Rythe Falls by Craig R. Saunders

The old man was no fool, and neither was Perr. People might think him simple, but when it came to the language of death, he was a savant.
                  Gurt took a second to look at the stone. Becoming brighter - dark red turning lighter.
                  'Let's go,' he said.
                  Perr nodded, and followed the old man. 'You have a horse?'
                  'Aye,' said Gurt.
                  'Meet me at the gates in the wall. We ride.'
                  'The Rahken?'
                  'Think they can help now?'
                  Gurt didn't, anymore than Perr did. The warrior turned and began to walk toward his horse. 'I'll meet you there,' he told Perr, speaking over his shoulder.
                  A Rahken named Fenore, old and wise, came to walk beside Gurt as he strode toward his horse. She looked behind at the now glowing building.
                  'Where are you going?' said the growling rahken.
                  'They killed everything. Maybe they always meant to. See the light in the sky?'
                  Fenore nodded. 'I do.'
                  The light, the fire-light now, from Sybremreyen was pouring into the sky. The fire-light hit the red skies and the skies seem to swirl, like it was stirring.
                  And it was stirring.
                  Gurt and Perr had seen skies like this before. Most people had, on this continent. If you lived a while, you did. Didn't matter that the skies were red, now. What mattered was that they were stirring, and when skies looked like that, that angry, meant only one thing. A storm, looking for someplace to settle down.
                  Gurt knew where, too. Follow the storm and he knew he'd find the end of it right atop a place called Arram.
                  He was willing to bet those bastards had called it right down.
                  'You think they're travelling on this...storm? This red air's like some great cloud, looking for a place to rain?' Fenore asked, and Gurt noted that the old rahken's eyes were deep, and kind, but full of some kind of sorrow, too.
                  'Close enough, eh?' said Gurt. 'Thanks, Fenore. Thank your kin, too. Goodbye.'
                  'Can't fight them on your own, Gurt,' said the old rahken.
                  'I know,' said Gurt, mounting his horse. A horse an old friend had once called Wey.
                  'They'll kill you where you stand.'
                  Gurt shook his head. 'I won't fight them,' said Gurt. 'But the Protectorate? Those bastards running back to Arram's teat? They killed the world, Fenore. Killed friends, killed Perr's friend, too. Personal, impersonal, I don't suppose it matters much anymore. I know me and him, we can't fight them, maybe. But the least we can do is watch the bastards die.'
                  Before Gurt could get Wey moving, Fenore held the mare's reins and put something in Gurt's palm. A rough piece of crystal, murky and milky with a weak blue hue someplace within.
                  'Look through this. Take the pathways. Can't go with you, not now. But the pathways will see you faster on the road.'
                  'Thank you,' he said, then turned Wey toward the north gates without a further glance back.
     
    *
     
    Across Rythe, the ancient places, those with power and with souls built into their hearts, burned with energy.
                  Sybremreyen and the Kuh'taenium were blindingly bright. Far to the south of Lianthre, on the continent of Ascalain, on the Feewar's new land, and at an ancient building on the Drayman plains, the old temples spewed fire and power into the skies and fuelled the red light that suffused the very air of Rythe, until the red light glowed brighter