Aegis of The Gods: Book 02 - Ashes and Blood

by Terry C. Simpson

  Irmina clasped her hands on her lap. “Hunting him? Why?”

  “For his mother’s power, but that is not all,” Galiana added. “He is so strong a netherling breached the Kassite and crossed over to our world. It imbued something into Ancel. Strange tattoos covering one arm and part of his chest.”

  “Ryne!” Irmina exclaimed.

  Galiana opened her mouth then snapped it shut.

  Chapter 13

  Across the area now free of snow and slush, Ancel tapped his foot impatiently. He’d wanted to use one of the other training spaces, but the bushy-faced giant opposite him insisted on clearing his own, stating he needed the work to warm his body. How did someone warm themselves in tight leathers with their arms exposed? In this weather?

  Almost every Weaponmaster and student had stopped their sessions to crowd around the training area. Most hunkered down within thick furs and cloaks, their hushed murmurs spreading through the gathering, quiet anticipation hanging in the air. Ancel wished Galiana or his father was present, but another matter had their attention. Some Ashishin had showed up the previous night, and the council gathered in discussions with her.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Ryne called out.

  The spectators quieted.

  Wooden longsword held before him, Ancel began to circle Ryne with smooth, sure strides. Battle energy ran through him in warm tingles as he moved. One foot stepped next to the other but never overlapped. Underneath his thick leather armor, the life-like sculpted pendant of his mother rested flat against his chest. He wished she could be here also. Ancel took a breath, trying to push away both the thought and the accompanying emotional surge. He sought the Eye, embracing its calmness.

  “Ah, so you know how to find the Shunyata. Good.” Unconcernedly, Ryne flipped a wooden replica of a greatsword from hand to hand, the weapon more like a twig in his grasp.

  Ancel’s heart skipped a beat at the name. Kachien used the same word to describe a similar skill among her people. Hands steady as he circled, he fixed his gaze over his weapon’s tip and upon his opponent, hoping to imitate Ryne’s calm disposition.

  Two more steps to the right, and Ancel changed direction. Muddy earth squelched beneath his feet. He braced himself, focusing on Ryne’s chest in a fruitless effort to ignore the artwork on the man’s thick, oak-branch arms. Without warning, those Etchings shifted. Ancel gave in to his battle energy and darted in, attacking with a three-strike move.

  As he parried the first two blows, Ryne’s eyes widened. The contact vibrated through Ancel’s hands as Ryne dropped backward, his body arched a foot or two above the ground, but neither sword nor hand touching the soggy, rust-colored dirt. The maneuver seemed impossible for a man so large.

  The third blow, aimed for Ryne’s torso, whiffed through empty air. Ryne sprung up as the slice passed by, propelling his body over Ancel in a graceful flip.

  Off balance, Ancel attempted to pivot, but his knee twisted under him. He stumbled forward. Before he fell, he jarred to a stop.

  Ryne’s iron fingers dug into his bare shoulder and held him upright. The greatsword tapped Ancel’s neck.

  Gasps and a smattering of claps burst from the throng.

  “I saw your move,” Ancel said, breathing hard but still beaming with pride as Ryne released him.

  Ryne shook his head and wagged a finger thicker than two of Ancel’s. “Seeing the move isn’t enough. Find a way to counter.”

  Ancel nodded.

  They assumed identical positions and began anew. This time Ancel attacked swiftly, alternating blows from every position, going through the basics to the more advanced Styles his father had taught him over the past months. Not once did he pierce Ryne’s guard or come close to touching him. Each time the fight ended with a gentle tap of Ryne’s sword. Sweating profusely despite the cold, chest, legs, and arms burning, Ancel almost went down on one knee. Ryne called for a halt.

  This time, the applause was resounding. Excited chatter rose from students and Weaponmasters alike in an incomprehensible din.

  “Not bad, but you try too much for speed.” Ryne strode to his side. “It makes your moves rigid and predictable. Breathe, relax. Allow your attacks to flow.” Ryne acted out the breathing exercise. “Don’t let your excitement show. Remember. Your body reflects your intentions.”

  Ancel winced. “But ... but,” he began.

  Ryne’s upheld hand stopped him. “Think of your Stances. They represent the three elements and their essences within Mater. The Flows,” he announced, “Light as the wind.” Ryne shifted, took several steps back, and then glided forward, barely touching the ground, his huge feet leaving not a mark in the mud. “Flowing like water.” Ryne’s sword arm swayed in a slow, seductive dance.

  “The Forms. Strong as the earth.” This time when Ryne swept away, his boot imprints crushed the earth beneath him. He spun and struck down, shattering a rock. Gasps rose from all around. “Pliable as wood, malleable as metal.” Bending and contorting into impossible positions brought more breathless noises from those in attendance.

  “The Streams—the powerful energy that is heat and cold—able to strike or stop with force and fury.” Alternating breezes from Ryne’s strikes, first heated, then freezing cold, brushed Ancel despite where he stood several feet away. “The stealth of shade.” At those words, protests sounded from several, but Ryne ignored them. When Ryne imitated the slices and cuts, Ancel failed to discern where the attacks originated, nor did he hear or feel the man’s footsteps. “The speed of light,” Ryne said, his hands becoming a blur, a storm of movement so intricate Ancel was unable to track them.

  A thunderous ovation followed. Ryne bowed to the onlookers then to Ancel.

  “I’ve trained hard most of my life,” Ancel admitted, “but I can’t imagine fighting like you. Not even the Weaponmasters can.”

  ‘The Etchings will help guide you. You can call on them without touching Mater. It’s important to remember that, but don’t rely on them or on Mater itself. Training, preparation, and anticipation are everything. Hard work combined with skill is near unbeatable.”

  “When will you teach me to Forge while using the Etchings?”

  “You wish to swim without knowing how rough the sea is. To defeat the enemies you’re bound to face, your skill and knowledge needs to grow. Nurture them. For today, we’re done.”

  The crowds began to drift away as they realized no more was forthcoming. Several Weaponmasters stayed behind, signaling to Ryne. He strode over to them, a few words passed, and they too left, some appearing more disappointed than others.

  “Come,” Ryne said when he returned, “walk with me.”

  Ancel followed Ryne out of the training area. They placed their training swords in the rack built alongside the open space and covered them with a tarp. Students and Teachers pointed or murmured to each other as they passed. As tall as he was in comparison to everyone else, Ancel felt like a child next to Ryne, his head reaching level with his mentor’s chest. Snow squelching under their feet, they strode along Learner’s Row and the many sandstone buildings.

  “There’s more to the Etchings than the sword or Mater.” Ryne clasped his hands behind his back. “But I needed to know how far along you were. Specifically, I wanted to see how easily you entered and maintained the Shunyata or the Eye of the Storm as your people call it. You did well. And I don’t readily give praise.”

  Ancel’s chest swelled at the compliment. “Thank you. I practiced with my father and another friend of mine who taught me the Ostanian name for the Eye.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “A woman named Kachien. She helped keep me safe when the shade was hunting me.”

  “Hmm.” Ryne nodded. “You need to introduce me one day. I noticed how you empty yourself within the Eye, but that’s not all there is to it. The essences are as muc
h a part of the elements as they are connected to your feelings. Heat to anger and passion, cold to emptiness, air to levity and so forth. Within the Shun—the Eye, you must be able to pluck each emotion as you need and use them.”

  “Why?”

  “Your feelings enhance your power. Think of how a burst of adrenaline gives you energy or how a man in desperation can perform amazing feats. Using your emotions give the same effect.”

  Ancel nodded his understanding.

  “A person’s strength and affinity in Mater is dictated by not only his bloodline, but by experience, personality, and practice,” Ryne said. “In time, one born strong in a certain essence can learn to master others as he develops. After all, it often takes more than one essence from different elements when Forging. For example, liquid plus energy makes a solid.” A bit confused, Ancel frowned. “In easier terms, water and cold create ice, which is a part of the Forms. Reverse that process, apply energy—the Streams, namely heat—to ice to form a liquid—the Flows. Most, if not all things, need the energy of the Streams. Take that away and it reverts to its baser components.

  “Remember, Forging works best on something already in existence with a source to draw upon, like taking heat from a flame to create a fireball. Or the charge from a storm to release a lightning strike. Within a flood or a raging river is another form of energy that could be used, generated by movement. This you could apply to speed. This intermingling is because of the nature of the elements themselves.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The essences are living beings. They adapt as you do.”

  Ancel gaped. He recalled Kachien’s warning of something similar. And when his father lay dying and his mother was threatened, he was certain he’d heard voices whispering to him. Since then, they had increased, growing stronger at times, often corresponding to his emotional state. He sensed the power behind him. It scared him. Automatically, he’d resorted to what he’d been taught, making sure to be in the Eye if he Forged. At times, he dismissed the voices as a fancy or maybe the effect wielding Mater could have on one’s sanity.

  “Your expression says you experienced their ability to communicate.”

  Ancel hesitated to answer. Finally, he said, “I-I have. When I allowed my emotions to get the better of me, I heard those voices. They promised power. Unending power.”

  “Did you accept their offer?”

  “Twice.”

  Ryne stopped. His emerald eyes glinted like two polished gems. “Did you take a life when you gained the power?” His voice was hard enough to match his gaze.

  “No. Twice I used the power to try save my parents, but both times I called upon it I was interrupted. The first time Shin Galiana stopped me, and the second time, the netherling came.”

  A relieved whoosh left Ryne’s lips. “Good. Remember this, if you remember nothing else: here in Denestia, anytime you accept their power and do an actual Forge, you must remain within the Eye. Most Matii have either forgotten or refuse to believe the essences are alive. Many have accepted what they experience as a side effect of wielding the power they have, a warning, if you will, that the madness from touching Mater exists.”

  “Can the essences harm me?”

  “With direct physical contact? No.” Ryne resumed his walk. “Mentally, they can destroy you. They push you emotionally as well as feed on sela, yours or whatever you kill when under their influence. To avoid being driven insane, you must kill when you accept and complete a Forging using their power.”

  Ancel frowned. “Unless I missed something, you were just glad I didn’t kill when I used the power, but now you say I must kill when I take it or I go mad.”

  “Correct, but as you said, you didn’t complete those Forges. A fine distinction but one to be remembered.” Ryne paused. “Your mind and sela are connected as one. To appease them and replenish your own power, you must kill. The act of Forging takes a piece of your sela. Add what they bestow, and it takes more. Only a death can partially replace what they took. With too much sela gone, your mind lacks coherence, and eventually you drift into insanity. Continue to Forge and your sela depletes so much, your body can longer sustain itself.

  “In the same connection, the essences leech on your strongest emotions to boost their strength. Your only protection is control. The Eye offers that by limiting the effect the essences have on your mind. You can then safely alter the amount of sela and emotions you feed them. It’s a precarious balance, but be warned, once you’ve broken the cycle, by Forging outside the Eye’s influence, there’s no return.”

  “Why not simply refuse to feed them but take their power anyway?”

  “The results of not feeding are detrimental to you and them. Not only do you still go insane, but they lose a part of themselves forever, a part that cannot be regained. The only time that changes is when you Forge solely using your Etchings. The effect is lessened but it has its own drawbacks, ones not worth explaining right now.” Ryne gestured all around them. “For now, most of your Forges will be outside your Etchings. If you don’t feed the essences at some point soon after, then the world suffers. The fabric that holds all together unravels in miniscule amounts. It may not happen immediately, but eventually, the effects show. The land become unstable, storms grow worse, all manner of disasters can occur. Think of Ostania’s great thunderstorms. They are the result of such an imbalance, as are all manner of extraordinary creatures. The essences need us to live as much as we need them. This is what we call the Harmonies. You must learn to walk that edge or perish.”

  Ancel recalled where he read about the Harmonies. He recited the piece as if it were second nature.

  “When comes the appointed hour,

  Under the rule of the one with Etchings of Power,

  Stone will crumble,

  The void shall rumble,

  Clouds will grow,

  Water shall flow,

  Light and shade as one,

  Fire and ice as one,

  Denestia shall bend to its knee,

  Until the elements exist in Harmony.”

  This time, when Ryne stopped, his eyes were wide with wonder. “Where did you learn that?”

  “The Chronicle of Undeath. My father owns a copy.”

  “Not a copy. There’s only one such tome, and it cannot be copied.”

  “How would you know?” Ancel asked.

  “I wrote it, and I Forged the wards that protect it.”

  “But it’s said to be centuries or more old.”

  “Thousands, actually. In one of my many lives, I decided to write much of what I knew, much of my dreams. Many of the other Eztezians did the same. Bits of memory, dreams, histories, all within one Chronicle or another. Mine detailed sela in particular. I named the book Undeath because sela is neither living nor dead; it is both. Slain men and creatures stand up and walk due to its power.”

  “Can you teach me the rest of the Chronicle?”

  “One day,” Ryne said, “but be warned, the Chronicles are not always what they seem. Keep that in mind. More than one Matus claimed to know how to harness harmony. All of them died. In fact, I killed one myself.

  “Now, back to the Eye. Hopefully, you have a clearer understanding of why you must remain under its influence when Forging. Even those not strong enough to communicate with the essences are still affected by them.”

  Ancel nodded. “That, I found out from Kachien also. It’s the reason for the Pathfinders. They hunt whoever loses control.”

  “As much as I disagree with what they do, it’s necessary,” Ryne said.

  “Should I be in the Eye when I see auras around people?”

  Ryne smiled. “I’m glad you asked. No. Since you’re new to your power, they may appear now at either extreme of emotion, but eventually they’ll be as natural as breathing and always with you.
They’re different for those who can sense them. I couldn’t begin to tell you how to discern who means well from who means harm. You learn that on your own.”

  “I already have,” Ancel said.

  “Very good. One thing to consider is that the auras are more than just signs to tell of a thing’s intentions. The same way your body and mind are conduits so additional Mater can pass into you, there must be something to keep the essences in. To store them. A Matii’s aura does that. A strong enough aura prevents Mater from leaving. Forgers eventually learn to manipulate that storage. It’s what limits your power normally. You can’t just draw on the essences and use them. They must pass through you first into the same pool you use for the Eye.”

  Ancel nodded. “So if we’re as strong as you say how is it that we can’t defeat the Skadwaz once and for all?”

  “In ways,’ Ryne said, “they are our opposites, Matii enhanced by Amuni to combat our Etchings. They possess their own way of wielding Mater, at times better than we do.”

  Ancel found the revelation difficult to fathom. “How’s that possible?”

  “Because they were made with a closer connection to the shade than humanly possible. I doubt I could consider them human or even of the Nether. Like the world Amuni created for them, they fall somewhere between.”

  Ancel took it all in before asking, “Ryne?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever Forged outside of the Eye?”

  “Yes. Many times.”

  Ancel was speechless. First, Kachien and her suffering at the whim and need of the essences, and then losing his mother. Now, Ryne. How cruel could life be? He embraced his Matersense and waited. But no voices echoed in his head with promises of power. I don’t care how long it takes me, I’ll find a way to master you, every single one of you.

  A whisper rose then, but instead of words, he swore he heard brushes of mocking laughter.

  “I shall be blunt with you,” Ryne said, breaking Ancel from his thoughts. “There may come a time you will be tempted to do the same. In those cases, always draw on your Etchings first. Right now, you worry about shadelings, daemons, maybe even the Skadwaz, but there are far worse things that walk world.”