Embers of a Broken Throne

by Terry C. Simpson

  Below and to his left, where another road branched off, was the path to the Travelshaft, its surface coal-black. Beside it, Irmina and two Ashishins battled desperately against four darkwraiths and three war-painted Alzari. From the way one of the Ashishin’s arm hung limp, the fight would soon be over.

  Half the score of Irmina’s Dagodin guard were dead, blood pooling beneath them. The other half fought a knot of black-armored Amuni’s Children but was not faring well against their lance-wielding foes.

  Unable to attack with ranged Forges lest they strike friend as well as foe, Irmina and the Ashishins resorted to swords or limited their use of essences to encase their fists in fire or earth. The fight was a blur of flames and sparks, met by tendrils and swirls of shade from the smoke-like darkwraiths and their Alzari counterparts’ imbued blades. The wounded Ashishin went down, a black Alzari dagger puncturing his chest.

  Still in midair, Ancel Shimmered down, landing next to Irmina as she parried and dodged the attacks of three darkwraiths and one Alzari. His longsword sheared a darkwraith in half; his shortsword parted the next one’s head from its shoulders. The two shadelings dissipated in a burst of ash.

  Irmina ducked under a slash from an Alzari, shifted her Stance to Lightweave, and dived into Ilumni’s Radiance, a flurry of slashes that ripped through the assassin, leaving him with his mouth agape, painted face contorted in agony. In the same motion she twisted her body to avoid the darkwraith’s thrust. The creature’s shade-enhanced body glided past her and onto Ancel’s outstretched blade. Its death wail faded to an echo, its ashy remains carried away on the wind.

  Panting, he glanced toward the other Ashishin to see her opponents had also been dispatched, and judging by the shorn bodies of the two Alzari, it had been Ryne’s work. The woman was staring, eyes wide with shock, as Ryne made short work of Amuni’s Children, his greatsword a gleaming arc of Etching-covered silversteel that killed with each blow, cleaving through plate armor like paper.

  Ancel returned his attention to Irmina. “Are you hurt? Did their blades touch you?” He tried to keep the fear from his voice, but he couldn’t help it.

  “No,” Irmina replied, chest heaving. “I did all I could to make certain of that, but if you hadn’t come when you did …” Her face paled as the words trailed off.

  Relieved, he sheathed his weapons, longsword at his left hip and shortsword over his left shoulder. “Don’t dwell on it. It was Ilumni’s will that saw us here in time.” Yet, something about the fight bothered him, something he couldn’t quite place or grasp. What was missing? He frowned as he took in the carnage around him, the air thick with blood and offal, noting the expedition’s mounts were all dead. “Where did they come from?” He gestured with his head to the Alzari corpses.

  “Those buildings.” Irmina pointed to a line of ancient structures, the pillars before them broken, some strewn on the wide staircases that led up to each. The Travelshaft’s entrance yawned in the middle of them, black and foreboding. “It was almost as if they were waiting for us.”

  A sudden thought struck him, and with it the sensation of what he’d missed. “Where’s Charra?”

  “There were more darkwraiths and Alzari, nine of them,” Irmina said. “He ran toward the buildings with them chasing him.”

  Of late it had become common for Charra to follow Irmina. Not that Charra no longer acted as his protector, but those instances were few. It was as if Charra had decided Ancel could fend for himself. Knowing the daggerpaw was really a netherling did little to lessen his concern at the moment. They’d been together since the animal was a pup. Troubled by the lack of Charra’s customary roars or barking grunts when involved in a fight, Ancel strained to see beyond the shadowy windows and doors of each structure. What if the shadelings had managed to best Charra?

  “He’s killed more of them than either of us combined over the past weeks,” Irmina said. “I’m certain he’ll be fine.”

  Ancel nodded absently, realizing he’d voiced his concern, his focus on the buildings and the Travelshaft. “We—”

  A groan from the remaining Ashishin made him look over. The woman collapsed, face first, and for the first time he noticed the blood soaking her cloak was her own.

  “Dear gods,” he whispered, hurrying to her side. He rolled her over to see the gash that rent her furs and one side of her cloak from shoulder to stomach. Even if one of their mounts still lived, there was no moving the Ashishin. Black veins were beginning to show on her face, creeping up from neck to cheeks.

  In moments Ryne was squatting next to him, his form casting a massive shadow. Irmina had known to keep her distance.

  “The taint is spreading too fast. Even if Trucida makes it here, this one cannot be saved.” Regret colored Ryne’s tone.

  “The Dagodins?” Ancel made sure not to touch the woman’s flesh. His Etchings protected him from the shade’s corruption, but his willingness to test its limits despite Ryne’s reassurances only went so far.

  “Four like her,” Ryne answered. “I already cut off the heads of the others. We need to do the same to the dead here. And burn them.”

  With a grim nod, Ancel straightened, made his way to the corpses, and proceeded to lop off their heads. After collecting the Alzari weapons he dropped the cursed blades onto their torsos. Calling on heat’s essences he created a flame in his palm. He waited a moment, allowing it to build before he cast the fire at the dead. The bodies ignited with a whoosh, the heat making Irmina turn away, but he felt little if any of it. The reek of cooked flesh and burning hair assailed his nostrils. From back up the cobbled avenue came the drum of hooves.

  “Go with my father when he arrives,” he said to Irmina, gaze locked on the burning bodies.

  “What of Mariana and the other wounded?” she asked.

  “We will see what Trucida can do for them.” A web of black had spread across the Ashishin’s face.

  “And then?”

  He turned to meet her gaze. “Then Ryne and I will do what must be done.” With each occurrence of corruption, she’d forced him to explain the task before him. Not for her lack of knowledge, but for him to speak of the choice he’d made in Randane. He still had regular nightmares over burning the city with Eldanhill folk within its confines, some of them alive, if having the shade’s taint eat you from the inside out could be called living.

  Irmina stepped in closer and took his hand in hers. Their fingers intertwined. “I’m glad you came in time, and I understand your concern for me, but neither death nor seeing someone turned is new to me. Besides, I still have a Travelshaft to visit.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment in surrender, knowing nothing he said would deter her. So he simply drew her closer, her warmth a welcome comfort as he watched the bodies burn while Ryne passed instructions to the surviving Dagodins.

  When his father arrived in the company of Trucida, six Ashishins, the ten Pathfinders, silver armor gleaming, and another dozen Dagodins, Ancel allowed himself a measure of relaxation. Not enough to dissuade his concern over Charra, however. The daggerpaw had yet to return.

  Trucida did what she could for the wounded who were too far gone, her skeletal fingers working as she manipulated their organs and used several vials of different concoctions. All to no avail. The corruption had spread too fast. In the end she gave them something for the pain. None were conscious when he and Ryne chopped off their heads and burned them.

  “Are you certain going after the daggerpaw is the wisest choice?” Father asked as the flames ate the bodies.

  “Yes, if the situation wasn’t dire he would have returned already,” Ancel said. He and Ryne were still the only ones who knew Charra to be a netherling. “Not to mention that Irmina insists on seeing to the Travelshaft.”

  “Makes more sense than worrying over Charra,” Stefan said. “If it’s still active it’s more a danger to us than anything else.”

  “Well, he went in that direction anyway. I have a feeling whatever is keeping him is connected.” I
t was more than just a feeling; it was certainty, and with the sense came a chill that wasn’t from the cold.

  “At least take more Matii with you … please,” Father implored.

  Ancel looked into Stefan’s emerald eyes. They were tight with worry. “If there’s something in those old temples that can kill Ryne, Trucida, Irmina, and myself, I doubt there would be anything the others could do to harm it. I know you fear for me, Father, but I survived Randane and the Iluminus, I will get by this.” Since recovering from his imprisonment, Father had changed a bit, no longer insisting that Ancel lead the refugees, and often attempting to sway him from expeditions or from battles against the shadelings stalking them. Ancel understood the sentiments even if he didn’t agree.

  “Fine,” Father said, scowling before his features softened, “but please be careful, and promise you’ll return.”

  “I promise.” The smile on the old man’s scarred face was a welcome sight.

  By the time the flames guttered out and the bodies were nothing but so much ash, Stefan and the other Matii were already riding back to their encampment along the city’s eastern outskirts. Ancel and his group, the setting sun behind them, headed toward the ancient temples. As he scanned the buildings and the shadows gathering among the numerous alleys Ancel couldn’t shake the feeling that something watched them. At one point he swore he picked out some movement, a distortion at the edge of his vision, a haze of sorts, but when he focused there was nothing out of the ordinary, just some old cloth fluttering from a flagpole.

  Inside the temples, daylight speared through rents in the roof or through broken windows. The place reeked of mold and animal piss. Under the stench lay a stronger odor. Rot. Decay. Sickly sweet. Bodies left out on a battlefield for weeks. The corruption choked the air. Before long they were covering their mouths and noses with their hands.

  They found the first corpse inside the doorway of the first temple. The head was in the middle of the room, features frozen in its death throes. Shade’s taint encompassed his face.

  Worse was the complete lack of sela. Even in death there should be some hint of the essence, a residue of sorts. But this body appeared as if it never had sela, which meant the person could not have lived. Either that or someone or something had drained the body completely. Ancel gritted his teeth at the sudden recollection of Mensa achieving a similar act against the Eldanhill refugees.

  Ryne set the body alight and continued forward.

  The second corpse was sitting with its back against a doorway to a set of stairs, the head on the landing. Its condition was the same as the first. This one, Ancel burned.

  The bodies continued on into other rooms, sometimes with blood trails along the floors, and signs of a fight: walls with deep gouges, and pillars with obvious sword slashes. The lack of sela essences held true for each one.

  When night plunged them into darkness, Trucida produced a lightstone from her pouch to illuminate their way. The deeper they went, the stronger the corruption became. He could taste it. During their trek Ancel had to submerge himself in the Eye lest the dread that formed a lump in his throat got the best of him. At his side Irmina appeared stoic, and he knew she must have done the same.

  A low growl Ancel recognized as Charra’s rumbled from a doorway up ahead. Heart thumping, he squeezed his sword hilt. To make for more difficult targets they spread apart as they approached.

  When he stepped inside Ancel could only stare in shock, bile rising in his throat, memories assailing him. What he had thought to be a room was actually a garden. A small grove. Kinai trees crowded its interior, all of them infested, covered in gray fungus, black ropy vines stretching from one to the next, the stench of corruption so malignant it felt like a physical weight upon his shoulders.

  “Wraithwood,” Irmina whispered.

  Her words sent a shiver through him. Ryne had told him of the purpose of such creations. They gave birth to shadelings.

  Charra stood a few feet from the first tree, a dozen Alzari bodies spread around him, all but two headless. Blood glistened on his bone hackles.

  A mound under the biggest tree drew Ancel’s attention. At first he thought them to be corpses before he made out the slow rise and fall of a chest here or there. The same vines connected them all like veins. Shade boiled throughout the air in a dark mass, coiling, a thing alive.

  He gasped as he recognized several of them: missing refugees they assumed had deserted. But the numbers weren’t right. There were too few of them.

  One of the dead Alzari lurched upright.

  Chapter 5

  “Stay back,” Ryne commanded. “Ancel, nothing leaves this room, even if you must call forth Etien.”

  “Understood,” Ancel said, voice grim.

  Shade essences coiled lazily around the room, within the trees, the bodies, the fungus, the vines, rising in dark wisps. The stench of corruption was so strong Ryne considered a Forging to prevent it. As he watched the mass, changes occurred, slight differences in the essences’ structures. Whatever balance there might have been was gone, dead like everything else within the grove. He hesitated a moment before striding in front of his charges, intent on doing what was necessary to protect them, but if the shade tainted Trucida and Irmina, they would have to be destroyed.

  A second corpse sat up. As with all the other dead, it lacked sela. Most of the kinai trees were in the same condition, a scant few struggling against the encroaching shade.

  “Is the shade giving them some form of life?” Irmina whispered.

  “Yes,” Ryne answered, “as it does with the shadelings.”

  “But even they have sela,” she protested.

  “The tainted here will eventually gain some,” Trucida said, “or else they would simply turn to ash.”

  Another corpse writhed, its head cocked at an inhuman angle.

  “As extreme as it sounded, Ryne is correct,” Trucida continued. “We cannot allow the shade to taint us. With the lack of sela, there would be no way I could save any of us.”

  “What you did for me when I was corrupted by Jaecar’s blade, couldn’t you …” Irmina’s voice trailed off.

  “You were in the company of two other men then,” Trucida said. “Men whose sela I could touch. Eztezians are immune to my skill. That is not to say what they possess isn’t sela. It is. But it’s somehow different, more potent, beyond my ability to Forge.”

  Ryne ignited his Etchings, their glow flooding his entire body. Beside him he felt Ancel do the same. “Shield them,” he said. “Use only Prima.”

  With those words he sent the power coursing through him into his greatsword. Drawing on shade, he Blurred, flitting from where he stood until he was next to the three dead men who were now standing, their attention drawn to the doorway. His blade sheared their bodies in half. Before their ashes fell, he’d Blurred again into the heart of the grove, into the heart of what was now a Wraithwood.

  Voices screamed in Ryne’s head, the voices of the essences, imploring him to take their power. Creepers lashed onto his legs. Infused with Prima, he smiled, stabbed his sword into the ground, and released its power.

  Light exploded outward and upward. Protected by his Etchings and his aura, he stood at the center of the storm, untouched by the heated backwash. The entire grove became ash, the corrupted shade dispelled. He could still hear the voices, but they were weaker now. Eventually, they dwindled into silence.

  Amid billowing smoke, Ryne turned and strode back to the doorway, his body feeling as if he’d just fought a great battle. At some point he would need to visit an Entosis to replenish what he’d spent, but they were close enough to Seti that he could wait. Ancel and Irmina were both watching him warily, while Trucida gave him one of those knowing smiles of hers. Sitting on its haunches, Charra appeared uninterested. Ryne nodded to them, wondering as he often did if the old woman was more than she appeared to be.

  Ancel squinted before he relaxed after a moment.

  “I would guess that means my aura is
fine?” Ryne allowed himself a small smile.

  “Yes,” Ancel said. “I, I’m sorry, but I had to be certain.”

  Ryne waved him off. “No need to apologize. I would have done the same.”

  With Ancel’s acceptance, Irmina’s hand eased away from her sword hilt. “What do you think could have made it?” She nodded toward the smoking ruins behind him.

  “A creature stronger than anything we killed thus far.” For several weeks now the shadelings had been close on their trail. At first he’d thought a traitor hid among those in the camp, but he’d set wards against the shade. They had exposed nothing.

  “I suggest we worry about it later and move on,” Ancel said. “I’d rather be anywhere but here.”

  They all murmured their agreement.

  “To the Travelshaft, then,” Ryne declared. “If there’s even a chance Amuni’s Children used it to gain on us, then it’s worth the risk to find out.” He was also concerned that the Tribunal might have sent out more hunting parties since the one’s he’d defeated.

  As they made their way through the temples Ancel joined him in the lead, brow furrowed, unease flitting across their link.

  “What troubles you?” Ryne asked.

  “The essences and your reaction. I’ve seen you Forge shade, yet you drew as little into you as possible before you Blurred. You say it’s yours to command, but … but you were afraid of it.”

  “More afraid of what I saw. I told you of the Harmonies—”

  “Yes, how the essences need us to survive, for balance. They feed off our emotions and sela. At least Mater does. But that still doesn’t explain your fear.”

  “The shade here was devoid of sela, empty of any emotion. Both had been stripped from it.”

  Ancel’s gaze became haunted. “I saw something similar in Randane when Mensa—” He shook his head against the memory.