Soulbreaker

by Terry C. Simpson

  All the counts were present but for Shaz. She nodded to each in kind.

  “My one true love,” the king said as he took her hand. The Blades and Elder Ten took up positions along the carpet opposite each other.

  She dipped her head to the king. “Strong words, those.”

  “I would not say them if they held no meaning. It might take you more time to reconcile your emotions, to forget the past, but I’m willing to wait,” he said.

  The Purgatories will freeze over before I forget. “Each day that passes makes it better.” She gave his hand a reassuring pat. Together, they turned to face Hamada, Merisse, and the rest of the congregation.

  The ceremony passed in a blur of vows and prayers. Elder Hamada uttered the final words, and ordered the marriage sealed with a kiss. She was emotionless when their lips touched, but she made it seem tentative and heartfelt as if it were true love.

  Ainslen shuddered. A moment later came a surge of soul that almost took her breath away. She crushed the urge to pull away from the man, and instead forced her lips to linger on his. The day had to be perfect, everything the king imagined.

  The ceremony concluded with a toast, the cheers of the gathered nobles and wisemen, and the joyous notes from the musicians, mainly made up of woodwind players, several harpists and lutanists. Ainslen twirled Terestere by her arm before he reeled her back into him. She gazed into his eyes and saw the power lingering there, the hunger, the craze. It burned, a fire on the darkest night. His soul was a coiled beast, ready to strike, and she did her best not to show a semblance of loathing.

  “Today will be special, I promise,” he whispered.

  “I look forward to it.” She leaned on his shoulder, tears streaming down her face.

  Amid whoops and hollers the song dwindled to an end. Each wiseman of a position higher than Mystic drew them away separately to offer prayers to the Dominion. The last of those were the Elders and High Priest Jarod.

  The marriage feast began soon after and could have served a small village. The king had spared no expense, providing an abundance of exotic dishes from across the Empire. The attendees ate and laughed, their merriment near palpable.

  “You don’t have much of an appetite,” the king said from beside her.

  She had been poking absently at her steamed yellowtail. “It’s been a long time since my last marriage, and circumstances considered, I cannot help but think of it, think of him.”

  “If there’s anything I can do to make you feel better, then just ask.” He laid a gentle hand on hers.

  She nodded. “In time, I will.”

  When the formalities ended, the king led her down the long hall toward the door, their contingent of Blades falling into ranks around them. Conversation buzzed from the nobles, their excitement a living thing, charged air after a lightning strike. Before long, king and consort were bundled into a coach and headed toward Deadman’s Gap.

  “Whatever happens at the execution today, stay close to Sabella and the other Blades,” Ainslen said. He sat across from her, expression grim.

  “Why? Do you expect trouble?”

  “Expect is putting it mildly. There will be trouble.” Ainslen looked out through the crack in the curtain, allowing in a view of charcoal clouds. “The wisemen will proclaim that the crown is to be passed down by inheritance, as willed by the Dominion.”

  “Would any of the counts dare stand against you?”

  “Shenen, Hagarath, and Fiorenta most certainly will.”

  “But they stood with you against Jemare.”

  “And they stand with each other now.” He faced her. “You were quick to remind me of the importance of the people’s faith in me. I have earned some of that, as well as some loyalty from the counts. It’s said that it takes humility, temperance, patience, and a strong will to be a great king, but men who say this often omit the need for strength, the need to induce fear, and the call for respect.”

  “Some would argue that those first few bring about the last,” the queen said.

  “In some cases, yes, but those traits can also be taken for weakness, particularly among the counts. I taught those three to fear me, and at the same time I gave them a way to challenge me.”

  She frowned. “Why would you do that?”

  “To earn the respect of all the others,” he said, smiling. “To let them see I am a man of my word, that the riches and positions I offered will be delivered.”

  The queen frowned. “What was it that you gave to the three you named?”

  “In exchange for their support to overthrow Jemare, I promised them Dracodar soul,” he said. The queen hissed. “I made good on my promise, and even provided them each with an opportunity to duel me. They lost. But when has one loss deterred the determined? I knew they would come again, and I gave them each a reason.

  “Shenen feels I will not uphold a part of a bargain I made to wed his daughter to my son. Fiorenta begrudges the fact that I now take a piece of his Calum powder and Bloodleaf business. As for Hagarath, he has always felt he is the only one of full Kasinian blood, and thus should qualify as the rightful king. Give men a common enemy and they will band together. Look no further than our current threat from the west as proof.”

  Terestere played out the scenarios. By having the Elders make the proclamation in the name of the Dominion, the chance of an outcry by the common folk was lessened. Although Ainslen would be breaking the lifelong tradition of Far’an Senjin, who among the people would step forward to denounce it after the Order had saved so many? Only the strongest counts would be so bold. The lesser nobles would wait, ready to improve their position in the aftermath. Ainslen had subtly laid out all the pieces in his favor. She was certain he had the successors in mind.

  “Are you certain this is the right course? Losing them now will lessen our chances against these western savages.”

  “I doubt it. The same power you saw used at Rion will be brought to bear on the westerners.”

  “It will be three of them against you.” Terestere reached over and touched his hand. “I cannot afford to lose another husband.”

  He folded his other hand into a fist. The power of his soul licked out from him, and for a moment his eyes became dead. “Worry for them.”

  At Deadman’s Gap the Blade complement escorted them to rows of waiting seats set up on a three-tiered platform. The top tier held two cushioned chairs for her and the king, large stone braziers beside each, their heat a welcome comfort. Ainslen directed her to sit on his right.

  The counts and countesses took their places one level below. Foremost among them was Pomir Fiorenta and Lestere Hagarath, dressed in their finest. Two seats were empty. She scanned the nobles once more, even those in the chairs on the ground. Neither Counts Shaz nor Shenen were among them.

  On the ground level were the lesser nobles. Behind them stood a line of Blades and watchmen at Deadman’s Gap. Across the street the commoners gathered, gazes expectant.

  The headsman, dressed in black, the hood of his cloak drawn over his head, strode up the first set of stairs onto the platform’s lowest tier. Judging from his size, he either had to be a Farish Islander or Darshanese. The man carried a massive, two-handed sword, the flat of the blade resting on his shoulder. He stopped and waited at the chopping block, the curved depression in the wood stained brownish red.

  Snowflakes drifted down as time stretched, landing softly before they melted. The queen made out the dirge of marching boots. Over a hundred Blades filed into the square, the ranks of nobles parting before them.

  In their midst they dragged a man with unkempt hair, wild eyes, and an even wilder beard. Scars marred his chest and arms. She hissed at the sight of the chains and manacles attached to the man. For a moment, their gazes met. Her breath caught in her throat. So battered was the prisoner before her that he bore but a vague r
esemblance to the Delisar Giorin she remembered.

  Her heart hurt when she looked upon his pain-etched face. The feeling surprised her. Not that she hadn’t cared for Delisar, for she had. A great deal. But long ago, she’d learned to separate her emotions from what needed to be done. She should be viewing this man as a stranger, but instead all she saw was another victim who had no knowledge of why he was going to die.

  The Blades led the prisoner up to the chopping block. A hush fell across the square, the wind moaning as it gusted. The man was made to kneel, his head resting on the block’s stained depression.

  King Cardiff made a single gesture with his hand. The headsman’s sword rose and fell. A thud followed. The crowd cheered, a roar that rocked the queen. The executioner bent methodically, picked up the dead man’s head, and held it up for all to see. The cheers grew so loud she could barely think.

  She did not realize she was crying until she tasted the salty tears. She had not wielded the sword nor sentenced the man, but she was no less responsible. She could’ve talked Ainslen out of this deed, convinced him to make a different choice. Instead she’d let it happen. She cringed. Of all the deaths I’ve seen before, why does this one trouble me so? She knew the answer even as she asked the question.

  In single file the Elder Ten made their way up onto the platform, arraying themselves to her right, cloaks flowing behind them. So deep was she in her thoughts that Elder Hamada’s words became distant things, murmurs on the cold breeze. Not until she could distinctly hear the wind’s low croon did it register that he had stopped speaking. Silence hung over the area, thick and heavy. Her heartbeat became the percussion of rough hands on a hollow drum.

  The proclamation …

  Cold prickles running down her spine, the queen directed her attention to Hagarath and Fiorenta. The world seemed to slow, the swirl of snowflakes increasing. Even as she found their backs, the two men were leaping to their feet, throwing off their cloaks.

  Lestere Hagarath’s face was a mottled mask. The sword in his hand was of pure soul, red and vibrant, its hue highlighting his neatly braided beard. No longer did Pomir Fiorenta appear to be the pock-faced, harmless, waif of a man. He’d swollen to three times his size, his clothes shreds of material that fluttered from his body. Ropes of muscle bulged along his arms, legs, chest, and back.

  The world crashed back to full speed, the wind icy, snowflakes like a million swirling petals. Chaos reigned. Men and women were screaming, scrambling to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the pending fight. The Blades had drawn their weapons and formed a square around the platform. None of them advanced. Someone snatched at her hand. She almost lashed out before noticing it was Sorinya.

  “We must get away, my queen,” the Ebon Blade pleaded.

  “No.” Ainslen was standing in front of them, arms spread wide, a gleaming silver blade in one hand. “My wife and I stay here. We do not flee when faced with a challenge. We meet it blow for blow.” He smiled at her. “Cowering is for cowards.” Soul whipped about him like the wind, glowing with such power it knotted her stomach. She squinted, and then her eyes widened. Additional duplicates of the king appeared. As one they strode to meet the counts.

  Fear bubbled inside her. Not for herself, not for the king, but for her plans. If he died this day all would be for naught.

  39

  Almost Dead

  Barefooted, Keedar huddled in a corner on the cold stone floor, legs drawn up under him. Iron chains ran from the manacles on his ankles and wrists to rings set in the wall. He could only move some six feet before they pulled tight. The dungeon smelled of piss and other unsavory odors. From outside came the dull roar of distant voices.

  Time and again he’d drawn on his soul. The vital points had opened and allowed soul to flow. All but the ones located on his hands and feet. Without the complete set of thirty-two, the circulation was stunted, incomplete. He could call forth the energy but he could not meld. It was as if his soul did not exist on those portions of his body.

  The restraints. It had to be them. He could think of no other explanation.

  Voices and footsteps echoed from down the hall and its line of cells. He recognized Shaz’s Marish drawl and one of the man’s guards. Keedar let his head slump as if he were still unconscious, but inside, he seethed. Here was the man who had killed Raishaar and Rose, the man who hunted him and Winslow after Succession Day. How much more blood stained the traitor’s hands?

  “We’ll have to start taking them out to the mines as is,” the guard said, “and that trip to the Bloody Corridor can be pretty long.”

  “Double the escort, then, use the watch if you must,” Shaz said. “I’ll impress upon the king how much of a shortage we currently have.”

  Shortage of what? Keedar wondered. He’d also never heard of any mines in the Bloody Corridor.

  The footsteps stopped before his cell. A scraping sound followed as the metal slat that covered the small window slid aside.

  “Count Shaz,” another voice shouted. A pause. “It’s Count Shenen, my lord, he’s upstairs demanding to see you immediately.”

  “Let him know I’m on my way,” the count called out. “When all the fuss of the execution is over, make sure this one is awake,” he said, voice lowered. “I want to give him the news myself. I want him to know how it feels to lose a father.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the first guard answered. The slat closed; the footsteps and voices receded.

  The execution … what a fool I’ve been. I should have listened to Keshka. A tear trickled down Keedar’s cheek. He had come to help Delisar and all he’d done was get himself caught. Now, he too would die.

  Die.

  The word sparked something in him, the thing he kept locked away, that unfeeling part of himself. He allowed it a bit of freedom as he tried to think.

  The manacles prevented him from melding, but what if he simply activated a cycle? Curious, he touched lumni. The cycle responded, pushing soul from his body. He let it to run its course. Weakness stole over him. Within the next few minutes his slump was no longer an act. His breathing slowed. Keedar heard the window slat slide open once more.

  “Time for you to—Hells’ Angels!” It was the guard’s voice. “Darsus, come quickly. Haripo, fetch a wiseman. Hurry!”

  The jangle of keys came a moment later. They slid into the lock. The door creaked open.

  Chin resting on his chest for effect, eyes mere slits, Keedar watched booted feet hurry over to him. Another pair joined the first, the men smelling of sweat and leather.

  “What happened to him, Marko?” Darsus’ voice carried a Marish drawl.

  “Don’t know. Maybe the knock he took on his head was worse than we expected. Or it could be from the cold. His clothes were partially frozen when we caught him in the sewers. All I know is he had color to him a while ago and now he’s paler than a Heleganese spirit assassin. Help me carry him to the table.”

  Rough hands grabbed Keedar. Someone undid the manacles on his arms and then those around his ankles. Keedar waited until the person shifted to hold him under his armpits. He sucked back a portion of expelled soul into himself.

  Keshka’s words ran through his head. Sooner or later you will need to kill again, whether you wish to or not. Embrace that reality.

  Not only did he embrace it, he set it completely free.

  “Wait,” Darsus said. “His color—”

  Keedar snapped his eyes open. He punched up, wrenching himself from the person’s grip. In the same instant he solidified the soul around his fist, shaping it into a point near a foot long. The blow struck the softness beneath the chin. A choked cry issued. And then a gush of warmth. Keedar yanked his hand down, ignoring the thud of the body behind him.

  Darsus was in front of him, snatching for his sword hilt. The guard’s mouth opened, chest hea
ving as he drew in a breath to shout. Keedar imagined the air in the man’s mouth were a thick cloth. He willed it to be so. And it was. Eyes bulging, Darsus clawed at his throat.

  “You brought me here through a passage,” Keedar asked, voice a little more than a hoarse whisper. He stepped forward, took Darsus’s sword, and held it to the guard’s gut. “In which cell is it?” Darsus’ face was growing red as he strained to breathe. Keedar eased his meld.

  The guard gasped for breath, sucking in air before he spoke. “D-d-down the hall,” he sputtered. “Fifth cell on your left.”

  “Pass me your keys and show me which one. Don’t let your eyes leave mine. If you so much as tense, I hope you know how to digest metal.”

  Lips trembling, Darsus reached down to the keys, round-eyed gaze not once leaving Keedar’s face. The keys jangled for a moment before he held up the entire loop by one. “This is it.”

  “Where’s the execution taking place?”

  “Deadman’s Gap.”

  Keedar stuffed the man’s mouth with air and ran him through. Darsus slumped to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Taking a few deep breaths, Keedar maintained the cold detachment that had allowed him to kill. He compared the two dead guards’ feet and removed the boots he thought would fit. He pulled them on. For a moment he considered taking their clothes too, but the blood stopped him, its stench too strong, cloying.

  Sword in hand he peeked out of the cell. The hallway was empty. He jogged down the passage, counting cells. From upstairs came the shouts and cries of men, the clash of steel. Tempted as he was to venture in that direction, his mind giving purchase to the hope that it might be his rescuers, he stopped at the fifth cell, and opened it.

  A quick scan of the floor showed the fresh scrapes from a hidden door. Similar perusal of the wall revealed the switch. In the next minute he was within the sewer’s dark confines, at home with the incessant dripping of water and squeaks and squeals of its many denizens. Never before had the fetid stench been so sweet.