Soul Hosts

by Joseph Isaacs

Chapter 2

  Cold-Blooded Killers Wanted

  If she lifts up a chamber pot, you’d best duck. - Cook

  --

  The Tulkarian brought back into Wayden’s mind that day. The day his world fell apart. He had been short for an eight-year old and so he’d clambered onto ledge by the bay window. The approaching sky wolves were dots with wings at first. The invasion horn sounded again.

  Mavik, Nanny, and mother erected a barricade in front of the door. Then they waited. The footsteps approaching the door, the door shuddering as something slammed into it. The barricade and door gave way as the Ozac crashed through it, followed by a companion Sky-Raider: one-eared, clad in black studded leather, long matted red-hair swinging with his swagger. He touched a torch to the drapes and flames spread across the fabric.

  The Ozac swung his mace, crumpling Nanny’s skull and sending her teeth skittering across the floor. A halo of blood formed around her disfigured head.

  Holding his mother’s and brother’s hands, he raced through the blazing house. A torch had been thrown through the broken scullery window, and the smoke forced them into a crawl. A burning cinder from the ceiling fell on Wayden. Grabbing his injured face, as he screamed in pain, he had released his brother’s hand. By the time he caught another glimpse of Mavik, a man with a goat’s face was pulling him out the back door.

  His mother saw the Goat man too, and ran after him, towing Wayden along with her. They raced out onto the rear porch. A Tulkarian Sky Raider awaited in the yard, arrow nocked. His long purple-hair swayed as he released the arrow which whistled through the air. His mother gasped as she gripped the bloody shaft buried in her lace dress. It was just like the water color prophecy his brother Mavik had painted just the day before....the lily red flower forming on her dress…

  Red-kingdom soldiers arrived and the Sky Raiders had flown off on their winged skywolves. Wayden cared about none of that. He cradled his mother’s head in his lap, blinking back tears, lip trembling.

  ‘I’m sorry, Wayden.”

  “No. You can’t die. You can’t.”

  But she disobeyed him.

  Eight years later, Wayden still felt the stabbing pain in his gut as fresh as if it had been yesterday. Her betrayal still hurt. How could she leave him, just like father had?

  And here was a boy with purple hair.

  “A Tulkarian.” Wayden gritted his teeth. “A wraithin’ Tulkarian.”

  “Language, young Wayden,” Kolram remonstrated. “No need to use the 'w' word. This is not the Tulkarian Sky Raider who killed your mother. That one was two feet taller and a decade older, and wore a necklace of dried fingers as I recall."

  "A Tulkarian is a Tulkarian.”

  "And a Helesian is a Helesian,” Kolram responded, “The Sky Raider who torched your mansion had the red hair so common in our land. Should all red-haired Helesians be accountable for burning down your house?”

  The guards flanked the Tulkarian boy, who shuffled forward, barely lifting his gaze from the ground. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot. Tears streaked his puffy cheeks and his lip trembled. His seashell-braided hair swayed with each step.

  A strange sensation pulled at Wayden, growing in intensity as the boy approached. It was as if an invisible string connected him to the Tulkarian. Wayden had shared a similar bond toward his twin-brother, Mavik. But why would he be sharing one with a Tulkarian?

  The guard escorting the Tulkarian orphan nodded at Rory. The orange cape and the single flame upon his surcoat marked him as a low-ranking Flicker. Wayden recognized the guard as one of Rory’s friends.

  "You brought us some fresh meat," Rory said.

  "It's been a long day for us. We had to haul this one's mother over to the Volcano Palace for unauthorized use of magic and we found another murdered girl.”

  “The Striker again?” Rory asked, his voice quivering.

  “The dead girl was red-headed, young, pretty, no marks upon her body. Sounds like the Striker to me."

  "You need to get him behind bars or better yet in a grave,” Rory told the guard, fingering his folded love letter. “It ain’t safe for a lady no more."

  "Them lot couldn't catch a fish from a bowl of Cook’s stew,” a voice boomed from the doorway. Crag’s beady eyes gleamed with greed at the new orphan. “Brought us a Tulkarian, eh? Well, we always do get the bottom of the barrel here. Still, the Draconess is coming soon to do her count, so another head means another coin."

  Crag stepped off the front stoop, the heels of his ox-hide boots squishing in the muddy yard. He wore his new hat, the latest fashion. It had a brim in all four directions and orange feathers on top. Wayden normally had to choke back a giggle whenever Crag wore it. Today, he was in no laughing mood.

  The guard muttered to himself as he headed back to the wagon. The Ozac stood there watching everything, a big grin on his face.

  "What's your name, boy?" Crag asked the Tulkarian.

  "I'm R-R-Rif.”

  Stupid Tulkarian can’t even talk right, Wayden thought.

  "Well, R-R-Rif," Crag said. "You’d be wise not to cause any trouble." He motioned with his cane at Wayden. "Toast, show the new boy around. Oh and get my grandmother her stew. That’ll be your job from now on."

  Wayden felt like he’d just taken two kicks to the stomach. Showing the Tulkarian around was bad enough, but Crag’s grandmother? She was a known loon.

  “Me? But I thought the new maid-“

  “The new maid quit last night. Me grandma decided to empty the contents of her chamber pot on her. Now it’s your job.”

  “What? That’s not-” Wayden blurted out.

  “No arguing, Toast!” Crag raised a hand in threat. He slapped a tarnished key into Wayden's palm. “Get to it.” He turned to Rory, and gestured at the Ozac. “Is this your new lady friend?”

  Rory blushed. “Master Crag. If you please, this gentleman be wanting to have words with you.”

  “And who might you be?” Crag asked with a sneer.

  “I’m called Anaz,” the gray man answered. “I’d like a word with you in private.”

  “You can like it all you want, you ain’t getting it. We aren’t hiring,” Crag said.

  Anaz pulled out another of his coins. “I’ll compensate you for your time.” He handed the money to Crag, whose face lit up the same as Rory's had.

  “Well, then,” Crag smiled, holding the coin up to the light. “Follow me. What a lucky day this has been.”

  Lots of luck. All of it bad.

  Wayden chewed his nails as he watched Crag and Anaz disappear up the wooden staircase that led to Crag’s room. Rory made to follow, but Crag told him to see how the orphans were getting along with the weeding. Rory grumbled and headed back outside.

  Wayden’s mind turned to the Ozac again.

  “What do you think this Anaz is up to?” Wayden asked.

  “I do not know,” Kolram said. “If he was going to attack us or turn us to the Guard, he’d have done it by now, so I think we can rule that out. Perhaps he is here to get us to use my powers in some way.”

  “I still don’t get how he could know about you or that I know magic,” Wayden mused, “There aren’t any others with magi in their heads, right? And wouldn’t he think I’m too young? There aren’t any other magi my age, right?”

  “None that I know of, apart from your brother,” Kolram responded. “Perhaps if you hurry you can listen in to what he is saying with Crag. Fetch the stew quickly from Cook, and you’ll have an excuse to pass their door.”

  Wayden headed towards the kitchen, hauling Rif along behind him. “If I need to show you around, let’s do it.”

  Wayden tuned out Kolram’s whiny reprimands. It wasn’t the mage’s mother that had an arrow in her gut, who watched her blood form a lake of grief for the world to drown in. Wayden half hoped Rif would take a swing at him, but instead the Tulkarian just said, "I'm s-s-sorry if I've caused you any trouble.”

  Wayden ground his
teeth at the sound of the Tulkarian’s voice. Tulkarians, Ozacs, who would come next to the orphanage? A wraith? Perhaps they ought to hang a sign on the orphanage: ‘Cold-blooded Killers wanted.’ Maybe they could get the Striker to stay as well.

  “Some Tulkarians are killers, and some aren’t,” Kolram said. “The same with every other race. Wherever the borders fall, people are just people.”

  There was no doorknob on the scullery, so Wayden stuck his hand into the hole where one ought to have been. A pair of metal tongs squeezed Wayden's fingers, and Cook cackled. No one liked Cook's jokes except Cook, but he liked them enough for everyone.

  Cook was a man with a thousand warts, hairs growing out of each one. His ears were as thickly forested as his head. "Toast! And who do we have with you?"

  "A new boy- Rif," Wayden said, examining his smarting hand. The tongs had left a mark.

  A tangy smell wafted through the air as they entered the scullery. Wayden’s hand still smarted, and his anger simmered like the cauldron of stew on the hearth. Two of the orphans were cleaning dishes. The clanging metal sounded like a battle.

  Leaning over a cast-iron cauldron of stew, Cook spooned out a portion and offered it to Rif. “Try this.”

  The brownish-gray stew glistened, a coat of oil blanketing its surface. Rif stared at it suspiciously, lip curled, and eyes wide, as if wary a tentacle might break from its surface and pull him in. Wayden's stomach, on the other hand rumbled. He'd been given a burnt piece of toast for breakfast, and a small portion of oats for lunch. Even Rif’s seashell hair braids looked delicious to Wayden at the moment. And the tray might be worth a bit of gnawing as well.

  “I’m not h-h-hungry.”

  “It's going to go into one of your holes, so you pick which." Cook sniggered.

  Rif took a taste and then spat out a clump of Cook's hair. Wayden never understood how Cook could have hair left upon his temples when so much of it ended up in the stew.

  Cook slapped his thighs, his warts jiggling with his laugh.

  "Master Crag ordered us to bring food for his grandma," Wayden said.

  “Did he now? Ye’ll be wearing the food, most like.” Cook burst into another round of guffaws.

  “He should charge himself admission to his own show,” Kolram suggested.

  “Master Crag asked us to deliver the food quickly,” Wayden added.

  Cook gestured to one of the orphans doing the washing. "Get me Healer Berik's powder. We gotta give Mistress Night her calming medicine, before she throws another chamber pot, don’t we?"

  The orphan took a vial of yellow powder out of a cabinet. Cook sprinkled it in a bread bowl of stew. He placed it on a wooden tray and handed it to Rif.

  “We put Mistress Night’s medicine in there to help her sleep. She’s a bit moody. If she lifts up her chamber pot, you’d best duck.” The sound of Cook laughing followed them as they headed out of the scullery.

  One of the orphans paused from mopping, and extended his hand to Rif. “Aye there Tulkarian. I be Handsome Darius. And this here is Little Darius.” He gestured to Little Darius, who was scrubbing the table.

  "Come on, Rif, Crag told us to hurry," Wayden said, yanking the boy behind him. He still hoped to overhear Crag's conversation with Anaz.

  As they headed up the stairs, Rif asked, "Why are so many people round here called D-D-Darius?"

  "They're named in honor of the Immortal who founded Vilanos, Darius Dragonking."

  “I thought he founded the whole Red Lands of Helos.”

  “He did, but he lived here. Be quiet for a moment, I want to see if I can find out about this Ozac.”

  Rif looked puzzled at this, but said nothing as Wayden pressed his ear up against Crag’s door.

  “I can’t afford another guard,” Crag said.

  Anaz’s voice had taken on the cordial tone he’d used with Mole-nose. "You don't need to pay me."

  “You’ll work here without pay? Why?”

  “I have my reasons. They won’t matter to you,” Anaz said.

  “I see. Not asking questions is harder than you might think."

  “You mean more expensive than I thought.”

  Wayden heard the jingling of a purse. That sounded like a fair amount of coin to give away. He had followed Wayden here, and now was paying to work here. Why?

  "Well that ought to buy us brandy for the winter. We’ve a deal!”

  Wayden raced away from the door towards Rif as footsteps approached. The door swung open, Crag standing with his arm around the Ozac’s shoulder.

  “Toast! Rif! Good, delivering the stew for my grandmother. Nice to see you being prompt for a change,” Master Crag said, beaming. “Say hello to our new guard, Anaz.” Crag’s face hardened after a moment. “Well? Manners, boys.”

  Wayden’s tongue wouldn’t operate. The Ozac had stalked him and now he would be in his very home. Wayden couldn’t breathe. Luckily, after an awkward moment, Rif spoke for them, “Congratulations, M-m-master Anaz.”

  Anaz slapped Wayden hard on the back. “Why so glum, boy? We’ve had barrels of fun already and I’m sure the future holds much in store for us.”

  What did that mean?

  Crag stared into his coin purse admiring his windfall. “Let’s go to the inn for a drink to celebrate. I might buy a new robe while we’re out. I might be a Fire-Whisperer soon.” Crag straightened his hat. “I’ve been selected in the choosing this year. I could be working for the Dracon at the Red Palace."

  "What an honor that would be," Anaz said.

  Crag and Anaz headed out the front door.

  “H-h-hear anything interesting?”

  For a brief moment Wayden considered confiding in the Tulkarian. Then he remembered he hated Tulkarians.

  “Not really. Come on then.”

  “Th-th-thanks for showing me around.”

  The Tulkarian acted polite, but who knew what really lay beneath the surface?

  "Exactly,” Kolram said, “It could be good or bad, you don't know. Give the boy a chance."

  “Has anyone ever given me a chance? He could be…” An intuition struck Wayden. “He could be the Striker for all we know.”

  “Hardly seems likely. What about Mole-nose? The Striker leaves victims without a mark on his body. That mist spell Mole-nose cast- there is something about it-”

  "What's your name?" Rif asked, as they proceeded up the staircase, past the storerooms on the fourth floor, towards the fifth and final floor. "It's not really T-T-Toast?"

  “No. My name isn’t Toast. I’m Wayden.”

  “I had a friend in Tulkaria named Wayden. They drafted him into the mines."

  The stairs spiraled steeply, warped wood creaking with every footfall. Wayden paused when they reached the fifth-floor landing, and peered out the window. There were few buildings as high in Vilanos. The last rays of sunset shone sharp reds and rich purples on the horizon. The night was coming, and Wayden would spend it with an Ozac and a Tulkarian under his roof. Perhaps, a little shove, and there would be no more Tulkarian.

  “And who would be the cold-blooded killer then?” Kolram asked.

  Kolram was right. It was just he had so much anger inside of himself. He couldn’t direct it at Crag, or Rory, or even Anaz. He had to vent it on someone and Rif was as powerless as he was.

  “Save your rage for Gar Skymaster,” Kolram thought. “It was he that ordered the raid. It is he who should face justice.”

  "Is it true a dr-dr-dragon lives in there?" Rif pointed at the Red Palace. The volcanic fortress jutted upwards on the eastern skyline, its craterous tip like a dragon’s mouth, and its sloped sides folded wings.

  "It's true.”

  “I’ve never seen one.”

  “When did you immigrate to Helos?"

  "Just a month ago," Rif replied.

  "If you'd grown up here, you’d have seen dozens of them. Even a year ago, you would have seen Volkanus the Fourteenth, flying around on a hunt, or defending the border
s of Helos. He's been sick lately, and there hasn't been a hatching in a long while. There is talk that there might be no more dragons soon."

  “Ah, there are the Three Temples. The Mercy is that way. That’s where Ma and I lived.”

  Wayden didn’t envy Rif. Crime was even worse in the Mercy than it was in Vilanos.

  “So you lived near the Wall of Flames?” Wayden asked.

  Far past the temple stood the Wall of Flame. Fiery plumes of lava bursting upwards for as far as the eye could see. Wayden dreamt he’d see the Wall for himself someday.

  “The wall was str-str-strange. No heat came from it, but they say if you touched it you were burnt. How l-l-long have you been in the orphanage?"

  "Seven years ago, a Tulkarian loosed an arrow into my mother. Been here ever since."

  "I'm s-s-sorry."

  Wayden spat on the stairs. "Aye, well, so was she."

  "I hate T-T-Tulkar.”

  This caught Wayden off guard. “Why?”

  "Well, what the Diamond Kings have done to it, anyway. They’ve restarted the slave trade. My ma and I, we r-r-ran away. But my sisters and my father were enslaved…” Rif wiped something from his eye. “What about your father? Was he killed by Tulkarians too?”

  "My father disappeared a decade ago, leading a quest to bring Gar Skymaster to justice. If that wasn’t cause enough for me to hate the Sky Raiders, they ransacked my hometown, kidnapped my brother, and killed my mother.” Wayden paused for a moment. Kolram was right. This boy was not to blame. When I turn sixteen, I'm going to become a free-sword and rescue my father and brother, if they’re still alive. I’ll see the Skymaster will pay for what he’s done. What do you think you’ll do when you turn of age?"

  "I don't know," Rif answered. “I’m not much good with a sword. I’m not much good with anything. There are a lot of the Sky R-R-Raiders, aren't there? And they have winged wolves. Are you sure you can fight all of them?”

  "I'm sure.” Wayden wasn’t truly sure. Part of him knew it was foolish to take on the Sky Raiders singlehandedly.

  At the same time the thought of it kept him going.

  Rif didn’t seem bad, but Wayden still worried about the Ozac. What could Wayden do about it though? Talking to the authorities was out. Even if they believed Wayden had never cast a spell in his life, it might not matter. Kolram suspected Dracon Niar might be collecting the magi for some nefarious purpose, and the unauthorized magic ban was just an excuse for it.

  One of Kolram’s memories was of the Dracon summoning him and the other Grandmasters to a temple the day they were murdered. The Dracon commanded them to stand on the inner ring of the temple. He ordered them to wear blindfolds to ‘increase their concentration.’ After that the memories all went dark. Suspicious to say the least. But what could be done about it? The king will do what he will, and kill who he will kill, as the saying went.

  Crag yelled from downstairs. How much time had Wayden wasted gawking at the scenery? The last rays of the sunset were gone, and the sky was a canopy of stars.

  "Crag will be up here with his whip if we don’t get moving," Wayden said.

  Wayden removed the brass keys from his pocket and fumbled in the dim light to find the lock. With a click, the door opened.

  They entered Crag’s grandmother’s small chamber. The stench from Mistress Night’s chamber pot made Wayden crinkle his nose. On a small table, weighted down by an ink pot, the corner of a yellowed parchment fluttered. A trio of candle flames danced in the cool breeze that crept through billowing curtains.

  A large cauldron of water was mounted on a brazier in the corner of the room. Wayden’s brother, Mavik, had owned a similar one, emblazoned with an eye, the symbol of the Splashers. Was Crag’s grandmother a water prophetess? More importantly, where was Mistress Night? A cross breeze tugged at Wayden.

  He stared at the fluttering curtains on the open window. Then he heard it. From the window ledge. An old woman’s cackle.