Game of Souls

by Terry C. Simpson

  “And you’re certain they can defeat what we will face?” Impressed, Ainslen still stared at the soldiers.

  “Positive.”

  “I admire your confidence, Seligula, but I have seen your kind before. Brash, overenthusiastic, infatuated with your own prowess. All like you have fallen.” Ainslen eyed the general, wondering if he’d made the wrong choice. “The men you face are Blades, born fighters. Bred to kill. Trained in every deadly art. They will not give quarter. They know no retreat. Fear is a word they do not recognize. Pain to them is as a gnat alighting on their skin.”

  Seligula’s lips spread into a thin, scornful smile. “Tell me, my dear count, what happens to a blade when it has not been put to use, when it has sat unoiled, when it has not seen a whetstone in years?” His expression became stony. “It grows dull, useless. Worse yet, the metal rusts. Then it is easily broken. So it is with these ... Blades of yours.”

  “Let us both hope so, for your sake.” Despite the need for victory, a small part of Ainslen also wished the general’s assessment was incorrect.

  “You are a man of many plots, Count Cardiff.” Seligula shook his head, the bald sides oiled and shiny. A strip of braids began at his crown, and ran in a neat line until they fell down his back. “Be warned, crossing us would not go well for you and yours. Remember, I have seen them fight.”

  Inadvertently, Ainslen gazed across to where heads hung on pikes along the bulwark of the Marish stronghold, Ernassa. The city was once said to be impregnable with its great walls and position set into a mountainside with no other approaches than by the sea, which led to a winding staircase carved into the cliff, or up a narrow pass known as the Bloody Corridor. Not even the Kasinian Empire had ever managed to breach the city. Smoke billowed up from Ernassa’s carcass. Blackened, gaping rents showed along the walls facing the ocean. Several towers seen above the bulwark were broken, as if a massive hand had punched a hole through their sides. Ash fell in a sooty cloud, at times swirling in a western wind that stank of charred wood and flesh.

  “Point taken. However, I would worry more about the Kheridisians. Skirting them is not a wise decision.”

  “In due time, they too will fall.” Seligula waved off Ainslen a little bit too nonchalantly, the tightness around his eyes speaking of frustration and a dislike to being coached in strategy. “If you must know, having access to your land will work toward that goal.”

  The answer was fair enough to Ainslen. “As soon as you have delivered on your promise, I will make my move,” Ainslen said. He’d tried his best to curtail his excitement, but he could feel the thrill easing up his spine.

  Seligula nodded toward several slaves. Bracelets on their wrists clinking, two bent to pick up a grey, metallic container. It reminded Ainslen of a coffin. He’d seen the same featureless receptacle within a history book’s pages during his research. The material supposedly trapped soul in any form.

  “How am I to believe this contains what you say it does?” Ainslen raised a questioning eyebrow. A part of him wanted to rush over to the container, rip it open, and use its contents for himself. He took a deep breath, forcing down a shudder as he considered the power lying only a few feet away. All in due time.

  “Your own Blades saw us defeat what it holds. If their testimony is not enough, I suggest you hire better men.”

  “Very well.” He had not come this far and gained this much by trusting any one man’s words. At some point, he would inspect the contents.

  “I can see your mind at work,” Seligula said. “If you open the case prior to its use, your prize will lose some potency.”

  Convenient. “Well, you gave me a warning earlier, so I return one in kind.” Ainslen wore his best scowl. The general’s attitude had needled him ever since they met. One day, Seligula would rue the moment he was spit from the womb. “Should this be any sort of deception, a deep enough hole does not exist to hide you and your kind.”

  Seligula threw his head back and laughed, high, hearty, and shrill. When he finished, he wiped at his watery eyes. “I will take your words into consideration.” He choked back another chortle.

  Face heated at the man’s reaction, Ainslen turned to where two of his Blades waited a few feet away. “Bring that,” he indicated the container. “It’s past time for us to leave.” When he faced Seligula once more, the general was already walking away.

  “I look forward to our next meeting,” Seligula called, a hint of merriment still in his voice. Not once did he look back.

  An awful sense of dread filled Ainslen for a moment. He gazed at the heads along Ernassa’s walls, picturing their blank stares taking him in, their lips whispering ill tidings. The reek of cooked flesh and burned wood threatened to overwhelm him. He coughed. Deep inside, he lacked Seligula’s enthusiasm for their next encounter.

  Kesta Rostlin stepped up beside him. “That man gives me the chills.”

  “Me too,” Ainslen admitted grudgingly. “But sometimes we must make deals with monsters to gain what we wish.”

  “Are you certain we can defeat them if this goes awry?”

  “I do.” Ainslen hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt.

  The Undertow

  Carrying a bundle wrapped in cloth in one hand, Keedar surveyed the buildings. The main edifice in Pauper’s Circle was a reflection of the area: charred, shingles missing, wood rotted, with lifeless eyes for windows. Since the Night of the Blades, only the hardiest and most destitute still resided within spitting distance of the Circle. If the rest of the Smear was laden with refuse along the streets, then Pauper’s Circle was a veritable dump. And it reeked like one. The cold air helped dampen the stench, but not enough to prevent Keedar from feeling as if he’d spew his dinner. Garbage was piled so high a person would need to climb over to gain access to the alleys and buildings on the other side, unless they knew the citadel’s tunnels, specifically those within the Smear. With one last glance at where his mother had burned, Keedar took a deep breath, pulled a scarf up over his mouth, and entered the tunnel.

  Once he ventured deep enough that darkness devoured him, he stopped. Inside the shaft felt colder than outside. He closed his eyes and concentrated, delving into his soul around his eyes, calling on tern. From pressure points around his body, he siphoned a miniscule piece of energy and added it to his eyes. Heeding his father’s warning about weakening other parts of his body when using tern, he compensated by making his sintu thicker, near solid.

  When he opened his eyes, the tunnel appeared to have a dim glow. Not as bright as daylight or even an oil lamp, but it allowed him to see a few feet ahead in abject darkness. Tiny eyes by the hundreds glinted like glittering coals. He cringed at the number of rats before he set off. Water trickled down the walls, its tinkles an odd counterpoint to the rodents voicing their displeasure at his presence. He sloshed through all manner of filth, much of it writhing with its own life. More than once he kicked off rats that decided to take their protests another step further. They squealed then. When he reached where the tunnel split four ways, he headed to the left. Something bigger than a rodent splashed nearby. Keedar was glad for the partial darkness. If he’d seen whatever it was, he might have been inclined to flee. Instead, knowing the tunnels like he did, he trudged on.

  He arrived at a blank wall blocking his path. Stretching his hands out, he felt around for where the wooden panel should be. In daylight, it looked like any other part of the wall. Once he located the piece, he rapped three short times, followed by two more, and then another three. Nothing changed about the surface in front of him, but he got the distinct sensation that he was being watched. Bumps raised on his skin.

  Moments passed filled with the drip, drip of water, the splashes from the sewer’s dwellers, rats’ squeaks and squeals, claws scrabbling on stone, his breathing, and the nauseating stench. The grind of well-oiled gears joined the noises, followed by a low rumble. Slowly, the wall slid to one side.

  A long hallway stretched before him like a road to one o
f the purgatories. Torches in sconces threw light along its length, but even they weren’t enough to defeat the shadows that capered with the crackling flames. Dressed in deep blue, silent guards hugged the spaces between each torch. The insignia of a ship glinted on their lapels.

  Without his night vision, they would have fit the descriptions of the Hells’ Angels waiting to escort the condemned. With it, they were members of Father’s guild: the Shipmen.

  Keedar stepped inside. The wall closed behind him.

  “Yes, Martel, I know you’re there,” Keedar said, voice echoing.

  An indistinct blur on his right became the Sword, who called the Undertow his home. The man’s prowess in stealth was second only to some of the Blades.

  Martel dipped his head. “I still say it isn’t fair that one as young as you should be able to see or sense me so easily. Even Delisar has trouble.”

  Keedar had no intention in telling the man it was no easy feat. Instead, he shrugged. “Some people are better at some things than others. Isn’t that what you and Father always say when you’re teaching me?”

  “Your arrogance doesn’t help either.”

  Keedar bowed. “I learned from the best.”

  Martel’s teeth flashed in the dark. “Indeed, you did. Well, let’s not keep your father waiting.” They headed deeper into the Undertow.

  Kasandar was a citadel built upon the corpses of many cities and with many lives. As above, the dead left their marks here in the Undertow. Metal and glass glinted from the walls around him. Statues peeked from among rubble, heralds of an era gone by. What they walked on might have been a street, the flagstones below them broken and crumbling. Keedar could picture a wide avenue and some king in his coach pulled by fabled ereskars, the giant beasts flicking their man-sized, round ears, swishing their tails, and baying as they lumbered on, each step an earthquake’s rumble. The Undertow was as much a part of the citadel as any other, with the folks of every race who couldn’t find a home above or lacked heat during the frigid winters, deciding to live within Kasandar’s ancient flesh like parasites. The farther away Keedar traveled from the sewers, the more the odors changed. Now, the air held a mixture of mustiness, rust, dry rot, and mold. A few hundred feet deeper, he picked out incense: saffron and a hint of jasmine to be exact.

  “I see you’re ready for tonight.” Martel broke the silence. He nodded to Keedar’s choice of grey and black cloth in imitation of the Snakes. “I suppose that’s your change?”

  Keedar held up the bundle. “The finest noble’s clothing a silver round could buy.”

  Martel whistled. “You could have picked up some lovelies with that.”

  “I could but then my father would have my head.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting you do it. But to be honest, Delisar has no concept of fun. He lost that when …” Martel’s voice trailed off.

  Knowing what the Sword was going to say, Keedar fell into silence. The last thing he needed tonight were thoughts and dreams of Mother. His father had assured him that the upcoming attack was the first major step in repaying those responsible for her death. Heart heavy, he let out a sigh. Perhaps tonight Father would begin to lift some of the weight, ease some of the burden and grief, the deep-rooted anger he carried like a mantle.

  They turned off through an archway and into a side lane. The lighting here was so bright Keedar shaded his eyes. He released his tern, allowing his night vision to dissipate. It took a few moments for the effect to wear off, but when it did, they were in a well-illuminated area with roaring braziers and several structures, each converted from old ruins. Men and women in Shipmen garb bustled about purposefully, making last plans. Young boys ran back and forth with notes and messages from one section to another. A few acknowledged Martel with nods or quick bows.

  When they reached the central room, Martel opened the door and ushered Keedar in. Oil lamps lit the room, and a brazier lent its heat. Books by the stacks leaned against walls, or were strewn across the tables and chairs. On one table sat a half-eaten meal. Father was poring over a map, pointing out something to several hard-eyed men. Each was dressed as a noble. The men nodded their understanding.

  One man appeared to disagree. He was taller than the others, all muscle and sinew. White streaked his beard and mustache, his hair was snow, but Uncle Keshka’s disposition spoke of a younger man, one in his prime. A sword stood out in a scabbard on his hip, its hilt unremarkable. He and Delisar argued out of earshot. Finally, Uncle Keshka threw his hands up and stalked toward the door.

  When he saw Keedar, his eyes narrowed. He drew abreast and looked him up and down like a drillmaster inspecting a raw recruit. Tenderness showed in his expression. “I pray he doesn’t make this mistake, son. If he does, there will be nothing but the sorrows for you. I’ll wait as long as I can.” Without waiting for a reply he left.

  Keedar frowned at his uncle’s words. He looked from Father to the closed door and back again. Still confused, he walked over to Delisar.

  “Right on time,” Father said before turning to his men, shaking each hand in turn, and watching them take their leave. “Martel, if you would be so kind to make sure I’m not disturbed.” Delisar rolled the map and tucked it under one arm.

  “Yes, sir.” The Sword slipped from the room.

  “Well,” Father’s gaze roved over Keedar, “I can’t say I like you in the Snake’s colors, but it has to be done. Remember—”

  “I know, Father. Only stay as long as needed for you to use me as a locator. Are you certain the count will be unable to disrupt it this time?”

  “I’ve taken extra precautions so rest assured.”

  “What if something should go wrong?” As much as he hated the possibility, Keedar knew it had to be considered. Father always stressed trying to prepare for any eventuality.

  “Then you head to Uncle Keshka’s without fail.”

  “Through the pass?”

  “Or by any other means.”

  Keedar’s brows climbed his forehead. He hoped it would not come to such a choice.

  Father strode over and hugged him. Taken by surprise, Keedar automatically returned the gesture. After a moment, Father held him away, peering into his face.

  “This has been a long time coming, son. The road from here will only grow more dangerous. Your uncle argues against this, but we must make a stand now. This is the best time with the Day of Accolades soon upon us. If all goes well, in a few weeks, we’ll be well away from Kasandar and any troubles our people face. We’ll be returning one day, not as beggars or outcasts, hiding who or what we are, but as saviors, rescuing the kingdom from its greatest enemy.”

  “Who? The Farlanders?”

  Stories along the docks had increased of late, saying that the Farlanders had invaded along Marissinia’s eastern coast. Supposedly, they were unstoppable, having conquered every land across the Renigen Sea. More than one ship had returned from those ports bearing the news and the Farlands flag: an ereskar with a man atop. From all accounts, the creatures had died long ago. The sailors claimed the contrary, going so far as to state that the Farlanders rode the beasts like horses. Keedar was confident in the Blades’ ability to stop this threat. If the Marishmen, with their renowned swordsmanship, metal armor, and synchronized phalanxes didn’t defeat them, then the giant Thelusians surely would. Even then, there was still the Steppes of the World and the Bloody Corridor to cross.

  “Yes and no,” Delisar answered. “First we rescue the kingdom from itself as your mother dreamed of doing.” His voice hardened. “The reason we suffer is because of the kingdom’s greed for more power rather than protecting the people. The willingness to kill, eradicate an entire race for personal gain, for something they were not born with. Unless, we let it be known that we’re no one’s meat, the trend will continue.” He paused. “Why do you think the Farlanders crossed the sea?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s for us. For what’s left of us. To exact revenge and claim the remainder of what the
y think they own. Today, we embark on a goal began centuries ago in preparation for their coming. Winning is the only way we survive. Anything less is death. Should we fail we become what you see down here,” Delisar pointed at the history books and old maps, “memories. Now come, there’s much you must learn about the box.”

  Rekindled Trust

  Much had changed about the Golden Spires. Unlike Ainslen’s previous visit, King’s Blades by the hundreds, separated by rank, stood in neat rows along the causeway that led to the entrance. Sintu’s faint glow encompassed each of them. Along the wall carved from the same stone and metal as the towers, archers and lancers stood at attention.

  A Blade approached, dressed in light leather armor similar to his counterparts. He bowed. “Count Cardiff, apologies for the delay. The king will see you now.”

  Without a word to the man, Ainslen strode toward the massive gate. The guards stared straight ahead, as if oblivious to his presence, but he knew each one saw him and were ready to strike him down should the word be given. Adjusting his glasses with his forefinger, he smiled. Jemare was worried.

  Although they appeared to be on good terms, Ainslen knew better than to think Jemare completely trusted him. He would be a fool to do so. Jemare was as shrewd as he was powerful. With the rumors planted to point at every house, the king would weed out each potential threat if he could. The latest ploy had been to divvy up the city in ten sections between the major houses. Those who produced the most for the king’s coffers found themselves in his good favor. The others? Not so much.

  A Blade had visited the underachievers, those who did not maintain the required quota. On one such occasion, the Blade returned with the head of a prominent family member.

  A neat method in which to rid oneself of enemies, Ainslen confessed to himself. Directly attacking any one the houses would have drawn the ire of all ten as well as Kasinia’s people and outlying lands. Such action might lead to an open rebellion larger than the king could hope to contain. Attempting to rule under force of arms without the people’s support had failed other tyrants in the past. Kasinia’s subjects respected Far’an Senjin and all it represented. The Dominion had always blessed whichever kingdom played it the best. For over a thousand years now, their light shone on Kasinia, and with it came prosperity.