THE ABSENCE OF SOUL (SOCIETY'S SOUL Book 1)

by Amanda Twigg

  “I am the chief elect,” she said again, fainter then before and with more of a tremor, but she to be sure they had no use for Dannet. “I order you to stand down.”

  Laughter rang over her head like a victory fanfare.

  “We won’t kill her,” Turgeth said. “We’ll take her and the boy.”

  No, no, noooo! I’m the one you want.

  “Get up,” Gallanto’s deep voice rang in her head. “Fight!”

  “I can’t. I tried.” Tears of failure leaked down her face. She was done.

  “Fight,” Chief Gallanto said again. Landra couldn’t respond, but the mist answered his call.

  Chapter 39

  Magic was Landra’s enemy. It had always been her enemy. Now, her aura thrummed with awareness of the incoming fog. The wisps connected, twisting to cognizance in the high corners of the base. Shreds of disembodied Souls rallied to Gallanto’s call, swirling at first then darting through the city corridors in a path toward the Collector.

  This was everything Landra despised. She was a Warrior, not a Templer. She knew that much in her heart. Isn’t that why she’d fought her growing flaw?

  But now? To save Dannet?

  She set aside dread, like putting her uniform in a drawer. It was there but hidden. She accepted no restrictions on her sacrifice and puffed out her chest, opening her Soul to the magic. Raising fresh eyes to the world, she saw beauty to the incoming threads. They raced toward the Collector, faster, faster, thickening, as they reached the blade.

  Landra found her feet, and her voice. “To me. To Gallanto.”

  The knife shuddered from the impact of incoming Souls. They twisted together, sacrificing existence to amass as one single aura. It broke free of the Soul-laden knife but refused to disperse. Instead, it congealed into balls, grew limbs, a torso, and a head. A wraith-like figure formed, towering at Landra’s side.

  “Gallanto?”

  Am I dreaming? Or have I already died?

  The brothers’ gaping told Landra she’d lost her mind. Maybe she had, because she recognized her dead great-grandfather from Oakham’s vision. His chief’s insignia, flecked eyes, and gold-streaked hair brought her memory into focus, but this wasn’t a recollection come to life. This misty character had individuality; it was impossible to deny.

  The vision morphed through several outfits until settling on toughened battle armor with protection for the torso, forearms, and thighs. A long sword grew out from Gallanto’s hand. He scrutinized it with a creased face and bounced it in his fist until the blade grew another finger’s length. “Better.”

  Wavering like an overlevel fog, the ghost chief turned to Landra. “Good to meet you, great-granddaughter!”

  Holy shelk and son of the mi…!

  His body might have formed from pink fog, but Gallanto’s aura pulsed with the deep azure shades of a Warrior. Magenta traces played around the edges, but he was soldier at the core.

  “Do we fight?” he said, a mischievous smile lifting the corner of his mouth. All Landra could do was nod.

  Mendog grunted. “What is the girl doing?”

  “Don’t know,” Turgeth said. “Think she’s lost her wits.”

  Landra could barely comprehend what was happening. As Mendog stepped forward, readying his attack, Gallanto blocked his path. The chief roared, his misty form disassembling as Mendog strode through his shape. He reformed on the other side, turned, and hefted his sword high. His blade swept down onto Mendog’s back in a mighty pink flash.

  “Agh!” the man screamed, dropping to one knee. His coarse uniform fabric remained unmarked and there was no blood, but true pain showed on his face.

  “Stop messing, Men,” his brother said.

  “Not messing. Something hit me.”

  Gallanto grinned at Landra. “Will that help?”

  Her father had none of this levity, but maybe Chief Gallanto had lived in easier times. He gazed at her with more love than Griffin Hux ever had, and he was here for support. Could she just hug him? “It will help, thank you.”

  “These are better odds,” Gallanto said. “Not right, two grown soldiers picking on a girl.”

  “I wasn’t doing that bad.”

  “Oh my. If you act any more like Sonlas, you’re going to make me cry.”

  Faced with Landra’s bizarre behavior and Mendog’s inexplicable injury, the brothers’ attack had stalled.

  “To battle!” Gallanto bellowed.

  Landra felt better now and took advantage of Turgeth’s confusion. She dodged inside his defense and slashed his chest. At the same time, Gallanto swept his weapon down on Mendog again.

  “Bastard!” Mendog screamed, slashing his own sword through empty air.

  The next time Landra darted in, Turgeth was ready and furious. He landed a heavy-handed fist to her gut.

  No breath, no strength.

  She crumpled but refused to fall. Raising the Collector again, she thrust it forward. The more she thought of her great-grandfather, the more the knife’s color deepened—from pink to lilac then to purple—and the more her magical strength grew. There was a connection she had no time or desire to explore.

  “Joining in?” Turgeth asked, snarling at his brother.

  Mendog dodged the next strike by luck. He twisted in and grabbed Landra’s hands.

  “Unleash your power,” Gallanto ordered.

  “Power? What power? I don’t know how.”

  The ghost-chief’s hand brushed her cheek. It was tender and so powerful that Landra thought she would burst. She couldn’t say how it happened, but an explosion of energy broke around them, forcing Mendog to release his grip and stagger away. The magical effort drained her physical strength, and she slumped to the floor. In her weakness, the connection with Gallanto tore apart.

  The Warrior chief’s wraith-image thinned, twisting in on itself before spreading wide. “Save our people, child of my life,” his echoing voice called as he dissipated into pink floating twists.

  “Don’t go! How can I save our people? I can’t even save myself.”

  Turgeth saw none of it. He darted in to grab her arm, pinching and twisting with expert skill. He nipped the pain points and pressed her face into the floor.

  Landra sprawled there, squirming in futile defiance. A slight movement tore an agonized scream from her throat. Gallanto had gone, and the fight was lost.

  One loud shout and Dannet would come, but she couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t. He was the reason for her sacrifice. She refused to fail now.

  Fat fingers wrenched the Collector from her grip, and the world faded by another degree. She wriggled, clenching down her cries. She wanted to scream again. Instead, she slid into the hethra.

  Chapter 40

  Landra’s agony diminished when she visualized her surroundings. The walls wavered to nothing, and her consciousness slipped through, taking her inside Hux Hall. It was dark apart from a light in the training room. Dannet stood on the mat, thrashing a sword in a vent of frustration. She wanted to hug him and tell him everything was fine, but she knew it wasn’t.

  This feels like goodbye.

  Sorrow drenched her, nearly ejecting her from the moment. She clung to her magic, refusing to break her trance. Her Soul sense wrapped around her brother, smothering him with the love and the gratitude she felt. He was her strength, her confidant, and her friend, but she couldn’t hold onto him.

  If I’m going to save you, I need to let go.

  She forced her consciousness away, and knew in the real world, she sobbed. That final goodbye was impossible to admit, so she flung her Soul out in a heart-rending sending.

  Unerringly, she darted to her father’s side and joined with his panicked mood. He barked orders in his sharpest tones, and soldiers jumped to action. Greece’s door guard flinched before his wrath, and Landra knew she was the cause.

  “Find her!” Chief Hux flung at the world, but she knew that was impossible. The guards didn’t know where she’d gone, and there was no time for a full search.
She sensed fury, despair, and grief welling beneath her father’s hard shell, and she recoiled from his disappointment. He’d put his faith in her as chief elect, and she’d failed before starting the job.

  Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t fit for the role? Why didn’t you listen? I’m sorry Father. I’m sorry.

  Thisk arrived, looking worn and anxious. Landra touched him briefly, making him glance up. Somewhere deep, she’d known he had magic, but the thought had been too dangerous and difficult to grow in her mind. His intensity was unbearable, and she threw herself away from him, her consciousness flitting amongst the party guests until she snagged on Bexter. The cadet’s green eyes searched, as if hunting for a lost partner, but he wasn’t aware of her presence. She had no solid connection to him. Not yet. Not ever. He was the promise of a future, which would fade from memory.

  Too much loss. Too much pain.

  The hethra visualization was unbearable. She cast her consciousness toward the temple, where no one would know her, but one final contact seized on her thoughts. She roamed the high reaches of the trees, the demonic swelling of the magic well, and the lifeless space of the platform, picking up the sweeping pink strands of mist in her wake. Solitary threads twisted and writhed, coming together in knotted strands. Oakham’s essence trailed behind Landra’s Soul like a comet’s tail.

  Pain intruded, drawing Landra back to her body. She screamed, her stomach ablaze and Turgeth’s grip clamping her neck—squeezing, squeezing. Mendog stepped up, sword sheathed, but his fist balled. Raising his huge arm, his eyes fired with hatred, and his Soul paled to white streaks of nothing. Landra couldn’t move or duck. The fist powered down, carrying disaster, oblivion—failure.

  Oh, Father, I wanted to make you proud.

  Epilogue

  The terror of raised voices welcomed Landra back to reality. Burning spasms coursed through her body, and warm blood welled from her gums. Misery found her immediately.

  “You were supposed to watch the boy. Why in the history of the mist did you kidnap the girl?” someone asked.

  “But she’s the chief elect, boss.”

  “Really?” The sarcastic tone rang thick with disbelief.

  Landra listened, her predicament seeping into her consciousness, one dreadful, pitiful facet at a time. Numbing bindings constricted her wrists, and agony crunched her into a ball of panic. Prisoner.

  Earlier events crashed back into memory, her wordless dread building when she recalled Turgeth’s plan. “Ransom Dannet back a piece at a time,” he’d said. Her shuddering response invited more pain. It coursed through her body in an all-encompassing wave. She clenched back her screams, terrified of drawing her captors’ attention. Too much. Can’t survive. I should be dead.

  “I gave clear orders, and you failed,” the boss said. “If you were going to bring anyone back, it should have been Dannet.”

  Wait. You don’t have Dannet?

  Landra ran over the words in her head, checking she’d heard right. If they hadn’t taken her brother, some part of the plan must have worked. She relaxed from her tight ball, but even that small movement hurt, so she stilled and probed her puffy cheek with her tongue. She let the tip roll over the tender gums and cracked her eyes open. A vast, rugged cavern came into focus, too different from the base’s manufactured labyrinth to offer hope of escape. What was she thinking? There’d be no way out.

  “What are we supposed to do with the girl now?” the boss asked.

  Something about the clipped tones set Landra on edge.

  Without moving her head, she turned her swollen eye on the man they called their boss. A blue uniform of Warrior issue swamped his wiry frame, and a ceremonial cloak draped down his back. His scrawny neck disappeared inside a stiff collar, and his sandy hair showed a full maturity of Warrior growth. Landra couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to believe her eyes.

  That face, that voice—it was Warrior Third Preston. Horror compounded Landra’s torture as the level of betrayal became clear. One of her father’s trusted generals had plotted to kidnap his son. She needed to do something, but she had no power. Her broken body could do nothing. She was useless. Nearly dead.

  Failure, failure, failure. Chief elect. Blah!

  “We made a decision,” Turgeth said.

  “You made a decision,” Preston corrected. “Everything we’d hoped to achieve has failed. The announcement ceremony went ahead, and everyone watched that dratted Hux boy get promoted to chief elect. The treaty with the temple was signed by all parties. Tell me, Turgeth, how did your decision benefit our cause? Now, we’ll be pandering to those mist-ridden Templers for years to come. If you’d taken the boy like we planned, Chief Hux would have cancelled the ceremony or named me as elect.”

  “But she had the knife,” Turgeth said.

  Wait a minute. What? The ceremony went ahead with Dannet. Holy shelk!

  Landra couldn’t help herself. The news was the best outcome she could have hoped for and a fine reward for her sacrifice. An evil chuckle shook her body, which turned into a noisy groan. The pain seemed more bearable now that she knew Dannet’s fate. And then it wasn’t. Gods, this hurts.

  “Let me see that knife,” Preston said.

  “Here,” Mendog replied. “Hey, boss, I think the sleep syrup is wearing off. She’s awake.”

  So, you know I’m listening. Don’t care.

  A kick crunched into her ribs, catching her bound hands. The jolt sent searing bolts of pain into her shoulders, and a shocked roar ripped from her throat. Startled gliders flurried from high roosts and settled back in a flap of wings.

  Shelking mist balls, so I do care. Just kill me and get it over with.

  She sensed the next kick before it smacked into her side. Expecting the blow didn’t lessen its damage, and she writhed on the floor. Hard, cold rock cradled her face, and jagged corners dug through her flimsy party outfit. A sword swung over her head, so she prepared to die, stricken with terror and all courage gone.

  “Stop that,” Preston said. “Don’t damage her yet.”

  Yet? The thought of more suffering was too much to bear. Show mercy. Finish this.

  Preston swished his cloak over his shoulders and kneeled at her side. She viewed him through narrowed eyes, unable to move. The Warrior’s slate-blue aura touched her richer shades, sharing more of him than was bearable.

  Jealous, cruel, hateful. Not fit for the uniform, bastard. The mismatch made her retch.

  Without warning, Preston yanked on the tethers and hauled her to a sitting position.

  “Agh.” For a moment, pain filled her world to the exclusion of all else. Can’t last. Mist, take me.

  The scene faded, then reappeared for Landra, bringing the Collector’s carved handle into stark view. She longed for death, but her body refused, sentencing her to teeter on a sword edge of suffering.

  Preston twisted the Collector’s blade before her eyes, fury contorting his lined face.

  “You!” he said. “Why do you have this?”

  Landra couldn’t have formed words, even if she’d wanted to speak.

  “Of all the soldiers the chief could have chosen for elect, there’s no way he would have given the knife to you,” he said. “I expected him to insult his generals by passing it to family, but to give it to a girl short of cadet age… What’s special about you?”

  Landra had already considered that question and never come up with an acceptable answer. She rolled her jaw, preparing to speak. “I stopped your plot.” Swollen lips made the words thick.

  Preston’s grip tightened on the knife handle until his knuckles stretched white. He

  shot her a venomous glare. “Stupid girl. I should kill you now.”

  Not the worst thing. Do it please. I give up.

  “Save our people, child of my life.”

  The words stilled Landra’s twitching. She wasn’t certain whether the call to fight came from Oakham’s memory or was an echo from Gallanto. Either way, the penetrating instruction bored into her So
ul. Chilling dread turned her stomach as she considered bearing this agony rather than submitting to fate. She’d come to terms with her mortal end, but this…

  Wetness spread between her legs, and she screamed inside. “Do you know what you ask, Gallanto?”

  “What?” Preston asked.

  Landra didn’t answer the Warrior traitor. She groaned, railing against her promised future of pain and fear. The Collector twisted before her face, offering no escape. Dannet might have been announced as chief elect, but the knife bound her to a responsibility that wouldn’t be denied. She squeezed her eyes, ignored her pain, and roared, “I will, Chief Hux.” It signaled her full submission to the role of chief elect in fact, if not in name.

  The look Preston gave her suggested he saw madness. She considered for a moment and decided he might be right.

  “So, you were really meant to be chief,” he said with disgust.

  It didn’t feel true. It had never felt true, but she didn’t feel like a Templer either. A realization broke into her consciousness, and agonizing, wound-tearing laughter bubbled up from her gut.

  “No,” she said through gritted teeth, but with absolute certainty. “I wasn’t meant to be chief elect. I was supposed to become a ranger.” It was the greatest truth of all, and her hysterical laughter rang around the rocky crevices like a peal of bells.

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