Soul Weaver: A Fantasy Novel

by Trip Ellington

  Alban shook his head firmly. “Do you remember where we were before Rez found us?”

  Rori bit down hard on her lower lip, refusing to speak. Alban knew she remembered. He said, “Rori, what kind of empire is it that treats its people so? The say the Long Summer is a paradise. They say the Golden Empire is the greatest civilization the world has ever known.”

  Alban inclined his head forward and very deliberately spat in the dirt to show what he thought of that.

  Rori bit down even harder on her trembling lip. Deep down, she knew Alban was right. But what good was being right when it was going to get him killed?

  Nearby, a twig snapped audibly. It was a signal. Alban turned his attention back to the Norres estate and schooled his features. “Let’s go,” he said quietly.

  ***

  All across the city, skirmishes broke out between armed parties of Suncloak guardsmen and surprisingly well-organized mobs of shabbily dressed citizens, most often led by a handful of grizzled old troublemakers and thieves.

  Every man of the City Watch was on duty, thanks to the recent crime wave, and now every Suncloak fought for his life. In many quarters, particularly the lower market, it seemed as if the entire city had taken up arms against the guards.

  It would be a bloody day for the city of Solstice.

  ***

  Yet the Noble District sat wreathed in quiet peace. Chaos had broken out in every other district of the city. Distance-muffled sounds of fighting and strife drifted on the air, but here amongst the lavish mansions of the archons all was clam.

  Armsmen, gathering in the courtyards and near the gates of seven estates, heard the far-off ring of clashing swords and glanced around in nervous confusion.

  Today their lords and masters were to gather at the imperial palace, beyond the walls of Solstice. The men forming up in the courtyards had expected a tedious day of marching. From the sounds carried on the air from the rest of the city, most of them were revising their expectations.

  None of them expected what happened next.

  Bellowing hooligans burst forth from places of concealment, brandishing swords, daggers, and heavy clubs. They rushed forward, weapons raised high. Quick-thinking guards at three of the estates hurried to close the heavy gates before the attackers could breach the walls, but the onslaught was too sudden.

  Screaming rebels poured through the gates and onto the grounds of all seven of the occupied mansions. Rattled armsmen rushed forward to stop them. Men crashed together. Swords sliced through the air and collided, throwing sparks as they ground against each other. Reinforcements poured from the barracks of each estate, but the response was disorganized and confused.

  In the grand halls and foyers of six palatial estates, frightened archons peered through windows at the baffling scene outside, jaws dropped in disbelief. They had never seen anything like this. Some rushed to don armor, afterwards striding forth onto the battlefield to command their men personally. Others cowered back, clinging to the heavy iron chests filled with sparkling gems intended for the emperor’s tribute.

  From the window of his study atop the tallest tower of his estate, Murdrek Thorne looked down on the battle and laughed a dry cackle.

  Behind him, Stazzik cleared his throat. “My lord,” said the steward, his quavering voice betraying the man’s fear. “I see you were wise to post extra guardsmen to the dawn watch. Surely your forces will repel the invaders, but should we not retire ourselves to a place of safety?”

  Thorne spun on the steward, eyes flashing dangerously. Deciding he’d had enough of the man, despite his usefulness, Thorne raised a hand and wove soul energy into a violent, lancing assault that speared the frightened steward and threw him up against the wall hard enough to shatter bone. Stazzik shrieked in sudden agony before another tendril of the archon’s power curled around his head, pressing it back against the wall even as it tightened and forced his jaw closed.

  Thorne stepped forward menacingly, curling his fingers slowly into a fist. In his mind’s eye, the archon saw the wispy energy of his souls piercing Stazzik’s entire being with a thousand barbed hooks. Now he tightened the weave, drawing it back into himself. Despite the restraint that held his mouth firmly closed, Stazzik howled in pain. Then his soul ripped free and was snapped across the room to the murderous archon.

  Immediately, Stazzik’s body drooped limply and every trace of feeling humanity bled out of his eyes. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth. Thorne released the weave, allowing Stazzik to crumple on the floor. The soulless steward merely lay there, unmoving. He would die soon enough. Thorne swept past the corpse, relishing the thrill of absorbing a new soul as he stalked away down the corridor.

  ***

  Peele motioned to the other three men of his team, and quietly lowered himself through the skylight. The sounds of fighting from the streets beyond the walls had been the signal. Peele knew that even now, the five other teams he had assigned were moving into action.

  Archon Norres, helpfully enough, was fond of skylights. Other teams had infiltrated other mansions through wine cellars or private and seldom-used art galleries. Peele and his men dropped stealthily from the roof into Norres’own bedchamber.

  Crouching on the rug near the foot of the archon’s enormous, canopied bed, Peele quickly scanned the room. There was no one there. The sounds of fighting were harder to hear inside, but they were growing louder by the minute. Some of Alban’s men must have made it onto the grounds, possibly into the house itself. Peele smiled: so far, so good. He motioned to his men, and headed out of the bedchamber.

  He listened to the sounds of the house, trying to determine where the archon was. It was a good bet the gems they’d come for were close by. Peele grinned. He was hoping he might get to slit an archon’s throat today.

  ***

  In an alleyway two streets away from the Archons’Avenue, Shel and Kal paused behind a livery stable to discard the billowing cloaks they had worn on their stroll through the city. Beneath the flowery embroidered cloaks, they wore tight-fitting leather breeches and sleeveless vests.

  Kal wore half a dozen knives at her belt. More of the daggers were fitted in snug sheathes the honey-haired thief wore strapped to her calves and forearms. Discarding the bulky, lavender-hued cloak she had worn, Kal quickly checked each of her knives.

  Shel was likewise going over her weapons. Beneath her rose-colored cloak, she wore only a single knife at her belt. For this battle, she would rely on something far more powerful.

  The growing knot atop her Winterheart pine had reached its full size before they left the Grove. Detaching the growth, Shel had carried it with her to Solstice and worked hard on the midnight wood each night. She had poured her energies through it until she was thoroughly exhausted, but the wood had responded and formed itself to her will.

  Twin circlets of supple, intertwined midnight wood vines adorned her wrists. Her belt buckle was carved of the same sooty-black wood. The hilt of her knife was wrapped in the soft Winterheart bark, and small wooden charms were woven into her hair. These last were so delicately crafted it would have taken a master woodworker months to complete them all, though Shel had formed the tiny amulets over the course of six nights using only her mystical energy and the responsive cooperation of the wood itself.

  “Are you ready?” Shel asked when she had reassured herself that each of her midnight wood adornments was still in place.

  Kal nodded grimly.

  Without another word, Shel closed her eyes and began to weave. The hairs on Kal’s bare arms rose tingling as the invisible energies were focused and directed around her. She clenched her teeth and did her best to relax as Shel, with the help of her midnight wood jewelry, lifted both women clear off the ground and high up into the air.

  Chapter 22 - The Battle of Solstice

  Alban threw himself at the staggering armsman. Blood leaked from under the man’s helmet, staining his tunic and partially blotting out Murdrek Thorne’s coat of arms where it was blazoned o
n the soldier’s breast.

  The guardsman threw up his short sword defensively, but Alban ducked and twisted beneath the parry and buried his own sword in the soldier’s guts. Wrenching the sword free, Alban was already lunging toward his next opponent as the dying guard sank to the blood-splashed ground.

  Two men closed in on him from the sides. Alban set his feet, watching both men warily and holding his sword up and ready. To his left, another of Thorne’s men advanced implacably and menaced Alban with a two-handed broadsword. To the right, a pikeman in the colors of Archon La'kain lowered his vicious spear and crept forward.

  They were working together, Alban realized with a spike of worried disappointment. It was always a possibility, of course, but Alban and his men had been hoping for a disorganized response. If the armsmen of the various great houses ever got themselves into a united front, the day was going to get a lot bloodier and a lot harder to survive.

  He didn’t have time to think about that. Swinging into action, Alban ducked low and ran at the pikeman. The swordsman lunged after him, but his weapon was cumbersome and slowed his attack. The armsman for La'kain thrust out his long spear but Alban lurched aside and darted forward. Spinning into the attack, he sliced open the pikeman’s unprotected throat. The soldier dropped his pike, clutching with both hands at the blood-spurting wound and falling to his knees with a sickening gurgle of panic.

  Alban followed his spin through, facing back the way he had come. The berserker with the broadsword was almost on him, massive blade raised high above his head and roaring a challenge. Alban stepped forward, ducking low as he moved to catch the swordsman’s waist with his shoulder. Standing upright, Alban tumbled the swordsman over his back and whirled around to stab down at the man before he could get back to his feet.

  ***

  Timbek Norres stood trembling in his finery, hovering protectively over six heavy iron chests and surrounded by a dozen liveried bodyguards. The men were lightly armed; until the fighting erupted, they had been carrying the burdensome chests laden with soulgems. Now, they clustered around their lord and cast nervous glances back and forth amongst themselves.

  Ranged about the archon as they were, each man’s eyes were glued on the massive front doors of the mansion. They gave no thought to an attack from within the house itself.

  Peele and his three companions fell on them from behind, creeping silently forward to within striking distance before exploding into action with a unanimous battle cry.

  Timbek Norres shouted with dismay, shrinking down among his riches and covering his head with both hands. His guards drew their weapons, little more than ornate, ceremonial daggers. The thieves bore blades of similar length, but without ostentatious jewels or gilding; their knives didn’t sparkle or gleam, but were every bit as deadly.

  It was over in moments, and the six guards lay scattered in death. Still cowering, with his body thrown over two of the heavy chests, Timbek Norres looked up at the advancing thieves and let loose a whimper of terror.

  Peele looked at the archon with undisguised contempt. “I thought we came to steal from a man,” he said loudly, and his three companions brandished their bare-bladed knives and shared a nasty laugh. “Instead, I find a worm in silken robes. Pity.”

  Peele stepped forward and made to lean down and seize the archon, lift him up, and slit his throat. Timbek Norres watched in abject terror. Peele gripped the silken collar and hauled the sniveling archon to his feet, drawing back his other hand in the same movement.

  As Peele prepared to strike, a sudden and remarkable transformation came over the archon’s face. The sniveling terror was gone in a flash, replaced by a snide cunning and predatory triumph. Norres threw up his arms, and a blast of invisible energy catapulted Peele back from him. The knife dropped from the sneak-thief’s hand, clattering on the floor even as Peele himself crashed against the banister of a grand staircase.

  Instantly, the knife leapt back up from the floor. Wielded by invisible hands, the dagger seemed to hurl itself through the air. The flashing blade caught the nearest of Peele’s companions in the throat, the force of the blow knocking him off his feet even as the first gout of blood spurted forth.

  Peele shook himself, struggling to rise from where he had fallen. Archon Timbek Norres glared down at him and laughed evilly. Recovering themselves, Peele’s remaining two companions jumped forward and the battle was truly joined.

  ***

  Kal couldn’t help herself. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and whispered a prayer to every god she knew as her body rocketed through the air on a collision course with Thorne’s tower. Shel whipped the other woman through the narrow window and deposited her gently on the floor, following half a second later.

  Kal opened her eyes and looked around, breathing heavily. She looked at Shel and shook her head. “Never again,” the honey-haired thief intoned.

  Shel grinned in answer, and started for the door. She had scouted Thorne’s estate herself three nights earlier, and marked this window for the light that burned late into the night. It was Thorne’s private study. The walls were lined with shelves bearing leather-bound tomes and collected objects of mystical significance. A heavy desk near the center of the room held a scattering of papers.

  Near the open door that led into the rest of the house, a small pool of congealing blood spread around a crumpled and misshapen body. Of the archon himself, there was no sign.

  Shel strode past the broken corpse without a glance, heading out into the corridor to search for her quarry. Kal paused in the doorway, looking down at the dead man. He moaned softly in pain, startling her.

  “He’s alive,” she hissed.

  In the hall, Shel glanced over her shoulder. “But not a threat,” she observed. “Keep moving.”

  Kal blinked at Shel’s disregard for the injured man. As one of Thorne’s men, he was technically the enemy. Whatever had happened to him, though, wasn’t the result of their plans. Thorne himself must have done this. The servant was dying. There really wasn’t anything she could do about that – but maybe Shel could. It didn’t seem right to simply ignore him.

  “Shel,” she said urgently. Again, the brown-haired weaver turned to look over her shoulder.

  “I said forget him, Kal,” she snapped. Her eyes lit with a momentary flash of energy. “Keep moving.”

  Reluctantly, Kal left the injured man and followed Shel deeper into the house. The two women could hear voices far below on the ground floor. The clash of steel rang outside, muffled by the walls but just loud enough to hear. Where was Thorne?

  On the King’s Road, the vile archon had sprung a cruel trap and turned their ambush around. He’d remained concealed until their force was fully committed, only then revealing himself and rapidly weaving their doom. Kal expected Thorne would want to defeat their assault personally yet again, but when and where would he choose to strike?

  Shel strode confidently down the stone-walled corridor, not pausing at any of the doors they passed. She didn’t need to guess what Thorne would do. With every sense heightened and extended by her massive store of energy, she could feel the archon. He was likely aware of her in the same fashion, no doubt sensing her as she drew nearer with every step.

  In her mind’s eye, he was a massive presence waiting two floors down. She could feel his confidence and his contempt for her. She ignored it, and searched the house again. She knew there would be another soulweaver, just as there had been at the Sorrel estate. While the archon lured her to him like a powerful beacon, the other would stand back in relative shadow, eclipsed by the massive storehouse of power that was Murdrek Thorne.

  There. It was faint, so faint she nearly missed it. Shel knew she would have missed it, if not for the enhancement granted by her midnight wood ornaments. A tiny glow, a single firefly hidden beside a raging bonfire.

  Shel smiled darkly. Thorne had no idea what was coming for him. She found the stairs, and started down with Kal following hesitantly behind her.

  *
**

  Two dozen Suncloaks jogged briskly up the High Street, armor clanking and swords rattling on their hips. Up ahead, where the Street of Roses crossed High Street and the main thoroughfare became the Archons’Avenue, a milling crowd of nearly a hundred angry citizens stood resolute and watched them come.

  Collam stood in front of the ragged mob, and lifted his quarterstaff high overhead. His men were scattered amongst the crowd, and so were a number of old friends. But most of them were townsfolk, downtrodden and disgruntled to be sure but hardly soldiers. A few tavern ruffians here and there, but most of these people were merchants who just wanted a better life. Collam didn’t know how long they would hold.

  The Suncloaks were almost on them. Seeing that the crowd refused to stand aside, the leader of the soldiers drew his sword and waved it in the air.

  “Stand aside,” he bellowed angrily, “or by Dunmir, we'll carve the lot of you!”

  In answer, the milling crowd roared its collective anger and surged forward. Precious few wielded swords, many more held knives better suited to crafting than carving. Others held stout clubs, and some – like Collam himself – carried stout quarterstaves.

  The Suncloaks, determined to reach the Noble District and the fierce battle that had broken out there, readied their swords and charged.

  ***

  Timbek Norres might have been a dancer. The archon stood in the center of the hall, feet firmly planted. But from the waist up, he was in constant motion. Swaying at the hips, he dipped and bucked and twisted as his arms moved deftly, tracing graceful patterns through the air.

  Another of Peele’s men was down. The sneak-thief dodged a blast of solidified air, diving and rolling across the floor. Coming up from the roll, he shot a desperate look to his last remaining companion. If Dorson caught the look, he gave no sign of it.

  With a furious roar, Dorson hurled himself at the archon. Norres whipped both hands round and pushed toward the charging thief. His hands glowed with spectral light that pulsed and then leapt suddenly from his fingertips. The air split and crackled and burst into flame. The fireball caught Dorson full in the chest, igniting his leather hauberk.