Aegis of The Gods: Book 02 - Ashes and Blood (3 page)

C
hapter 3

T
he giant shape stepped into the light, the metallic glint of a sword in its hand.

Stefan’s bowstring twanged.

“No!” Ancel reached a hand out to the arrow in desperation as if he could draw it back.

The arrow flew true. It pierced armor adorning an oak-trunk chest like a blade through silk. The most beautiful armor Ancel had ever seen.

The giant was a man. Tangled black hair hid his features, more akin to Charra’s fur than a mustache and beard. The stranger’s eyes widened at the shaft jutting from his chest. A massive hand rose to snap the wood in two before he pitched forward. He landed face down with a resounding thud and a shower of snow.

Stefan nocked another arrow, spurring his horse into a trot.

“Da. Stop.” Frantic, Ancel ran toward the giant.

“Come back,” Stefan yelled. “You don’t know who or what he is.”

“Yes, I do.” Ancel continued his run without looking back but made sure to veer where he thought he could block the next arrow. “It’s him. He’s the one. I can feel him.” He stopped over the man.

“What?” his father called from behind him.

“The link,” Ancel stressed, trying to hide his excitement despite the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach at the sight of the giant. The bitter scent of the blood spattered amongst the bush and on the ground set his heart racing. More often than not, when his father shot, he did so to kill. Another odor emanated from the giant. Ancel cringed at the reek. The stranger stunk like death or worse, but the strength of the bond to him said he was alive. Barely. He glanced over his shoulder. “He’s the one I’m linked to … my teacher …” A thrill ran through him when he uttered the word.

“Oh Ilumni.” Stefan slung his bow over his back and swung down from his saddle.

Ancel resumed his inspection of the giant. Artwork in dizzying colors and vivid detail covered the back of the man’s form-fitting leather armor. There were depictions of landscapes, battles, unknown beasts, weapons, celestial bodies, and words in scripts. Ancel could not begin to fathom any of it despite his extensive studies. The drawings flowed from the short-sleeves of the giant’s chestpiece onto the skin of his muscular arms in one seamless design. Ancel sucked in a breath, gaze riveted on the artwork as he brushed the ones on his own right arm. These too were Etchings. He was sure of it.

“We need to get him off the arrow shaft,” his father said, boots crunching in the icy grass. Stefan hawked and spat. “In Ilumni’s name, he stinks.”

They worked in concert, trying to flip the huge man onto his back, but he was too heavy, his armor like chunks of ice. Even his massive rune-etched sword resisted their efforts to relinquish it from his grasp. With a whine, Charra trotted over. Head down, the daggerpaw pushed the body by the waist. Ancel placed himself near the thighs and Stefan at the chest. Together, they heaved and rolled the giant over.

An awful stench wafted from the man like stepping onto a corpse-laden field days after a battle. Body convulsing, Ancel retched, covering his mouth and nose at the same time.

Long scars marred the left side of the giant’s face. Discoloration seeped across the exposed portions of his skin. The parts of the man’s hands not covered in tattoos were a bluish black. So were his fingers where they gripped his sword’s hilt. A similar tint showed from his neck up. The areas not affected by frostbite were tanned a deeper brown than Stefan’s skin. His chest rose and fell, slow and uneven. A liquid gurgle escaped his lips. The arrow must have punctured a lung.

A sense of relief washed through Ancel at his father having missed the heart. He’d seen men survive an arrow to a lung, but he’d also seen some die.

“This work on the armor and skin …” Stefan said. A frown on his face, he circled the giant. “I’ve seen this before.”

“Well … yes, on me.”

“No, not yours. Even when I first saw your Etchings I thought they were familiar, but I couldn’t quite place them. Now, with these ...” Stefan trailed off.

“Where? On who?”

“A long time ago, back in Seti. It was on a—never mind. We need to get him to Eldanhill immediately.”

Intrigued, Ancel opened his mouth to press the issue.

“Forget it. Now isn’t the time or place,” his father said.

Ancel snapped his mouth shut and nodded. He took a moment to consider the giant’s size and weight. “How are we going to move him?”

“We’ll build a large litter.”

As doubtful as he was, Ancel was willing to try, but he also had other concerns. “What about the wolves, Da?” Squinting, he peered into the woods. “They could return at any moment.”

“No, they won’t. They’ll regroup first, most likely find another pack to bring this way. We still have time if we hurry. Charra can stand guard. Let’s go.” Unsheathing his sword, Stefan headed into the trees.

Ancel followed, staying close, eyes scanning the shadows. The sun’s glimmer showed higher in the sky, but the overcast conditions fought against its light. Among the woods, the hardier cedars were still green. Burnt-red oak leaves dotted branches covered in hoarfrost. Dead foliage peeked through piled snow. Ancel kept a wary eye on those mounds.

The sound of hacking drew his attention to where his father chopped at a sapling. After one more uneasy glance at the piled foliage, Ancel followed suit.

Time passed at a torturously slow pace as they worked. Bird song and the chatter of winter animals feathered the air. On occasion, Ancel stopped to mop his brow and take a sip from his other waterskin. When hunger gnawed at his belly, he chewed on pieces of dry rabbit and crusty bread. His scarf now rested around his neck, and although tempted, he resisted the urge to remove his cloak. Often, his father flicked a hand to his own forehead to wipe away perspiration. Between the two of them, they had a growing collection of branches from which to choose.

While they worked, Ancel kept an eye on the giant from time to time. Unlike before, he breathed evenly and slowly as if in a deep slumber.
How could someone be in his state of frostbite and still live? Where was the man from?
Men almost as large lived among the Nema and Seifer clans in the Kelvore Mountains, but like most northern Granadians, they were a paler skin tone. If the stories were true, the Sven and Harnan were as big, if not bigger, but the latter were in Ostania. Ancel pursed his lips. That might explain the giant’s mahogany complexion.

The man’s wound troubled him. Ever since he received his Etchings, his arm and chest in the same area were much stronger. Unbelievably so. He’d taken to testing it. One day, rather than use his sword, he raised his hand to block a blow while sparring with Mirza. He never told, but besides a slight sting, the strike, which should have broken a rib, hadn’t done much. Later the same night, he took a knife and tried to scour the Etchings. Again the twinge, but not once did the blade pierce his skin. Then, today. The wolf’s teeth should have pierced his fur and armor and crushed his arm but hadn’t come close.
So how did Da’s arrow go through armor and flesh covered in an Etching?

“I think we have enough,” his father said.

Ancel looked around, surprised to see how many saplings they’d cut down. A swath of clear forest occupied by larger trees and deep snow surrounded them. He put away his sword, grabbed a branch in each hand, and dragged them toward the clearing.

Morning grew into afternoon. His father left the branches to him while using rope from his saddlebags to tie the wood together near an old stump. Stefan dug out a patch of snow into which he placed the litter angled up toward the tree’s remains. Ancel was almost finished with the branches when the first howl echoed from the north.

“Hurry,” his father implored.

Without a backward glance, Ancel dragged the last two pieces of wood to the clearing. He held them in place while his father secured them to the others.

Another howl. This time closer.

Charra grunted.

“Go. Protect us,” Ancel ordered.

The daggerpaw, dried blood a dull brown against its fur and bone hackles, bounded off into the trees. Charra soon disappeared from view.

“Da,” Ancel said.

“Yes,” his father answered without glancing up from the litter.

“There’s no way Charra holds them all off. We won’t make it through the trees with this litter before they catch us.”

Stefan nodded.

Ancel waited for more, but his father said nothing.

When Stefan finished, he stood. He walked over to the giant with a few pieces of rope he’d braided together and bent over the man.

Brows furrowed, Ancel watched.

His father worked the rope up the giant’s arms and over his shoulders to form a type of harness. He brought his horse closer, looped the rope’s ends over the animal’s head and onto its shoulders, and then wrapped the remainder around the pommel. The mount’s eyes rolled, and it snorted several times. Stefan guided the horse in the direction of the stump and gave it a light tap on the rump. The horse pulled, and the rope snapped taut. Muscles straining, the horse took one step forward, then another. The giant’s body shifted an inch or two before it began to slide toward the litter.

A few more paces and the horse dragged the unconscious man up onto the makeshift contraption. Stefan stopped his mount, untied the ropes, and used them to secure the giant to the wood. Then he looped the remaining loose ends around the strongest saplings. He directed his horse to one side to drag the litter away from the stump. When the entire process was completed, he nodded in satisfaction.

The first yowls, snarls, grunting barks and growls of daggerpaw fighting wolf echoed through the gloomy trees.

Stefan strode over to where he’d left his bow and picked it up. “I’ll send Charra to you to help clear a path.”

Ancel shook his head, his words easing out in a disbelieving whisper, “No, you mustn’t.”

“Yes, I must and I will.”

“Da, there’s no way you can hold them off. Please, don’t do this.”

“Alone, I probably wouldn’t be able to, but we’ll do our best.” He nodded toward the south, the direction of Eldanhill.

There, appearing from the tree line like a spirit dressed in the dark-colored britches and tunic she favored, a short cloak whipping around her, jogged Kachien. Two sheaths stood out on her hips, each containing a black-handled dagger.

“How?”

“I told her if we weren’t back by noon to come find us.”

“Why not Shin Galiana?”

“She had more pressing issues with the possibility of Pathfinders coming to Eldanhill since we declared ourselves.”

Ancel cringed with the thought of the men and women tasked with capturing those who Forged without the proper control, used Mater to commit crimes, or stood against the Tribunal. Not only was he guilty of the first and the last but so was much of Eldanhill. To the Pathfinders, they’d also done the second.

In the distance, the fight between Charra and the wolves grew more pronounced. A howl resonated to the northeast. A different wolf pack.

“There’s no time to waste,” Stefan commanded. “Mount up.”

After a slight hesitation and a pained look to both his father and the woman he’d grown to love, who he still cared for to a great extent, Ancel climbed atop Stefan’s horse.

“Don’t stop. Don’t look back until you reach Eldanhill.”

As his father was saying those words, Kachien drew even with them. Ancel opened his mouth to acknowledge her at the same time that she glanced down at the giant. She sniffed, rubbing a thumb across her nose. Then her head jutted forward a bit, her eyes narrowed, and her hands slid imperceptibly closer to the handles of her daggers.

Before Ancel contemplated her reaction, his father slapped the rump of his mount and sent him on his way.

Chapter 4

H
ead held high in defiance, Irmina Nagel regarded the Tribunal Assembly’s members arrayed before her. Tiered alabaster steps formed a semicircle like an amphitheater of old. Spaced along every stone stair were chairs of the finest mahogany behind matching balustrades. Upon each chair sat the Tribunal High Seats, the twelve colored stripes on their sleeves unmistakable.

Depicted on the walls behind them was Denestia’s creation by the Annendin, taking his lifeblood to produce Mater. He separated it into the three elements and made the worlds. He further broke down the elements into the essences and bestowed them onto the gods. Other murals showed the gods passing their essences down to the Eztezians. Mixed in were the wars with the netherlings, the shadelings, and men with black boiling from their bodies—supposedly, the Skadwaz after the god Amuni changed them. Thinking back to Ryne’s story of the man he faced near the Vallum of Light and their battle in Castere’s Keep, she averted her eyes from that specific section.

Directly ahead of her, on a seat positioned higher than the others, sat High Jin Quintess, leader of the Raijin. Wiry and imperious, auburn hair cut short, she regarded Irmina with cold, golden eyes. To Quintess’ right sat High Shin Hardan, the Pathfinder overseer, silver robes matching his hair. While he studied her, he stroked the corner of his mouth with his thumb. A habit she still found as disconcerting as his piercing eyes. As usual, his expression reflected little to no emotion.

In positions sloping down from the center, according to importance, were High Shin Neftana, sniffing at a perfumed cloth, mouth upturned as if something reeked; High Shin Cantor, black skin shiny against his whiter robe; and High Shin Berenil, his complexion the opposite of Cantor’s. Each led the factions pertaining to an element of Mater—the Streams being foremost, followed by the Forms, and finally the Flows.

Nine other Tribunal members, including High Shin belonging to various divisions, were seated according to the essences they represented. Sigils and colors on display, their expressions were serene though some had revealed pride at Irmina’s success in Castere. The victory had gained them another foothold in Ostania. Quintess and Hardan however, showed no such pride. Quintess’ line of questioning had been particularly scathing.

She grimaced as she regarded the one High Shin in the inky black robes of shade. Though Streamean worship taught equality among the religions, the same way the Tenets governing the elements spoke of harmony, she believed any representation of the shade was blasphemy, even if the color was required. The world suffered enough by those who worshipped its chaos. There were those who would argue that light was to shade as order was to chaos—one could not exist without the other; the world required balance—but she did not care. When questioned, Shins made it seem as if the shade’s representation was of no consequence, a mere symbol in respect to teachings passed down through time immemorial.

Irmina knew better.

Some within the Iluminus worshipped Amuni and his shade. As weak as they were, the Shadow Council existed, as did the Gray who claimed to remain neutral. The White Council opposed them with its dedication to Ilumni, Bragni, and Rituni, the three most pious gods. And yet, not even their subservience to the light was allowed to appear as if it dominated. Unless of course, one wanted to forget that almost everyone within the Iluminus gave their praises to Ilumni. Irmina smiled at the thought. Such a fine distinction to show whom the Ashishin really served.

Irmina wondered who belonged to which sect. Jerem had made it clear that of the three, the Grays might be trustworthy, and then only to a certain degree. She shook her head. The man found conspiracies in seemingly inconsequential acts.

In her simple blue tunic and trousers, the situation reminded her of a senjin player in Ishtar’s renowned arenas before an announcer prepared to declare the sport’s results. In her case, the High Shin represented the judges who determined the subsequent reward for the victor and punishment for the vanquished. Depending on the circumstances, the sentence could be death.

“So,” High Jin Quintess said, “you believe killing a king was the right thing to do?”

“I was under orders from High Shin Jerem,” Irmina answered.

Murmurs spread through the gathered elders. Qunintess raised a hand and the whispers died.

“As much as High Shin Jerem is a senior member of the Tribunal, he overstepped his bounds in this case,” Quintess said, voice calm, but her eyes burning with anger. “We were not prepared, nor do we condone his actions.”

“But—”

“Think, Shin Irmina.” Quintess cut her off, using her title as a reminder of her proper place. “You have been on enough missions now to realize you have placed us in an almost untenable situation. Already, many of the other kingdoms have fled not only Castere, but Astoca as a whole, retreating to their own countries and consolidating their positions not only against the remnants of the shade’s armies, but against us also.”

“I was under the impression the Tribunal always wanted to gain a stronger hold in Ostania, Jin Quintess.”

“Ashishin Irmina,” Quintess paused, “it is Ashishin Irmina Nagel, isn’t it?”

As tempted as she was to say she knew her name only too well, she bit her tongue and nodded.

“Do not forget to whom you speak. Last I checked, you are not on this Assembly, and therefore would not begin to know what our intentions might be.”

Irmina nodded again. “Yes, High Jin. Please accept my humblest apologies.” She said the words with as straight a face as she could mange.

“Good. Now, let us play along with your scenario, shall we? For over a thousand years, we have subtly influenced the Ostanians with our Devout priests.” The strain of trying to remain neutral echoed in Quintess’ voice. “On the other hand, when conflicts arise, Ashishin such as yourself act as mediator for some. For any other … shall we say … more direct deeds, we call on our Raijin. Now, at a time when we have influence among ranking nobility, despite the resistance and whisperings of some concerning what our intentions may be, we lead an attack on the most prominent Ostanian city for all to see. A city, I might add, whose rulers have resisted almost every overture from us. That is, until recently, when they finally requested our help against a common foe.”

“Exactly,” Irmina protested, “a common foe. We saved not only them but a few other Ostanian cities from armies of Amuni’s Children and shadelings.”

Quintess tapped a finger on the desktop in front of her. “In truth, that is what happened, but sometimes events are not portrayed truthfully, but are painted with a delicate brush by those who would benefit.”

Irmina frowned.
What in Ilumni’s name was the High Jin referring to?
No one who witnessed what occurred in Castere could deny the wickedness they’d defeated, the devastation they’d prevented. Or could they?

“By your expression, you begin to understand. From what we gathered, a certain Lieutenant Rosival, once King Voliny’s right hand, was quite a bit more … shall we say adept … at taking advantage of the situation we created. In fact, what he did was no less short of genius. He employed the same tactics we have for years, using rumors spread throughout Ostania and fear that dates back to even before the War of Remnants.”

Irmina squinted, trying harder to understand how Rosival could turn the slaughter by the shade and its invasion into an advantage.

Quintess continued, her tone sober, as if she spoke to a child, “You see, Shin Irmina, the local Ostanian populace are as much affected by myth as anyone else. For years, the impression that we lay with the shade and employ shadelings has spread among them. Can we rightfully deny it?”

For a moment, Irmina considered answering with a yes, despite knowing the contrary. She glanced toward the High Shin representing the Streams’ essences. Light, heat, cold … and shade. She thought of the Devout priests’ jobs, spreading Steamean worship and its values of equality and balance even among the religions and their individual gods. A smart enough man could easily spin that into something more sinister.

She understood clearly now. Rosival had whispered the right words to the right ears to paint a picture that the Tribunal’s own minions had attacked Astoca. The Tribunal’s reason? To gain control of another swath of land similar to the one they held in Felan. For those who witnessed the battle at Castere, he’d kill the ones unwilling to be a part of his conspiracy. As far as the others? Men will betray much for the promise of titles and riches. With the Tribunal preferring to be tentative, even secretive about their true intentions, and with an impending revolt from Astoca coupled with a chance of war against the Cardians, the Harnan, the Banai, as well as the imminent threat of Amuni’s Children and their armies, that left the Tribunal no choice but to relinquish their hold on the city.

Despite those who would acknowledge the Tribunal’s rightful allegiances, the recent events in Eldanhill and several other territories further compounded matters. The Setian, hated by all in Ostania since the days of the Shadowbearer War, had declared their existence here in Granadia. She imagined the rest of the world’s shock at such a revelation. Not only did the Tribunal harbor an enemy, one who had decimated much of Ostania, they had seen to their well-being. What could be worse? The Setain war machine, led by Nerian, had ground entire cities to dust. They spared no one. Although the dregs from the wars still lived, they were considered so vile that peoples across the world refused to name those survivors as Setian. They were Amuni’s Children, monsters, inhuman, creatures akin to shadelings, poisoned by their worship of the shade and its god, Amuni.

And the Tribunal had saved them.
Simply brilliant.

Deception after deception, inject enough truth where necessary. The Tribunal had been tinkering with men’s lives for years in the same fashion.

Irmina couldn’t help the slight twitch of her lips. She was beaten even before this inquisition began. They could easily lay the blame for it on her shoulders. Even if she claimed Jerem’s involvement, he himself was not present when they killed Voliny. He probably would not deny what happened, but as a Raijin in training, she was technically the commander of the Tribunal’s Matii. Sure, there was Knight Commander Varick, but she was certain his centuries of service would absolve the man of any wrongdoing. Which left her. Irmina felt her shoulders slump.

“High Jin Quintess,” Irmina said, meeting the woman’s unflinching gaze. “What would you have of me?”

A slow smile spread across the High Raijin’s face.

“If you say I made the right decision, then why do I feel like shit?” Irmina asked as she tried her best not to snap at High Shin Jerem.

Gasps issued along the hallway from several students in the blue robes bearing the incomplete figure eight insignia of novices. A few others, in various shades, glanced over, some muttering amongst themselves, adding to the susurrus of voices. Irmina ignored their reactions as she trudged through the Iluminus’ pillared walkways with Jerem at her side. The shining walls and vibrant colors on the windows surrounding her were supposed to evoke certainty, a reflection of positivity through light. They failed miserably.

Jerem, his withered, skinny arms clasped behind his back, arched a wispy eyebrow.

“I-I’m sorry.” Irmina shook her head.

“You should be.”

“No need to rub it in.”

“As for the way you feel,” Jerem shrugged, the crimson robes about his shoulders moving slightly, “you are supposed to feel that way. It is the point of the Raijin exam. Find a person’s weakness and use it against them. See how they react, judge their control. One of the reasons they make aspiring Raijin wear those ridiculous outfits, by the way.” A slight smile graced his thin lips.

Irmina cringed at the thought of the kilt that covered so little she might as well have been naked. The top had exposed her ample cleavage, and the bottom left little to the imagination. Only through great effort did she manage not to gut some ogling ruffian or drunk. Thank the gods she now wore the plain blue tunic and trousers. Dressed as she was did bring a raised brow here or there, but not the lusty looks and comments of her old garb. “Ability to act logically when faced with an extreme situation,” Irmina quoted.

“For the most part, yes.”

“Really? There wasn’t much sense in what I did,” she argued, thinking back to her choice. “If Ryne is truly who Voliny said, how does not killing him when he was weak make for a correct decision?”

“Everything is not in black and white, light or shade, truth or lie. There are myriads of grays to consider, plenty of dimness, many a half-truth and more. All helping to bring about what we are and strive to be.”

Resisting the urge to snort, Irmina said, “Similar to how you’re talking now?”

Jerem’s lips twitched. “Precisely.”

“You mentioned more. What else could there be?”

High Shin Jerem stopped.

Drawing her brows together, Irmina glanced around to see if some inattentive pupil had crossed their path, but they all maintained a wide berth. Every student gave a quick nod of deference first to Jerem then to her as they hurried by, eager to be at their classes. When she returned her attention to her mentor, Jerem’s white eyebrow, so similar to the pure snow falling like puffy ash outside the Iluminus’ windows, was raised again.