Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

An enormous torrent of power, of essences in hundreds of thousands of strands, shot through the air into Ryne’s body. The elements were as primordial and powerful as those in an Entosis.

Ryne stood; his link with Sakari broken. From somewhere else thousands of miles north and west, he felt another link to another person. The fog that once hid his memories burned away.

He knew who he was now. All of his other personas. Not just Nerian the Shadowbearer, Ryne Waldron, or Exalted Thanairen but the hundreds of others. All from legends and myths several thousand years old. He saw all his lives unravel before him.

From the pillars around the room, Bertram’s Royal Guards appeared. So did several hundred Alzari. The shadelings prepared to pounce, while the daemons, Bertram, and the Alzari all drew on Mater.

A thousand Forges bloomed around the room, all directed at Ryne.

In Ryne’s mind, a man appeared. At least a foot taller than Ryne, he had blonde hair done in a long braid with gold wire worked into it. Scripts covered his body and armor. His face reminded Ryne of himself.

“Brother,” the man said. “I see you lost your way again.”

“No, Damal,” Ryne corrected. “I found it.” He caressed his Matersense. What he once thought was his bloodlust, a craving to kill, clung to him like an extra layer of skin and he allowed it to. The voices in his head were different sides of an argument like magistrates at court. They were the living entities that inhabited Mater itself arguing who should live and who should die. And Ryne was the final judgment.

Bars of shade flew toward Ryne from the daemons. From Bertram shot forth a streak of black lightning turned sideways. The ground rumbled as the Alzari worked the Forms sending stone, tiles, and the earth itself rippling toward Ryne, tossing corpses unceremoniously aside. In leaping bounds and gliding gaits, the shadelings rushed toward Ryne, howling and wailing with their eagerness to tear him apart.

Around Ryne, his Scripts shone bright. No, not Scripts. Scripts were what Matii could once do on divya to add more power. On a living being, these were Etchings, and only a netherling could do such an imbuing.

Defensive Forgings from the Namazzi and Ashishin flew out to meet the incoming attack. Air, in gale force winds, howled from the Namazzi, and light and fire from the Ashishin. The opposing essences collided, followed by a roaring boom.

The force of the explosion blew Ryne off his feet. Matii, soldiers, and shadelings were thrown back, arms and legs mangled, bodies gashed. Some slammed against what remained of the walls and pillars that leaned listlessly. Smoke billowed and flames licked around the room.

Blood streaming from his ears and nose, and rasping for breath in the hot air, Ryne struggled to his feet. Irmina lay near him, her face and clothes blackened messes. Her chest rose and fell in barely discernable increments. Of Sakari, there was no sign.

Swaying as he stood, his face impassive, Ryne touched his sword’s hilt. A gash ran down the side of his face, opposite the old claw marks, and cuts and burns marred his body. His Etchings worked to mend him.

Bertram and the daemons crawled to their feet. So did a few of the Alzari and whatever remained of the shadelings.

“Brother,” Damal said. “They come. Are you ready?”

Ryne gave a weak nod. Bracing himself, he reached toward his new link. Mater flooded him from a thousand, no, a hundred thousand, no, from more sources than he could count.

Time slowed. Forges flew out from Bertram and the daemons. Forms tore the ground from the Alzari. Lightning, bars of shadow, fire, and earth flew forth. Death raced toward Ryne.

“Recite with me,” Damal commanded.

“Light to balance shade. Light to show honor. Honor to show mercy,” Ryne said in concert with Damal. Ryne’s Etchings bloomed brighter than ever before.

“Shade to balance light. Mercy to Gift death. Death to those found wanting.” Shade billowed within Ryne’s Etchings.

“The elements of Mater must exist in harmony.” Ryne’s voice rose with a wind that howled through the air.

“Why do we exist, brother?” Damal shouted.

“To help the helpless. To defend. To build. To destroy. To judge.” Ryne’s voice echoed above the groans of the dying, above the wind, above the elements streaking toward him.

“Declare judgment,” Damal whispered, and he disappeared.

Ryne thrust all the power roaring within him and without into his Etchings. He chose the ones depicting an army of giants facing down a vast gathering of shadelings.

The shapes of the giants leaped from his body. One by one, they grew until they stood twenty feet tall, heads reaching past what pillars still stood. Etchings covered their bodies. One bowed to Ryne.

It was Damal.

The Eztezian Guardians turned toward the surging Forges and Amuni’s servants before them. Massive greatswords bounded into their hands.

The world became a white blaze as the Eztezians unleashed their power in the Audience Chamber and all through Castere. Wherever they appeared, anything serving the shade perished.

Ancel stood before the netherling with his head bowed. So did Galiana, Kachien, and Guthrie. With a mere wave of its hand, the creature had swept the shadelings into ash.

“I know you feel the link to your new master. He will teach you all you need to know of your Gift,” The netherling said, his voice a deep growl. “There are a few of us here in your realm. Not all represent the interests of your kind. You must seek them out while you learn. Use your pet.” White eyes regarded Charra. “He himself is one of us.”

Ancel gaped. Charra, a netherling?

“And now for your Gift,” the netherling announced. “There are twelve sets of these. We provide you with ten. The other two we do not know how to obtain and have never possessed them. We do know they will be required for you and your people to prevail. Hold out your arm.”

Ancel reached a tentative hand out, his palm up, expecting to receive weapons of some sort. Instead, throbbing pain shot through his arm. Back arching, he screamed. The pain increased until white danced before his eyes, blades and fire scoured his skin, and his head pounded as if it would burst. He would have fallen to the ground, but somehow the pain itself kept him erect.

“This is the first set of your Etchings. They represent the essences of light among the Streams. Like the other essences, they will speak to you from time to time. Heed what they say, but the choices you make are yours. This is my Gift to you. As you master it, others will come to you to pass on the other Gifts.”

Tears streaming down his face as the pain subsided, Ancel glanced at his right arm. His clothes had been shorn from half his body and hung in tatters about him. Up his arm and across his right chest was the most beautiful artwork he’d ever seen. The Etching displayed the sun, moon, and stars in various scenes, sometimes with lightning illuminating dark skies. The Etching writhed and throbbed.

A slash appeared in the air again. Behind it, what was left of the winery still smoked, timber, stone, and brick black to match the ground for thousands of feet. As before, the slash formed into an eye that opened onto a void.

The netherling stepped through, the armored plates on its back chiming with his movement, and the portal closed.

Ryne stood outside what remained of Castere Keep. Below, most of the fires were petering out and smoke rose in the air. The twin statues of Aeoli and Hyzenki still stood tall in the great lakes. For reasons, he couldn’t quite place, he felt no elation at having destroyed Bertram and the threat from the shade’s army. The victory seemed hollow, incomplete. The innocents slain in Carnas and elsewhere were still dead. Nothing would change that. Not even if he swept the land with the rest of the allied Granadian and Ostanian forces to hunt down what remained of the army. He looked northwest to where he felt his new link out across the sea in Granadia.