Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

As if on cue, a gauntleted fist held the tent flap to one side. A frail looking man stepped inside. He appeared ancient, wrinkles and lines by the dozens marring his features. The skin of his face hung loose about his cheeks and neck, in stark contrast to the skin pulled tight and shiny on his hands. His hair, so white it shone like new snow, reached down to his waist. A long wispy beard adorned his chin and stretched down to his stomach. When the man’s gaze passed over Ryne, his thin eyebrows rose. A glint of recognition flashed across his eyes. Eyes as hard as ebonsteel that sparkled with a youth the man’s apparent frailty belied. Where silver flecked Sakari’s eyes, this man’s were pools of liquid silver that radiated intelligence.

“High Ashishin Jerem, meet Ryne,” Varick intoned with his head bowed.

Despite his appearance, and long, flowing crimson and white robe, the High Ashishin’s robust stride resembled a young man in the prime of his youth. “I have heard much about you.” He crossed from the doorway to stand in front of Ryne. His head barely reached Ryne’s chest, but if he was intimidated by Ryne’s great size, Jerem didn’t show it. He looked Ryne up and down as if inspecting a strange creature he’d read about. His eyes drank in everything.

“I’ve heard nothing about you,” Ryne answered. Jerem’s aura shone so bright he almost averted his eyes. Instead, he forced himself to ignore the glare and meet Jerem’s uncomfortable, assessing gaze. Even without his Matersense, Ryne felt the power rolling off the High Shin in waves. He tensed as doubt crept into his mind once again.

Jerem smiled, exposing perfect teeth. “My anonymity is as it should be. I tend to keep myself from the forefront.” Stroking his chin, he inspected Ryne once more with the temerity of youth rather than the caution of a seasoned old hunter, making several grunts of approval before he nodded to himself.

“If that’s the case, why’re you here?” Ryne snapped. He frowned. He’d spoken without thought.

Jerem’s expression soured. “To the point. I admire that in a man.”

At first, Ryne thought his response was his lust rising. But as in the Entosis, the feeling was buried deep down inside. Sure the craving resonated, but it did nothing more. His answer to Jerem had simply been his own annoyance. “My apologies. Events have been hectic. And if you know me as well as you say, you know I have no great love for Ashishin or the Tribunal.”

Jerem’s face brightened. “Hmm. I see you have some restraint after all. Good. You will need it.”

Ryne found himself intrigued. “Why? What do you know that I don’t?”

“Well,” Jerem shrugged. “If you are to fight again, if you are to seek the vengeance which drives you, you need to be able to control your power. Destroying entire towns would only serve the shade’s purpose. Not to mention, such events would turn the entire world against you. Being able to restrain yourself while the power of Materialization pulls at you will indeed be an important step in your growth.” Ryne opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word, Jerem continued, “As for what I know? I know events are at play here you cannot see or begin to fathom. A day will come when you will seek me. But until you learn to trust one such as me, that day is still a long way off.”

Manipulation, and feeling like his thoughts were plain, needled Ryne. He regarded Jerem with a flat, dead expression. “A day like the one you speak of will never come. Not after what your people did to me.”

“I assure you,” Jerem said, his face softening, his eyes piteous. “Those were no people of mine. For now, let’s begin anew with today, Ryne Thanairen Waldron.”

“That isn’t…” Ryne almost said it wasn’t his name. But Thanairen sparked a memory within him. A memory of a different time and place. Of a castle, courtyards, peoples who bowed to him. As quick as the memory came, it fled.

“Who are you?” Ryne whispered.

“Me? I am a humble High Shin who wishes to see Denestia prosper as she did in the days of old. Before Materforging corrupted the gods and the great Eztezians. When men lived in peace and our world was joined as one.” Jerem gave Ryne a knowing smile. “Denestia needs you for what is to come as she needs every man, woman, or child of any power. Allow me an inkling of trust to take you with us. If you trust me this once, you may find you may need such services again. Services I would willingly give in your quest to discover your past.”

Instantly wary, Ryne frowned. “In exchange for?”

“Like I said, for our world’s prosperity.”

Ryne was tempted to ask Jerem for his assistance, beg him for his knowledge, but the pain from his torture hung like a cloud about him. He would trust Jerem to bring him to the Vallum, but nothing more.

Jerem cocked his head to one side. “Enough talk about days long lost for now. We leave for the Vallum immediately. The Knight Generals are here.”

As Jerem’s words ended, the tent flap opened. One by one, Knight Generals filed in. First entered a meaty-nosed waif of a man whose white armor inlaid with gold appeared too big for his frame, but somehow he still managed to puff up his chest. Behind him strode a broad-shouldered, red headed man with bushy eyebrows. His armor was scaled leather with several metal clasps at the joints of his elbows and knees, each carved in the shape of dartans. The last Knight General was a man with multiple scars across his face and missing an ear. His left eye was so bloodshot, red liquid floated on his eyeball, and the heavy crimson armor he wore seemed not to hinder him one bit. Each man carried a sword at their hips and held their helmets under one arm. The Lightstorm insignia stood out upon each breast.

The men bowed first to High Shin Jerem, then knuckled their foreheads to Knight Commander Varick. Their gazes took in Ryne, and their expressions varied from lips curled in scorn from the Knight General in white armor, to wariness for the one in leather, and indifference from the scar-faced man.

“Are we ready?” Jerem looked from one to the other.

“Not quite,” Ryne answered. He linked with Sakari and told him to enter.

The tent flap fluttered ever so lightly as Sakari glided into the tent. Feet shuffled for a moment, and the Knight Generals gave Sakari uneasy glances, hands hovering over sword hilts. Then they suddenly relaxed and breathed easier as if Sakari was some peer they recognized.

“Now, we’re ready,” Ryne said.

Jerem nodded, and his wispy brows drew together.

Ryne chose the same moment to open his Matersense. If he was to test his limits, then touching his power while the High Ashishin Forged was the best way.

Mater swirled about Jerem, gathering in thick bands of varied colors. The essences flowed in such a condensed form Ryne found it difficult to tell one from the other.

Ryne’s Scripts writhed, and his bloodlust seethed, so he sought the calm pond as he did when he lay in the Entosis. The voices called to him, one yearning for violence, the other for peace. He allowed the differing pulls to mingle with one another. As they drew together, they stilled each other, and the craving within him dwindled to a dull warmth lost deep in his mind. At peace, he focused on Jerem.

The High Ashishin smiled and thrust his hand out, palm open.

Reality tore. It was as if the air in front of them split down the middle. The world screamed. Vertigo took over and with it came a falling sensation.

A moment later, in bright morning sunlight, the entire party stood at the Vallum.

Ancel inched forward on his stomach among the tall brush until he lay where he could see down into the camp. To his left and right, Mirza and Danvir took up similar positions while Charra guarded their rear. Below them, wispy smoke curled up from the remnants of the campfire’s smoldering coals before dissipating into the still air. Overhead, gray clouds hung near unmoving, heralds of more stormy weather. The four Sendethi soldiers camped below hadn’t stirred in hours, and even their watch appeared to have nodded off. Dampness on Ancel’s back came from a combination of the wet blades of grass and his perspiration. Despite the cool predawn air, sweat rolled down his face. He licked his salty lips both from a need to moisten the dry clay his mouth had become as well as from the anticipation sidling through his body.