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

them to burn.
    He said a prayer for the death of another two innocents. Sighing, he slid his sword into the scabbard at his waist, the memory of the dead left in his wake weighing on him like the icy shoulders of the mountains at his back. At times like this he often considered what it would be like if he fled, at least for a little while. And every time he molded his spine into the bedrock that carried the burden of sediment and stone. On it stood the fear, the uncertainty, and future of his people. His mother would have been proud.
    As a sense of longing for her presence threatened to overcome him, Ancel followed the sunset’s threads, Shimmering up the incline and from there onto the ridges above the pass where he could survey the land for miles. Below him, thousands of people trudged through the valley, heads down, bundled in clothing and fur coats. Wagons trundled ahead, filled with the elderly, infirm, or the children.
    With winter behind them it wasn’t as freezing here in the Cogal Drin Mountains as it had been months before in the Sands of the Abandoned. It was colder than the Green Waste. The Waste had proved to be a test of fortitude. As fertile as the land there appeared to be, the expanse of grass and brush had been rife with poisonous plants and thorns, the animals a reflection of what they ate. Deformed things that would kill a man before it fed him.
    A little better than a hundred thousand remained of the refugees, once at least triple that in number. They had gained quite a few followers on their trek: people who spoke of their coming, braving the Sands or the Waste because their legends stated the Setian would one day return and the world would be better for it. Some were from villages and hamlets, attacked by shadelings now able to cross the Kassite’s weakened barrier between the Planes.
    “How many this time?” With his sheathed greatsword held point down on the ground for support, Ryne squatted at the edge of the snow-encrusted rocks, peering at the refugees. The sun’s last rays highlighted the diagonal scars running from above his left eye down across his cheek.
    “Five. You?”
    “Four.”
    “You remembered to limit your Forges, correct? Used only Prima? Avoided your bloodlust?” Ryne glanced at him askance.
    “Yes.” Ancel felt his cheeks flush. A brief gust tugged at his cloak. Over the past month he’d let his emotions get the better of him on one occasion, when shadelings had took several children. He’d drawn on Mater rather than Prima. The release of power had served to draw more of the creatures. The drill was the same every time since then: ‘use Prima to make your Forges invisible to any human but another Eztezian.’
    “But I almost had to do a bit more to save myself,” Ancel admitted.
    “Why?” Ryne arched an eyebrow.
    “There was something different ... a creature as big as a house in ebon steel armor. It used shade to hide itself and bore a double-bladed sword.”
    “Gurangar,” Ryne said. “I was afraid of that when we saw the first grogs. Did you kill it?”
    “No. It fled.”
    “But I think it’s been following us since Aldazhar.” He told Ryne of the distortion he’d seen in the city.
    “You should have mentioned it before.”
    “I, I thought it was just part of the shade’s corruption.”
    Ryne shook his head. “Since it escaped, we must push to reach Benez sooner rather than later.” Ryne stood, the seamless Etchings engulfing his armor and arms rippling with sunset’s flaming hues. “Although Irmina’s pet appears to be doing a good job of hiding our trail, a gurangar brings nothing but trouble. A pack of them and we could lose half our number before anyone realizes.”
    The mention of his love made Ancel glance toward her location. Irmina’s connection with the massive, elongated silver creature hidden by the clouds was beyond his understanding. Not even Ryne could explain it. The zyphyl obeyed Irmina’s commands and suppressed the sense or