Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

A few hundred Amuni cultists formed ranks between the adults and children. In unison, they ground their spear butts at their feet. The flames roaring from the oak tree illuminated the spears, which stretched several feet above the soldiers’ heads. Ryne narrowed his eyes at the smoke rising from the wavering black blades.

Several soldiers stepped forward, placed long horns to their mouths, and blew. One, long, shrill note keened.

Among the shadows in the square, darkwraiths appeared by the hundreds as if from nowhere, long cloaks flying in wispy swirls with the strong wind, black blades hanging from scabbards at their hips. Smoky darkness wrapped their entire countenance like waves of black heat.

Screeching howls echoed from within the dark forest surrounding Bastair. From the tree line loped several wolf-like forms, green eyes glowing. Ryne counted forty wraithwolves in all, running like men on two muscular legs. Black hair covered their bodies, and they sprang with long, leaping bounds that could outpace a horse’s gallop. With each leap, they dropped to all fours, and their arms helped propel them into the air. After they landed, they sprinted on two legs again. In minutes, they reached the town square and the captives.

The beasts stalked among the adults, sniffing at each. People cowered away or tried to run but Amuni’s Children quelled such attempts. When the wraithwolves found what they sought, they dragged that person kicking and screaming to the center of the square, a few feet from the massive, burning oak tree. After they completed the separations, the wraithwolves raised their noses to the air and began a rhythmic, keening wail.

A distortion appeared in the air in front the burning oak as if Ryne saw it through a cloudy glass. The blurred area swirled and turned black before eventually splitting into a thin, horizontal slit.

As the slit widened, one long, obsidian leg stepped out, and then several arms and legs followed in quick succession.

Ryne sucked in a breath, his bloodlust immediately roaring to the forefront of his mind as his power surged within him. The voices began their bickering, but this time they were of one thought. Destroy. Ryne sought the calm center of himself, picturing the pond within the Entosis, and forced the lust and the voices down.

A slender body, rippling with sinew, slithered out from the portal. The daemon stood over eight feet tall on four misshapen legs. Four disproportionate, claw-tipped appendages stuck out chest high. Its slender body glowed with its blackness, and two small wings hummed on its back. A flowing mass of fleshy locks adorned its head, hanging down past those wings. Many-faceted, lidless eyes glowed, and dripping mandibles squirmed in its grotesque face. The shadestalker's locks flicked up and across the eyes as if shading them.

The cultists and the shadelings bowed low before the daemon. Screams and cries rose from the captives, and several of them fainted.

The shadestalker’s locks dropped away from its face, and its head swiveled around to the townsfolk near the tree. They cowered away from the daemon. A few attempted to flee, but the wraithwolves quickly caught them.

“I can distract while you take care of the stalker,” Sakari whispered.

Succumbing to the voices screaming once more in his head and the pull of his lust, Ryne agreed. “Yes.” He pointed toward the forest. “You take them there. I’ll be able to strike and get out before they react.”

Opening his Matersense, Ryne prepared to Shimmer into the square. Sakari’s cold hand on his arm made him stop. In that instant, his Scripts rippled.

Ryne frowned at his companion. Sakari pointed to the square.

A man garbed in black appeared next to the shadestalker. He carried a wide blade with distinct glyphs. Ryne knew that blade. With the recognition, Ryne’s Scripts writhed violently.

The daemon prostrated itself before the man, its body spread like a giant insect on the flagstones. Everyone else but the captives followed suit. The newcomer strode down the line of prisoners then stopped, his head suddenly rising toward the woods at the town’s opposite end. His cloak swirled for a moment, then he Blurred away to an unknown location.

The daemon eased up from the ground, and its locks stretched out. At the tips of each, tendrils of shade rose like wispy smoke. The locks grew longer, and snaked toward a few of the captives until they hovered before their chests.

Those townsfolk shied away. The appendages touched each captive chosen. All wriggling stooped; each became deathly still. A wail rose once more from the daemon’s minions.

The shadestalker snapped its head back, and the locks ripped through the townsfolk, turning their torsos into pulpy masses. Blood flew and bodies crumpled. The other survivors bawled.

Sela glowed at each tendril’s tip.

Ryne choked at the sight, his gut clenching. Was this what had happened at Carnas? His body and head felt as if soaring flames roared through his body.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, struggling mightily to calm himself. Within the square, a black slit appeared in the air, and opened like an eye turned sideways. An impenetrable darkness showed within.

The glowing sela flew into it. The slit snapped shut.

Shade billowed from the shadestalker in waves, blotting out the orange and yellow flames from the tree. Ryne frowned at the shadelings as they grew larger.

The shadestalker’s size increased to over ten feet. It flung its locks out, and shade flew into the air in multiple directions. Shrieks echoed from those same locations, a lot closer than they should have been.

Ryne recounted the shadeling armies’ positions from the war map and cringed. They’re all heading to Bastair. He eased away from the ledge, worked his way across the Dead Hills and down onto the plains where Thumper waited. He mounted and galloped toward the Vallum of Light.

Goaded by the urgency of his discovery, Ryne pushed hard for the wall’s soaring spans glowing several miles away. Even at this distance, Ryne could feel the Streams radiating from it. The twin moons’ light enhanced the Vallum’s Mater and bathed the hills, lone trees, and brush in slivery-blue. Questions tumbled through his head. Who was this man who made his Scripts react in that way? Was he Skadwaz, High Shin, Exalted or something more? And what was the black hole that devoured the sela? Was it the god of shade himself? No, it couldn’t be. If it had been Amuni, darkness would have devoured the world by now. Ryne shook his head. Whatever the phenomenon was, the daemon and the shadelings had gained more power from the feeding.

Up and down the grassy knolls, Ryne ran, the wind whipping at him as Thumper’s massive legs churned through the grass and sand. The only hope left for Bastair lay in reaching the army in time. The fate of the innocents flooded through Ryne and left him shivering.

Not long after, Ryne reached the first sentries a few hundred feet from Varick’s encampment. He rode straight for the Knight Commander’s tent.

Along the way, soldiers in the same scarlet uniforms he saw at Bastair saluted him. Others ate at the many fire pits. In their heavy crimson armor, infantrymen practiced formations in a clear training area. The first row consisted of shieldbearers carrying large rectangular tower shields and wielding short swords. Pikemen with lances twice their heights made up the next rank. The final rank bore lesser armored Dagodin carrying long, shining scythes with wicked blades.

Ryne pulled up in front Varick’s tent. One of the two guards turned inside to announce Ryne’s arrival. The other stood with his hand on his sword hilt-a customary gesture. Ryne dismounted just as the first guard returned.

“You may enter, Master Waldron. The Knight Commander is expecting you.” The young soldier nodded to the tent’s entrance.