From the Ashes Read Online Free PDF

punch, knowing, thanks to a century of battle, exactly when and where his foe would move. A jarring impact as the Earth-infused punch connected with the palm of his hand. A stalemate, for a moment, as immortal muscle contested with borrowed might. Then, with a flash of shock across his face, the shaman buckled to his knees, the strength of the Earth Spirits beginning to flee from his body as if in realisation that they couldn’t win against this kind of foe.
                  Feeling the power leaving his opponent, Stone quickly relaxed his grip lest he crush the lad’s hand. The youth fell backwards onto his arse, massaging his aching fist, gazing up with awestruck eyes at the blissfully unharmed form of the immortal above.
                  “…what are you?” he whispered.
                  “Annoyed,” came the reply.
                  Wrynn came up to him, even as the crowd of shamans dragged the youth away, gabbling excitedly as they replayed the fight.
                  “Annoyed? How so? You have proven that even without the dark powers of the enemy, your mere physical might is enough to overcome the advantages of Spirit-Craft.”
                  Stone sniffed, unconvinced.
                  “Yes, against an untrained whelp of sixteen summers.”
                  “Pol is eighteen, in fact.”
                  “Regardless, my point stands; in the coming battle, without my powers, I am no more than a man. A big man, a strong man and hard to kill, sure. Maybe impossible to kill, for who knows my limits? But one man, no matter how strong and tough, can be contained. Can be taken out of the battle.”
                  Wrynn nodded, looking curious.
                  “What do you need then, my apprentice, to give you confidence in this coming fight? Name it, and I shall do my best to make it happen.”
                  The looming immortal walked, slowly, towards the edge of the courtyard, where a sheer drop gave way to the vast and lush expanse of the valley, looking southward to the mountains and, beyond, to the South.
                  “I need my Glaives.” He voiced for the first time the loss of his beloved weapons, so close to him as to almost be a part of his soul. He could feel them, so achingly far away, resting in their mount in his tower of stone far to the South, yet at this distance he couldn’t call them, the connection too faint.
                  “And,” he continued, “what Champion of the Avatars is without the power of Spirit-Craft at his beck and call? The spirits flee from me, refusing to listen to me, for they fear what I have been this last century, scared of the taint that remains. This needs to be rectified.”
                  He turned to the elder Shaman, his eyes determined.
                  “I need to meet with the Avatars for a second time…”
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Two:
     
     
    Screams. Oh, the screams. The sounds of fear echoing through the corridors. Blood; rushing through the ears and splattering the walls. Flickering shadows, cruelly elongated by torchlight to stretch, menacingly round every bend. Nightmare.
                  A living, waking nightmare.
                  Naresh ran. Ran as fast as his legs would carry him. From the halls, through the kitchens, towards the only refuge he knew. The only place he could be sure of hiding from his fate. Death at every turn. Blood here. Limbs there. Survivors dragged, screaming, to fate unknown. Scimitars rising, falling. None of it made sense. None of it.
                  And he had been there when it started.
                  You there, the cook had shouted at him as he’d trundled past with a handcart. We’re down a waiter, one is sick; you fill in. The cook