Etchings of Power (Aegis of the Gods)

Copyright

Etchings of Power is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © October 2011 Terry C. Simpson All rights reserved

Edited by D Kai Wilson-Viola

Covert Art by Gonzalo Ordonez

Mapwork by Terry C. Simpson

The right of Terry C. Simpson to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

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Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at
Terrycsimpson.com
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Ramblings of a Fantasy Author
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Dedication

This book is dedicated to my wife Marie, and my daughter Kai. Without you this would not be possible. You motivate me in ways I didn't think were possible.

Acknowledgements

First, thanks to the man upstairs. And again, thanks to my wife Marie for being there to support me and for giving me the most wonderful gift in our daughter, Kai. Kai, you inspire me to write every time I see you pick up one of my huge epic fantasy hardcovers and say “Daddy, read for me.”

A big thanks to my Speculative Collective Writing Group. Leighland J Feinman, for your the good, bad and ugly crits. Ted Anderson, your crits have been priceless in getting me here, and you are often first to see plot and story flaws and taught me much about pacing and reveals. Edward Hoefer, always so supportive yet firm, and never pulling a punch. Elisa Hansen, your pointers on structure, dislike for gerunds and purple prose and ability to see the little things kept me grounded. Katie Garrigan, the grammar goddess, who helped keep my wayward writing in check.

To my editor D Kai Wilson-Viola. Funny how life works that I meet an editor with the same name as my daughter. Thanks for putting up with my unending questions about your suggestions and changes. You helped to bring about a certain life in my work by encouraging me to be true to my descriptive half and not be too bland. You helped bring my characters to life. Your workshop on social media and help on facebook, twitter etc. has been amazing. If only there were more people as selfless as you are.

To my Novel Review Group at writing.com. Tamara, Milhaud, LJPC, MsJ, Vampyr14, you all taught me much of what I needed to get this done.

To my best friend Hughey. A big thank you for telling me this was my calling.

Map of Denestia

Carnas Area and The Wilds

Eldanhill to Randane

CHAPTER 1

Ryne Waldron wondered if he should kill the woman.

Blood, bodies, and screams rolled across his mind with the thought of her and those she represented. The stink of something dead or worse hung in the air. He expelled a great breath, chest heaving with the hope the stench was only death.

An old, familiar feeling, like heat seeping into a cold hearth, stirred deep within his eight-foot frame. In response, the vibrant tapestry of tattoos covering his body from foot to chin writhed. Seamless replicas of the same artwork decorated his armor, they too twitching in unison with those on his body. Ryne flinched, his muscled arms and broad back clenching, the scars under his leather armor drawing taut. Frowning, he stopped himself from reaching to his hip for his greatsword’s hilt. His bloodlust had never risen before unless he touched his power. He shut away the craving to kill with practiced ease.

Unable to shrug off the lapse of control, Ryne stepped to the rear of one of Carnas’ many rosewood and teak homes and glanced out across the Orchid Plains. Shimmering heat rose in waves, and yellowed grass and flowers bowed under the sun’s rays as if praying for relief, but sure enough, there she stood. Mariel—if that was even her real name—kept her gaze trained in his direction. Dark hair hung to her shoulders, and she was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and close-fitting trousers, her slight body and paler skin color the opposite of the native Ostanians. As usual, she stayed beyond the range where he could read her aura.

Ryne turned his head to the noise of a boot scraping on the wooden stairs next to him.

“See here?” Dren craned his head to peer at Ryne, his leather boot poking at a dried bloodstain. “This is where they took Miss Corten last night.”

Looming over Dren, although the sinewy man stood two stairs higher, Ryne inspected the scuffmarks. Rust colored splotches stained the wood. Next to the steps, several flattened flowers were the only other signs of a struggle. Ryne’s brow wrinkled. “Nowhere near enough blood to have been anything serious.”

“Exactly.” Dren nodded, scarred hands rising to stroke his short beard. “Miss Corten can hunt as well as any one of us scouts. But no one heard her sound an alarm or even cry out.”

Ryne gauged the proximity to the other adjoining homes. Despite the space between houses afforded here at Carnas’ outskirts, someone should have heard Miss Corten. With the recent hot weather and lack of rain, the shuttered windows on these houses would’ve been open. Neither the sturdy structures nor the wooden tile roofs would have kept out the sounds of the struggle or a cry for help. Not even the gales that often howled during one of the frequent thunderstorms could have drowned out Miss Corten’s cries. However, there hadn’t been any such wind, not the past few days. The weather had remained as it was now, hot, still, and silent with not much more than an inconsequential breeze.

Shifting uncomfortably in his fitted leather armor to sample the air once more, Ryne flicked his thumb across his nose as the whiff of something long dead, of decay and unwashed dog fur curdled his insides. “Have you noticed the smell, Sakari? It’s faint, but it’s there.”

Sakari glided forward, his nostrils flaring. The silver flecks dominating the whites of his eyes flashed as he sniffed the air. At near seven feet—almost reaching Ryne’s shoulder—today he was the opposite of Ryne in girth, his body svelte, each part fit in near perfect proportions under his scaled leather armor. “Yes,” Sakari answered after a final scrunch of his nose, “Rot. Old fur. Something not quite dead.”

Dren’s brows drew together, his eyes narrowed, and sweat beaded his forehead. His hand eased down to his sword hilt as he glanced around, his gaze searching the woods across the expanse of pastures. “Master Waldron, you think it’s a beast from the Rot?” the scoutmaster whispered, his head shifting from left to right as if to make sure no one overheard.