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.
Moments later, a shaggy, gray-white form bounded from among the trees. Charra had grown quickly over the past months, much faster than any other daggerpaw. Much bigger too. He now stood a good eighteen hands tall at the shoulders, larger than the average horse. From across the way, his eyes shone like golden torches. In a soft mane down his back and sides, Charra’s bone hackles spread even wider now. When they hardened, they stood erect, some of them more than a foot in length with edges as sharp as a honed blade.
According to the netherling, Charra was one of their kind. Ancel still found that difficult to believe. He’d discovered the daggerpaw wounded and bleeding in the Greenleaf Forest near his old home at the winery when the animal was a pup. Despite his father’s reservations, Ancel nursed him back to health, and they remained together ever since. Whenever he saw his pet, he couldn’t help but doubt the netherling’s words. It would take more than atypical size or intelligence to convince him Charra was actually a multi-tentacled, gigantic black creature with chitinous armor, dozens of eyes, and snake-like minions.
Ancel drew up short a foot before his daggerpaw. “You go northeast. Get ahead of them and cut them off. I’ll take care of the wounded one while you occupy the others.”
Charra whined his assent and loped off into the shadowy forest, ice and snow soundless under his padded paws.
One foot tapping time on the frozen ground, Ancel waited for the high-pitched growl that would announce Charra’s readiness. He checked and rechecked to make certain his sword was secure in its scabbard. Not that he needed to. The link to it provided a constant reminder, but some habits were hard to shake. He considered removing the short bow from over his back but changed his mind. The bow was perfectly fine. He’d oiled the string that morning. The arrows jutting above his shoulder from the quiver on his back were in prime condition.
So, he waited.
And waited.
He frowned. Surely, Charra should have located the wolves by now?
Still nothing. Under his scarf, he scratched at his stubble as he pondered the delay.
A low growl, followed by another deeper rumble, stilled his hand in the act of scratching. The noise set the hair on the back of his neck on end. A pungent odor, much like a dog kennel, wafted to him.
Not from the east. West.
Ancel’s heart skipped a beat. Battle energy edged up through his body in faint ripples. He took a deep breath and turned ever so slowly toward the growl.
Heads down, eyes trained on him, fur bristling, five wolves stalked at the edge of the woods. As expected this time of year, their coats had grown extra thick, making them appear even bigger than usual. They advanced, jaws spread in snarls, white teeth bared. One step. Pause. Another step. Pause.
If he backed up at all, the wolves would charge. Ancel allowed his breath to ease from his mouth, mist curling up as he let his body go limp. Either way they were going to attack. The option left to him was to strike first. He snatched for his bow.
Snarls accompanied the wolves as they bounded forward in response to the sudden move.
A flood of battle energy surged within Ancel. Eyes riveted on the charging beasts, bow held before him, he reached up over his shoulder. He plucked an arrow from the quiver and nocked it all in one smooth motion.
Less than forty feet separated him from the wolves. Heartbeats before they would be upon him. Despite the knot forming in his stomach and the thump in his chest, he delved deep into his mind with practiced efficiency. He found the calm of the Eye and sunk inside. His emotions skittered outside, trying to worm their way in. Right now, he needed none of them. All he wanted was emptiness. The cold-hearted indifference of one who stared down death without flinching.
Twenty feet.
Without thought, he aimed and loosed.
A yowl echoed.
One wolf staggered. The others came on faster, galloping.
Arrow. Nock. Loose.
Another painful cry.
This time a wolf fell.
Arrow. Nock.
They pounced.
Ancel leaped to the side, hitting the ground and brush in a roll, ignoring the pain of the quiver digging into his back as he crushed icy leaves beneath him. He dropped his bow in the process, and when he came to his feet, he already had his sword brandished.
The wolves skidded to a halt. One of the animals he’d shot was limping, a whine escaping its mouth with every breath, an arrow in its side. The other lay motionless.
Snapping and snarling at each other, the wolves spread apart. They surrounded him, mouths to the ground, jaws leaking slobber.
Ancel spun in a futile attempt to keep his eyes on each one. Every time he turned away from a wolf, he needed to spin to cover his rear as he heard another beast charge. But each movement was a feint. They were measuring him for an opening, their reactions more human than animal.
Where in Hydae is Charra?
The answer to his silent question appeared in a blur of gray-white from the forest’s edge. Before the closest wolf turned, the daggerpaw’s jaws closed on its neck. A yowl choked off as bone snapped. Charra threw the carcass aside.
Red oozed down Charra’s fur and covered the knife sharp protrusions of his bone hackles. Too much blood for the one bite he’d inflicted. Neither had he speared the wolf before he attacked.
What—?
Growling, four more wolves tore from among the trees.
Ancel almost smiled. The wolves had set a trap for him all along. More human than wolf indeed.
Charra spun to the new the threat. Ancel took several steps back while he faced the other wolves on his side. With Charra providing protection to the rear, he stood a chance.
Breaths laboring heavily, the wounded wolf eased to the ground. One of the others whined. A bark answered from those Charra occupied. The wolf in front of Ancel loped over to its counterpart, sniffed, gave one plaintive moan then a growl like distant thunder.
Ancel’s heart thumped at the sound.
With a sudden lurch, the wolf spun to face him and bounded forward. At the same time, snarls issued from behind him, followed by Charra’s barking roar. Out of the corner of his eye, Ancel saw the other wolf on his flank lunge.
He met the first animal head on as it soared through the air. Sidestepping at the last moment, he sliced.
Silversteel met fur. Flesh parted. Blood spurted.
A whimper ensued as the beast dropped to the ground. Ancel was already turning to face the flanking one, throwing his cloak up for protection.
As the second wolf crashed into him, he tried to drop to one side and roll. Pain lanced up his arm. The wolf had its jaws locked on, and even through the fur-lined cloak, his pelts, and leather armor beneath, the crushing power of thos
e canines bore down on him.
He hit the ground hard, the wolf atop him worrying at his arm. A snarl made Ancel glance up. Its fur matted with blood, the wounded wolf had risen to its feet and limped over, jaws spread in a rictus. Golden brown eyes stared into Ancel’s own.
Ancel tried to bring his sword up, but it was trapped beneath him. An eternity passed between one heartbeat and the next. The wolf’s shoulder muscles bunched. A torrent of panic cut through him like an icy gust in a storm.
With desperation came the voices of his new power—the voices from his nightmares. The heartbeats stretched. The world stilled.
“What is ours is yours.” It was the whisper of death yet somehow tantalizing.
The wolf kicked its legs as it sprang.
“Use us as you will.” The goading speech of a fierce gale rushing by a mountain.
Canine jaws spread, fangs sharp and white.
“You must not die here.” This voice was the gurgle of a brook before it became a river.
Other voices rose, beseeching, commanding, filling him with promises. They crowded his head, tried to consume his being. Some competed with each other.
Behind them all, he sensed a greater power still. It felt as if it spanned deeper and wider than the world.
Ancel’s mouth dried. Fear so strong he tasted it made him cry out.
The wolf was completing its leap, eyes so close he picked out the pupils’ patterns, open jaws so near, he felt the heat of its breath. Slobber struck his face.
Yelling at the top of his lungs, Ancel suffused himself within the Eye. The speakers cut off with a howl. In the same instant, he reached out for his power.
The wolf jerked, whined once, and then pitched over. An arrow jutted from its neck.
A second later, the one tearing at his arm gave a matching cry and fell dead. Blood spurted from a similar wound.
Stopped midway before he embraced his power, Ancel kicked the beast off him and rolled over. Less than fifteen feet away, his father controlled his horse between his legs. The hood of his fur jacket thrown back, Stefan held his oversized, black longbow in one hand. Stefan nocked another arrow and aimed toward Charra. Ancel’s gaze followed his father’s aim.
Four dead wolves lay in the snow, but five more had joined the fray. Blood covered Charra’s bone hackles in dripping rivulets.
The bowstring twanged; another wolf fell. The others turned tail and darted toward the woods.
Heart still racing, his breathing labored, Ancel scrambled to his feet, his sword held out before him.
“In Ilumni’s name, didn’t I warn you about coming in here alone?” Stefan bellowed, bow trained on the fleeing animals.
Ancel lowered his weapon as he turned to meet his father’s furious glare. “Yes, Da.” He tried to make his voice as meek as possible.
“So why are you here? You could have died today, boy.”
That last irked Ancel. “I’m not a boy any—”
“When you act like this … you are. Have you learned nothing?”
“Da, it’s just—”
“There’s no excuse for foolishness, for unnecessary risks, or for taking out your anger on the wildlife. Hunting for fur or food is one thing, but wanton killing is another.”
Ancel hunched his shoulders and averted his eyes from his father’s stony gaze. “I-I’m sorry.” He sheathed his sword.
“Son, you could have gotten yourself killed.” Stefan’s voice became tender. “You’re more important than ever.”
“I know, but I’m so tired of waiting.”
“Patience and perseverance go hand in hand for any task to be completed,” his father said, quoting the Disciplines. “Restraint. Try to remember that when you feel the way you do.”
“Yes, Da.”
At that precise moment, Charra gave a warning growl, a throaty rumble deep and long. The daggerpaw stared off into the trees.
Ancel began to turn when a presence in his mind drowned his every thought. The lump of his third bond had grown incrementally ever since he received his first Etching, but now it felt as if it would explode. He squeezed his eyes closed and brought a hand up to his temple. The throbbing pulled him toward the direction in which Charra faced.
“Dear gods, what is that?” Stefan murmured, voice shaky.
Ancel opened his eyes. His father had his bow drawn, the feathery fletching of the arrow to his ear. He was aiming toward the tree line.
There, among the shadows, lurked a man-shaped, hulking form, at least seven or eight feet in height.
Chapter 2
Galiana Calestis contemplated High Shin Jeremiah’s words. Seated at a window in the Mystera, she looked out onto the forests and plains steeped in white north of Eldanhill. Where clouds once scuttled across the sky, they now hung in sooty clumps. She squinted, imagining she could see the peaks shrouded to the northeast and beyond them to the Everlast Mountains and the towers erected there. The Sanctums of Shelter. Could those spires live up to their promise of sheltering the world? What if they aren’t as powerful as we hope? Then, all your plots, sacrifices, and actions over the centuries will have been for nothing.
Heat and a crackle rose from a nearby fireplace. Scented candles in glass holders around the well-furnished room carried sweet hints of jasmine. The hearth’s warmth did little for the chill in her body. Like the seasons themselves, the world was in flux. Nothing in her ancient bones said the change was for the better.
The recent odd behavior from the Greenleaf’s animals said as much; it wasn’t a coincidence. She did not believe in coincidences. The animals’ propensity for violence and Jillian’s impending trip to Torandil were why she’d summoned the woman here as part of the meeting with Jerem.
Dressed in a scout’s light leathers, Jillian sat with her back to the table facing the window through which Jerem stared. Jillian hadn’t said a word as he’d relayed the news.
“Are you positive?” Although she knew what to expect, Galiana wished to hear another answer. One with promise. Misguided or not, hope was a virtue worth clinging to in times such as these and more so in those to come.
“Taeria does not lie. You must feel the shift in the world, how events have caught up to us too quickly.” Jerem’s gaze remained focused beyond the foggy glass.
The wispy web of his hair, the lines around his eyes, and the way his silver robes hung loose spoke of the same weakened state she experienced. Time eventually took its toll, even on them. She remembered when he was a younger man, spry, ready to leave his mark on the world, hair shiny obsidian. She wasn’t sure if this was what he had intended. It certainly was not what she envisioned.
“How long do you think we have?” Galiana kept her voice low as if whispering would give the words a different meaning. Sometimes she wished making a change for the better could be as simple as uttering words.
He shrugged, his shoulders making little to no impression in the robes. “Not long, I suppose. A Bloodline Affinity may be one of, if not the most difficult of Forges, but whether we believe someone mastered it or not, that man knew to take Thania. To me,” he touched his chest near his heart, “that is proof enough. It is only a matter of time before they come for Ancel. Besides, we could not hide him for much longer. Not after the way he announced himself to the world. If not for the protection offered by the Vallum and the Sanctums of Shelter, I am sure his actions would have drawn much more unwanted attention.”
Bloodline Affinity. Galiana mulled the words over, a chill running through her body. In her lifetime, she could think of no one who perfected the ability. It was similar in ways to the Forge the Pathfinders employed to trace the ancestral history of a Matus they hunted. By using blood from that family line, they had a chance to identify the other members. However, a strong enough Matti could negate the Pathfinders’ skill or make subtle,
misleading changes. On the other hand, a perfected Affinity allowed the Forger to delve into a person’s mind, trace their roots, and supposedly, their possible future siblings. The power of the one under such a Forging was of no consequence. According to research, the Bloodline Affinity was infallible.
“Do you believe he is an Eztezian?” Galiana asked.
“I doubt it matters what we believe.”
“But do you?”
He faced her, the silver pools that were his eyes steady and unrelenting. “Yes.”
The knot in her stomach clenched tighter. “And the one … this Ryne that you mentioned, him also?”
“Yes.”
The tension eased somewhat, enough to allow her a steadying breath. “Ancel might stand a chance with this master to help him.”
Jerem gave her a skeptical look. “Against what took Thania? I doubt they will be enough.”
She cringed at his words. No Skadwaz, no matter how strong in Mater, could have beaten Thania. At least, she didn’t believe it possible. After all, like her, the Skadwaz were only another form of Matus, not an archdaemon, a netherling, or a god. Employed and enhanced by the shade, yes, but still, in all her time she had yet to encounter a Skadwaz stronger than an Exalted. This man had treated her and Thania’s combined power as no more than a trifle.
“Added to what manner of creature he is, there are the forces the Cardian Queen have mustered.” Jerem looked to the north again. “And what Taeria says awaits in Everland as well as the Skadwaz marshaling their armies from the Great Divide. Add all of that to the Matii the Iluminus possesses, and we will need more than one or two Eztezians or even their entire contingent. We need a unified people. Even then, there is the other problem. How in all that is holy did the shadelings breach the Vallum of Light? Its wards worked fine against anything else trying to cross after Ancel released the power. So why did it fail in keeping them out? How is it that not one single Herald at the Bastions received any sign that the shade bypassed the wards?”
Galiana recalled the nightmares she had trying to find answers to the same questions. With all their resources, the Bastions to provide warning, the message maps and their near infinite range for communication, their own ability to Forge wards, the Heralds had not seen, heard, or sensed a single shadeling. Not one. The Heralds’ failure had left cities ravaged by the creatures, the majority of the attacks at other Mysteras.
Aegis of The Gods: Book 02 - Ashes and Blood Page 2