One thought dominated his mind as he bolted. They will not see me. They will not see me. I am not here. He begged for it, demanded it. In his heart, what he wanted would be. There could be no other outcome.
When he darted through the same gap where the horse died minutes earlier, no derin sprang onto him. The corpse was still there, mangled and bloody, barely recognizable as a mare. Exultant, a grin spread across his face.
A thud sounded less than a dozen feet away. From the corner of his eyes, he caught sight of a white blur the size of a pony. The reek of a wild animal assaulted his nostrils. What had been joy quickly degenerated into a fear so strong it set his feet churning faster, his heart keeping pace.
He bounded up among the trees, leaping from one branch to the next. Each jump was a combination of instinct and skill honed from practice. He didn’t need to think, only to react.
The white blur keeping pace through the brush below pushed him harder.
Legs burning from the effort, he had no idea how long he fled. Every sound brought nightmares of padded paws giving chase. Visions of large canines tearing into his flesh drove him faster. Cool breezes whipped by him. Sweat brought tears to his eyes, its salt making him lick his lips. Trunks, branches, and brush whipped by. Shadows grew teeth. Snagging twigs were claws. Every indistinct patch or mound became the white derin.
In the midst of his flight, he lost himself. He floated. No branch could block his path. No foliage could hinder him. No root or vine could trip him.
When he sensed full daylight with no shadows, no trees in his peripheral vision, grass under his feet, he dared a glance behind him. He was clear of the Parmien Forest.
A roar echoed, rolling across the plains.
Keedar smiled, knowing it was a cry of utter frustration. As he ran, the smile grew to a pout. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Neither Uncle Keshka nor Father had shown up as promised. The pain from his wounds could not compare to that in his heart.
Price of Power
Sword in hand, Winslow took in the carnage around him. Bodies of both derins and men littered the dirt and grass within the clearing. Cries and moans rose from the wounded. The stench of offal and blood was so strong he vomited several times. He retched again at the sight of entrails spilling from a guard he knew, one with whom he often played dice. Montien was his name. He had a wife and two boys. Most of the dead guards had a wife and children; family they would never see again.
Fighting back tears, he lost track of the deceased. Those living were the men who’d ran off after the false scent from the derins. And yet, it hadn’t been their return that saved him and Gaston. Count Cardiff had been responsible for their survival.
His father had fought like an animal, yelling and shouting, almost as if he reveled in the bloodshed. The spear had become a blur that stabbed, blocked, rapped, whirled, and killed. The wounds his father suffered went ignored. Still that hadn’t been enough. Until whatever power his father unleashed sent the creatures running.
My father saved us. He repeated the words. A need to lean down and hug the count threatened to overwhelm him, regardless of what the man might think of the gesture. Knowing his father would consider such a display a sign of weakness, Winslow molded his spine into steel as he took in the dead and wounded.
Wisemen, dressed in their blue and red robes, picked their way among the bodies, bending to tend to those who still lived, or indicating the dead to trailing guards. For the dead, they paused to utter a prayer. Guards dragged bodies, derin and human alike, piling them on the backs of whatever mounts still lived.
Over to the side, a wiseman stitched up a gash on Gaston’s arm. Teeth gritted, Gaston groaned every time the wiseman pushed the needle through and pulled to tighten the catgut suture. Winslow had somehow managed to fend off a derin without sustaining any wounds. Its blood stained his sword red. With the realization that no beasts remained to attack, he finally sheathed the weapon.
A hand on his hilt, Winslow tried to keep his voice even as he addressed his father. “What did you do to make them leave like that?”
Stretched on his side, Count Cardiff had another wiseman, this one a white-haired High Priest of the Dominion, rubbing a pungent mixture over his wounds. Winslow could tell the priest did more by the soul he sensed gathered around the old man.
“I frightened them with my looks.”
“This isn’t time for jests.”
“On the contrary, if there was a time to laugh, it would be now. A celebration of life.” Count Cardiff winced. “Appreciation for not ending up as dinner. But if you must know, I drove them into a frenzy and gave them the dreg’s scent.” He grunted as the High Priest’s hands dug into several inch wide slits on his abdomen. Red bubbled up, and then dribbled down his side.
Winslow hissed, the concern he felt for his father fleeing. “Father, why would you do such a thing? He saved us. He saved me.”
The High Priest’s hands paused before they continued working again, kneading flesh and tissue together. It took Winslow a moment before he realized the concoction contained meat, blood, and what appeared to be fur.
“Get a hold of your anger, boy, and address me properly.”
Winslow hesitated before he dipped his head. “Sorry, Count Cardiff.”
“Much better. Anyway, it was either us or him,” Ainslen said without a trace of regret. “I’d choose us every time.”
“What if he’s dead?”
“Then it’s another useless dreg gone. One less in the Smear that I’d have to deal with at some point. Remember the purpose of all this. Our day is coming. When it arrives, we will be the richest, most influential house. Nothing and no one must stand in the way of that accomplishment.”
His father’s callous disregard for life always set Winslow’s blood to a boil. More so now than before. Keedar was the product of his environment, and maybe a thief, but he deserved better than to die to the derins. Not only that, but Winslow blamed himself. He should have sent Keedar back when Gaston appeared with him. The count would have been upset, may have meted out punishment, but he’d experienced his father’s wrath in the past. He could manage.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to shed a tear for him,” Count Cardiff said. “Besides, he might be alive. The derins sounded rather unfulfilled a while ago. But if the idea of your little friend dying bothers you, then perhaps you’re not ready to apprentice with the Blades.”
Winslow had no idea what to say. Any retort might be perceived the wrong way. Keedar’s predicament was a concern, but not one for which he was willing to sacrifice his apprenticeship. The thought made him feel more than a little guilty.
“That’s what I thought. What I did might seem harsh, but I have always warned you of being too trusting and about making friends. The way I gained my position, and the method in which you will hold onto it when the day comes, is by trusting no one, and doing whatever you must. Success and survival go hand in hand.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
“No. You will. Any other way and you have already failed.”
“It is done, my lord,” the priest said.
“Thank you, High One.” Count Cardiff ran his hand along his ribs and grimaced. Catgut showed where the priest had stitched up the wound. “I lost a lot of blood today. I might need a small transfusion from you.”
Winslow nodded. This wouldn’t be the first time his father had requested such. When the count had been wounded during duels on three other occasions, he had needed blood infusions while the High Priests worked on healing him.
Count Cardiff broke into a grin as he peered around them. “I must say, this was a surprisingly successful hunt.”
At a loss for words, Winslow clenched his fist. “And the dead?”
“As with any war, there’s bound to be casualties.”
Winslow opened his mouth to tell his father this wasn’t a war. But the count already knew that. Instead, he shook his head and sighed.
“Help me up, my boy. And if
you doubt me concerning the hunt’s results, just ask High Priest Jarod here. He can tell you.”
Without waiting, Jarod answered. “It was a very good hunt. We could hope for less death to our own, but at least no noblemen died. The riches Mandrigal Hill will earn from these derins will put them well ahead of the other houses in the king’s graces.”
“See? Even the Order of the Dominion approves of what we’ve done here. What more can you ask?” Count Cardiff held out an arm.
“Nothing, I guess.” Winslow pulled his father to his feet.
“No matter what,” Count Cardiff limped over to the white ash tree, “always look for a way to profit from the worst situations. There is always something to earn, even if it’s only a lesson.”
“What’s to be learned here?” Winslow pointed to all the dead and to the red-stained ground.
“Never underestimate anyone or anything that can draw on the power of its soul,” Count Cardiff said in a grim tone.
When Winslow considered the fight, the screams, the way the derins reacted, leading them into a trap, how his father battled, the power he’d expended, he couldn’t help but nod in agreement.
The Ebon Blade
Sitting in the study, Keedar gritted his teeth as his father unwound the bandages from his ribs. They stunk of blood and medicine. Hell, the wound hurt. Keedar hissed, sucking in air between his teeth.
“Easy,” Delisar said, “remember, what you feel is more mental than physical. Your mind can make flesh ignore pain. A strong soul conquers pain. Repeat it to your yourself, make it your will.”
Keedar tried to do as told, but the day’s memories overwhelmed him. “You said you were going to be there to save me if something happened,” Keedar muttered. “You and Uncle Keshka. When the time came, none of you were there.” The tears had already dried, but the feeling of abandonment still stung.
Delisar hung his head. “I’m sorry, son. I tried, but I underestimated the count’s skill. He managed to throw us off his trail. The important thing is that you survived against all those derins and the count himself.”
“I—” Keedar was on the verge of saying that he almost died, but the last bit of his father’s words concerning the count gave him pause. “What do you mean by surviving the count himself?”
“Many practitioners employ the second of the outer cycles, koren, to slow aging by decreasing the amount of soul they use. You on the other hand, come so close to stopping your soul completely that you hide it, which makes you unnoticeable. The derin should never have spotted you afterward. Which tells me the count must have done something.” Delisar squinted at him. “I can see the residue of a meld used on you. It’s,” he sniffed, “some type of scent, like an attraction, possibly geared toward animals. I’d be willing to wager it brought the derin after you.”
“Is that even possible?”
“Yes. Certain melders can detach a part of their soul and attach it to someone or something else. It’s done using sera. However, not only can the person project their soul, but they’re able to apply various properties to it.”
“The count’s an Alchemist,” Keedar said. Although he couldn’t manifest something physical, his ability to hide also relied on his use of sera to project the idea of his invisibility onto another person. As one of the three skills in the median cycle, sera was a necessity to be recognized as a melder.
“You’ve no doubt seen Blades use lightning?”
Keedar nodded.
“I’m not speaking of sending short bursts through the air, but having it around their arms or body,” Delisar said. “To accomplish that, they apply the properties of a lightning strike to their soul, thus copying it.” Keedar nodded again. “Well, whoever did this to you, I’m assuming it was the count; he detached a tiny sliver of his soul, mimicked some scent, perhaps one for mating or food, and applied it to you. A skill like that requires great strength and finesse few outside the Blades could match.” Brows furrowing, Delisar drew his mouth into tight line.
Keedar mulled over his father’s words, anger building as he considered that Count Cardiff had used him in an attempt to secure his own safety. From the reports detailing who survived, the man had succeeded. There was no telling how far the count would take matters once he discovered Keedar still lived. Absently, he stroked his glove. After a moment, he stopped, and looked at the soft leather.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the derins? That they can meld? And how wearing a part of them can increase a person’s soul,” Keedar asked, voice soft.
“Because if you kept all I’ve taught you in mind, you would know to expect any living being to be able to harness its soul, whether consciously or not. As for the leather, it was to give you an edge, something to use as you learned.”
Soul existed in every living thing. Keedar had allowed the first concept to slip his mind. Still, the idea of using the derins grated at him. “What makes what we do, using the derins, any different from what the nobles have done to our ancestors, to any of us who have the traits they seek.”
“Derins are animals, son.”
“That doesn’t make it right.” Keedar kept his voice low, holding in the smoldering he felt inside. He balled his hand into a fist. “I’m sure the nobility see us as animals, perhaps less than animals. It doesn’t excuse what they have done to us.”
“Life is full of harsh lessons. In this case, it’s about our survival and using any advantage we can find.”
“The same as they once did in the past to bring our people to the brink of extinction,” Keedar argued.
“Yes. And from the way our people acted then, we deserved it. Power can do things to a man.” Delisar’s features softened. “It changes him, makes him forget what is right or wrong, makes him lose sight of his values, his friends … The same can be said for a need to exist, to live that one last breath. Existence is a balance of life, death, weakness, and strength. Son, there are many things I wish I could change, but for now, I will take what we have. Without it, you wouldn’t exist today.”
Those last words gave Keedar pause. He took in his gloves and the feel of his greaves against his shins. Could he give them up if they meant his death? He couldn’t picture himself doing so, not even now. “One day, I’ll change all this.”
“You can try … you can try.”
Keedar inhaled, long and slow. “Are there other advantages gained from derins or any other creatures that I need to know of?”
“Other beasts?” Delisar answered, brow wrinkling, “I cannot think of any, but I’m not well versed in the wilds. That is more your uncle’s area. As for the derins themselves, or obtaining soul from another person, it depends on the circumstance. Control is the biggest difference between a melder and any person or creature that happens to draw on its essence unawares. More often than not, in a normal person, actively using their soul might happen once or twice in a lifetime at most. For a melder, our advantage is also our disadvantage. Melders’ lifespans gradually shorten with the increased use of their souls. Although we replenish our energy, there’s a piece of us that’s lost each time. A tiny piece, but over the years, it adds up. Using soul from another source helps to counteract the effect.”
“But I’ve heard of melders who live for centuries,” Keedar said. “Does soul residue from something dead last forever?”
“No, it doesn’t. Such melders live particularly long through the maintenance of cycles rather than actually using an ability. They rely on the natural build up and balance of koren, which keeps the body from breaking down.”
Keedar nodded, understanding now why he sometimes felt refreshed when he meditated or when he used his skill to hide. “So, what now as far as Count Cardiff and your plan? He made it obvious that he knew I’ll become a melder. He even suggested I go to the Golden Spires and report to the examiners.”
“A death sentence.”
“According to him, he can have me pardoned by claiming I’m his son.”
“Not surprising for him.”
A hand stroking his chin, Delisar asked, “What makes you so certain?”
“He sent a Blade to do his work for him. A huge Thelusian. He’s supposed to return with the heads of the three Snakes who tried to attack Winslow and Gaston. If not them, then any three.”
Delisar swore under his breath. “You met Sorinya the Ebon Blade?”
For the first time, Keedar had the sense that his father was afraid. “Yes.”
“This isn’t good.” Delisar shook his head. “I expected the count to react but not like this. Sorinya has never been known to constrain himself.” Father began to pace. “He’s a murderer, but he’s also the closest thing to a Dracodar. He’s an offshoot, a philodar. Like the others of his kind, Sorinya has mastered at least seven cycles and his abilities span across three types. His main specialty is that of a Manifestor. The other Blades you’ve seen in the practice yard who can create actual weapons and the like from their souls have all learned from him.”
Keedar grew more shocked with each revelation of the Thelusian’s power. He knew his father’s skill set might be comparable, and maybe the other Consortium Heads, but Keedar was no fool. Whatever Father planned would mean going up against several hundred men and women as strong as Sorinya. How did they hope to accomplish their goal?
“Listen,” Father said, “I have to warn the Snakes. Sorinya will take his due regardless, but we cannot afford too large a confrontation. I may be gone a few days and can’t risk you being here should Sorinya decide to expand the count’s vengeance. I’m sending you to the River Quarter. It’s Jarina Hill territory. Considering their feud with Mandrigal, Ainslen will think twice before having his men step foot in that territory.”
“Father, The Smear is what I know. I can’t—”
“You’re worried for me.” Delisar smiled. “I can hold my own should it come to a fight. However, you’re in no shape to run. Whatever pain I caused you today was unintended. And again I’m sorry. You mean more to me than anything in this life. So please, do as I ask.”
Game of Souls Page 10