Embers of a Broken Throne (6 page)

C
hapter 8

T
hey set out at as dawn first bled across the clouds and skies in orange hues. The camp was already in full motion, preparing to leave for the trek’s final leg into and over the Cogal Drin Mountains. Ryne was glad Ancel had managed to convince Stefan to stay behind, ensuring all went well with the caravan’s exodus. The choice for the refugees to continue on was a sound one. Better to leave now than to risk the shadelings descending upon them despite the preference of an easier target. The gray mass of clouds to the north also reinforced the idea. They’d been caught by a thunderstorm once in the Green Wastes. Seeing another few hundred dead from floods and dangerous critters looking for shelter would not be a pretty sight.

By the time Ryne and his group headed east, the caravan of wagons, animals, soldiers, mountain clansmen, and able-bodied folk on foot was making its way south. Ancel had chosen Irmina, Lieutenant Mirza, his Dagodin cohort, a dozen Ashishins, six clansmen with daggerpaws and wolves, and four Pathfinders for his expedition. They pushed their horses hard, intent on completing their task and rendezvousing with the caravan by the time they reached the Cogal Drin foothills. Ryne ran beside them, relishing the freedom to stretch his legs. The last time he’d ran like this was to Eldanhill and Ancel. Charra ranged ahead, content to play the part of a normal daggerpaw despite his massive size.

The horses’ hooves beat on the frozen ground, the path ahead cleared by the Ashishins through the use of small Forges. Rime caked much of the grass, and under the odd copse or tree signs of snow still existed. Although near the end of the season, winter was hanging on stubbornly. The wind gusted from the north, bringing with it a chill that Ryne hardly felt if at all. He could tell it was cold by the way everyone but he and Ancel hunkered down in their furs or pulled their cloaks tighter around them.

They were halfway to their destination when the freezing rain fell. Lightning and thunder accompanied the storm, but luckily it did not build into the usual ferocity. By the time the sleet stopped little more than a light sprinkling added to the frost already covering the plains. Ryne wasn’t used to one of Ostania’s storms tapering off the way this one had, but he would take blessings in whatever form they appeared.

Late evening found them climbing over the line of hills from which they could see the Kalin Road, a thin line snaking north to south from Harna to Astoca. The small town sat in a hollow with a wood nearby, perhaps thirty miles west of the road. Its small buildings and packed together homes brought back memories of Castere. A sense of melancholy eased through Ryne. He began to recall the names of the dead before he cut them off. His focus needed to be on the task ahead.

“Should we have them scout first?” Mirza nodded toward the six clansmen, three each from the Seifer and Nema.

“No,” Ancel said. “We stay together.”

The town proved to be as empty as Mirza had reported. There were no animals, no corpses, no signs of a fight. The houses hadn’t been ransacked, but they were all empty of food. Animal pens provided the only reek on the air.

Troubled, Ryne made to turn to Ancel when Charra’s growl set the hair along his arm on end. The daggerpaws and wolves with them imitated Charra. The animals all faced the woods.

“Leave the horses,” Ancel called. “We go on foot and ready to fight.”

The Dagodins dismounted and formed a line. Swords unsheathed they began marching toward the closely-knit trees. Ancel and his Pathfinders followed with Irmina, Mirza, and the Ashishins off to one side. Ryne made certain to stay close to his ward. Although Ancel had grown in power, he lacked experience in facing the stronger shadelings. They were halfway to the woods when the wind brought an odor that sent prickles along Ryne’s skin.

Death. Death and rot.

“There’s no Forging here,” Irmina said, voice carrying above the marching feet.

Ancel frowned. “How do you know?”

“The zyphyl,” she answered, brow wrinkled in concentration. “No shadelings either. But in another day or two, there will be.”

“Another Wraithwood?” Ryne asked, although he already knew the answer.

She nodded.

“Can we destroy it without entering the forest?” Lips pursed, Ancel was gazing past the Dagodins.

“Not if we want to be certain of the results,” Ryne said.

“So how do we go about this?” Ancel asked.

Ryne called for them to stop. “Pathfinders, Ancel, and Irmina with me. Mirza, you, the Ashishins, and your men stay here. Clansmen, you also. Kill anything that comes this way.”

He led the way, approaching the woods with caution, eyes scanning the scraggly undergrowth for any out of place shadow or a sign of movement. His Matersense showed nothing out of the ordinary.

“Irmina,” he said. “Can your pet sense humans?”

Her expression clouded before she replied. “No. It can see them, though. And it sees none other than us and those in the wood.”

Acknowledging her with a nod, he continued forward, still practicing caution. Not that he doubted the zyphyl’s ability, but wariness in all things regarding shadelings had been ingrained into him, particularly where daemons or Skadwaz were concerned.

When they entered the woods it didn’t take them long to find the collection of seeping bodies in the midst of transformation. They simply followed the stench. The area was similar to that in Aldazhar: a group of kinai trees, corrupted by shade, feeding several dozen townsfolk. Their bodies were intertwined with wolves and lapras, human legs and arms already growing fur, taking on more animalistic shapes.

Ancel retched and spewed his breakfast. Irmina went to his side, but the young man waved her off. Charra was fixated with the bodies, an incessant growl rumbling in his chest.

A slow anger burned in Ryne. Death was a part of life, but this wanton slaughter and turning of innocents curdled his insides. He’d seen and done enough of it as Nerian, a travesty caused by Kahkon. He had added that to the long list of reasons to kill the man.

As a precaution, Ryne sought the Eye before empowering his Etchings on his armor, body, and sword. He drew from the sun’s power this time. Irmina and the others scrambled away from him, expressions awed.

“I suggest you go outside to the others,” he said, voice devoid of emotion, sounding as if it originated from someone else. “Protect them.”

He gave them time to leave, still focused on the corruption emanating from the Wraithwood. When he was certain enough time had passed for them to be a safe distance, he Shimmered into the malignant gathering of bodies, and released his Forge.

The effect was similar to the one in Aldazhar, if a bit more intense. He had added Mater to the Prima within his Etchings. A roar filled his ears. Trees fell. He even felt the searing heat despite the protection his aura provided.

He was still standing in center of the now empty Wraithwood, a great smoking space cleared around him, when a sound like a sword slicing empty air reached his ears. He spun to see the Materializations taking place, at least a dozen portals opening back the way Ancel and the others had retreated. Dread knotted his gut.

A trap.

Six Alzari appeared at the edge of the clearing’s smoking ruins.

C
hapter 9

S
hadelings poured through the portals: wraithwolves, darkwraiths, and snake-like creatures that skittered on six legs, their rotted stench near unbearable. Irmina Forged, lashing out with blasts of light as fast as she could manage. She worked calmly, the underlying excitement and fear subdued by the Eye.

Dagodins fought in small pockets, but against the overwhelming numbers they were succumbing. Pathfinders flitted among them, Shimmering to the places of the greatest need, silver armor glinting as they struck down beast after beast. But as Irmina fought her own desperate battle she saw the situation was hopeless.

And then Ancel appeared in the thick of the battle, Etchings aglow, streaming light like some god. His longsword left fiery trails in the air, and any shadeling it touched burst into ash. His shortsword hewed through flesh and bone, driven by the force of the hand behind it.

Charra fought beside him, a white blur of hardened bone hackles. The wedge of cartilage at the end of his tail was a spear that skewered, darting out to pierce foe after foe. Blood stained his fur black and red.

Bolstered by their leader, the Pathfinders found their way to Ancel’s side. The Dagodins rallied behind him.

With them as her shield, she resorted to single bursts of fire or arrows of light, picking off any shadelings still trying to reach Ancel. He had to be protected. If he fell, they all fell. Not far from her, the Ashishins copied what she did.

As she sent Forge after Forge into the enemy, she watched in awe of Ancel’s prowess as he switched from Stance to Stance while attacking with various Styles. It was as if he thought it was a dance. But what she witnessed was pure carnage, limbs lopped off, creatures slipping inside his guard succumbing to fists or knees hardened like steel, shattering bone, punching through chests.

Of Ryne there was no sign.

The battle continued to rage, the cries of the dead and dying crashing over the sound of steel, the roars of men and monster adding to the din. She was no fool. Eventually Ancel would tire, so would the Pathfinders. Faced with numbers this superior, there could be but one outcome.

No sooner did she have the thought than the shadelings fell back. But it wasn’t so much a retreat from a rout as it was a systematic withdrawal. A few Dagodins made to chase, but Mirza’s yells held them in check.

Men began to clap each other on the backs in celebration. Some laughed. Others collapsed, finally succumbing to their wounds or to weariness, the rush of battle gone. The wounded and the dead littered the ground, their blood staining the air. Swords gripped tight in his hands, Ancel was staring after the shadelings as they’d retreated perhaps a thousand feet across the plain, but now turned to face them once more.

A horizontal slash some fifty long appeared behind them. It twisted upright, opening into a portal twice as wide. In its translucent surface she caught a glimpse of a mountain range, then something black and enormous blotted it out.

A keening wail echoed, pitch increasing until it sounded like metal grating against metal. It made her skin crawl. She knew the call too well. It had given her nightmares in Eldanhill.

A vasumbral.

The shadeling flowed out from the portal, angling higher into the air, an undulating mass of thick black skin on a body so long it seemed to continue forever. An eyeless worm with a hundred vertebrae joining separate sections.

Seeing it now pricked a memory. There was something she should remember about the creature, but the harder she tried the more the recollection teased her, staying just at the edge of her grasp.

The Ashishins drew in Mater, great gobs of it. Light and fire essences swirled around them, heating the air. They had linked and whatever Forge they were attempting built to a tangible pressure.

A warning jolt emanated from her zyphyl. In the same instant the vasumbral stopped, sudden. One moment it was gliding and the next it stood still, a dark snake against the mounting gray mass of clouds. From eyeless head to pointed tail, its two hundred foot length split down the middle like a gutted fish. Thousands upon thousands of feelers wriggled, sampled the air. The pink maw for a mouth opened.

The prick of memory became recognition.

“No!” she screamed. “Don’t Forge.”

But it was too late. The vasumbral had found its meal, had discovered that which it craved the most. Mater. Forges.

Lightning tore down from the clouds, called forth by the Ashishins. It rained in emerald sheets.

And disappeared into the vasumbral’s middle, devoured by the feelers.

Irmina understood now why the darkwraiths had chosen not to Forge. The vasumbral did not differentiate. Food was food.

The vasumbral wailed, the sound forcing her and the others to cover their ears. Its middle snapped together, and it dived. The beast struck the ground, the impact sending stone and dirt flying, the subsequent tremor throwing several Dagodins from their feet.

“Ancel, Mirza, run!” she screamed. Turning, she scrambled away, trying to put as much distance between herself and the Ashishins as she could.

In her periphery, Ancel grabbed Mirza, lifting him as if he weighed nothing. He Shimmered. Together with three Pathfinders and Charra, they flitted away toward the abandoned town.

As she ran she considered the size of the vasumbral. It had to be twice the size of the ones at Eldanhill. Those had been young, according to Quintess’ books. This one was some two hundred feet long and perhaps a third that in girth. The ground was shaking, violent enough to make her stumble. She wouldn’t make it.

Left with no other choice, she drew in Mater, and Shimmered. Knowing the shadeling would be drawn to her, and that she couldn’t escape, Irmina turned to face it. Heart hammering, she drew her sword.

Mouth first, the vasumbral burst up from the ground, stone and earth flying, the roar of its appearance like an avalanche. Ashishins disappeared into its maw, their screams cut off as it continued to snake up, black, shiny, and endless. This close she saw its feelers were a dozen feet long, at least the width of her leg, and possessed rows of teeth. They snapped out and latched on to Dagodins still trying to flee. As the creature’s tail emerged, howls announced the charge form the waiting shadeling army.

A lump formed in her throat in the face of certain death. She didn’t know which was worse, to be torn apart by wraithwolves and darkwraiths or to be eaten by the vasumbral. The thought had barely crossed her mind when she sensed her zyphyl’s focus, an arrow drawn and loosed.

Silver streaked through the gray clouds. A screech echoed. Her zyphyl crashed into the vasumbral’s back with a resounding impact. At half the enemy’s size she doubted the zyphyl stood a chance.

The shadeling wailed in agony, its middle beginning to split to reveal the feelers. But the zyphyl coiled around it, squeezing the opening shut.

A body almost knocked her from her feet. She stumbled before realizing the person to be a Dagodin. They bolted past her as fast as their armor would allow.

The din of the onrushing shadelings snapped her back to the sight before her. A black mass of flesh and shade, they bore down, blotting out the field beneath them.

Hoping the zyphyl held the vasumbral’s attention, she drew in Mater, sunlight filling her to bursting. The voices of the essences rose in a torrent, screamed their fury, cajoled and begged for her to use them. Although she found it odd they could still be so strong while she maintained the Eye, she ignored them.

A horn sounded above the cacophony. Long and pure. The call came again.

Irmina glanced over her shoulder to see Mirza and the Pathfinders galloping for all they were worth on the mounts they left behind. He blew the horn again. Next to him Ancel ran, Etchings aglow, feet barely touching the ground as he harnessed light and wind to spur him on. Charra kept up with them all.

Once more she faced the shadelings. They were so close she made out individual grotesque features. Canine-snouted wraithwolves dropped to all fours for a few leaps before running on two legs like men again. Darkwraiths glided much like Ancel did. The unknown, snake-like, six-legged creatures skittered among them. A sense of calm overcame her.

“DAGODINS, FORMATIONS,” came Mirza’s yell, cutting unnaturally above all other sound.

Irmina didn’t need to look. She
felt
the men draw up beside her and shift into knots of ten, swords and shields ready. “A good day to die,” she said to Ancel when he stepped up next to her.

“Who said anything about dying?” He replied, and she knew without looking that he smiled.

Power surged from him, prickled across her skin. All around and in front of them dirt, stone, and grass shifted as if alive. And then the combination did live, pushing up from the ground, quickly becoming warriors clad in white and gold, wielding spears.

She released her Forge. Lances of light rained down, tearing into the charging shadeling ranks.

Ancel uttered one word. “Begin.”

His constructs sprinted meet to the enemy, spears whirling. With defiant screams, the Dagodins, Mirza, Charra, and Ancel followed. The battlefield became a sea of chaos, blades, blood, and death.

She lost herself in the heat of battle. With expert precision she chose targets away from any friend, and made certain to keep an eye on Ancel if he should need her. Time seemed to stretch as they fought, and despite heavy limbs and ragged breaths she continued to Forge until there was nothing left on the ground to attack.

Every shadeling but the vasumbral was dead. Of the over four hundred men and women in the Dagodin cohort, a mere fifty still lived, and ten of those would have to be killed, their wounds from darkwraiths’ tainted blades too grievous for her or Ryne to mend. Thankfully, Mirza and Ancel had either been lucky or skillful enough to avoid the worst.

Ancel’s entire construct army moved among the downed shadelings, lopping off heads. Although the majority bore injuries that would fall any normal man, they went about their business as if unscathed. Upon completion of their task, Ancel released them, and they melted into the ground, a part of the Forms once more.

“Any word of Ryne?” she asked as Ancel set fire to the entire field, the heat such that she had to back away.

“He had his own battle in the woods, but it appears that’s over now.”

The words had barely left his mouth when Ryne appeared at the forest’s edge. He peered at the burning field, and then cast his gaze up to the vasumbral and the zyphyl. The two beasts were still tearing at each other, locked in a coiled mass of black and silver. Ryne Shimmered to Ancel’s side.

“I feared one of you might be lost in that trap,” Ryne said. He eyed them for a moment, nodding his approval. Screeches and wails echoed from the two combatants above. “For this to end quickly the zyphyl will need our help.”

“There’s nothing we can do,” Irmina began, before she noticed Ryne’s attention had settled on Mirza.

“Your kind, the Dagodins, are the bane of creatures like the vasumbral, beasts that either devour Forges or are impervious to them,” Ryne said.

“You must be mad,” Mirza scoffed. “You two are Eztezians, she’s as a strong as a High Shin, there must be something you can do.”

“Anything we do, that any Forger does, would only make the creature stronger.”

“But—”

“I can explain the finer points explain later,” Ryne interrupted. “But your
divya
,” he nodded to Mirza’s sword, “unlike ours, does not require Mater or a Forge to be activated, just a Dagodin’s touch. I will Materialize you to the right location. All you need do is drop with your blade pointed down.”

Mirza opened his mouth.

“Delay much longer and we will have more than one of those things to fight.”

“Fine.” Mirza inhaled long and slow. “Whenever you’re ready.”

With his gaze on the two creatures in the sky, Ryne opened a portal a foot away. It twisted from horizontal to vertical. Through the opening the shadeling and her pet battled below her, the ground a great distance under them. She gasped at the sight. Ryne had opened a portal in the sky above the creatures.

“Remember, sword pointed down. Irmina, if you can manage to tell your pet to hold in place?”

She closed her eyes and touched her connection. A surge of hate and desperation made her recoil. She sensed the revulsion for the very thought of the shadeling, of any shadeling. After a moment, the emotions abated enough for her to get her message through.

“Now,” Ryne said, voice distant.

Through the zyphyl’s sight she took in Mirza’s fall through the portal. His sword reflected the meager sunlight. He pierced the vasumbral in the middle of its eyeless head.

The creature screeched, a long prolonged echo. Its black, glistening skin grew to a dull gray pallor, spreading from the head on down. And then it began to break apart in gigantic ashy mounds.

Flailing wildly, Mirza fell through the air, his body bursting through the ash. A portal opened under him and next to Ryne. He flew through it amid remains that swirled like sooty snow. A cushion of air caught him and set him down. The rush of battle energy in his eyes, breathing fast and hard, he stood a dozen feet from them and felt all over his body. When certain he had all his limbs, he peered up at the falling clumps of the vasumbral’s corpse.

“Amuni’s balls, that … that … that was …”

“Frightening?” Irmina finished.

“Incredible.” Mirza grinned, white teeth showing. The grin grew to a chuckle. And then a laugh. Within moments they were all laughing with him.