Etchings of Power (Aegis of the Gods)

by Simpson, Terry C. ; Wilson-Viola, D Kai; Ordonez Arias, Gonzalo

  Cracked and pitted cobblestones marred the Outer Ring’s narrow roads as they continued to follow Rosival. One in every three buildings were in a state of disrepair, paint peeled and reduced to faded blues and whites. Refuse lined more roads than not. Flies buzzed about, and small dogs and large swamp rats dug or scurried among the garbage.

  Disgusting. Ryne shook his head. He abhorred the thought that the less fortunate should be forced to live in squalor. What upset him even more was how the rich contributed to the situation. He’d seen Castere during the storms or hard rains. Filth would run into the slums carried down by the drains from the Inner City. He gazed across several canals and culverts where workers dug trenches while other laborers loaded refuse onto a flat cargo vessel. Well, at least it seems they’re addressing the situation.

  They soon reached the bulwark at the Mid Ring. Lances dotted the battlements, and guards patrolled atop the walls or kept a vigilant eye from the many towers. Here, they encountered workers collecting garbage in two-wheeled drays pulled by dartans along roads in much better condition. Once loaded, the dartans headed toward the Outer Ring. The streets here had also been cleared of regular folk, restricting passage to soldiers.

  When they came upon the Inner Ring and its crenellated rampart, the streets became spotless, paved with large flagstones in mosaic designs. Villas dotted the hundred-foot wide avenue, their deep blue and violet walls gleaming. Spires stretched twice the height of the two hundred-foot walls, and sunlight reflected from the buildings’ glass-covered facades. Fountains lined the main road, and small ponds filled with fish decorated some areas. Pillars adorned the entrance to each villa with manicured gardens hedging most properties.

  Another thing stood out to Ryne within the Inner Ring—the number of soldiers. They marched through the streets or stood in lined formations numbering in the tens of thousands. Infantry, dartan divisions, archers, and several cohorts who displayed the Waterwall insignia of Astoca’s Matii, the Namazzi, crowded the squares. Ryne smiled at the occasional shift or fidget among the troops when Thumper rode by.

  They turned onto a marbled colonnade, wide enough for twenty wagons to travel abreast, which led to the castle’s main gates. Immaculate flagstones, and even more fountains sprouting water at timed intervals, decorated the area. Manicured gardens, much more beautiful than any before, spread to the sides. Guards stood at attention along this path, tasseled lances held high.

  Looming ahead was Castere Keep, its towers and spires extending a thousand feet into the air as Astoca’s dedication to Aeoli, its walls glittering in silvery blue. Disguised within the beauty were arrow slits, murder holes, and sally gates. Twin barbicans guarded the raised, heavy gate and portcullis. The Waterwall fluttered from multiple flag posts. Ryne saw the castle for what it was—a fortress.

  They rode through the gates into a courtyard and past two matching guard formations standing at strict attention to either side of the walkway that ended at the stairs to the castle itself. Ten servants in white livery ran down the wide stairs. Rosival dismounted and passed his reins to two such. Without being told, Sakari hopped down and Ryne followed suit, handing Thumper’s reins to a wide-eyed young Astocan who stared, openmouthed. The young man’s partner nudged him in the side. Still staring, the youth muttered an apology. After quick bows, the servants led the mounts toward a path on one side.

  Rosival turned to Ryne and said, “Master Waldron, as a safety measure it is requested you leave your weapons here with the guards. Due to the nature of recent events, only the Royal Guards are allowed to be armed in the King’s presence.”

  Ryne did not bother to look at the Lieutenant. “In that case, I’ll be leaving.” He raised a hand toward the servant leading Thumper away. “Hul—”

  “Wait.” Rosival wiped sweat from his forehead. “Allow me to pass word of your arrival.”

  “We’ll be sitting on your pretty stairs waiting. If you take too long, I’m leaving.” With that, Ryne strode to the steps and sat.

  Rosival spoke to a guard, and then hurried inside.

  From where Ryne sat, he could see through the gates and down into the city and land for miles to the northeast. From this vantage point, someone in Castere must have seen the smoking clanholds. That would explain why the soldiers were questioning the Alzari at the gates. The King was already aware of the threat.

  “You may enter,” Rosival said when he returned soon after.

  They followed the Lieutenant up the stairs and through a wide gateway manned by several guards in bronze armor. Hands on swords, they stared straight ahead as if they saw nothing. Not a single guard reached higher than Ryne’s chest.

  The entrance opened into a long hall of marble and paneled wood, polished until it could hold a blurred reflection. Tapestries and murals illustrating great battles hung above the paneling. The most prominent depicted the gods Hyzenki and Aeoli at war, commanding storms and seas in battle against the Eztezians—a race of giants the size of the Svenzar. A few displayed the King on his hunts.

  Along the length of the hall, stone columns supported inlaid vaulted ceilings with lamps in sconces adorning each pillar. Ryne’s feet made little to no noise on the lush carpets. Every fifteen feet, guards stood at attention on alternating sides.

  Doorways, with the Waterwall standard draped above, intersected the hall at regular intervals. Liveried servants ran back and forth from rooms or bustled up and down the hall. Some carried food, others drink, and yet others held trays of fruit. The sweet aromas wafting from the dishes made Ryne’s stomach grumble. Rosival led them straight ahead into the Audience Chamber.

  Dignitaries and nobles in extravagant clothing crowded the hall. Long coats reaching down to their knees, skin like polished copper, heads shaved on one side, marked Felani from the west. Harnan Lords, their skin tanned to ebony, puffed about in embroidered jackets and dresses buttoned to the neck, dabbing at their heads with scented scarves. With one side of their chests exposed, often with nothing more than painted stripes across the skin, Cardian Lords and Ladies prowled in bright colored, sheer satins and linens that did little to hide their bodies. Colorful tattoos on baldheads indicated the Banai nobility among the crowds. Most listened to an Astocan in gold and white silks who stood on a dais at the room’s center.

  The Audience Chamber contained more vaulted ceilings, paneled wood, silk and satin drapes, and tiered chandeliers. Huge marbled pillars marked the first two hundred paces into the room like monolithic sentinels. Representations of Hyzenki and Aeoli peeked from the tall, stained-glass windows partially hidden by satin curtains. Smaller windows with barely discernible images of Humelen, Liganen, Ilumni and Rituni were located just below the others. A flowered rug ran all the way to the dais.

  “Sacrilege,” said Sakari, his voice still passive, his gaze fixed on the smaller windows. “They are a token gesture to the other nobles here, nothing more.”

  Rosival missed a step and glanced back at Sakari.

  “I wondered when you would say something. Maybe, you’re getting old after all,” Ryne replied, but Sakari offered no response as they stopped among the pillars.

  King Voliny sat sprawled on his throne, a hundred feet from the room’s center. The large marble chair, with a likeness of a Waterwall carved into it, stood on a raised platform several feet higher than the dais where the Astocan spoke. Dressed in pristine cerulean blue, with gold scrollwork running up his coat sleeves, the King made for an imposing figure despite one sleeve ending at the elbow. A beak for a nose and hard angles highlighted his clean-shaven face, and his russet skin shone like oiled leather. Silver highlights set off his black hair, which was pulled back into a tight braid. A foolish person could mistake his lazed sprawl for inattention until they met those piercing blue eyes. His body shifted ever so slightly when his gaze crossed Ryne.

  For an instant, the King’s aura appeared to change shades. None of what Ryne saw was malevolent, but something about the aura felt out of place. It tickled some familiarity in the b
ack of Ryne’s mind. Where have I seen such an aura before? Try as he might, he couldn’t dredge up the memory. For the moment, he dismissed the thought.

  There were no guards visible, but he could sense and see their auras all the same. They were positioned next to the pillars he and Sakari stood among and at various locations throughout the room. He found King Voliny’s choice for Royal Guards to be ironic. The man held Hyzenki and Aeoli in such high esteem, yet found it prudent to send Namazzi Matii whose strengths all lay in Forging the Flows, to be trained by the Svenzar in the elements of Forms. The same Svenzar who stood behind their Formist beliefs in their worship to Humelen and Liganen, and who the Astocans and their Flowic beliefs disdained.

  Nevertheless, what these Matii did despite their weakness in the Forms impressed Ryne. Maintaining a constant Forge drained a person until they collapsed. Push beyond those limits and they would die, their aura torn in such a fashion their Mater spilled from them until they expired. Instead, these Namazzi had each placed a single Forge on themselves and the surface they used to Mask their presence. Then, they stood absolutely still in order not to disturb the Forge. The smallest motion other than breathing would reveal them. At least ten guards were Masked at the pillars behind Voliny. Ryne counted another fifty throughout the room. Impressive, indeed.

  Ryne’s attention shifted to the Astocan on the dais.

  “It is for this reason I believe we cannot wait,” said the powder-faced Astocan Lord. “If this threat is real, we should marshal our forces and strike first.” He waited for the King’s nod and stepped down.

  A Cardian Lord came forward but dipped his head and averted his eyes as the Astocan passed him. He made a great show of bowing to the King and the other Astocans in the chamber. Ryne shook his head at the gesture. Cardians believed their distant cousins to be of lesser stock, but ever since the Astocans defeated them in their last war, Cardians showed deference to them. Except in their clothing. Cardians wore bright clothes to show off what they called their ‘purity of color’. Ryne couldn’t see himself bowing and scraping to any man, for any reason.

  This Cardian was dressed in vibrant yellows and reds that highlighted his ebony skin. “King Voliny and my esteemed colleagues, the question is whether the threat is real to anyone but the Alzari. Did they finally run afoul of those who inhabit the Nevermore Heights?” His already harsh voice was made more so by the growling way Cardians spoke. “Could it not be the savage Harnan tribes from within the Mondros or the Nevermore? Why should we defend the Alzari after all they have done in the past?”

  Those comments brought shouts from the Harnans, proclaiming their innocence and decrying the Cardian noble’s insinuations.

  King Voliny’s sharp voice echoed through the chamber. “Whatever they may be, I saw the smoke with mine own eyes and several of my spies reported the clanholds did fall. Whomever the invaders, they are a threat to us all, Lord Traushen.”

  Traushen dabbed a cloth over the wet slits on his neck, which opened and closed in a slow rhythm. “The Cardian Council hears this, but in light of the past differences between the five territories, we ask for time to consider and gather evidence on our own.”

  “You ask for a commodity we may not have,” Voliny stated with a wave of his hand and Traushen stepped down from the dais.

  A wide, bald-headed Banai ambassador stepped up after Traushen. He made a sweeping bow to the King before he began. “Your Majesty, our concerns differ somewhat.” The Banai’s voice, like so many of his people, was soft yet impressionable. “Memories of Amuni’s Children and before them, the Setian, still ring fresh among us Banai. We believe this threat is real. It has been foretold in the great carvings of Humelen and Liganen. The day when the dreaded Eztezian giants return draws nigh. On that day, gods and daemons alike shall cross the darkness of the Nether and chaos will rule our lands. Should we not band together, Ostania will fall and the rest of Denestia with it.”

  An uproar followed the ambassador's words with many a voice decrying the Banai as a race, and shouting for him to have his people go back to hiding in their mountain cliffs and forests near the Broken Lands. Astocans yelled profanities about him mentioning the gods of Forms within their sacred halls.

  “You dare to speak of the Eztezians to us?” berated Lord Traushen. “The ones who betrayed all? Who deserted their duties, allowed the shade to breach the Nether and enter Denestia in the first place? Those who fell from grace, whom the gods cursed with disease until their kind was culled from the land? You dare!”

  “Enough!” King Voliny’s voice cut through the din. “There is a reason I commanded this audience every day. Debate and division has ever been our failing. I waited for someone that none of us can deny, in hopes my messengers would reach him, but it seems he is here even before they reached his home. Step forward, Master Ryne Waldron.”

  “Wait here, Sakari,” Ryne said.

  If there were any complaints during the King’s last speech, they died at the mention of Ryne’s name. Breaths sucked in and quiet chatter followed. As Ryne strode forward, silence grew heavy in front of him. Faces hardened then melted like wet snow when he strode by them. Some noses turned up, followed by a few sniffs. Ryne felt his lips curl. He must smell like an old dartan over a hunk of rancid meat. Postures of many around the room made an audible shift, some into defensive positions, and others as if they were ready to flee. When he passed, the murmurs spread behind him. Many mentioned his sword. Expectant eyes watched from all angles as he stepped onto the dais.

  “Your Majesty,” Ryne said and inclined his head to the King.

  “Master Waldron,” Voliny replied, “You have served the kingdoms well in many…endeavors. As can be expected, where there is strife, you appear. I assumed one as traveled as you would have heard about the clanholds, and I hoped you would come here. Thank the Flows my prayers were answered.”

  Ryne nodded. “Yes, I heard what happened to clanholds. I got a firsthand account from an Alzari fleeing with his family to the Vallum.” A few whispers followed. “Then I saw what these invaders can do. My home, Carnas, is no more.” The murmurs increased to a loud buzz.

  “Silence,” the King commanded. When the noise died down, he continued. “I’m sorry for your loss. May the Flows bless those who perished and keep their souls safe. Did you see this army when it attacked the clanholds?”

  “No, but they wield the shade and use it to slaughter. The Alzari I met described Amuni’s Children. Everyone in Carnas is dead.”

  Loud gasps and prayers trickled around the room. A voice he recognized yelled, “What about the women and children?”

  Ryne turned toward Traushen. “They spared no one.”

  More shouts and cries followed that statement. This reminded him so much of the Council’s squabbles in Carnas that Ryne’s stomach roiled. He held up a hand and all quieted.

  “The choice is yours to work together. Eventually, they’ll strike again. The invaders already took the clanholds, and I’m sure the dullest among you understand the gravity of such a situation. You’ve been weakened even before the first sally.”

  “The Alzari clans got nothing more than they deserved,” yelled Lord Traushen.

  Ryne shrugged. “Maybe they did, but if this force can take the clanholds, what chance does the pitiful Cardian dregs have?”

  The Cardian’s face reddened. On one side of his neck, the three slits flared open and closed.

  Ryne gazed around the room. “I never understood why so many of you hate the Alzari so when you made them the mercenaries they are.” There were a few murmurs and nods of agreement. “It’s quite simple. I studied the possible defenses here in Castere. While you could hold out for years, you would eventually fall once your resources ran out. By destroying the clanholds, the Ostanian kingdoms have been weakened enough that an army as large as the reports given will sweep across the land. Even if you band together, you’ll only be able to hold them but for so long. With the Svenzar staying hidden in their mountain homes,
I suggest you send to Granadia for help.”

  Shouts and curses spilled from most around the room in a thunderous roar. Arguments for never allowing Granadia to command any more of Ostania than it already did ensued. Yet, The King appeared calm.

  Voliny’s voice rose above the din. “My generals agree with your position.” The noise died down. “A few days after the attacks, we sent a message to the Vallum by Envoy, asking for assistance. We await the Tribunal’s answer.”

  Silence swept across the room. Doubtful expressions crossed the faces of many. Only a few seemed to back the King’s decision.

  Good, at least word has reached the Vallum already. I’ll leave today to see what legions the Granadians have. Now for the worse news. Now to tell them what they didn’t wish to hear. “A wise decision, Your Majesty. This army does indeed possess shadelings. Wraithwolves, darkwraiths and at least one daemon.”

  “Blasphemy,” someone shouted.

  “No one would dare, not after the War of the Remnants or the Shadowbearer War,” yelled another.

  “They cannot be enough of them left after the wars to even matter!” shouted another voice.

  “But you said, you never saw them,” countered Traushen.

  “I said I didn’t see the army when they attacked the clanholds,” Ryne corrected. “But I fought a few of them on my way here.”

  “You fought a daemon?” Traushen’s forehead creased with doubt.

  “No, but I faced several wraithwolves. And there were more than a dozen darkwraiths. They’ve been ravaging farms in the countryside to supply their army. Every farm I passed has been stripped bare. In Carnas, I saw men, women, and children with their sela gone. You decide—”

  “Oh gods, there’s an army approaching from the south,” a frantic voice yelled.