Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

The wraithwolf teetered for a moment before steadying itself. Frothing slobber flew from its maw, and with a piteous cry, it pushed off those powerful legs and flew headfirst. Ryne leapt up on currents of air essences, one with the Flows. His sword swooped down like the leathery wings of the legendary Hengen etched into his Scripts. No sound passed from the monster as the head went spinning. The black-furred body shriveled and dissipated.

Shuddering, Ryne turned to face the other wraithwolves. The fight had taken longer than he wanted. The beasts, however, stayed on the other side of the trail, pacing back and forth, green-eyed gazes never leaving him. Within moments, several darkwraiths joined them. These too did not cross the threshold. Instead, they waited.

Ryne’s insides burned with the craze. He hadn’t killed enough to abate its pull. His body trembled as he fought to resist the urge and rush into a headlong attack. Cackling maniacally, he focused on the gathering shadelings. They would be his release. Here, he would begin to avenge Carnas. Here, he would make right what happened to Kahkon. Here, he would appease his power.

If he died in the process, then he would finally be released from a world that never was his. A world where he’d wreaked havoc, where he’d sown suffering, fear, and grief. Such a fate would be just repayment. Faces of the dead flitted through his mind. The time was now. He commanded his Scripts.

The second voice came roaring into his mind, this time it didn’t gibber or plead. It questioned and ridiculed his foolishness. What of the good he’d done? What of the many lives he’d saved over the long years? Did those not counterbalance the suffering he caused? What of his purpose? What of the one who would show him the way that Halvor mentioned? Was he willing to die without knowing? What of the shadeling army and the suffering and chaos it would bring?

Caught between the warring voices, Ryne threw back his head. He didn’t abandon his hold on his Scripts. Instead, he pictured those depicting the Forms-the earth, the mountains, the metals, the trees and brush around him. Through the Scripts, he drew on the essences of the earth that pressed dirt into stone, stone into metal, and metal into precious jewels. The power of the Forms built within him like the vast Nevermore Heights to the north. With it came strength, an unwavering determination, steadfastness to match the very bedrock forming those mountains.

The fire of his kill craze and his rage slammed into the wall he erected. The Streams tried to envelop the Forms, tried to melt the stone, but was instead absorbed and spread across the wall’s surface. The heat within him subsided, held at bay for the moment. Ryne inhaled deeply, his body trembling and weak with exertion.

Mind clouded with doubt, Ryne studied the gathered shadelings. In his weakened state, he couldn’t trust himself not to succumb to the will of his power, to revel in his bloodlust. He took hold of the light once again and Shimmered away until he crossed the field into a stand of trees, occasionally glancing behind him to make sure the shadelings still waited for the ones lagging. Satisfied, he headed to the biggest tree he could find.

Ryne’s head throbbed and his arms and legs felt like large logs he could barely lift. He made sure he was deep enough within the tangled growth around him to remain hidden from the shadelings. Once more, he touched the Forms and Forged, pulling stone and earth, roughly his size, from the ground. His mind touched the drawings of men on his body, Forging the rocky mass into a construct in a man-like shape. With the last bit of strength borrowed from the Forms, he slammed both the light and earth essences into the construct. In the same act, he Shimmered high up into the tree branches.

Once secure, he sent the construct sprinting away from him and out the stand’s other side. As he did so, he collapsed against a thick branch, the last of his strength spent. His gaze followed the aura from his construct as it sped across the land.

Behind him, the shadelings wailed.

Not long after, the trees shook and brush thrashed as the creatures chased after his creation. Ryne counted them to make sure they all passed by. Still, he refused to move from his precarious perch slumped against the branch. Whether it was from sheer exhaustion, caution or both, he couldn’t tell. He simply waited. Laying there with his face against the rough bark, he lost track of time.

When the howls and wails sounded miles away, he heaved a sigh. He mustered what strength he could and clambered down from the tree, breaking branches along the way. Close enough to the ground that he could do no great harm to himself, he pushed off and let himself fall. He hit the ground with a thud and a grunt.

Climbing to his feet was an exercise in pain. Ryne gritted his teeth against what felt like broken ribs, his breath wheezing through his lips as he used stunted trees for support. When he found some semblance of balance, he stumbled more than he walked or ran through the woods. He couldn’t grasp the elements for help, not even if he wanted to. He fought tooth and nail not to fall on his face no matter how much the ground called to him.

The lump that spoke of Sakari’s location grew larger as he traveled. Hours later, after crossing too many pastures and copses to count, he arrived at a steep cliff face. He followed an old goat path along the cliff’s base until he came to a small slit. There, he waited until the moonlight beamed on the crack in just the right way.

A hand appeared from the crevice and snatched him inside. Brief disorientation followed.

“I watched you through the link.” Sakari’s voice sounded distant. “You almost gave in to the craze.”

Ryne shook his head against the cloudy focus in front his eyes as if he peered into a foggy mirror while a muted buzz played in his head. He took in his surroundings.

They were in an Entosis similar to the one Halvor had hidden inside. Moonlight sparkled from above, lighting crystals along the walls that glowed in sparkling pinpoints. He lay at the edge of a pond. Somewhere close by, night insects chirped.

“What were you thinking, drawing so much Mater with your Scripts?”

Ryne’s lips were chalk, parched and dry. A million cobwebs enveloped his mind. He tried to shake his head again, but the motion became a feeble tilt. “I wanted to st…to stretch muscles…”

“Stretch them? You almost ripped them asunder. Some poor village or city would have felt your wrath then, to the tune of thousands dead.”

Ryne sensed concern in Sakari’s voice. He almost smiled. It was the first time he’d ever heard any change from the man.

Sakari continued, “Do you feel this?”

A hand passed across Ryne’s chest. He frowned at the sudden feel of cool air. Confused, he looked down to see his chest piece had been removed. “Yes. I’m cold.”

“No,” Sakari corrected, “Not just cold. You are sweating. You broke the seal on your body when you did the last Forging. Mater is leaking from you. If you had held onto the essences much longer while creating the construct you would have perished or gone insane.”

As if I’m not insane already . Ryne eased up to a seated position. “Praise Ilumni I didn’t succumb then. May he keep it so.”

Ryne fell forward and Sakari caught him. This time he didn’t push his companion’s hand away. Not that he could even if he wanted.

“Relax, we need to stay here a few days for you to mend,” Sakari said.

Without trying, Ryne could feel the Mater around him. Similar to the other two Entoses he knew of, the elements gathered here in their most primal forms, stronger than any normal places in Denestia. They seeped into him as they worked to mend the damage to his body and mind. He wanted to tell Sakari they couldn’t spare even a day. Instead, he lay back, looked up at the sky, and allowed the elements to do their work.