Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2)

by Brian Niemeier

  “What is he?” the acolyte asked in a near-whisper.

  “Nahel is a malakh,” said Damus.

  The fear in the acolyte’s eyes turned to wonder. “Hail, divine messenger!”

  “Hi,” Nahel said in his gravelly voice. “What’s going on?”

  Damus was about to interject when a deeply tanned fellow approached from the street. He carried a spear and wore a surcoat bearing the Shrine Guard’s crest of interwoven blue loops. “Alert every guardsman,” he called to the acolyte between heavy breaths. “There are murderers abroad.”

  “Every guard from the barracks is out searching for Altor Sykes’ caravan.” The acolyte’s face brightened. “But Providence has sent us a malakh!”

  Shielding his eyes with a gauntleted hand, the guard studied Nahel. His mouth bent in a wary frown. “Have you really come from God’s throne?”

  “Well, I used to work for Midras,” said Nahel, “but I had to change jobs.”

  The guard bowed to the malakh. “Can I ask your assistance?”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “It’s a matter for the Shrine Guard, but your…special standing warrants an exception.”

  Seeing an opening, Damus imposed himself between Nahel and the guard. “I am Damus Greystone, envoy from Her Majesty, the queen of Avalon and all the Light Gen. This one is my loyal bodyguard. I’ll happily lend you his services in return for a meeting with the Nesshin.”

  “I’ll ask his permission when he wakes,” the acolyte said sternly.

  The guard’s leathery brow furrowed. “What’s Avalon?”

  “A country in hell that the Gen sold their souls for,” the acolyte said.

  Damus raised a cautionary finger. “That’s a gross oversimplification…”

  The guard gestured for silence. His brown eyes darted between Damus and Nahel before settling on the malakh. “Perhaps we should speak in private,” the guard said in a low voice. “I don’t think it wise to discuss shrine business in front of an infidel.”

  Nahel thrust his thumb at Damus. “Yeah, but he’s with me.”

  “What do you mean, with you?” Damus shouted. “You're with me!”

  Eyeing Damus as if the Gen were a gambling hall drunk, the guard said, “A ranch east of town was raided last night. One man and several head of cattle were killed.”

  Nahel’s hackles visibly rose. “How?”

  “Man and beast died of blood loss. The watchman’s throat was torn out, but the cattle bore hardly a mark.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “This morning before dawn. The crime was discovered when the dead man missed breakfast. The owner ran to meet me on my rounds when I was still a mile off.”

  Nahel’s face was grave as he turned to Damus. “We should look into this.”

  “I’ll wait here for the Nesshin,” Damus said.

  Nahel turned and hurried down the eastern road. The shrine guard followed.

  After a final failed attempt to talk his way past the acolyte, Damus resolved to make the best of Nahel’s absence. He left the shrine and followed Temple Street’s dusty course to its intersection with Fountain Street. There, at the corner where the pontifical mansion stood, Damus turned left. After a few blocks he came to the only source of relief from Medvia’s tedious banality—the Fountainhead.

  Damus entered the yeasty smelling establishment. His focus immediately narrowed to the bar, where he took a seat. The Fountainhead maintained a more refined atmosphere than the inn’s common room. Within minutes Damus had the boots off his sore feet and a drink in his hand. Best of all, he had no malakh to curb his vices.

  Damus had just set his empty glass on the polished oak bar when a pale hand grabbed the tumbler’s rim.

  “Allow me,” a reedy voice said.

  Damus nearly tipped over, but he quickly gathered his wits. He adopted a gracious smile and turned to regard his benefactor, who sat draped in a black robe, slouching with an almost simian posture. The only features visible under the hood were the tip of a beak-like nose and a pointed chin. The image reminded Damus of a pale crescent moon. The only other clues to the man’s appearance were the spidery hands poking out from his gold-trimmed sleeves.

  Damus’ eyes nearly bulged from their sockets when his memory supplied the golden pattern’s meaning. A Guild Master!

  For once, the Light Gen courtier found himself at a loss for words. “Thanks,” he stammered. “Thank you! Master…”

  “Arcanadeus,” the guildsman finished for him.

  Damus took up his freshly filled glass and swallowed the spicy amber contents in one gulp. The Master passed the barman a silver coin with a thin, satisfied smile.

  Squinting to clear his watery eyes, Damus scanned the tavern, wary of anyone eavesdropping. It was the narrow interval between midday and evening meal service. Thin beams of sunlight slanted through shuttered windows to fall upon empty tables. Damus knew that he and the guildsman could discuss important business undisturbed. He also knew that anything Arcanadeus wished to discuss would be important.

  “I see by your look that you know who I am,” said the Master.

  The corner of Damus’ mouth curled upward. “Knowing is my appointed trade.”

  “I see,” Arcanadeus said, “but who appointed you?”

  “Queen Nakvin of Avalon charged me to survey post-Cataclysm Mithgar. “Your name turns up often.”

  Arcanadeus leaned forward. “I am eager to know the context.”

  Damus straightened to affect scholarly authority. “You were a Master Steersman of the Guild. Now you travel these scarred lands reminding the backward inhabitants of the knowledge they’ve lost. But I forget myself! Would you care for a drink?”

  “No, but please have another on my account. I would prove the purity of my intentions before discussing details.”

  Damus gladly received his third glass.

  Arcanadeus continued. “I’m flattered that Seele has taken notice of my work. What will you tell Her Majesty about my accomplishments?”

  Damus inspected his empty glass. His head swam pleasantly. “I’ll say you’ve worked miracles.”

  A thin piping laugh rose in the Master’s throat and escaped through his crooked teeth. “I’m pleased to have earned your approval.” He drew close to Damus and whispered, “The first priority in a business arrangement is that all parties have complementary aims. I have a venture in mind that is both compatible with your mission and staggeringly profitable.”

  Damus leaned in to catch every word. “Say on, then.”

  Nahel crouched beside the stockade fence, sifting through gritty soil in search of the ephemeral. A man had been slaughtered without a struggle. A dozen animals had been drained of blood—the smell of fresh deaths confirmed it. Yet no one at the house had heard a sound. Most disturbing in Nahel's opinion was the total absence of tracks. None could be found at the pen or on any approach to the ranch. The place had all the signs of a murder scene except for any trace of the killers.

  The malakh stood with one arm propped against the low stone barrier and looked out over the plain. The band of short grass clinging to the Water’s banks withered quietly in the sun, belying the previous night’s violence. “This is bad.”

  “The worst is yet to come,” said the shrine guard. “Rumor of this crime will sweep through town. Unless the perpetrators are caught soon, the people may riot.”

  Nahel turned. “To be honest, I’m surprised this hasn’t happened before.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Me and Damus have been traveling for a while. The desert’s cold at night, but the guides who led us from Vale wouldn’t build fires. When we asked why, they muttered about whole camps vanishing. Now they’ve dug in and won’t leave town.”

  “Heathens fear the night,” the guardsman said, “but Medvia has God’s protection. The Water is proof of his favor—as are you.”

  “Look,” said Nahel. “You Middle Stratum folks always think you’ve got the world figured
out. The Guild told you they did, and their Wheels and Workings made you believe it. Then the Cataclysm turned their world inside out.”

  “The Guild provoked the Almighty. We’ve renounced their pride.”

  “Seems to me you traded it for another kind.”

  The guard folded his arms. “Do you have the killers’ trail?”

  Nahel bent to the ground and inhaled. His powerful nose told him of sweet dry grass, alkaline dust …and something foul beneath it all.

  “This way.” Nahel crawled along on all fours, following the rotten scent. At the fence bordering the property, he stood and set his face to the horizon. “They went northeast.”

  “Then why wait?” the guardsman asked. “Let’s hunt them down and spit them like pigs!”

  Nahel looked at the guard with his mail and shiny spear before considering his own shirt of banded leather and the short swords sheathed at his sides.

  “Well okay,” Nahel said at length, “but stay close unless you want to end up like that ranch hand.” Without another word, the malakh and the guardsman set out on their quarry’s invisible trail.

  Nahel set a relentless pace across the dry plain. It was hours before he stopped and pointed at a wind-scoured ridge to the northeast. “Our bloodthirsty friends went up there.”

  “I know those hills,” said the shrine guard. “There are no trees to speak of and little brush, but they’re rife with tunnels.”

  The barren ridge—its rocks as white as bleached bones—made Nahel uneasy. He considered heading back to town for help, but it would be near dark by the time he returned with reinforcements.

  And whatever had bled twelve cattle and a man to death, it worked by night.

  The guard shifted his weight. Fear stole into his scent. “Should we continue?” he asked.

  A wind blew out of the north, bringing a feverish odor like the den of a bear that’s developed a taste for human flesh.

  “Yeah,” said Nahel. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The cave’s mouth was a black triangle framed by two rocky slabs. Nothing moved within, but Nahel kept his guard up.

  “You’re sure the trail leads in there?” asked the guard.

  The malakh nodded.

  “This is a wicked place,” the guard said. “The priests warn children not to play in these caves. They say demons live here.”

  Nahel’s swords emerged from their sheaths with a soft hiss. “They might not be far off.” He advanced into the cave and felt glad to hear the guard’s footsteps behind him. A cool dry breeze wailed through the opening like someone blowing on an empty jug.

  Nahel paused when he saw something gleaming on the sandy cavern floor. He stooped and picked up a wet length of bone. “Look at this.”

  “Look at what?” The guard complained. “How can you see anything in here?”

  “Sorry. I’m not used to working with humans.” With a thought he formed a bit of prana into the right pattern. A small globe of light appeared and hovered at his shoulder.

  The guard marveled at the small light—a believer finding visible proof of his creed. “His grace is a light to my eyes.”

  “And our enemies’ eyes,” said Nahel. “So make yours useful.”

  The path led into a small limestone chamber. The roof and floor converged so that a man standing at the back would have to bow his head. The cramped recess was humid, cold, and reeked like a slaughterhouse.

  Nahel could see the cause of the stench, but he moved the light lower for the guard’s benefit—if you could call showing him something so ugly beneficial. The tiny orb descended, casting its glow upon a jumbled heap of bones that still glistened with sticky residue.

  Something clattered down the surface of the pile.

  “What was that?” the guard asked from behind him.

  “Just a loose bone,” whispered Nahel.

  A grey shape burst from the carrion mound—its fur matted with gore and its fanged maw roaring. The beast’s lupine head scraped the ceiling as it reared up on two legs. It advanced on the trespassers, crunching skulls and vertebrae underfoot.

  At the sight of Nahel the beast’s pointed ears flattened, and its lips curled back over snaggled teeth. The malakh met the monster’s gaze and saw three angry red slashes traversing its right eye.

  “What is it?” the guard cried.

  Nahel growled. A warning sounded from the depths of his angelic soul that he contended not with perverted nature, but with profaned holiness.

  The beast uttered a series of barks like guttural laughter, and the small globe of light flickered out.

  The darkness obscured even Nahel’s sight. Bones clattered on the cavern floor, and rapid scrabbling noises from above told him of something crawling on the ceiling. Somewhere behind him, the soldier screamed.

  Chaos erupted. Howls and cries split the chill air. The smell of fresh blood joined the rancid scent of old. Bones crunched between stone and metal.

  Nahel jabbed his swords in the sounds’ direction. Their blades met resistance. There was a sound of metal sinking into meat and a horrid stench, and something fell heavily amid the scattered bones.

  Besides his own heavy panting, Nahel heard nothing but hushed babble coming from somewhere nearby. He called the light, and nothing hindered its return. The sights it revealed gave him pause.

  A hideous form lay sprawled at his feet, leaking syrupy black fluid that was already congealing. Wrinkling his nose, Nahel shook what he could of the acrid substance from his swords and stared at the conundrum on the ground.

  The creature’s face—once a ravenous wolfish mask—had become startlingly familiar in death. Noble, but grave and cold, the ashen visage was crisscrossed with wild patterns in black ink. One marking stood out, though—a group of three raw slashes across the right eye.

  “I hope Damus doesn’t hold this against me,” Nahel thought aloud. He knelt down and closed the sightless eyes of the dead wolf that was now a dead Gen.

  The stream of inane muttering continued. Nahel reached into the rank jumble of bones, grabbed hold of something, and pulled out the disheveled shrine guard, who fell to the cavern floor wide-eyed and mumbling. Blood poured from the back of his head.

  Nahel spun a thread of prana from his own life cord—a tiny spark branching from a lightning bolt—and guided it into the guard’s wound by hand. The man’s torn scalp quickly knitted itself back together.

  “Go back to town and tell them what you saw here,” said Nahel. “Bring as many guards as you can. Tell the priests to bless them all first.”

  As if waking from a nightmare, the guard sprang to his feet.

  Nahel willed the shining globe to float back up the tunnel. “Get moving!”

  The guard briefly stared at Nahel before rushing after the light.

  6

  Xander woke from a bittersweet dream of his childhood and was confused at first to find himself in Medvia’s water shrine. A blazing sunset poured in through his small room’s window, and the cool breeze carried muffled voices. His curiosity piqued, he rose and went out.

  The pontifex stood under a stained glass sky on the temple’s second floor terrace, conversing with three strangers who seemed highly out of place. Xander almost cried out when he saw that one of them had a dog’s face. The memory of snapping lupine jaws returned, and Xander’s heart raced. But the pontifex’s lack of fear eased his.

  Xander studied the man whose silver hair and inscrutable grace seemed almost as alien as his companion’s canine head. Was he some kind of royalty? He certainly dresses like a traveling noble.

  A ripple of black silk warned Xander that he’d caught the third stranger’s notice. Spreading his arms wide, the robed man spoke with an orator’s pomp. “Speak of the baal, and he appears! Good evening, Master Sykes. Arcanadeus, Master Steersman and seeker of lost knowledge, at your service. I trust you come refreshed in mind and body.”

  Xander advanced to shake the Master’s outstretched hand, which felt soft and clammy by Nesshin st
andards. This one has spent years in study behind cool walls, but if the pontifex suffers him I have no cause to shun his company.

  The silver-haired man lithely wended his way forward. “Good evening, young sir,” he said. “Have I the honor of meeting the quartermaster’s son?”

  Xander grasped the fellow’s offered hand. It was slender and manicured, yet it bore the calluses that came from long acquaintance with the sword, the harp, or both. “I am Xander Sykes. The Nesshin are my tribe, and my father heads our clan.”

  The man gave a slight nod. “Damus Greystone, Ambassador-at-Large from Her Majesty Nakvin of Avalon.”

  “I am not familiar with Avalon,” Xander said. “Is it in Thysia?”

  Damus chuckled softly. “We’ve come from much farther afield than that. Avalon is the last refuge of the Gen.”

  “Not all of them,” Damus’ doglike companion said gruffly. Its mouth gaped in a fanged smile. Its pointed ears perked up, but drooped when Xander recoiled.

  Damus met Xander’s wide-eyed stare with a wry grin. “Don’t mind Nahel. What he lacks in social graces he makes up for in tractability.”

  Xander’s brow knotted. “Nail? Ha’penny or finger?”

  “Neither,” said Nahel. “It’s not even spelled the same.”

  “Are you two really Gen?” Xander asked.

  Damus pressed a hand to his chest. “I am a Gen of the Light Tribe. Birth denied Nahel that honor, and assigned him a malakh’s lowly lot.”

  Xander’s breath caught for a moment. “You are a malakh?”

  “He is,” said the pontifex. “His courage this afternoon left no doubt.”

  Xander looked to the Pontifex. The old priest stood at the north parapet and stared out over the sunset-gilded Water with a sullen look on his face.

  “What is wrong?” Xander asked. “What happened while I slept?”

  “A grave evil stole into our midst,” the pontifex said. “Today Nahel confronted that evil.”

  The malakh’s amber eyes became suddenly distant. “Just part of it—a straggler at a temporary den.”

  The blood seemed to freeze in Xander’s veins. “A den of what?”