Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

Ryne passed through the shadowy trees into an unexpected sight. Carnas’ five hunters had the grotesque ten-foot beast surrounded. From varied directions, they thrust, sliced, and feinted. Multiple wounds littered the lapra’s moldy fur. Its head dipped from side to side as it attempted to defend all attack points. Skin sloughed in places, and its blood dripped viscous and black.

But that was not what surprised Ryne. The shock was in seeing Sakari battle not one but two dual-dagger wielding Alzari.

Clad in dark leather matching the color of the forest, their faces covered in war paint, they circled Sakari. As one, the assassins attacked him from opposite flanks, darting in faster than any other of their clan Ryne had ever faced.

The three men twisted and turned. Their steps synchronized as if they danced to a tune only they could hear.

Sakari was ever on the defensive, dodging and parrying stroke after stroke. His face remained impassive even when the Alzari’s black blades scoured his armor and licked at his flesh. Bright red trickles decorated his armor from his many cuts.

With a snarl, Ryne joined the fray, his battle energy surging to a torrent.

The closest Alzari twisted away to meet Ryne’s attack. Silversteel swished through empty air where the assassin once stood.

Unlike his partner, Ryne’s opponent dodged his strikes instead of making any attempt to parry. Ryne attacked with the basics as he tested the man’s defenses. The Alzari ducked, dodged, leaped, and spun, his movements an elusive glide.

Sweat marred the assassin’s painted face. His eyes narrowed as Ryne’s attack paused. In that lull, the Alzari struck.

His daggers spun in his palms. A complicated pattern of slices followed. The attack flew up, down, left, right, into circular motions then to feints and lunges.

Ryne recognized the Style at once-Amuni’s Hand, the God’s Way-but the assassin’s speed was so surprising he couldn’t dodge every strike as the leafy carpet under his feet caused him to move slower than he would have preferred. Nor could he raise his greatsword in time to parry despite its feathery weight. His armor parted with a soft hiss at the shoulder and chest followed by his own pained grunt. A burning sensation followed as did a trickle of warm blood. Ryne frowned. No normal steel could cut through his leathers. The Alzari’s weapons were imbued. Where could these men have found divya?

Ryne’s Scripts roiled across his body and armor. The voices surged into his head. They begged him to release his bloodlust, but he gritted his teeth against the feeling.

With Ryne’s recognition of the Styles came understanding. He considered each Stance the man would use before attacking with a Style. After parrying a few blows, Ryne adjusted to compensate for speed, a smile playing across his face. The Alzari’s brow puckered in concentration as he continued his onslaught.

Ryne faced Earthtouch-the Alzari shifting his feet, daggers pointed down, then bending slightly forward to dig deeper and connect with the Forms of the earth-with Voidwalk. In the Stance, Ryne became many times lighter, like a wisp upon the wind. Not even the dry leaves below him showed any effect from his great size. Ryne waited, relying on his Stance’s weightless air essences to counter whatever Styles the Alzari attempted when he attacked with the strength of earth essences behind his blows.

As if part of the rock and soil, the assassin sank knee deep into the earth and flew forward, leaves and dirt spurting into the air with the path he made. His blades sliced at Ryne’s lower extremities before they rose up, and the man soared from the hole he’d created. Ryne sprung backward in a massive leap, floating on currents of air to avoid the strikes. Face drowned in sweat, the assassin’s feet touched the ground, feather soft, before he rushed forward, his breathing labored as he strived to reach Ryne.

A sense of calm passed over Ryne. He already knew the man’s next attack. Almost every enemy he ever faced overestimated his size and strength and underestimated his speed and agility. This assassin was no different.

As the Alzari swept forward and up, his blades stabbing one above the other in a Style called Climbing the Mountain, Ryne leaned back into Bending with the Wind-his body folding back on itself with effortless grace until the back of his head almost touched his thighs. Ryne kept his sword held out from his chest as his body curved away, the assassin’s daggers striking nothing but air where Ryne’s stomach had been. In the same motion, Ryne pulled himself straight, knocked the blades to one side, drew his hand back, and stabbed.

He used the momentum from his lean to whip forward with Lightstrike-a direct lunge.

The Alzari managed a grunt when Ryne’s greatsword tore through leather, cloth, flesh and scraped past bone as it exploded from the assassin’s back with a shower of blood and viscera.

Ryne drew his sword back and flicked it to one side to rid it of the blood. He spun, ready to help Sakari, but the fighting was already over.

A few feet away lay the other Alzari, his daggers still gripped in his lifeless hands. His only wounds were two precise slices, one across his stomach and the other across his neck. Blood pooled below his body, leaving the grass and fallen leaves slick.

Several cuts in Sakari’s armor revealed his tan skin. He gave Ryne a reassuring nod.

Sightless eyes staring into the sky, the dead lapra lay between the hunters. Deep rents marred its fur in several places, and even dead, the monstrous body, black with blood, appeared too big for the beast’s six skinny legs. Putrid fluid leaked, the stench overpowering the smell from the rotten flesh.

Denton, the youngest of the five hunters who had left from Carnas, nursed claw wounds to his chests and arms. His torso heaved and his pale cheeks labored with each ragged breath. Lenka limped severely, his armor ripped from waist to knee. Torn muscle exposed white bone through the holes where blood trailed down and painted his leather red. The other hunters bore no injuries.

“Since when could Alzari tame these things?” Dren nodded toward the giant lapra’s corpse.

“Since when the beasts be leaving the Rot be a better question,” Keevo added. The grizzle-faced man kicked at the lapra’s mutilated leg.

Dren’s square jaw tightened as he regarded the Alzari assassin then Ryne. He nodded toward the corpse. “I thought the Tribunal had given up on you.”

“So did I.” Ryne shrugged. His chest and arm throbbed.

Dren continued, “Now, we find two Alzari mercenaries here. With the bodies we’ve found the last few weeks, this makes for a strange coincidence. But I guess now we know who killed those men in the kinai orchards.”

“Alzari weren’t responsible for those deaths,” Ryne said.

“Really?” Dren bent to take a closer look at the Alzari’s corpse. “How’re you so sure?” He poked at the war paint on the assassin’s face before he straightened.

“They always leave a ritual dagger as proof of their work. Plus, no weapon of theirs could have made the wounds on those men.” Ryne’s gaze shifted to the infected lapra. He stroked the scars on his face as he eyed the elongated claws and teeth. No lapra could leave the gashes on those bodies either. He decided to keep that to himself.

“Do you really believe this beast could’ve killed them?” Keevo’s scarred face puckered with doubt. “It was so infected with rot, it moved like mud. Amuni’s balls, the tamer ones on the plains could have taken this.” He spat at the remains.

“If the Alzari accompanied it, then maybe,” Ryne said. “Alone, I’m not sure. But who knows what can happen when you underestimate what you face.” He cast a sidelong glance toward the wounded men.