Etchings of Power (Aegis of the Gods) (64 page)

Spread from where they appeared, out into an ever widening circle, the ground was scorched and blackened, flames still roaring up into the main flagstoned avenue of the Inner Ring and down into the Mid Ring. Where Jerem had placed them, above the single gate to the Inner Ring, not a single being stood that didn’t belong to the Granadian army.

Ashishin spread out into small groups with deadly efficiency, burning whatever moved to a crisp. Dagodin swept out, some forming a circle around Varick, Refald and the Knight Captains, while others went about the task of taking swords to anything moving not dressed in Granadian colors. Howls and wails echoed from below.

“Man the battlements!” Varick yelled.

Farther along the bulwark, Astocans fought Amuni’s Children and shadelings. The Granadians struck from behind, tearing into the enemy. Bolstered by the attack, the Astocans surged forward. The shade army disappeared beneath the crush of the two armies.

Up the avenue, within the Inner Ring, the Forged flames died. The Astocan army rushed back down toward the gates. Within the Mid Ring, the same occurred, but it was the shade’s minions that surged up through the open gates, spilling into the courtyard and avenue.

Behind and below them, the city boiled black with Amuni’s Children and shadelings. Out in the Rainbow Lakes, warsailers and a myriad of other vessels burned. All along the walls that stretched into the water, Namazzi Forged great gouts of liquid into huge waves in an attempt to decimate incoming enemy ships. Shadelings Blurred up onto the walls, tearing the Astocan Matii apart. The Outer Ring was a mass of burning structures. Gigantic spears of flame sailed into the air and flew deeper into the city, sparking new fires within the Mid Ring. Smoke billowed into the air, blotting out the stars and painting the dark sky black.

Ryne turned his attention back to the chaos at the gates. If they lost the gates, their attack would fail. “Irmina, Sakari, with me,” he commanded.

Not waiting to see them comply, Ryne leaped from the battlements into the Inner Ring’s side of the wall. While falling, he drew his sword, touched his Scripts and fed light and fire essences into them. As his feet touched the ground, he also took a hold of earth essences. He landed among several thousand shadelings and Amuni’s Children. Glowing red and green eyes regarded him for a moment, the expressions on every face one of stunned silence.

Not waiting for their recovery, Ryne slammed his sword into the ground. At the same time, he drew on his Scripts again, picturing the same bubbles around the men and women in battle drawn there. Similar bubbles sprang up around himself, Irmina and Sakari as they landed beside him. Ryne triggered his Forging through his weapon.

In a ring and a roar, the ground exploded. Debris, men and shadelings were hurled into the air.

The earth became a living thing with dirt and stone for hands and teeth, ripping men apart. Fire and light rippled out in a thousand tongues, scorching all Ryne had targeted as he’d fallen.

The rubble, blood, and gore struck against the shields Ryne had Forged. As the earth died to a mere undulation, and the flame and light subsided, he leapt forward onto any enemy still standing before the gates.

Beside him, Sakari was a whirlwind of movement, sandy hair streaming as his sword licked out, lopping off arms, legs and heads like mere twigs.

Irmina’s hand glowed. Flames leapt forth from it in circular balls. Where they struck, they punched through armor and flesh alike. Any man or creature that managed to get close to her met death at the end of her blade.

Within moments, no living enemy stood inside the gates.

Ryne looked back to see the Astocans streaming down to the courtyard. “Close the gates,” he yelled.

Several men rushed to a gigantic winch on the side. Metal rang on metal, followed by skin crawling screeches and the clang, clang, clang of gears rusty from nonuse churning against each other. The gate rumbled shut a few agonizing inches at a time.

Irmina continued to shoot her flames into the army roiling outside the gates. From above, lightning tore into them, called down by the Ashishin lining the battlements. The ground heaved under the shadeling army a few times and toppled many from their feet.

When the gate crashed shut, a huge cheer went up. From the Astocans came awed whispers of Blessed Ashishin. Many bowed. Within the next few minutes, Refald’s infantry stood at the head of the Astocans before the gates.

A familiar figure with a head wrapped in bloody bandages stepped forward. “They’ve taken the keep,” Rosival said. “It was Voliny himself. He betrayed us. We’ve managed to secure the way.”

“Go, Ryne,” Varick yelled from the walls above. “We shall hold this until the last of us falls or you complete your task. Go!”

Taking Sakari, Irmina and several Ashishin, Ryne raced toward the keep.

Ancel battled against the Sendethi soldier in front of him. Deep within the Eye, he barely heard or noticed the other soldiers nearby or the howls and cries of the shadelings. His opponent forced him to use every trick he’d learned. Ancel dodged, twisted, parried, and changed into every defensive Stance he knew. Not once did the Sendethi allow him a chance to attack. Sweat beading his forehead, Ancel was pushed farther back until he stood on an incline.

Breathing hard, Ancel waited for the man’s attack. Confidence shone in the soldier’s eyes as bright as the flames licking out from the winery. The Sendethi’s sword slashed.

Ancel leaped. But not away, toward the man. He judged the distance perfectly. His foot landed on a gauntleted fist, and just as it touched, he pushed off, flipping into the air, sword swinging. Ancel’s weapon cleaved helmet and head in a shower of blood and brains. As the soldier was falling to one side, Ancel landed and rolled, coming up in search of another opponent.

In the middle of the fracas, Shin Galiana stood, fire streaking from her hands in multiple fist-sized balls. Occasionally, lightning split the sky to strike shadelings close to the winery. On the ground lay the ravaged bodies of the servants, eyes wide in horror, chests, and throats mangled. Those who’d tried to run were face down, backs mauled and ravaged, rents torn into their skin, dark puddles oozing around them.

Off to one side Kachien darted with that uncanny speed of hers, black blades near invisible as she carved through man and beast. Guthrie strode among the enemy, swinging his two-handed greatsword. Anything in its path was sheared in two. Every kill the man bellowed, “In Ilumni’s Name!”

Charra stayed close to Ancel, hamstringing men, or diving bone hackles first into shadelings. His great jaws and knife-like claws tore fur, flesh and gouged armor with impunity. He did enough to maim before retreating to defend against any who approached Ancel.

Abruptly, lightning rained down from the sky in great, jagged lances, so incandescent, that for a moment it blotted every form from sight and etched every shadow in sharp edges. A noiseless concussion thumped Ancel in the chest, almost knocking him from his feet. He flung a hand up to cover his eyes and used the other to maintain his balance. Spots danced through his vision, after images burnt into his retinas. When his sight cleared, shadeling and men lay dead all around Galiana, brunt to a crisp, the aroma of their scorched flesh and the metallic scent of the lightning bolts heavy in the air.

Galiana collapsed to one knee. Roaring, Guthrie rushed to her side. He was able to help her to her feet before Ancel reached them.

Ancel’s head whirled around to a crackling sound. Flames licked out the windows of the winery and timber crumbled. A roof collapsed. A lump rose in Ancel’s throat. He cried out.

His mother was trapped inside.

“No,” Galiana said in a weak voice as Ancel stepped forward. “You cannot help her. Look, but not with your eyes.”

Ancel opened his Matersense. Essences spilled about the winery, dancing and zipping in and out of any opening. Flashes of light and fire shot through before being repelled by shade and air. The force from them buffeted him.

A battle raged inside his home.

As if they sensed what was happening the remaining shadelings and Sendethi had retreated until they stood at the far side of the field. Green and red eyes stared at the burning structure.

“Your mother is one of the strongest Ashishin I know, but against whoever she is fighting inside, you cannot help,” Galiana whispered.

A hollow boom sounded, and one of the walls blew outward. From the smoke and debris strode a man swathed in all black. He dragged the limp form of Ancel’s mother from the building by one arm.

CHAPTER 50

In Castere, they bypassed the villas, spires, and fountains along the main avenue of the Inner Ring undisturbed. Ryne kept a vigilant eye out for any enemies, but the soldiers they saw were Rosival’s men, most wounded, many dead or dying. A few Namazzi, blue uniforms sporting the Waterwall insignia, joined the once small group that had grown on its way to Castere Keep.

At the castle, not a single Waterwall flag fluttered in the slight breeze. The keep’s silver blue walls and towers reared in the dark before them like a great monolith, battlements unlit, windows black uninviting pits.

“Use the columns to keep cover,” Ryne instructed as they crept down the colonnade before the keep’s entrance.

In quick bursts, they darted from one column to the next until there were no more pillars left. Breaths echoing into the night air, they hid behind the last few. Ahead, the twin barbicans loomed, dark and foreboding. The heavy gate and spiked portcullis they protected was closed.

Two Ashishin whispered to each other then stepped from behind their pillar at the same time. They raised their hands.

A faint buzz thrummed through the air. Soft, wet thuds followed. Choking sounds issued from the Matii as they folded over, clutching at their chests and necks where several dozen crossbow bolts protruded from their bodies. The men crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath them.

“Fools,” Ryne muttered.

“So what’s the plan to get inside?” Irmina asked. “A few archers can hold that gate against us indefinitely.”

“Against normal men or Ashishin, maybe, but not against me. Sakari, you take the left barbican, I’ll take the right. You Ashishin, on my signal illuminate those towers. Namazzi, your targets will be lit then.” Ryne nodded to the two dead Ashishin. “Use their blood if you must.”

“What will the signal be?” One of the Ashishin asked, a slim man whose uniform hung about him loosely.

“When we charge the wall.”

“You’re mad,” another Matii said.

Ryne smiled grimly and reached for the Forms. Below him, the earth provided more than enough fodder for what he intended. Flagstones cracked, rippled, and clacked against each other as he Forged four constructs of himself, keeping them hidden under the avenue. Sharp intakes of breath escaped from the other Matii.

At the same time, Ryne linked with Sakari. “When I send them, we Shimmer to the top of the towers.”

“As you wish.”

Making sure he was seated deep in the calm pool of his mind, Ryne touched his Scripts once more. Light surged up into him. In that moment, he summoned the constructs from the earth.

In a rumbling shower of stone and earth, the flagstones tore apart as the eight-foot replicas pulled themselves up. Scores of arrow bolts thrummed through the air, bouncing off the constructs’ cobblestone skin with sharp pings. Ryne sent the constructs careening toward the gate, their footsteps a deep rumble.

Light bloomed above the barbicans. Picking out the Streams, Ryne Shimmered, reappearing behind several dozen stunned men in black armor—Amuni’s Children. Or so he thought until he saw the painted faces.

Alzari.

It was a trap.

Ryne’s smile never touched his eyes as he danced among the men. Disconcerted by the light, and distracted by the constructs barreling into the gate with loud thuds and crashes, most of the mercenaries never saw when death took them. Ryne’s sword sheared through bone, sinew and armor as if slicing air. Blood and limbs flew, followed by the screams of the dying.

As the Alzari began to understand what was happening, Ryne delved into the Forms at his feet, deconstructing the mortar between the bricks. The substance came apart like sand.