Free Embers of a Broken Throne by Terry C. Simpson

and rot.
    “There’s no Forging here,” Irmina said, voice carrying above the marching feet.
    Ancel frowned. “How do you know?”
    “The zyphyl,” she answered, brow wrinkled in concentration. “No shadelings either. But in another day or two, there will be.”
    “Another Wraithwood?” Ryne asked, although he already knew the answer.
    She nodded.
    “Can we destroy it without entering the forest?” Lips pursed, Ancel was gazing past the Dagodins.
    “Not if we want to be certain of the results,” Ryne said.
    “So how do we go about this?” Ancel asked.
    Ryne called for them to stop. “Pathfinders, Ancel, and Irmina with me. Mirza, you, the Ashishins, and your men stay here. Clansmen, you also. Kill anything that comes this way.”
    He led the way, approaching the woods with caution, eyes scanning the scraggly undergrowth for any out of place shadow or a sign of movement. His Matersense showed nothing out of the ordinary.
    “Irmina,” he said. “Can your pet sense humans?”
    Her expression clouded before she replied. “No. It can see them, though. And it sees none other than us and those in the wood.”
    Acknowledging her with a nod, he continued forward, still practicing caution. Not that he doubted the zyphyl’s ability, but wariness in all things regarding shadelings had been ingrained into him, particularly where daemons or Skadwaz were concerned.
    When they entered the woods it didn’t take them long to find the collection of seeping bodies in the midst of transformation. They simply followed the stench. The area was similar to that in Aldazhar: a group of kinai trees, corrupted by shade, feeding several dozen townsfolk. Their bodies were intertwined with wolves and lapras, human legs and arms already growing fur, taking on more animalistic shapes.
    Ancel retched and spewed his breakfast. Irmina went to his side, but the young man waved her off. Charra was fixated with the bodies, an incessant growl rumbling in his chest.
    A slow anger burned in Ryne. Death was a part of life, but this wanton slaughter and turning of innocents curdled his insides. He’d seen and done enough of it as Nerian, a travesty caused by Kahkon. He had added that to the long list of reasons to kill the man.
    As a precaution, Ryne sought the Eye before empowering his Etchings on his armor, body, and sword. He drew from the sun’s power this time. Irmina and the others scrambled away from him, expressions awed.
    “I suggest you go outside to the others,” he said, voice devoid of emotion, sounding as if it originated from someone else. “Protect them.”
    He gave them time to leave, still focused on the corruption emanating from the Wraithwood. When he was certain enough time had passed for them to be a safe distance, he Shimmered into the malignant gathering of bodies, and released his Forge.
    The effect was similar to the one in Aldazhar, if a bit more intense. He had added Mater to the Prima within his Etchings. A roar filled his ears. Trees fell. He even felt the searing heat despite the protection his aura provided.
    He was still standing in center of the now empty Wraithwood, a great smoking space cleared around him, when a sound like a sword slicing empty air reached his ears. He spun to see the Materializations taking place, at least a dozen portals opening back the way Ancel and the others had retreated. Dread knotted his gut.
    A trap.
    Six Alzari appeared at the edge of the clearing’s smoking ruins.

C hapter 9
    S hadelings poured through the portals: wraithwolves, darkwraiths, and snake-like creatures that skittered on six legs, their rotted stench near unbearable. Irmina Forged, lashing out with blasts of light as fast as she could manage. She worked calmly, the underlying excitement and fear subdued by the Eye.
    Dagodins fought in small pockets, but against the overwhelming numbers they were succumbing. Pathfinders flitted among them, Shimmering to the places of the greatest need, silver armor glinting as they