The Shattered Orb (Vagrant Souls Book 1)

by Samuel E. Green

  "It has been three days now—maybe they've already arrived in Eosorheim," Edoma said. Her answer had seemed to placate Idmaer's anger. "There is nothing at all we can do now to assist the warriors in their quest. We can only hope and continue to do our best to help those here."

  "How long before we can have the other buildings warded?"

  "It's too dangerous to be out there now. We'll have to wait until morning. The wards are only a temporary measure. They'll last the night. Tomorrow I will make more. Unless we decide to sacrifice a number of our own for protection, we're going to run out of blood. There aren't enough dead to last longer than a month.

  "I'll have your spire warded," she said. Despite how much she didn't want to seem like she was giving him preference, the spire was the largest building in the town. Idmaer wouldn't like it, but if she were warding the spire, then he would have to fill the rooms with people. But she would tell him that tomorrow. She realized then that maybe the skinwalkers wouldn't need to be executed. They could be kept within the spire's dungeons. At least that would ensure those wraiths couldn't possess more people. It would also keep the populace from thinking their loved ones had been put to death.

  Idmaer raised an eyebrow. "And here I was thinking you no longer cared for me."

  Edoma bowed her head to hide her scowl. "You are the High Priest of Aern. I think it necessary that you receive protection," she said sarcastically.

  "And a great lot of good Aern does for us now." He hadn't seemed to notice her mockery.

  "These skinwalkers will need to be contained. We can't go killing them—the people will riot. Can you have them in your dungeons?"

  Idmaer shuddered. "Those things are monsters. I'm not sure I'll ever have an unbroken night's sleep again." He stroked his beard. "If human blood can be used in the warding, can't we simply use bloodletting? Leeches?"

  "Leeches would taint the blood. It's the same reason skinwalker blood cannot be used. They are parasites." At least that much she remembered from her schooling.

  "Surely one of the mechanisms within the spire's dungeons is capable of bleeding someone out without killing them?"

  "And who would volunteer for such a thing? Will you be the first?"

  "We don't need volunteers," he said.

  Edoma shuddered. "Never again," she whispered, refusing to think about what she had seen in Mundos all those years ago. The people had been lied to then, too. It had been a disaster. When they had found out, there was a riot unlike anything she'd ever seen. It was almost worse than the wraiths. Humans were capable of terrible evils even without demons possessing them.

  22

  Fryda

  The sunset bathed Indham's walls in golden light. Fryda thanked Enlil that she and Jaruman had made it back safely.

  "Halt!" a voice cried out from the parapets.

  Jaruman cursed and kept riding. "I'm not stopping for anyone until I get inside my tavern. Rowena has probably run the place into the ground."

  "Don't you think we should listen to them?" Fryda said, searching for whoever had made the call from above.

  "I've been here twenty years. I know every one of them warriors on the walls. I won't allow them to play their games with me."

  Many times Fryda had experienced Jaruman's grumpiness when he didn't get sleep. She could understand how tired he was—she felt much the same. But he was going to get them into trouble if he wasn't careful.

  As they drew closer to the entrance gates, Fryda spotted a circle of wards outside. They were so large that anyone going through the gates would have to step onto them. The iron doors were closed. The last time she'd seen them like that was when the bandits had attacked the town.

  "Halt!" the voice called again.

  Before they could get any closer, an arrow thudded into the dirt in front of them.

  Fryda stopped her horse, but Jaruman kept riding.

  "I know they're better marksman than that," he said over his shoulder to Fryda. "If they wanted to hit me, they would have." He looked up at the walls. "Which one of you decided it was a good idea to fire an arrow at me?"

  Faces marked with wards peered down from the parapets. There were close to twenty warriors up there, all wearing their customary green hoods. Half of them had arrows nocked, ready to fire. There were more warriors than Fryda had ever seen guarding the entrance to Indham.

  The gates lurched open. Out stepped Bertram, captain of the warrior's watch. It was often said that Bertram was given the job because he was the only warrior who couldn't hunt. Fryda wasn't sure whether that was true, but she'd seen him around enough to know that even if he could hunt, he was allured by Indham's dark side.

  During the day, pilgrimages were made to either Tyme's Hill or Enlil's Temple. The real fun, it was said, happened at night. Fryda had never been wherever "real fun" was meant to happen, but she knew people who had. Their stories never sounded like much fun at all. Drunken fights, sex with strangers, and other things she didn't want to think about. It was all part of living in a town where people came to seek forgiveness from the gods and do penance. Sometimes, people fell. Hard.

  "You getting deaf in your old age?" Bertram said to Jaruman as he walked out, a longbow in one hand. He stopped behind the rune circle so that it was between them. He was grinning, the wards on his face making him look like a blue-headed fool. "I told you to halt, old man. I'll let you off this time. Idmaer's given me—" He stopped and stared at Fryda. The way his eyes meandered about her body made her skin crawl. "So you went off to fetch yourself a young bride while the rest of us are fighting…" He paused, as though wondering whether to tell Jaruman what manner of foe troubled Indham.

  "We've been doing our own share of fighting," Jaruman said. As soon as he urged the horse forward, Bertram's hand shot over his shoulder and drew an arrow from his quiver. The bowstring grew taut as Bertram pointed the drawn arrow at Jaruman's head. From that short a distance, it wouldn't matter if Bertram was the worst shot in the world, the arrow would find a mark.

  "Not a step farther," he said.

  Unconcerned, Jaruman's gaze crept down to the rune circle. "So the wraiths have come to Indham, have they?"

  "How do you know about that?" Bertram said, his arrow still pointed at Jaruman. "We told folks about a plague. Seems you know a little too much. You have anything to do with Aern becoming weak? You weren't born here, so you're not one of us. In all the years you've been running that tavern, I never seen you visit the hill either."

  "You're not one for devotion yourself," Jaruman responded. He looked like he was willing to risk an arrow if it meant getting his hands on Bertram. "I've seen you crawling around the alley."

  Bertram's arm trembled, as though he were getting tired of keeping his arrow nocked. He wasn't grinning anymore.

  Sweat trickled down Fryda's spine. She didn't like the way the two men were staring at each other. Nor did she like the warriors gathered on the walls. Their expressions were grim. If the wraiths had come, then Indham's people would be on edge. This could get bloody very quickly.

  "You're mighty lucky not to have become one of them skinwalkers," Bertram said, eying them suspiciously as if he didn't quite believe they weren't skinwalkers. "Now, get down from your horses. The both of you."

  While Fryda and Jaruman dismounted, Bertram called out to the warriors on the walls. A minute later, they filtered out through the gates. Like Bertram, they remained on the other side of the ward circle. They held arrows to their bows, eyes watching. Every one of them appeared rattled. Fryda didn't blame them. They'd seen skinwalkers. The memory of Alfric, moving like a spider, came to her. She forced it back. Dealing with it now was out of the question.

  "I'm reminding you both that Indham is under attack," Bertram said. "Neither of you are of any importance. Should you try and avoid the conditions of entry, you will be shot. My men here need the target practice anyway." His smile had returned. None of the other warriors joined him in smiling. It made Bertram all the more unsettling.

&n
bsp; Leaning his bow against the iron gate, Bertram walked across the ward circle to Fryda. Her eyes narrowed as he stopped only a pace away from her. The scent of ale drifted from his breath. He was close enough that she could see the cancer sores cracking on his nose.

  "You are a pretty little thing," he whispered.

  From the corner of her eye, Fryda saw Jaruman bristle. She hoped he wouldn't be foolish enough to try something with the warriors' bows trained on them. "I am sworn to Enlil," she said. It wasn't actually true since novices hadn't made final vows, but she wanted Bertram to back down and get the "conditions of entry" over with.

  "Don't even try it, Bertram," said Jaruman.

  "High Priest Idmaer has given my full reign over who comes and goes through these gates. These are perilous times we're living in."

  "They'll be much more perilous for you if you lay a finger on her."

  Bertram smiled and reached toward Fryda. His hand came within a few inches of Fryda's breasts, but she slapped it away. A rushing sound passed her head. Jaruman's horse screamed, an arrow quivering in its side.

  In a blur, Jaruman grabbed Bertram in an arm-lock. One hand kept Bertram in place and the other pressed a knife to his throat.

  "You're going to let us pass," Jaruman said. "We're not skinwalkers."

  "Now you've gone and assaulted the captain of the warrior's watch. You're not leaving here alive."

  Fryda had to admire his conviction. A knife to the throat and he wasn't trying to weasel his way out.

  The injured horse, lying on its side now as blood seeped from the wound, scraped its front hooves against the ground. It screamed again, the sound putting Fryda's teeth on edge.

  "Would one of you deal with that thing?" Bertram said.

  A warrior's arrow pierced the horse through the eye, and it died with a flutter of its tail.

  "If we're not getting out of this alive, then neither are you," Jaruman said, gritting his teeth. But there was no conviction in his voice. He glanced at Fryda, concern filling his brown eyes.

  "Let him go," Fryda said to Jaruman. "He's a despicable rat, but Idmaer's put him in charge of guarding the walls."

  One of the warriors put down his bow and called out, "The woman is a novice with the Daughters. If Mother Edoma finds out . . ."

  Bertram seemed to grow uncomfortable. Jaruman's knife still at his throat, he said, "I won't have the men kill you."

  "On your word," said Jaruman.

  "Aye, on my word."

  Jaruman dropped the knife. With a shove, Bertram went tumbling. He stood and brushed down his tunic and breeches. Narrowing his eyes, he grabbed a throwing ax from the belt of a nearby warrior and pointed it at Jaruman. "Step on the wards. You first, and then the bitch."

  Jaruman's face reddened with rage, but he obeyed. The wards remained the same as he stood on them.

  "Looks like you're clean," Bertram said. The ax blade turned upon Fryda. "Your turn now."

  Fryda shifted over to the ward circle. As soon as both feet were within it, a warmth rushed through her. The wards burst with light. They dulled again almost immediately.

  "Don't move," Bertram said to her. A nod over his shoulder sent the warriors fixing arrows to their bows. Jaruman protested but was cut off. "Don't test me, old man. You said you did your share of fighting. You see any wraith clouds while you were out there?"

  "We saw one," Jaruman said. He swallowed loudly. He seemed to have realized just how dire their situation was. "But none of them came for us."

  Fryda's eyes were fixed on a warrior's arrow a half-dozen feet from her. There were at least a dozen other arrows, but that one was the closest. It would likely be the first to kill her.

  "Fryda!" Robes clutched in both hands, Edoma ran through the gates. "What's the meaning of this?"

  "These two were trying to get through the gates without the necessary processes," Bertram said.

  Edoma looked from Jaruman to Fryda. "I didn't even know you were gone . . ." Her face paled as the wards buzzed again beneath Fryda's feet. She stared at them as if trying to discern something. Her shoulders dropped, and she exhaled. "You're unharmed. It must have been a powerful skinwalker to leave such a strong trace that the ward circle would pick it up."

  "We dealt with it," Jaruman said. He gave Fryda a meaningful look that reiterated the promise she had made not to tell Edoma about Alfric. "Actually, Fryda's horse dealt with it."

  Edoma looked at the horse with an arrow through its head and another through its side.

  "Not that one," Jaruman said. "That was the fine work of these warriors. It was the other one."

  Fryda turned and beckoned Flight. She had been watching while the events played out, but now she clopped over to Fryda.

  "A beautiful animal," Edoma said.

  "If it's all the same to you lot, we've got things to do." Bertram turned up his nose.

  "Thank you for your diligence," Edoma said. "You'll have your men deal with the remains of the horse they butchered?"

  Bertram grunted and left, the warriors following behind him.

  Edoma turned to Fryda, her face hardened by anger. "What were you doing outside the walls? You could have been killed, or worse—been taken by a wraith." Jaruman went to speak, but Edoma snapped at him. "And you went with her? I never took you for a fool. You've seen what the wraiths can do."

  Surprised by Edoma's sudden wrath, Fryda stepped back.

  "You're not to leave the temple until all this is sorted," Edoma said to her. "You're not a free spirit. You've given yourself to Enlil. The temple is where you belong."

  "I'm still a novice."

  "And you'll be one forever if you continue."

  "I may be a Daughter," Fryda said, clenching her fists, "but I'm not your daughter."

  Edoma's eyes bubbled with tears, but none fell. She sniffed and stormed through the gates.

  The anger drained from Fryda. Now that she was thinking clearly, she thanked Enlil she hadn't said anything about Alfric.

  Jaruman glared at the men atop the parapets. "Had you not been here, I might have wet my blade with their blood."

  "Then I'm glad I was here." She sighed. "Edoma seemed so angry."

  "I suppose that means you won't be coming back to the tavern for a drink."

  Fryda shook her head. "I doubt I'll be able to go back there for a while. Maybe not ever."

  "Remember what I said. Not a word of Alfric to Edoma."

  Fryda didn't see how it would be possible to keep the promise. Eventually, Edoma would ask what she and Jaruman had been doing outside the gates. Then she would have to tell her more about the skinwalker that had touched her. Fryda doubted she would be able to contain her emotions if it came to speaking about that particular skinwalker.

  23

  Hiroc

  The domes of Enlil's Temple greeted Hiroc as he walked through the gates. He kept his eyes forward while maneuvering around the Daughters and their machines. It was a task made all the more difficult by the sound of crunching bones and the trickling of blood. By the time he reached the temple itself, sweat had glued his robes to his skin. He glanced back and immediately regretted it.

  A Daughter pushed her weight against a crank, and gears squeaked as they turned. Hanging from the top of the barbaric mechanism was a fresh corpse—a woman, not much older than twenty. The machine had consumed everything from the waist down. As the Daughter turned the crank, the corpse descended. The corpse's eyes were open, and her tongue drooped over her mouth. The puncture wounds in her neck made it clear how she had died. Another victim of the skinwalkers.

  The pupils moved. Hiroc's heart stopped until he realized that the black circles had been collections of flies eating at the soft matter.

  Wiping her forehead, the Daughter met Hiroc's eyes. The corner of her mouth turned up into a smile. Had seeing his disgust pleased her?

  Struggling to hold his breakfast in, Hiroc entered the temple. He hadn't visited it since he became an acolyte of the Holy Order. Not because he did
n't like Edoma or the Daughters—they'd been good to him all his life—rather, visiting Enlil's Temple was improper for someone consecrated to Aern.

  Sometimes Hiroc wondered whether he had made a mistake in choosing to become an acolyte of Aern. Ever since he was a child, he had a burning desire to please the gods, and it wasn't like he could have become a Daughter. The equipment between his legs forbade that.

  But Enlil had been the one to respond to his call, not Aern. The fire from the heavens had come at Enlil's name. The fire inside the Basilica commons had only reached out to him after calling upon Enlil. Invoking Aern had done nothing.

  Hiroc found the nearest Daughter. She was cleaning a statue of Enlil—a figure bathed in azure flames. The depiction was often called "the burning man." She looked at Hiroc's robes with surprise. This Daughter had none of the confidence as the one outside.

  "I'm not here to cause trouble," he said. Tensions between the Holy Order and the Daughters had grown lately. Those pilgrims who had been in Indham to pay homage to Aern had been forbidden from going to Tyme's Hill. Many had decided to offer their alms to Enlil instead. Things had only gotten worse after the wraiths had come two nights ago and Edoma had offered everyone refuge inside the temple. "Where is Mother Edoma?"

  The Daughter seemed relieved. "She's in the library."

  Walking the hallowed halls, marked with ancient paintings of the burning man, reminded Hiroc of being a child. Smiling, he remembered racing through the temple with Alfric, stolen cakes from the kitchen sitting at the bottom of their bellies, while the Daughters tried to catch them. But the brothers were too fast.

  Even though it had been four days ago, Hiroc's betrayal at the gates still made him feel ill. Where was Alfric now? Had he made it Eosorheim? Or had the wraiths gotten to him like they had so many others? The dungeons of Idmaer's Spire held at least a dozen skinwalkers now. But Hiroc didn't allow himself to think anything except good things about Alfric's quest. Anything other than thoughts of success wouldn't do.