Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

Dagodin soldiers piled the blackened corpses onto a dray. Menders picked their way among the wounded still lined on the street. Lives and homes lay shattered around them, reduced to charred ash piles and sooty sandstone. Lives of people he knew. The Bergs, the Durrs, the Finkels, the Jungs, the Maurers- on and on the names flashed through his head. His mind spun with the scope of the burnt out, empty shells and blackened foundations.

Some family members dug among the ruins, salvaging what they could. No children played along the main road. No dogs ran back and forth making a friendly nuisance-or even barking and sniffing at Charra as they often did. No music drifted through the air to announce Soltide. No blacksmith or stonemason hammers clanged. Only the mourns of the mournful, the mutterings of the hopeless, and the prayers of the faithful sighed through the air, punctuated by the cries and blubbering sobs of grief.

A dark pall lay across the town along with the acrid, smoky smell clinging to the air. A soot-covered child stumbled from among burnt rubble and collapsed. Several menders rushed to help.

Horse-drawn drays, stained black and red with blood and filled with corpses, groaned down the Eldan Road, following woodcarts lugging burnt timber and debris from the ruined structures. Townsfolk trudged behind the two-wheeled carts, tear-streaked faces sooty, somber, and sullen. Novices and trainees dumped the woodpiles from the carts at the town’s outskirts to the south, adding to a bonfire already raging there. At the sight of the pyre, a woman wailed and fell to her knees.

Ancel clutched at his charm. Dear Ilumni, let my parents be well. He glanced toward the Streamean temple. White banners flew the same insignia he’d seen on Jillian and many of the Dagodin in Eldanhill. Next to them flapped the Dosteri Guardian Wall. Dosteri in Sendethi territory helping Eldanhill?

Weak sunlight glinted from the armor and helmets of the Dagodin cohort standing at attention to Eldanhill’s westernmost outskirts where most of the damage and corpses lay. What was more surprising were the large, rawboned men in furs and cloaks made from pelts who were standing behind the Dagodin or rode upon large daggerpaws. Mountain wolves were sitting on their haunches next to some, tongues lolling. The animals pawed the ground or frolicked with each other, their dog-like reek unmistakable. A few gave coughing barks or whined in Charra’s direction. Charra growled his reply. Apparently, someone had managed to bring the Seifer and the Nema together.

Ancel’s regret at not being there when the Sendethi attacked rose again. He could have helped somehow if he’d been here. Maybe he could’ve saved some lives. The thought twisted in his gut. He shook his head and glanced around, just now realizing they had crossed the town. Behind them, three plumes of smoke marked where the majority of the attacks occurred. The rest of the town was untouched.

Scratching at his beard, he followed Danvir and Mirza down the road toward Shin Galiana’s. He spared Kachien a few glances, thoughts about what she said also churning through his mind. They continued down the twisting path between older houses, many just one or two stories tall. This part of town lay so close to one of the Kelvore River’s tributaries he could hear the rushing waters. Townsfolk shambled by, some weeping, others with grim expressions on their faces. Some gasped or skirted around Ancel and their friends when they saw Charra. A few reached for or hefted weapons. The daggerpaw ignored them.

They rounded the last corner, and ahead stood the squat sandstone and granite structure of Galiana’s hospice. For the first time, Ancel thought about why he needed to come here to meet his father. Why not at the Whitewater Inn? Or their own home? Was his father hurt in the fighting?

Trying in earnest to dismiss the thought, Ancel dismounted, and tethered his dartan. People trudged by them, some struggling to carry several buckets to where dartans waited. Others wore bloodied bandages, their clothes torn and disheveled as they shambled up the cobbled streets from the direction of Shin Galiana’s. Drays carrying wounded men, women and children rumbled down the road toward the hospice. Where some faces showed despair, others bore a fierce determination. On one side of the street, a man comforted a woman with a tear-streaked face and clothes covered in blood. Everywhere Ancel looked made worry for his father come crawling back to the surface.

“Things are worse than I could have imagined,” Kachien said, her voice grave.

Ancel gave her a questioning frown.

“The wounds on many of those bodies and on some of the people.” She squinted at a cart carrying injured folk. “Those are not just from normal steel. I know wounds caused by wraithwolves and darkwraiths when I see them.”

Ancel sucked in a breath. “Are you sure?” A quick look at Mirza’s wide-eyed expression and Danvir’s pale face told him they’d heard.

“Yes. I have no doubts.”

“That’s impossible,” Danvir whispered. “The Vallum protects us against shadelings. There’s no way…” His voice trailed off at Kachien’s wilting stare.

“I told you,” Mirza said in earnest. “Still, why aren’t there any Tribunal Ashishin here already? You would think this place would be crawling with them.”

“Maybe-”

“Ancel, there you are, young man,” Guthrie Bemelle’s voice called.

Ancel turned to see Danvir’s father striding toward them. The owner of the Whitewater Inn no longer wore his usual extravagant loose silks. Instead, a full suit of shining, blood red, Dagodin plate armor covered him, the noonday sun glinting off the polished steel, patterned swirls and lines on the breastplate. Already a wide man, the armor enhanced his size. In one pudgy hand, he carried a wide-bladed, two-handed greatsword. Gold embossing covered the scarlet scabbard.

“Da!” Danvir exclaimed, his eyes watery. He ran to his father and the two of them hugged. Somehow, Guthrie appeared the smaller of the two even in his armor.

The innkeeper looked his son over, his hanging jowls flapping against the collar of the gorget at his neck. “Glad to see you’re well.” He beamed. After a few more hugs and wiping of tears, he released Danvir and turned to Ancel. “I’ve been searching for you since Jillian sent word. Shin Galiana needs you.” He eyed Kachien. “You must be the Alzari. Shin Galiana said to expect you. If you don’t mind, my son and Mirza will see you to the Whitewater Inn. Galiana will meet you there.” After Kachien’s nod of approval, Guthrie locked gazes with Ancel, but his eyes betrayed nothing. “Ancel, if you will?” He turned and strode toward the hospice.

“Wait here, Charra,” Ancel said. After a moment to make sure the daggerpaw complied, he hurried to catch up to Guthrie. “Master Bemelle, are my parents well?”

“Your mother is fine.” The man tilted his head toward Ancel. Dark lines tugged at his slanted eyes instead of their usual smile. “Your father-”

“Is my father hurt?” Ancel’s heart skipped a beat.

Guthrie stared ahead. “I’d rather Shin Galiana speak to you about that. Things are already hectic enough as it is.”

Taking in deep breaths, Ancel attempted to calm himself, but he couldn’t help the sinking feeling or the great weight on his shoulders. Guthrie’s lack of an answer didn’t help nor did the weariness tugging at his body. The feeling grew as they walked.

Outside the hospice, a line of townsfolk stretched from the wide front door, past the porch, down the stairs and out into the street. Dagodin and Shin Galiana’s apprentices were turning back many of the injured after a brief inspection. Alys stood among those apprentices.

“Why are they turning people away?”