Embers of a Broken Throne

by Terry C. Simpson

  “Tell her to get in line.”

  “I fear she thinks she’s at the head.”

  “Your brother and father might argue differently.”

  “My brother, what kind of a man is he?” Anton gazed toward the shade’s forces gathering along the barrier to the Great Divide.

  “Every bit of a man your father was and is. I would have been proud if he were my son.” He’d always wished to have his own children. Perhaps it was why he’d taken to Stefan. He sighed. What was done was done; nothing could change it now.

  Anton faced him, expression blank. “Will you willingly give guardianship to him?”

  “Unlike the others, the shade doesn’t work that way. It must be taken.”

  Silence ruled for a few moments.

  “And Merinian, will he let my brother have cold without a fight?”

  “Who is to say what that one will do?” Ryne stretched his senses to feel the other Eztezian deep in Everland. “He is as much a mystery to me as he is to you.”

  “If Ancel took possession of shade before he faced Merinian, his win would be assured. ”

  “If only it could work that way,” Ryne admitted, crestfallen. “Believe me, I tested him. The shade would destroy him in his current state.”

  “So many obstacles, so many people dead for this chance, for what we’re supposed to be. What if we’re all wrong?”

  “No regrets until we’re dead and gone,” Ryne said. “We all do what we must and hope it’s enough.”

  Before Anton could pursue the subject further, Ryne gestured toward the Great Divide. The abundance of shade essences increased as Teoden and whatever Skadwaz were with him Forged in an attempt to destroy the barrier Ryne had erected. “Even the Sanctums of Shelter wane under their attack. It’s time. I will drop the ward for moments only. You must be quick with your Forge.”

  Anton raised a gauntleted hand to signal the Stoneguard in formations on the slopes behind them. Down on the barren, rutted earth before the Great Divide, sand and dirt shifted as if from the gusts that scoured the land.

  Relying on the abundance of Mater being Forged to mask their intentions, Ryne and Anton opened portals near their troops. The wavy edge of the Great Divide’s barrier showed on the other side. En masse, the axe-wielding Stoneguard charged through.

  Ryne released the ward. He and Anton stepped from the portal and through the barrier to the roar of men and animals and the clash of weapons. In twenty other places, Sven and Stoneguard Forgers had opened similar portals, Materializing their assigned forces into the battle. In a milling mass of bodies the two sides toiled, the shadelings a black wave, the Harnan and Sven an avalanche of stone, leather, silver armor, axes and swords. The ward snapped back into place.

  The luminous glints of Sven and Harnan Shimmering toward the vasumbrals left a trail in the air. Within moments they were pouring Forge after Forge into the creatures. Incensed and unable to control their hunger, the vasumbrals sped toward their assailants, some diving under the earth to rise again amid a shower of debris. The Sven and Harnan Shimmered away.

  When the Forgers stopped, portals opened above the vasumbrals. Dagodins dropped down onto the creatures. Weapons flashed as the men and women began their work.

  Wails and screeches announced the presence of daemons. Gurangar roars joined their cries.

  Anton, along with four warriors in intricate golden armor, Shimmered to meet them. The Renders worked in tandem, disappearing and reappearing, Forging earth to encase Gurangars in dust before the creatures could vanish. Daemonic tentacles met armor made from the strongest minerals and metal.

  Unable to wait for the outcome of this fight, Ryne opened another portal into the Great Divide’s heart. He had faith they would hold.

  Capering shadows greeted him. Ignoring the empty prisons Forged with light along the walls, he headed for the main chamber.

  A gurangar appeared next to him, swinging its massive sword.

  Stone hands emerged from the walls, snaked out, and snatched the gurangar by its head. A sickening crunch followed. The hands continued to flow outward, a body coming with them. From the wall on the left stepped Harishna. Telisiana strode from the right.

  “I will guard the way back.” Kalvor’s voice echoed along the corridor.

  Without stopping Ryne continued until they reached a blank, black surface. The gate through the Kassite rippled from its center outward with each of his and the Svenzars’ steps. Heart thumping, Ryne Forged. The two Svenzar imitated what he’d done.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  They nodded.

  He held his palm out until it touched the black wall. He didn’t need to see to know where the weakness in the Kassite existed. He felt it. The abundant shade pouring from the rent called to him. With a deep breath, he allowed it into himself, and became whole despite its taint. He strode through the breach, the sensation of drowning threatening to overwhelm him. Seeking the Eye, he found the calm he needed.

  Shadelamps lit a carpeted walkway. When his eyes adjusted to the absolute blackness around him, he saw as if it were daylight within the stronghold. Up ahead, near a throne, three forms stood, waiting.

  A fourth lay at their feet. She had no aura.

  Ryne felt his eyes bulge, not at what she was, but who. He’d fought Thania Dorn long ago. And lost. Shaking off his initial shock and hoping it went unnoticed, he focused on the other three people.

  Encased in obsidian armor, from which the shadelamps reflected like an ashy plume, the three Skadwaz bore greatswords with Etchings carved into their surfaces. The largest of the men, almost equal in size to Ryne, removed his full plate helm.

  “I never expected you to return to the Divide much less enter Hydae.” Teoden’s teeth showed in a wide grin. His hair fluttered across his forehead as if from a breeze, except there was no wind in the chamber.

  Ryne restrained himself from lashing out at the man he knew first as one of his favorite students and then as the child Kahkon for whom he’d cared deeply. Patience. He projected his voice. “Lack of anticipation, always expecting events to turn a certain way has ever been your failing, Teoden.”

  The grin disappeared. “That is no longer my name. I am no longer your student.”

  “Another error.” Ryne stopped within fifty paces of the three Skadwaz.

  “Oh?”

  “Didn’t I teach you not to deny who you are? You claim you’re no longer my student, but as I recall when last we fought you used the Stances and Styles you learned from me.”

  Teoden threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the throne room. “I wanted to beat you with your life’s work. You pride yourself on being one of the best, but I’m better. You know it. I have seen it in your thoughts.”

  “Your ego, another mistake.” Ryne grimaced in disgust and shook his head.

  One of the Skadwaz grumbled something unintelligible.

  Ryne turned his gaze to him. “Be quiet for now. You’ll have your turn, that I promise.”

  In a blur of motion too quick for human eyes to follow, the Skadwaz darted across the room. Ryne stepped in closer while the man was in the midst of drawing his sword and landed a short punch to the midsection. Reinforced by the Forms, the blow blasted the Skadwaz off his feet and sent him flying into a wall.

  “I said to wait your turn.” Ryne faced Teoden, whose hands strained on the other Skadwaz’s armor.

  “Allow me.” Teoden took two steps forward.

  Shade bubbled all around him. It leaked from the air, oozed from the walls, flowed up from the ground, spilled from the lamps.

  In one moment Teoden was standing near the throne, and in the next he was slicing at Ryne’s face. Ryne tilted his head to one side. The blade whistled through empty air. A snarl issued from the essences congealed around the room.

  Again and again, the attacks came from different directions. Each time Ryne shifted only as much as he needed for each strike to miss.

  “You have to do better,” R
yne called out. “You were always predictable.”

  Teoden snickered. When his next attack struck, Ryne was barely able to get his sword up in time to block.

  “Better.” Ryne raised his sword.

  When a man received god-like power he tended to prefer his new gift rather than his natural talents. Ryne remembered being the same way when he became an Eztezian. Teoden’s issue was his reliance on the netherling fused to his head. Carried on the Flows, Ryne picked out the near indiscernible rustle of hair. He also continued to absorb the shade Teoden poured forth, the same essence that made up all of Hydae. He and the shade were one, had always been for as long as he could remember.

  There. A greatsword split the air. Ryne blocked.

  Again. Ryne dived and rolled away. As tempted as he was to call upon the other essences to delve into the Style and Stances each used, he kept his movements basic, unpredictable. He remained defensive the entire time, not once trying to strike his former student, knowing such an attempt was pointless and might give him away.

  Finally, the attacks stopped. The real Teoden reappeared near the throne, the other constructs of himself dissipating.

  “You Skadwaz were ever copies. A copy is never as good as the original. Isn’t that true?” Ryne allowed his gaze to drift down to the woman at Teoden’s feet. An abundance of shade essences spilled from her. In sickly grays instead of robust blacks, they grew, corruption seething within them. Prima battled against them, but Mater was growing stronger, drawing in sela from the surge of death and emotions outside in the Great Divide.

  Thania Dorn glanced up, her face a mass of bruises, gray hair a mess. “True.” Tendrils of shade spread from her into Teoden, giving him additional power. The strain of the stolen power showed in her aura. A spiderweb of cracks adorned its surface.

  “Lies.” Teoden kicked her. The woman grunted. “We were made better than you. You might have netherling blood, long diluted in your veins, but we are part netherling. We are what you could never be.” His face became a mottled mask of rage.

  Ryne projected his voice louder, injecting a hint of scorn. “If that is so, why is it that you cannot defeat me in simple combat? All your plots, your traps, your illusions, your tricks, amount to nothing. You even had me do your bidding, and still you fail. Shame you cannot see the strings that make you dance.”

  A wind rose. It whipped at Ryne, set the luminance within the shadelamps fluttering, and howled through the room. Within the gale he heard voices. They tried to crowd his head, speaking of power. Connected to his Etchings and Prima, he ignored them.

  “The only dancing to be done will be when I dance on your grave,” Teoden bellowed. “Did you not learn when I took what was yours? Your power is nothing compared to what I can wield.”

  “Is that so?” Ryne yelled over the wind, his gaze flitting to Thania for the briefest of moments. “Let me see your power in its entirety then.” A mere flicker of recognition from Thania’s eyes was all he needed. He braced himself for the onslaught.

  Fed by Thania, Teoden increased his Forge, drawing in shade. The essences built, a weight like the shoulders of a mountain. Black lightning arced across the room.

  In the chamber’s center, the guise of Ryne fell away from Harishna. The Svenzar erected a pillar of pure ebon steel between him and the lightning. The bolts struck and sent a shower of sparks cascading through the air.

  Hidden within the nearby wall, where he’d been since crossing over, Ryne opened a rift between Hydae and Denestia. The roar of battle flooded the chamber, steel clashing, Matii Forging, men and monsters screaming as they died. Shadeling and Svenzar forces were a boiling mass around the Great Divide. A vasumbral shot through the rift, drawn by Teoden’s massive Forge. It ripped through stone and pillars and sent debris cascading around it. Black rain fell through the opening.

  Teoden’s next attack shot a six-foot bar of shade toward the creature. The Forge died. The Skadwaz made to move but the floor surged up, Telisiana’s hands appearing to hold him in place.

  In the same instant, Harishna transformed his arm into a massive blade lined with Scripts. He flowed across the floor to strike.

  Unable to run, Teoden Blurred toward the Kassite’s breach, the gale he’d summoned trailing after him, its power wrought by the beings within Mater. He spun, calling more of the wind’s power to him.

  Ryne stepped from the pillar near the opening, already in mid-swing. He slammed his fist, encased with shade, into Teoden’s head. He ripped the netherling from the Skadwaz’s scalp, coming away with a gob of dripping flesh.

  “Using an enemy’s own deception against them is often a sure path to victory,” Ryne quoted from the Disciplines. “I told you to study them more. You should have listened instead of relying on the thoughts you were stealing from me.”

  A fount of Mater shot from Teoden’s body.

  A screech filled the air.

  Leaping away, Ryne narrowly avoided the vasumbral as its jaws snapped closed around the Skadwaz. Ryne Forged another portal, ahead of the creature, out into Denestia and the Great Divide once more. The vasumbral, still devouring Teoden, flew out into the battle. The portal snapped shut.

  He spun to the feel of Forgings behind him. Both remaining Skadwaz had their hands raised. Harishna and Telisiana were slumped against pillars.

  “Shade to balance light. Mercy to Gift death. Death to those found wanting,” Ryne intoned, drawing from the same power Teoden had been leeching from Thania.

  A soundless detonation announced the summoning of his sentient construct. A swath of essences, charcoal in color, blasted through the open roof and the ebon clouds above. In its midst stood, Senjin, Amuni’s Battleguard. Clothed in all black, Etien’s twin bore a blade to rival his brother. Shade spilled from him in wisps and tendrils.

  Ryne gazed at the Skadwaz. “I promised you a turn.”

  Chapter 39

  The fetid stench of death, burning buildings, and flesh choked the air. Blood stained the ground black. For five days they’d battled outside Kajeta before the shadelings breached the walls. Through the eyes of her zyphyl Irmina surveyed the battle, centering on the archdaemon and the banes it commanded.

  Knowing she possessed neither the power nor the skill to handle the creature, she’d lured it toward several Pathfinders and the disguised netherlings among them. The Nether’s ebonsteel-armored inhabitants buzzed around the colossal archdaemon, striking with tentacles or Forges. Despite the attacks, the creature still laid waste to many of the Desorin a few feet inside Kajeta’s walls.

  She focused her attention on her zyphyl and the connection to the Netherwood’s animals. They waited, scattered within the city.

  Horns pealed above the din of battle.

  The Desorin, Pathfinders, and Cardians fell back.

  A triumphant roar followed, the shade’s troops surging forward. Wraithwolves, darkwraiths, and gurangars Blurred after the fleeing soldiers. Amuni’s Children manned the walls now, firing flights of arrows deeper into the smoke that covered much of Kajeta. Drawn by hunger and bloodlust, the shadelings plunged into the gray soup.

  The buildings along every avenue shifted, essences reforming. Sven unfolded, stone blocks becoming arms legs and heads. The transformation repeated throughout the citadel.

  Irmina sent the command to the Netherwood’s animals to attack.

  “What’s happening,” Mirza asked from beside her.

  “The last stand.”

  Charra growled.

  “As many of the animals that live will retreat with the remainder of the Pathfinders,” Irmina said to the netherling.

  The beast settled down.

  “Well, we lasted longer than we expected,” Mirza said, looking toward where Ancel and his sister were Forging, the sea churning like the maelstrom depicted on the Cardian flags. “If not for her, we would already be dead.”

  Celina’s ships had arrived three days early. But they hadn’t been enough to transport the majority of the Desorin or to stave off t
he shade’s armies.

  Until Ancel devised a solution.

  He took one of the ships out to the edge of the bay where the deep waters began. There, he’d been able to create a portal. He made Celina do the same, opening several to Cardia, and followed her through. Within the next few hours, possibly a hundred such portals opened all along the Lost Sea, allowing in several Cardian armadas. Soldiers poured forth to do battle. Noncombatants were directed to the ships.

  Ancel and his sister abruptly stopped talking to stare off toward the west. Neither said a word, but some look of recognition passed between them. Their conversation resumed, growing more animated. Celina wasn’t pleased. In fact she appeared angry. The argument went on for a bit longer before Celina finally gave a reluctant nod. Ancel left his sister’s side and approached them. “It’s time for you two to go.”

  “And you?” she asked.

  “I still have work to do.” He gazed toward Delesden. The Svenzar stood with Halvor and Menerene overseeing the last of his people. “Don’t worry, I won’t get myself killed,” he added as they both opened their mouths to speak.

  As much as she wished to protest, she saw the determination in his eyes. Instead, she planted a kiss on his cheek. Mirza clasped hands with him.

  “Mirz, you’re to go back with my sister to Astoca. Don’t return to Benez until I come back.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me on this. Avoid the city at all costs.”

  Mirza nodded.

  “Charra, I’ll need whatever beasts are left from the Netherwood for what’s to come. Irmina, you’ll go to the Nevermore with Halvor and wait for me. Trucida will accompany us. I think there’s a place in Everland where I will need you both.”

  She couldn’t help the widening of her eyes. “You know?”

  “Yes.” Ancel’s features contorted in pain before his eyes became stones.

  “How?” She frowned as his hand crept to his chest, and then he dropped it to his side to grip his sword.

  “It’s time for a surprise of our own. Now, go, before the mountain crumbles around us.”