Laughter echoed. A solid bar of shade shot up from the chasm. It arced high in the air and then fell. When it crashed to the ground outside the torrent of Prima and the two Eztezians as they staved off Kalvor’s attack, it resolved into black flames. The fire danced and capered before eyes appeared followed by hands, feet, and finally a male torso. As the Mater subsided, the essences formed into material akin to living cloth. Writhing and twisting with a sentience of its own, the fabric settled around the man. Ryne knew better than to think it was something as simple as cloth. It was another type of netherling, this one more of a parasite not unlike a leech.
The netherling and the man’s outfit became one. In an immaculate gray coat adorned with silver scrollwork and pants to match, he was similar in height to Ryne. The way the width of his shoulders and back tapered down to his waist spoke of a physical specimen in prime shape. His black boots were highly polished with circular silver clasps on the side. A silver belt to match encircled his waist, the buckle of which was the shape of a maned beast. The same creature stood out on the shiny buttons of the coat. Etchings adorned the sword hilt that jutted from the scabbard at his waist. One hand on his weapon, the man stepped forward. The last of the shade shrouding his features disappeared. His hair ruffled with a life of its own.
Ryne tensed. His recognition was threefold. Familiar auras spilled from the man. The manner in which the newcomer and the creature residing within him had Forged were unmistakable. The memory of the battle against the one who’d created the Wraithwoods in Ostania rose fresh in his mind. Other recollections followed, most of them so painful Ryne wanted to squeeze his eyes shut. The man before him was not the child he’d portrayed all those years in Carnas, but the similarity of his face was unmistakable, the angular shape with eyes that often appeared to be squinting.
All the memories, the time spent; the stories he would read to Kahkon in the Skadwaz’s guise as a needy young boy who craved knowledge; the attachment he built; the promise he’d made to the boy’s mother when the lapra took him; the battle he and Sakari had fought that night to free Kahkon. It all came roaring back.
For him to discover this deception.
Ryne shook, his hand clenched tight around his sword hilt, and unlike before, he did not attempt to deny his emotions. He let the rage remain unbridled, drank it in, and fed it to his Etchings. They burned like magma, their glow bursting forth.
A grin split Kahkon’s features. With a confident swagger in his step, he strolled toward where Kalvor still tried to overwhelm the other two Eztezians.
“Now,” Ryne whispered.
When Sakari’s sword took Lestere’s and Henden’s heads, Ryne doubted they felt a thing. They never saw it coming.
Ryne pulled on light essences and Shimmered to Kahkon. With the Skadwaz holding the Great Divide’s power, he doubted he could hurt him with any Forge. Instead, he drew his sword, activated the Etchings along the blade, and struck.
Kahkon’s hair extended in a billowing mass to block the blow. Several tentacles snaked their way past Ryne’s sword as the netherling etched into Kahkon’s body responded.
Ryne summoned Damal, who appeared in a swath of light. The tentacles slammed into the construct, the impact throwing Ryne back through the air. In midflight, he Shimmered again, this time appearing above Kahkon and dropping with his sword pointed down.
As he expected, Kahkon attempted to dodge using Earthtouch. But Kalvor was already in place within the ground. The earth belonged to the Svenzar. Kahkon could no more manipulate the essences there than he could wield the Flows.
However, there was nothing stopping Kahkon from Blurring away. Yet, something about the way he moved was off. Frowning, Ryne studied him. Before Ryne could shout a warning, a gigantic metal arm surged up from the ground and snatched Kahkon’s form in midflight.
A wail pierced the air from the opposite direction.
Ryne spun to face where he’d last seen Sakari and the two dead Eztezians. Numerous tentacles flowed from Sakari’s chitinous body. Head arched back, the screech continued to pour from his mouth. Next to him, sword in hand, was the real Kahkon. Etchings glowed along the blade’s length, the only weapon that could kill a netherling outside of a god’s attack or one of their own.
“You took my servants,” Kahkon said. “Now, I take yours and the Great Divide also.”
A whisper from Sakari brushed Ryne’s mind. “I am sorry I was not able to warn you of him, master. At least I saw you home safely. He has your ward’s mother and has used her to free much of the shadelings from their prisons. An army of them await at the entrance to the Vallum near the Iluminus. Beware his strength. He is using the Great Divide’s Mater to feed the vasumbrals. They are almost ready. Also, not only does he have a netherling’s power imbued into him by Amuni, but he has also stolen the minor essences from several Eztezians.
“You would have been his greatest triumph. My death was the only way to ensure you were free of his control and any chance to corrupt your thoughts. I wish I could have done more.” Ryne sensed the hint of a smile. “Playing both the shade and the Nine against each other has been an enjoyable charade. Of all things, to fail you now.” Sakari’s voice ended in an escaping breath and regret. His body began to dissipate, chitin becoming ash that the wind swept away.
Brimming with hate, Ryne focused on Kahkon. At his back, the Sanctums roared with Denestia’s Mater and the Prima they had gathered over the years. Using his sword, the Sanctums’ Access Key, he tapped into that powerful fount.
Chapter 52
Suspended in the air within the zyphyl, Irmina was one with its mind. Inside the creature was the same polished silver surface as outside. Her body turned in revolutions as the zyphyl’s visions streamed out before her. How the creatures managed to live with such nightmares, most of them not theirs, constantly in their heads, crowding their psyche, was unfathomable to her. Such an occurrence would have driven her insane long ago. She couldn’t decipher what it was the zyphyl saw nor did she want to. What she knew was what she felt.
Pain.
The zyphyls suffered. They saw the world’s futures; they lived in agony for that gift. Or curse. The latter was how most of the creatures considered their ability. The reason the idea of freedom filled their dreams.
Irmina didn’t attempt to speak to the creature. She kept to the periphery of its consciousness, searching for a way to give it some relief. Try as she might, she could find no way to sever its connection to whatever threads allowed it to see what it did. The zyphyl had to be connected to all the Planes of Existence, but exactly how was as baffling to her as discerning which vision would come to pass.
Whatever she needed to free the creature, she knew she had little time left to find the answer. Within the zyphyl the futures ripped asunder by the netherling who was massacring the Gray Council’s army brought tremor after tremor rippling through the creature’s body and mind. Visions flitted by as Matii, most likely deep in the Eye, threw Forging after Forging at the netherling. All to no avail.
Frowning, she watched the battle. Deep inside, her mind whispered that the answer lay in plain sight. All she had to do was understand.
A fireball barrage left a wavy trail through the air, lightning streaked sideways, the earth heaved and pitched, mounds of rubble formed a spear of steel and stone, all directed at the netherling. Irmina concentrated, ignoring the way the netherling deflected the attacks with as much concern as a warrior slapping away a fly. Instead, she focused on the serene expressions of the Matii. Faced with imminent death, they showed no overwhelming reactions. Even the ones with blood dripping from various wounds.
Sudden realization made her gasp. The Eye. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
Bracing herself against the rush she’d experience from the emotional storm, she thrust herself into the dreams enveloping the zyphyl. The results left her b
reathless. She herself had to find the Eye to shut them out before they overwhelmed her. It had the intended effect.
The zyphyl took note.
She sensed it searching to find an identical void within itself. A prod to its emotional center sent its consciousness where she wanted. A moment later, she took her time and made a deliberate show of embracing the Eye, blocking out external effects.
Now, she waited.
The response didn’t take long. It came in the form of a shudder through the zyphyl’s silvery body, quickly followed by what she could only call a contented sigh.
A mind wormed its way to meet hers. As usual, when she attempted to master a beast, the communication wasn’t in the form of words. It was more a sense of what the contact meant by feelings. The mind conveyed gratitude and pleasure. Then came what she’d hoped for.
The zyphyl wanted to know how it could repay her. Irmna smiled.
She conjured an image of the netherling. With a whine, the zyphyl passed on its recognition. Irmina detached from its mind, easing back into her own.
When she opened her eyes she immediately sought the Forge that kept the zyphyl locked within the Travelshaft. It was a mixture of light, air, and earth to form shackles. When she broke them, she didn’t see the monolithic silvery mass move. One moment it was there, the next, it disappeared.
Galiana looked on in awe while the zyphyl coiled around the netherling like some gigantic, silver serpent. Energy crackled in pure, white concentrations along its length. Miniature lightning bolts encircled its girth. It had no appendages, and no mouth, only one eye in its bulbous head, but somehow it was inflicting damage. Dark, viscous liquid dribbled from the netherling’s many wounds.
The armies previously engaged in the plaza were now engrossed in this struggle. A few still fought in small pockets. However, in several areas, the Tribunal’s forces were reorganizing. If her people were going to escape through the Vallum, they needed to leave now while Irmina had bought them some time.
“Cantor,” she called.
The High Shin joined her.
“Gather as many of ours as you can. Dispatch Pathfinders to those of Irmina’s forces still standing. The entrance through the Vallum lies behind us, past the Travelshaft.”
The man nodded and set to work.
Jerem, his clothes sooty, eyes tired, shuffled over to her side. “I have already instructed Halvor to stop the Travelshaft’s effects so we can pass.” He nodded toward the neat lines of Tribunal soldiers that were forming. “He said he will have his Sven hold them off for as long as possible.”
“They will need help,” Galiana said.
“Yes, but—”
“We have come too far, Jerem. This is the beginning of what we lived for. We knew the day would come when one of us needed to sacrifice. The time is not yours. Ancel will need you when he visits the Broken Lands.” An ache throbbed in her chest. She smiled sadly. “I consider this an honor.”
A tear trickled down the old man’s face. “If this were any other time or position, I would drag you by the scruff of your neck, but—”
She placed a finger on his lips. “It’s fine. I want you to tell Thanairen I forgive him for his betrayal. I understand how necessary his path was now.”
A long, keening wail shattered all other sound. Mouth open, she glanced toward where the two creatures battled in midair. The zyphyl’s form was turning to a dull gray, its electrical charges sputtering. It still fought.
“Go now,” she whispered. “I will give you the time you require.” She strode forward before she finished her words.
Ancel fought desperately against Mensa. The man moved more like oily smoke than a human. He spun, dodged, and parried at the perfect moments, either avoiding or deflecting his every blow. Leaping up and down the temple’s wide marble stairs, they sought any advantage. A serene smile graced Mensa’s lips.
The city burned, its heat scorching Ancel’s back. Corpses littered the ground, most of them the remnants of Eldanhill’s folk. From time to time, the dead shuddered and then stood before charging off to fight the living. With each resurrection, Mensa’s grin widened.
Close by, Mirza and Kachien fought Jillian. Charra’s roars echoed over the other sounds of battle. Ancel could not tell how they fared. All his focus needed to be on Mensa. The slices and cuts on his arms and abdomen and his swollen eye from a kick taught him the folly of any lapse in concentration.
Not once did Mensa speak, but his movements were a far cry from the disheveled servant he had played. Whenever Ancel landed a blow, blackness coiled around the wound, healing it in seconds. At those times, the man actually cackled in glee.
Ancel delved into every attack he could muster. His Stances and Styles changed more swiftly than at any other time when he sparred against Ryne. Their intricacies came to him, as deep inside the Eye, he fed his emotions to his sword work. Their battle became a dance to the music of ringing steel.
His love for his people mixed with his hate for Mensa, adding to his speed, yet providing him with moves so stealthy he was sure Mensa never saw them coming. This, he combined with the frenzy the winds brought, attacking in every direction, while infusing it with the energy of fire. The sword responded, its blade black and red at the same time, sweeping and licking in half a dozen slices, feints, and arcs.
Mensa dodged or parried them all.
Ancel whipped forward, carried on threads of air, trying to predict Mensa’s next attack or defense. When Mensa’s sword swept in, Ancel infused the determination and strength of the earth into his parrying blow. The blades crashed together. A wave of earth rumbled under their feet. Standing on air, neither of them felt its effects.
Stance after Stance, Ancel unleashed. His Waterweave, flowing in swirls and rushes to match a waterfall, met Mensa’s Shadowstalk, the man disappearing to reappear at Ancel’s flank. Voidwalk, which relied on the air he stood upon, glided Ancel away from the killing blow, momentum thrusting him across the cobbles.
As exhilarating as the battle had become, Ancel knew it could not last. At least not for him. His legs and chest burned. The weight of his sword bore down on his arms. His breaths were becoming labored.
Mensa chose that moment for all out attack. He flitted in, his earlier speed nothing more than a slow glide. Ancel snatched for the Etchings on his forearm as he brought his hand up, making a solid shield of pure Forms. Mensa’s sword stopped just before it connected.
Ancel never saw the foot that slammed into his chest. Blown back, he crashed into a pillar. Dust rained down.
“You’re almost as good as your master,” Mensa sauntered toward him, “and much better than your father, but you cannot hope to defeat me. You haven’t the power.” He threw his hands up.
Shade shot through the air from the temple and from other points within the city. The essence roared into Mensa. His body expanded, legs and arms growing thicker, more muscular.
Auras spilled about the man. Ancel strained his eyes to take them in. Had he just seen reflections of Mensa within the auras? He peered closely as Mensa stood absorbing more essences. There, he saw them now, multiple images of the man and tentacles. Deep in his Matersense, he also saw where Mensa’s power originated.
One of the pillars hummed. Ancel frowned at its familiarity.
Distracted, he didn’t see Mensa move. The flat of the Skadwaz’s blade took him in the ribs. Ancel felt something crunch. He cried out in pain.
“Your mother thought she could best me also.” The sword in Mensa’s fist glowed black, dark fire spilling from its Etchings. “As did many who were linked with netherlings. Yet, us humans have a propensity for growth that most, if not all other races, lack.”
Mensa drew in more Mater. His body swelled rapidly. It did not only grow in height but in girth, until he towered at least twenty feet into the sky. Dark mists congealed
all around him. He laughed, the sound pealing like a great bell.
A burst of Mater resonated from the far north.
“Ah, my master is the process of killing yours it seems.”
A voice whispered in Ancel’s head. Ryne’s voice. “I gave you my light. Now, I give you the world’s light. Kill this fucking idiot, destroy the Chainin he is using, and at the same time you will have helped me and the others.”
Light and heat essences to rival the sun coruscated in the clouds above, igniting them like a flaming sunset. They glowed so brightly Ancel threw his hand up to shield his eyes.
Pure, unadulterated Prima.
Mensa cried out.
Without thought, Ancel reached into the power spilling from Mensa. He allowed it to flow over him, accepted it into himself. He fought his way through its clinging filth to its origin.
The Chainin was within the pillar he felt vibrating.
The voices from Denestia’s essences gibbered and raged. Ancel fed them to the Prima within his Etchings. His body burned.
Light to balance shade. Light to show honor. Honor to show mercy.
The temple’s roof exploded. The Chainin shattered. Prima Mateirum shot into the sky. From both himself and from whatever source Ryne used far to the north.
Flames whiter than bleached bones, whiter than pure snow, whiter than the spots that danced before his eyes, burst from the temple.
Etien strode from the conflagration, his size to match Mensa. He pointed his glowing sword. “Vile creature, a melding of netherling and man such as yourself is an abomination.”
The words also came from Ancel. After all, he and Etien were one and the same. They were the Battlegaurd.
Aegis of The Gods: Book 02 - Ashes and Blood Page 38