Soulbreaker

by Terry C. Simpson

  “So what is it you propose … these … changes?” asked Count Hagarath.

  “Ah.” Ainslen signaled to someone behind the nobles.

  Heads shifted, the crowd parting as Count Shaz, dressed in soft, dark, derin fur, woolen britches, and a leather cloak, rode between them. He stared straight ahead, scarred features giving away nothing. House Jarina’s silver insignia, a silhouette of a woman and a cup, hung from a chain around his neck. Shaz trotted his horse next to the king, said a few words, and then moved to join the others.

  “To put it simply,” Ainslen began anew, “we need fresh blood in almost every facet of our lives. The first is among you.” He pointed to Shaz. “Bestowing a Hill to one of foreign descent has never been done. And before any one grumbles, neither has a dreg risen to the station of count.” He nodded in the direction of Marshal Lestin, former Drillmaster of the Blades. “From this day forth let him be known as Count Lestin of House Antelen.”

  Gasps spread throughout the nobles. A few shouted their dissent. A louder roar of approval rose from across Deadman’s Gap. The commoners close enough to hear Ainslen’s declaration were whooping, pumping their fists in the air, the coldness of the day forgotten. The cheers spread in a wave through the throng.

  Terestere couldn’t help but to smile in admiration of Ainslen’s move. Though the Blades refused to acknowledge their origins, or were conditioned to recognize no power but the Empire’s, and bear no love for anyone but the king, the heritage of most was undeniable. As aloof as some Blades had grown, many commoners still looked up to them, still saw them as their own. Her sources had told her of Lestin’s concern for the Smear’s residents during the recent skirmishes. She wondered what the king would do now to quell the nobility’s anger.

  Four Blades climbed the ladder at the king’s back. The clangor diminished.

  Ainslen continued to speak to the nobles. “I have upset a few of you with this announcement, perhaps the majority of you, but most will forgive me when you hear what I have to say next. Shenen, Lestere, Fiorenta, Katuro, and Corbel, I address you specifically because you are all counts or prominent men from Jemare’s court. How many children have you all lost over the past forty years?”

  “Three,” Shenen said.

  “Four.” Lestere was frowning at the king, bushy eyebrows touching.

  “Two,” said Fiorenta.

  “Three,” called out Katuro, his robes an imitation of the wisemen. He claimed to be one of the most pious among the nobility.

  “Two.” Corbel was taller than most of the other nobles. Wider too, his size easily mistaken for fat until one realized the logs he had for arms.

  “And all of your children took part in the Trial of Bravery … excelled, didn’t they?”

  The men nodded, but each had that wary look about them. A chill coursed across Terestere’s arms. Bumps rose on her skin. She once had a spy follow Jemare. He reported a ritual by her dead husband that she would rather forget.

  “They died to Jemare, their souls ingested to make him stronger,” the king said. “He had planned the same for my Kenslen.”

  Leroi Shenen snarled. Lestere Hagarath’s massive fists clenched and unclenched. Fiorenta became extremely still. The wives of Corbel and Katuro fainted. Shock and murmurs ran rampant through the group. Several turned to gaze upon Terestere. Hate radiated from the expressions of many, doubt and questions from others.

  “The former queen did not know of her husband’s … appetite,” Ainslen said. “For those of you who might doubt my word, Jemare kept a detailed memoir, hidden away in a special room in the dungeon. If you wish to see it, you can do so upon our return. High Priest Jarod can confirm it for those who lack the stomach for grisly details.”

  The High Priest stepped forward. “The king speaks the truth, in both regards. Such a travesty was one reason we have given our support to His Majesty. May the Dominion shine on his reign.” He resumed his place among the nobles.

  The knot in her stomach eased. However, she still received suspicious glances. Enough to be a future cause for worry.

  “For this travesty, I now call an end to the Trial of Bravery,” Ainslen continued. “It was a ploy for Jemare to gauge the strength of our children’s souls, to decide whom he would take.” No one cried foul at the decree. “In addition, once I put down the rabble that have risen against us in Thelusia, Marissinia, and Kheridisia, I will award estates, fiefdoms, and baronies to the most deserving of you. If there proves to be a threat from the west, we shall use my Farlanders to crush them also, and take their riches and lands for our own.”

  Grinning and nodding, the nobles were clapping each other on the back. Shenen’s forehead was furrowed in contemplation. Fiorenta was his usual expressionless self. Humel arched one bushy eyebrow and stroked his beard. For her part, Terestere gazed on Ainslen with a deeper understanding of the man. He had slipped in the one thing over which the nobles and commoners alike had expressed outrage: the Farlanders. In one move he gained support for them. Well played, my king. Well played.

  Ainslen climbed the ladder. When he reached the platform, towering above everyone, he gazed out toward the Smear and its people, their expectant eyes upon him.

  “Of late,” he shouted, voice echoing, “some of you have rebelled. I do not blame you for this. You have lacked a true voice in the court, but today I gave you one, a man who has known your suffering.”

  The crowd was enraptured. Terestere doubted many of them realized the power Ainslen wielded or could stop it.

  “But that is not all … you were willfully misled by your old king and by the Consortium. The guilds you grew to love, to rely upon, were robbing you of what was rightfully yours. Yes, some of you profited, but what you earned was a mere pittance compared to what was agreed upon between the king and the Consortium leaders. To line his coffers, Jemare, may he burn in the Ten Purgatories, banned trade with the Farish Isles, Helegan, and Kheridisia, making those lands profitable for the Consortium’s smugglers. The coin earned from the guilds’ black markets was to feed and clothe you. What did you get in return?” Ainslen swept his hand out to encompass the Smear. “Filth, poverty, starvation, disease, murderers and rapists, and only the Purgatories knows what else.”

  Terestere gritted her teeth. The king was lying. The pacts were true enough. She’d drawn up a few. However, the guilds had provided their part to the commoners, and so had the king. She’d seen to it herself even if Jemare did not wish to abide by the bargain. Also, Kasinia’s coffers were full to overflowing. A simple visit to the accountants would prove as much. Unless … she eyed High Priest Jarod, whose lips curved in a slight smile as Ainslen continued to speak.

  “Not only did they rob you of comfort, they stole opportunity from your children. Opportunity to become more, to lead greater lives, to live on in songs and tales, to serve the Empire and the greater good of the Dominion.” The king’s voice was a roar now. “What did they give you in return? Dead children and loved ones on Succession Day and in the recent uprisings. All because they convinced you not to deliver the most gifted on the Day of Accolades.”

  He paused as his words sunk in. Angry murmurs rippled through the commoners. Terestere heard the mention of the Consortium or the name of one guild or another, and not in pleasant tones.

  “Why should you be forced to surrender those you love, some may ask,” Ainslen said. “Why should you be willing to give up the joys and wonders of parenthood, of seeing your children grow, their first steps, their first speech? Why should you have to learn of your children’s deaths in some battle in a land you know nothing of, or see them pass you by as if they do not know you? Well, I agree, I sympathize, I understand. My solution? I offer you a choice.

  “Bring the gifted among you to the Grey Fist to be tested. Or if you have some skill in soul, you may present yourself. Age will no longer be a barrier or a cause for execution o
f those the Dominion have endowed their gifts upon. Instead, you will be taught. Think of it as you would a school, but a school that will pay you ten silver monarchs a month for it to teach your children. The Empire will be eternally grateful and will see to your comfort thereafter. When the training has almost ended, a person can choose to return to the Smear or partake of the final trials to become a Blade. No more fear of reprisal, fear of examiners coming among you, Blades hunting down those who avoided the Day of Accolades. No more worry.”

  Terestere could see the commoners mulling over the idea, could discern the greed, as well as the understanding of such an opportunity. Merchant’s guards, sailors, and craftsmen made similar wages. These poor folk would be elevated to a middle class life. More than that, though, and she doubted the other counts realized, but by doing away with the Day of Accolades, Ainslen was severing the influence of the houses, their ability to strengthen their ranks. All would fall within his control. He would choose who profited the most from the influx of gifted children.

  “In addition,” Ainslen said, shushing the crowd, “I will see to it that the Smear is repaired, houses rebuilt better than before, laborers sent among you, wisemen to offer their medicine, healing, and prayer. Also, I will ensure that those of you with some skill can partake in the rebuilding, will earn coin for your work. No more will you need to huddle here in the cold. No more will you walk bare-footed. No more will you go hungry. This, I promise in the name of the Dominion. Praise the Dominion. It is their will!”

  Cheers and prayers ran through the crowd. Stunned, Terestere watched the adulation.

  “Lastly, to signify the end of the Day of Accolades, and the beginning of the Day of Change, we shall have a festival. The execution of the thieving guild leaders and members will take place on that day.” He gazed down at her for the first time. “As well as my marriage to Terestere. All hail the queen.” The celebration grew to a fever pitch.

  Ainslen climbed down from the platform and mounted his amber stallion. Victory radiating in his expression, he returned to her side. “Now, I own the common folk as I do the nobility,” he said as they turned toward the Golden Spires.

  “But not the middle class, the merchants and the like,” she said. “With the absence of the guilds, their flow of coin has been severely depleted.”

  “A work in progress. However, with the impending war, I don’t see how to soothe their worries. A king can no more rule without gaining enemies than a butcher can provide meat without slaughter.”

  “There might be a way,” she said. “Our wedding will be a massive affair that will fill their coffers, I’m sure. Not to mention that industry for weapons and transport will thrive. I may be able to convince them to adapt. It should not be too difficult for most. Coin is all that matters. I will also stress to them that because of your efforts, they can now trade with the Farish Isles once more, and that if you succeed in your endeavors, Helegan and Kheridisia soon will be available to them. At the same time, you might discover additional sources of income the counts may yet be hiding. My suggestion would be to use them.”

  “A woman after my own heart, indeed.” He smiled, gaze becoming distant as they rode for home. “Considering the announcement of our marriage, it might also be a good idea for you to visit the counts, reacquaint yourself with the ones you know and start a relationship with those new to their title.”

  “After you smooth over any concerns they might have over Jemare’s atrocities,” she said.

  “Of course.” He paused for a moment. “And since we’re on the topic of a wedding, I suggest you also visit Curate Selentus to begin our other endeavor.” A smile graced the king’s face that made her shiver.

  19

  Price of Arrogance

  Grimacing, Thar leaned against the wall of the ruined building behind him, pressing his hand to the wound in his side. His fingers came away sticky and wet. Pain lanced up his leg, and his free arm hung limply. He had made tourniquets to cover the three holes, one in his leg, one in his arm, and the other in his side, but the blood still flowed. The cold added to his misery.

  Stupid, stupid man. Why didn’t you follow your first instinct?

  He knew the reason even as he asked. Arrogance. Arrogance and stupidity. A lethal combination.

  Hands trembling at the unusual sensation of being wounded, he thought back to the events that led to his current predicament. Occupied with the pursuit of his leads, he paid little attention to the clangor outside the room, thinking it part of the preparation by Tomas’ men to join the others in the foothills of the Whetstone Mountains. By the time he took heed of the screams and the clash of weapons, and Heart’s warning growls, the Blades and Farlanders were breaking down the door to his room.

  Soul magic flew, firesticks thundered. Metal balls blazed a white-hot trail of pain through him. He was uncertain how many of the enemy had died to his barrage of lightning. For an added distraction he’d manifested versions of himself and set them attacking wildly. When he ran into the hall, some of the Red Beggars still fought, but one by one they were cut down. He’d fallen to the ground, drawing on lumni, the seventh cycle, expelling the majority of his soul from his body to give an appearance of death. Moments later, he’d fled deep into the Undertow, blood streaming from his wounds, his assailants not far behind. In the chaos he lost track of Heart.

  Arrogance and stupidity. He’d forgotten some of the first things he learned as a Blade. No matter how good you are, how strong in soul magic you might be, someone or something might be better. Defeating the strange Dracodar had left him too confident. No. Arrogant.

  He was paying for it now in pain-filled spikes. As if the holes from the metal balls aren’t payment enough. He winced. How was it that the projectiles ignored soul enhanced by tern? The combination should have deflected them. And the balls had punctured his scales, treated them like paper. Since his evolution, only soul blades or weapons crafted from Dracodarian-forged steel, had ever duplicated such a feat.

  Clutching his side, he peeped around the corner of the ruins. The hunters appeared to have turned back. Praise the Dominion. He doubted he could continue much farther. Even as the thought crossed his mind, his leg buckled, and he sunk down to the hard, cold ground.

  Get up, you fool. Up. Get up.

  With a hand on the wall for support he struggled to his feet, the scrape of his boots and his breathing loud to his ears. This part of the Undertow was not a place to be caught alone. It was a place of deep silences and musty air, of dust and age, of things long dead. Bandits had made these depths their home to escape the watchmen. So did people from the Smear who wished to avoid the Day of Accolades. Many were offshoots of Dracodar, driven insane by the manifestation of a power they did not understand and lacked the ability to control. Tales claimed there were worse things deeper still. He shook off the idea before it took hold.

  He had been this far into the Undertow on two previous occasions, both with Elysse, each time to hide from an overwhelming number of assassins in Jemare’s employ. The feel of something watching him from the darkness was as prominent now as it was then. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but he’d be a much bigger fool to ignore it. He enhanced his sight but detected nothing out of the ordinary. Ruins of old structures, a few statues, and a road with broken cobbles, partially blocked by debris, made up his surroundings.

  Closing his eyes he dredged up memories of the trips. He manifested them into a map of the Undertow with a dot for his location. West. That’s the way out. West. He released the image of the map and pushed off the wall, gritting his teeth against the agony that shot up his leg.

  The wound troubled him even more than what might lurk in places out of sight. In the past, his scales would knit themselves together in tiny increments, even without rest. He sensed none of that now.

  As he limped along, the sensation of someone or something following him persisted
. At the edge of his periphery he swore there was movement, always too quick for him to catch more than a glimpse. He withdrew some of the soul from his eyes and applied it to his ears. Prior to this meld, the silence had stretched, interrupted only by his breathing and the uneven scuff of his leather boots on stone. He now discerned more. Much more. Cloth brushed against skin or stone, a shifty step, an intermittent susurrus. Left, right, behind, in front. He stopped. An indrawn breath. Silence.

  Although his heartbeat sped up, Thar smiled to himself. He stretched his soul to its limits. “You might as well show yourself.” He held up his good hand. Flames flared from his wrist up, casting a red-orange glare into the darkness. A crackle announced the lightning that ran between the fingers of his other hand, the arm hanging limp at his side. An azure hue spread in that direction.

  “We could simply wait you out,” answered a deep, vibrant voice. The accent was cultured, Kasinian, but of bygone times.

  “That would be a very long wait.”

  “We possess all the time in the world. You do not.”

  “I doubt you could stop me before I made it into the higher levels.” Thar tried to place the person’s exact location despite the echo that distorted his senses.

  “We could overwhelm you. Numbers favor us, and you are wounded.”

  “An animal is often most dangerous when it’s hurt and cornered.”

  “Or most desperate.”

  “Desperation and danger go hand in hand.”

  “Desperation leads to bad decision making. To stupidity. Almost as much as arrogance.”

  Thar’s breath caught in his throat. He bit back his response. Did they read his thoughts? A trickle of sweat eased down his forehead. He double-checked to make certain his sintu was present. Through the centuries it had become a natural part of him, another limb.