Etchings of Power aotg-1

by Terry C. Simpson

  The Tribunal’s soldiers fought men and beasts alike. Black-furred wolfish creatures with green eyes walked like men, ran like wolves, and ripped the throats from whomever they encountered, all the while lifting their bloody muzzles to the sky and howling.

  Green-eyed gazes turned to Irmina’s group. Without hesitation, she reached for the light essences of the twin moons and the many fires as well as the energy from the flame’s heat. She unleashed her fury with a cold, calculating certainty, scouring all before her, creature and man alike. If Dagodin died then so be it, these abominations needed to feel the power a servant of Ilumni wielded.

  The surge of the Streams through her clamored to be fed. So she obliged.

  Again and again, she struck, death flying from her in fire and light. Men screamed, wraithwolves wailed and darkwraiths shrieked as she cleared a path to the stables. Her wounds, suffered by Jaecar’s blade, were a dull throb lost in her mind.

  Forming a wall, the Dagodin followed Ormand’s commands to protect her from shadelings and men alike. But it was not enough. A few creatures still managed to claw through, and she suffered several gashes from long claws or from the edge of wild spear swings.

  Strength ebbing, she somehow managed to climb onto Misty’s back. She hadn’t realized when the soldiers managed to free the mounts from the stables. Nor did she care. Her bloodlust felt like an all-consuming flame within her. Somehow, she recognized the danger. She’d used too much Mater. The Streams always had to have their due. She would pay it either with her life or someone else’s.

  With the last of her power, she blew a hole through the fence. She didn’t remember how they escaped the town. All she could remember were snatching claws, swinging spears, trampling man and beast and almost falling from Misty’s saddle several times. All else was a blur.

  “Raijin Irmina. Raijin Irmina.” Ormand’s urgent voice sounded so far away. A hand shook her.

  Irmina looked up at the stars above. When did I lay on the ground? She attempted to lean up onto her elbow. Did I fall asleep?

  “No, Raijin Irmina. You need rest. We all do. We must reach the Vallum. Running the beasts any more ragged than they are won’t help. Here, sip this,” Ormand implored.

  Throat dry and burning, she took what he offered. She slurped and kinai wine flowed down her throat. “Thank you,” she managed, choking back a cough, the drink sputtering from her lips.

  “Take your time. It’s all that’s left, blessed one.”

  Warmth swam down her gullet and into the pit of her stomach, and an energetic feeling ensued. She managed to prop herself up. Several dark mounds marked what must have been the dartan’s at rest. Drained as she was, she couldn’t sense Misty.

  “How are you feeling?” Ormand asked, his tired and bloodied face a mask of concern. “Your wounds haven’t healed much. We need to get you to a mender.”

  “I, I had a dream,” Irmina said. “In it, Ranoda was attacked by shadelings and-”

  “It was no dream. It happened.”

  Her eyes were too heavy to register the shock she felt. A nightmare came alive in her head again. It was black and it seeped in through her office window.

  CHAPTER 25

  Rain played a constant drumbeat on the roof. The rhythmic pounding made Ancel think about the days spent with Kachien. Her perfume lingered in the air from earlier, mingling with the slight scent of their lovemaking still on the sheets he sat on. Small bumps rose on Ancel’s bare back from the chill easing through the room despite the closed windows.

  “So,” Mirza said with a leer painted on his face, “Did you learn anything new today?”

  Ancel pursed his lips. “I really don’t feel like talking about that right now.”

  Spiky red hair standing on end, Mirza sat in a cushioned armchair near one of the many ornate lamps around the room. “You know, we came here for a good time. Here you are having all the fun, and you still find time to be in a worse mood than this weather.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Ancel shot back with a scowl. “I like the woman. Yes, she’s a whore, but she’s taught me more in the last few days than I’ve learned in my short lifetime. In many ways I feel for her.” Stories of the sufferings among the Ostanians, their trials and the vicious cycle of their territorial battles and political games played through his mind as if Kachien told them anew. Atop it all rode the truth of her scars.

  Mirza snorted. “Feel for her is an understatement. It’s as if you’re falling for her. A whore, Ancel. Think on it. You didn’t come here for that. I mean, you came here for women, yes, but not to fall for some whore. To make things worse, you get angry when she’s doing her job. Like tonight. Burning shades, it’s what she does for a living.”

  Shoulders a taut rope, Ancel stood. He glanced at Charra. Colorful swirls rose around the daggerpaw. Ancel squeezed his eyes shut. When he reopened them, the swirls were gone. Seeking the calm he used when he practiced the sword, he welcomed the reassuring feel of his mother’s charm against his neck and the rug under his feet as he trudged over to the wardrobe close to Mirza. He refused the urge to glance at his friend for the moment. If he did, there was no telling what he would say.

  Charra’s head rose before he set it down on his forepaws again. Since the night they came to the Dancing Lady, Charra had refused to allow Ancel to go anywhere without him. Ancel had to pay double before the innkeeper allowed him to bring the daggerpaw upstairs. Whatever bothered Charra set him on edge, and more often than not, Ancel found himself looking over his shoulder when he walked Randane’s streets.

  When Ancel reached his wardrobe, he finally felt calm enough to speak. “You don’t need to remind me. I’m fond of her, but I’m not falling for her.” Even as he said the words, he knew them to be lies. Whenever Kachien left the drinking room with another man, he felt a burning jealousy he struggled to control. The feeling overcame him with the thought.

  “See, there it is,” Mirza said, pointing and giving his head a slight shake, his hair not moving an inch. “Anytime you start talking about what she does, this look comes across your face.”

  “What look,” Ancel said, trying not to sound defensive while choosing a plain black shirt. The color felt even more right the last few days. He slipped into the clothing and buttoned it to the neck.

  “That look.” Mirza pointed at his face. “The one that says you’re ready to murder some merchant who can afford Kachien’s services.”

  Trying to ignore Mirza, Ancel chose dark gray trousers and pulled them on. Satisfied with the fit, he closed the wardrobe’s door and inspected himself in the mirror, passing his hands through his black hair to make sure it was still oiled enough to lay the way he preferred. He poked at the dark rings under his emerald eyes and gave himself the most appealing smile he could.

  “Listen, you didn’t come here to forget about Irmina then get attached to some other woman. Especially not some Ostanian whore. You came here to be free. Where’s the ruthless, cocky womanizer I know? Can you find him for me? Please?” Mirza’s gray eyes pleaded as much as his words.

  “He’s about to go down to the drinking room and join Danvir if you don’t stop,” Ancel retorted as he turned from the mirror to glare at his friend.

  “All I’m trying to do is-”

  “Give over already, Mirza, I won’t lie to myself. I like Kachien. Do I love her? I don’t think so. It’s all a bit confusing where my feelings are, but I’ll sort them out. I still have Alys to think about, and only the gods know how many more women will be waiting back in Eldanhill at Soltide. So, no I haven’t lost myself. Let me enjoy what I have here with Kachien for now. She’s helped me past Irmina. Soon enough, we’ll leave, and I’ll put her behind me too.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so.”

  Mirza sighed. “Well, while you’ve been up here I found out more about the fighting in Ostania. Something to do with one of the old clans. Rumors are spreading that the Tribunal won’t involve themselves, but I’m not so sur
e. The Herald who sent the message received word from an Envoy in some city named Castere.”

  Ancel whistled. “That’s in Astoca, it’s the largest Ostanian city. We trade more with them than any other place.”

  “The warning came from the King himself. People are starting to grumble that if the Tribunal chooses to do nothing, there could be trouble.”

  “The Tribunal can’t afford to let this affect trade. They’ll act. The question is when,” Ancel said.

  “Normally, I’d agree.” Mirza gave a pensive frown before continuing, “But the issues between Sendeth and Doster have taken a turn for the worse.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Ancel asked.

  Lines creased Mirza’s forehead. “I know you’ve heard the stories in the drinking room about the recent killings?”

  “To be honest, I haven’t paid much attention. I figured it was just the usual brawls, or some footpads robbing merchants.”

  Mirza shook his head. “Dan did say you haven’t been listening to much anyone says. Especially when Kachien is around-”

  “Don’t start.”

  “I’m not,” Mirza said, “but the killings have not been brawls or footpads. You’re right about one thing. The victims have all been merchants. Almost every one of them came up from Ishtar after bringing their goods over from Ostania. Every one was Sendethi.”

  Ancel’s eyebrows knitted. “They think it’s a Dosteri doing the killing?”

  “Yes, that’s the word on the street. And the regiment’s been on the watch for a golden-haired Dosteri man.”

  “Why?”

  “The last any of these merchants’ bodyguards remember were their masters meeting with this golden-haired Dosteri,” Mirza said.

  “Well then the guards can identify him, no?”

  “That’s the strange part. None can remember exactly what he looked like. They just know he had golden hair.”

  Ancel’s frown grew deeper. “What would make them so sure this man’s Dosteri then?”

  “The message he leaves next to each body written in ancient Dosteri…” Mirza hesitated, a reluctant expression crossing his face.

  “Well, are you going to tell me?”

  Mirza’s normally light voice shifted to a somber tone, and he began to recite.

  “From Ostania’s ashes and Erastonian blood, the Dosteri rise,

  Granadia will fall,

  Devout and all,

  As it was before

  So shall it be again

  World without end

  War without end

  When comes the appointed hour,

  Under the rule of the one with Etchings of Power,

  Stone will crumble,

  The void shall rumble,

  Clouds will grow,

  Water shall flow,

  Light and shade as one,

  Fire and ice as one,

  Denestia shall bend to its knee,

  Until the elements exist in harmony.”

  Ancel gasped. The words were said to be an ancient Dosteri mantra their soldiers chanted during battle long before the Shadowbearer War when Doster warred with much of Granadia. The first time he and Mirza learned those words were when they read their father’s old Chronicle-the Chronicle of Undeath-they found hidden in the attic. The tome spoke of a day when the dead would not remain dead, but walk Denestia in service of the shade. He never forgot the beating they received that day for going into his father’s things. The glint in Mirza’s eyes said he remembered also.

  “We’ve been through this before,” Ancel said. “None of it makes sense. The Erastonians are dead, wiped out by Nerian himself before he turned to the shade. Not even the last bit that refers to the first Principle is any more sound. The elements already exist in harmony.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that.” Mirza bit his lip as he spoke. “What if the elements don’t? What if it means even within each element?”

  Ancel’s brows rose. “What?”

  “Think on it. Mater is made up of the three elements, right? Streams, Flows, and Forms.”

  Ancel nodded as he paced to the window. The rain fell in sheets as if a god released a waterfall from the heavens.

  “And,” Mirza continued, “In each element are their essences. What if this refers to the essences within each element? Shade and light fight, they’re opposites. So does heat and cold. All within the element of Streams.”

  Ancel stopped his pacing. “Yes, but if you remember from class, Streamean worship encourages the acceptance of all religions as one harmony and the essences as such. Look at those from the Forms and the Flows. They work in concert.”

  “Exactly my point,” Mirza said, his eyes lighting up. “What if it’s just the Streams that need to find the same peace to exist in harmony?”

  “Maybe you’re right. We can ask Teacher Galiana-”

  “We can’t ask anyone, Ancel. Remember, we’re not supposed to know about the Chronicle of Undeath.”

  Ancel smiled. “We don’t need to refer to the tome. We have the note left by this killer to use. It’s more than enough to start with and-”

  Charra snarled. From outside, a blood freezing scream pierced the air.

  “What in Amuni’s name…” Mirza swore as he rose to his feet and rushed to the door.

  The scream changed to incessant shrieks.

  Driven by the urgency of the wails, Ancel ignored his boots, snatched up his sword, and followed Mirza. He took the stairs by twos and threes, his bare feet slapping on the wood whenever he landed.

  Mirza crashed out the back door to the Dancing Lady a few steps ahead of him. Ancel skidded to a stop in water, mud, and filth in the alley with Charra splashing at his heels. The daggerpaw focused down the lane, a warning rumble deep in his throat. Glass lamps at the front and rear of the inn and the adjoining buildings provided dim light that did little to dispel the alley’s deeper shadows. Wiping rain from his eyes, Ancel followed what drew Charra’s attention.

  A person in what appeared to be wet, red silks lay on the ground. Someone wearing a dark cloak crouched over the body. Blood streamed away from the prone form.

  The squatting person in the cloak glanced up. Their eyes widened.

  Ancel caught a glimpse of honey colored hair and a smooth face more like a young boy’s than a man’s. In his hands, the youth held two weapons, no longer than short swords, but they reflected no light. It was as if the weapons drank the illumination from the lamps along the walls in the alley.

  A yell echoed behind them from the alley’s entrance.

  Ancel snatched a look over his shoulder. Several dark liveried men with swords brandished were running down the alley pointing toward them. He turned to see gold hair fleeing into the dark. Charra bounded after the youth.

  “Wait,” Mirza shouted when Ancel made to follow his daggerpaw. “We shouldn’t follow him, not in the dark. Let’s not add ourselves to his list. Charra can handle himself. Besides,” he gestured toward the body on the ground, “his bodyguards are already here and the regiment should be here soon too.”

  Ancel shivered as he peered down the alley, his clothes so soaked they stuck to his body. Charra’s gray-white form, obscured by the deluge, disappeared among the shadows. He knew his friend was right. To follow would be folly if not fatal.

  Within moments, booted feet were thumping and splashing toward them. Six merchant’s guards in chain mail with boiled leather peeking from under the metal sleeves, the Charging Boar of their blue and green surcoats wetly plastered to their armor, surrounded the young men. Eyes glared from inside hooded cloaks. An old guard with a potato for a nose and a pitted face pulled his hood back and stepped forward with his sword raised.

  “No, these two had nothing to do with this,” said Innkeeper Callan who stepped out from the back door. The pear-shaped man shouldered his way through the guards. “They were upstairs when the screams began.” His eyes shifted when he looked at the body on the ground, and he wrung his hands before wiping them on
his soiled apron.

  The pit-faced guard strode by Ancel and Mirza, water swirling around his boots. He sheathed his sword and signaled to another soldier. Together, they flipped the merchant’s body over.

  Ancel shivered more from the sight than the cold rain beating down on him. He’d never seen such terrible wounds before. Entrails hung out, and steam rose from the corpse. The man’s face was an unrecognizable mess. Not even Charra could do such damage.

  “Seize those young men,” the old guard ordered, his voice drowning out the rain.

  Rough hands snatched Ancel from behind. He twisted, and a fist as hard as a brick struck him on the side of his face, and his sword clattered onto the cobbles. Stars danced in his vision coupled with the ground rushing to meet him. Before he could muster a coherent thought, he found himself struggling to catch his breath as a boot mashed his back and kept his face pinned into a rancid puddle among the broken cobbles. His eyes stung from the bilge. Sputtering to catch a breath served to fill his nostrils and mouth with the foul smelling and even worse tasting runoff.

  A loud growl echoed in the alley.

  From somewhere in his stupor, Ancel heard the frantic cries of the guardsmen. He thought he recognized Danvir’s deep bellow. Was that the sound of steel clashing against steel?

  As Ancel regained his senses, the man above him cursed. The weight of the boot against Ancel’s back lifted. Retching up the filthy water, he crawled to his knees. Sure enough, the metal clang of swords and the shouts and grunts of exertion sounded all around him. Mixed in were moans, plaintive cries and Charra’s snarls and growls.

  Head down, eyes still stinging, Ancel could just make out armored legs stumbling about. He reached out blindly along the ground until he felt his sword hilt, then he struggled to his feet. Lightning flickered, brightening his surroundings. Thunder rumbled and drowned out the noise of the rain drumming against the slate roofs and pattering on the cobbles.

  Danvir and Mirza, swords in hand, stood over the bodies of two dead guardsmen. Charra cooed next to two others, their armor pierced in over a dozen places by his bone hackles, their blood pouring like the deluge.