Ashes and Blood
( Aegis of the Gods - 2 )
Terry C. Simpson
Terry C. Simpson
Ashes and Blood
Prelude to Ascension
Vast nothingness. That’s how inside the chamber felt to her. If it even was a chamber. Thinking of it as such kept her sane. She saw no walls; neither could she make out a beginning or an end to the dark stretching in every direction. No sky. No horizon. The only breaks within the black monotony were from pools of torchlight so bleak they gave the impression they were dying. What she and the room’s numerous occupants stood upon made her think of a bottomless pit. She shivered with the thought of what would soon breach the endless night.
A hum like a blade slicing the air resonated from the platform near where she stood. Similar noises mirrored it. Her heart hammered in her chest. The murmurs from the other patrons immediately ceased, cut off as if those honed edges severed their throats.
She recalled a time when hearing a portal’s formation did not cause her to panic. A period when traversing from one point to another was as simple as a thought. Of late, even opening her own sent her insides crawling up her stomach. She clutched her gray robe for what would come next before slowly releasing its folds.
Showing fear will be my undoing. Showing fear, not fear itself, is a weakness. Fragility leads to death. She frowned, wondering where she had heard the saying.
The hums continued, each one faster than the next. Too many to count. Her heart outpaced them, beating so hard it felt as if it wanted to leap from her chest. She conjured images of an army shrouded by shade stepping from the portals.
Master your fear. You control it. It doesn’t control you.
To find comfort she reminded herself that in reality creatures this powerful could not have crossed from the Nether. Not as yet. Or at least so she hoped.
You belong here. You were summoned for this meeting.
She inhaled deeply, seeking that part of her far inside where calm resided. When she found it, she became one of the summoned: composed, able to ignore the flutters in her gut, and the hums from the opening portals. Not realizing she had closed them, she opened her eyes.
The creatures arrived at the gathering within the featureless room as they always had. A slit etched the air from left to right, turned with slime’s sluggishness, and opened into the shape of an eye positioned vertically.
Wreathed in oily smoke, many-faceted eyes reflecting the torchlight, tentacles blacker than midnight, they stepped through the portals one after the other without so much as a thud of a footstep or clink of armor. Their eyes protruded on stalks. Each had at least eight horns on their head-quite a few more than any she encountered in the past. Chitin of ebon steel glistened where it covered their chests and the four disproportionate appendages they had for arms. Darkness caressed their legs and feet. Hundreds of their wriggling, eel-like minions appeared as if from nothing.
In all, there were nine of them, each at least twenty feet in height. Nine netherlings. The Nine. Praise be to them.
Despite the fact that her dream, that dreams in general, were supposed to have no physical effect on reality, she still cringed at their presence. However, the rule had no bearing on the miasma emanating from the Nine. It seemed real all the same. Death, decay, the perfume of fresh blooms, and the smell of wet earth after new rain, intertwined with the northern chill and the burning heat of the lava-filled chasms in the Broken Lands, making the air thick and palpable. She tasted sweetness and rot as each odor and sensation overrode the other for scant moments. With an extreme force of will, she suppressed the need to retch.
Packed to overflowing in the vast chamber, the folk called to the gathering shied away from the Nine. Although light and shadow shrouded the people’s faces and made their forms near insubstantial, she knew they were rulers, nobles, merchants, teachers, philosophers, historians, soldiers, and even Denestia’s poor. Everyone had representation tonight. She could not discern their expressions, but the gasps and whimpers told their own stories.
Many wore their sect’s colors on their arms. White, Shadow, or Gray.
She almost spat on the umbra below her where there should have been a floor. Those in white or black were supposedly spies among the councils, but the thought, and worse yet, the sight of their colors, brought on a loathing she found difficult to contain. She calmed herself with the knowledge she had garnered this night by simply watching for telltale nuances. Each revelation made her lip twitch.
One male had a habit of stroking the corner of his mouth. A woman, whose robes clung to her every curve, sniffed at what had to be a scented cloth. Another female drew her hands to her hips as if attempting to grasp something, deflating every time she realized whatever it was did not sit there. The room’s meager light reflected from one man’s head, the sheen and his baldness causing her to assume he might be Banai. Knowing their religion, she might have been surprised to see one of their race numbered among those who served, but the Nine had proved long ago how far their influence stretched.
“The first is almost to the boy.” The netherling’s voice was as blank as her surroundings.
“The era draws nigh when the Annendin will come to judge all he created,” another intoned, each of its eight milky eyes looking in different directions.
“The gods die; the world remade; new gods ascend.”
As often as she’d attended these gatherings, she still found the singularity of their voices disconcerting.
“You have all done well to guide the world as needed for this to come to fruition.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The netherlings’ eyes turned toward the disturbance. Space cleared around a lone male, his clothing one of shadow. He stepped forward.
“You bring news, young one?”
She sucked in a breath. Only another netherling would dare approach as this man did, head held high and absolutely fearless. She frowned. They hid themselves even among the common people?
“Yes, masters. I have discovered a place between the worlds where Prima lives. An Entosis. It is beyond what we may have anticipated.”
“Nothing is outside our calculations, young one. Not even this Entosis.”
For the first time, she noticed a definite scoffing edge to the answer. The netherlings had always been implacable before, devoid of emotion. Agitation among them was worth remembering.
“Those who oppose us know of its existence,” the man said. “One of our own has been within its borders. It is he who sends warning.”
“Yes. We are aware. What you must understand is that the one we chose unleashed Prima into the world. The guardians are drawn to its power as they are to his. Allow the first to secure the boy and teach him to use his Gift. Without him, the unsealing cannot occur. His siblings are ready. He is the only one left.”
“Yes, masters.” The man bowed from the waist.
“The same goes for all of you. The young one must accomplish his purpose. See him safe until he does. Then, and only then, may you kill him and his mentors.”
Licking her lips with a measure of fear and anticipation, she woke from her dream to the familiar walls within the Iluminus. She had been a Listener for years. The time had finally come to act. The promise of a war to end all wars was coming to fruition.
Chapter 1
A glint. Nothing more. But he recognized metal when he saw it. They’d tried to hide the signs, but this was the place. Odd, their level of intelligence.
Cloak hanging limp from his shoulders, Ancel Dorn stopped where crimson tinged the white fluff near the trap. A drop here, a drop there, before they increased in regularity. The spots became spatters and then lines of red meandering to the distant tree line wher
e snow dressed the forest in white as if preparing it for the long slumber. A satisfied smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.
The hunt always brought a certain sensation for him: a soothing calm to go along with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The promise of a kill, however, now that offered a different story and sang the opposite song. A song that sent a tingle through his body.
After another bout with nightmares that seemed all too real, dawn found him here in the Greenleaf Woods where winter’s chill strengthened its grip. Although no gusts yet howled through the trees whose mostly skeletal limbs reached to the curdled sky, the temperature made him glad he’d chosen to don furs over his leather armor. Some leaves clung to life despite the hoarfrost enveloping their branches and trunks like icy mold. He listened, hoping for the telltale crunch of feet through snow, but he heard nothing. Neither the twitter of birds nor the forest animals’ chatter. The air was expectant, an indrawn breath waiting for release or for the last gasp of death.
The imminent danger might have worried someone else, a person of lesser constitution, but not him. Better this, to hunt and to kill, basking in the thrill of stalking a deadly adversary, than to wake sweaty and fevered from the horrors of his dreams. The visions of the wall to his old home exploding, a man swathed in all black stepping through flames dragging Mother behind him by one arm. Nightmares of himself standing within a city he knew only from stories as he faced the wrath of the gods. From the ghastly images where he used his new power to kill friends and family, bringing the world to ruin.
Ancel grimaced with the memories, squeezing his eyes tight against the sudden pounding in his ears. After a few deep breaths, his racing heart eased. A breath of winter played against his face, bringing with it the crisp scents of the forest and the sharp odor of blood. He opened his eyes and bent to inspect the metallic glint the white drifts should have hidden. Carmine splotches, bits of grey fur, and flesh covered the jagged edges of iron teeth.
But there was no corpse. At least not that he could see.
Frozen red flecks, crushed grass, and brush, carved a path through the snow. The trail led from the clearing out into the woods where weak light filtered through the trees but revealed little of the forest floor. Almost any mound or dappled shadow could hide the wolf.
Several dozen paw prints marred the lily-white fluff, headed in the same direction as the wounded animal. As he suspected, the beast wasn’t alone. The gray wolves of the Kelvore Mountains weren’t known to abandon their pack mates. Lately though, they took to the woods in greater numbers than he remembered. Wolves were creatures of habit; change did not come without a reason.
The remaining folk in Eldanhill blamed the beasts for the lack of game when there should have been plenty. It was almost as if the people preferred to deceive themselves than admit the truth. They went so far as to act as if the ancient protections still held, that the monsters of old could not cross into Granadia, despite the proof provided by the attack on their homes.
He entertained no such absurdity. The images of the dead rising to become monsters before soldiers struck them down and burned them were imprinted in his memory. He had his own idea as to the dearth of forest animals, but he kept it to himself. Dredging up the horrors of the past few months would not go over well with the survivors and the glut of refugees despite the existence of sufficient proof. Regardless, the presence of this many wolves played well into his goal.
A mournful howl, followed by another less than a mile away, confirmed his suspicions. No need to rush. The distance provided him with ample time.
Ancel pulled off his gloves and stuck them behind his sword belt. His skin had long lost summer’s stain and now stood almost as pale as a typical Granadian. Almost, but not quite. How he’d not wondered about the difference in the past continued to baffle him. It wrote itself in his deep pinewood color as it flowed in his blood. Long ago, when he traveled to one of the towns or cities here in Sendeth, he should have realized he did not quite fit.
Brushing off the thought, he focused on the task before him. He took a cloth from his pocket, cleaned the trap, and then undid a water pouch at his hip. A twist and a pull opened the stopper and let out the scent of the oily deer blood mixture. This, he sprinkled onto the trap. It wouldn’t quite overpower the smell of the wounded wolf, but another curious and desperate one would be along for sure. By now, the snow in the mountains drifted too deep, and the recent storm had driven much of their food down into the lower lying areas. Unfortunately, for the wolves, the reason most folk wore weapons, avoided the woods, and whispered amongst themselves, also made short work of the game.
Out of habit, rather than actually feeling winter’s bite, he drew his cloak around him and eased away from the trap, making sure to sprinkle his trail with deer blood. When he finished, he pulled his scarf up over his mouth, steam rising in warm wisps before disappearing.
Despite the cold, his mother would have liked the weather. Winter had always been her favorite time of year. “The quiet,” she would say, “the beauty covers the land yet still reminds you it mustn’t be taken lightly. Much like life itself.”
Pain jarred his insides like a punch to the gut. He grasped at his chest where the pendant carved in the likeness of his mother’s face hung from the chain around his neck, hidden underneath his furs and leathers. As he squeezed the metal, the hurt eased, once again forming a hollow, an emptiness he lacked the ability to fill.
Similar to the resonance from sword in the scabbard on his hip, the pendant’s bond vibrated deep within him. The link gave him one of the few hopes he still clung to in earnest. The near indiscernible thrum from the piece, from the silver of the hair, and the golden tint of the gems in the eyes, beckoned to him. It offered a promise as slim as it felt. His mother was out there. Somewhere. Possibly still alive. He clung to that sliver of faith.
Two other hopes, more like reassurances, were his sword and the intricate tattoo-like artwork on his right arm that spread to his chest on the same side. His Etchings. The ‘gift’ bestowed upon him by the netherling. What those two promised him was quite different.
They oozed power that spoke of a reckoning on his enemies when he mastered them both. From time to time, the Etchings still ached. Not as much as when he first gained them, or as bad as the pain in his heart when he thought about his mother, but the hurt reeked of his failure as much and more as the stink of death. He squeezed his eyes shut against the rush of emotions. Against the rage, disappointment, and grief. Not that it helped much, but he still had to try before they overwhelmed him. There the pain was now, stabbing him like tiny daggers in his chest.
With agony came his doubts. What if Shin Galiana is right about me, about my power? What if I’m destined to become an Eztezian Guardian? Is their fate to be mine also? Expected to protect but instead decimating all before me. His father often said life waited for no man, and destiny was nothing more than one bold enough to take his future and shape it. Suppose those words were only wishful thinking, simple encouragement?
Ancel tried in vain to calm the tremulous flutter of his heart as he considered the possibilities. Too often of late, the burden of recent events threatened to drown him. Not many things helped subdue the current flood. He reveled in those that did. Two were before him.
Hunting and killing.
Da didn’t approve of his choice or his venturing into the forest alone, but at times like this, he didn’t care. He needed to soothe himself in a fashion that would not force him to use his power.
Since Mother’s taking, his desperation to find the black-armored man drove him. The dreams and memories from that night sparked a battle within himself not to lash out. The worst part was lacking the knowledge to begin his search. He hoped the answers came with the ‘teacher’ the netherling claimed would arrive.
Underneath the knotted mass of emotions lurked something stronger. It fluttered in his gut whenever he relived the night he lost Mother. Since then, he’d filled the vaults of his mind with
revenge and rescue. But could he really master his gift and defeat the man in black? Or was she already dead and what he felt from her charm no more than residue, a lingering memory? Worse yet, what if she was alive, and he failed to free her?
Body trembling, Ancel clenched his fist. Open then close. Open then close. When he finally stopped shaking, and the fear subsided a little, he opened his eyes and took in the snow around him and the peeking grass that failed to succumb to winter’s stranglehold.
I will prevail.
The forced sense of calm made him acutely aware of his third link. The one to his supposed mentor. He was certain he sensed the being somewhere to the south, faint and tremulous, but not as distant as before. Ancel brushed his fur vest as if he could touch that bond. It lived inside him much like the weaker one from his mother’s charm or the one that blared from his sword.
However, unlike those two latter bonds, this link kept changing. It began as a tiny, inconsequential itch just beneath the surface of his Etchings, but over the past months, it had grown to an ever-present lump in the back of his mind. In fact, at times, the connection to his so-called teacher bloomed as if the unknown man or creature was well within reach. Once, he tried to escape from the pull, going high up into the Kelvore Mountains. But his location made little difference.
On several occasions he thought he sensed other similar points, but when he tried to focus on them, they disappeared. As time went on he’d dismissed them as part of his overactive imagination. Now, he resigned himself to waiting. And of course killing wolves.
A howl broke him from his thoughts, reminding him there was work to do, death to embrace. He brought two fingers up under his scarf into his mouth and whistled. The sound cut through the silence.
A sharp bark that ended with a roar answered his whistle.
Ancel broke into a jog. Boots crunching with each step, he headed toward where the bloody trail entered the Greenleaf Forest.
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