Aegis of The Gods: Book 02 - Ashes and Blood (28 page)

C
hapter 44

I
f Ryne’s eyes weren’t deceiving him, and he had no reason to believe they were, Halvor had grown bigger. Much bigger. Whereas before the Svenzar stood three times Ryne’s height, the size of a house, now, he was double that. Each shoulder could hold two wagons. If the smiling pits of his eyes and mouth weren’t open, he could easily have been mistaken for a part of the mountain behind him, except he lacked the sprinkling of snow and ice. Another Svenzar named Kendin accompanied Halvor. With them they had two score Sven, each one at least matching Ryne’s eight feet, they too as much earth and stone as the Red Ridge Mountains. As often happened when Svenzar were near, the air smelled of wet earth after a rainstorm.

Since his days as a mere Sven, Halvor had been more than a little testy and inquisitive. Now, as a leader, a master among his kind, he carried a dignified air, a sense of being that encompassed his surroundings.

The enormous silver sphere ahead of them was the only thing more distracting than the Svenzar. It was the awakened zyphyl. Larger than even Halvor, the featureless sphere writhed and contorted, a wriggling worm that hid the yawning expanse of the Travelshaft’s recesses. Ryne cringed at the nightmares using the creature would bring.

“Hail, Guardian Ryne Waldron.” Halvor’s eyes smiled to match his widening mouth. His voice was the same musical cadence Ryne remembered, the words more notes than speech. It tinkled like the expertly plucked strings of a master takuatin player. One could become lost in such music, steered by the Svenzar to elicit emotions and reactions.

“Hail Halvor. Why not use my true name?”

“I did. Guardian is what and who you are, not what name you choose to bestow upon yourself.”

Ryne nodded.

“I am pleased to see you are in possession of your own mind once more,” Halvor said.

“As do I.” Ryne nodded to where Galiana stood a ways back with Cantor. “She told me you are here because of me.”

“Well, yes, but for more than only you.”

“Oh?”

“The shade cannot be allowed to use the shafts.”

This, Ryne already knew. The Travelshafts offered access to the Svenzar’s city of Stone deep within the Nevermore Heights. The fount of Svenzar power. “I told her the same thing, that you’re here to protect your own interests.”

“We also wanted to see your ward to safety, or relative safety. He has to be there to finish what he has begun.” The mirth fled Halvor’s expression.

“And you doubted I will be able to see him to it?”

“No. I for one have never doubted you, nor has my father, King Kalvor, but events conspire to move quickly, fast even for you humans. Your presence is needed somewhere else, but at the same time you must fulfill your obligation to your ward.”

Ryne had a sinking suspicion that he knew exactly what Halvor meant. The Svenzar had a way of seeing things, knowing what was happening in the world that he could not account for. “Where might I be needed,” he asked anyway.

“This is no time to play the game of knowledge.” Bass filled Halvor’s notes.

Taken aback by the grim response and tone, Ryne frowned. The few times the Svenzar became this serious, the repercussions touched the world’s farthest reaches, and in ways not even the true Chroniclers, the ones who claimed to see the Planes of Existence, could predict.

“You mean my brothers.” Ryne allowed his mind to touch the pinpoints, the bonds that told him of their locations. The four wayward ones from earlier, the same he’d felt the day he woke in Galiana’s hospice still headed for the Great Divide. “Unfortunately, I cannot be two places at once.”

“This is true, but it does not change the need. You must go to them.”

The Svenzar were hardly ever direct. They enjoyed their puzzles, their riddles, even if they claimed they did not play and tried to appear serious despite the perpetual smile ingrained into their features. Seeing Halvor like this, coupled with his grim expression, made the hairs on Ryne’s arm stand on end. Whatever was happening, he hoped it was not as bad as Halvor was suggesting.

“Prima Materium has massed near the Great Divide since my ward released it, and they’re drawn to its call,” Ryne sai. “That’s to be expected. I suspect there’s an army of shade, Amuni’s Children, and possibly one Skadwaz waiting, but I doubt even they could stop four Eztezians working together.” Ryne opened his mouth to continue then snapped it shut. He let his words out slowly. “Which one of the four is a traitor?”

“Not one. Two. The Guardians for air and water.”

“The Flows,” Ryne whispered.

“And the other two?”

“Cold and metal.”

There it was. One of the Svenzar’s own had gone to defend.

“There is more,” Halvor said. “The one you fought beyond the Vallum, near Edsel Stonewilled’s people. He is there.”

“Voliny’s dead.” Ryne refused to call the man by his other name for fear of the memories it would dredge up.

“That was not Voliny.”

“What?”

“In your haste to save the boy and to forget, you have allowed some things to slip by you. Among the second generation of Eztezians, there was none stronger than you. Even most of the first paled in comparison. While under the shade’s control, you were no less an Eztezian. If you think it was Voliny, how is it that he bested you that night? Yet, when you fought him in Castere, you defeated him rather easily.”

Ryne left the obvious answer unspoken. “Who was it then?”

“Voliny’s master, a boy you knew as Kahkon.”

Memories of Carnas tore through Ryne. They scoured him, threatened to wash him away. All in scarlet, bone, and bristle. The black of soot. The gray of ash. The unrecognizable mess left after a daemon ripped out a person’s sela for deliverance into the Nether. He relived the mounds of dead. Men, women, children. Every face belonged to a friend. Kahkon danced atop their corpses.

Kahkon, the boy he’d taught. The boy who he felt could have been his son. The boy who was ever inquisitive, having him tell stories of the gods, read him myths and legends. The boy the shade took. The boy he had failed to save.

So many deceptions. This one greater than most.

“He used my teaching to see if I would remember my past,” Ryne said, his voice sounding hoarse and far away.

“Indeed,” Halvor rumbled. “Now he waits for the rest of you. Two of them are his already. Either the other two will fall or they will be his. That cannot be allowed. If he succeeds, he will capture the Sanctums of Shelter.”

Ryne’s mind snapped from the red haze of old grief and new rage. The Sanctums of Shelter held the power of the Vallum and fueled the Great Divide. They were a balancing act between neutrality, order, and chaos. Tip the scales one way or the other and it would break the first Principle of Mater.
The elements of Mater must exist in harmony.

Nothing he, Galiana, or any of the others had planned could save what was left then.

“I must go to them now,” Ryne declared, desperation a storm in his chest.

“If you do, you will lose your ward.”

The effect would be the same. A sense of helplessness suffused Ryne. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes in prayer. He prayed harder, in earnest. No one answered what choice he should make.

“It is why I am here,” Halvor said. “It is Humelen’s will. We will see you to Torandil, and then to Seti through the Travelshafts. It will grant you enough time to see your ward safe and meet the others at the Great Divide.”

The despair in Ryne lifted a little, just enough for him to offer Halvor a weak smile and a nod of gratitude.

C
hapter 45

A
lthough his Pathfinder escort marched near him, Ancel couldn’t help touching his sword’s hilt. He swore the gigantic stone creatures intended to eat him. The books mentioned the Svenzar and Sven being large, but for some reason he had not equated their size to match what he saw. Halvor and Kendin, their leaders, stood half as tall as the canyon they walked through, shoulders almost touching the icy crags rising on both sides. A thick odor of fresh earth accompanied the creatures. The Sven kept to the front, but that mattered little as their musical speech echoed above the footsteps and clink of armor carried not only by the space but also by the occasional chilly breeze. It was as if a band accompanied them, notes rising and falling, a rhythmic chime unlike the murmur of Harval’s Matii who followed behind in organized ranks.

Striding next to him, Mirza gawked so much that he tripped more than once. Charra acted as if the creatures did not exist. What Ancel found almost as fascinating was Ryne’s ability to speak their language. Etchings glistening in the sunlight, Ryne walked next to Halvor, both engaged in conversation.

Ancel was still staring at the Svenzar as they rounded a corner. All thought of them fled his mind.

In liquid, translucent silver, the zyphyl loomed before him. Beyond it yawned the Travelshaft’s blackness.

“Remember,” Galiana said from next to him, “it is of the Streams, as are you. Bottle your fear. Give it nothing to feed on when you enter or else you may not return from its grasp. It will tempt you. You will see visions of things that may have happened or those to come; the possibilities created by choice. You must ignore it all. Set your mind on coming through. Take a moment to clear your heads and set your thoughts on reaching the other side. Nothing it shows you is real.”

“Whatever you do, whatever you see,” Ryne said, “do not Forge. The zyphyl are the opposite of the vasumbrals. Instead of devouring Mater, they can multiply what you do a hundred fold. That is never good when inside. Everland still suffers from what an Eztezian unleashed within a zyphyl.”

Ancel swallowed.

“So go in and don’t think,” Mirza said. “Not as easy as it sounds.”

“Regardless,” Galiana indicated the Travelshaft with a dip of her head, “this is the only way to avoid whatever traps the Tribunal has in store.”

Galiana hadn’t been pleased when Ryne mentioned they would be skipping Calisto, but somehow their discussion resulted in her acquiescence. Whatever caused her to change her plans, Ancel figured it had to be important. He wondered what else they were hiding from him.

“I’ve faced shadelings, seen a netherling, trained with an Eztezian, have a god’s Battleguard as my own construct, Pathfinder’s as my personal guard, and I, myself, am an Eztezian.” Ancel shrugged. “What’s there for me to be afraid of?”

“Oh, nothing but gods and godlings,” Mirza paused, tapping a finger on his lip, and then pointed as if remembering something, “and monsters looking to eat our world. That’s all.” He threw up his hands in exasperation.

“Enough,” Galiana said. “Just remember our instructions.”

Both he and Mirza nodded, but Ancel still could not help the little flutters in his gut. “What’s that?” He pointed to a charcoal surface wide enough to hold three wagons that led down to the shaft’s entrance. Not a hint of snow or ice gathered on it.

“The Svenzar say it’s a road, but unlike any other,” Galiana said. “It increases your speed, and then that determines how fast your group will travel.”

Ancel could not begin to imagine what speed would take them to Torandil in a day with the Svenzar’s aid. The journey normally lasted two months or even longer with the winter storms.

“Imagine the shaft being like Materialization,” Galiana offered as if reading his confusion. “It’s a portal, but unlike Materializing, there is a physical distance between the two places that must be crossed. Similar to the Entosis, the shafts alters the passage of your time and movement when inside. However, unlike the Entosis, the Svenzar are able to increase or decrease the effect.”

Ancel couldn’t fathom the entire concept, but with all that he’d experienced, who was he to question the possibilities? He took a deep breath, inhaling crisp, cold air, and then nodded.

Within moments, they arrived at the edge of the charcoal road. High Shin Cantor called for a halt.

Halvor continued walking, leaving his counterparts behind until he stood alone upon the road. His body changed to the match its color, a deep black, and then like a mound of snow on a blistering day, his body began to melt, becoming one with the roadway. Although Ancel watched, he still found it difficult to believe what he was seeing. A moment more and the creature vanished.

Concerned murmurs abounded except from the Sven. An eerie silence accompanied them.

“Forward,” Cantor shouted. “Everyone onto the road.”

“What just happened,” Ancel asked of Ryne.

“Halvor has negated the effect of the road to ensure we are all together.”

“What happens when the effect returns?”

“Falling into a bottomless hole is the best way to describe it.”

Ancel was glad he hadn’t eaten much that afternoon. The way his stomach was clenching and unclenching, he would have probably spewed its contents. He glanced back to see the last of the Matii step onto the road.

“Everyone,” High Cantor called, “Nothing you see is real. Tell yourself that as many times as you need to.”

Waiting for further instructions, Ancel frowned when the man said nothing more. “What about the warning not to Forge,” he whispered.

“No need to mention it,” Ryne answered. “Of the people here, only you, the High Shin, and I could manage it once inside the zyphyl.”

“Brace yourself!” Cantor bellowed.

Ancel stiffened, squeezing every body part tight; his arms, fists, legs, neck, back, stomach, and still they were not enough. When he shot forward, his stomach leapt into his mouth. One moment, he was standing with Ryne, surrounded by Harval’s people and his Pathfinders, and the next he was touching the zyphyl’s surface, the Travelshaft a black maw. That one moment in between felt as if his body would tear itself apart.

He struck the zyphyl and stopped.

There was no sense of motion as he floated in the air. He was alone among a profound absence of light, absence of anything. The emptiness, almost tangible, begged him to reach out to it. His eyes were open, yet he saw nothing and smelled nothing.

The void stirred. It caressed him; its breath whispered along his skin. Abstract thoughts drifted aimlessly letting him know that within it, he still existed. So did the hammering of his heart.

Thump, thump thump, thump, thump thump. Faster and faster it beat. It was almost as if he held his heart next to his ear, its vibrations rippling through him, its rhythm thunder in his ears.

Bright pinpricks appeared all around him, thousands on thousands of them. They kept forming until they were a greater number than his mind could fathom. He noticed then that
he
moved and not they. It felt at first as if he drifted toward those lights, but as he drew closer, he saw that his speed defied all reason. With the realization, his body cried out from the rush, the jolt vibrating through his soul, stomach knotting as if he fell into a void. His mind cried tears that refused to leave his eyes. The lights grew from sparks into blinding white globes, and then into one continuous blurred line.

He stopped abruptly.

Ahead of him was a huge orb of blues, whites, greens, and browns, surrounded by deep, dark, emptiness populated by pinpricks. Slowly, familiarity came to him. Ancel recognized what it reminded him of: the nights when he would marvel at the moons traversing the night skies accompanied by stars.

He was looking upon a world from the outside looking in. Excited and scared all at once, his mouth opened. There was no one for his unasked question. No cold or heat suffused him, yet he shivered. He drifted down to the world’s surface, and as he did so, two moons circled it. In moments, he passed beyond them and into the pearly whites of clouds. They hung there, puffs of white smoke in different shapes and sizes suspended by nothing. The sun’s glow limned them in flaming hues, and for the first time, he felt its warmth. As he ventured below the clouds, he recognized where he was as compared to the many maps he’d seen.

Denestia.

He floated somewhere above Ostania.

With the thought, he zipped down toward a city, its buildings growing from tiny structures into towering edifices as they climbed the side of a mountain. A gigantic castle loomed below. He cried out when his speed did not slow. By reflex, he threw his hands up over his face as if they would protect him from crashing through brick and mortar. But when he struck, there was no impact; he passed through the walls as if they were air and appeared floating above a throne room.

Rot immediately assaulted his nostrils. He swept his gaze across the room. Several shadelings and a thin, reedy man in uniform held a woman captive, her clothes rags, her face a battered mask. Across from them, a younger uniformed man faced the king. The young soldier, he guessed a General of some sort, pointed at the king who wore black armor of interlocking plates. Behind the king, a boy and a girl, expressions filled with fear, huddled beside a man wreathed in black.

Ancel frowned, drawn to the soldier’s stance, to his hair, then to the woman and back again. His mouth fell open of its own volition.

Mother?

Da?

That would mean the king was Nerian. There was something else familiar about the Shadowbearer that he couldn’t quite place.

The children had to be his brother and sister. Anton and Celina.

Before Ancel could move, the world screamed. Svenzar and Sven tore a chasm in the floor. Materforging scoured the room.

The man wreathed in black near his siblings now held a sword, its blade dripping blood.

His father screamed.

Something whisked Ancel away.

He reappeared above a great tower. A Bastion, he knew at once. Soldiers massed in a field. On the battlements, his father cried while holding his mother. Galiana stood behind them.

Again, he was taken away.

He touched the ground in a field surrounded by familiar woods with the scents of home. The Greenleaf. In the distance, he saw the winery. Mother and Father tended the kinai. A howl broke the day’s silence, rolling across the plains. From the forest bounded several wraithwolves in long, loping strides. Ancel screamed and began running toward his parents but he knew he would be too late.

“I can give you the power you need.” A voice oozed into his mind.

He stopped in his tracks.

“The shade can sway these creatures. It is yours to command if you so wish it,” said another voice.

Gaiana’s face swam into his vision. “Remember nothing you see is real.”

“This isn’t real.” He yelled.

“Maybe it is or maybe it is not,” the first voice cooed. “All exists within the Planes of Existence. Every possibility. Will you let them die?”

Ancel’s hands trembled as he squeezed them into fists. Tears trickled down his face and he watched in horror as the shadelings drew close enough to pounce on his parents. He wanted to stop them. He had to stop them.

Inside him, his power burned.
Dear Ilumni, help them
, he prayed.

The voice screeched.

Charra appeared, slamming into a wraithwolf. The others of the pack stopped and turned toward the new threat. His power forgotten, Ancel ran for his parents. The voice cackled in his head.

Again, something snatched him away.

“Bring them back!” he cried hoarsely.

A hollow boom sounded. Ancel snapped his head around.

Smoke billowed from the winery. Char choked the air. One of the walls blew outward. From the debris strode a man swathed in all black. He dragged Mother’s limp form from the building by one arm.

Power surged into Ancel’s Etchings. He would not allow the man to take Mother again.

Yet, as much as he wanted to, craved to lash out, to release Etien, he did not.

Once more, whatever power controlled what he was seeing took him and deposited him elsewhere.

In silver armor, sword raised above him, he stood in a familiar city.

Jenoah.

The poisoned gods’ attack swept across the world. Not only here in Hydae, but in Denestia also. It was all connected. With one sacrifice, he could save Denestia, even if it meant the evil infecting Hydae, the darkness thrust upon it by Amuni, would still live.

He needed to give of himself.

The Etchings on his weapon and his body joined as one. He called on Prima.

Antonjur.

Power arched across the Planes into the Entosis, black and light at the same time as if a lightning strike marred his vision. It originated from the mountains hidden in the distance where Prima Materium coalesced, fed by the creatures that inhabited it. Something about the darkness in the elements was terribly familiar. But it was nothing that scared him. He embraced what Charra gave him.

The gods’ power struck.

Whisk.

Ancel leaped up onto the highest tower in Randane. Below him, the city churned in flames, ashes, and blood.

The ashes of my people. The blood of my people.

In the main square before the temples dedicated to the gods of Streams, and at the steps leading into the king’s castle, shadelings had Eldanhill’s refugees lined up. Eyes aglow, daemons flicked out strands from their heads while walking on spindly legs like giant insects. The black hair, or whatever it was, ripped into the prisoners. People Ancel knew. Many he considered friends. Some who were family. His people. Those he’d sworn to help protect.

Sela flew from each person as they died.

The daemons screamed. All across the city came matching replies.

A portal twisted open. Some sela flew into it, while the remainder zipped into the dead and living alike. Those alive grew in size and power. The dead, shifted, got to their feet.

Shadelings. Every one of them.