Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  Sated by the first taste of her prey, the female clamped her razor-sharp teeth around the elk’s neck, bobbing up and down as she dragged her prey back toward their cave.

  Arak’Jur lay alongside the boulder as the storm hit, covering the area with rain and thunder through the night.

  As guardian, he had been given a sacred charge. He was a hunter, yes, but also a protector. Long ago, his ancestors had hidden behind walls of stone, living on barren lands atop steep mountain slopes in fear of great beasts like ipek’a and anahret. His people had rich lands now. The legacy of the first men who dared to venture into the wild, to listen to the will of the spirits they found there. The first tribesmen. Now his people thrived; the tribe’s shaman saw glimpses of things-to-come, revealing great beasts near enough to threaten their people, and he hunted them. Such was the great pact of the tribes. Spirits of things-to-come, to guide the shamans and whisper their will to their people; spirits of the land, to empower the women in their secret councils; and spirits of beasts, whose gifts Arak’Jur wielded to keep his people safe.

  The morning brought no respite from the storm. But it did provide an opening.

  Two of the whelpling ipek’a emerged from the cave, feathers white and dripping from the rain beaded across their long necks and thin bodies. They made their way down the slope toward the running stream below. It was difficult to see them as the lethal predators they were, wobbling and swaying, uneasy on their child’s legs. One of the males kept a lazy eye on the younglings, hovering near the cave entrance, but the massive female was nowhere in sight. Such was the difficulty of being a protector. All creatures, great and small, had to sleep, in time.

  After waiting so long, the last moments stretched on and on. One more step. Another. And there. They were too far to turn back. Still the young ipek’a marched on, oblivious to their fates. They arrived at the stream, lowering their heads to drink.

  He struck.

  He asked aid from the spirits of una’re and mareh’et, and a pale nimbus surrounded him in the form of both spirits as they blessed him with their gifts. Crackling energy surged across his hands, blessed by the lightning-empowered strikes of the Great Bear’s claws. He leapt with otherworldly speed and agility, with the grace of the Great Cat.

  He soared down the slope, landing with adroit precision between the two beasts as they drank from the stream. The larger of the two ipek’a turned toward him, and he landed a crushing blow to its throat, wrapping his fist around its windpipe, electrical energy crackling and surging into his prey. The creature’s flesh hissed and popped, black streaks scoring beneath its feathers. Surprise had only just reached its eyes when it died, irises rolling back up into its skull as its legs buckled and slumped to the ground.

  He was already on the smaller one, leaping into the air and kicking down with the force of the Great Bear. The creature began a screech, a juvenile imitation of its mother’s cry, fraying into a desperate howl as its leg snapped.

  Satisfied, he darted beside a nearby elm and invoked the spirit of the juna’ren. An image of the tiny amphibian shimmered around him, and his naked skin and hide leggings blended into the browns and bark patterns of the tree at his back. It was not a perfect camouflage, but it would serve.

  The younger and smaller ipek’a whelpling lay whining on the ground beside its dead sibling. It began and choked off screeches in a pitiful rhythm, interrupted by pain as it put weight on its shattered leg. The rest of the pack came flooding out of the cave in a panicked rush of feathers and cries of alarm, led by the alpha female. There was no force in nature stronger than a mother hearing the cry of a child. Arak’Jur stood as still as he could manage without the blessing of anahret—too soon to ask for its blessing again—waiting as his heart pounded. The keen senses of an alpha female ipek’a should never be fooled by a ruse as simple as the gift of the juna’ren. But all her attention was focused on the wounded infant, on doing everything in her power to protect it, to heal it, to make the world right again.

  She rushed to its side, leaning down to nudge her child with her narrow snout. In a moment, her nurturing instinct would be replaced with fury, an insatiable desire for revenge. But he had this one, short window to act. And he took it.

  A nimbus of the valak’ar surrounded him, the image of a serpent uncoiled to its full height. Only a single valak’ar had ever come near Sinari land, thank the spirits. The wraith-snake was a ghost given form, able to pass through stone, clay, or flesh to deliver its deadly bite straight to the heart of its victims. Its wispy hide was proof against any weapon, save at the moment it struck for the kill. The valak’ar that came to the Sinari village had killed Arak’Mul, the former guardian, and countless others. In slaying it, Arak’Jur had become guardian, chosen by the spirits to take the Arak name, to hunt the beasts in the shamans’ visions for the protection of his tribe.

  Wrapped in the power of the terrible serpent, his fist passed through the female’s coat of feathers, through her thick outer hide, through the bone and sinew that encased her powerful heart. With a touch, he delivered a stroke of blight directly into her blood, and she died.

  Her proud red feathers went black, sick and warped. Her flesh hissed as it stretched taut, snapping away from her muscles, leaking green mucous into steaming pools in the dirt. The other ipek’a reacted in force, swarming toward him in a rage, but he’d already sunk to his knees, rain streaming over his uplifted face in muddy streaks. His eyes had gone white.

  A calming force settled over the creatures. Instinctively they recognized what had happened here. They were in the presence of the spirits. And even the most savage beast in nature knew to respect that power.

  YOU KILLED HER.

  The voice was assertive, proud, shocked.

  I did, he thought back to it.

  SHE WAS STRONG.

  Yes, he agreed.

  AND YET YOU BESTED HER. A MAN.

  He thought nothing in return, letting silence fill his mind. Reverence settled between them, as though he was watched by unseen eyes, weighed against some standard he could not comprehend.

  YOU HAVE STRENGTH, the voice announced, a grudging admission.

  Thank you, Great Spirit, he thought back to it, trying to hide his relief. Even here, after stalking and slaying the beast, acceptance was no sure thing. The spirits of each great beast mirrored and perfected the traits of their scions; mareh’et was capricious, anahret stoic and reserved. He could not be sure how best to gain their favor until he faced them, and came to understand what it meant to wear their skins.

  IT IS GOOD FOR MEN TO GAIN STRENGTH. THE GODDESS WILL HAVE NEED OF YOU, IN TIMES TO COME. ARE YOU HER CHOSEN? WILL YOU BE HER VOICE?

  Always they asked this. He didn’t know what it meant.

  No, Great Spirit, he replied. I seek only your gift, the gift of ipek’a, to protect my people.

  A SIMPLE REQUEST.

  He waited, saying nothing as the spirit contemplated.

  The moments stretched on until the voice thundered inside his head once more.

  GRANTED.

  He felt a wave of energy rush through him, from the top of his head through his chest, to the tips of his fingers and the soles of his feet. For a moment, he saw through the alpha female’s eyes, and felt for himself what it was to be ipek’a. He raced across the grassy plains, leaping into the sky, crashing with thunderous force on unsuspecting prey. He was unstoppable, a blizzard of raking claws. He was a sower of terror, the leader of his pack, a hunter without peer. He preened and relished the envy of the other hunters, displaying the blood-red feathers that signified his prowess and deadly skill. He was ipek’a, proudest of all hunters, and he bore the mark of a thousand kills in his flesh, displayed for all to see.

  In time, the visions faded.

  Thank you, Great Spirit, he thought with reverence.

  REMEMBER HER.

  The voice echoed through his head, and his senses slid back into his body.

  He rose to his feet. Bite marks and expose
d bone covered the bodies of the whelps, sign of carrion-eaters come for an easy meal, though the sickly corpse of the matron had not been touched. The rest of the pack was gone.

  He looked up to a cloudy blue sky, vestiges of the storm still hanging in the breeze.

  “I will,” he said softly.

  Past time to head home. He began to walk.

  5

  ERRIS

  Approaching a Picket Line

  Northwest of Duringston, Gand Territory

  They’d ridden hard for three days.

  Even Jiri was coated with sweat. Maintaining leyline connections so close to the enemy columns was an unnecessary risk, and so both rider and mount made do with their natural stamina. Only at the end of a day’s ride would she use a binding to refresh her and her five companions. Short bursts were more difficult to detect, and even a temporary surge of Life or Body energy was a welcome respite from the rigors of hard travel.

  They’d learned what they could, trailing behind the enemy’s march. All three Gand armies had come together, a combined force upward of seventy thousand men under a single command. She wanted another count from the east to be sure of exact numbers and unit positioning, but she had enough to understand the layout of their forces. The Gandsmen drove north like a spear pointed straight at the heart of the Sarresant colonies. Their intent was clear. Only one piece of the puzzle continued to elude her.

  Who was in command?

  Something had changed during the winter months, when both sides had hunkered down to endure the harsh cold and biting storms of the season of the Veil. She’d seen enough action to know a change of command when she saw one. This was a different army than the one she’d danced circles around last autumn, in the deep woods of the Gand colonies. She needed to know. She needed the name of the commander who dared such a bold move, when every other Gand officer seemed mired in caution and reserve. But first, she needed some uniforms.

  Her company rode two abreast on a winding hunters’ track through the forest outside Duringston. It was twilight now, a wet breeze on the air promising storms coming in from the north. Soon night would settle on the small Gand town. Generals and high commanders could never resist a warm, dry bed when they called a halt with civilization nearby; she knew she’d find her answers there. In more peaceful times, Duringston oversaw a healthy clip of trade between New Sarresant and the Gand colonies farther south. Now its forges and foundries sang into the late hours, churning out arms to equip her enemies.

  She rode at the head of the pack alongside Aide-Lieutenant Sadrelle, with Horsemen d’Fer and Irond behind a horse length, and Horseman l’Orai and Sergeant Fessac bringing up the rear. Apart from their sabers, pistols, and carbines they might have been common riders—the civilian clothes they’d procured gave service to the lie that they were Gand scouts come home from a sortie behind enemy lines. They rode at an easy pace, relaxed with no outward sign of caution or concern. This was what a squad of scouts looked like returning to camp; the six of them had done it enough to pull off the act convincingly.

  An infantryman stepped out from behind a tree fifty paces ahead, raising his musket to block the way. He had the look of a raw recruit for all his gray beard bespoke advanced age, a nervous twang in his voice as he called out to the approaching patrol. He was right to be unsettled. Picket duty was a dreaded assignment. The picketmen were the feelers of the army, first to know when enemies approached, first to die when enemy scouts came too close.

  “Ho there,” the soldier called in the Gand tongue. “Who approaches?”

  “Westerly patrol returning,” Sadrelle called back. Gods bless him and his perfectly accented Gand. “Twenty-Second Scouting Company, Fourth Brigade under Colonel Devon.”

  Doing her best to look unconcerned, Erris held aloft a rolled parchment she’d sealed with red wax that morning for precisely this purpose. The paper was blank. A stage prop to string along the hope that this was all legitimate, that her group posed no danger.

  She dismounted, blinking to shift her vision to the leylines. She saw none of the telltale white tethers that would suggest the presence of enemy binders, though it was no guarantee. It was common practice to post Life binders as scouts, for the same reason she watched the leylines now. Enemy soldiers would feed green pods of Life into the leystream with their presence—difficult to get an exact count, but better than nothing. She turned back to her men and spoke softly.

  “Two on the left flank, four maybe more on the right.”

  She left Jiri behind, walking forward alone, holding the parchment in front of her like a gift. At the corner of her eye she saw one of the old man’s fellows, pressed up against an oak tree to the left of the path, trying to stay out of sight. She ignored him, holding the paper out for the first soldier as she calculated her angle of attack. The old man planted the butt of his musket in the dirt and furrowed his brow, reaching out to grab the paper from her, thumbing the edge of the wax.

  Her eyes snapped shut, and she found a small mote of red Body energy. She bound a tether into herself, and her muscles surged with speed and power. Lightning-quick, she drew her saber, sweeping it up from the scabbard in an arcing cut that took the picketman across the face. Blood gushed from the wound as he fell, but she was already moving. She let the saber’s momentum carry her, spinning into the air and kicking off from the corpse, sending her soaring toward the second picketman behind the tree. The blade continued its arc as she delivered a cut to the side of the second picketman’s head, his eyes barely given time to widen before his head slammed into the tree like a jar of fresh-packed jelly. A spray of thick, dark blood splattered across her as she landed.

  Startled cries went up around her, and shots rang out as her men opened fire. She whirled in time for a strand of inky Death to blur into her vision, sliding toward her, threatening to snap her Body tether. Gods damn it; the bloody picketmen had a binder after all, and a Death binder to boot. She cursed as the Death binding touched her, draining her speed as if she hadn’t made the Body tether at all.

  The Death tether vanished abruptly before she could trace the connection. It took a heartbeat of confusion before she understood. The shooting had stopped. The fight was done.

  Sadrelle dismounted, cracking his pistol open to reload while d’Fer and Irond shouldered their carbines. L’Orai and Fessac were on foot already, approaching her as the smoke from the exchange trailed up through the trees.

  “Fine blade-work, sir,” Sadrelle said.

  “They had a Gods-damned Death binder,” she said, pausing to wipe the edge of her saber with a rag. “No one wounded?”

  “No, sir,” came the reply from her men.

  She sheathed her saber and they set to work. Another round of bangs and smoke filled the clearing as she and Fessac delivered coups de grâce to the wounded while l’Orai and Sadrelle worked to strip their uniforms, piling the bodies a short distance away from the path. They’d be discovered in due time. But by then she and her squad would be riding north, Gods willing.

  “Nothing in your size, sir,” Irond said as he pulled the last of the red coats from the dead soldiers.

  “They trained you in sewing at the convent, didn’t they?” she barked back. “Let’s have some alterations, on the double now.”

  The rest of the men laughed as Irond waved her away, still grinning.

  Piling the usable tunics, breeches, and coats revealed a stroke of luck: They had enough to make do without ambushing any more picketmen. Their civilian clothes they piled with the bodies, all save her doeskin leather gloves. No suitable replacement for those among the dead, and the scars of the binder’s marks perforated into the backs of her hands would call the worst sorts of attention if she went without. Better to chance a pair of non-standard-issue gloves she might have won at dice or cards than go about displaying that sort of sign.

  “Well,” d’Fer said as he finished putting on a dead soldier’s red tunic. “I suppose I look like a Gandsman now.” He gestured to the holes in the
fabric of his tunic, caked with fresh blood where their shots had struck home. She bit back a laugh. Blood on a uniform was common enough, and with luck they wouldn’t need to get close enough to other soldiers to trigger suspicions. Well, five of them wouldn’t. They’d saved the most pristine of the uniforms for Sadrelle.

  “Aide-Lieutenant,” she called to him. “Don’t spend more time than you have to, and don’t get any ideas about assassinating generals while you’re in there.”

  He feigned a look of devastation, then smiled. “Don’t worry, sir. Intelligence gathering, no more.”

  She gave him a long look for emphasis as she climbed back into Jiri’s saddle, then nudged her mount forward. With luck, these uniforms would let them pass through the enemy’s lines, saving half a day that otherwise would have been spent riding around to the east. Sadrelle should be able to get the name of their new commander and some fresh details on the rest of their command structure to boot. Not the most elegant mission she’d ever led, but the 14th had its reputation for a reason.

  The six riders split as they descended into the outskirts of the town. She’d drawn a rough map, dividing the camp into sections. Sadrelle had Duringston itself, the most dangerous assignment by far. To herself she assigned the second-most dangerous area: the highlands overlooking the roads to the east. The hills were steep and rocky, but they commanded the town. Hold those and you could harry an enemy whether they chose to retreat or engage. It was likely to be fortified, but she would deal with that when the time came; it was worth the risk to gain a vantage above the rest of the encampments. Even if, Oracle forbid, one of her men failed to return, her report would have the necessary basics. They were to regroup in the woods to the northeast after the next day’s march began, using the cover of the morning’s scout patrols to slip away from the main body of the enemy army.