Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

Beside him, Sakari was a whirlwind of movement, sandy hair streaming as his sword licked out, lopping off arms, legs and heads like mere twigs.

Irmina’s hand glowed. Flames leapt forth from it in circular balls. Where they struck, they punched through armor and flesh alike. Any man or creature that managed to get close to her met death at the end of her blade.

Within moments, no living enemy stood inside the gates.

Ryne looked back to see the Astocans streaming down to the courtyard. “Close the gates,” he yelled.

Several men rushed to a gigantic winch on the side. Metal rang on metal, followed by skin crawling screeches and the clang, clang, clang of gears rusty from nonuse churning against each other. The gate rumbled shut a few agonizing inches at a time.

Irmina continued to shoot her flames into the army roiling outside the gates. From above, lightning tore into them, called down by the Ashishin lining the battlements. The ground heaved under the shadeling army a few times and toppled many from their feet.

When the gate crashed shut, a huge cheer went up. From the Astocans came awed whispers of Blessed Ashishin. Many bowed. Within the next few minutes, Refald’s infantry stood at the head of the Astocans before the gates.

A familiar figure with a head wrapped in bloody bandages stepped forward. “They’ve taken the keep,” Rosival said. “It was Voliny himself. He betrayed us. We’ve managed to secure the way.”

“Go, Ryne,” Varick yelled from the walls above. “We shall hold this until the last of us falls or you complete your task. Go!”

Taking Sakari, Irmina and several Ashishin, Ryne raced toward the keep.

Ancel battled against the Sendethi soldier in front of him. Deep within the Eye, he barely heard or noticed the other soldiers nearby or the howls and cries of the shadelings. His opponent forced him to use every trick he’d learned. Ancel dodged, twisted, parried, and changed into every defensive Stance he knew. Not once did the Sendethi allow him a chance to attack. Sweat beading his forehead, Ancel was pushed farther back until he stood on an incline.

Breathing hard, Ancel waited for the man’s attack. Confidence shone in the soldier’s eyes as bright as the flames licking out from the winery. The Sendethi’s sword slashed.

Ancel leaped. But not away, toward the man. He judged the distance perfectly. His foot landed on a gauntleted fist, and just as it touched, he pushed off, flipping into the air, sword swinging. Ancel’s weapon cleaved helmet and head in a shower of blood and brains. As the soldier was falling to one side, Ancel landed and rolled, coming up in search of another opponent.

In the middle of the fracas, Shin Galiana stood, fire streaking from her hands in multiple fist-sized balls. Occasionally, lightning split the sky to strike shadelings close to the winery. On the ground lay the ravaged bodies of the servants, eyes wide in horror, chests, and throats mangled. Those who’d tried to run were face down, backs mauled and ravaged, rents torn into their skin, dark puddles oozing around them.

Off to one side Kachien darted with that uncanny speed of hers, black blades near invisible as she carved through man and beast. Guthrie strode among the enemy, swinging his two-handed greatsword. Anything in its path was sheared in two. Every kill the man bellowed, “In Ilumni’s Name!”

Charra stayed close to Ancel, hamstringing men, or diving bone hackles first into shadelings. His great jaws and knife-like claws tore fur, flesh and gouged armor with impunity. He did enough to maim before retreating to defend against any who approached Ancel.

Abruptly, lightning rained down from the sky in great, jagged lances, so incandescent, that for a moment it blotted every form from sight and etched every shadow in sharp edges. A noiseless concussion thumped Ancel in the chest, almost knocking him from his feet. He flung a hand up to cover his eyes and used the other to maintain his balance. Spots danced through his vision, afterimages burnt into his retinas. When his sight cleared, shadeling and men lay dead all around Galiana, brunt to a crisp, the aroma of their scorched flesh and the metallic scent of the lightning bolts heavy in the air.

Galiana collapsed to one knee. Roaring, Guthrie rushed to her side. He was able to help her to her feet before Ancel reached them.

Ancel’s head whirled around to a crackling sound. Flames licked out the windows of the winery and timber crumbled. A roof collapsed. A lump rose in Ancel’s throat. He cried out.

His mother was trapped inside.

“No,” Galiana said in a weak voice as Ancel stepped forward. “You cannot help her. Look, but not with your eyes.”

Ancel opened his Matersense. Essences spilled about the winery, dancing and zipping in and out of any opening. Flashes of light and fire shot through before being repelled by shade and air. The force from them buffeted him.

A battle raged inside his home.

As if they sensed what was happening the remaining shadelings and Sendethi had retreated until they stood at the far side of the field. Green and red eyes stared at the burning structure.

“Your mother is one of the strongest Ashishin I know, but against whoever she is fighting inside, you cannot help,” Galiana whispered.

A hollow boom sounded, and one of the walls blew outward. From the smoke and debris strode a man swathed in all black. He dragged the limp form of Ancel’s mother from the building by one arm.

In Castere, they bypassed the villas, spires, and fountains along the main avenue of the Inner Ring undisturbed. Ryne kept a vigilant eye out for any enemies, but the soldiers they saw were Rosival’s men, most wounded, many dead or dying. A few Namazzi, blue uniforms sporting the Waterwall insignia, joined the once small group that had grown on its way to Castere Keep.

At the castle, not a single Waterwall flag fluttered in the slight breeze. The keep’s silver-blue walls and towers reared in the dark before them like a great monolith, battlements unlit, windows black uninviting pits.

“Use the columns to keep cover,” Ryne instructed as they crept down the colonnade before the keep’s entrance.

In quick bursts, they darted from one column to the next until there were no more pillars left. Breaths echoing into the night air, they hid behind the last few. Ahead, the twin barbicans loomed, dark and foreboding. The heavy gate and spiked portcullis they protected was closed.

Two Ashishin whispered to each other then stepped from behind their pillar at the same time. They raised their hands.

A faint buzz thrummed through the air. Soft, wet thuds followed. Choking sounds issued from the Matii as they folded over, clutching at their chests and necks where several dozen crossbow bolts protruded from their bodies. The men crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath them.

“Fools,” Ryne muttered.

“So what’s the plan to get inside?” Irmina asked. “A few archers can hold that gate against us indefinitely.”

“Against normal men or Ashishin, maybe, but not against me. Sakari, you take the left barbican, I’ll take the right. You Ashishin, on my signal illuminate those towers. Namazzi, your targets will be lit then.” Ryne nodded to the two dead Ashishin. “Use their blood if you must.”

“What will the signal be?” One of the Ashishin asked, a slim man whose uniform hung about him loosely.

“When we charge the wall.”

“You’re mad,” another Matii said.

Ryne smiled grimly and reached for the Forms. Below him, the earth provided more than enough fodder for what he intended. Flagstones cracked, rippled, and clacked against each other as he Forged four constructs of himself, keeping them hidden under the avenue. Sharp intakes of breath escaped from the other Matii.