Soulbreaker

by Terry C. Simpson

  Felius Carin entered the Cask and Cork not long after, pausing at the door, frigid night air accompanying him. Stand a deep bowl on its edge with the curved part protruding outward and you had the Minstrel Blade. Throw in a round face with several chins, spindly arms and legs, and a high-pitched voice, and one might wonder how the man ever passed the rigorous physical training attributed to the Blades. At least until you saw him fight or heard him truly speak. The Minstrel Blade’s talent was that he made people listen. And obey. He was a Mesmer, renowned for his mindbending.

  The laughter and chatter in the Cork dwindled to silence. No one so much as clinked a glass or cleared their throat. Eyes already dulled from earlier cavorting, Felius waddled straight to the bar. While he was heading there, several men and women made good their exit, including half a dozen courtesans.

  Marin poured the fat man three cups of mesqa. Felius drank them one after the other without a pause, each in a single gulp. He swayed a bit after the third before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He squinted, head shifting slowly from one side to the other. When his roving gaze crossed Neseny and Senebnay, he stopped. Felius’ mouth spread in a silly grin, like a greedy boy who got his hands on a confectioner’s sweets. Thar couldn’t help but to smile where he sat toward the rear of the tavern.

  “Don’t pay me any mind, damn you. Back to your drinks and revelry,” Felius shouted, voice slurred.

  A rush of soul swept out from the man as he spoke. The normal tavern noises resumed as if they’d never stopped. Even Corbie made his way over to Marin and ordered a drink. The cycler with the Calum pipe took a deep pull and laid his head back. The pale-skinned Kasinian headed to the door and out. The hired bruiser couple were kissing, his hands up her dress, hers digging at his belt.

  Cackling, Felius had both Thelusians by their waists. Eyes glazed over, they were stroking his face.

  Thar eased out the rear door. Although under Felius’ mindbend, Neseny and Senebnay would still take him to the appointed the room. Whistling to himself, he strode to the tavern across the street to wait.

  ******

  Felius Carin’s capture had been simple, so simple that Thar still suspected a trap despite watching the man for two days. He again checked for signs of soul attached to the Minstrel Blade’s body or clothing but found none.

  A low wail escaped Felius’ mouth as he lived his nightmares. He would break; Thar knew this beyond a doubt. All his prisoners eventually did.

  Lamplight threw capering shadows across Felius’ round face where he lay on the long table, feet moving as if he walked. His eyes flitted from side to side before they stopped, and focused on the low-burning flames. Felius’ triple chins ceased jiggling for a moment, his brow furrowed, and the pace of those feet increased, running but taking him nowhere. The moment stretched … and then Felius’ determination evaporated into quivering lips and snot.

  The key to breaking a man was the mind. Too many believed it was the body. Cause enough physical suffering and he surrendered, they thought.

  Such methods didn’t work with the King’s Blades. They were trained to separate their minds from their bodies. Physical extremes and damage were the norm for them. Thar himself had been most adept at the skill when he’d been known as the Lightning Blade.

  But the mind, now that was different. Worm your way into a man’s head and you could make him believe anything. The impossible became the possible. Nightmares became reality.

  The Minstrel Blade’s face contorted, eyes rolling back in his head. Chest heaving, he gasped for breath, the folds of flesh around his ample belly quivering with each exhalation. A wet, sucking sound issued from the man. Brown stained his underclothes, followed by a stench that made rotten eggs smell like perfume. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, a thin red line against pale skin.

  Thar cupped his nose and mouth against the reek, lips curled in disgust. Heart let out a whine, padded toward the stairs, and settled down on his stomach once more. Thar smiled before refocusing on his prisoner, mood souring again at the mess pooling under Felius’ backside.

  If Felius wished, he could have gotten up from the table and walked away. But he didn’t. He was as much his own prisoner as he was Thar’s.

  The best mindbending worked that way. Mesmers convinced the victim not only of the threat they envisioned, but also created an entire environment from which their captive could not escape. The most gifted did not need to be in their victim’s presence. They subtly laid down the groundwork over years until reality and fantasy were inseparable. Elysse was one such.

  In Felius’ head he was trapped in a wilderness of ice, a glow in the distance promising the warmth of a campfire. And help. Help from the stalking pack of derins. The beasts had already slaughtered his loved ones.

  Shuddering, Felius hugged himself. Or tried to. Those stubby arms couldn’t encompass his girth. Dirty fingernails dug into the male version of tits. Sobs burst from him.

  Thar felt no pity for the man. Felius and the wisemen had done much worse in the Smear. Thar brushed away Felius’ tears, each time sending a jolt of soul into the man to weaken his resolve. “Dear, dear, no need to cry. Answer my questions honestly, and I won’t be forced to make you suffer any further. Lie, and I let the derins have you.”

  Felius’ eyes rolled until they focused on Heart. The derin raised his head, gazed at Felius, and yawned, teeth showing, before he rested back on his forepaws. Heart’s ears flicked at the buzzing flies. Whatever Felius envisioned drained the blood from his face and made his eyes grow round with terror.

  “So,” Thar said, “which will it be? Speak or meat?” He gestured toward the derin.

  “Sp-sp-speak,” Felius sputtered.

  “Good,” Thar said. “Let’s begin again. You went with Cardiff on his trip as ambassador to Thelusia and Marissinia, correct?” Felius nodded. “And the trip there took the usual, what? Month? Two?”

  “Five weeks.”

  “And you met with Prince Taelan?”

  “N-no, we met Seligula, the Farlander general.”

  “Where?”

  “Outside Ernassa.”

  Thar frowned. He had doubted the reports, but connected as he was to Felius’ mind, he could tell if the man lied. Felius’ belief was unshakable.

  “Did you witness the attack on the city?”

  “No, Ernassa had already fallen.”

  Shaking his head, Thar tried to make sense of it all. Prior to the attack the Farlanders could have secreted a force around the Giant’s Horn, up the Raging Sea, and into the River Ost. That would answer the question of how they reached Kasandar so quickly. But even if so, how did King Cardiff return in less than half the time it took him to reach Ernassa? And, according to the spies, Cardiff had ridden in with the Farlanders in their disguises as Thelusians.

  “So, you traveled from near the eastern coast all the way to Kasandar in two weeks.” Thar absently stroked his wispy beard. “How is that possible?”

  “We r—” The sound of choking cut off Felius’ words

  Thar’s attention snapped to the man. A warning growl issued from Heart.

  Froth bubbled from Felius’ mouth. The stench of shit rose more prominently than before, drowning out all other odors. Eyes bloodshot, Felius was staring off at nothing, head making short jerks. A spasm, and then he was still, body slumped bonelessly.

  “Hells,” Thar muttered under his breath. The block was so intricately woven that he’d missed it. Tracing it now, he picked out the meld’s effects. Keyed to any attempt by Felius to speak on certain matters, it shut down his vital organs.

  Frustrated by how close he’d come, Thar perused his maps once again, but discerned no answers. He replayed Felius’ last words. “We r—” Was he saying they ran? Thar almost said it was impossible before stopping himself.

  Frowning, he pac
ed back and forth. The sooner he discovered a solution to this problem, the better, for the next obstacle appeared to be that much more difficult: finding a way to neutralize the Farlander firesticks. From all reports, not only had they been the downfall of the King’s Blades, but a larger version of them, employed on ships, were the cause of Ernassa’s defeat.

  The spark of an idea growing, he headed to the room he used as a study area where a cup of steaming spiced tea waited. He picked it up and took a sip, the taste and aroma sweet and tart all at once. The books strewn across the table drew his eye. One of them held the answers. Scanning the table, he searched among the Undertow’s tomes. When he found Etien’s Compendium, he sat in his cushioned armchair, flipped to the pages he’d marked previously, and began to read.

  The first thing that struck me about the Farlanders was their connection to nature. They had tamed many beasts that did their bidding or provided food. They had birds for their scouting, certain types of fish to lure other fish so the Farlander nets would be bountiful, a type of goat to scale mountains and dig out new paths and search out the dust and metals they used in their weapons. They employed darwhals, giant sea creatures much like lidas, to break waves during storms when they sailed to the far reaches of the oceans. One of their desert tribes possessed another type of beast that would seek out water for them.

  Their most intriguing pets were the ereskars, as tall tas five men standing on each other’s shoulders, and just as long. The males had tusks and horns while the females possessed tusks alone. Ears as big as a man, an ereskar could carry fifty people by way of baskets the Farlanders hung off its sides. I thought these gigantic creatures would be slow and lumbering, particularly since their every step shook the very earth. But they were not.

  These beasts, like so many others, could harness their soul. I cannot begin to say which cycles they use. What I can say is that whatever form of soul magic they called upon allowed them to run at tremendous speeds almost nonstop. No longer would their steps quake the earth; it was like floating on air. Distances that might take us a week to traverse, these beasts covered in half the time.

  Thar felt a surge of elation. At the same time he wanted to slap himself. For months now he’d searched for answers and they had been but a few paragraphs away.

  Despite his discovery, he was confused. A beast of this magnitude would’ve been seen and heard. None of his scouts reported any creature of the sort. Where were the Farlanders keeping them, and how could they move without being seen? Thar continued to read.

  16

  Queen’s Doom

  Washing his hands through his hair, Ainslen left Terestere’s quarters, followed by his escort of four Blades. Seven days of playing had revealed that Terestere possessed surprising skill, but not enough to be a challenge. So how is it you lost to her? He thought back to the day’s game. In hindsight the trap should have been obvious.

  She had started out as aggressively as ever, pushing him. She sacrificed her Dracodar queen and several other pieces to capture his queen. But then she fell into a pattern of defense. Taking it as a sign of desperation he swept in with three cyclers, one melder, and two Aladar and trapped her dragon king.

  Until she countered.

  By taking both Aladar across the soul cycle line, he freed her Dracodar warriors. The move was a secondary method to give one of them the ability to leave the castle. In a few swift moves she brought a Dracodar warrior into one of his Dragon Gates at 1 Antelen, thus making it a queen. With the piece now capable of moving in any direction for any number of squares as long as one of his pieces did not block its path, his king was in danger. Her first act was to chase down the cycler that had just crossed the soul cycle line, thus gaining its promotion to melder. Due to that transformation it was one of his strongest pieces.

  Believing he discerned a way out, he maneuvered the new melder so that two cyclers blocked her queen’s path. A ploy of delay. In the turns she used to position her queen so she could capture both pieces without losing hers, he moved the melder to her Dragon Gate at 9 Rendorta. It now became a dragon king. However, in so doing, he was sacrificing his previous king. All he could do now was run, play for a draw, or rely on her to make a mistake of impatience. She made none. Without the help of his Dracodar warriors, who were still relegated to his castle, and without his queen, it was only a matter of time before she placed his king in trap, and then into doom. So focused was he on not losing that he took away his king’s best protection: the castle and the warriors.

  Doom. The word rang like a death knell in his head as he recalled the expressionless mask of her face as she declared the game’s end. It was also the name of the strategy she had employed: Queen’s Doom.

  Ainslen growled under his breath at the loss. He still got what he wanted: her hand in marriage and promise of an heir, but he hated losing. To anyone. He promised himself to show no mercy when next they played.

  Thinking of her, he considered the time spent together so far. He’d expected her to lie to him in order to save herself, but probing her with soul revealed only truth in her words. When the topic of Winslow arose, she appeared oblivious to the fact that the boy was not his true son. A positive, for he disliked the idea of killing her. Most surprising was her lack of knowledge as to Jemare’s atrocities with the Soul Throne. On several occasions he steered conversations toward a revelation, and not once had she reacted.

  In ways, she reminded him of Marjorie, willing to tell him how she felt or what she thought regardless of whether he wanted to hear it or not. Unlike others, she was not afraid of him. She was strong, both in character and in soul. He wondered if she knew just how strong. He could see why Jemare had married her. Even more refreshing was that he no longer thought of Marjorie when in Terestere’s presence, and at night, when in bed, he missed the scent of the queen’s favored mint and saffron.

  He was smiling to himself when Shaz turned the corner from the corridor up ahead. In his preferred black, the Marishman stood out next to the golden walls. Shaz’s face was a mask of concern, his drooping eye and puckered burns complementing the expression.

  “Wait here,” Ainslen said to his escort. He strode to meet Shaz. “What is it?”

  Concern changed to confusion. “You didn’t sense it?”

  “Sense what?”

  “Felius was taken.”

  On the verge of asking the Marishman if he was certain, Ainslen focused, searching for the feel of his link to Felius. Giving the fat bastard a chance to do as he pleased down in the River Quarter had provided the perfect way to influence him into imbibing a special meld. It was easy enough to imitate the man’s drinks, one passed off to Felius when he was well and truly drunk. If Felius was still in Kasandar, Ainslen could pinpoint his location to within thirty feet. If outside the city he could discern the direction.

  “Somewhere near Cortens’ Shrine,” Ainslen said.

  “Doesn’t make sense. The guards or the wisemen would have seen them.”

  “Not if they traveled beneath the city.” Ainslen’s mouth curled into a smile. “Gather the best Blades and Farlanders at our disposal, we go now.”

  With several Blade squads and a score of Farlanders, Ainslen rode hard for the shrine’s bronze and black spires. Such was his excitement that he barely felt the cold wind. When they arrived, High Priest Jarod was waiting at the entrance to the portion of the shrine used as the Order’s chantry. Ainslen dismounted even as Sabella and Shaz passed out orders.

  “Sire, what brings you here?” Jarod asked, gaze flitting to the Blades and Farlanders for an instant before he offered a smile to Ainslen.

  Ainslen frowned. “I used a meld to track one of the Consortium’s men and it led here.”

  “Are you certain?”

  The king arched an eyebrow, to which the High Priest gave a small, apologetic bow. “Is there a chance any of your wisemen might be worki
ng for the guilds?”

  “None.”

  The answer was truth personified. Even without the use of his power Ainslen could tell. “Then I suggest you assign a few of yours for the upcoming battle. We have to assume that the Consortium might be here for revenge or to steal your storage of soul.”

  “You think they would dare come against us?”

  Ainslen lowered his voice. “In the past you complained when the dregs refused to attend the Smear’s chantry, and then declined to use any temples dedicated to the Dominion. If they’re as godless as you say, what do you think would happen if they discovered the Order had a hand in sowing misery within the Smear?”

  Jarod seemed to consider the words for a moment before he replied. “Follow me.” The High Priest whipped his robes about him and strode through the huge bronze doors.

  Two battle-filled hours later, in chambers several floors beneath the shrine, Ainslen stood over Felius’ corpse. An animal had torn the man apart. The king grimaced at the stench of death. Despite his recent failures Felius deserved better.

  “Sire, they are retreating deeper into these old ruins,” Sabella reported.

  “Let them go. I won’t risk losing another man in these hells-forsaken passages. We’ve done enough damage.”

  “Are you certain, sire? I don’t mean to question you but word has it that we wounded their leader. A few of ours that gave chase claim they can pinpoint his location.”

  Ainslen bit back a scathing response as he surveyed their surroundings. Bodies littered nearby rooms. His collection of Blades and Farlanders had killed at least a hundred of the rebels and captured three times that number. One of the prisoners was Tomas Besenderin, new leader of the Red Beggars according to a few who had already pleaded for their lives.