by Amanda Twigg
CORRUPTED SOUL
Society’s Soul Series - Book 2
Amanda Twigg
This book has dark elements and themes of a sensitive nature
Army Ranks
Senior Ranks:
Chief Warrior
Chief Warrior Elect
Warrior First
Warrior Second
Warrior Third
Warrior Fourth
Specialization/City Chief
Basic Ranks:
Warrior - on acceptance into Warrior Hall
Soldier - on completion of soldier training
Cadet -in soldier training (three year course)
Citizen- birth to eighteen years
Sub Grades
Three-bar - expert level achieved
Two-bar - competent level achieved
One-bar- basic level achieved/not always awarded
Trainee - applied to Warrior and specialist ranks
Previously in Book 1
Landra was heading for a quiet life until her father, Chief Warrior Griffin Hux, challenged her to a fight. Taking a knife called the Collector from him propelled her into the chief elect role, ahead of her older brother, Dannet.
Exiled by magicians decades earlier, Warrior resentment toward temple priests had grown, forcing Landra to hide her magic from the soldiers she was sworn to lead.
Chief Hux asked her to keep the promotion secret, adding to the lies she had to tell Baylem, her best friend; Bexter, the cadet she pined for; and her brother, who believed the position belonged to him.
Training for the role was taken over by Warrior Fourth Thisk, a rule-breaking ranger with unorthodox methods that sometimes turned brutal. Unaware of her magic, he taught her the hethra, a Warrior skill with its roots in magic, and he took her for a temple visit so she would know her people’s past.
The ranger wasn’t allowed inside the temple, so Landra entered alone to visit her great-grandfather’s commemorative plaque. It rested on a platform beneath two great trees of the magic portal, which had once connected with home.
A veteran duty sentry called Oakham introduced himself and tempted her to come beneath the platform to check the well’s magic power level. It was low, but Oakham had another job on his mind. He spun a story of being her great-grandfather’s, Gallanto Hux, runner and coming through the portal from the homeworld. Landra didn’t believe him until he shared a Soul memory. The magical experience let her live the Warrior exile through Oakham’s senses, but the effort of sharing it proved too great for the old man, causing him to die in her arms.
Thisk found her when he came on a rescue mission. Templers followed him, angry that he’d broken the peace agreement by entering the temple. Their fury soared when they saw Oakham had died, forcing Thisk and Landra to flee to a ranger hut in the remote lands.
During their cycle in the wilds, Thisk trained her in survival skills and drilled her with weapons. In a rare, relaxed moment, Landra admitted that Oakham had seen magic in her Soul. Hethra training was stopped, and she was banned from using the Collector, which carried magical traces of her ancestors’ Souls.
With winter closing in, they deliberated whether to head deeper into the remote lands or return to face justice back home in Central City. The answer came when Landra’s hethra vision returned unbidden. It offered a glimpse of an attack on Hux Hall. She knew she had to return.
They found her guarded apartment had been ransacked, and Chief Hux summoned them to Warrior Hall to account for their actions.
Thisk and Landra told most of their tale, but the consequences they’d prepared for never came. Landra was still to become chief elect, and she had a week to prepare. As the ceremony approached, her fear grew. If her magic was discovered once she was in position, it could lead to war.
A promotion party was held on the night before the ceremony. Landra attended, not certain she could fulfill her new duties. To make it worse, she sensed Baylem’s death through a magical connection, but playing her part as chief elect offered no chance to mourn. Adding to the pressure, Dannet heard news of her promotion and stormed away in a temper. Landra followed.
Before she caught up with him, Dannet had gone inside Hux Hall, and two mercenaries were waiting at the door. The mercenaries, Turgeth and Mendog, believed Dannet was chief elect and discussed how to abduct him for their boss.
Horrified, Landra cast caution aside to confront them, and she flashed the Collector to be sure they understood that she was the true chief elect. A fight followed, during which Landra risked all to save her brother. She even called on the magic that she’d denied for so long, and her power drew the ghost of her great-grandfather into the battle. Even with his help, she was outmatched, and a final blow sent her into oblivion.
Landra awoke in a cavern—chained, ill, and afraid. She discovered that Warrior Third Preston had betrayed her father and orchestrated the kidnapping, but an overheard conversation made her suffering worthwhile. A new peace treaty between Templers and Warriors had been drafted, and Dannet had assumed the chief elect role in her absence. Her world was on track.
Now, Landra had to work out her next move. Father’s men had to be coming on a rescue mission—didn’t they?
Chapter 1
Deciding to live and making it happen were two separate problems, Landra discovered. A kidnapping and beating were too much for her young body to handle, so she slumped into a fevered nightmare, only emerging to consciousness in horrifying snatches. Mind-jarring pain and a revolting puke stench greeted her lucid moments, making her wonder if she’d been thrown down a shit chute.
She groaned when thick hands pulled her from the delirium. Tar-smelling fingers forced her mouth open, and hot, foul liquid dribbled into her mouth.
Spew it out.
Fat hands jammed her teeth together, denying her satisfaction. She retched as the poison slid down her throat and burning greeted its arrival in her rolling belly. Her back arched like a scimitar’s blade. Too much pain. Please stop. Please leave me alone.
There was no peace. Her captors’ jabbering voices rattled in her ears, making no sense, so she focused on the heat of her skin, the cold of the air, and her suffering. Holy shelk, it hurts. Sleep take me. Death take me. Forgive me, Father. I can’t do this. Unconsciousness hooked her into its comforting depths.
The next time Landra roused to awareness, agony arrowed through every part of her body, coiling her into a ball. She couldn’t tell whether it was worse or the same because multiple pains fought for her attention. Whichever way she turned to rest her face, her tender cheek stung. She fumbled her fingers across the ground beneath her body, trying to find somewhere soft.
Jagged rock? Of course. I’m in a rocky cavern. Rescue me, Father. Bring me home.
She tried opening her eyes. Her right lid cracked open to a slit, but her left eye stuck shut. The cave came into narrow view, forming the backdrop to her nightmares like staging for a hideous play. Rust-red shackles bound her wrists, making her skin burn with every twitch. Grey-bronze rags barely covered her flesh, and her ripped gold bodice hung free of her breasts.
Party clothes. Shelking party clothes.
She felt for her knife strap. Gone, along with the Collector, so she drew the flouncy material across her chest and shuddered, wanting none of this. It was hard to believe all that had happened or to accept this misery. She focused inward.
Her next rise to consciousness brought awareness of deep damage in her gut. Regurgitated food spiralled out, making her gag. Retching shook her, but the convulsions caused ripples of pain through her innards and boosted bile into her throat. It stung as she swallowed.
“She’s awake.”
Preston’s voice. Bastard! The traitor Warrior’s nasal tones set her on edge. Don’t look. Play dead. You’re nearly gone anyway. She closed her eyes.
“Nah, she’s still out, boss,” Turgeth said. “Been like this for days.”
Landra wanted to turn them to shelking dust, but she would have to heal to claim justice. No, not justice. Revenge.
“Her bruises are healing, boss,” Turgeth said, “but she took that cut to her leg when we dragged her down here. I think some underlevel mud got in, and it’s festering something fierce. Nasty stuff that mud.”
Down here? Holy shelk. The underlevel. What did Thisk say about mudworms? Blood raced through her body, but rousing to full consciousness invited terrifying waking dreams to hijack her thoughts. Pain and suffering twisted her Soul, awakening vicious intentions she’d never known she could think. All faded to insignificance compared to the vicious nightmare revenges she imagined for Preston. Tear you apart. Feed you to mudworms. Slash you. Kill you. Betrayer. She was helpless and dying, but she could dream.
Landra wanted Warrior Third Preston destroyed and her people saved. Isn’t that what she’d promised Gallanto? Her memory settled into place a piece at a time, but her fevered thoughts couldn’t untangle the mystery of her long-dead great-grandfather.
Her mind hunted better moments to soften the ordeal. She imagined Dannet at his promotion ceremony. He would make a wonderful chief elect, but most of her focus fell on Bexter and the different ways their relationship could have progressed. In her innocent, frenetic dreams, she envisioned their first kiss, holding hands, and dancing.
This won’t do. Be a soldier; be chief elect.
“Try this,” Preston said. “The medic claims it works on infections. Don’t know if it helps with mud poison.”
Thick-fingered hands forced her mouth open. Tar. Vomit. Idiots. Let me rest. She writhed, swishing her head to fight the grip. There was no strength in her effort, and slimy liquid slid into her mouth. Fingers clamped her jaw tight to hold back splutters, but her retching spewed blistering liquid up the back of her throat and through her nose.
“Shelking bitch.” Turgeth shoved her away and shook bile from his hands.
“Clean her up then re-dose her,” Preston said. “Rolling in all that vomit and shit can’t do any good.”
“She ain’t nothing but trouble,” Mendog said. “We should send her back.”
A flicker of hope penetrated Landra’s feverish state. She strained to hear the response.
“Too late. She’s seen us,” Preston said. “We can’t let her go now.”
Too late? Shelk, Father, save me.
Chapter 2
The first day Landra woke free from vomit and knew she could bear the pain, her dread changed. Instead of balancing between life and death, pain and oblivion, she rode a beast of unknown terror.
“You’re healing,” Preston said.
Landra coiled tight, drawing her arms over her bare chest. He’d been here all the time, silent, watching. Her heart charged into action. She wanted to hide, wanted to die. Her shuffling against the wall pulled her tethers taught. “Agh!”
“So, you’ve decided to live,” the Warrior said.
Am I supposed to respond? Won’t. She straightened her spine in a fake show of strength. This surviving, this living thing—when would it end?
Preston turned from her to face the cavern. “Turgeth! Fetch water.”
Landra glimpsed the soldier’s movement across the open expanse. That was Preston’s world out there, with its stilt-supported platforms and craggy walls. Magic-laden tree roots wound down through crevices, and a shush of falling water tempted calmness. She refused the peace, hating the strangeness. Unexpected recognition bothered her more. Room fittings arranged on the open platforms looked familiar, like they’d been stripped out of Hux Hall. Thief. Traitor thief.
She tracked Turgeth’s movements along the connecting walkways and bridges until he disappeared beneath the lip of her ledge.
Once Preston heard creaking on the ladder, he swaggered back to confront Landra. “Ah, Hux, what to do with you?”
She scrunched back from his looming form. “Let me go. I won’t tell.” The promise spilled out in a rush of desire, covering the cracks in her hope. The traitor’s evil grin suggested he favored Turgeth’s plan. Would he ransom her a piece at a time? A finger first, an ear, or something larger? She wanted to be brave, but her body trembled. Preston saw and widened his grin. He straddled her legs and flourished a knife—her knife.
Pressing even harder against the jagged wall, she bared her teeth. Seeing the Collector in the thug’s grip made her empty stomach cramp. How could he come here, smelling of peppermint cream from Barthle’s kitchen, wearing a hero’s uniform, and brandishing her knife? The blade didn’t gleam with its usual pink shades. Dull grey gave it a metallic look, as if its magic had fled.
“That’s mine,” she said, through gritted teeth.
Hard lines drew through Preston’s slate-shaded aura. He pressed the knife tip against her throat and nicked the skin.
Nowhere to go. Landra tried for bravery, but her bowels worked with the knowledge of true dread. Bad guts. Not terror, not lack of courage. Feeble. She eyed the architect of her misery, her body shuddering. Her panic induced stiff lines of excitement in Preston’s aura, but the narrowing smile on his face held calculating malice.
He lifted the Collector to her eyes, too close to focus on it. “You say this is yours?”
She detested his tall but wiry frame, brushed hair, and sneering features. His manicured nails belonged to the civilized existence of a Warrior, not the brutal ways of a kidnapper, but a silvered scar on his cheek told the truth. It would always bear witness to his lawless ways. Traitor, traitor, traitor.
She blanked terror from her face and met his gaze. “Father gave me that knife to look after.”
“Liar! If you hold the Collector, no one gave it to you, and I know exactly who you are. You are Griffin and Loni’s daughter, Dannet’s sister, and you, my young lady, are the true chief elect.”
Shuddering knots signalled movement on the ladder. “What?” Turgeth said, cresting the rock’s lip. “She really is the chief elect?”
“Yeah! Is she really the chief elect?” Mendog asked, following his brother onto the ledge. The bucket he carried in his crooked elbow made it an awkward clamber.
It was hard for Landra to deny her rank. She’d flaunted her position and used the knife in front of the brothers, but she would admit nothing now. “Of course I’m not the chief elect. I’m the youngest daughter, a nobody, a nothing. Didn’t I hear you say Dannet stepped up to that job?” She imagined how much his world must have changed, and pangs of loss heaped grief on her suffering. If Father didn’t come soon, she wouldn’t survive to see her brother’s triumph.
“Ah, yes,“ Preston admitted. “Your brother did complete the promotion ceremony, but it was a strange affair. His hair was too short, so they shaved him and inked the chief elect mark into place. His clothes looked like they came from stores rather than being tailored for his new role. Most telling of all, he didn’t wear the ceremonial knife. This knife!” He twisted the Collector between his fingers. “If this is in your possession, I believe Chief Hux intended that job for you.”
“You know nothing about me.”
Preston tracked the blade tip across her cheek in a mirrored pattern of his own scar.
She froze at the light touch, her terrorized visions of disfigurement melting beneath murderous intentions. I’ll kill you for this.
The Warrior’s eyes widened, and his eyebrows lifted to his forehead. “I think it’s you who doesn’t know who you are, Hux, so your education falls to me. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but you were born to be a killer.”
“Not true.” Bastard.
“Baagh! Like your father, avoiding the truth. The chief gave you the Collector, so he must think you have murder in your Soul. I didn’t think it likely, but now…” He stood back, lo
oking pleased with the notion.
Landra wanted to silence him, wanted this all to go away. How dare he presume the mist-demon thoughts running through her head?
He flipped the Collector around and waved the bone handle beneath her nose. His tidy thumbnail explored some nicks in the carved image of a Warrior’s cloak. “Each of these notches represents an executed Jethran. People forget the chief elect’s role is to deliver justice, but Griffin knows his history. He’s lived it. See this mark?” He put his thumbnail on the lowest of the twelve nicks. “The victim was a deluded Templer who deserved to die. Marzen, I think they called him. He murdered two cadets in the temple’s name, and there’s no exile train for that crime. It fell to Griffin to execute him. If your father allowed you to take this knife from him, he believes you will kill.”
Landra went cold. Battering her body wasn’t enough for the bogus Warrior. He taunted her with deceit, but she couldn’t deny her burning hatred or overwhelming need for revenge. It coiled through her aura like a vexed snake on the hunt. If she could free herself and take the knife now, she would dispatch the traitorous Warrior and carve a notch in the knife handle without conscience. Her venomous glare promised death.
Preston exploded into thunderous laughter at her expression. “That’s the spirit, girl.”
She hated Preston—loathed him. Working her mouth to gather spit, she pooled it into a ball and launched it at his face. Unhealthy yellow spittle found his nose and dribbled across his cheek. The least you deserve.
He dragged the slime away with a sleeve. “Wonderful. You might look like Loni, but you’ve got Griffin’s charm. The chief never could control his women, but I can. Never doubt it.”
Just die!
The Warrior slid the knife handle down her neck, nudged her burning shoulder, and tracked it down the length of her arm. Shivering awareness made her shudder, and her arm hairs stood proud, like soldiers on parade. She felt dizzy, but the floating sensation disappeared beneath her skin’s screaming tenderness.