Game of Souls

by Terry C. Simpson

  After sucking in another deep breath, he said, “Up there.” He pointed toward a hill.

  The expanse of pines, spruce, and oak that dominated behind them gave way to older and larger white ash and cypress with a sprinkling of other trees. Roots entwined within the leafy carpet, jutting up like giant worms. Keedar scrambled uphill past the first line of trees and into the next batch. With fall’s scent and colors thick around him, he picked out the largest gathering of leaves and roots.

  Sure enough, as he began to clear them, he found what he sought: a space behind the roots measuring several feet wide and deep. A den of some sort. The reek of whatever animal used it for a home spilled above the earthy smells of the disturbed foliage. Sniffing again to make sure the scent wasn’t derin, Keedar beckoned to Winslow with a nod.

  Winslow rustled through the leaves to stand beside him.

  “You get in.” Keedar gestured to the V formed by the roots and to the hole beyond.

  Without a single protest at the musky stench, Winslow nodded, crawled inside, and curled into a ball. Not once did he move or even glance up. He must have been exhausted.

  In no way could Keedar afford to lose his companion. Not now. From the first day, he’d seen Winslow, there was something that connected them, even if the noble harbored some animosity, acted indifferent, or at times with scorn. It wasn’t that Father had made him seek Winslow out either. Within himself, he suspected he would have done so anyway after that first day in the Smear.

  Keedar piled as many leaves as he could into place, and then eased inside. The mere act of being within the enclosed space already added a little warmth despite his drenched clothing. They’d dry soon enough anyway. His main concern was for Winslow.

  The nimbus around Winslow was faint but even. That boded well. It meant he had not exerted himself to the point where his soul leaked in great enough amounts to prevent a quick recovery. Rest would be the main requirement. And food. For now though, regaining some soul through inactivity and the body’s natural healing process took precedence. They wouldn’t be able to stay long, but an hour or two was better than nothing. Leaning back against the roots and dirt, he allowed his eyes to close.

  Keedar jerked awake. Faint memories of some dream slipped through his consciousness like water through open fingers. A nightmare with baying hounds. Where am I? He sniffed, taking in a whiff of sweat, dirt, and a wild animal’s stink. A cramp in his back made him wince. His arm felt dead where he’d rested on it. He stroked it to work the numbness out. Something warm stirred next to him. A person?

  It all came back to him in a sudden rush. The Cardiff mansion, killing Gaston, flight into the Smear, Father battling Sorinya, Father drawing the soldiers away so he could escape, meeting Winslow, Martel charging Felius.

  He took in his surroundings. The shelter was almost as warm as if they had a few glowing coals inside the den. His clothes were dry. Hopefully, their short rest had afforded Winslow’s soul enough time to recuperate. When he studied his friend, he gasped.

  The nimbus around Winslow pulsed steady and strong. Too strong for the hour or two he had planned for them to rest. He glanced up through the opening. From the sky, it appeared to be almost noon.

  A sound cut through his thoughts. More joined it. He frowned, trying to place the noise.

  Eyes widening with each additional sound, he grabbed for Winslow. “Get up. Wake up, Winslow, now!” He shook his friend vigorously.

  Winslow woke, shaking his head. “What? What is it? Gaston, I was dreaming that—” He cut off as his eyes focused. “No, no, no …” voice trailing off, he washed his hands through his hair.

  “No time for that,” Keedar said. “We have to go. Now. Listen.”

  The sounds came again. This time, they were unmistakable. Several dozen hounds bayed.

  “Hell’s Angels,” Winslow swore.

  “They aren’t close enough to worry over yet, but—”

  “You have never really seen hounds on the hunt, have you? From their baying, they have a scent, most likely ours. They will not let up.” Winslow scrambled up and out of their hiding place.

  Keedar barreled after him, almost knocking Winslow down before he realized the young noble stood frozen, staring at something. Without thinking, Keedar snatched for the daggers at his waist.

  By the time he took in the derin’s white form, it had slammed into them. Winslow fell to one side with a grunt. Lying on his back, Keedar stared into black pits for eyes. The derin’s hot breath stunk of its last meal.

  With his arms pinned beneath him, there was nothing he could do but wait for death. His heart thumped a thousand times in those sparse moments. At any instant he expected to feel biting teeth much like a knife driving into his flesh.

  Yellowed canines flashed down. Crying out, he snapped his eyes shut and tried to heave. The beast was too heavy.

  But when the derin ripped at the front of his shirt, he felt no pain. Keedar eased open first one eye, and then the other. The derin had a swath of the grey material from his clothing in its mouth.

  Then the strangest thing happened. The creature whined once and squatted on his chest. Something warm splashed on his stomach, ran down his side. A rank stench followed.

  Keedar stared, slack-jawed.

  With another whine, it bounded off him and onto Winslow, who was just now trying to scramble to his feet. It knocked him on his back and pissed on him too. When the derin finished, she threw her head to the sky, howled, and leapt away, streaking through the forest in a white blur.

  “W-What, in all that’s unholy, just happened,” Keedar managed, knees weak where he sat.

  “The Creator saved us.” Reverence filled Winslow’s voice as he made the circular motion to represent the Dominion on his forehead.

  “No,” Keedar grimaced at the reek, “a derin pissed on us. I’m pretty certain that has never happened before … ever.” Keedar took another whiff before turning his face away in disgust. He opened his mouth to belittle Winslow’s belief, but instead, he snapped his mouth shut. What could he say after what happened? What other explanation could there be to the beast not killing them both? Before he conjured an answer, the hounds bayed again.

  “Well,” Keedar slowly stood. He felt at his chest to make sure his body was in one piece. Cold air whispered across his exposed skin, but he was unharmed. “Whatever it was, let’s hope it’s to our benefit. We must head up past the ridge if we hope to escape those hounds. We follow it all the way around to Kerin Pass.”

  “What of this uncle of yours?”

  “He lives beyond the Pass.”

  “Wait, your Uncle lives in Kheridisia?”

  “Yes. In the Treskelin Woods to be exact. Come, let’s go. We can talk on the way.” Keedar headed up the hill, deeper into the trees.

  It didn’t take Winslow long to catch up. “If I knew Kerin Pass was the plan, I would have avoided this folly. With the garrisons located on either side, there’s no way through without the soldiers seeing us? Even if no one has sent a raven out to them yet, they will hear the hounds.”

  “I’ve managed to sneak through a time or two. Besides, we do have a man at the garrison who’s sure to let us by.”

  “And how does he know you’re coming?”

  Keedar paused to work his way past a brush whose thorny vines snaked through several branches and around a few trunks. His mind worked to find an answer. If the Pass was out of the question, then only one other place remained.

  “I’ll take your silence to mean you realize this might not be a good idea,” Winslow said. “And living in the Treskelin? Unless you’re Kheridisian, all you will find there is death.”

  Keedar managed to smile. “Not all stories are true. Some are to keep unwanted visitors away.”

  “So you have been there before?”

  “A few times.”

  “And the wild Kheridisians?”

  “I’ve never met any. My uncle says they think he’s cursed so they avoid the place. The only one
s who ever visited were the more civilized who spoke our tongue.”

  “That’s not any better. They hate us.”

  “I guess you have another suggestion, then.”

  Winslow shook his head. “We’re here already. What choice do we have now? But we will need another way through the Pass, and we need it soon.”

  Keedar didn’t slow, pushing forward harder, his mind mulling over what he intended. He’d managed it before, but he was unsure if Winslow could match his feat.

  The baying behind them grew more insistent. Neither of them bothered to glance over their shoulders, choosing to remain silent instead and concentrate on climbing the hill and through the forest as fast as possible. When the hounds’ announced their pursuit once more, they were much closer than before.

  Keedar knew they wouldn’t make it to the pass. In desperation, he made a decision. One he hoped he would live to laugh at in his old age.

  “If you have another idea, you need to come up with it now. We won’t make it.” The fear in Winslow’s voice was near tangible.

  “Follow.” Keedar broke into a run.

  Together, they snaked through the forest, the sounds of pursuit drawing closer with each passing moment. Keedar was certain if he glanced behind, he’d catch a glimpse of the large brown or white beasts as they gave chase. After a nearly an hour spent fleeing, chest heaving, the sun’s rays beating through tree branches whose leaves had mostly succumbed to the changing season, he reached his goal.

  The woods abruptly became a grassy expanse less than a dozen feet wide that ended in jagged, stony edges. Beyond, it appeared as if he could see forever. The wind whipped at his clothes, cutting to the bone despite the sun. At the edge, the land fell away. Nothing but air separated them from the Treskelin Forest where it spread a thousand or more feet below like a mottled, green sea.

  They stood on the edge of a cliff line that spread from left to right before disappearing where the land curved on either side. Keedar knew if he ventured past those corners, the precipice would continue for miles in either direction, with the Kerin Pass to stop it on one side, the River Ost on the other, and then the Shadowed Path that led into the Marish mountains called the Blooded Daggers. The rift in the land always made him picture some God, possibly Humel, in one of his war rages, drawing his massive sword and slicing a swath from Mareshna in a declaration of his displeasure.

  “You brought us to the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows?” Winslow gaped in disbelief. “Is this a joke?”

  “That,” Keedar pointed to the rocky crag before them, sand and pebbles falling off the edge until he could no longer hear them, “is our only chance at escape.”

  A Leap of Faith

  Winslow refused to believe the madness he’d heard. After all, that was what Keedar’s words had to be. Madness. Pure, unfettered insanity.

  Staring down to the greenery far below, he hugged himself as the wind gusted. If he peered hard enough, he felt as if the earth would rush up to meet him. He tore his gaze away from the drop.

  The Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows had been aptly named. Many an army had been driven to its edges and broken, both above and below. When a distraught young man or woman went missing, it was often assumed they went to throw themselves from the precipice. More than one guiser’s tale spoke of the grief the cliffs wrought. Two of the greatest tragedies recorded were King Roth throwing his wife and children from its edges in a jealous rage; and a powerful melder, Elysse the Temptress, who lured Prince Joaquin, one of King Jemare’s sons, and flung him off. She’d been a wanted woman ever since.

  At the lowest point, the height must have been two thousand feet. Still in shock, he opened his mouth, but the words died on his lips. Keedar expected them to climb down here? And he claimed he’d accomplished the feat on three previous occasions? The one consolation for their location was the air’s crispness. Eddies swept away the stench of derin piss.

  “W-What made you climb down this?” Winslow managed after a few moments.

  “My father insisted.” Keedar shrugged. “A part of my training. First to experience the ease of going through the Kerin Pass, and then to do the opposite, risking death by scaling these cliffs.”

  Winslow shook his head. “I would have died.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have, and you won’t now, either.”

  “Gods be damned, how can you be so sure?”

  Keedar arched an eyebrow at the blasphemy. “For one, your soul is strong. The same way you kept up with me in the Parmien will be the same way you survive this. Secondly, you have a purpose. To find out what Count Cardiff did to your real family.”

  Winslow could think of nothing special they had done in their training that might help with this feat. The second reason pulled at him. “Who is my real family?”

  Keedar smiled. “I’ll make you a deal. Make it to the bottom in one piece, and I’ll tell you all I know.”

  After peeking over the edge, Winslow inhaled deeply. Swallowing the lump in his throat to regain a semblance of composure, he met Keedar’s gaze, and gave a slow nod. “Explain how we do this.”

  From the somewhere in the forest, the hounds bayed. Men’s voices joined in. Less than a mile away by Winslow’s estimation.

  “Our training, when we run the woods, hasn’t been some simple endurance or speed test,” Keedar began as if he hadn’t heard the animals. “It was a way to gauge your reaction to the forest, to its surfaces, to moss that can make you slip, the branches that may trip you, vines that snag at your feet, to see if you could pick a path when I ruined one. It tested your handling of sintu and of tern. As you stand there now, what do you feel?”

  “Afraid?” Winslow smiled at his attempted humor. “The cold. The wind.”

  “How do you feel it? Where first?”

  Winslow concentrated, closing his eyes. After a moment, he said, “On my face … the backs of my hand.” He paused “I feel the wind first as it brushes my hair.”

  “Now, open your soul. Good. Imagine it a few inches from you, all around your body.”

  He’d done this exercise many times before. It was even easier now. In fact, he realized he could accomplish the task without thought.

  “Sense the difference,” Keedar said. “Recall what you do when we train.”

  When he followed the instructions, Winslow’s eyes opened wide at the new sensations. No. Not new. They existed before, but had been closer to his body. The wind brushing him, the cold, the individual blades of grass beneath his feet. He swore he sensed dust in the air and a hint of rain. They were a part of him, a slight touch as if the wind still caressed his skin and hair, but they originated farther away. He glanced up. Thunderclouds gathered in the distance, black and ominous.

  Raising one arm, he took in what he saw. The nimbus of sintu glowed around him. It throbbed in a wavy haze at least four inches from his body.

  As he thought back to the days spent in the Parmien, he understood what Keedar meant. His sintu allowed him to feel an object long before his body ever touched it. The sense allowed for greater anticipation. He had often wondered why it appeared as if Keedar floated when they ran. It was an illusion, the answer for which lay in sintu. If he concentrated hard enough, he could make his soul almost solid, push off the instant his foot or hand touched an object. The possibilities seemed endless.

  “Amazing isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he hissed in awe.

  “Now,” Keedar said, “this is the important part. You normally draw on tern, shifting a bit of soul from other parts of your body to your feet and legs when we run. It’s natural in you. However, I know there’s another cycle you see, a median one, to match tern. That is hyzen. With it you can take almost the entirety of your soul and shift it to a specific body part. You did it when Gaston stabbed you.”

  Winslow focused as he listened, drawing on that last cycle he always saw in his head, and thought he’d never touched. He realized he’d pulled on it to stop the knife. Soul blazed from all points, ready to do hi
s bidding. The sensation was one of near-overwhelming power. As a test, he applied the essence to his ears.

  What had been distant before became a roar, the light breeze, a gale, small creatures steps in the woods were a giant’s footfalls, the sand and tiny pebbles constantly trickling down the cliff face was an avalanche. The crescendo almost made him cover his ears. Working hard to concentrate, he picked out what he sought. “Listen.”

  The hounds were moving away. To the east.

  “Strange,” Keedar said. “Why would they do that if they had our scent?”

  “I don’t know. I’m certain they were on our trail.” The hounds still bayed as if they did, but in the wrong direction. “That’s the second time today the Dominion have shone on us.” Winslow released hyzen. The effect was like traveling from daylight into utter blackness.

  “Tell that to my mother and father, and those women and children the King’s Blades slew,” Keedar said.

  Winslow wanted to chide Keedar for his lack of faith, but he knew it would make no difference. He understood his friend’s sentiments. In ways, he could relate if he lived in the Smear, if he’d gone through the same struggles, if he had suffered through the Day of Accolades. There was little in the arduous, deadly life of the Smear’s inhabitants that would make any among them want to turn to the Dominion. It was no wonder that they had abandoned the temples.

  “Before we start down, banish any thought that this will be as easy as running the Parmien,” Keedar said. “Any lapse in your focus, and you will fall to your death. With this method, we’ll be able to travel faster than any normal climber ever could. The important thing is to relax while you maintain hyzen, almost as if you might float away. Resistance will find you as a red smear on the rocks below.”