Terry Simpson: Ashes and Blood

Daemons and darkwraiths screeched. Black tentacles whipped out to strike down any of his men within range. Darkwraiths struck in blurs, their swords swift and deadly. Black lightning streaked sideways toward his forces.

Leukisa was repelling them with shields of his own, Forging faster than Ancel once thought possible. His skill kept them from being overwhelmed.

A bellow tore the air. The cobbles swelled and blasted up. Kendin’s form exploded through the opening. The shower of rubble became one with his body. Arms outstretched, he threw stones as big as a man into the shadeling ranks. The enemy lines buckled. When he stomped, a circular wave swept out from his feet. Any creature it touched, it entombed.

The power Ancel had been feeling spiked. He snapped his head around.

Atop the temple’s steps, next to the statues of Ilumni, Amuni, Bragni, and Rituni, a woman in leather armor was dragging Kachien’s limp form by her hair. He recognized her.

Jillian.

Once he’d learned of Irmina’s skill, he’d suspected someone had controlled the wolves that day in the Greenleaf, but until Jillian went missing he hadn’t been certain who the person could have been. He snarled.

A man in black armor had his hands outstretched. Shade essences billowed from him, consuming several Eldanhill folk. The Mater coalesced into thicker bands, growing stronger from some connection within the temples. Ancel could never forget the feel of those Forgings. They were the same as those the night his mother was taken. Darkness did not shroud the man’s face this time.

Rage seethed inside Ancel until his vision filmed red. The man was Mensa, Mother’s head servant.

The voices outside the Eye screamed. Sword in hand, he leaped from the tower wall.

Ryne stood where the Great Divide’s black chasm began, not far from the towering edifices of the Sanctums of Shelter. The spires rose at his flanks, their tops hidden in the clouds. This close to them he felt the various essences at use throughout Granadia and near any Bastion. It was like stepping in front a blacksmith’s bellows then being thrust onto a mountain top in the dead of winter. He didn’t need to link with Ancel to identify the young man’s Forgings. They burned through him almost as if he was standing next to his ward.

Denestia’s Mater was somewhat odd here, concentrated. The elements whipped and coiled more violent than the worst of winter storms, their colors prismatic. The air gave off a melange of smells that made him want to retch and savor them at the same time. Bloated clouds bubbled overhead. This location being the point where Denestia’s power touched the Prima unleashed first by himself and then Ancel, the occurrence did not quite surprise him, but it was no less troubling. Although the elements from both types of Mater thrived, they were at odds with each other, like two siblings who believed each was the more dominant and thus needed to fight.

“Are you sure it was wise to let the boy face a Skadwaz on his own?” Taeria’s voice, or rather, Trucida Adler’s, was a raspy whisper. Appearing frailer than before despite her robes, skin splotched, she hunched beside him. Discovering she kept an eye on him in Carnas had been a welcome comfort.

“It takes the heat of battle to develop the best crafted weapons.”

“What if he loses himself?”

“Then we will have to kill him and start anew.”

“Let’s hope he passes then,” she said tiredly. “From what I sense, he might be able to best a few of us even if we’re linked.”

“Indeed.”

Power surged again from Randane and the Iluminus. He frowned at that last.

His cloak flapped from a sudden gust. As the wind grew, the material streamed out behind him. Snow swirled like white petals. Rain pattered, first a few drops, then a torrential downpour. He raised a hand, drawing on an Etching. A shield of pure shade, yet still transparent, formed a dome around him and Taeria. It served two purposes.

“They come. Cocky as ever,” she said.

He smiled. “Just the way I like them.”

Through the rain and from the Great Divide’s edge strode three forms. They stopped within shouting distance. As abruptly as it began, the storm died.

“Yow two were always full of yourselves,” Ryne called, “even after Cardia and Astoca split.”

“We didn’t come here for insults,” Lestere Cadem replied, voice carrying without raising it. Ryne expected no less from the air guardian. Dressed in a blue coat with matching britches, face hard and angular, Lestere kept a hand close to his sword.

“Just to accept your surrender,” added Henden. A pillar of water coiled around the graying man like a giant snake.

“What makes you think that’s what I’m here for?”

“Because,” Lestere stepped aside to let the third man through, “two Eztezians might be a stalemate, but with a netherling on our side, one you attacked, you have no hope of winning. Especially now that the guardian of cold has abandoned your cause.”

Sakari took his place between them. Face expressionless as always, he dipped his head.

“Besides,” Henden opened his arms, palms upward, “we see you’ve already given up the light. You definitely have no chance.” He cocked his head as his attention shifted to Taeria. “I’ve never known who metal was, but I once thought it would be a Svenzar rather than a human.”

“Maybe, I don’t stand a chance,” Ryne said, ignoring the comment about Tae, “and maybe I do. Don’t forget I can sense that you two have also relinquished your essences to another.” Ryne knew that didn’t matter. Even as a shell of their former selves, Taeria posed no threat to them. Not when they could still summon Prima constructs. He might be able to defeat one but not both.

“False bravado as always, Thanairen,” Henden said.

“You can tell your master I don’t accept any of his terms.”

“Then we shall have to kill you and take your ward as we did his sister.” A wicked grin spread across Lestere’s face. “You need to die anyway for them to return.”

Ryne smiled to match, and then he grew serious. “It should have never come to this. We were to nurture the Aegae, not turn them against each other.”

Henden spat. “Why not? Why should they live to rule, live with power, while we succumb to madness? Because of prophecy? We chose the smart route. Let them fight the gods when they rise, and we survive to reap the rewards. Self-serving? Yes, but not much different from what you do.”

“No. I serve the Annendin’s will.”

“The Annendin?” Lestere scoffed. “A so-called god no one has ever seen. At least we can say we’ve met Amuni and the others, but this Annendin? Even the other gods do not admit to its existence. If it did live, it’s dead now or doesn’t care. That’s the only explanation as to why it would abandon Denestia.”

“Funny,” Ryne gave a deliberate shake of his head, “you don’t believe yet you created an Aegis.”

“No, we created someone to fight for us with power we could not wield.” Henden gestured to his own Etchings. “Tell me, Thanairen, don’t you grow weary of staving off the madness? Of wondering when it is death will come to take you? And for what? A people who know only treachery, destruction, pain, and suffering.”

“I wonder who taught them all that,” Ryne said. “We’ve only been misleading them into wars for the last few thousand years.”

Lestere shrugged. “Sheep are meant to be slaughtered.”

Ryne saw there was no way to sway his brethren. The realization saddened him. “You’re right. You allowed Kahkon to twist your minds away from your mandates. In this case, that makes you sheep.”