvery snow red, its warmth throwing up steam. The severed hand, now in a half-closed fist, fell to the ground. The man yowled and snatched at his stump.

Snarling, its bone hackles snapping up into knife sharp edges, his daggerpaw launched itself at her.

Irmina opened her Matersense, seized essences of air, and stopped the animal in mid flight. The daggerpaw hung suspended in the cushiony strands she Forged. A wave of her hand sent the creature flying fifteen feet into a snowy mound.

Her sword point was at Rawbone’s throat before he managed to move. “Call off your pet.” She nodded toward where the daggerpaw was clambering to its feet.

Squeezing his arm above the wrist, the man said a few guttural words. The daggerpaw shrank back, but its gaze glowed with vehemence.

Irmina gave a nod of satisfaction then surveyed the clansmen arrayed around her. As she expected none of them had attempted to help or interfere in a one on one fight. Not yet. But the scowls and hands tightening around weapons said any one of them might wish to challenge her on their own. After all, she was a weak lowlander and a woman. Why would one of the mountain men need assistance to teach her a lesson? Pride could be anyone’s undoing. “I don’t take kindly to threats. Now, any of you move, and I’ll give him another mouth to yap out of.”

The men remained still. None uttered a word, but their eyes and the weapons in their hands spoke in volumes of violence. Irmina’s horse snorted.

“That includes you,” Irmina said to a man trying to sneak from her blind side.

The whisper of his feet on snow ceased.

“Now,” she said, “until over a year and a half ago, Eldanhill used to be home. It never had a wall, and your kind stuck to the mountains. Why are the Nema and Seifer not only here in the lowlands but working together?”

No one spoke. The wounded man moaned.

“You can answer now.”

“T-Tings have ch-changed, miss,” Rawbone said between clenched teeth.

“Oh?”

“D-Dey can tell you what h-happen w-when dey get here.” Rawbone nodded toward Eldanhill’s wall.

A sally gate opened to reveal several forms illuminated by the backdrop of torchlight. One of them mounted, pulled a hood over their head, and kicked the horse into a trot.

“P-please, miss.” Rawbone tried his best not to sag onto her sword point. “Let dem h-help me. I swear no one w-will a-attack you.” Eyes wide, he licked his lips.

Nodding, Irmina eased her blade from his throat. “Help him.”

With a moan, Rawbone collapsed to one knee and stuck the end of his stump into the snow. Uncertain glances passed between the clansmen before several of them rushed to his side and began fussing over him.

Irmina kept her gaze between the approaching rider and the remainder of the men. Those who weren’t assisting Rawbone stood watch. Their daggerpaws and wolves crouched, heads down, muscles tense, held back only by handfuls of fur in straining hands.

As the rider drew closer, the wind picked up, whipping powdery residue sideways, but Irmina resisted the urge to pull her cloak tighter around her. She held her sword casually to one side, wondering which of Eldanhill’s Council had been sent out. She pictured the surprise on their face when they recognized her.

The cloaked rider reached within a few feet, and Irmina frowned. The person was smaller than any Council member she remembered, even shorter than she was.

The clansmen dropped to one knee and bowed.

Brow puckered, Irmina glanced from the clansmen to the newcomer. The person slowed to a walk, handling the horse’s reins expertly. The form stopped and threw back the cloak’s hood.

“Teacher Galiana Calestis?” Irmina exclaimed.

Face haggard, the woman appeared frail compared to the vibrant person she remembered. “I have been expecting you, Ashishin Irmina.” The wind fluttered Galiana’s cloak out behind her.

Irmina gasped at the uniform she saw below the cloak and the insignia glinting on Galiana’s breast. The green colors and the Setian Quaking Forest. Her grip on her sword tightened until her hand trembled.

Back bent as she rode, Shin Galiana noted Irmina’s reactions to the soldiers. Irmina’s eyes merely narrowed at the Dosteri troops, but at the sight of the Setian colors, her hand drifted to her sword. When she realized, she fidgeted with her reins and quickly shifted her hand while glancing in Galiana’s direction. Galiana pretended not to notice.

“I heard rumors of this within the Iluminus, of Sendeth having risen against the Tribunal.” Irmina stared straight ahead, pointedly ignoring the patrolling soldiers as their boots squished along the slush-filled and torchlit roads. “I must say, I’m surprised. I thought Eldanhill would remain loyal if for no other reason than the Mystera’s influence.”

“We are loyal.”

“To who?”

“Our heritage,” said Galiana, her voice soft as she kept a hand on her staff. “Loyal to who we are. To what was taken away from us.”

Irmina flinched at those words, color rising in her cheeks. “What of the things the Setian took from others? The countless lives …”

“Everyone has lost someone at some point.” Galiana meant her words as reassurance, but Irmina squeezed her eyes shut. “Some more than others. Our reactions in the face of extremes, of grief, of terror, of rage, of elation are what shape us.”

A deep breath escaped Irmina. “Indeed. I’m sure Aunt Jillian would agree. Where is she anyway?” Her eyes were as cold as the icicles hanging from the eaves or stony corners of parapets on the buildings around them.

Galiana heaved a sigh, and in spite of her furs, she shivered. “She went off to escort some of our own to safety.”

“By the orders of the Dorns, no doubt.” The bitterness in her tone was clear. “Wait, I forgot, there’s only one Dorn left now.”

A hair from telling her that Ancel was a Dorn despite how she felt, Galiana kept quiet instead. Whether her Aunt Jillian told Irmina or if she discovered the Dorns’ identities on her own made no difference. Irmina knew. Why she had left so abruptly and why High Shin Jerem insisted on her traveling to Ostania made sense now. Time to heal, to decide, to make allegiances. But on whose side was she? From all reports, Irmina belonged to the Tribunal and in turn to the Exalted. What game was Jerem playing at? Irmina should have the Setian cause at heart regardless. The Dorns had no choice when they destroyed her family. The blame for what happened to the Nagels fell on Nerian’s shoulders and their own for turning to the shade.

Added to all this was the stranger, Ryne. A self-proclaimed Eztezian. How much of what the man had said could she believe? For most of her life, she’d researched and followed the Chronicles, using their prophecies and recordings as a guide to hopefully see a better future. Not everything within them had come to pass, but enough happened for her to believe some semblance of truth, of an ability to foretell, existed within those pages and the men and women who wrote them. Discerning what was worth pursuing was indeed the hard part. Not only were the words within them open to interpretation, but the Chronicles she read laid out conflicting paths.

According to her experience, dating back to when the original Iluminus split only to reform under the Ashishin, the events foretold by the Chroniclers bore a near uncanny resemblance to what transpired. At times, they did not. However, this only led her to believe in the different threads of destiny, altered fates, some of which were beyond prediction. If only she had managed to obtain every one of the Tomes. She let out a sigh. A million questions ran through her mind to ask Ryne, but she wondered just how much truth would be in his answers.