Soul Hosts

by Joseph Isaacs

The pincer-like hand dragged Mavik into the creek, cold water engulfing him. He struggled against the hand. The water from the brook poured through around the hole the scagazi was emerged from. Mavik’s windpipe felt like it might crack if the scagazi kept this pressure up. He couldn’t breathe. He grew dizzy, faint, seeing flashes of black and light.

  An arrow whirred through the air, embedding in the scagazi’s wrist. Its grip loosened, and blessed air rushed into his lungs. Scagazis scurried through the hole in the creek bed. Mavik and Emerelda found themselves in the center of a circle of the monsters.

  One of the scagazi, swatted its neck, as if stung by a bee, until a second arrow lodged in its throat. It let out a gurgle and slumped onto its back, its white blood clouding the stream water.

  “One down,” Desha said, nocking another arrow.

  A second scagazi lunged forward. The tips of its claws struck Guardian magic, amber sparks crackling upwards as if from a campfire. The beast’s pincers pounded the shield again. A gap about an inch wide opened in the shield. A third blow widened it further.

  Emerelda’s forehead was dappled with beads of sweat. “I can’t be holdin’ this.”

  The scagazi stuck its hand through the gap in the shielding, clutching Emerelda’s neck. Then, a thwooping sound, and it slumped forwards, arrow protruding from its back.

  "Now, I owe Desha two," Mavik thought.

  "You owe him two arrows, on that much we agree," Jijari said.

  "I thought Sunken Shamans were supposed to be forgiving?"

  "For such as Desha there can be no repentance. Let the krakens have him."

  A scagazi hurled itself at Emerelda. She made circles with her hands, amber vines forming a web of frozen sunlight. The scagazi hissed, as it bounced off the ambient light. The scagazi soon recovered and clawed at it. The Guardian coils shriveled, another hole widening in the new shield.

  A whirlpool of dirt formed beneath Mavik’s father. Two scagazi hands gripped Kelsen’s legs and yanked. His eyes bulged and his face went white. His hand grabbed at the rocks and dirt, his fingers digging tiny trenches. Then he was gone.

  “The bugs got Rat,” Skarak said.

  “I should be happy he’s dead,” Mavik thought. He tried to shut his emotions into a box, but found they wouldn’t go. It was like trying to hold the ocean in a tiny cup. Tears ran down his face.

  Skarak’s mace crushed a scagazi’s skull, at the same moment a scagazi snapped the blond-haired Sky Raider's neck, while Desha parried a scagazi charge, using his bow to trip the monster. Desha’s bow snapped and he cursed as he discarded the remains of the broken weapon. He unsheathed a jagged dirk. A monster charged Desha. For a moment they seemed to be hugging, but then the tip of Desha's dirk protruded through the monster’s back, white fluid leaking from its tip. The creature sank to the floor and Desha’s cloak was drenched in white blood.

  Desha grinned wide. "I got us a kebab for dinner, Skarak."

  "Less talk, Pretty Boy, more fight!" Skarak bellowed. A scagazi bit into Skarak’s wrist, and the Ozac let out a roar. The gray behemoth dropped his mace and grabbed the scagazi, lifted him with both hands, and brought him down upon the tip of a pointed stalagmite.

  The Sky Raiders had lost two so far, the scagazi a dozen, but the scagazi still outnumbered them three to one. Whoever triumphed, thug or bug, Emerelda and Mavik would be their next target.

  Emerelda appeared to be thinking something similar. "We need to be gettin' outta here. Look." Emerelda pointed at the burrowed hole in the stream bed, from which one of the scagazis had emerged.

  The water from the brook spiraled through it, then poured into a chamber below. Mavik peered down the hole. He gauged the distance as the same as dropping from a mid-sized tree. Would they survive the fall? Even if they did, wouldn’t they be trapped down there?

  "The Source led you here for a reason,” Jijari said. “Don’t you see? This is where you are meant to go. A leap of faith.”

  Mavik hoped she was right. No alternatives came readily to mind.

  Emerelda reached a similar conclusion. "We be jumpin’ or dyin’."

  Mavik hesitated for a heartbeat. Then he leapt.

  --

  Alaina felt Isel’s breath against the back of her neck frills. Sandwiched between him and Wayden, she wondered which one to trust. She’d known Isel her whole life, but that experience had taught her only that he was her father’s toady. If her father had ordered him to give her flowers or a quick thrust of the sword, either way he’d do it. It all came down to her father. Was it beyond him to do this?

  “You know it’s not,” Nadra said. “Kolram was a fool, but your father is a beast.”

  The wolf spread its wings, and launched itself from Mount Odesis, leaving behind the only home Alaina had ever known. If Wayden was right, it was the last time she would see it. It was the last day she would be alive. She watched the icy peak dwindle away. She clutched Wayden's arms as the wolf veered towards the distant temple.

  "Wayden is just trying to save his own skin," Alaina thought, as her wolf flew down towards the slave camp.

  “No, He isn't, you little fool,” Nadra said. “Isel’s breathing is strained. His movements tense. You’re heading like a lamb to the slaughter. You have great faith in your father, but four thousand reasons not to trust him.”

  Four thousand ―the number she kept hearing- her father had said it to Laeko in the kennel. The weaver had named that figure. And now Wayden. Four thousand. The number the Woven Ones told her, when they prophesized that she’d needed to free the boy with the burnt face.

  She didn’t want to believe it. It was her whole life she'd have to give up. It wasn’t much of a life, but it was all she’d known. She’d never been anything but a Skydaughter.

  “What if I am just being paranoid? Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding. Maybe Wayden is in cahoots with the Weaver.”

  “There is a simple way to test Isel,” Nadra said, “See if he’ll let you go.”

  She could make out the Anvil up ahead. I better do it fast before it's too late.

  Alaina let out a groan and then waited a moment, and groaned again. “Isel... I am ill.”

  “What’s the trouble Daughter Sky?” Isel asked, shouting over the wind.

  "My stomach. A sharp pain. I need to go back to the Nest and let the healer look.”

  “Nay, your father says you’re to go to Dark Fist.”

  “He didn’t know…argh, my stomach. I would feel this …uggh…sick. I... have... a very sharp pain in my stomach. I need the healers to look at me. The healer told me if I get pains like this, I have to see him immediately. It is a matter of life and death.”

  “Nonsense.” Isel’s voice sound stiff. “You just have a stomach ache. You’ll be all right.”

  Alaina discreetly drew her blue-steel dirk.

  “You warned him,” Nadra said. “You told him it was a matter of life or death.”

 

  --

  Rif and Night were brought back through Deep Woods in the wagon. They barely stopped to sleep. Rif spent most of the wagon ride in tears, trying to keep himself from going mad.

  "You should have killed them all," Belok said. "I told you. I told you in my secret whisper."

  "Go away,” Rif thought. “We might not be in this mess if you hadn't killed Thunderstone."

  "You should thank me for that,” Belok said. “In this world and the ones between it, it is eat or be eaten. If I hadn't killed him, he would have us.”

  “Source help me,” Rif thought. “Make him go away.”

  “There is no Source,” Belok said. “There is only the one with the quickest blade."

  "Don't let him goad you, Rif,” Genika said, “Stay calm."

  Stay calm, yes, but how? He kept seeing Thunderstone, Big Darius, and the girl in the pine grove, lying dead. There was the girl in Tulkar too- during the Blood Games. And the one by the well in the Mercy. She was so young, perhaps eight.

&nbs
p; “How could I have done that?” Rif thought. “How could I have killed an eight-year old?”

  "I'm ten and a half,” a girl’s voice spoke. He’d heard it before, but it had just been a whisper. Now it was as loud as a waterfall. “It wasn't your fault. Nice to meet you, by the way. I'm Laurana."

  Grief rushed through Rif, threatening to overwhelm him. "Oh, Primordial, forgive me. Oh Laurana, I'm so sorry. I can't forgive myself."

  "There's nothing you can do about it. It's not so bad in here. We're never hungry or beaten. Anyway, you didn't kill me. It was Belok."

  "You're comforting me? You should hate me."

  "Some of the other girls in here do. But not me or Genika. What's done is done. That’s what my mama always said."

  Other girls? How many were in there. Laurana says she forgave him, but he could never forgive himself. She was ten and would have no future except in the mindscape. She’d never kiss a boy, nurse a child, write a poem, or learn to play the flute. It had been him. It had been him all along. He tried to breath. He closed his eyes and let out a sob.

  "Rif, Laurana is right,” Genika said, “When there is naught to do about the past, look to the future. Make sure this never happens again. You have to resist Belok. Only you can do it. You have to tell Belok no."

  "When the monsters bother me,” Laurana said, “I tell them to go away."

  "But I am the monster!” Rif thought, “Nothing matters anymore at least. They'll lock me up in a dungeon and then the Dracon will execute me."

  "And how much worse wrongs will he inflict when Dracon Niar absorbs your powers?” Arth asked, “At least you have a conscience. You can’t let the Dracon win. You can’t."

  Night patted Rif on the shoulder, misunderstanding his tears.

  “Don’t despair,” Night whispered. “The Night shall rise. And we will sweep over this land and wreak our vengeance.”

  Rif jerked away from her. "I don't want v-v-vengeance. I don’t want to kill anyone. I never wanted these powers, these souls. I’m a danger to everyone. It’s best if I’m k-k-killed."

  “Rif, consider, you house eight other souls,” Genika said. “If you die, so do we. Don’t let go so easily. You must hold on. Don’t give in to Belok or the Dracon. Find the middle path. It’s the only way.”

  Rif had never thought of the fact that he was now a home for all the souls Belok sucked. He didn't know what sort of a life Genika and the others had inside of him, but they were alive. He had to try to live, for Genika, for Arth, for Laurana, for the other girls whose souls now resided inside him.

  “How? How do I resist?”

  “Belok preys off your insecurity,” Genika said. “You must be resolute.”

  When they reached the Red Palace the wagon was escorted across the red moat, a river of lava that encircled the palace. A portcullis was raised and Flickers and a magic-eater forced them though a labyrinth of stone corridors.

  Rif and Night were escorted in front of a door marked by a bronze plaque as the ‘Plague Room.' A magic-eater slithered by the door. Two Flickers stood guard, one tall, with mustachios and the other short, heavy, with a shaven head.

  One of the Flickers who had brought them untied Rif’s bonds, saying, “For the Plague Room."

  The tall guard responded, "The plague of treason is spreading. Throw the prisoners in. And be none too gentle."

  The short guard held up a hand, stopping the guard. “Wait. No need to throw them. And why 'none too gentle'? I thought you were all refined and mannerly?"

  "Oh, ask them politely, shall we?" A vein protruded from the tall guard's forehead. "These are prisoners of the Dracon. Traitors."

  The Flicker's head turned from one guard to the other, like a dog wanting to obey, but not knowing who to listen to.

  The little guard rolled his eyes. "An old crone and a boy. They must have nearly thrown the Red Lands into ruins."

  "This boy killed Sir Thunderstone."

  "I would have liked to have seen that fight. What did he do, chew through his armor? Besides, I thought this was the Plague Room. Why do you want to throw a hardened murderer into a cell with innocent plague victims?"

  The tall guard's face was wrinkled with anger. "Fine, we'll graciously welcome the traitors to their humble abode. Happy?"

  “Ecstatic.”

  But the tall guard yanked Rif and Night from the Flicker and shoved them harshly into the dungeon.

  The door slammed shut.

  "It doesn’t matter," Rif thought. "No matter how nicely they let us into this room, it would still be a prison."

  It took a moment for Rif's eyes to adjust to the near darkness of the room. When they did, he half wished they hadn’t. Old, sad men and women leaned against walls, or sat on the dusty stone floor. A series of overflowing buckets with flies buzzing around them, served as the privy and the room's perfume.

  "Rif? Is that you?" a voice called. Rif turned around and felt someone grab him: hair and softness- a woman's embrace.

  "Rif! Rif! Oh, my sweet Possum!"

  Even in the dark Rif could recognize his mother’s voice, scent, and the feel of her arms enveloping him. Rif tasted the salt of tears running into his mouth, whether his own or his mother’s he couldn’t be sure.

  "Oh, thank the Source, you're all right," his mother's voice was choked.

  Rif sobbed on his mother's shoulders. He tried to think of the words to tell her. "How am I going to tell my mother, that I'm a murderer? How do I know that I won't black out and find Belok has murdered her?"

  "You needn’t worry,” Belok said. “I only like red-heads."

  --

  Verica wrapped her red hair into a pony tail. She was going to need all the room she could get. She looked at the barrel. How many notches would she be stuck in it?

  The storage room teemed with boxes, sacks and barrels organized by type and size. Through the walls she could hear men's voices and wolf howls from the nearby skywolf kennel. She was tired, tense, and in desperate need of a lemon biscuit.

  Jazlyn gestured towards the barrel. Her eyes were wide with disbelief. “You expect me to hide in there?”

  Cyreves the supply master, a heavy man with double chin and a shaven pear-shaped head, smiled toothily at Jazlyn. "Quickly. You will be getting in the barrel, please."

  “How will we breathe― or― care for our bodily functions?”

  Cyreves held up his hands apologetically. "This one knows it’s not the most comfortable of accommodations, Your Highness, but you will be safe and this is most important."

  Verica stepped into her cask. “Just get in Jaz. Hurry, before someone comes.”

  The kegs were stacked in a wagon, which was scheduled to leave the Red Palace for Tulkar.

  Ravenna and Ec stepped in through a narrow side doorway, ducking their heads. "I've sent a pigeon to my brother. He'll take you somewhere safe.”

  “Food,” Ec offered.

  Jazlyn waved the lemon biscuit away.

  "Can I have hers?" Verica asked, peeking up from her barrel.

  "My cousin is going to help keep you hidden," Ravenna said, handing the biscuit to Verica.

  "Whiwuheduethaferus?" asked Verica, wiping the crumbs from her chin.

  "Can you swallow your biscuits first, My Lady?" Ravenna asked.

  Verica swallowed. "Why would he do that for us?"

  "He's one of the Resistance," Ravenna explained. "The Fire Guard captured my mother and father for performing Glower magic. We protested, tried to get the government to see sense, but they were stubborn beyond reason. We began to suspect they were planning to do something with the magi. Ec is the leader of our movement. She’s a Splasher."

  "There is a time for conversation and a time for hiding," Ec said, glancing at the door.

  Jazlyn stared into the dusty, cobweb-filled cask. "I am going to be in this thing for how long?"

  "Look, Jaz,” Verica said, “You’re not a princess anymore. You’re a wanted felon. So, unless you want your father to ha
nd you over to the Skymaster, get in. Every moment you stand here in the open, you risk everybody’s lives. So get in the wraithin’ barrel, or I’ll stuff you in head first."

  Jaz looked taken aback, but climbed into the wobbly container. Verica huddled down in her own keg. The ceiling disappeared as the lid clunked down on top of her. Then all was darkness. She heard their footsteps leave. It was hard to breathe in the tight space. She should have asked Ravenna if she had any more biscuits.

  They waited.

  "Why does time go so fast when you're doing something fun like playing mumbly ball, but creep along whenever you're uncomfortable?"

  “Time always flows the same speed,” Lukor said, “It is simply your perception of time that has transformed.”

  “I know, but it's still driving me crazy.”

  “Your brain is constantly engaged during a game of mumbly ball,” Lukor’s voice took on that pedantic tone that reminded Verica of her father. For some reason it was strangely reassuring to be lectured to. “Whereas when you are waiting, you're doing little else. The solution suggests itself that if you wish the perceived time to advance more quickly, you must busy your mind.”

  “I see. Well, why don’t you tell me a bit about the wraiths then, while we’re waiting?” Verica asked, wondering if Asgaroth and Jazlyn were having a similar comforting conversation. Somehow she doubted it. According to Jazlyn, Asgaroth’s favorite conversations involved threats of tearing bones out of people’s bodies.

  “What is it that you would like to know?” Lukor asked.

  “Are all wraiths like you?”

  “No. Though we have a hive mind, we are individuals. Some of the wraiths aren’t even fully developed consciousness. Others, like myself have more forceful personalities. I must say, at the risk of sounding immodest, most wraiths are not as scientifically minded as myself.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “No. Wraiths are not born nor do we die.”

  “Why would you want to be inside of me?”

  “For the same reason you would read one of your fictional books. When you enter into someone else’s life, you get a glimpse of things you could not otherwise see. For a wraith like me, nothing could be more satisfying.”

  “You’re weird.”

  The sound of clinking metal and approaching footsteps distracted Verica from Lukor's lesson. She made out Cyreves's voice and another familiar voice: one that gave her the shivers. A horrible intuition struck Verica. She turned into shadow form and clambered out of her barrel. Her foot caught on the rim and the keg rolled across the room behind her. She raced into the corner, just as Cyreves entered, accompanied by Crow, four Fire Guards, and a magic-eater. The magic-eater slithered towards the barrel Jazlyn was hiding in.

  Crow pointed towards Verica’s empty container, lying sideways on the stone floor. “Where is Berik’s daughter?”

  Cyreves's face paled. "This one doesn't know, Your High Holiness. She was in the barrel when I left, I promise you."

  A Flicker opened the lid and a second guard lifted a struggling Jazlyn up. Jaz had picked up a few new curse words recently. It would have been funny, except it wasn’t. Her best friend was a prisoner now. They were going to sacrifice her, Ravenna’s parents, and countless other magi. They'd unleash Asgaroth upon the world and give the Dracon more power than even a responsible leader could handle, and the Dracon was anything but that. And there wasn’t a blessed thing Verica could do about any of it.

  Or was there? Part of Verica still believed that everything happened for a reason. The accident, her hosting Lukor, maybe it was all meant to be, was all leading somewhere. She was meant to do something- but what?

  A Flicker gagged Jazlyn and manacled her hands behind her back.

  "Take her to the Plague Room," Crow said.

  "Berik's daughter was in that empty barrel. She must have fled," Cyreves said.

  “She won’t get far,” Crow said. “Ember Tibbons, send out search parties.”

  The Ember nodded and departed.

  "Now, my reward?" Cyreves asked.

  Crow thrust the reward into Cyreve’s belly, and then pulled the dirk back out, slick with blood. Cyreves slumped to his knees. Verica stifled a scream. Crow stepped out of the way and let the supply master fall flat upon his face.

  Crow held up his blood-covered blade. “Paid in steel. Flicker Darius, clean this mess up.”

  The Flicker looked pale-faced and ready to retch.

  Two other Flickers, meanwhile, were dragging a struggling Jazlyn out of the door. Verica would have followed, but Crow and an Ember stood directly blocking the doorway, discussing something in mumbled voices.

  “No, I’ve lost Jazlyn,” Verica thought. Tears streamed down her cheek. She never really had the chance to tell Jaz how she really felt about her. She felt that Jazlyn was more than just a friend. She was her soul mate. If Jazlyn died…no…she wouldn’t allow that to happen. There had to be a way to save her friend.

  After a notch, Crow and the Ember headed down a passageway, but by the time Verica reached the Plague Room, the Flickers had shoved Jazlyn into the Plague Room and an iron door clanged shut behind her. Verica felt her heart sink. How would she rescue her now?

  "The Daughter Draconi a traitor,” The tall guard said. “Who would have thought it?"

  The short one shook his head. "Were you born this dumb or did you have to work at it?"