Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

Kachien nodded, a respectful gleam in her eye as she regarded Mirza. He’d discussed this idea before, but she’d insisted on them heading to the ferries instead of the old bridge.

“I agree with you, Mirza,” Kachien conceded. “This way will be safest.”

Danvir groaned. “That’s all we need now. Someone telling him he’s right. We won’t be able to live this down for a week.”

Ancel couldn’t help his smile. Mirza gave Danvir a smug look and shrugged. In return, Danvir snickered.

Kachien climbed onto her dartan, the beast’s massive carapace dwarfing her slight form. “We have no time to waste. I intend to not only reach the bridge, but be in your home in three days.”

Ancel’s brows climbed his forehead. “You plan to push us until they drop?”

“If I have to. These soldiers weren’t alone. There must-”

Charra’s low growl cut her off.

Ancel’s head snapped up as his daggerpaw bounded down the slope to them. Kachien had already whipped her reins and sent her dartan galloping up the hill. Everyone else followed suit. Before she reached the hilltop, she dismounted and snuck up the remainder of the way. Without thinking, Ancel did the same.

When he peeked over the other side, he was at a loss for words. At least forty armored soldiers, with the Charging Boar flying high, trotted toward their position on horses. One of them, in leather rather than the chainmail the others wore, dismounted and inspected the ground. He stopped, stared toward the hill where Ancel and Kachien hid, and pointed. A tracker. The soldiers kicked their horses into a gallop.

Kachien’s hand pulled at Ancel. “Go! Now! We have to flee.” She ran for her mount.

Wide-eyed, Ancel scrambled onto his dartan. “It’s a regimental squad,” he said to the bewildered expressions from Mirza and Danvir.

Recognition and fear swam across their faces.

“Mirza,” Kachien called from her mount, her voice a little more than a whisper. “Lead the way. Push as hard and as fast as you can. Our only hope is to tire their horses.”

Behind them hooves drummed and armor jangled. Shouts rose from over forty throats as the soldiers urged their mounts on.

Sweat beading his forehead, Mirza maneuvered his dartan to face the north and slapped his reins. The beast took off. Hands tight on his reins, Ancel followed.

“You should at least hear the message she carries,” Knight Commander Varick said from the tent’s rear as he scratched his scraggly beard.

Ryne’s eyebrow arched. “That a command, Varick?”

The Knight Commander smirked and removed his gauntlets. “As if you would follow it anyway. All I’m saying is if the Tribunal sent her, at least hear what they propose.”

“Because I allowed High Shin Jerem to bring me here doesn’t mean I trust the Tribunal. Even assuming they’re who sent her, I’ve heard enough from them,” Ryne snapped. “If she makes a single threatening move, I’ll kill her. I’m giving you and them, fair warning. There’s been enough grief wherever she’s shown her face. You yourself said she’s almost a Raijin.”

Varick drew a deep breath. “I’ve tried sending men to talk to her, but so far they’ve been unsuccessful. At this point, if the Tribunal’s High Ashishin did send her, and you kill her, they’ll just send someone else, someone worse. Maybe Pathfinders or even a full Raijin. It won’t be like last time.”

Ryne shrugged. “Then I’ll pray for Ilumni to show mercy on their souls like the others.”

“Listen to yourself, Ryne. Killing won’t stop them hunting you like it did in the past. It’s not that simple anymore. They won’t grant you a third pardon. No matter how many battles against the shade we win.” Varick scowled and paced to the table with its maps of Ostania showing military positions.

Ryne strode to the front of the tent. Unlike before, he didn’t need to stoop. Outside, a few feet from the entrance, Sakari sat on a crate, staring at the thousands of white canvas spread below the Vallum of Light. Sunlight glared from the towering, ever-shining wall in a near blinding effect.

“Death’s always simple, Varick. We spend our entire lives dying.”

Varick snorted. “Easy for you to say. Try telling that to the mothers who watch their children get slaughtered in these forsaken wars.”

Ryne turned back to Varick, crossed the distance to the table, and pointed to the locations listing the shadeling army’s last known positions. “Exactly why I refuse to go to the High Ashishin. I’m more important here than I ever will be answering questions about a power I don’t even understand. I’m needed here, at the front lines. We both watched too many die, friend. My soul craves for revenge. It sings for battle against the shade. I can no more shun its calling than you can relieve yourself of command and leave your soldiers here. Or leave these people to the shade’s mercy.”

Varick sighed. Even in his intricate silver armor, Ryne could tell his broad shoulders slumped. “Ryne, there’s going to come a time when the High Ashishin will no longer accept no for an answer.” The aged Commander craned his neck and gazed into Ryne’s eyes. “It’s not like you can hide.”

Ryne met the smaller man’s hard eyes with a cold stare of his own. “I’m done hiding. And I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way.”

“Even me?” Varick asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

Ryne refused to answer. The tight lines around the Knight Commander’s eyes softened. Ryne looked away from Varick and pushed the thought of ever having to fight the man from his mind. “I’ll think about it on my way to Felan Mark.”

Knight Commander Varick let out a whoosh. He sifted through the papers on his table and handed Ryne his personal pass-a gold insignia engraved with a sword surrounded by lightning. “Show this to the guards, and only state once that you’re there to see Miss Adler.”

Ryne nodded and strode toward the tent’s entrance. “Varick.”

“Hmm?”

“Warn her. Let her know I decide when I feel like meeting.” Ryne didn’t wait for an answer. He raised the tent’s flap and ducked outside.

Several hours later, Ryne shook his head at Irmina’s annoying persistence. She’d followed him from the Knight Commander’s encampment all the way to Felan Mark. She tried to hide among the mix of Ostanian locals behind him, but her aura stuck out like a bright light.

Ryne linked with Sakari, who milled in the crowd nearby. “Keep an eye on her until I return.” He stepped to the head of the line preparing to enter Felan Mark’s main fort.

“As you wish.”

Ryne broke the link.

“Sir, do you have business here?” asked one of the four scarlet armored Dagodin guards with his neck craned to peer into Ryne’s face.

“Yes.” Ryne produced the pass for the guard’s inspection. “I’m here to see Miss Adler.”

The guard eyed Ryne’s leather armor and his sword suspiciously. After a moment, he said, “Follow the long hall. Don’t touch your weapons as you walk and you’ll be fine. Someone will meet you once you’ve passed inspection inside.”

Ryne nodded, and the guardsman signaled behind him with his silver spear. The soft clink of well-oiled metal gears churned within the armory’s thick, steel walls. The massive gate slid open with a brisk motion, and the spiked portcullis rose. Ryne entered, and the gate and portcullis slid shut.

Metal walls surrounded him, drab, gray, and featureless. A long, well lit hallway stretched ahead, lamps in metal sconces hanging at measured intervals. The hallway continued as far as he could see. Ryne made sure to keep his hands away from his sword as he strode forward.

Half an hour and a few twisting halls later, Ryne stood at a bladesmith’s shop within the armory. In front of him stood a short, gray-haired woman, lines creasing her forehead, nose, and beneath her eyes. The woman’s young student, a girl with smooth, pale skin and long blonde hair, cast nervous glances in Ryne’s direction. A few feet from them, a bulky smith wearing a thick apron poured molten silversteel into a cast. Ryne opened his mouth.