The Soul Monger

by Matilda Scotney

  The citadel rose from the land against a backdrop of dark, brooding mountains, its single tower, unlit, eerie in the fading light, reached silently towards the sky. Laurel almost sensed life oozing from it, as if it knew they were there. Watching them.

  A sturdy, broad rotunda, at least 30 metres high, formed the lower part of the citadel, terminating in a flat crown, upon which a slender turret rose upwards and tapered into a blunt apex. Laurel and Eli agreed upon the vast uninhabited network of tunnels and catacombs below the surface, extending for several kilometres. The drawing in of night made normal visual surveillance of the landscape difficult, but either way, apart from the mountains, no other landmarks or topographical features showed up on sensors. Effectively, the fortress was in the middle of nowhere. A ground offensive, from any direction, would be impossible without being observed.

  Neither Eli nor Laurel sensed the presence of guards. There were no signs of movement, no external comings and goings of ships, no military units set up on the exterior.

  “Do you sense anything, Laurel? I can’t,” Eli said, as they slipped to hover, invisible—they hoped—just above the upper tier of the fortress. The shielding had presented as curved brickwork, graceful and natural in its construct. The rising moon peeped out behind a cloud, its light lending a ghostly glow to the shining outer layer of the fortress. Whatever covered it, not a single doorway or window or interior illumination was in evidence. The original building underneath was entirely sealed.

  “Why is it deserted?” Laurel wondered out loud, but Eli didn’t have an answer. This place was an enigma. A mystery. He shook his head. It felt suspicious to him, but he couldn’t be sure that came from his empathic sense; more likely a hangover from his days when his very survival rested on his caution.

  Laurel touched her hand to her forehead. “There’s a single quarter-soul in the upper section,” she said. “I can’t see anything inside. The tower appears to be unoccupied.”

  “I wonder if it’s whole-soul proofed,” Eli reran a low-energy sensor sweep, too low to alert the enemy, and because of that, possibly a pointless exercise, but nevertheless, he felt uneasy about Laurel leaving the ship.

  “Why would they whole-soul proof it?”

  “To stop us seeing in?”

  “That would mean they’re expecting us, and if Harry’s got his facts straight, as far as they’re concerned, whole souls are extinct.” Laurel fiddled with her bottom lip, deep in thought, listening, probing through the darkness with her mind. “Eli, the quarter-soul’s mind is haphazard. Can you sense anything at all?”

  “Nothing of use. I can’t sense any technology, people, nothing. I think this place is abandoned.”

  “I wonder if that’s what they want us to think, to lure us in.” Laurel clicked on her stealth. “I need to get closer. It may be that covering is affecting our senses. Drop me on the ridge at the bottom of the upper turret.”

  Eli brought the ship as close as possible to the ridge. Laurel swung out and jumped against the turret, but the ledge was impossibly narrow, and Laurel engaged a climbing magnet for support. A strong sense of power emanated from the fortress, but with only one quarter-soul in attendance, the fortress must either be abandoned, as Eli suggested, or automated, and the occupants somehow concealed. On instinct, Laurel pulled off her glove and placed her palm on the surface. Her first touch stung her senses. This wasn’t stone, nor any material used for building. Her hand moved, stroking; something—something. She angled her head to get a better perspective. It was too gloomy to see the top, even with the retinal optimiser she’d insisted on wearing, and with so little to perch on, any exploration would be challenging. Barely maintaining her balance, she pulled her toolkit from her belt and ignited a cutting beam. Harry had warned her it would be useless, but she had to try. As predicted, the beam bounced from the surface and hit Laurel in the shoulder, and the smell of scorched cloth reached her nostrils.

  “Are you okay?” Eli’s voice came to her urgently over the d-com.

  Dammit! Laurel thought. Why doesn’t he use telepathy? We’ll be detected!

  “Because I tried!” Eli shot back. “You didn’t hear me! There’s something about this place…”

  “I’m fine,” Laurel cut in, she didn’t have time to discuss Eli’s worries. She was disappointed she hadn’t been able to detect or sense any intelligence of value or carve a sample out of the shielding to take back for analysis. “The beam deflected, same as the League missiles. I’m wondering if there is any of this stuff on the ground.”

  “Do you mean offcuts? Like a building site?”

  “They had to make it fit somehow, it’s contoured.” Laurel moved downwards.

  “Laurel, you can’t go down there, you might get spotted.”

  “Do you see any guards?”

  “No.”

  “This substance—I’m sure it’s organic. There might be some lying around. Perhaps the League missed it.”

  “Laurel don’t!”

  Laurel turned off her d-com, they weren’t supposed to be talking, anyway. The exterior surface was smoother than it looked at first glance and that made it hard to achieve any real purchase, even driving hard against the surface with her magnets. One step, two steps and her foot slipped each time. She glanced down, unable to see the ground; the optimiser reeled off a sequence of numbers to give her distance, but that didn’t help her hold on. She sensed where the quarter-soul was situated but gained nothing from him. As far as Laurel could tell, he was alone in the fortress, and it was frustrating not to be able to read him, especially at such close range.

  But she had more urgent matters on her mind. Two broken magnets later, she pulled out her reserve, but couldn’t stop her downward slide. Eli came alongside, but there was no way she could get enough swing to seize the underrail and clamber onto the ramp. She reached out again, and her foot slid out from under her, causing her to fall to the right, her other arm hanging perilously to the last remaining magnet. Concentrating all her strength, she braced her feet against the facade, planning to propel herself towards the scout. She briefly entertained the notion of letting go, to allow herself to fall to the ground in the hope a controlled fall wouldn’t result in severe injury. That might at least allow Eli to land and pick her up, assuming they hadn’t been detected.

  But then these possibilities became academic. A flash ignited the surrounding air, travelling upwards towards Eli’s ship. Stunned, Laurel hurtled towards the ground.

  Chapter 30

  Laurel jolted awake, her head smacking back hard against a solid surface. She remembered only falling from the tower and the weapon firing at the ship, but then, nothing. Trying to move, an agonising pain in her ribs prohibited even the simple act of lifting her arm. She held her breath and scrunched her face against the pain, then drew in a careful, light test breath. The intense pain passed, leaving a dull ache in its wake. She survived dropping from that height. Perhaps the ground was not as hard as she imagined, or somehow, her fall had been broken. Laurel’s eyesight adapted to the gloom. Her retinal optimiser was off-line; probably the impact, and her spit ring was missing; it must have been removed surgically as her finger was not damaged. But she wasn’t on the ground beside the tower. She was seated, upright in a high-backed chair in a darkened room, the only light coming from a robust log fire blazing in a fireplace. Before her, a long wooden table stretched away, and to her right, a second chair was pulled out at an untidy angle, as though recently vacated. Laurel checked for anchors. There were none, even so, her pain held her prisoner just as surely as any restraint.

  A foul, sense-assaulting stench preceded the massive, rough creature with matted hair and tattered clothing that flung itself into the empty chair. She drew a sharp, unpleasant breath in surprise and her body tightened against the pain in her side. She recognised the quarter-soul she’d sensed before; his thoughts askew, aimless, except for one. He didn’t like her, more; he hated her. He hoisted his feet up onto the table and grunted; his filth
y, ragged foot coverings under her nose. His feet stank, and she turned her face aside, willing herself not to gag.

  “You’re here to guard, Lien, not terrify.” A voice spoke from the shadows—a man’s voice—calm, dignified. “Leave us.”

  The filthy creature grunted again, stood, and thrust his face against Laurel’s. She closed her eyes and throat against the rotting fish and sulphur-like stench of his breath. He stuck his tongue out hard and licked her face before stomping away.

  Laurel was now alone with the man with the quiet voice, a man who might turn out to be even more monstrous and dangerous than the one who had just left. It might even be the Duke. Laurel watched the figure move from the shadows to stand at the fireplace. How did she miss this other presence in the fortress? They’d flown into a trap, and Laurel could only pray the blast that dislodged her from the tower missed Eli’s scout.

  “My home is very warm, very barren, Laurel,” the man said, addressing her by name. “We rarely have the need for fires.” His Seera was good, heavily accented, but quite unlike the accent of Collitt or the other Gartrya she’d encountered. Laurel watched as he turned slightly, the light from the fire reflecting on his face. When she saw it, the frightening truth, she inhaled sharply and held her breath, ignoring the pressure on her ribs.

  A whole soul!

  She blew out her breath and dropped her gaze, quickly trying to cover her discomfort, and conceal her senses as the man walked towards her. She would not make eye contact, even in semi-darkness, nor let him see how this development had shaken her.

  How could she not have sensed him?

  “So,” the man said softly, “you are the cause of our current predicament?”

  Laurel kept her eyes down. The man regarded her for a moment before half sitting on the table in front of her; his hands relaxed over one knee.

  Laurel didn’t raise her eyes, nor answer.

  “You know perfectly well that I am a whole soul,” the man said, “endowed with the same empathic and telepathic skills as yourself, though it seems I am a little more practised. Trying to cover the fact you are aware of this, gives you no advantage.”

  Laurel remained silent.

  He angled his head, so he could look at her face, but she turned away. After a moment he sat up. She felt a ripple of his confidence, but he granted her nothing else.

  “Did you come here to assassinate the Duke?” he asked after a moment of studying her.

  “I’m not here to assassinate anyone,” she muttered, even though instinctively, she knew that he knew, had the opportunity arose, she would have.

  “I know your intent, your focus, Laurel, you can’t hide it,” he continued his study of her, she could feel it. “Perhaps you could share with me how the League came by whole souls?”

  Laurel lifted her head just enough to cast him a disparaging glance. “You’re the one asking questions. If you can read my mind, talking to me is a waste of time.”

  The man smiled. “I can read minds, Laurel, and intent just as you do, and I can follow threads that lead from a single thought, I can see where your thoughts are leading.” He paused. “I have plenty of time, and I am a patient man.”

  “I have nothing to say,” Laurel shrugged, shoving away the fear that threatened in the pit of her gut.

  “I don’t need you to say anything, Laurel. Your focus is clear, and the rest is entirely open to me. You suppose you are on the side of right. I see you have accepted the League’s explanations, their version of the truth, that they believe themselves to have an advantage over the Duke.”

  Laurel tried a few strategies to keep him out; songs by Katy Perry, The Beatles, Elvis Presley, hymns, anything that might block her mind dwelling on any intent. But he saw it and went beyond; her efforts a pale shadow beside his capabilities.

  “The Duke proposes to have returned that which was taken from him,” the man said, then nodded suddenly, as though a great understanding had unfolded. “Ah, I see the sins of the League are kept from you.”

  Sins?

  Religious and popular songs evaporating in the face of there being little point, Laurel knew she had insufficient knowledge of the League’s sins or indeed, any of the good they’d done. It seemed a humane and beneficial society on the face of it, but for some reason, she had a sudden vision of the green-tinged Canon Akkuh.

  “I know of no whole souls in the League nor anywhere else,” the man continued. “I am interested in learning how you came to be here.”

  She felt him opening a few memory doors; he found a few containing her arrival—but evidently—not the whole story. She’d believed her abilities had grown, but beside his, hers were fledgeling, inadequate.

  “Hmmm,” he made a sound as if pondering what he found in her mind. “That still doesn’t explain how a whole soul came to be in service to the League. You are too young to have been taken before the League closed the Transcender.”

  “You’re a whole soul,” Laurel looked directly at him, but she couldn’t really see his face in the gloom, and his back was to the fire, so all she got was a haloed silhouette. She tried to thrust up her chin but discovered her jaw ached as well. She had no choice but to modify her tone. It made her sound weak, where she intended to sound challenging and strong. “How did you get here?”

  “The Soul Monger took my mother in the hours after she conceived me, on Earth. Were you delivered directly to the League?”

  Laurel wasn’t going to answer questions willingly, and considering escape was intent; she again sought to shut down her thoughts. But it was futile.

  “I am physically and mentally stronger than you, Laurel,” he said. “You can’t escape. A drone collected you when you fell, and you sustained a few broken bones. We salvaged a League MedAid from a battle; it has repaired as much of you as it was able, but it appears you require more pain relief.”

  “You shot at my ship.”

  He stood and extended his hand, “Yes, I did,” but he wasn’t going to answer her implied question of, “Did you hit it?”

  She rejected his offer of help. She would not co-operate but realised as she struggled to stand, she was already obeying his unspoken command for her to rise.

  “Lien brought you here after your treatment rather than to the accommodation I prepared.” The man dropped his arm to his side. “He is a devoted servant, so a League uniform represents the enemy. Your comfort, your pain, was of little consequence to him. I apologise.”

  She didn’t care for his apologies but moving from a seated position was like lifting two sacks of coal. Her arms and body were lead weights. She was so stiff. The exertion caused her to hold her breath, the pain burning through her side anew, but after her rejection of his help, he stood back and waited while she struggled. After one or two attempts, she realised she would not be going anywhere unassisted. Once again, he offered his hand, and without looking up or thanking him, this time she accepted his help. Laurel was indeed very uncomfortable. It hurt to breathe, some of her ribs were broken for sure, her face hurt, and both ankles were stiff and painful. Right about now, one of the little hovering gurneys would have been welcome.

  The man led Laurel to a shaft saturated with purple light. Abruptly placing his arm over her shoulder, he pulled her into the beam. They moved upwards, no solid surface above or below. The elevating beam gave muted light, and she could see his hands. He wore no gloves, and a large jewel gleamed on his thumb. The hand gripping her shoulder had never seen hard work. He didn’t seem like a warrior, and while not easy to study his face without looking up, she didn’t sense cruelty or malice, but then, his empathic skills were more evolved. It was possible he was concealing them. Going by his voice alone, Laurel got the strange notion that if she met him on the street, he would appear bookish, or scholarly.

  She shrugged to herself, so what if she was displaying her thoughts? What would he do? She was his prisoner. But he didn’t speak, just waited until their journey ended at a short, sealed-end corridor. He assisted her onto
the landing, and Laurel looked around. The walls appeared composed of natural stone, unlike the exterior of the fortress, and the atmosphere felt bleak and prison-like. A pearlised glow emanated from panels set back into the walls, affording a cold light that cast eerie shadows on the stone. The ground was harsh against her bare feet.

  “This is the uppermost section of the old citadel,” the man said. “The Semevalian’s crafted it from stone taken from the mountain, fourteen centuries ago.” He reached out and ran his hand lightly over the wall. “It withstood the ravages of time, watching over their spirituality, their way of life.” Then his voice changed. “Until we arrived.”

  He’d spoken with such reverence, such admiration, Laurel stopped watching the eerie shadows to look up at him. Lost in his thoughts, it took him a moment to become aware of her scrutiny. “Their spiritual culture and religious architecture are unique,” he gave Laurel a small smile. But even in his unguarded moment, she had been powerless to look into his mind.

  He pointed to a door. “I’ve prepared a suite for you, Laurel.”

  Laurel took a painful step forwards, making a conspicuous display of letting go of his arm, of not needing his help. The door was ancient technology, sliding simply from right to left, and he stood back as she shuffled into the room before him. It was tiring to walk, and she was terrified of ending up in an undignified heap on the floor, so she gritted her teeth and bore the discomfort, determined not to give the man the satisfaction of seeing her as a helpless victim.

  The “suite” was just a room; four walls, stone floor, a mattress set in a frame such as the Semevalian’s used, a chair, a Semevalian folk art rug on the floor and a basic, exposed slot. And it was windowless. A fireplace, large enough to stand up in, was dark and cheerless. There was no chimney, so Laurel guessed the fire would be a simulation.