Soulbreaker

by Terry C. Simpson

  “He cannot escape me now, and I’d much rather he lead me to whomever is left.” The king glanced down at Felius once more, said a prayer to Mandrigal, created a flame in his hand, and tossed it onto the Blade’s body. “We lost a score of Blades and half that of Farlanders. Until I can spare men from other parts of the kingdom or Seligula sends me reinforcements, we cannot afford more losses. Besides, there’s a wealth of information here that might give us a hint of what they intend. Not to mention prisoners to put to the question.”

  “Yes, sire.” Sabella snapped her heels together, bowed, and left.

  Shaz entered a moment later. “We’ve secured a perimeter and searched all the nearby rooms. There are no living rebels left down here.”

  “Good.” Ainslen stared unblinking at the fire consuming Felius. He hardly noticed the smell of burning flesh. “Collect everything in this room. I wish to know if he told them anything of use.”

  “What of the survivors?”

  “To the Farlander mines, of course. See to it that any melders among them are equipped with the proper chains.”

  “And afterward?”

  “I wish we could burn it all down, but we cannot, not without destroying the shrine and chantry above us. Find out if any of the wisemen knew of this place. I don’t see how they couldn’t. Set traps throughout to warn us should the dregs return.”

  “As you wish, sire.”

  “When all that is done, bring Tomas to my room in the dungeons. I will deal with him personally. Oh, and set some of your men to keep an eye on Shenen.”

  “Trouble?” Shaz asked, the brow of his good eye arched.

  “Possibly. The man has become too adamant about that grandson of his.” Ainslen found himself smiling despite the earlier loss and Felius’ death. He realized he hadn’t gone far enough with his plans against the guilds, a mistake he would fix in short order. The solution was one of a few things he planned to savor, each whetting a different appetite.

  17

  An Old Legend

  Winslow jerked awake from another nightmare of Elaina and his son. In it, Ainslen was standing behind the boy with a sword in his hand. Keedar was also in a few of his dreams, along with a swarthy man wearing a blue cloak.

  A spear of daylight poked through the room’s lone window. He ran his fingers along a soft mattress and thick blankets. The chair, table, lamp, and coat rack seemed vaguely familiar. After a moment’s contemplation, recognition came to him. This was Uncle Keshka’s room. His shoulders, that had been tense seconds before, finally relaxed, but his head was still heavy, reactions sluggish.

  He tried to recall how he got to the cottage. He remembered leaving the clearing, filled to bursting with soul, consumed by the thought of reaching the cottage as soon as he could. Instead of dodging rocks and the like tossed at him, he’d manifested his flame nimbus and blasted them apart. Slowly the attacks had increased until he was running for his life, chased by several bears, clutching tenuously to his soul. The rest was a haze of stumbles and falls, ragged breaths, and prayers to the Dominion.

  The sweet aroma of pickled eggs, coffee, and cinnamon fritters set his belly rumbling. Winslow sat up. A bout of dizziness took him, and he spent the next few moments regaining his bearings. He wore a loose shirt and trousers: his clothes, but they fit as if they belonged to someone else. Drawn to the scent of breakfast he flung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.

  When Winslow entered the kitchen Keedar was sitting at the table, one hand around a coffee cup, a fritter in the other. Winslow licked his lips at the sight of the fried dough mixed with cinnamon, certain it contained honey too. His brother froze with his mouth open.

  “Good morning,” a gravelly voice said. The stranger from Winslow’s dream hovered over the stove, turning several fritters in a pan of oil.

  Those two words broke whatever spell held Keedar. He leaped to his feet, dashed to Winslow’s side, and threw his arms around him. Before long they were laughing and crying and laughing some more. Keedar told him all that had happened.

  A bout of coughing wracked Winslow’s chest. The stranger brought over a steaming cup. Keedar had named him Stomir, a Kheridisian, and the man who had rescued them in the Smear.

  “Tea,” Stomir said, “to shake that cough.”

  Winslow took the cup gratefully and sipped from it, the spicy ingredients clearing his head. Within minutes he was sitting at the table, wolfing down pickled eggs and fritters. Food never tasted so good. When he finished, he slouched back, smiling, rubbing his belly. He straightened. “Where’s Uncle Keshka?”

  “Something in the city required his attention.” Resentment colored Keedar’s tone.

  “Must have been very important, then,” Winslow said. Not for one moment did he believe Keshka would’ve left otherwise. “How long have I been here?”

  “Two days,” Keedar said.

  “And how long was I gone?”

  “A little over three months.”

  Three months. Three months with only water. Three months haunted by my shortcomings. He inhaled long and slow.

  “You could’ve warned me of what to expect,” Winslow said, reliving his suffering.

  “I wanted to, but I couldn’t.” Keedar averted his eyes.

  Winslow shook his head. “We’re supposed to be brothers … after all we’ve been through …” His lips quivered. “I would’ve done it for you.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have,” Stomir said. “A condition of the trial, and one of Na-Rashim’s skills, is that you can never speak of him or what is experienced during the test with someone who has not been through it.” The man busied himself with putting out the coals in the heating chamber beneath the stove.

  “Did you have them too? The nightmares? The visits?” Winslow met Keedar’s eyes. Melancholy filled them.

  “Yes, after a while they became too much.”

  “That’s when you left and fought him.”

  “You mean, it,” Keedar said.

  “No. Him. His name is Na-Rashim-ha-Den, and he’s an Aladar.”

  “You two spoke?” Keedar exclaimed.

  “Yes. He protects a person once they’ve completed the test in the hollow. Helps you recover a bit before the last part, which is returning here. I think encountering him was the point of the trial.”

  “Survival,” Stomir corrected, “is the only point of the trial. Opening your shi to become a melder and then surviving. It doesn’t matter how you did it, as long as it’s done.”

  “Has anyone ever beaten him,” Keedar inquired.

  “There’s an old legend passed down among Kheridisian melders, that only one man has ever defeated Na-Rashim.” Stomir paused, and then added, “Tharkensen the Lightning Blade. Some say the victory was because he was a Blade, already a melder, but not even the greatest Kheridisians who were melders prior to the Fast of Madness have ever bested Na-Rashim.”

  The name, Tharkensen the Lightning Blade, jogged Winslow’s memory. He had been one of the most renowned Blades in the Empire’s history, responsible for many victories over the centuries. He defeated the great Marish general, Toran Tanal during the Battle of Keshan Dark when Tanal had carved out a small territory for himself and declared it a sovereign kingdom. He had bested countless Blades when King Jemare won the throne, and was named an honorary Stonelord by the Thelusians for rescuing one of their princesses from the Caradorii. The list of Tharkensen’s accomplishments was as long as his name. Some folks worshipped him as if he were a God.

  As the best assassin in the Empire, he was tasked with killing Elysse the Temptress, avenging the death of Prince Joaquin. It was the only contract he did not complete. As was custom for any Blade who failed their assignment, Jemare had Tharkensen disavowed as a Kasinian, his name stricken from the books, and had placed a bounty of ten thousand gold monarchs o
n both their heads. Countless tales chronicled the warriors who took that contract and wound up dead or missing. Eventually it was considered a curse.

  Completing the same test as the Lightning Blade made Winslow giddy. He’d dreamed of becoming a Blade, but this was even better. He pursed his lips as he considered what might have transpired between Tharkensen and his mother. Had she defeated him? Perhaps Keshka knew. However, it was an issue for another day.

  Winslow was still thinking of Na-Rashim when he remembered his own scales. He felt them under his skin, waiting to be called forth. The idea frightened him. He had fully expected to become a melder, but to know he was also becoming a Dracodar, a legend, a thing used in stories by mothers to scare their children, was beyond his imagining. He rubbed at his forearms. “Do you have them also?”

  “Yes.” Keedar nodded. He didn’t appear willing to talk about them, and Winslow understood.

  “Never discuss them around anyone but yourselves or Keshka,” Stomir said. “And do not reveal them to anyone at anytime unless instructed by Keshka. You never know who may be watching. The last thing you need is to be hunted.”

  Those last few words conjured images of the many hunts he’d gone on with Ainslen. The idea of hounds baying, and men on horseback chasing him down, brought on a shudder.

  “So what now?” he asked to change the mood. “I feel as if I can eat a whole goat. Or roasted deer and potatoes. A calf, perhaps, or several yellowtails.” Thoughts of meat turning on a spit set his stomach growling again.

  “Now, you still need more rest, and food, yes, plenty of that to regain your strength,” Stomir said.

  “What about training?” He was anxious to practice melding.

  “Keshka said to wait at least four days before you begin,” Keedar said. “And even then, to make certain you’re strong enough.”

  Winslow groaned. He glanced down at his scrawny arms. “Don’t let these fool you, I’m more than ready.”

  The hint of a smile crossed Keedar’s face. “Martel said that if you practice before you regain full health, your manhood will stop working.”

  “Nonsense,” Winslow blurted, inadvertently drawing his knees together. He expected Keedar and Stomir to burst out in laughter. Their faces were serious. “It’s a jest, isn’t it?”

  Keedar abruptly stood. “It’s my turn to hunt.”

  “I’ll go keep watch,” Stomir said.

  They both headed for the door.

  18

  A Gathering

  Mandrigal’s light was a pale thing in the east, shrouded by a murky soup from which snow swirled down, coating the city in white. Despite Terestere’s thickest pair of woolen riding britches and underthings, the cold still bit. She praised the Dominion that the wind wasn’t strong enough to cut through her jacket. Ainslen had come to her just before dawn, bade her to dress, and follow him. She found his jovial demeanor disconcerting, particularly after the way he had stalked from her chambers, face scarlet from his defeat in Dragon Gates. The answer to the change in mood arrived as her handmaidens dressed her. During the night, Ainslen had routed a major faction of the Kasandarian rebellion.

  Still, none of that explained this gathering. The counts, countesses, and other nobles wore frowns or whispered to each other, as perplexed as she. She knew many of them well, but three stood out.

  Count Leroi Shenen was the leader of House Hazline. Fair hair matching his complexion, but eyes haunted rather than their normal observant selves, he rode a dun mare. A golden clasp, carved in the image of a face blowing out air to represent Hazline, held his cloak together. His steely gaze strayed a bit too often to Ainslen’s back.

  Twice so far the man had been to see Ainslen, and both times he left angrier than he’d arrived. Terestere wondered if the animosity was a part of the same hate she’d sensed when she brought up the question of Elaina’s son to the king. Elaina rode beside her father, dressed in all black. Word had it that she was mourning Winslow.

  Not far from those two rode Count Lestere Hagarath of House Keneshin, looking for all the world like a pallid bear wearing a lida hide cloak. Swathed in his usual layers of clothing he dipped his head in her direction. She returned the gesture, wondering why Lestere had let out the bush he called hair rather than keep it braided. His beard was so thick it could pass for a bird’s nest.

  Count Pomir Fiorenta rode ahead of Lestere, dressed in black, on a black steed. Simply looking at his pockmarked face made the day drearier. She had never trusted that one. He was too secretive by half, much like the rest of House Humel. Those three counts bore an obvious dislike for each other. Too obvious, in her estimation.

  Minor lords and ladies, sons and daughters or other family members who had taken advantage of the chaos Succession Day created, comprised the remainder of the retinue. Such shifts in titles were to be expected.

  She rode between High Priest Jarod and King Ainslen. Jarod was in the thick fur-lined robes of his station, cinched with a wide, blue belt. The Star of the Dominion hung from a chain around his neck and a fur hat covered his head and ears.

  The king was puffed up like a preening bird in gold satin and layered velvet, amber-colored stallion dancing. He received odd looks from people along the streets who huddled in thick furs. They likely thought him mad for his lack of a coat in this weather. She would have too, except she knew he wanted every eye focused on him, and was using soul to keep out the cold. Jemare had employed his skills in a similar fashion at times, stating that first appearances often made the most impact.

  Ainslen also had an additional reason. In light of the recent assassination attempt he had to appear fearless. Terestere drew her lips in a tight line as she considered the counts, and which of their number had the most cause to want the king dead.

  Surrounded by Blades and Farlanders they proceeded due south along slush-filled streets, riding from the crisp air of the Golden Spires to the filth choking Deadman’s Gap. A scaffold with a platform at the top rose above nearby buildings. Eyes narrowed, she tried to discern what else lay ahead. A weight descended on her chest as they drew closer.

  Over three dozen gibbets lined Deadman’s Gap, icicles hanging from their metal frames. Chains extended from the manacles worn by the men and women inside each, connecting one person to the other by links of dark metal. A foul stench drifted from the cages. Some of her family had perished in those metal monstrosities.

  Among the prisoners were Jemare’s supporters: nobles, children to one Hill or another that had opposed Ainslen. Some were naked, shivering profusely, curled into balls. Others were clothed but still hugged themselves. Six were motionless. Those still lucid stretched shaking hands between the bars toward the metal drums from which flames roared. But the bonfires were too far away to offer any heat. Agonized moans and unintelligible sputter issued from many a mouth, all lacking tongues. Behind each gibbet stood a King’s Blade. Several lesser nobles leaned over the side of their mounts and spilled their breakfast. The counts were implacable.

  A mass of common folk gathered on the far side of Deadman’s Gap, separated from the cobblestoned road by a line of soldiers and bonfires. Perhaps half of their original number had survived Succession Day. Bundled in many layers of clothing they jostled each other in their attempts to get as close to the warmth as possible. The Smear was a mass of construction behind them, charred buildings and dilapidated structures that had once hugged each other.

  Ainslen spurred his mount toward the scaffold. When he reached the wooden ladder that led up to the top, he wheeled his horse to face the nobles. The nervous titter of voices cut off. “I brought you all here for a reason,” he declared, gaze roving over the nobility.

  “I would hope so,” Count Shenen said under his breath. Terestere suppressed a smile.

  “Our Empire has survived for millennia, its greatest accomplishments wrought through change,” the king
announced. “Whenever we stagnated, ill has befallen us. The beginning of the Blight, the Thousand Year War, the end of Hemene the Savage and the Fabled Era, the death of Khalil the Wise, the rise of the Caradorii and our struggle against them, King Jemare …” He let his voice trail off. A horse stamped and someone coughed. “I mentioned our former king because he did not embrace the changes we must make as an Empire. Today begins the first steps.

  “Many of you have risen due to this past Succession Day. I’ve listened to your petitions and dealt with issues as they arise. Only a few seem to realize our greatest weakness.” He pointed at his personal guard. “The Blades.”

  Murmurs spread through the nobility. A few shook their heads. Ainslen held up a gloved hand. They hushed.

  “Those of you who beg to differ are either in denial or do not understand the facts. So I ask you this … who is the last legendary Blade you remember? Has there been one born in your lifetime? A Moamar the Massive? Redinen the Dual Blade? Amalia the Ravishing? Danilo the Quaking Blade? Roslav Quickthrust the Dagger Blade? Gothien the Shadow Blade? Myron the Sun Blade? Jemare the Unbridled Blade? Ainslen the Wind Blade? None?” He cocked his head. “That is not to say our Blades are worthless, simply that they are not on par with those of old. Have you asked yourselves why?” The king waited for a reply. No one offered any. “No? Then I shall tell you. It’s because the dregs have held back some of their best. We get the occasional piece of gold but not a precious gem. Others have very little skill, their parents offering them to us as they hope to give their children something better than squalor, disease, and death.”

  All three helped on by the Order. Terestere scowled.

  “I don’t blame them,” the king continued. “Where are all these strong melders going, you ask? Judging from those we fought since Succession Day, they became a part of the Consortium. They rose against the Empire despite the freedom Jemare allowed them, the influx of coin into their coffers. Jemare himself had to resort to raids and offerings from the Empire’s other kingdoms to fill the ranks.”