Game of Souls

by Terry C. Simpson

  Until Sorinya the Ebon Blade appeared.

  The Thelusian swept through like the night itself, smooth as sanded wood. Wherever the black blade wrought from his soul touched, men died. Sometimes the weapon didn’t actually scour a body. Sorinya would slice several feet from an opponent, but the effect was the same. A gash appeared. The person cried out. Blood fountained. The opponent fell dead.

  When Sorinya and Father clashed, everyone gave them space. The two fought like Hells’ Angels, all blurred action, writhing soul, and meld after meld.

  Black metal met Father’s silver blade in a clash of sparks. What followed was a battle of soul magic so incredible it was forever imprinted into Keedar’s mind. Their energy zipped back and forth, growing larger or smaller along certain limbs, hardening to parry an attack, lengthening a blade for a farther strike, adding to their legs and arms for speed or strength.

  Neither man gave quarter, often standing so close that the fight should have been impossible. Yet it happened. Faces sweaty, both panting, they appeared evenly matched.

  A knife flew from the crowd. Father shifted to parry at the same time that Sorinya moved. Sorinya’s sword swung down, the world itself slowing. Father’s weapon swept aside the knife and swung in an arc back to Sorinya. It deflected the blow ever so slightly, but the ebon blade sheared across his side.

  Sorinya pulled up short before making the next strike. His face a mottled mask of rage, he stared into the crowd.

  Count Cardiff stepped forward, “Finish him.”

  The world exploded in white as Father slammed his weapon into the ground, the concussion knocking back all before him. Then he’d fled, his blue-garbed Shipmen dying in his wake to defend his retreat.

  Drawn away from the recollection by the overpowering scent of blood, Keedar stretched out a hand to Delisar. The tattered fabric along the sleeves and chest of Father’s shirt were rough between his shaking fingers. And wet. Wetter than from the sheer moisture of Keedar’s hands. He prayed it wasn’t Father’s blood as he clung to him, listening to the uneven breaths.

  Keedar couldn’t stop his face from contorting as he struggled against the urge to bawl. Deep within himself, he swore not to make a sound. He was a man not some child. Men didn’t cry. However, no matter how hard he tried, tears still rolled down his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes tight. Tight like the grip of Father’s arms around him. Keedar’s heart hammered even faster than his father’s own with the realization that this might be their last embrace.

  “Don’t move an inch when they come.” Father pushed back from him until their gazes met. His eyes glistened in the candlelight’s flickering shadows. With his thumb, he brushed away Keedar’s tears. “Be brave. Remember what I taught you when we hunted. Treat this as if a derin is stalking you. Crouch here, and if someone opens the door, will them not to see you. It will work. Believe it, and it will be so.”

  The flicker of his doubt must have been plain for Delisar to see.

  “Trust me,” Father said, voice firm, almost commanding, yet a bit hoarse. Despite his trembling fingers, Father’s expression radiated confidence.

  Keedar opened his mouth. Father’s finger on his lips stopped him.

  “Shhh.” The finger lingered for a moment. “You must believe in yourself now. Listen to everything you hear. Remember all of this, every detail. When the window breaks, count to a hundred. If anyone comes before then do as I said. When they leave, head downstairs. You will know how to find the passage. Flee to Uncle Keshka’s.” Delisar cut Keedar off as he made to protest. “I know, the distance between here and his cabin or the Sorrows may seem farther than ever, especially now. But this is the very reason I made you walk those miles, run the Parmien so many times. You can do it, son.”

  “Wha-What if they chase me?”

  “You can hide from them as you will now. The forests, the brush, the stones, all of nature are your friends. Use them to your advantage. They don’t know this territory as well as you.” Delisar squeezed Keedar’s shoulders encouragingly. “You can do this, and you will.”

  Somehow, Keedar’s doubts fled like a fleeting breeze to match that rattling their house’s shutters. He nodded.

  Marching footsteps thundered a drumbeat of death, followed by running feet as well as the clink of armor and weapons. Someone in a gruff voice shouted commands.

  Father blew out the candle. The closet and the room beyond plunged into darkness. An occasional caper of torchlight filtered in from outside. Shadows flitted by the closed windows.

  “I love you. Tell your brother, I love him too, and that I’m sorry I wasn’t there as a father should have been,” Delisar whispered before his voice faded to nothing.

  Keedar didn’t hear him move, but Delisar’s fingers caressed his face. Hoping to touch his father once more, Keedar extended his hand but met empty air. All that was left was the odor of blood, his sweat, and his rapid heartbeat. If someone entered the closet at that moment, he was certain they would hear his heart thump.

  Ears straining for the slightest sound, he waited.

  A window broke. Keedar began his count.

  Father’s voice rang from outside. Steel clashed. Soldiers shouted. Dozens of boots increased in pace, thundering past the windows, steel jangling. The sounds drifted farther from the house.

  Nightmare memories tore at Keedar. Recollections of his dreams crowded him, of seeing his father on the Smear’s cobblestones, gold scales tinting his skin, red leaking from his head and chest. He wanted to stand and give chase.

  Several footsteps thumped inside. Doors crashed as men yelled to each other, searching each room in turn. Torchlight drew closer. With each booted step, Keedar’s heart beat that much harder. The taste of fear was bile in his mouth.

  You will not see me. I’m not here. This is nothing but old clothes and shadows. Dirty, stinking, dreg left overs. He willed the words into himself, into his soul. Then he extended it from him as far as he possibly could.

  The light stopped at the closet. The door creaked open.

  Not daring to take a breath, Keedar continued to enforce his will. Without moving, he shrank deeper into the corner. Head down, he took in the blood-spattered sabatons.

  “Nothin’ here,” a gruff Marishman voice yelled from less than five feet away. “You?”

  “The same,” came the answering call.

  “Bloody nobles, got us in here doin’ the dirty work while the rest of them are havin’ all the fun. Cesare!”

  “Yes?”

  “Let’s go find somethin’ to liven up our night.”

  “Sure.”

  The boots disappeared; the illumination retreated.

  In his mind, Keedar let out a relieved sigh, but he still held his breath. When he heard the footsteps exit the house, he finally exhaled. He mopped his brow. After continuing to count, he crawled from the closet. Lying on the floor, he stretched his cramped joints.

  With some feeling worked back into his muscles, he avoided thinking about his father, concentrating instead on his escape. He eased into a crouch and from that position, made his way into the basement.

  Father’s instructions replayed in his head. He cleared his mind and reached out with his soul. Within moments, he sensed the familiar threads of his father’s magic. It was as clear as if he had a lamp. He followed it into a hidden door below the staircase.

  Minutes later, he was running deep within the dank, desolate wastes of the Undertow with Father’s last words replaying in his head followed by Uncle Keshka’s warning.

  To Meet Once More

  Joints stiff with cold, Winslow waited among a tree’s branches near the pool. The night had been a terror unto itself. Soldiers fought their way into the sewers. The tunnels had a peculiar reek to them that he couldn’t place until they practically exploded into roaring flames. Consortium members had filled the drains with oil. King Jemare’s men roasted like pigs on a spit.

  A man by the name of Martel, calling himself Keedar’s guardian, had led Winslow in
to the city under Kasandar. The Undertow, Keedar had named it. There was something vaguely familiar about the man. At first he didn’t believe Martel, but with more soldiers pouring into the sewers, Winslow had no choice but to trail him. Architecture he recognized only from history books passed by in a blur as he followed Martel through the maze of ancient cobbled streets and dilapidated buildings, many adorned with designs and structure that would still be a marvel today. When they exited, they did so through an abandoned mine located in some foothills a mile outside the citadel walls. Martel now kept watch on the ground, his form as much a part of the forest as the trees and brush.

  Winslow’s mind raced as he took in the night’s events. Either the king’s men had orders to kill him or they simply did not recognize him. They did not hold back whenever he faced them. He counted his blessings for his training by his old swordmaster, the harsh tutelage provided by the Blades, and for what he learned from Delisar. If not for all three, he might have perished.

  In the space of a few months, his life had changed completely. Had he not ventured into the Smear that night in an act of rebellion, he would still be living within the Hills’ safe confines, a part of a richer world where opportunities abounded. Now, he was little more than what he once hated. A dreg. An outcast. Relegated to rags and forever expecting a dagger in the dark from some assassin or King’s Blade sent by Counts Cardiff or Rostlin. He shook his head.

  Sometimes, the truth and forging one’s own way didn’t seem worth the effort or the hardship. Yet, deep inside, he recognized it was such trials that shaped men, particularly the great ones. Perhaps such a future was beyond his immediate sight, but some good had to come of all this. For him, it would start with discovering his true lineage. Then one day claiming his child should Elaina go forward with the pregnancy. Amidst it all, he would need to deal with the Hills. The thought brought on a grimace and a lump in his throat. A task so daunting might prove beyond whatever meager ability he possessed.

  Although he kept his gaze roving the forest for the slightest movement, he never saw or heard Keedar’s entrance. His only hint came when the crickets’ chirps paused and the woods’ numerous denizens ceased their song. A moment later, Keedar appeared near the water’s silver glint. He peered around. And then, he was gone again.

  Straining his vision, Winslow attempted to spot his friend again but failed. Something tapped the branch near his head. He jumped at the sound, the impact loud in the still night. It came again. This time he traced the noise to a falling pebble. Keedar stood at the tree’s base.

  Winslow scrambled down. “I thought you would not make it.”

  “But you hoped.”

  “Yes,” Winslow admitted, smiling for the first time since the battle. “It’s good to be around someone I know.” He understated his feelings. The relief at seeing a familiar face was near overwhelming. “So what now?” From the moonlight threading through the branches, he picked out Keedar’s furrowed brow. “What is it?” Winslow’s heart sped up.

  “Stay still. We’re not alone.”

  “No, a man who called himself—”

  “No, I’m not speaking of Martel. There’s someone else here. Several people.” Keedar didn’t move but he peered across the clearing toward the treeline.

  “Twenty of them to be exact.” Martel’s voice almost made Winslow jump out of his skin. Face mired in shadow, the manservant appeared next to them, focused in the same direction as Keedar.

  “Several of them are strong melders,” Keedar added. “But how? How would they know?”

  For the briefest instant, Martel’s gaze flickered to Winslow.

  “I didn’t tell anyone,” Winslow whispered in earnest, on edge at the mere idea that they might suspect him. “I swear it.”

  “You have as much to lose as we do now,” Keedar said, “so I believe you. Count Cardiff, on the other hand, used a skill to place the derin’s hunting scent on me. I fear he did something similar to you. With all the fighting, I forgot about it. My father always removed it first whenever you trained with us. I don’t know what they’re waiting for, but we need to get going. Hopefully, we can outrun them and find a place to remove the piece of soul he’s attached to you.”

  “They were waiting for him.” Martel pointed.

  The branches on the other side shook, and a wide form waddled out. Several others followed, their armor glinting in the moonlight.

  Winslow gaped. He didn’t know if to laugh or be petrified.

  The moon illuminated the first man as he stepped dead center into the space. It was Felius Carin, double chins prominent, his body bursting from the seams of his clothes. Any thought of laughter died in Winslow’s throat as sintu spilled from the man with such strength that he felt it where he stood. Never in a hundred years would he have thought Felius to be a melder.

  “Winslow, Keedar,” Felius began, voice carrying clear and true in the still night.

  Immediately, Martel held up his hand. Felius’ voice cut off, but Winslow could still see his lips moving. A moment later, they stopped.

  Somewhere within the woods, an animal howled. It sent ice down Winslow’s spine.

  “So, this is the mysterious Minstrel Blade.” Martel cocked his head, while still regarding Felius. “So those stories of his ability to enrapture a crowd weren’t exaggerated. Who knew he would be the one? You two should get going. I’ll see if I can’t make the fat man sing.”

  “You cannot possibly hope to stand against them all alone,” Winslow blurted.

  “Who said I’m alone?” Martel made a small gesture.

  Men slipped from the shadows in numbers to match Felius’ counterparts. Each one of them wore Shipmen’s blue.

  When the howl echoed once more, Winslow recognized the sound. Derins. Even they had gotten wind of impending death.

  “Besides,” Martel dipped his head ever so slightly, “I have a favor to repay Cardiff and his men. They killed a few friends of mine.” The sinewy man’s gaze took on a feral gleam, and he licked his lips. “You know what they say; one good performance deserves an encore.”

  The nimbus that sprang up around Martel took Winslow’s breath away. Combined with the man’s expression, it was as if he stood next to some wild beast. A reek emanated from Martel to match. Winslow couldn’t help but to cup his nose.

  Palm up, Martel raised his hand below his chin and blew. Energy floated away from him like wisps on a breeze, heading toward Felius Carin and his men.

  “I wouldn’t worry about the derins if I were you,” Martel chortled. “They will be preoccupied.” He faced Keedar, his face a slab of unyielding granite. “It has been a pleasure serving you, young Giorin. You will make your father proud one day.” He cracked a smile then. “As will you, young man.” He dipped his head to Winslow. “Now, run like you’ve never run before.”

  With a roar to rival any beast, Martel charged Felius Carin and his men. The wave of blue followed, dark shadows spilling across an even darker ground.

  Flight

  Too many emotions to count spilled through Keedar as they fled. Most of them reeked of sorrow, longing, desolation, and fear. Sorrow for not only the loss of Mother to the Smear but also Father and any friends he knew. Longing for all he’d lost, for this all to be a dream. Desolation because of the little he had left. Fear. Fear in the expectation that the King’s Blades might appear at any moment. Overpowering the others, that last primal sensation drove him. It set his heart racing, his eyes searching for any changes to signify danger among the dappled shadows. It made dust of his mouth despite his sweaty brow, forced him to ignore the stabbing pain of exertion in his side, and lent his legs wings.

  The future seemed bleaker than the cold air whipping by him, as dim as the moonlight trying to pierce the veil of clouds. All he had left of the world he once enjoyed was Winslow, who was as forlorn as he, and whom he barely considered a friend.

  And memories. Memories he wished he could bury within his soul’s depths.

  The need for re
venge should have consumed him. It did not.

  No words needed to be said between him and Winslow. Capture meant death as sure as the sun gave birth to dawn and bled its life into the sky at dusk. The thought kept his feet churning even when his body screamed for him to stop, begged him to rest, to ease the leaden weights his legs had become, or to relieve his burning lungs.

  They had left the battle behind some time ago. Their knowledge of the forest helped them to avoid the thickest patches and to weave their way through saplings and brush as if they followed some imaginary path. Night creatures abounded, their chatter a dirge interspersed with the occasional pause that made his heart skip a beat every time. Winslow’s near indiscernible steps kept pace with him, and Keedar used his own breath and strides to run to a rhythm only he heard. Each inhalation brought the forest’s many scents, reminding him that he was free. Whenever the night sounds stilled, he fought down the urge to stop, to stare back the way they came and see if anyone pursued.

  Uncle Keshka’s offered hope for survival. He repeated the words in his head on more than one occasion. Sweat poured down his face; the wind’s breath ruffled his hair; with each step he swore someone must have heard the crunch of a twig underfoot or the thud of a footstep despite how hard he attempted to tread lightly. At times he thought his own thumping heartbeat would betray him. Whenever a tree’s leaves rustled he expected to see his enemies leaping from its shadowy arms.

  For hours, they ran, exactly how many, Keedar wasn’t sure. Mandrigal’s first threads were chasing Antelen from the sky when he drew to a halt. Shivering violently, he hugged himself. His teeth chattered.

  Winslow pulled up next to him, features pale and strained. With each gasp for breath, the young noble shook. Head down, Winslow appeared ready to collapse.

  As much as Keedar felt he could continue on, he knew Winslow needed rest. Running the Parmien was nothing new to them, but Keedar had years of experience to draw upon while Winslow only had several months. And not in weather as cold as it was now or with the upcoming incline. The temperature wasn’t freezing yet, but it was a hindrance all the same. The distance they’d covered was considerably less than during warmer times. Their soaked clothing didn’t help. Whereas he had not noticed them with his body moving, now he felt as if he wore cloth encrusted in ice.