Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

Insects chirped and lightflies flitted among the grass and trees. Twilight’s glow had disappeared from the sky, replaced by the brilliant twin moons. Still, the celestial bodies did little to brighten the Greenleaf Forest when they entered past looming pines and oaks that stood sentinel. Ancel didn’t need a lightstone to guide them through the dark woods, but he used one anyway. Uneasiness tickling the hairs at his nape, he and Mirza wound their way through the trees.

Resinbuds with their yellow, purple, and white blooms blinked on and off among the trees-the light within the flowers attracting numerous insects. Several times, he thought he saw movement from the corner of his eye, but when he tried to glimpse the source, he saw nothing but shadowy trunks and brush.

Charra stayed next to them this time with his ears pricked up and a low rumble in his throat. The daggerpaw’s hackles remained upraised. Ancel scratched at his itching neck in an attempt to shake the uneasy feeling, but it stayed. Mirza must have sensed the same thing because his wary gaze swept around them often.

Even with the usual hooting wood owls, buzzing insects, and other noises from foraging night creatures, the feeling not only persisted, it grew. So did Charra’s rumbling growl. Ancel fidgeted with his bow and made sure he could reach it with ease.

They pushed the dartans harder through snarls of gooseberry vine snaking through the bushes in their path. Branches like reaching fingers snagged at their cloaks. Once, Ancel was almost yanked from his mount as his cloak caught then tore free. Breaths coming hard and fast at the close call, Ancel pulled what remained of his cloak tight around him.

Charra’s rumble increased to a sharp snarl that could challenge a mountain cat’s growl. The wind picked up, carrying with it the same fetid stench from the glen. A chill slithered through Ancel’s gut.

They urged their mounts on, but the foul odor grew stronger. Cold sweat trickling down his brow, Ancel flicked a hand across his eyes to clear his vision and snatched a look behind.

Shadows flitted between the trees, and branches crashed and snapped. Resinbuds, that moments before had added light, blinked out in an advancing trail ahead of the shadows, racing toward Ancel and Mirza as if the dying glows chased them.

Ancel whipped his reins harder.

The dartans crashed through small branches and brush, oblivious to the rake of broken wood and scratch of thorns. They warbled in short spurts, and their breaths came fast and heavy. The wind swirled through the trees around Ancel and Mirza, the rotten smell chasing them, riding the breeze.

Ancel’s heart pounded in tune with his dartan’s stride. He pushed his mount until they burst from the Greenleaf Forest. The tingle within him had grown into the familiar feel of energy he gained when he sparred. Wind whipping at his face, his cloak billowing behind him, he glanced over his shoulder and abruptly drew rein. Mirza followed suit.

Charra had stopped and was standing prone, eyes fixed on the dark forest. Growls issued from his throat in a steady rhythm. Tail whipping back and forth, he made to bound forward to the woods several times. Each time he did, the daggerpaw’s growls ended in a sharp, barking howl.

“Hold, Charra,” Ancel yelled.

The daggerpaw obeyed, backing down into a snarl, but his hackles didn’t recede. His tail, with its spiked appendage, thrashed furiously from side to side.

The shadows melded with the darkness of the forest as the last of the resinbuds winked out. Then all was deathly still. Ancel sucked in a breath at the sight within the trees.

Two giant wolf silhouettes, Charra’s size, with glowing, green orbs where the moon reflected in their unnatural eyes, appeared among the trees. The eyes burned into Ancel’s own as if they stared only at him. Silence reigned.

Ancel’s heart thumped. Calling on his training, he sunk into the quiet place within him. As his heart calmed, he snatched his bow from his back and nocked an arrow. In the back of his mind, he heard Charra growl. Ancel ignored him, not allowing his gaze to waver from the creatures’ dark outlines or those eyes.

He drew the bow, fletching to ear…and blinked.

The shadowed forms and the eyes had disappeared. The night sounds resumed once more.

With his focus on where the beasts once stood, Ancel backed his mount away from the forest. His gaze went to the surrounding trees but saw nothing. Wiping away salty sweat that stung his eyes, he retreated several feet without seeing the creatures again.

“Let’s go, Ancel. Now!” Mirza shouted sending his dartan rushing toward Eldanhill.

Ancel turned and galloped toward the distant town’s blue lights.

Charra’s growls started again behind them. From the woods, a howling screech sounded. Charra’s barks became a roar.

Purple and black bruises marred Kahkon’s skin from his shoulders down to where bandages swathed his ruined leg. The parts of his body not swollen or slick with blood and bile bore a pallid, corpselike color. Tight lines pulled at the edges of his open eyes, and dark circles hung below them. Moans escaped his throat, and spittle leaked from his lips, his sunken chest barely moving with each labored breath.

Ryne studied the flesh where the massive wound once ran down Kahkon’s chest. Taeria, Carnas’ most experienced mender, had managed to sew up the gash. She’d used a complex Materforge, blending water to help with blood, the boy’s own tissue, as well as a thick mixture of herbs, and sela essences-which were life and death combined-to mend the damage, leaving a thin line where once there was only pulpy, red meat. The woman fussed over the boy, her withered arms and legs moving with an efficiency that belied her leathery skin and protruding bones.

Fluids leaked and clotted around the catgut and poultices the mender used. Ryne’s fist clenched as he thought back to Mariel and the golden-haired stranger. If those women are responsible for this, I’ll show them no mercy.

Inside Taeria’s small home, lit by numerous lamps along the walls, Ryne kept his head and back bent so he wouldn’t hit the ceiling. The boy rested on a table surrounded by four chairs and a wooden bench. A smaller table held the mender’s instruments-bottles with fluids, several sharp knives, needles, and clean bandages. Shelves with various herbs and other items of her craft decorated the white walls around the room. Blood stained the floor a dark, somber red as if the wood had quenched its thirst on Kahkon’s life fluids.

Taeria waddled from one side of the boy to the other. Every so often, she brushed back patches of stark white, wispy hair from her splotchy forehead. Sweat ran down her face, sticking some of the errant strands to her face. Her aura glowed in multiple hues as she worked, colors waxing and waning around her each time she applied the poultices dipped in a concoction made from kinai, pink, sour fleshberries and other herbs.

Ryne remembered his own experience with the potion. The potent mending mixture was only effective with the person still conscious. Kahkon’s body shuddered each time a poultice pressed against his wound. Ryne wished he could take the boy’s pain and make it his own.

A coughing fit wracked Kahkon’s body, and Taeria cradled a hand behind his head for support. The boy’s finger rose an inch from the table. She leaned down, her white hair almost touching the table, and brought her ear close to his mouth.

Kahkon’s words were a dry whisper.

“He wishes for a story about the shade’s defeat.” Taeria said as she straightened as much as she could. “He would prefer my sweet voice.” She regarded Ryne, her milky white eyes standing out in her wrinkled face. “But he will settle for your braying today since I am busy.” Her lips spread in a toothless smile.