Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

Ancel smiled at the opportunity to win back his coin. “If you feel so good about it, I’ll hold onto your coin until we get back here. Double the bet?”

Mirza looked down at his yellow shirt and dozens of frills that covered the sleeves. “I could use a new shirt anyway. I’ve been putting on weight, I think.” He flexed a skinny arm. “You’re on.”

“Weight?” Ancel shook his head and chuckled. “Is that what that is?” He glanced at the frills. “Fooled me.”

Mirza waved him off, his tone becoming serious. “How hard is she taking it?”

Ancel shrugged. “She’ll get over it. They always do. If she doesn’t-its Soltide. There’ll be plenty new women to dance with this year. I heard the princess herself is coming from Randane.” His lips twitched. “Ilumni knows, I love this time of year.”

Mirza’s voice rose in a brief cackle, mirth dancing in his eyes. “You have as much chance of bedding the princess as you have of bedding a High Ashishin.” Mirza appeared thoughtful for a moment. “No, you’ve a better chance bedding the princess if it came down to it. Hydae’s flames, you’ve a better chance bedding the Queen than a High Ashishin.” He shook his head slowly and smirked. “My good sir,” Mirza’s tone became mocking and aloof in imitation of a lordling, “I admit I envy your luck with women, but the princess is above even you.”

“Ha. Luck? Never luck. It’s all in the tongue.”

Mirza grunted. “Spare me the details. They’ll wise up when that ass of yours becomes old news.” He burst out in another cackle and flapped his reins before Ancel could reply. His dartan bounded forward in four great, yet feathery, leaps before breaking into a gallop. Mirza's cloak streamed behind him.

With a loud, throaty bark, Charra chased after Mirza. Laughing, Ancel whipped his own reins. His dartan’s six thick legs stretched as it sped along with a silent grace that easily outstripped a good horse’s gallop without the uncomfortable jounce. They headed north toward the Greenleaf Forest and the black sentinels of the Kelvore Mountains’ shadowy forms looming beyond.

Just over an hour later, sweet smells from fist-sized kinai drifting upon the breeze, they rode along the trail to their secret glen hidden among the sandstone hills at the edge of the Kelvore Mountains. The ripe fruit filled the sacks on Ancel’s mount. They’d kept Mirza’s sacks empty so as not to mix the two crops. Charra had run off to scout the way ahead.

Their hunt for wolves had not gone as well. Ancel wrinkled his brow with the thought. Every wolf trap they visited had already been triggered, paw prints in various sizes covering the ground, yet they saw no wolves. The missing wolves and Charra’s disconcerting whines had put Ancel on edge. The promise of a storm from the charcoal clouds gathered above the mountains did little to help.

However, neither his mood nor dusk’s dim light could hide the beauty around them. Enhanced further by the dying sun’s orange hues, low foothills lush with long needle grass, and yellow and blue bellflowers rose about them. An occasional copse grew along the slopes, the young pine and cedar often thinning out until just one or two trees grew between each thicket strung together like jewels on a necklace.

Ancel frowned. Not a hint of song from the usual evening birds drifted on the stiff breeze that was blowing. He slid his hand to the reassuring feel of his longsword’s pommel.

Loud, incessant barks burst from Charra, startling Ancel and Mirza. The dartans mewled to each other, eyes rolling back in their heads, their necks swinging.

“You smell that?” Ancel scrunched up his face at an earthy, rotten odor.

Mirza gazed at the narrow entrance between the hills where the daggerpaw stood. “Yes. It smells like spoiled kinai.”

Bone hackles forming a ridge of hardened, knife-sharp edges, body straining forward, Charra stared down into the glen. The daggerpaw’s tail whipped back and forth, and a spiky bone appendage slid in and out from its tip.

The young men pushed their skittish dartans into a gallop and topped the rise at the glen’s slim opening. Ancel’s breath caught at the sight beyond the daggerpaw. Mirza gasped.

Fungus crawled over decaying kinai fruit trees, hanging in thick dark ropes. Some of the head high trees bowed to the earth under the weight, dark worshippers at pray before a forsaken god. Branches still visible under the fungus were black rather than brown or green. The rotten stench choked the air as the sickly growths strangled the orchard. Bloated, decaying kinai covered the ground in clusters, their fluff spread like thick, red spider webs. The buzzing of thousands of flies gorging themselves rose with a chill breeze as the insects swarmed over the crop, their wings glinting with blackness.

Cold, clammy fingers trailed down Ancel’s spine. “What, in Amuni’s name, could’ve done this?” he whispered, his voice shaky.

“I–I don’t know,” Mirza uttered, his often flushed face now a pallid mask.

Ancel reached a tentative hand down next to his saddle and retrieved his bow. He slung it over his back. Steeling himself against the dread running through him, he said, “I need a closer look.” He dismounted and double-checked on his longsword at his hip.

“Y-You sure about this?” Mirza dismounted next to him with a spear in his bony hands.

“Yes. We need to find out what did this and report it to my father.” Ancel’s voice trembled, but he fought down the urge to mount and ride home.

“We’re only in training, Ancel. Remember that.” Mirza looked up at him, gray eyes radiating fear, his hands shaking. “I’m with you though.”

Ancel glanced at his daggerpaw. “Charra can protect us.”

Mirza nodded, but his knuckle-white grip failed to keep his weapon steady.

As they eased forward, Ancel found himself wishing he’d continued this training, that he could Forge the essences within Mater like an Ashishin. He would have used the waning light and heat to make a fire, ready to hurl at any threat, or dried the decaying mulch beneath their feet. Better yet, he would have Forged the Forms in the earth to make a solid pathway or a shield of stone. The lack of ability made him grip his sword hilt that much tighter.

They squished their way through the decayed fruit toward the small stream feeding the glen. Disturbed flies buzzed about before they settled once again among the squashed kinai that stained the youth’s leather boots and Charra’s paws, a somber red. A reek similar to moldy unwashed fur mixed with shit underlay the odor from the kinai. The stench reminded Ancel of Master Javed’s disgusting dog kennels and grew to near unbearable levels as they approached the stream. Charra whined.

“Oh Ilumni…” Mirza pointed as the stream’s muddy banks became visible.

Black clumps of shit littered the water’s edge, and some floated in the stream. Ancel turned back to the kinai field. Black mounds lay among the trees, half hidden by the fluff. Huge paw prints, similar to a humongous wolf’s or a mountain cat’s, but twice as big, trailed from the muddy banks. He couldn’t tell if the other tracks he saw were manmade.

“We have to leave this place. Now.” Ancel’s gaze swept across the glen for signs of movement, but he saw none.

Mirza needed no prodding. They both sprinted for their dartans, their cloaks flapping around them.

“Home, Charra!” Ancel shouted.

At the command, Charra bounded ahead, growling the entire time. Ancel and Mirza mounted and dashed from the glen down the long trail.

With Charra leading the way, they galloped from the sandstone foothills. Not once did they look back as they crossed a field of long, swaying grasses, oak trees, and gooseberry vines. A wind blew with tangy gooseberry smells upon it, but it carried no warmth. Ancel took a deep breath, grateful to be rid of the stench from the glen.