Terry Simpson: Ashes and Blood

His footsteps echoed along with those of the others following him. Similar to a Travelshaft, a soft glow lit the interior. Ancel strode forward amid the muted breaths of man and beast and the scuff of leather on stone. The tunnel angled upward. Soon, they were walking on level ground. They exited within the sewer system and into putrid air and squeaking rats. Darkness stretched ahead of them with a pinpoint to show where the passage ended.

Ancel Forged, twisting air and light to match their surroundings. “Uncover the lightstones.”

“You sure? They will be a beacon if anyone looks down here,” Mirza said.

“No one will see. Trust me.”

After a brief pause and a sigh, Mirza said, “Well, you heard the man.”

Moments later came the rustle of cloth. A soft, white glow bloomed. It lit the tunnel. The drains were much the same as he remembered, clogged with shit and other wastes. His imagination conjured ghastly images of what could be wriggling within the sewage. Disturbed by the sudden luminance, rats as big as a man’s leg scurried away, squeaking their displeasure.

Convinced of the Sven’s earlier claim, Ancel led his men forward. Power resonated above him in such torrents he felt he could extend his hand and touch it. The dream he experienced in the Travelshaft rose fresh in his mind. After a deep breath that he almost regretted when he swallowed the area’s stench, he recalled the drainage system and its series of open spaces joined by tunnels. He set off, weaving his way by memory. The castle, main plaza, and its temples dedicated to the gods pulled at him. His captured people were there.

A brief trek filled with the stifled breathing and muffled coughs of a few brought him and his men to a passage much like the others.

“Kendin,” Ancel kept his voice low, “I need you to confirm that the castle’s cellars are on the opposite side of this wall. If so, make us a door.”

Ancel sensed more than he saw the ripple that passed through the stone. He waited. A restless pressure almost overcame him when the wall slid apart. It was as if the stone simply peeled back.

One of his soldiers holding a torch stepped forward. Beyond was a dusty, expansive storage room, one half of it filled with barrels and crates. Across the room was a wide set of stairs.

After he stepped through, Ancel waited for as many soldiers as could fit to crowd inside and settle down. When they noticed he watched, silence spread across the room and outside.

“I have a deep respect for all you who have come here to fight this battle even knowing you will face shadelings and worse,” he said. “Make no mistake; many of you will die today. If you’re wounded, there is a good chance no one will be able to save you. Your one solace is in fire, in the Streams. The same Streams that can corrupt you will also prevent what awaits you should you succumb to a darkwraith’s blade or a daemon’s tentacles. Remember that. Set it in your heart and mind now. If someone falls, behead them or burn them. It’s the only way to ensure they don’t rise again.”

“What of your own people?” Leukisa’s eyes were sunlit orbs that reminded Ancel of Charra’s.

This was the hard part, but he hoped Mirza would understand. “If they have been turned, they too will face the same fate.” Ancel met Mirza’s eyes. His friend gave him a nod. Tension eased from his shoulders. “You all know your roles in this. Our jobs are to assassinate whoever leads here and to rescue those captured. In that order. If all else fails, those in command must die. Understood?” He waited from the murmurs of acknowledgment, and then turned to Leukisa. “Send word to Ordelia to commence the attack.”

Even with the meager light cast by the flames, he noted the Exalted’s eyebrows as they rose in surprise. The man didn’t expect him to know they could communicate mentally. And he didn’t. It had been a guess.

Leukisa bowed then closed his eyes. When he opened them he said, “It has begun.”

As he said the words, the bells throughout Randane tolled a slow lament. The ceiling shook. Dust cascaded down.

“Give the soldiers a moment to empty from the castle,” Mirza said under his breath. “Kendin, let us know when the halls are reasonably clear.”

Time dragged while they waited. A roar from outside interrupted the breaths of man and beast. Deep in his Matersense with the voices flitting outside, Ancel felt power jolt and ebb. With it came dull thumps from the city’s walls. The earlier resonance grew, pulling at him harder.

Part of the stones that made up the ceiling flowed downward. More than one soldier started or grasped for a weapon.

The stones grew into a Sven hanging upside down. “Master Kendin says the way is as clear as it will be.” The Sven retreated. The ceiling smoothed.

Ancel drew his sword. “It is time.” Heart thumping, he headed for the stairs with Charra.

They spilled from the cellar into a wide hall. The few guards never stood a chance. Arrows and crossbow bolts struck them down before they sounded a warning.

“The six strongest Pathfinders, with me. Kendin, you also,” Ancel commanded. “Everyone else follow Mirza and the others.” He sprinted farther into the castle toward the main tower.

Guards rounded a corner ahead only to be buried by a wave that traveled under the carpet and along the walls. It knocked paintings and tapestries from their perches. Bone hackles erect, Charra loped at his side.

“Try not to Forge unless you must,” he instructed.

“Yes, sir,” the Pathfinders answered in unison. Three surged ahead while the others guarded the rear.

Oddly, they met little resistance. The enemies they encountered proved to be no more than a nuisance for the Pathfinders. Blades bloody, they gained the stairs to the tower. Outside, steel rang amid battle cries and commands.

“Kendin, is there a way for you to carry us up? I need to get to the top as fast as possible.”

The Svenzar’s massive head formed at the first landing. “Yes. Step onto me and hold onto the supports I provide.” He dissolved.

Seven poles grew from the landing. Without hesitation, Ancel strode up the steps and held onto the one closest to the middle. Charra bounded up next to him. Their faces masks of concern, the Pathfinders joined them.

“Hold tight,” Kendin’s voice called from below them and the surrounding walls.

The floor lurched forward, taking them with it. Ancel sucked in a breath. The platform they stood upon moved faster than a sprinting man, steadily gaining pace.

Guards occupied the first three landings. Miniature walls formed and crashed into them. Bodies toppled into the hollow in the middle of the winding steps.

By the time they made the next two landings, air rushed by Ancel’s face. They shot up, the balustrade and steps a blur. He squeezed his eyes shut yet still exhilaration spilled through him. If they met more soldiers he couldn’t tell. Within moments, they eased to a halt. When he opened his eyes, they were at the top, a closed door in front of them.

As they got off the platform, the bricks around the doorframe shook and fell. The door crashed outward. Sword in hand, Charra at his side along with his Pathfinder escort, Ancel strode outside onto the battlements.

Unnaturally black, clouds covered the sky. Lighting illuminated the mass before streaking down into the city. Thunder rumbled. Up here, the cries of man and beast carried on the swirling winds. Cloak billowing, he headed toward the pull of power, and the spires that marked the temples dedicated to the gods of Streams.

The plaza was worse than he expected. Dagodin and Randane soldiers battled outside the castle. Shadelings writhed before the temples. The Sven formed a wall, the earth quaking at their feet as they prevented that seething mass any purchase. Ashishin stood with them, their Forges ripping into the enemy ranks. More than half the Sven were rubble. He could pick out numerous bodies of his own army. The clansmen and their pets fought in groups among wraithwolves and darkwraiths, their savagery giving the shadelings pause.