Terry Simpson: Ashes and Blood

Pain.

The zyphyls suffered. They saw the world’s futures; they lived in agony for that gift. Or curse. The latter was how most of the creatures considered their ability. The reason the idea of freedom filled their dreams.

Irmina didn’t attempt to speak to the creature. She kept to the periphery of its consciousness, searching for a way to give it some relief. Try as she might, she could find no way to sever its connection to whatever threads allowed it to see what it did. The zyphyl had to be connected to all the Planes of Existence, but exactly how was as baffling to her as discerning which vision would come to pass.

Whatever she needed to free the creature, she knew she had little time left to find the answer. Within the zyphyl the futures ripped asunder by the netherling who was massacring the Gray Council’s army brought tremor after tremor rippling through the creature’s body and mind. Visions flitted by as Matii, most likely deep in the Eye, threw Forging after Forging at the netherling. All to no avail.

Frowning, she watched the battle. Deep inside, her mind whispered that the answer lay in plain sight. All she had to do was understand.

A fireball barrage left a wavy trail through the air, lightning streaked sideways, the earth heaved and pitched, mounds of rubble formed a spear of steel and stone, all directed at the netherling. Irmina concentrated, ignoring the way the netherling deflected the attacks with as much concern as a warrior slapping away a fly. Instead, she focused on the serene expressions of the Matii. Faced with imminent death, they showed no overwhelming reactions. Even the ones with blood dripping from various wounds.

Sudden realization made her gasp. The Eye. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

Bracing herself against the rush she’d experience from the emotional storm, she thrust herself into the dreams enveloping the zyphyl. The results left her breathless. She herself had to find the Eye to shut them out before they overwhelmed her. It had the intended effect.

The zyphyl took note.

She sensed it searching to find an identical void within itself. A prod to its emotional center sent its consciousness where she wanted. A moment later, she took her time and made a deliberate show of embracing the Eye, blocking out external effects.

Now, she waited.

The response didn’t take long. It came in the form of a shudder through the zyphyl’s silvery body, quickly followed by what she could only call a contented sigh.

A mind wormed its way to meet hers. As usual, when she attempted to master a beast, the communication wasn’t in the form of words. It was more a sense of what the contact meant by feelings. The mind conveyed gratitude and pleasure. Then came what she’d hoped for.

The zyphyl wanted to know how it could repay her. Irmna smiled.

She conjured an image of the netherling. With a whine, the zyphyl passed on its recognition. Irmina detached from its mind, easing back into her own.

When she opened her eyes she immediately sought the Forge that kept the zyphyl locked within the Travelshaft. It was a mixture of light, air, and earth to form shackles. When she broke them, she didn’t see the monolithic silvery mass move. One moment it was there, the next, it disappeared.

Galiana looked on in awe while the zyphyl coiled around the netherling like some gigantic, silver serpent. Energy crackled in pure, white concentrations along its length. Miniature lightning bolts encircled its girth. It had no appendages, and no mouth, only one eye in its bulbous head, but somehow it was inflicting damage. Dark, viscous liquid dribbled from the netherling’s many wounds.

The armies previously engaged in the plaza were now engrossed in this struggle. A few still fought in small pockets. However, in several areas, the Tribunal’s forces were reorganizing. If her people were going to escape through the Vallum, they needed to leave now while Irmina had bought them some time.

“Cantor,” she called.

The High Shin joined her.

“Gather as many of ours as you can. Dispatch Pathfinders to those of Irmina’s forces still standing. The entrance through the Vallum lies behind us, past the Travelshaft.”

The man nodded and set to work.

Jerem, his clothes sooty, eyes tired, shuffled over to her side. “I have already instructed Halvor to stop the Travelshaft’s effects so we can pass.” He nodded toward the neat lines of Tribunal soldiers that were forming. “He said he will have his Sven hold them off for as long as possible.”

“They will need help,” Galiana said.

“Yes, but-”

“We have come too far, Jerem. This is the beginning of what we lived for. We knew the day would come when one of us needed to sacrifice. The time is not yours. Ancel will need you when he visits the Broken Lands.” An ache throbbed in her chest. She smiled sadly. “I consider this an honor.”

A tear trickled down the old man’s face. “If this were any other time or position, I would drag you by the scruff of your neck, but-”

She placed a finger on his lips. “It’s fine. I want you to tell Thanairen I forgive him for his betrayal. I understand how necessary his path was now.”

A long, keening wail shattered all other sound. Mouth open, she glanced toward where the two creatures battled in midair. The zyphyl’s form was turning to a dull gray, its electrical charges sputtering. It still fought.

“Go now,” she whispered. “I will give you the time you require.” She strode forward before she finished her words.

Ancel fought desperately against Mensa. The man moved more like oily smoke than a human. He spun, dodged, and parried at the perfect moments, either avoiding or deflecting his every blow. Leaping up and down the temple’s wide marble stairs, they sought any advantage. A serene smile graced Mensa’s lips.

The city burned, its heat scorching Ancel’s back. Corpses littered the ground, most of them the remnants of Eldanhill’s folk. From time to time, the dead shuddered and then stood before charging off to fight the living. With each resurrection, Mensa’s grin widened.

Close by, Mirza and Kachien fought Jillian. Charra’s roars echoed over the other sounds of battle. Ancel could not tell how they fared. All his focus needed to be on Mensa. The slices and cuts on his arms and abdomen and his swollen eye from a kick taught him the folly of any lapse in concentration.

Not once did Mensa speak, but his movements were a far cry from the disheveled servant he had played. Whenever Ancel landed a blow, blackness coiled around the wound, healing it in seconds. At those times, the man actually cackled in glee.

Ancel delved into every attack he could muster. His Stances and Styles changed more swiftly than at any other time when he sparred against Ryne. Their intricacies came to him, as deep inside the Eye, he fed his emotions to his sword work. Their battle became a dance to the music of ringing steel.

His love for his people mixed with his hate for Mensa, adding to his speed, yet providing him with moves so stealthy he was sure Mensa never saw them coming. This, he combined with the frenzy the winds brought, attacking in every direction, while infusing it with the energy of fire. The sword responded, its blade black and red at the same time, sweeping and licking in half a dozen slices, feints, and arcs.

Mensa dodged or parried them all.

Ancel whipped forward, carried on threads of air, trying to predict Mensa’s next attack or defense. When Mensa’s sword swept in, Ancel infused the determination and strength of the earth into his parrying blow. The blades crashed together. A wave of earth rumbled under their feet. Standing on air, neither of them felt its effects.

Stance after Stance, Ancel unleashed. His Waterweave, flowing in swirls and rushes to match a waterfall, met Mensa’s Shadowstalk, the man disappearing to reappear at Ancel’s flank. Voidwalk, which relied on the air he stood upon, glided Ancel away from the killing blow, momentum thrusting him across the cobbles.