Terry Simpson: Ashes and Blood

Red oozed down Charra’s fur and covered the knife sharp protrusions of his bone hackles. Too much blood for the one bite he’d inflicted. Neither had he speared the wolf before he attacked.

What-?

Growling, four more wolves tore from among the trees.

Ancel almost smiled. The wolves had set a trap for him all along. More human than wolf indeed.

Charra spun to the new the threat. Ancel took several steps back while he faced the other wolves on his side. With Charra providing protection to the rear, he stood a chance.

Breaths laboring heavily, the wounded wolf eased to the ground. One of the others whined. A bark answered from those Charra occupied. The wolf in front of Ancel loped over to its counterpart, sniffed, gave one plaintive moan then a growl like distant thunder.

Ancel’s heart thumped at the sound.

With a sudden lurch, the wolf spun to face him and bounded forward. At the same time, snarls issued from behind him, followed by Charra’s barking roar. Out of the corner of his eye, Ancel saw the other wolf on his flank lunge.

He met the first animal head on as it soared through the air. Sidestepping at the last moment, he sliced.

Silversteel met fur. Flesh parted. Blood spurted.

A whimper ensued as the beast dropped to the ground. Ancel was already turning to face the flanking one, throwing his cloak up for protection.

As the second wolf crashed into him, he tried to drop to one side and roll. Pain lanced up his arm. The wolf had its jaws locked on, and even through the fur-lined cloak, his pelts, and leather armor beneath, the crushing power of those canines bore down on him.

He hit the ground hard, the wolf atop him worrying at his arm. A snarl made Ancel glance up. Its fur matted with blood, the wounded wolf had risen to its feet and limped over, jaws spread in a rictus. Golden brown eyes stared into Ancel’s own.

Ancel tried to bring his sword up, but it was trapped beneath him. An eternity passed between one heartbeat and the next. The wolf’s shoulder muscles bunched. A torrent of panic cut through him like an icy gust in a storm.

With desperation came the voices of his new power-the voices from his nightmares. The heartbeats stretched. The world stilled.

“What is ours is yours.” It was the whisper of death yet somehow tantalizing.

The wolf kicked its legs as it sprang.

“Use us as you will.” The goading speech of a fierce gale rushing by a mountain.

Canine jaws spread, fangs sharp and white.

“You must not die here.” This voice was the gurgle of a brook before it became a river.

Other voices rose, beseeching, commanding, filling him with promises. They crowded his head, tried to consume his being. Some competed with each other.

Behind them all, he sensed a greater power still. It felt as if it spanned deeper and wider than the world.

Ancel’s mouth dried. Fear so strong he tasted it made him cry out.

The wolf was completing its leap, eyes so close he picked out the pupils’ patterns, open jaws so near, he felt the heat of its breath. Slobber struck his face.

Yelling at the top of his lungs, Ancel suffused himself within the Eye. The speakers cut off with a howl. In the same instant, he reached out for his power.

The wolf jerked, whined once, and then pitched over. An arrow jutted from its neck.

A second later, the one tearing at his arm gave a matching cry and fell dead. Blood spurted from a similar wound.

Stopped midway before he embraced his power, Ancel kicked the beast off him and rolled over. Less than fifteen feet away, his father controlled his horse between his legs. The hood of his fur jacket thrown back, Stefan held his oversized, black longbow in one hand. Stefan nocked another arrow and aimed toward Charra. Ancel’s gaze followed his father’s aim.

Four dead wolves lay in the snow, but five more had joined the fray. Blood covered Charra’s bone hackles in dripping rivulets.

The bowstring twanged; another wolf fell. The others turned tail and darted toward the woods.

Heart still racing, his breathing labored, Ancel scrambled to his feet, his sword held out before him.

“In Ilumni’s name, didn’t I warn you about coming in here alone?” Stefan bellowed, bow trained on the fleeing animals.

Ancel lowered his weapon as he turned to meet his father’s furious glare. “Yes, Da.” He tried to make his voice as meek as possible.

“So why are you here? You could have died today, boy.”

That last irked Ancel. “I’m not a boy any-”

“When you act like this … you are. Have you learned nothing?”

“Da, it’s just-”

“There’s no excuse for foolishness, for unnecessary risks, or for taking out your anger on the wildlife. Hunting for fur or food is one thing, but wanton killing is another.”

Ancel hunched his shoulders and averted his eyes from his father’s stony gaze. “I–I’m sorry.” He sheathed his sword.

“Son, you could have gotten yourself killed.” Stefan’s voice became tender. “You’re more important than ever.”

“I know, but I’m so tired of waiting.”

“Patience and perseverance go hand in hand for any task to be completed,” his father said, quoting the Disciplines. “Restraint. Try to remember that when you feel the way you do.”

“Yes, Da.”

At that precise moment, Charra gave a warning growl, a throaty rumble deep and long. The daggerpaw stared off into the trees.

Ancel began to turn when a presence in his mind drowned his every thought. The lump of his third bond had grown incrementally ever since he received his first Etching, but now it felt as if it would explode. He squeezed his eyes closed and brought a hand up to his temple. The throbbing pulled him toward the direction in which Charra faced.

“Dear gods, what is that?” Stefan murmured, voice shaky.

Ancel opened his eyes. His father had his bow drawn, the feathery fletching of the arrow to his ear. He was aiming toward the tree line.

There, among the shadows, lurked a man-shaped, hulking form, at least seven or eight feet in height.

Galiana Calestis contemplated High Shin Jeremiah’s words. Seated at a window in the Mystera, she looked out onto the forests and plains steeped in white north of Eldanhill. Where clouds once scuttled across the sky, they now hung in sooty clumps. She squinted, imagining she could see the peaks shrouded to the northeast and beyond them to the Everlast Mountains and the towers erected there. The Sanctums of Shelter. Could those spires live up to their promise of sheltering the world? What if they aren’t as powerful as we hope? Then, all your plots, sacrifices, and actions over the centuries will have been for nothing.

Heat and a crackle rose from a nearby fireplace. Scented candles in glass holders around the well-furnished room carried sweet hints of jasmine. The hearth’s warmth did little for the chill in her body. Like the seasons themselves, the world was in flux. Nothing in her ancient bones said the change was for the better.

The recent odd behavior from the Greenleaf’s animals said as much; it wasn’t a coincidence. She did not believe in coincidences. The animals’ propensity for violence and Jillian’s impending trip to Torandil were why she’d summoned the woman here as part of the meeting with Jerem.

Dressed in a scout’s light leathers, Jillian sat with her back to the table facing the window through which Jerem stared. Jillian hadn’t said a word as he’d relayed the news.

“Are you positive?” Although she knew what to expect, Galiana wished to hear another answer. One with promise. Misguided or not, hope was a virtue worth clinging to in times such as these and more so in those to come.