Embers of a Broken Throne (15 page)

C
hapter 19

C
astere’s ruins reopened the hole filled with grief in Ryne’s chest, one he’d tried and failed to completely patch. It rekindled a fire also. As well as the darkness he’d suppressed. Perhaps for too long.

The Orchid Plains had reclaimed much of the village, vines, creepers, and bush enveloping the burned out ruins of homes he once frequented. He paused at the village square. Blue and red flowers sprouted where he’d cremated the villagers’ remains, the blooms filling the air with sweet scents. At least something of beauty had sprouted from the massacre.

Images of Vana, Vera, Hagan, Lara and the others flashed through his head. Kahkon’s mother was the worst of them. He could only imagine what the Skadwaz who had taken the boy’s form had done to Lara’s real son. And to her. Head bent, he said a prayer to Ilumni, urging the god to keep the innocent from a similar fate.

Dizziness swept through him for the briefest of moments. This time, instead of worrying, he smiled at the effect. When he finished paying his respects, he Materialized to the Sang Reaches at the edge of Astocan territory and into crisp, cold air. The distant sound of rumbling thunder drew his attention. He glanced up, expecting to see one of Ostania’s frequent and sudden storms appearing, but the sky stretched clear and blue with the occasional white fluff like some artist’s delicate strokes. Eyes narrowing, he followed the sound.

Dust billowed in the distance along the snaking roads and expansive plains that led to Castere from the south. Light flashed upon the twin lakes of Venica and Benica between which sat the Astocan capital. Ryne cocked his head to one side. Straining, he made out a rhythmic beat. Drums.

He put them together: the sound, the dust, and the lights. Rosival had cast out the Iluminus’ forces and proclaimed himself as king. An army marched on Castere. But whose?

He thought to ignore it and head to his main objective, but that was in close proximity. If he spent Prima here he could easily replenish it. Sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, he called on one of the Etchings on his left arm, where the elements of Forms and Flows resided, specifically earth and air essences. He imagined the eagle drawn there. In his mind, it became real.

When he opened his eyes the construct of the eagle, drawn from the Etching, floated up from his arm. Shrieking, its form radiating with the power imbued into it, the bird shot into the sky. He felt the ruffle of air on feathers, the heat from air thermals used to soar higher and higher. The ground’s features became specks, yet were still recognizable through birds acute vision. The connection was exhilarating.

Within moments he was soaring above the attacking army. The force had to number several hundred thousand, its ranks arrayed in organized cohorts of dartan cavalry, foot, archers, and rank after rank of Matii, both Forgers and Dagodins. Above the Matii flew two flags. One bore the Namazzi Waterwall standard, identical to those over Castere. The other depicted a maelstrom surrounded by islands.

Cardians.

The situation began to make sense. For centuries the Astocans and Cardians battled and feuded, but each would back the other against common foes. With the Cardians having been defeated during Stefan’s campaigns and enslaved by the Setian Empire, the subsequent Astocan fall had been inevitable. Some time later, while the world was mired in the Shadowbearer War, the Astocans took the chance to assume control of much of Cardia. They had still failed to conquer the Cardian Isles however. Now, the Cardians were taking back what they felt belonged to them. He had no doubt that Jerem somehow played a part in this, convincing Queen Lina into this course of action.

The thought of Stefan’s daughter brought a stab of pain. Wondering what she looked like now, he let the eagle roam until he found a host of men in light leather armor, many of them bearing two swords or daggers. The Alzari Deathbringers would ever be close to the Queen.

There.
He picked her out in their midst dressed in blue armor. With age she’d taken on more of her mother’s features. He considered heading to her before he scolded himself.
What could you possibly say to a woman you tried to kill when she was a child? She hates you.
He chided himself for almost making the mistake. With the deaths of Henden and Lestere, she would now possess her power in its entirety. Seeing through his guise would not be a problem.

He was contemplating his next course of action when half the soldiers in a cohort exploded outward, a shower of blood, bones, flesh, and armor. The process repeated in several other places among the legions. Chaos ensued. When the phenomenon occurred again, it sent a chill through him.

A portal opened in the midst of a Cardian cohort. A woman dressed in flowing robes stepped through. Before a single soldier responded, she spread her arms, and burst apart. Her blood became spears and daggers. They ripped through the men. At the same time a concussion of air blew back those closest. In areas where the blood was still liquid, men and armor melted when it touched them. Screams and wails echoed above the thump of drums.

He understood what he was seeing. The Cardians didn’t know this territory. If they did, the fight would have been easy for Celina with her power. She could have Materialized into the city and brought her forces with her. But there were limits to what even she could accomplish.

Instead, the Astocan Forgers were doing exactly what she couldn’t, and employing a tactic from the Battle of Blood fought ages ago against the Alzari. They knew the land. They were bringing their blood to a boil, hardening some of it, making weapons of themselves, and then Materializing into the enemy ranks. For the cost of one Astocan Matii, hundreds of Cardians were dying. He’d seen the Astocan Namazzi. They numbered well into the thousands.

Another portal opened, this one bigger. Arrows were already flying toward it. The soldiers around it scattered. Several dozen Matii turned to focus on the opening. But a person didn’t step out.

Instead, a massive wall of water slammed into the Cardians. It swept through the cohort, taking flailing soldiers with it. The Astocans had brought in part of the twin lakes.

A crackling sounded. The water began to turn to ice, murky green becoming white. The ice encased armored men and women in position, limbs crusted over. Their cries made Ryne want to cover his ears.

The ice shattered.

So did everything contained within it.

The Cardian Matii finally responded after the initial shock. When the next portal opened they made their own in front of it. If water poured forth it swept through into the new one. If a person appeared, a bubble of air enveloped them, shielding everyone on the outside.

However, the Astocan attacks were still successful in some other areas. Carnage abounded. Ryne found a great respect for the Cardian soldiers who still stood strong despite the decimation.

Gritting his teeth, he let go of his Forging. The eagle swooped through air and receded into his arm.

Celina might win this battle, but he knew her. She was a woman with a conscience and would not be willing to destroy the whole of Castere. It would be a war of attrition. He wasn’t certain she could afford one. If Jerem was relying on these forces to help Ancel, then something needed to change. Her army hadn’t reached Castere yet and their losses were mounting. The siege might be worse with constant ambushes launched from the city’s safe confines.

Ryne considered his last visit to Castere, recalling when he’d sat outside by the colonnade. It offered an astounding view of all the surrounding territory.

With a thought, he tore the fabric of Mater, and stepped from the Sang Reaches onto the wide colonnade located in front of Castere Keep.

Row upon row of Matii waited. Arrows shot toward him. More Forges than he could count sprang forth from the Namazzi.

Without slowing, he picked out Rosival, pale-faced, the slits on the side of his neck working as he took in Ryne. Surrounded by advisors and men in uniform, Rosival was standing on an expansive message map.

Ryne called on his Etchings. They responded, conjuring the opposites to the attacks surging toward him. Earth to absorb water and throw up stony shields against projectiles. His body became as metal, refusing to be budged by the storm gales and spears of wind loosed by the Namazzi. The attacks shattered against his defenses, throwing up smoke and dust, wood and metal clattering to the ground. He strode through the aftermath, glaring at the Matii, daring them to strike again.

“You!” Rosival pointed at him, features marred in a sneer. “Kill him!” The man turned and ran for the keep’s main stairs.

Ryne Shimmered to Rosival, reappearing ahead of the fleeing man. Rosival’s mouth gaped open, slits on the side of his neck beating rapidly, his eyes wide with terror. Ryne whipped out his sword, lopped off the Astocan’s head, and sheathed the weapon all in one motion. He spun from the man’s corpse before it thudded to the flagstones.

With the death came a thrill he hadn’t realized he missed. Training and protecting Ancel had required him to hold back his nature. He let his lips curve into a morbid smile.

“Now,” he shouted, voice carrying over yelled commands and the frantic commotion of the Astocans preparing to attack, “which one of you is next?”

In the same instant, Ancel’s link disappeared. Ryne focused to be certain his ward was gone. A sense of relief and pride eased through him when he failed to sense Ancel’s presence.

One by one, he regarded the Matii and the uniformed men. “I see you’re not as stupid as your leader was.” He nodded at Rosival’s corpse. “I gave this city back to you, but he threw it all away. You will cease your attacks on the army outside and open your gates to them. Only by becoming one people again can you survive what is to come.” Without waiting for a reply he opened a portal to the Sang Reaches and its Entosis.

C
hapter 20

A
ncel’s arms and shoulders burned from exertion. Weariness gnawed at him. He shifted his hands for a better grip on his swords, at the same time stretching fingers slick with sweat and blood. His blood. Bits of his clothing hung in tatters. The exposed areas throbbed with pain he fought to ignore. At least the wounds weren’t deep enough to be life threatening. Or so he hoped.

His chest heaved as he inhaled long and slow and then let the breath out. The air was rancid with decay, his blood, and the stench of the animals clamoring to get at him and Irmina, but he could let none of that distract him. His one goal was to protect her. Taking a step back to the tree she rested against, he waited for the next attack.

Well over a score of daggerpaws, wolves, and lapras loped back and forth at the edge of the clearing. More waited farther behind them. Their shadowy forms flitted among the surrounding forest’s dappled shadows. Ancel estimated there to be over a thousand animals, all in this one hollow. Growls, barking grunts, and yips abounded, almost as if each creature was anxious for a chance to prove itself better than the ones that had already slunk away in defeat.

“How much longer,” Ancel said under his breath.

“I’m trying,” Irmina answered, voice strained.

He was tempted to glance back at her, but the last time he did so, six beasts leaped at the opportunity. It had been a close thing, resulting in most of his current wounds.

“Can’t Charra offer more help?” Ancel squeezed the sword hilts tighter.

The daggerpaw was still standing where they found him, bone hackles raised, and growling from time to time. Not once had he tried to intervene.

“No. If he does, I’ll be rejected.”

“Tell him I don’t know how long I can keep this up.”

A pause followed before Irmina answered. “He says you must or else we die.”

Ordinarily he would have swept the creatures away, destroyed them with a Forge, or sliced through them. However, either option would be considered a failure in whatever pact Charra made with the king of the Netherwood’s beasts. He was relegated to using his feet, fists, the butt of his sword, or the flat of the blade.

Ancel gritted his teeth. He wished he could have spoken to Charra. Irmina described her communication as a series of images or impressions she could interpret to go along with the whines and grunts the daggerpaw made.

“Then you need to hurry.” From the corner of his eye, Ancel took in the daggerpaw Irmina was attempting to tame. The beast was at least a head taller than Charra, fur glistening black. It stared at the woman, fangs bared, bone hackles standing on end.

“Shut up and I will.”

He made to reply, but the daggerpaw king growled. A bevy of animals attacked, all fur, and claw, and fang. He danced among them, taking no more than a few steps in any direction. The rule had been that he could use no Mater or draw blood, but it didn’t account for his manipulation of the various Styles and Stances.

What he required most was speed and a deft touch. Waterweave and the bond with his longsword provided the latter at first. He dipped and flowed, absorbing attacks with circular motions of both arm and weapon in imitation of the essences after which the Stance was named. Time and again his sword snaked out, its blunt edge rapping on paw or leg before they touched him. Jaws that made their way past his defense received harder blows from the flat of his shortsword’s blade. Wolves, daggerpaws, and lapras fell with a yowl or a whimper to slink away into the forest.

His speed increased as he added Voidwalk and Lightweave into the defense. Cushioned by air, he glided between blows, using the force given off by incoming swipes to tell him where to move. Sound played an integral part. A scuff here, a snarl there, the drip of an animal’s saliva, jaws snapping. They all sang a song he lost himself within.

Time grew nonexistent. Sweat slicked his face, soaked his clothes, and what should have been the breath of cool, early spring air became cloying. The number of wounds mounted, for as fast as he was, he couldn’t prevent every gouge, swipe, or bite. The best he managed at times was to divert jaws before fangs locked onto him. Inexorably, his strength ebbed.

However, instead of slowing to give his tired limbs a rest, he increased his speed, telling himself any fatigue he experienced was a figment of his imagination. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with Irmina’s task. Combining both all three Stances, he allowed himself to drift into the Eye, pain, exhaustion, and the heaviness of his limbs vanishing.

The force from the sheer rapidity of his blows became such that his attackers were cast aside within an inch of touching him. To his own eyes, his arms and legs were blurs.

Possessed by battle energy, he fought on, praying the animals continued to rush him. He knew the moment he paused would be the end. His body would refuse to respond. Sheer momentum was keeping him standing like a man clutching to a horse’s reins as it galloped.

And then, the attacks stopped.

His arms and legs kept moving of their own volition.

A mournful howl echoed, drawing bumps across his skin.

“It is done,” Irmina gasped.

When his hands stopped, Ancel collapsed. Blue sky sprawled above him. The sun was dipping past its zenith.

A shadow loomed, followed by a face. It took more than a few moments before it resolved into Irmina. Something wet and rough touched his cheek. A barking grunt followed. His mind registered Charra’s distinctive sound.

“Charra says you need to mend.” Irmina’s voice was distant. “He says if you can focus just a little, the place is here, but only you can help us to enter it. He claims you have been to it before.”

Ancel latched onto her words. One place came to mind. But how could he open it?

“Let the Etchings guide you, Charra says.” Irmina was cradling his head in her lap.

Summoning the last of his waning strength, Ancel allowed his mind to rove over the drawings on his flesh. When he found the correct one, he simply knew. He invoked its power. The world spun, and then grew black.