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.
The entire roof collapsed. Those who hadn’t been screaming yet, screamed then.
The soldiers in the rooms below tried to flee, but there was nowhere to go. Debris bombarded them, burying them under suffocating mounds of brick and pestle. Winding stairs led down, every few flights with a landing and murder holes manned by more soldiers. Brick and dirt rained down the hollow center of the building. Men leapt away from the opening.
Ryne sprang over the banister, his greatsword pointed down. The earlier shield he’d used formed around him, its blue tinge lighting the dark interior of the barbican. Swords and arrows bounced of its surface as he fell. He hit the floor among a milling mass of men still struggling to comprehend how the roof had fallen in. With the force of the fall behind it, the greatsword sunk into the ground as if the surface was mud instead of brick. The metallic clang of the silversteel penetrating stone echoed a death knell. Ryne triggered his Scripts.
The floor, walls, and pillar supports exploded, showering stone and mortar in a white smoky, mist. With a groan, then a thunderous rumble, the tower collapsed around Ryne, rubble bouncing off his shield.
Still linked with Sakari, Ryne saw the carnage the man waged as he’d fought his way from the roof and down the stairs. The steps ran red with rivulets of blood. It poured off onto the soldiers clamoring below. Those who rushed up the steps died. From somewhere, Sakari had gained a second sword and this he used to knock away any incoming bolts. The man fought more like a daemon than a man. Ryne frowned before his eyes shot open at a strange sound from Sakari.
He was laughing. A high, mad, cackle that rang out in peals.
Pushing the sound to the back of his mind, Ryne turned back to what he’d left in his wake. White smoke from the debris choked the air, moans and groans echoed, and here and there, rubble shifted. Men called for help, often followed by a hand reaching up from the stone and dirt. Covered in white residue and looking like an avenging spirit, Ryne found what remained of the main door and strode through the crumbled wall into the hall that held the winch for the portcullis and gate. No one attempted to stop him. He unhitched the chain and pulled.
Slowly, gears churning and clanging, the gate and portcullis rose.
“Mother!” Ancel screamed, his mind battering against the Forge that prevented him from touching the essences spilling about them in waves.
It was Shin Galiana’s Forge. The old woman, her silver hair hanging in wild wisps that stuck to her forehead and cheeks, leaned heavily on Guthrie, her hand held out before her, and her brow furrowed and slick with sweat. She’d stopped Ancel as soon as he tried to lash out at the dark-garbed man who held his mother prisoner.
His mother lay unmoving at the man’s feet. Swathed in shade and in clothing as black as a daemon’s maw, the man had responded to Galiana’s own attack without so much as a wave of his hand and now faced her. Mater battered whatever barrier Shin Galiana had erected between them. Essences slammed and sliced incessantly, but to no avail.
Ancel could see the man also maintained a complex Forge around his mother. Similar to the one Galiana used to keep him from touching the essences. Ancel’s chest burned with the need to help, the need to rush to his mother’s side, the need to find out if she still lived.
“Calm yourself, boy,” Guthrie instructed. “Seek the Eye. You can’t help here.”
Ancel had tried for calm several times, but every time, he’d failed. Now, he no longer wanted to be under control. He wanted to lash out with everything he had. A hand brushed his shoulder.
“I know how you feel. I have seen my loved ones taken. But this man and them,” Kachien nodded toward the shadelings at the other side of the field. “We cannot handle. Not now. Not like this.”
“I won’t leave my mother.” Ancel gritted his teeth against the tears streaming down his face and the pain that tore at his chest. “I won’t.” Mind racing, he sought a way to help her. Without the ability to reach the Eye, the voices he’d heard in his head before came alive.
“Our power is yours if you want it. Take it. Use it to crush all who stand in your way. None can stand before you. Not even him.” On and on the voices raged, but still Galiana prevented him from touching the essences.
Ancel reached for his sword. As he touched its hilt, Kachien’s hand stopped him. Scowling, he shrugged her off, and his hand closed around the handle.
The sword’s bond solidified. Whereas before he could feel it in his mind, now he felt the sword’s bond as if he and the sword were one and the same. He was the sword. Power rushed through the weapon into him. Glowing hot, it tore through him and his back arched.
He felt them then.
Hundreds of pinpoints of energy, of essences, one nearby, and the others spread far and near. He opened eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed and looked toward his mother.
Her gaze met his. She smiled.
The man in black shook his head, or the shadow representing his head. Red eyes glanced down at Ancel’s mother before his gaze locked on Ancel and the now glowing sword. The eyes narrowed to slits.