Embers of a Broken Throne (3 page)

C
hapter 3

“W
e leave in the morning.” Sitting cross-legged, relishing the fire’s warm, Irmina lowered the book she’d been reading. The entire day had passed and Ancel had yet to offer some protest or make demands of her again. In fact, he hadn’t brought up her expedition to the Travelshaft. Not once.

“I would say be careful, but you will have more than enough protection.” He was lying on the furs they used for a bed. The artwork of Etchings covering his body glistened in the lamplight, colors, scenes, people, and animals seeming as if they could climb off his skin.

“So you’re not worried then?”

He sat up. She could tell where much of the Etchings on his chest were incomplete. Those on his right arm were seamless in comparison, not a spot of skin showing. His physique was quickly filling out with the rigorous exercise regimen he employed and his constant sword practice. He wasn’t quite a match for Ryne’s massive shoulders, arms and chest yet, but if he kept growing, it would be a close thing. Whether Ancel would grow to Ryne’s eight feet remained to be seen.

“I’ll always be worried.” He gazed at her as if drinking in her appearance, making her face grow heated. “But you’ve seen death even before I was born. You
might
be more skilled with a blade than I, and in Mater you’re among the strongest here. Only a fool would think you incapable of protecting yourself. My worry is more because I love you and can’t help but think I’d go insane if something should happen to you.”

“I feel the same way,” she admitted. “Except for the little part where you question whether I’m better than you with a sword. One day we shall settle that question.”

He laughed, long and hearty. “I look forward to it. Now, continue reading to me.”

A smile on her face, she returned her attention to the page. The book was called Travels in a Foreign Land, chronicling some Granadian scribe’s time spent in Ostania.

“Of all the races, the Desorin are the most reclusive. And the strangest. I once thought the Cardians and Astocans held that distinction with the slits on the sides of their necks that they use to breathe and sense emotions, or even the Sven and Svenzar with their skin of stone or metal. But Desorin flesh is of a substance like the very ash that coats their home in places and frequently falls from the sky in the Broken Lands’ many firestorms. How they see is a mystery as their eyes are the purest white and lack irises. Their ears are nothing but holes with some type of skin like a lid that opens and closes. I cringe to think of them now.”

“If you’d read this to me two years ago I would think it a joke,” Ancel said.

Irmina smiled and continued to recite. “The Banai, with whom they trade, claim the Desorin are the greatest sailors to ever roam the seas, but I cannot see how that could be. Their land is covered in fire and ash, the only available water drawn from underground rivers and lakes. So how would they sail? The only ocean available to them is the Lost Sea. And it isn’t navigable. Not even the Banai or Cardians, both renowned for their prowess on the oceans would dare sail so far past the Sea of Clouds that they would enter the Lost Sea.

“The idea also goes against their complexion. Both the Banai and Cardians are swarthy peoples from their time spent in the sun, on the decks of their ships. The Desorin show no such stain.”

“Does he mention their fighting prowess?” Ancel asked.

She traced her fingers along the text, scanning the words. “Here … he claims they are either trained at birth to fight or to sail, and mentions seeing one of them battle five men. The Desorin used a long hammer.”

“Interesting,” Ancel mused. “If he doubts their skill as sailors, then it might explain how they would reach Ostere to trade. They must possess some route through the Rotted Forest, and are willing to battle Amuni’s Children along the way. Though, I wonder, if they can achieve that, why choose only the Banai? Why not the Harnan or the Astocans also?”

She shrugged. “Why they avoid the Harnan I couldn’t guess, but I might have an explanation for the Astocans.”

“Go ahead.”

“Neither the Astocans or Cardians think much of the Banai. It stems from the Banai’s Formist beliefs. I remember a Cardian Lord berating one of the Banai representatives in Castere when the man voiced his opinion over the coming of Humelen and Liganen, and the subsequent return of the Eztezians. Not many of the dignitaries there appreciated the Banai’s comment, particularly where the Eztezians were concerned.”

Ancel’s forehead creased. “I guess the Cardians don’t know an Eztezian is among them or might be ruling them.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I can feel one in Cardia almost in the same way I can feel you. Not the exact location, but a general idea. It’s as if my mind is looking at a map and I can judge that the person is in a particular area. As for the chance it might be one of their rulers? Ryne once said most Eztezians felt the best way to defend the people was from a position of power.”

She gave the idea some thought. “Like Voliny did in Astoca. With his people none the wiser although they also loathed Eztezians, and blamed them for the world’s downfall and the Setian reign.”

“Exactly.”

“Then the Cardian was shrewd.” She had often felt that way about Lord Traushen whenever she heard the man speak at court. “Countless Astocans died in wars before they finally bent knee to Nerian’s armies. Knowing the Banai would jump at any chance to preach, and that it would be seen as a grievous insult, he must have encouraged the man. Perhaps hoping King Voliny would execute the Banai for what would be seen as a grievous insult. Not only that, but by appearing to be sympathetic to the Astocans, the Cardian Lord made it seem as if the Cardians were properly cowed. Never mind that it’s an ill-kept secret that the Cardians still seek to overthrow them.”

Ancel stared off at nothing, lost in thought.

“How soon do you plan to venture to the Broken Lands,” she asked.

His reaction was a raised brow. “Apparently the Cardians aren’t the only ones with an ill-kept secret. How did you know?”

She pointed at the book, and the others near him that dealt with similar topics. “It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

He let out a breath. “I don’t know when I’ll leave, but it won’t be before we reach Benez. Ryne suggests that I go as soon as we reach the city. Jerem was a little less adamant, saying it was up to me. But you know how it is with him. He says something but makes you feel as if the opposite is what you must do.”

Typical Jerem. Always pulling strings.
She hadn’t seen much of her master, but she knew he must be off somewhere setting events in motion. “And your father? What does he think?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“You plan to inform him?”

“Eventually.” He sighed.

Ever since recovering from his ordeal, Stefan protested Ancel’s involvement in any action that would place him in danger. She understood. Which parent would want to lose their child? But Ancel was an Eztezian. Nothing would change that. There was also the question of the instability the elder Dorn exhibited. His experience haunted him. On frequent occasions he would mutter to himself, and soon enough those mutters grew to shouts and yells as he raged against everything from the gods, to the Tribunal, to Nerian, often breaking down into tears as he mentioned Galiana and Thania.

As much as she could relate to Stefan’s sorrow, she also wanted to question him, to find out what happened with her parents. She had yet to hear his side of the tale. The thought rekindled one of her few issues with Ancel.

“Do you plan to tell me also?” she stared at him.

“Tell you what?” His shifting eyes belied the innocence in his voice.

“About my aunt.”

“When you tell me why you hate Ryne,” he countered.

Irmina gave a long exhale. During the past few months of travelling, she lay awake on many occasions, contemplating how she would reveal Ryne’s true identity to Ancel. And yet she couldn’t. Each time she gathered herself, the promise to Jerem to keep the secret mocked her. Worse still was the friendship the two men had developed. At times they appeared more like family than master and student. Once, she considered telling Stefan. But judging from his instability, there was no telling what he might do when he discovered the man responsible for his children’s deaths not only stood among them but also taught his last son. Such a revelation might ruin Ancel anyway. For her own sanity and sense of loyalty, she’d promised herself to tell Ancel when he completed his training.

“It’s complicated,” she said.

“Then make it simple. And you keep asking after your aunt. The answer won’t change. I don’t know what happened to her. The last I saw of her she was fighting Mirza and Kachien before Randane burned down.”

Before you burned it down
, she said to herself.

Ancel’s evasion was frustrating. Not even Mirza offered much more. Neither did any of the common folk. She’d gathered her information through the surviving Ashishins. Perhaps he’d killed Jillian. Would it upset her? Possibly. She’d wanted that vengeance for herself. But it wouldn’t be enough to make her change her mind about Ancel. Explaining how she felt didn’t help. She could tell he was skeptical, perhaps assuming she was putting on a brave face to hide her true emotions. Rather than have them upset at each other again, over revelations neither of them were ready to impart, she remained silent.

“I might need you when I go to the Broken Lands,” Ancel said.

“There you are with that word again … might.”

He smiled, emeralds eyes twinkling in the lamplight. “Fine. I will need you. You’re much better at dealing with kings and queens than I ever will be.”

She gave him a fake bow and a flourish of her hand. “As you wish.”

He opened his mouth to speak, and stopped, eyes narrowed. “Why is he here?”

“Who?”

“Ryne.”

Irmina frowned. “Didn’t you say it was another day before he arrived.”

“Yes.”

She was about to ask after Ryne’s location when a Pathfinder ducked inside. The man placed a silver-gauntleted hand to his chest, and bowed, only his eyes showing in his full plate helm.

“Sir, Master Waldron is here.”

“Send him in,” Ancel said.

The guard left and a moment later Ryne entered. The giant man had that look about him she knew only too well from time spent with him in Ostania. His expression said he was ready to kill.

“What is it,” Ancel asked.

The tale that followed was one of shadelings and Alzari assassins that left her in shock. When Ryne mentioned the assassin he’d tortured and the information gained, Ancel began to pace.

“We can’t leave for Benez yet,” Ancel said when he finally paused. “I sent Mirza on a mission to find some deserters and stolen supplies. I won’t leave without him. He should be back in a day or two.”

“A day or two won’t change much,” Ryne said. “Wait for him. If it takes any longer then I will go search for them while you head to Benez.”

Ancel nodded. “I’ll have a word with my father and the council. Irmina, you speak to Quintess and have her assign a few Ashishin to post with our patrols. I—”

“I’m still going,” she said, cutting him off. “It’s the one chance I might get to tame another zyphyl. I don’t want to pass it up, not if these shadelings are stalking us.”

“Fine,” he answered, shaking his head in resignation.

The three of them left together to take care of their various tasks, and despite the gravity of the situation, Irmina was glad to be doing something other than waiting. The morning promised a day to be anticipated.

C
hapter 4

T
rying not to think of Irmina, Ancel parried the blow, the strength of Ryne’s strike vibrating through the shortsword and up into his left hand. Countering with his longsword, he lunged forward with a Style called Wind Flicks the Dust, combining Stances based on air and earth essences. The longsword whipped from side to side, the power within it summoned, solidifying the air around the blade, and replicating an attack from a score of weapons at once. Ryne leaped away, the scars on his face making for a gruesome visage as he smiled.

“A good choice using two opposites in the same attack. Parrying it would have been near impossible,” Ryne said, five-foot greatsword held in one massive fist as if it weighed nothing. He remained in the Stance he’d chosen, Lightweave, ready to use its uncanny speed to dodge once more.

At another time Ancel might have felt pride at the compliment, but in this entire session he had yet to land a single blow, no matter how much he exerted himself. Ryne’s words only served to add to his growing frustration. His chest was heaving now, the air cold enough to mist his breath, while Ryne’s breathing was slow and even. A gust rustled Ryne’s dark hair, and Ancel remembered a time when that slight movement, or the way the Etchings crawled across his mentor’s skin, would have brought on a premature response. Instead, he ignored the tapestry on Ryne’s arms and armor, knowing they were more a distraction than a true indicator of his intentions.

With his focus on Ryne’s body for a hint of the next move, he circled, feet shifting to match offense or defense. The air grew thick, an expectant weight on Ancel’s shoulders. Gritting his teeth, he attacked from the same Stance combination of the Flows and Forms, this time in reverse, striking with both swords in Storm the Heavens and Shatter the Stone, the near instantaneous attacks streaking to Ryne’s head and lower body. With his next stroke he would be victorious.

Ryne shifted into his own double Stance, Windweave and Metalmine. One arm snaked out in a circular motion, catching Storm the Heavens in a swirl of air that sent the slashes sailing past his head. Shatter the Stone clanged, thigh high, into his greatsword, the sound echoing across the practice ground.

Ancel found himself overextended, unable to compensate for the block to reverse thrust. Ryne’s kick to the stomach folded him over, gasping for breath, one hand on cold dirt hard-packed from their army’s constant drills. The weight of Ryne’s weapon rested on the back of Ancel’s neck.

“Get up,” Ryne ordered.

Sucking in air, Ancel climbed to his feet. “How? You shouldn’t have been able to stop Shatter the Stone.”

“You were counting on me to dodge,” Ryne said, face impassive, “and normally I might have needed to, but your offhand is still weak. Stop trying to force the battle the way you would like; let it come to you. You said you wanted to learn to fight like the Alzari, well, they are equally adept with either hand. Worry less about your Style and more about increasing your basic strength.”

Ancel sighed. “Have you ever lost a fight?”

“Yes, once.”

Surprised, Ancel asked, “To whom?”

“A woman … long ago.”

Ancel shook his head in disbelief. Almost two months of drills, from sunrise to sunfall, taking advantage of any spare moment when they weren’t hunting, and still he wasn’t good enough. When they’d stopped at Aldazhar’s ruins, he pictured it as the perfect opportunity to hone his skills before they embarked on the final leg of their journey to Benez. The stop had helped, more so for the elderly, young, and infirm among them, but not for him. Ancel ground his teeth. He hadn’t anticipated such difficulty at competing with his father’s ability in wielding two weapons. Adding to his frustration was Irmina’s insistence on visiting the Travelshaft.

Off to one side, in a similar area baked by the noonday sun, Stefan was wading through his ten silver-armored sparring partners. Father used two wooden lathes but allowed his opponents to keep their blades, stating that the threat of a wound made for a better fight. Ancel couldn’t argue the point; he could relate. In a blur of multiple Styles and Stances, the lathes like an extension of his arm, Father landed blow after blow.

Shaking his head, Ancel once more faced Ryne, shifting into ready position, one foot in front of the other, right arm slightly more forward than the left, his weight balanced. Ryne was watching Stefan, a sour expression on his face.

Since recovering from his ordeal in the Iluminus’ dungeons, Father had delved into his swordwork with a new vigor. Over the past year he’d also gone on his share of scouting missions, all ending with the Dagodins championing his exploits against shadelings. None of it seemed to bother Ryne but for the practice sessions. Ancel still recalled asking after the reasons for his dislike of Stefan pushing himself.

“It’s not the pushing that bothers me,” Ryne said.

“Then what is it,” Ancel asked.

“Your father is trying too hard. The Stefan I knew wouldn’t have sparred against ten men.”

“Why not?” Ancel frowned. This wasn’t the first time Ryne had admitted to knowing Stefan in the past, but unlike the previous instances Ancel avoided pursuing the questions that dogged him.

“The question should be why.” Ryne said, still watching as the sixth and seventh man dropped. “What’s the purpose? Not even I would fight that many men skilled with a blade. There’s no way to win, not with just a blade.” As if the words were an omen, two attackers scored hits on the thick imbued leather pads Stefan wore on his arms and legs. The fight was over.

To Ancel, the purpose had become obvious. After hearing stories from High Shin Jerem, relaying Father’s loss of his other children, and even more so now with Mother being taken, and Galiana’s death, he understood. Loss fueled Father. Not only was he honing his skills to make certain no one took from him again, but the exercise also preoccupied his mind. Ancel couldn’t fault him for it. Not after the nights Father woke, assailed by nightmares, sweating, eyes wild.

Ancel was still mired in thought when Ryne kicked a pebble at him and charged in, his stance Lightweave once more. It took all of Ancel’s skill to parry the blow. The next one swept at his feet. He hopped back, and by instinct spun and brought the shortsword up on the left. Steel clashed on steel. The attack continued without abating, each strike to the left, Ancel switching to the same Stance as Ryne to match his swiftness.

The fight, and clash of weapons, of the blades slicing empty air when they missed, built a rhythm, a music Ancel could hear as his battle energy coursed through him. Whereas he’d fought against the song before, now he embraced it as well as the energy.

In the midst of dodging the next blow, he felt it: the first sign that said it was time to hunt. The essences around him shifted, their patterns of colors, swirls, and bands becoming a jumbled mass.

Something struck his side, sent him stumbling backward. He’d forgotten to continue with his dodge.

“Ancel!” Stefan exclaimed, his seven defeated opponents on the ground, nursing various bruises.

Groaning, Ancel reached down to side, his hand coming away without blood. He let out a relieved breath. More and more over the last few months he’d come to appreciate the shield his aura formed against a life-threatening attack, but it was still a good thing Ryne had been using a practice weapon and not his actual greatsword, a
divya
imbued with Prima, Etchings carved into its blade. That sword would have shattered the protection. “Sorry, Father, I got distracted.” He bowed to Ryne, who returned the gesture.

“You must learn to keep your focus at all times,” Father began.

“Even when shadelings cross over from Hydae?” he asked skeptically.

“Especially then,” Ryne said before Stefan offered his own answer. “Until another enemy engages you, the only one that matters is the one you face. If this were a real fight, you would be dead.”

By the expression on Father’s face, he agreed. “Which way?” Stefan peered at the skeletal structures around them, sword held with more menace.

Ancel didn’t know exactly when he’d first gained the ability to feel a shadeling crossing over from Hydae or its range. Perhaps he’d acquired it when he mastered his Tenet and summoned Etien. In their trek through the Sands of the Abandoned, he’d experimented with his Etchings and different things he felt from them. One of those had been a shift in the essences, definitive patterns in the air that hinted at the direction of an incursion. Soon would follow a sense of wrongness. It came now, edging through him, icy prickles across his skin that had nothing to do with the cold. Another person might have seen them as coincidence, but not him. Coincidence was nothing more than someone’s intricate plan brought into fruition.

The din of battle and the shouts and cries of men and women answered from deeper in the ruined city. Ancel looked toward the others, recognition dawning at the same time.

“Irmina’s expedition to the Travelshaft,” he cried, dread knotting his gut. “Father, get Trucida and a few of the others.” To the ten Pathfinders, he said, “All of you return with my father. See he makes it back safely.” His personal guard made to protest. “If he’s harmed, I will skin every one of you.” They bowed. Without waiting for his father to voice a different opinion, Ancel took off at a run, not bothering to sheathe his weapons, and at the same time stretching his mind through his link to Irmina. Grim determination and the cold intent to kill radiated from her. There was also something else.

Fear.

Drawing on the abundant light essences, he Shimmered down the avenue, the ability carrying him a few hundred feet in an eye-blink, from one sunbeam that shot through the windows of a dilapidated building to another that broke up the shadow of a similar structure. He Shimmered four more times before Ryne caught up, travelling in the same fashion on the other side of the road and its broken cobbles. They were nearing one of several city square and its fallen colonnade when Ancel launched himself into the sky, the chill wind at his back.

Below and to his left, where another road branched off, was the path to the Travelshaft, its surface coal-black. Beside it, Irmina and two Ashishins battled desperately against four darkwraiths and three war-painted Alzari. From the way one of the Ashishin’s arm hung limp, the fight would soon be over.

Half the score of Irmina’s Dagodin guard were dead, blood pooling beneath them. The other half fought a knot of black-armored Amuni’s Children but was not faring well against their lance-wielding foes.

Unable to attack with ranged Forges lest they strike friend as well as foe, Irmina and the Ashishins resorted to swords or limited their use of essences to encase their fists in fire or earth. The fight was a blur of flames and sparks, met by tendrils and swirls of shade from the smoke-like darkwraiths and their Alzari counterparts’ imbued blades. The wounded Ashishin went down, a black Alzari dagger puncturing his chest.

Still in midair, Ancel Shimmered down, landing next to Irmina as she parried and dodged the attacks of three darkwraiths and one Alzari. His longsword sheared a darkwraith in half; his shortsword parted the next one’s head from its shoulders. The two shadelings dissipated in a burst of ash.

Irmina ducked under a slash from an Alzari, shifted her Stance to Lightweave, and dived into Ilumni’s Radiance, a flurry of slashes that ripped through the assassin, leaving him with his mouth agape, painted face contorted in agony. In the same motion she twisted her body to avoid the darkwraith’s thrust. The creature’s shade-enhanced body glided past her and onto Ancel’s outstretched blade. Its death wail faded to an echo, its ashy remains carried away on the wind.

Panting, he glanced toward the other Ashishin to see her opponents had also been dispatched, and judging by the shorn bodies of the two Alzari, it had been Ryne’s work. The woman was staring, eyes wide with shock, as Ryne made short work of Amuni’s Children, his greatsword a gleaming arc of Etching-covered silversteel that killed with each blow, cleaving through plate armor like paper.

Ancel returned his attention to Irmina. “Are you hurt? Did their blades touch you?” He tried to keep the fear from his voice, but he couldn’t help it.

“No,” Irmina replied, chest heaving. “I did all I could to make certain of that, but if you hadn’t come when you did …” Her face paled as the words trailed off.

Relieved, he sheathed his weapons, longsword at his left hip and shortsword over his left shoulder. “Don’t dwell on it. It was Ilumni’s will that saw us here in time.” Yet, something about the fight bothered him, something he couldn’t quite place or grasp.
What was missing?
He frowned as he took in the carnage around him, the air thick with blood and offal, noting the expedition’s mounts were all dead. “Where did they come from?” He gestured with his head to the Alzari corpses.

“Those buildings.” Irmina pointed to a line of ancient structures, the pillars before them broken, some strewn on the wide staircases that led up to each. The Travelshaft’s entrance yawned in the middle of them, black and foreboding. “It was almost as if they were waiting for us.”

A sudden thought struck him, and with it the sensation of what he’d missed. “Where’s Charra?”

“There were more darkwraiths and Alzari, nine of them,” Irmina said. “He ran toward the buildings with them chasing him.”

Of late it had become common for Charra to follow Irmina. Not that Charra no longer acted as his protector, but those instances were few. It was as if Charra had decided Ancel could fend for himself. Knowing the daggerpaw was really a netherling did little to lessen his concern at the moment. They’d been together since the animal was a pup. Troubled by the lack of Charra’s customary roars or barking grunts when involved in a fight, Ancel strained to see beyond the shadowy windows and doors of each structure.
What if the shadelings had managed to best Charra?

“He’s killed more of them than either of us combined over the past weeks,” Irmina said. “I’m certain he’ll be fine.”

Ancel nodded absently, realizing he’d voiced his concern, his focus on the buildings and the Travelshaft. “We—”