Embers of a Broken Throne by Terry C. Simpson Page A

path they’d used to ascend, Kester was racing through the snow, his horse’s hooves churning. Another grog chased him. It was steadily catching up.
    The surrounding crags and cliffs that rose next to the fleeing man and his assailant cast a pattern of shade and sunlight. Head down, legs flailing against his horse’s flanks, Kester dipped through shadow, and then into a shaft of light as the sun penetrated through cracks in the rocky formations. The process repeated as the hunter fled.
    Ancel waited until the grog sprang through one such sunlit window, its legs elongating, the clawed tips poised to strike. He called that sunbeam to him. Its luminance and that from his Etchings were one, interconnected. In his mind he pushed himself to it. For a person with eyes trained enough to follow, he leapt from one point to the next at a dizzying speed.
    Sword pointed down, two hands on the hilt, he dropped onto the grog. The blade went through its head. Bone and bristle crunched. Decay rolled off the creature in waves.
    A moment before he hit the ground Ancel used the swirling wind to cushion his fall. He rolled and came to a stop, gaze riveted on the spot where the grog’s form dissipated into ash, leaving a dark afterimage.
    A screech issued from the other creatures, but Ancel wasted no time in waiting for them to come skittering to him. He Shimmered among them, landing as light as the drifting flurries, drawing his second sword from the scabbard on his back in the same motion. With a spin he knocked away their frenzied strikes, and then danced among them to the music of his battle energy, lopping off limbs, and severing heads. The grogs snarled and squealed, attempting to skewer him with their legs and claws, but he avoided them with deft side steps or swipes of his blade. With each killing stroke, the shadelings broke into ash, drifted to the ground, or scattered on the breeze. When he was done, black blood stained his cloak and furs.
    A repeat of the earlier chill and a brush of wind on his neck from the wrong direction served as his only hint of ambush. He spun to a silvery glint hurtling down at him. By sheer instinct he raised both his swords crossed above his head. A weapon with a blade as wide and tall as a man crashed into his weapons. The impact sunk his feet deeper into the snow.
    And then the attacker was gone.
    Frantic, he spun in the opposite direction. Nothing.
    From the corner of his eye came movement, the same distorted form he thought he’d seen earlier, as he’d noticed since Aldazhar. This time he leaped away and rolled. The giant blade slammed into the ground where he’d stood moments ago, kicking up snow and ice.
    The distortion solidified. Clad in ebon steel, a creature towered over him, its body surrounded by wispy strands of shade. The blade that almost took his head was only half of the weapon. The sword was actually double-bladed, the hilt in the middle where the beast held it like a staff, twirling it as if the weapon weighed nothing.
    Ancel drew on his Etchings. The beast showed its teeth in what appeared to be a grin and then faded from view.
    He squinted, enabling him to pick out the distortion. Quick as thought, he relied on his ability to see auras and on his Matersense. The shadeling became visible once more, its aura a mass of corrupted shade. Before Ancel could strike, a slit appeared in the air, the creature stepped through, and the portal closed behind it.
    Chest heaving, he scanned all around him to ensure no more surprises waited. Down the mountain, Kester was still fleeing, but at least he was safe.
    After flicking blood from the blade, Ancel sheathed the shorter sword over his shoulder. Etching-covered-longsword in hand, he checked the hunters’ bodies. They were mangled beyond recognition, much of their sela—their life force—already devoured. He severed each head to make certain they would never rise again to plague anyone. With a wave of his hand, he ignited the corpses, and left