Soul Survivor (Spirit Shield Saga Book 0)

by Susan Faw

  Impressed, they asked Morpheus to repeat the process and create life on other worlds. That is, until Morpheus fell in love with one of his creation, a mortal woman, and took her for wife.

  When they learned of the union, the Gods were horrified, for they saw the people as little more than animals. Morpheus debased himself in their eyes and in a unanimous decision it was decreed that he must give up his mortal wife.

  Morpheus refused. For what he had done, Morpheus was cast down to the earth and his return to the gods barred for as long as he kept his mortal wife. The Gods were forbidden to visit the planet and the planet was decreed off limits for all immortals.

  When they abandoned the people of the world, their palaces fell in ruin, but two were preserved; the primordial temple in Faylea and a large castle built on the present day site of Cathair. The others were angrily smashed by the gods, grinding the pieces to dust until only broken jagged pieces of the original foundation stones could be found. Even these had been swallowed by time, and reclaimed by the earth. Never again were the Gods seen in Cathair, nor was it said that the gods protected Cathair. They turned their backs on the people of the world. Out of this rubble, the current castle was built by the people for the heir to Cathair, for the Spirit Shield guardian, the sole son of Morpheus. So it was that the current-day Castle Cathair was formed.

  Caerwyn enjoyed walking along the top of the remnant of the ancient walls, for he felt closer to his father during these strolls. He balanced his footing on the slippery moss-covered rocks, hopping from one to the next, while his ever-present guard trailed along behind him, amused at his antics.

  He reached a corner of the wall, where a platform stood mostly intact, and climbed up the structure, despite the shouted warnings and appeals for caution. Balancing on the flattish rock, he peered out toward the Spine examining the clouds that gathered around its peak. Despite the watery sun currently washing the field, he could see that real rain was falling at its base.

  It would be a journey of three days, maybe four if the weather turned foul, and both man and beast would be slowed by the accompanying slick mud. That many feet and hooves and paws would churn the roads into a malaise of clinging clay that became heavier by the step. The most direct route was a twisting path that swung perilously close to the swamps to the northwest. Although normally a faster route, the delays along the main road would become substantially longer if their equipment became stuck in the mud slick roads. At least the swamps had solid paths that drained well, but there were other hazards to an army along the edges of the swamps.

  In the end, it was decided to divide the armies as this would also allow them to approach the mountain from two directions and hopefully surprise what might be waiting for them when they arrived, if anything stirred in the area.

  Caerwyn’s horse-backed Kingsmen would take the swamp route and Alfreda would take her people along the Cathair Road with the plan to meet up again at the River Erinn ford where the shallow waters afforded a safe crossing. On the other side, a well-travelled trail led into the high passes, the gateway into the Primordial lands to the north. This plan also had the optical advantage of a people returning home, rather than a people coming to invade, as would be the case if he moved the Kingsmen across too soon.

  Caerwyn wondered if Helga would even care to note the difference. She did not own the passes, but as they came very close to her home, both human and Primordial skirted the area, fearful of upsetting a descendent of the gods.

  He climbed back down to ground level. As he straightened came eye to eye with his general, Captain Brennan. His one good eye glared at Caerwyn. Even though his lips did not move, he could hear the accusation all the same. He held up his hand to ward off the impending lecture and instead asked “How soon will we be ready to move out?”

  “As soon as my liege returns to the castle. Your Pegasus is saddled and awaits you.”

  “Excellent! What are we waiting for?” Caerwyn strode off across the field and away from his general’s angry stare.

  He entered through the open gate. As soon as he stepped through, a cacophony of sound assailed his ears. Trumpets blared from the top of the walls at his appearance and the various animals and soldiers stirred with the announcement. Caerwyn spotted Alfreda, already mounted on a sabretooth, leaning forward to scratch the great cat behind its ear.

  Caerwyn’s favorite Pegasus was an ebony winged creature named Brimstone, fiery-eyed and fierce. Brimstone stamped his hooves impatiently, anxious to be in the air. The rest of the Kingsmen rode ordinary horses, but they were the best breeding stock to be found, deep-chested and long-legged. They could handle any terrain and battle on the flats as well.

  With a cheer from the watching crowd, Caerwyn mounted Brimstone and took off into the air soaring in slow circles over Cathair. The main gates swung open and the legion of Kingsmen spilled out into the streets, heading for the open spaces beyond the village of Upper Cathair.

  From the sky, Caerwyn could see the entire town below, laid out within the circles of confusion. Semi-concentric ring walls converged on a common focal point within the castle perched on the edge of cliffs falling to the ocean below. A natural barrier, it had yet to be breeched and made an impenetrable defense on the southernmost tip of the peninsula.

  The main branch of the combined army snaked through the wall the way they had entered via the broad approach that spilled from the hills on the eastern flank. They skirted the main town and rejoined the central road, a twisting trail clearly visible from the air.

  They journeyed together for several hours, the descent a lazy sloping to the great plains.

  Brimstone could move faster than the armies, and Caerwyn settled the Pegasus at the agreed location, which was a bend in the river that slowed the waters and afforded a natural watering hole for a large quantity of beasts. Here, he would cross with the Kingsmen. The swamp lay a few miles to the west and already he could feel the muggy air that enveloped the place. It was said to be the birthplace of magic for those few who still possessed the ability.

  He was anxious to see what Hud’s son made of the place. Many a twisted beast was said to live in the swamps, the imperfect experiments of the gods or the dabbling of wizards and witches gone wrong. None of them were mythical beings like his Pegasus. Everyone knew the mythical were those reborn from a mortal animal’s existence.

  The mythical creatures were Alfreda’s charge, not his. His was the protection of the souls of humanity. That was his to command, his to protect.

  But the swamp creatures fell under no one’s mandate and were generally left alone, not protected, but not challenged either. Some rudimentary villages had sprung up in the swamp, most of the unsavory kind. They paid neither taxes nor homage but kept to themselves and ignored the world at large.

  Caerwyn leaned forward in his saddle, studying the approaching Primordial army, three thousand strong. They crested the hill and spilled over the rise, like so many pebbles sliding down a rock slide.

  Chapter 10

  Helga

  Helga strolled through the infested village, her nose wrinkling in disgust at the putrid smells of rotting fish and vegetation that clung to simply everything. It did not matter which set of the suspended bridges one chose. They all crossed the same fetid swamp. Swinging rope bridges barely cleared the thick, black waters. A deck of reeds, slick with damp, made the passage treacherous underfoot, even without the swaying movement inherent to its construction. Occasionally, she glimpsed a long snakelike body, rolling just under the surface, smooth and sleek and way too long for her liking.

  If she had had her choice, she would not have been there at all. Yet the person she was searching for called the Village of Morass-Fen home, so she traversed the quagmire to a hut perched like a squat tree house at the end of a swing bridge. The leaves of a nearby swamp belly fern shaded it from view, so that the house appeared at first to be only a door with a string of small desiccated skulls hanging on a knotted cord as a door knocker. Helga lifted the
skull necklace and let it drop. It made a tinkling sound as the skulls struck the hollow reeds behind them.

  The door slowly opened of its own accord in invitation, and Helga ducked through the low entrance, straightening as she cleared the threshold.

  A woman sat in a low chair by a flickering fireplace of cedar and stone, the flame warming and providing a low-level lighting to the shadowed interior. Helga was instantly at home in the room, the shadows pleasing to her. She took a step and then halted as she bumped into an invisible barrier.

  “Calleigh granted you entry, but she did not invite you to sit.” The woman shifted and the firelight bounced off a face full of crags and wrinkles. “Only welcomed guests are to sit.”

  Helga frowned but quickly smoothed her face and stepped back from the barrier. “Many pardons, madam. I did not mean to barge into your home. I came to the village to seek your assistance.”

  “Calleigh is not a fairy godmother granting the wishes of strangers or foolish young women...or even foolish young godlings. Calleigh’s skills are sought by both the high and the low and by those who seek a magic beyond their own or that they simply cannot perform. Which do you seek today, godling?”

  Helga’s eyes widened, surprised by her words. She was positive that her disguise was impenetrable. She appeared to be a young woman of perhaps twenty with dark red hair and dressed in the peasant clothing of a local farm wife. The ties of her neckline dangled, and a deep V displayed more cleavage than Helga had intended. The clinging moisture of the swamp beaded on her skin and rolled down the convenient channel on her chest.

  “I do not know what you mean, madam,” she stuttered, attempting to sound contrite and shy at the same time.

  The witch laughed, her eyes reflective as a cat’s in the bright firelight. “Calleigh would know Helga even if she dressed like a harlot of the swamp. There is no mistaking a daughter of Morpheus.” She looked her up and down. “Even if she is dressed like a harlot.”

  Helga blushed and made to step forward, forgetting the shield, and once again was rebuffed. “Fine, if you insist.” The deception dissolved and her normal features returned, and a black dress of fine silk molded to her form. Her rough cloak morphed into a fur-lined cape with a deep hood. “Is this more to your liking, madam?”

  “It is a truthful image, even if the reasons for the journey are less than honest.” She grabbed the handle of a cane resting against her chair and pulled herself to her feet, hobbling over to the transparent wall that held Helga at the door. As Calleigh wobbled into the firelight, what Helga had thought was a cane was revealed to be the thigh bone of a beast, the upper joint carved into a handle.

  “You may enter, but you may not leave until Calleigh grants it. While in my home, you are my guest. The minute you leave, we are once again...less than friends. You may take only what Calleigh gives to you willingly. To take anything not freely given will trigger a curse you will not survive. Do you understand and agree to these terms?”

  Helga nodded curtly, curbing her annoyance at the restrictions.

  I am no common thief, she thought, but I am an uncannily good one when I choose to be. Helga stood regally by the door as the old crone hobbled closer to the doorway and touched a talisman hanging on the pole. The restriction vanished and she turned and hobbled back to her chair, lowering herself painfully into the blanket-covered seat.

  “Why does a daughter of Morpheus pay Calleigh a visit?” she asked, settling the blankets back over her knees. She invited Helga to sit with a flick of her hand, directing her to a straight-backed chair set to the right of the fireplace.

  “I have need of a potion,” Helga said as she settled onto the proffered chair, “and I have heard that you are particularly adept at the blending of potions and elixirs. The potion I seek will bind the will of a foe to me, one born of myth and magic.”

  Calleigh’s watery blue eyes studied the godling but did not ask questions. “Calleigh may have a rendering that would suit your desires but, as with all things, there is a cost. Are you willing to pay this? The price of an enslaving elixir is steep, even for a godling.”

  Helga’s eyes narrowed. “What is this cost?”

  “In order for the potion to bind properly, the one who is creating the binding link is also bound in return. It is a symbiotic relationship. The souls of the two individuals are merged at their core. Think of it as Siamese twins, but rather than a physical connection, a shared heart or arm or leg, it is a spiritual one. Sever the bond and you both will die. So Calleigh asks once again. Is this a price that you, godling Helga, are willing to pay?”

  Helga stared into the shimmering eyes of the witch, weighing her options. “And what, exactly, is the price you demand? You must have a price.”

  “Calleigh’s price is simple. Protect my son Genii. I feel an ill breeze on the air. A foul storm rapidly approaches. I fear for my child, that I will not be able to save him from the approaching calamity, a calamity that is somehow associated with you. A great darkness swirls around him when he visits.” She grimaced, as though the taste of the bargain was sour in her mouth. “My price is fair. Do not allow harm to come to him. Swear that you will forfeit your eternity before his. Do this and you shall have the potion you so greatly desire.”

  Helga was silent while she considered the terms. Without the elixir, everything I have put into play will fail. I need that elixir before the full moon...but there is more than one way to interpret the deal. They are but words.

  “The deal is struck. I will pay your price, and I swear with my eternal soul that Genii will not die for all eternity. The deal is struck!” she intoned.

  “The deal is struck,” Calleigh repeated then clapped her wrinkled hands together. A gong sounded sealing the pact. “Let us begin.”

  A double bind. Genii will be protected for all eternity now. Thank you, daughters of Morpheus.

  Calleigh smiled grimly to herself as she prepared the potion.

  Chapter 11

  Mordecai

  Mordecai bounced along on the seat of the wagon beside his father, as the wheel hit a deep rut along the roadside at the little used fork of the road. He twisted in his seat to watch the Primordial warriors and their fantastic beasts disappear over the crest of the hill behind him then leaned back in his seat as far as he could for as long as he could to keep them in sight. A copse of trees swallowed the view. He gave up and turned back to facing forward.

  “I wish I could have a sabretooth,” he moaned for the fifth time since leaving Cathair.

  Hud grinned at his son. “You can have one when you are grown, if you learn how to take care of one. They are highly intelligent, you know. Do not be fooled into seeing a sabretooth as a pet.”

  Mordecai frowned at his father and kicked the wooden slat at the front of the wagon with his boot. “I know that, Father. I spoke to Cinda, the one that Alfreda is riding. She is really nice!” he grinned, revealing a missing tooth in his gaping smile. “She let me scratch her behind her ears and everything!”

  They bounced along in silence again for a while. Then, with a glance at the creaking leather seat beside him on which sat the cloth bundle containing the box, Mordecai said, “The box is humming.”

  “Humming? What do you mean, by humming?” This time Hud did look directly at his son.

  “It’s vibrating and I can hear it.” He frowned at the wrapped parcel sitting between them on the seat. “It has a voice, but it is not strong enough for me to understand it yet. But it is getting stronger and louder. Where ever we are going, it likes it.”

  “That is a lot to gather from a vibrating parcel.”

  “It’s not the box, Papa. It is what’s inside the box that is humming.”

  “Something is inside the box?” Hud asked sharply.

  “Oh yes!” said Mordecai happily. “There is something alive inside the box.”

  Hud’s frown deepened. He would bring this up with Caerwyn when they stopped. Perhaps it was not wise to leave his son in sole possession of th
e box, and perhaps he was the only one it was safe to leave in possession of it. Was the entity in the box evil or benign or neutral? Was it even alive? Mordecai seemed to think so, and he had found his son to be extremely accurate in matters of magic.

  “Keep it close to you, Son, but do not open it for any reason. I am serious about this request. Understand?”

  “I won’t open it. I don’t need to. I can talk to it without opening the box.”

  “It may ask you to, though. Do not do what it asks unless you speak to me or Caerwyn first. This is not a request. It is a command. This is not a game.”

  Mordecai looked up from where his hand rested on the top of the box, meeting his father’s serious eyes and nodded. “I will not open the box unless you say that I can.”

  Hud reached over and ruffled Mordecai’s curls. “You are a good boy.”

  Mordecai’s eyes drifted closed as he tried to sort through the humming to find the words buried in the buzz. It wasn’t clear enough yet, but it was getting stronger.

  They bounced along the dried rutted track for the better part of the day, munching on biscuits, but as they came closer to the village of Morass-Fen the hard ruts softened and smoothed and the humidity rose until Mordecai shed his tan coat. The flies thickened and were joined by bog bugs, which buzzed his ears and tried to land on his exposed skin. His father swatted any that got too close but still by the time the sun sunk toward the horizon, he had several itchy welts to occupy his hands.

  As the village jounced into sight, Mordecai’s jaw dropped. The entire village dangled, impossibly suspended from ropes that disappeared into the canopy overhead. Large mangrove trees with roots running in every direction dotted the dark waters as if they were out for a stroll on a spring evening. The source of the swarms of pests was revealed to be a burping swamp, the surface of which was rarely still. Creatures large and small snapped at the feast of flying annoyances that flitted over the bubbling surface. The coats abandoned earlier were dragged back over bare flesh in an attempt to ward off the bloodsucking insects.