by Simpson, Terry C. ; Wilson-Viola, D Kai; Ordonez Arias, Gonzalo
Charra stayed next to them this time with his ears pricked up and a low rumble in his throat. The daggerpaw’s hackles remained upraised. Ancel scratched at his itching neck in an attempt to shake the uneasy feeling, but it stayed. Mirza must have sensed the same thing because his wary gaze swept around them often.
Even with the usual hooting wood owls, buzzing insects, and other noises from foraging night creatures, the feeling not only persisted, it grew. So did Charra’s rumbling growl. Ancel fidgeted with his bow and made sure he could reach it with ease.
They pushed the dartans harder through snarls of gooseberry vine snaking through the bushes in their path. Branches like reaching fingers snagged at their cloaks. Once, Ancel was almost yanked from his mount as his cloak caught then tore free. Breaths coming hard and fast at the close call, Ancel pulled what remained of his cloak tight around him.
Charra’s rumble increased to a sharp snarl that could challenge a mountain cat’s growl. The wind picked up, carrying with it the same fetid stench from the glen. A chill slithered through Ancel’s gut.
They urged their mounts on, but the foul odor grew stronger. Cold sweat trickling down his brow, Ancel flicked a hand across his eyes to clear his vision and snatched a look behind.
Shadows flitted between the trees, and branches crashed and snapped. Resinbuds, that moments before had added light, blinked out in an advancing trail ahead of the shadows, racing toward Ancel and Mirza as if the dying glows chased them.
Ancel whipped his reins harder.
The dartans crashed through small branches and brush, oblivious to the rake of broken wood and scratch of thorns. They warbled in short spurts, and their breaths came fast and heavy. The wind swirled through the trees around Ancel and Mirza, the rotten smell chasing them, riding the breeze.
Ancel’s heart pounded in tune with his dartan’s stride. He pushed his mount until they burst from the Greenleaf Forest. The tingle within him had grown into the familiar feel of energy he gained when he sparred. Wind whipping at his face, his cloak billowing behind him, he glanced over his shoulder and abruptly drew rein. Mirza followed suit.
Charra had stopped and was standing prone, eyes fixed on the dark forest. Growls issued from his throat in a steady rhythm. Tail whipping back and forth, he made to bound forward to the woods several times. Each time he did, the daggerpaw’s growls ended in a sharp, barking howl.
“Hold, Charra,” Ancel yelled.
The daggerpaw obeyed, backing down into a snarl, but his hackles didn’t recede. His tail, with its spiked appendage, thrashed furiously from side to side.
The shadows melded with the darkness of the forest as the last of the resinbuds winked out. Then all was deathly still. Ancel sucked in a breath at the sight within the trees.
Two giant wolf silhouettes, Charra’s size, with glowing, green orbs where the moon reflected in their unnatural eyes, appeared among the trees. The eyes burned into Ancel’s own as if they stared only at him. Silence reigned.
Ancel’s heart thumped. Calling on his training, he sunk into the quiet place within him. As his heart calmed, he snatched his bow from his back and nocked an arrow. In the back of his mind, he heard Charra growl. Ancel ignored him, not allowing his gaze to waver from the creatures’ dark outlines or those eyes.
He drew the bow, fletching to ear…and blinked.
The shadowed forms and the eyes had disappeared. The night sounds resumed once more.
With his focus on where the beasts once stood, Ancel backed his mount away from the forest. His gaze went to the surrounding trees but saw nothing. Wiping away salty sweat that stung his eyes, he retreated several feet without seeing the creatures again.
“Let’s go, Ancel. Now!” Mirza shouted sending his dartan rushing toward Eldanhill.
Ancel turned and galloped toward the distant town’s blue lights.
Charra’s growls started again behind them. From the woods, a howling screech sounded. Charra’s barks became a roar.
CHAPTER 8
Purple and black bruises marred Kahkon’s skin from his shoulders down to where bandages swathed his ruined leg. The parts of his body not swollen or slick with blood and bile bore a pallid, corpselike color. Tight lines pulled at the edges of his open eyes, and dark circles hung below them. Moans escaped his throat, and spittle leaked from his lips, his sunken chest barely moving with each labored breath.
Ryne studied the flesh where the massive wound once ran down Kahkon’s chest. Taeria, Carnas’ most experienced mender, had managed to sew up the gash. She’d used a complex Materforge involving the use of sela essences to mend the damage, leaving a thin line where once there was only pulpy, red meat. The woman fussed over the boy, her withered arms and legs moving with an efficiency that belied her leathery skin and protruding bones.
Fluids leaked and clotted around the catgut and poultices the mender used. Ryne’s fist clenched as he thought back to Mariel and the golden-haired stranger. If those women are responsible for this, I’ll show them no mercy.
Inside Taeria’s small home, lit by numerous lamps along the walls, Ryne kept his head and back bent so he wouldn’t hit the ceiling. The boy rested on a table surrounded by four chairs and a wooden bench. A smaller table held the mender’s instruments—bottles with fluids, several sharp knives, needles, and clean bandages. Shelves with various herbs and other items of her craft decorated the white walls around the room. Blood stained the floor a dark, somber red as if the wood had quenched its thirst on Kahkon’s life fluids.
Taeria waddled from one side of the boy to the other. Every so often, she brushed back patches of stark white, wispy hair from her splotchy forehead. Sweat ran down her face, sticking some of the errant strands to her face. Her aura glowed in multiple hues as she worked, colors waxing and waning around her each time she applied the poultices dipped in a concoction made from kinai, pink, sour fleshberries and other herbs.
Ryne remembered his own experience with the potion. The potent mending mixture was only effective with the person still conscious. Kahkon’s body shuddered each time a poultice pressed against his wound. Ryne wished he could take the boy’s pain and make it his own.
A coughing fit wracked Kahkon’s body, and Taeria cradled a hand behind his head for support. The boy’s finger rose an inch from the table. She leaned down, her white hair almost touching the table, and brought her ear close to his mouth.
Kahkon’s words were a dry whisper.
“He wishes for a story about the shade’s defeat.” Taeria said as she straightened as much as she could. “He would prefer my sweet voice.” She regarded Ryne, her milky white eyes standing out in her wrinkled face. “But he will settle for your braying today since I am busy.” Her lips spread in a toothless smile.
Kahkon coughed again. His mouth twisted into a rictus that might have been an attempt at a grin. Spit flew from his lips.
Ryne wanted to return the sentiment, but he couldn’t. Instead, he thought about which story from When the Gods Walked Among Us Kahkon liked best. His gaze met the boy’s watery blue eyes and he began.
“The moment before the Eztezian Guardians pulled him from his home in Hydae and trapped him in the Nether with the other gods, Amuni, the Lord of shade, made one last effort to cross the Planes to our world. He wished to break the seals the Eztezians were building. Once, he would have relied on his brother Ilumni for help, but no more. The two were foes now.
“Instead, using a skill called the Bloodline Affinity, he scoured Hydae for humans and beasts who could touch Mater. Once he found enough subjects, Amuni, weakened the Kassite—the great barrier between the Planes—and was able to open a rift into the Nether and capture several thousand netherlings. He then taught his most powerful followers, the Skadwaz, how to create monsters to do their bidding. Using a great Materforging, they combined the netherlings with the people and beasts they collected to create a new breed of creature—shadelings. The Skadwaz ravaged the worlds for all manner of unique creatures on which to use this
transformation. When their army was strong enough, they attacked Denestia.
“But the Eztezians had a great power on their side. A power akin to the gods.
“The netherlings, who hated Amuni and many of the other gods for the experiments they often used on their kind, had imbued their power into the Eztezians. A power said to be stronger than the essences we see around us. Using that power, and led by Eztezian Damal Adelfried, the Denestian forces defended against the shade's hordes in battle after battle. Oceans boiled and swirled into maelstroms or became deserts, mountains crumbled, forests died, becoming barren lands...”
Ryne told the story just as the book did. Some of his earlier tension eased from his body as Kahkon’s eyes took on an added spark. The telling continued for over an hour before Taeria was finished, and Kahkon fell asleep.
A knock sounded on the mender’s door. The old woman wiped sweat from her forehead and away from her weary eyes, and shuffled to the door. A few words passed between her and her visitor before she returned to Ryne.
“Mayor Bertram wishes to meet with you at Hagan’s,” Taeria said.
Ryne nodded. His eyes remained on the boy. From the youth’s aura, he still struggled, but his chances at survival had increased tenfold. “Thank you for all you’ve done, Taeria. I’m sorry I brought this upon Carnas.”
“Foolishness,” Taeria said, “We knew what you were when we accepted you here among us. Besides, living in the Ostania’s wilds was never meant to be safe. Go now before Bertram and Hagan kill each other.”
Ryne smiled at that last, opened the door, and ducked outside.
Although night had fallen, the day’s heat lingered in the air and wispy clouds scudded across the dark sky. Denestia’s twin moons shone silvery blue, their hue glimmering in deviate highlights over anything the lamps and torches in Carnas didn’t touch.
Striding down Carnas’ main road, Ryne barely noticed the villagers who greeted him, many hailing him for saving Kahkon. Lara shuffled for a place by his side. She too showered him with thanks as she matched his long strides by running in short bursts. Ryne acknowledged her with a distracted smile and a nod while peering over the throng gathered near Hagan’s Inn.
The few older children out this late ran beside him, their laughter haunting him, every face familiar. They all came to his home to hear his stories, to learn. Feet pattered next to him for a while longer until his long strides left them all behind. Still, he couldn’t escape the occasional frown or weighted gazes from other village folk on his path. Neither could he shut out the occasional caustic tone when they mentioned his name in whispers at the edge of his hearing.
The day he woke over seventy years ago came to him as he relived it. Dazed and confused, he’d opened his eyes to a strange place filled with the most exotic life one could imagine, overflowing with primordial forces of Mater that flooded him. Sakari stood over him, expressionless as always. An Entosis, Sakari would later tell him, is where he awoke. A place hidden from the rest of the world only those with a gift like his could see much less enter. On that day, he rose with no memory of his past. All he knew was his name, his skill with his sword, how to utilize his Scripts, and to his shame, harness his power to murder.
Through the years, he’d tried so hard to disappear, to hide himself away from the many wrongs he’d committed since then, to find the answers the Svenzar said he must seek. His many names spilled through his head.
Ryne the Shadeslayer, Ryne the Lightbringer, Ryne the Deathbringer, Ryne the Lost Battleguard. That last made him spit. He remembered the fools who worshipped him back then as if he really was some god’s Battleguard. Yet, over time, his name became lost. It dwindled to a whisper, a myth, something told by mothers to scare their children. Sakari would return with stories from cities he’d visited where people believed Ryne never did exist or was dead, and finally he thought he found peace. Until now.
Ryne seethed. This woman, Mariel, this priestess of Ilumni, changed all that. She tracked him as if she knew his identity, and since her appearance, the deaths had begun. And now, not only had Alzari assassins once again appeared, but Kahokn’s life hung in the balance. As if all of that wasn’t enough, one of the greatest threats Denestia had known during the War of Remnants and the Shadowbearer War had reappeared.
He didn’t believe in coincidence. Things would get worse. Maybe, he should’ve killed her when she first appeared, but that little voice in his mind, the one that reminded him of his past, the one he often listened to the last few years convinced him to stop. Maybe, this time the voice was wrong.
Without so much as a nod to the two guards outside Hagan’s Inn, he jerked the door open and entered. “Hello, Hagan,” Ryne said, his quiet voice carrying through the room. “Bertram.” He nodded in the general direction of the ebony-skinned mayor. “I’m tempted to go after Mariel again.”
Double chin jiggling, Hagan’s head snapped around from giving instructions to his serving women. Vana and Vera went off to do his bidding.
“Please, don’t do anything rash,” begged Hagan, his heavy brow furrowed as he took in Ryne’s scowl. The innkeeper sat at an oak table, his stubby, sausage fingers dwarfing his pipe.
A few feet away, Mayor Bertram sat, the expression on his face perking up at Ryne’s statement.
“Rash would’ve been to kill her the day she showed.” Ryne strode to the table, the stained wooden floor creaking beneath his weight. He slung the leather strap connected to his scabbard over his head, placed his sheathed greatsword on the table, and eased into the only chair in Hagan’s Inn made to accommodate his eight-foot frame.
On any other night, the establishment would already be crowded with villagers, even more so with the unusually dry weather the past few days. There would be singing and dancing with many taking turns on the small stage to recite poetry while Miss Lara would play her ivory flute. Not now. Tonight, the pall and gloom of the day’s events dimmed even the lamps that hung from braziers and cast their flickering light about the serving hall, and made the moonlight filtering through curtains inconsequential. The tables and chairs spread throughout the room and set against the inn’s sandstone walls were empty. The guards at the inn’s entrance made sure they stayed that way. No glasses clinked, no laughter roared, and there was no buzz of conversations. The silence whispered ill tidings.
“You could’ve saved some lives if you killed Mariel that first day. The boy wouldn’t be hurt right now.” Single eye glinting, the mayor’s scarred face puckered with the accusation. “How’s he doing?”
“He may yet live,” Ryne answered. He continued as Bertram muttered a thankful prayer, “And to be honest, Bertram. I think we’ve saved more lives by not killing her.”
The mayor grunted his disagreement. “I’m telling you, those murders, and now this. She’s responsible.”
The innkeeper’s potbelly threatened to burst from his sweat-stained shirt as he leaned forward. “For all we know, them bodies could be the work of lapras. Or this other golden-haired woman Ryne saw. Or the Alzari mercenaries. They be more ruthless than any.” Holding up his pipe to the lamp, he used the meaty thumb on his other hand to knead giana leaves into the bowl.
“Or they could be her work,” Bertram retorted. “You shouldn’t be so willing to rule her out.”
“And you shouldn’t be so willing to condemn her,” Hagan admonished. “Not without proof.” Lighting a tinder stick in the oil lamp on the table with one over-sized hand, he stuck his pipe into the corner of his mouth with the other.
“Because what Forian said isn’t proof enough?” Bertram’s eyebrow arched.
“You put him up to that nonsense,” Hagan scoffed, touching the tinder stick to the giana leaves and puffing.
“I may have done many things, but that wasn’t one of them. People do have a mind of their own. Her preaching that Streamean puke doesn’t help much. How many of them worship Ilumni’s light will always be tainted by those who sacrifice bawling babes and animals to appease Amuni’s black
heart. I wonder how many within their own Tribunal partake in that blasphemy.”
“There you go again.” Hagan rolled his eyes. “It be shit like that makes our people act the way they do. You say what you want and refuse to think of the consequences. What if it is that golden-haired woman and not Mariel?”
Bertram grunted. “The golden-haired woman that no one besides Ryne and Sakari have seen?”
“It sounds like you be saying Ryne didn’t see what he saw.” Lips curled into a tight smile, but his watery eyes deadly serious, Hagan puffed on his pipe once more. When he exhaled, perfumed giana smoke spilled into the air.
Bertram fidgeted when he eyed Ryne. “I’m not saying that, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone had visions deep in the woods.”
Ryne shrugged. “She was real enough. I have Sakari keeping an eye out for her and Mariel.”
“All I’m saying is, there’s been six corpses since Mariel showed up,” Bertram argued, “And eight of our own have went missing. I would think that’s enough proof. Been what? Six years since the last killing in Carnas?”
“Could just be coincidence an infected lapra decided to hunt in these parts,” Hagan said.
Bertram gave Hagan a sidelong glance.”Not even you believe that. And I would bet if we allowed your regulars in, they’d agree with me. The old prophecies say—”
“Yes, yes.” Hagan waved his hand dismissively. “I know what they say. What I believe be something different.”
Ryne let their argument wash over him. “No lapra could shred bodies in such a way. If you bothered to look at Kahkon’s wounds, you would know what attacked him didn’t kill those strangers we found. Neither did the Alzari.”
“See,” Bertram began, as if Ryne’s words confirmed his suspicions about the woman. “That means she—”
“I found the missing eight.”
The two men gaped. Smiles began before they turned into frowns at Ryne’s grim expression.