Etchings of Power (Aegis of the Gods) (58 page)

Overhead, an eagle screeched a warning. Chest burning, Ancel gasped for air, but he couldn’t allow his aching, mud spattered legs to stop moving.
Up, down, up, down…Don’t you dare fail me
, he begged, his footsteps and ragged breaths thundering in his ears with the rush of his pulse. Sweat mixed with rain poured down his forehead, the liquid trickling down his nose onto his lips. Hair and clothes already sodden, he lumbered forward one agonizing step after another.

The bridge was only a few hundred feet away from them. Close, but the distance felt more like a mile. Ancel thanked the gods the earlier storm had ended, and the rain was now no more than a drizzle. Still, slogging through mud proved more difficult than he could have imagined; each step he took came with a soppy slurp that made him yank his booted feet free of ankle-deep muck. At least he didn’t have to fight against the cold and fog with the sun having risen some time ago and burning off both. Of course, that didn’t account for the wind, which whipped at him mercilessly as if conspiring to push him away from his intended target.

To his left, the Kelvore River roared, its banks swollen from the earlier deluge, the fresh smells of wet earth filling the air, pieces of trees and driftwood swirling about in the rushing brown and gray waters. Way beyond the Kelvore, plumes of smoke still billowed into the air from Eldanhill’s direction. The same direction from which they’d heard war trumpets earlier that morning. Then, they’d seen the horizon light up and soon after, the smoke. His stomach churned with the memory even as he clung to hope. He dared several glances over his shoulder. Mirza and Danvir labored not far from him, their clothes and countenances covered in thick mud. Farther behind ran Kachien and Charra.

The Sendethi cavalry topped a hill several thousand feet behind them. How had the men caught up? Kachien had made them push their dartans until the animals collapsed, but somehow some of the soldiers had been able to maintain their pursuit on horseback. Ancel’s throat constricted and his already straining heart thudded harder still—a rapid booming drum within his chest. Colors bloomed as far as his eyes could see.

Squinting, Ancel picked out a darkness roiling around the men similar to what he’d seen around Kachien. But this was darker, blacker, yet shiny like polished obsidian. The same aura encroached around the soldiers’ mounts. A lump formed in his throat at the sight. Ancel stumbled and almost fell, breaking his vision. Swallowing, he turned his attention to the bridge and the muddy ground once more. They weren’t going to make it. At the speed those horses traveled, he and his friends would be caught at the bridge or on its wooden planks. The eagle screeched again.

Run, damn it. Run.
He willed his legs to keep going. Maybe, if they reached the bridge they could fight off their attackers. The span was wide enough for only one man on horseback or two on foot. With Kachien’s help, they might hold their own in such a tight space.

“Ilumni shine on us. Let there be some help,” Ancel prayed.

The strange dizziness he’d experienced when last he’d been home swept through him. Ancel stumbled again, but this time he went down to one knee, mud squishing beneath him. Strong meaty hands that could only be Danvir’s grabbed him and helped him up. On unsteady legs, he nodded to his friend, and they broke into a run again.

He could hear the horses now. The sloshing hooves and the soldiers spurring them on beat a death knell behind them.

Stumbling more than running, he and his friends reached the bridge. Below them, the Kelvore River roared and raged—a great caged beast thrashing against the barriers of the banks that imprisoned it. Occasionally, spray flew into the air as some debris crashed into one of the bridge’s thick, timber supports. As they began to cross, the closing rumble of hooves drew Ancel’s eyes. The soldiers were only a few dozen feet behind and closing fast. The rope and wooden structure swayed as Ancel shambled across in a futile attempt to increase the distance between their pursuers.

“Keep going,” Kachien yelled from behind. “Do not stop. Do not look back.”

Ancel opened his mouth to say they could stop and fight, maybe hold the soldiers back, but all that came out was another gasp for breath from his burning chest. He cursed his cowardice and lurched on, grabbing the ropes to steady himself.

Charra burst into barks and growls.

Hooves sounded on wood. The bridge gave a sudden heave. It swayed as violently as when they rode the boat across the Kelvore, the motion forcing Ancel to grab onto the ropes tighter. The clop of hooves became rapid peals of thunder.

Charra’s barks changed into snaps, grunts, and snarls heard over the din of rushing water.

Once again, an eagle screeched its warning, louder and closer this time, as if it flew directly above them.

A horse whinnied. A man screamed. Steel clashed in metallic chimes, and Charra was all snarls now.

Refusing the urge to look back, his heart pounding and pounding, blood a rush in his ears, Ancel focused on the far side of the bridge and possible safety. At the end of the bridge, a figure rose before him dressed in boiled leather and chainmail with a surcoat he didn’t recognize—a forest split by a great rent in the earth. Rain dripping from his outstretched arm, the figure held a long bow, fletching drawn to ear.

Another man stood beside the first, and another, and another. It was as if they appeared from the ground itself. Every one held a long bow, drawn and ready to loose.

Ancel’s heart felt as if it thumped to a stop in his chest. He staggered to a halt, causing Danvir and Mirza to crash into his back.

“Why’d you stop? Go, go,” Danvir pleaded. “Oh merciful Ilumni.” His voice dropped to a slight whimper.

They all stood stock still, not daring to twitch. Out of the corner of his eye, Ancel took in the raging torrent of the Kelvore River below him. If he jumped, there was no way he could survive.

Dozens of hard eyes watched them under hardened leather helmets. The moment seemed to last an eternity. Ancel and his friends still, their breathing labored. The soldiers ready, their faces grim.

The first archer’s arm flexed. The world slowed. Water sprinkled to the ground from his leather gauntlets as he let out a long breath, and his body sagged into relaxation. His fingers loosened near the arrowhead, and his bowstring twanged. The other bowstrings joined his to ring out the same deadly chorus.

Ancel closed his eyes, threw his arms out to protect his friends, and waited for the pain.

Screams and gurgles pierced the air.

But not from Danvir or Mirza, behind them. Ancel spun to see several dozen arrows punch into the Sendethi soldiers, through armor, throats, and eyes. Blood spurting, the men fell like target dolls. Ancel gaped.

“It’s good to see you’re safe.”

Ancel’s eyes went wide as he turned to Jillian’s voice. An eagle screeched once more, so close it made him jump. A moment later, the great bird flew down and landed on Jillian’s outstretched, gloved, arm. She stood before the men, garbed in form-fitting leather armor that hugged every curve. On her head perched a helmet in the shape of an eagle’s visage.

“Praise Ilumni,” Danvir cried and rushed headlong toward Jillian and the waiting Eldanhill men.

Ancel and Mirza followed, both dumbfounded. He recognized some of the men now. Many were the soldiers he’d often seen being trained by Jillian and other Weaponmasters. Without awaiting any command, the men drew and released another volley of arrows.

“Save the pleasantries for later,” Jillian said, her tone stern. “My men have work to do. Sendethi dogs to kill. Cade, get them some mounts. You young men need to get to Eldanhill as soon as possible. This is no place for you.”

“But our friend—” Ancel protested, looking back.

“We won’t harm her. We saw her save you three,” Jillian answered.

Halfway down the bridge, Charra and Kachien were running toward the Eldanhill archers. More arrows tore into the Sendethi soldiers who had crowded around the bridges entrance. As more fell, they retreated out of bow range.

“How’d you know we would be here, Mistress Jillian? We saw smoke and heard trumpets this morning. In Randane, the King’s regiments attacked us and—” He cut off at Jillian’s tight eyes and pained expression.

“We didn’t know,” Jillian said. “We were sent to protect the river and this old bridge because the Sendethi attacked Eldanhill this morning.”

“What?” Ancel blurted.

Gasps rose from Mirza and Danvir. They all clamored to ask if anyone had been wounded. Anyone they knew.

Jillian held up a hand and they quieted. “This isn’t the place or the time. You three head home now.” Her gaze strayed to Ancel. “You need to visit Shin Galiana’s. Your father will be there.”

Shin Galiana, not Teacher Galiana, Ancel noted just as Kachien and Charra reached them. Jillian studied the smaller woman, and Kachien did the same, the two like female mountain cats when they crossed paths. The moment hung in the air tensely, then it was gone. A look of mutual respect passed between them. Jillian nodded, and Kachien returned the gesture. Ancel was still frowning at the brief exchange when Cade returned with four dartans.

“Peace be with you, Alzari,” Jillian said as they mounted. “Many thanks for bringing them home safe.”

“You and yours are most welcome, Setian.” Kachien replied. May the Streams and the Forms defend you always.”

“Now, go,” Jillian commanded. “Galiana and the others will be waiting.”

Speechless at the reactions and words between the two women, Ancel whipped his reins and sent his dartan running through the slight drizzle, the muddy ground squelching beneath its feet. Behind him, the others followed. One thought swelled in his mind.
Why had Kachien addressed Jillian as Setian?

They travelled in tense silences, punctuated by failed attempts to start conversations until they reached Eldanhill. All other thoughts fled Ancel’s mind, and he could only stare.

Charred woodpiles, chimneys covered in soot, and gutted foundations marked where houses once stood. Smoke rose from the ruins, and in some places people still put out flames. Hairless bodies lay in a line, once pale skin now black, brown, or red and cracked to reveal tissue underneath. The nauseating stench of cooked flesh still hung in the air, comingling with the smell of burnt wood.

Ancel’s legs felt like blocks of stone. If not for the dartan under him, he would’ve stood frozen. He mouthed a prayer as they trotted to the second square and its myriad wagons prepared for Soltide. He hardly recognized this part of Eldanhill. Or, what remained of it. Even the cobblestones here seemed different, as if seen through a foggy dream he couldn’t quite remember. What, in damnation, had happened?

Dagodin soldiers piled the blackened corpses onto a dray. Menders picked their way among the wounded still lined on the street. Lives and homes lay shattered around them, reduced to charred ash piles and sooty sandstone. Lives of people he knew. The Bergs, the Durrs, the Finkels, the Jungs, the Maurers— on and on the names flashed through his head. His mind spun with the scope of the burnt out, empty shells and blackened foundations.

Some family members dug among the ruins, salvaging what they could. No children played along the main road. No dogs ran back and forth making a friendly nuisance—or even barking and sniffing at Charra as they often did. No music drifted through the air to announce Soltide. No blacksmith or stonemason hammers clanged. Only the mourns of the mournful, the mutterings of the hopeless, and the prayers of the faithful sighed through the air, punctuated by the cries and blubbering sobs of grief.

A dark pall lay across the town along with the acrid, smoky smell clinging to the air. A soot-covered child stumbled from among burnt rubble and collapsed. Several menders rushed to help.

Horse-drawn drays, stained black and red with blood and filled with corpses groaned down the Eldan Road, following woodcarts lugging burnt timber and debris from the ruined structures. Townsfolk trudged behind the two-wheeled carts, tear-streaked faces sooty, somber, and sullen. Novices and trainees dumped the woodpiles from the carts at the town’s outskirts to the south, adding to a bonfire already raging there. At the sight of the pyre, a woman wailed and fell to her knees.

Ancel clutched at his charm.
Dear Ilumni, let my parents be well.
He glanced toward the Streamean temple. White banners flew the same insignia he’d seen on Jillian and many of the Dagodin in Eldanhill. Next to them flapped the Dosteri Guardian Wall.
Dosteri in Sendethi territory helping Eldanhill?

Weak sunlight glinted from the armor and helmets of the Dagodin cohort standing at attention to Eldanhill’s westernmost outskirts where most of the damage and corpses lay. What was more surprising were the large, rawboned men in furs and cloaks made from pelts who were standing behind the Dagodin or rode upon large daggerpaws. Mountain wolves were sitting on their haunches next to some, tongues lolling. The animals pawed the ground or frolicked with each other, their dog-like reek unmistakable. A few gave coughing barks or whined in Charra’s direction. Charra growled his reply. Apparently, someone had managed to bring the Seifer and the Nema together.