Game of Souls

by Terry C. Simpson

  The situation played into Ainslen’s plans as the weaker houses scrambled for outside resources provided by the Consortium. With Walker’s Row and the Smear itself falling under his thumb, he easily met the king’s needs. If he didn’t, he had his allies to rely upon for additional coin.

  Deep in thought, Ainslen strode through the main courtyard. The majority of the sculptures had been removed, and people’s heads bobbed around the manicured gardens. Under the watchful eyes of older Blades, children progressed through rigorous training regimens, churning what were once thriving lawns into sandy patches, the grass brown and withered. Whether beaten with wood strips repeatedly to strengthen their bodies, contorted into extreme positions, or repeating a litany of exercises and forms, one aspect remained constant around each. Their souls were among the strongest Ainslen had witnessed in quite a few years. Where had the king discovered this new crop? Ainslen had sent examiners to every major town or village. He was certain of it. Deep in thought, he ascended the stairs, and entered the spires proper.

  Troubled by the king’s recruitment, Ainslen could not help but notice the abundant guards along the main hall and its many offshoots. Not all were Blades, but they were melders. He absently waved away servants who bore dishes as was customary to any noble visiting Jemare. The scents from his favorite meats and fruits did little for his growing sense of trepidation. By the time he reached the throne room’s vast double doors, his stomach was in knots.

  “Count Ainslen Cardiff of House Mandrigal,” an attendant announced.

  The doors swung open, letting out the sweet aroma of various incenses that burned on the ten braziers lined on one side of the chamber. A carpeted colonnade spanned a hundred feet into the room. It ended at a short set of stairs that led up to the high seats. To Ainslen’s surprise, no other Blades or guards occupied the room. In fact, the chamber’s only inhabitants were four attendants, Queen Terestere, and the king. Ainslen refused the urge to frown at the emptiness, but the soft thud of his own footsteps sounded loud to his ears, a reminder that he alone approached Jemare. This was one of the few times Ainslen wished several of the other counts or nobles had been present. He expected Blades or guards to appear at one of the many shadowy archways beyond the open spaces on either side of the colonnade. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he strode forward.

  King Jemare dwarfed the Soul Throne on which he lounged. In his embroidered shirt and pants, crown perched on his head, hair in neat silver braids, beard shaped in a triangular goatee, he appeared almost as imposing a figure as Ainslen recalled. Almost. As Ainslen approached, he could tell the man’s cheeks were a tad more withdrawn than he remembered a few months ago, shoulders not as chiseled in his fitted garb. If Ainslen expected the king’s face to be a mask of concern, what he saw there left him taken aback. Although Jemare attempted to give off an air of a man in full control, relaxed, carefree even, Ainslen couldn’t help but note the glint in the king’s eye, the slight tightening of his jaw, and a miniscule clench of his fists on the massive throne’s armrests. A second before Jemare wrenched his emotions into tranquility, his sintu flared with a subtlety that might have went unnoticed had Ainslen not been a master melder.

  Queen Terestere, on the other hand, was as calm as the ocean on a windless day.

  When Ainslen reached the stairs, he stopped, dropped to one knee on the lush carpets below him, and bowed. He kept his head down, not daring to breathe, all the while hoping whatever ill will the king harbored would be kept in check.

  More than one king had succumbed to the pressures of Far’an Senjin in the past. One such monarch, Hemene, had called the counts to him in singular, private audiences such as this, slew them, and partook of their souls. He’d been known as the Hemene the Savage ever since. Hemene’s rule ended soon after as the entire city rose against him.

  Not that Ainslen expected Jemare to be as brazen or as stupid as Hemene. The king was a formidable plotter. If he wanted Ainslen dead at this very moment, it would have to come in the form of a duel. In order for a king to duel one count, he had to battle all ten one after the other with the lesser houses also present. Jemare outstripped them all in single strength, but in the Empire’s history, no king had survived after delivering such a challenge.

  “Rise, Count Cardiff.” The king’s smooth baritone echoed through the chamber.

  As he complied, Ainslen made sure to meet Jemare’s gaze. A man who cannot look you in the eye is a man with malice in his heart. It was one of Jemare’s favorite sayings.

  “You look well,” the king said.

  “As do you, sire. And you, my queen.” Ainslen smiled and dipped his head to Terestere.

  She nodded in kind. The gold circlet on her forehead stood out amid the raven wisps that framed her face. Ainslen could not recall a single time he ever had a sense of bad intentions from the queen. Her eyes, amber with a hint of green, always appeared kindly, even when she attempted to keep her expression neutral as she did now. In her presence, he could not seem to stop the slight increase in his heart rate. The few times he’d spoken to her at a ball or banquet had remained imprinted in his memory. The slight brush of her hand on his. Glances that promised a little more. A smile to make a man swoon. Her choice of ginger spice for perfume only added to the allure. She never made any advances, but he had the feeling she wished he was king.

  “It feels longer that it has been since we last met, Ainslen.”

  Heat rising in his face, Ainslen cursed himself for allowing the distraction. “Indeed, sire.”

  Only a few months had passed since King Jemare had left with the counts from Serentar, Rendorta, and Coren Hills to meet with the envoys from Thelusia, Darshan and Marissinia. He’d also used the time to send word to the kingdoms in northern Kasinia. Near seven feet tall, the king had been as robust and steadfast as Ainslen remembered, a giant among his court. A shell had returned.

  “I know that look in your eyes,” the king said as he clasped his hands. “No need to be concerned. I am as strong as the day I left, perhaps more so.”

  “Yet something has you worried enough for me to notice.”

  “Do you remember when we first fought the Kheridisians?”

  Ainslen nodded. Both he and Jemare were young then, Blades in King Tolquan’s employ. At the edges of the Treskelin Woods, the brown-skinned Kheridisians had used mud to camouflage themselves as they lay in ambush for the Kasinian forces. Jemare had led his faction of Blades deep within the enemy ranks as if he hadn’t picked up on their presence through their sintu. When he neared the position of the strongest among them, he’d stabbed down into the soft earth. Blood pooled up. The Kheridisians had spilled from the ground and trees like an army of ants. Before they attacked, Jemare threw down his weapons and issued a challenge to their leader, a bear of a man with teeth chiseled to fangs.

  The Kheridisians had a great respect for unarmed combat. They saw it as the Gods’ will in deciding who should lead them. A silly custom.

  While dueling the Kheridisian, Jemare had used his skill as a Manifestor to create blades made from pure soul along his arms and hands. Although bigger, his opponent was no match. He died in flurry of slices. A simple enough act to kill an overconfident enemy. In essence, he had cheated, but the deed was done. The enemy army had broken, slinking away into the surrounding forest.

  “We are to these invaders what the Kheridisians were to us back then,” the king declared.

  Ainslen gasped. “They cannot possibly be that strong.”

  “It’s the reason I ordered you here today, Ainslen … the reason I called the same audience with each Hill. We cannot afford Succession Day anytime soon. Some of the others do not agree, therefore I need to see where you stand.”

  “I stand with the crown.” As much as Ainslen blamed King Jemare for his part in Marjorie’s death and for not curtailing the guilds long ago, he needed to convince the man of his loyalty. All else in due time.

  “Good. With your visits from Shenen and Rostlin, I was beginnin
g to wonder what you planned. To tell the truth, it was a bit troubling. For a moment, only for a moment, mind you, I considered lending my strength to the others.”

  The king was letting Ainslen know he had men watching the count’s movements or spies within his home. Ainslen felt his lip twitch. He expected no less. “A man must consolidate his position, sire. Test the waters, if you will. We fought many a war together. I defended your life with my own as a Blade. As tempting as Succession is, Kasandar and Kasinia as a whole has thrived like never before under you. House Mandrigal, House Hazline, and House Antelen would like it to remain so.”

  “And Count Cardinton?”

  “House Jarina has its own designs.”

  “I see.”

  “I expect you to have your doubts, sire. However, I intend to show you just how much your rule means.”

  Intrigued, the king’s eyebrows arched. “How so?”

  “Only together can we hope to hold off the Farland invaders, if what is said of them prove to be true,” Ainslen said. He knew the reports were indeed correct.

  “As I said before, if you doubt that they are formidable,” the king’s voice grew grave, “possibly capable of defeating us as they did the Dracodar, wielding weapons we have not seen before, then, let me confirm it for you now. Word arrived just today that Ernassa fell to them several weeks ago.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I have called all our allies to a meeting,” King Jemare said. “With you on my side, I may yet gain the support of all the Hills. These invaders have chosen an optimal time to stage a campaign against us. Right when the depths of the game point to a possible attempt at Succession Day. We must consolidate our forces. Thelusia and Marissinia will have to fend for themselves until we gather our strength.”

  “Then the news I have should be even better received,” Ainslen said. “Through my contacts within the Consortium, I’m bringing in a prize to Kasandar, smuggled from King Lomas’ vaults deep in Kheridisia.”

  King Jemare frowned. “You seem to be hinting at something that could give us the upper hand should these Farlanders defeat the Marishmen and the Thelusians. Few things exist with such power. I can only think of one in Kheridisia. And that was a rumor, as our incursion into their territory proved. Are you telling me differently?”

  As the king’s eyes shone with greed and wonderment, Ainslen grinned. “You are exactly right, sire. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the rumor to be true.”

  “Wait,” the king said in a breathy voice, “this is why you sent for so many Blades. And why your Thelusian abomination caused havoc in the Smear. Here I was thinking you were plotting against me …”

  Ainslen allowed himself to appear hurt by the suggestion.

  “I-I’m sorry, old friend.” Jemare’s face softened, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. “With everything that has transpired since these reports, I had no choice.” The apology was as genuine as any Ainslen had ever heard the king deliver.

  “Forget all that, sire” Ainslen waved the king off. “The delivery will be here in a few months. It’s due weeks before the Day of Accolades, which is fitting. It will more than make up for the Blades I lost when I present it for bidding at the auction. Then we can make real plans, starting with a small Thelusian force I can employ.” Ainslen smiled as warmly as he could. “Since these Farlanders took Ernassa, I suggest we meet them in the field and not wait for them to besiege us. We can send word to King Menquan and the rest of Darshan. He should know of the attack by now. Have him mass his fleets. That should prevent an incursion up through the River Ost. There will be no need to beg for his help, and if he doesn’t see the urgency of the situation, and the threat to his own shores then he’s a fool. With those borders secure, we can dispatch our forces to defend the passes through the Whetstone and the Daggers.”

  King Jemare nodded with each point, absorbed in the strategy Ainslen was laying out. He called for a servant. “Send for my generals. We have a victory to plan.”

  Delivering a Tribute

  Riding between Count Cardiff and Lestin, Winslow approached the Golden Spires along its main causeway. The count asking for his presence had been a surprise. Even more so was the request for Winslow to dress befitting his station, and to have the Mandrigal flag fly with their complement. When he appeared in a scarlet coat, some of their company had looked at him sideways, so he was glad he’d chosen not to wear a scent today. Sweat and horseflesh would have to do.

  For a moment Winslow had feared that Ainslen knew of his plan to meet Keedar and Gaston. When nothing appeared out of the ordinary, he had managed to relax, but this trip could not end soon enough.

  Behind them stretched a snake of five thousand Thelusians, the dark-skinned men riding horses to match their color, their short spears in hand in front of their pommels. They were melders and soldiers brought in to fill ranks for those dispatched east to the Blooded Daggers and Marissinia’s borders. As part of a tribute and to help for the costs of a possible war, Prince Taelan, an exiled Thelusian, had also sent fifty chests filled with gold. It was an honor to bring this cache to King Jemare.

  The fall of Ernassa had set much in motion, with Blades and armies pouring in from the empire’s distant reaches in preparation for battle. The Kasinian forces now covered three fronts: north in the passes through the Whetstone Mountains, south along the River Ost, and east toward the Blooded Daggers. To see them march off had thrilled Winslow.

  Another similar company waited at Mandrigal Hill, guarding his father’s shipment. He’d tried to get a glimpse of what it might be, but he had been turned away. The auction was due to start on the morrow. There would be time for him and his friends to sneak in and witness the proceedings.

  “This is an honor we bring to the king. Do not shame us or our house,” Count Cardiff said. Today he wore the traditional Mandrigal red and gold with a cloak dyed to match.

  Winslow exhaled slowly at the count speaking to him as if he were some fool. He almost said he could return home to ensure he brought no such shame to the Cardiff name. As tempting as it was, he bit his tongue and nodded once.

  Arrayed before the closed gate was a squad of at least a hundred guards. More stood ready upon the battlements, arrows nocked, bowstrings taut.

  “These are dangerous times.” Lestin scanned the soldiers. “A king must be careful.” He signaled for them to halt.

  A guard strode forward, a baldric slung over his shoulder with a wide-bladed sword at his waist. “Count Cardiff, what brings you here today?”

  “Lieutenant Kerist, this is the tribute and men sent by Prince Taelan. King Jemare is already aware.”

  The Lieutenant nodded to Winslow. “Young Master Cardiff, good to see one of the nobility has made it into apprenticeship. It has been a while since such has happened.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Kerist.”

  Kerist’s attention returned to Count Cardiff. “Sorry for the inconvenience but my men must check to see that the chests you carry are what the ledgers state.”

  “Be my guest,” Ainslen replied.

  A quick signal from Kerist and half the guards strode forward. On the walls, the archers still had not relaxed. Winslow felt a slight tightening in his chest, but the inspection itself did not last long. A few whispered words passed between Kerist and one of his men when it was done.

  “You may proceed, Count Cardiff, Drillmaster Lestin.” Kerist stepped aside.

  Ainslen dipped his head, and flapped his reins. Winslow followed. Ahead, chains clanked, metal ground against metal, and then came the clack, clack of gears turning. The massive portcullis and gate rose. Winslow breathed a sigh of relief, chest finally relaxing.

  No words passed between them as they rode through the entrance. Winslow had been in the Spires several times in his life, but they never ceased to amaze him. He took note of the lack of statues and fountains in the main courtyard, the abundance of soldiers, and the myriad of young recruits of varying ages who were being trained under the as
sessing eyes of instructors. Shouted commands and responses resounded across the area.

  “If you ever get by me, sweets, this will be the second part of your ‘prenticeship.”

  “I will make it here one day,” Winslow said, sudden defiance building in him. One way or another, he would make it here among these young men and women.

  “We shall see.”

  Winslow expected the count to berate the drillmaster for the way he spoke, but Ainslen merely glanced from one to the other with his eyebrow arched.

  They continued on through several such yards. At each one, Winslow’s envy and determination surged. He was glad when they gained the rear of the westernmost tower. An attendant arrived to take his and the count’s horse, while Lestin dismounted and called for the others to do the same.

  Another liveried servant spoke to Count Cardiff. Whatever words passed between them, Ainslen was not pleased.

  “The king wishes to see us immediately,” Ainslen said.

  The servant opened his mouth but a look from Count Cardiff halted him and brought on a slew of apologies.

  Winslow felt as if his heart stopped. He thought they would at least be granted time to prepare before being presented to the king. At the same time, there was a certain sense of excitement and awe. King Jemare was a hero, a master of war, renowned for having stretched Kasinia’s grip into Thelusia, Marissinia, and Darshan. Kasandar thrived under him more so than at any other time except for the Golden and Fabled Eras when King Menshir and Hemene ruled.

  “Lead the way,” the count said more than a little tersely.