Terry Simpson: Ashes and Blood

Hunting and killing.

Da didn’t approve of his choice or his venturing into the forest alone, but at times like this, he didn’t care. He needed to soothe himself in a fashion that would not force him to use his power.

Since Mother’s taking, his desperation to find the black-armored man drove him. The dreams and memories from that night sparked a battle within himself not to lash out. The worst part was lacking the knowledge to begin his search. He hoped the answers came with the ‘teacher’ the netherling claimed would arrive.

Underneath the knotted mass of emotions lurked something stronger. It fluttered in his gut whenever he relived the night he lost Mother. Since then, he’d filled the vaults of his mind with revenge and rescue. But could he really master his gift and defeat the man in black? Or was she already dead and what he felt from her charm no more than residue, a lingering memory? Worse yet, what if she was alive, and he failed to free her?

Body trembling, Ancel clenched his fist. Open then close. Open then close. When he finally stopped shaking, and the fear subsided a little, he opened his eyes and took in the snow around him and the peeking grass that failed to succumb to winter’s stranglehold.

I will prevail.

The forced sense of calm made him acutely aware of his third link. The one to his supposed mentor. He was certain he sensed the being somewhere to the south, faint and tremulous, but not as distant as before. Ancel brushed his fur vest as if he could touch that bond. It lived inside him much like the weaker one from his mother’s charm or the one that blared from his sword.

However, unlike those two latter bonds, this link kept changing. It began as a tiny, inconsequential itch just beneath the surface of his Etchings, but over the past months, it had grown to an ever-present lump in the back of his mind. In fact, at times, the connection to his so-called teacher bloomed as if the unknown man or creature was well within reach. Once, he tried to escape from the pull, going high up into the Kelvore Mountains. But his location made little difference.

On several occasions he thought he sensed other similar points, but when he tried to focus on them, they disappeared. As time went on he’d dismissed them as part of his overactive imagination. Now, he resigned himself to waiting. And of course killing wolves.

A howl broke him from his thoughts, reminding him there was work to do, death to embrace. He brought two fingers up under his scarf into his mouth and whistled. The sound cut through the silence.

A sharp bark that ended with a roar answered his whistle.

Ancel broke into a jog. Boots crunching with each step, he headed toward where the bloody trail entered the Greenleaf Forest.

Moments later, a shaggy, gray-white form bounded from among the trees. Charra had grown quickly over the past months, much faster than any other daggerpaw. Much bigger too. He now stood a good eighteen hands tall at the shoulders, larger than the average horse. From across the way, his eyes shone like golden torches. In a soft mane down his back and sides, Charra’s bone hackles spread even wider now. When they hardened, they stood erect, some of them more than a foot in length with edges as sharp as a honed blade.

According to the netherling, Charra was one of their kind. Ancel still found that difficult to believe. He’d discovered the daggerpaw wounded and bleeding in the Greenleaf Forest near his old home at the winery when the animal was a pup. Despite his father’s reservations, Ancel nursed him back to health, and they remained together ever since. Whenever he saw his pet, he couldn’t help but doubt the netherling’s words. It would take more than atypical size or intelligence to convince him Charra was actually a multi-tentacled, gigantic black creature with chitinous armor, dozens of eyes, and snake-like minions.

Ancel drew up short a foot before his daggerpaw. “You go northeast. Get ahead of them and cut them off. I’ll take care of the wounded one while you occupy the others.”

Charra whined his assent and loped off into the shadowy forest, ice and snow soundless under his padded paws.

One foot tapping time on the frozen ground, Ancel waited for the high-pitched growl that would announce Charra’s readiness. He checked and rechecked to make certain his sword was secure in its scabbard. Not that he needed to. The link to it provided a constant reminder, but some habits were hard to shake. He considered removing the short bow from over his back but changed his mind. The bow was perfectly fine. He’d oiled the string that morning. The arrows jutting above his shoulder from the quiver on his back were in prime condition.

So, he waited.

And waited.

He frowned. Surely, Charra should have located the wolves by now?

Still nothing. Under his scarf, he scratched at his stubble as he pondered the delay.

A low growl, followed by another deeper rumble, stilled his hand in the act of scratching. The noise set the hair on the back of his neck on end. A pungent odor, much like a dog kennel, wafted to him.

Not from the east. West.

Ancel’s heart skipped a beat. Battle energy edged up through his body in faint ripples. He took a deep breath and turned ever so slowly toward the growl.

Heads down, eyes trained on him, fur bristling, five wolves stalked at the edge of the woods. As expected this time of year, their coats had grown extra thick, making them appear even bigger than usual. They advanced, jaws spread in snarls, white teeth bared. One step. Pause. Another step. Pause.

If he backed up at all, the wolves would charge. Ancel allowed his breath to ease from his mouth, mist curling up as he let his body go limp. Either way they were going to attack. The option left to him was to strike first. He snatched for his bow.

Snarls accompanied the wolves as they bounded forward in response to the sudden move.

A flood of battle energy surged within Ancel. Eyes riveted on the charging beasts, bow held before him, he reached up over his shoulder. He plucked an arrow from the quiver and nocked it all in one smooth motion.

Less than forty feet separated him from the wolves. Heartbeats before they would be upon him. Despite the knot forming in his stomach and the thump in his chest, he delved deep into his mind with practiced efficiency. He found the calm of the Eye and sunk inside. His emotions skittered outside, trying to worm their way in. Right now, he needed none of them. All he wanted was emptiness. The cold-hearted indifference of one who stared down death without flinching.

Twenty feet.

Without thought, he aimed and loosed.

A yowl echoed.

One wolf staggered. The others came on faster, galloping.

Arrow. Nock. Loose.

Another painful cry.

This time a wolf fell.

Arrow. Nock.

They pounced.

Ancel leaped to the side, hitting the ground and brush in a roll, ignoring the pain of the quiver digging into his back as he crushed icy leaves beneath him. He dropped his bow in the process, and when he came to his feet, he already had his sword brandished.

The wolves skidded to a halt. One of the animals he’d shot was limping, a whine escaping its mouth with every breath, an arrow in its side. The other lay motionless.

Snapping and snarling at each other, the wolves spread apart. They surrounded him, mouths to the ground, jaws leaking slobber.

Ancel spun in a futile attempt to keep his eyes on each one. Every time he turned away from a wolf, he needed to spin to cover his rear as he heard another beast charge. But each movement was a feint. They were measuring him for an opening, their reactions more human than animal.

Where in Hydae is Charra?

The answer to his silent question appeared in a blur of gray-white from the forest’s edge. Before the closest wolf turned, the daggerpaw’s jaws closed on its neck. A yowl choked off as bone snapped. Charra threw the carcass aside.