Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

The dartan rocked from side to side and turned to the carcasses. He tore into the meat and swallowed in loud, gleeful slurps.

Ryne ran his hands down Thumper’s neck and along his sides and underbelly where the carapace was softest, searching for any wounds. Finding none, he reached up along the base of the shell where his bags hung and retrieved his reins. They were still in good shape.

He checked the two deep saddle grooves cut into the spine of the shell a few feet apart, one behind the other. Over a month had passed since he last rode the dartan, and left alone, the saddles tended to grow back in, but so far, Thumper’s had not. A good sign, Ryne thought, considering how he allowed Thumper to roam in the wilds. When he finished, Ryne inspected the small hand and footholds carved on either side of the shell. Satisfied, he washed his hands at the stream and rejoined his friend.

Sakari finished skinning and skewered the meat onto a few sticks Ryne had prepared earlier. Soon, the succulent flesh hung roasting over the fire, juices dripping and sizzling when they touched the flames. The sweet smell made Ryne’s stomach grumble.

“After we’re done eating, we’ll make for Astoca,” Ryne said. “Thumper should be strong enough from the meat to run for a good eight hours nonstop. We’ll see if we can find some kinai fruit patches on the way to give him a real filling. If we can keep him stocked, we should reach the capital in a week.”

“You’re not going to warn the other towns between?”

“There’s not enough time,” Ryne said. “Besides, those towns can’t be helped if this army attacks them. Their only salvation rests with the Astocans. They can field the largest legions of the Ostanaian kingdoms, and we’re more likely to find an Envoy in Castere than any of the other capitals. Once forewarned, they should be able to muster a large enough force to repel the invaders. At least until the Envoy gets word to the Tribunal and they send the Dagodin legions.”

Sakari shook his head. “It will take more than Dagodin Matii to stop what Jaecar mentioned and the daemon we suspect. They will need at least an entire legion of Ashishin.”

“I still don’t understand how they reached Carnas so fast, and from the southwest.” Ryne frowned. “Something just doesn’t make sense. But you’re right, with the numbers Jaecar reported and what we saw at Carnas, it’ll take more than Dagodin to stop them.” Did the Tribunal have that many Ashishin to spare? And if they did would they risk sending them? Maybe, the best course of action was to warn the King, then head to the Vallum himself. If Varick still commanded there, he’d listen. Maybe, he could convince Varick to influence the Tribunal should they not think this a credible threat. “At any rate, we must eat before we go.” Ryne took in Sakari’s expressionless face. “I must eat before we go,” he corrected himself with a rueful smile.

Breakfast passed in silence. While Sakari practiced the sword, Ryne plotted the route they would take to Astoca, revising the trip several times in an effort to shut out the thoughts of Carnas’ dead and those who were captured, but their faces crept in. Hagan, you and your pipe, One-eyed Mayor Bertram, Vana and Vera, Kahkon, Lara, Taeria… On and on the memories swirled. As Sakari’s sword work whistled in the background, Ryne prayed they’d found quick and merciful deaths, but he could no more rid himself of his morbid thoughts than he could forget the lives he took in the past. Such thoughts could consume a soul, he knew.

The song from Sakari’s sword drew Ryne, its tone crooning a soothing rhythm he knew too well. He stood.

Sakari stopped mid strike, sheathed his sword, and strode to the fire in his gliding gait. With an exaggerated bow, Sakari indicated the open space within the clearing.

Ryne strode to the center of the area where a light breeze prickled the hairs on his arms. He unsheathed his sword, the Scripts etched into the hilt pressing against his palm as he lifted the weapon in front his face in a salute to the gods. His movements came slow and easy. Strange and sweet at the same time. He’d disciplined himself to practice daily but hadn’t done so since the Nevermore Heights, and this felt as if he’d been locked in a windowless room for months until one day someone let him out into the open air.

He flowed through the basics, repeating every parry, cut and strike like a lost lover’s kiss. The swish from the slick carpet of mud and leaves under his feet became a part of him, and he glided through it unhindered.

Speed increasing as he progressed into Stances and eventually into Styles, his blade became a whirlwind in his hand, lighter than thistledown. Ryne’s swordplay built into a soothing melody that played within his head. In his mind, he poised upon a pond covered in floating lilies, his steps never disturbing its smooth surface. The melody built into an orchestra played at a ball, but strain as he might, the music remained at the edge of his hearing, barely discernible.

As he often did, he strove to reach the music, and as usual, it remained beyond his reach. He settled to listening to the faint notes, allowing his body to move in accordance to the tune. He danced, his feet drawing a trail through the ground in the patterns his mind wove. Nothing else existed, but the distant melody and his sword.

When Ryne sheathed his sword for the final time, two hours had passed, and the sun had burnt off the early morning mist. He strode toward Sakari and the now smoking embers, his thoughts clear. Sakari acknowledged Ryne with a nod. Without a word, they climbed onto Thumper’s back and left the glen. They stayed to edge of the Fretian Woods before cutting clear across the Orchid Plains.

The first two days were uneventful, filled with pushing Thumper and only stopping for six hours a day to rest, hunt, eat, and for Ryne to practice the sword. Ryne chose a circuitous path to avoid any towns, usually staying close to the Tantua River, whose meandering path flowed out from the Mondros Forest to the northeast. Along the way, they saw no smoke from burning structures. Good news for the settlements, but it bothered Ryne. Where was this army? He’d made sure to bypass any areas where one could hide such a large force, but to be able to hide any sign at all should have proved impossible.

On the third day, they reached the first kinai farm in a fertile stretch a hundred miles before the Astocan border. Fields of wheat, corn, cabbage heads sprouting like green-white balls, and the bushy sprigs from carrots spread in small patches before them. Beyond those fields stood large kinai orchards, the rounded, leafy trees growing in neat rows.

“Strange,” Ryne said when no one came to greet them as they crossed up onto the road leading to the farm.

The fields were empty at a time when harvest should be bountiful, and the farm filled with the bustle of working folk, trundling wheels, and the cries from laboring pack animals. From his vantage point, the farmhouse, the barn, and the storage sheds appeared deserted. Guard dogs that should have barked their challenges slunk away instead. Several yellowbeaks sang a mournful chorus.

“Do you think they finished their harvest and all left for market?” Sakari asked.

Ryne noticed what Sakari meant. Where there should have been red kinai clusters, only green leaves showed. “I’m not sure.” The pink fluff from the harvested fruit carpeted the ground, often shifting with the breeze. A trace of the kinai’s sweet smell still caressed the air. “Maybe they prefer not to have anyone here after harvest in case raiders strike.” Ryne doubted the words even as they left his mouth.

“Should we stop?”

“No. Something here doesn’t feel quite right,” Ryne said. Maybe, the sensation came from the yellowbeaks’ keening. Whatever it was, he did not wish to stop. “Let’s move on.”