Thief Of Souls
( Scorpion Shards - 2 )
Нил Шустерман
The shattering sequel to the acclaimed Scorpion Shards.
For five young people born with extraordinary powers, a climatic battle against Evil seemingly brought an end to their nightmare. But as they will discover, the nightmare has only began.
Imprisoned for thousands of years, an ancient, malevolent force—The Bringer—awaits the moment when it can break free and wreak its revenge upon the world. Only one force can stop it: the power of the five.
— “Neal Shusterman dazzles you with action and excites you with ideas, but underneath it all, his stories are unforgettable because his characters have souls.” — Orson Scott Card
Neal Shusterman
Thief Of Souls
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel, more than three years in the making, would not have been possible without the help of a great many people, without whom I would have been overwhelmed in the waters.
My gratitude to Man Susanyatame of the Hualapai, for his wit, wisdom, and wonderful translations. My appreciation to Barbara Potter, Jeanne Hess, Cindy Adams, and other educators who read early drafts of the novel. My thanks to the Fictionaires; the mysterious and insightful cabal that challenges me to push the envelope, and Jennifer Leavitt-Wipf for helping me to keep all the plates spinning. My deepest thanks to Kathleen Doherty, Jonathan Schmidt, and Linda Quinton for their passion and belief in my work, as well as their friendship, and to Orson Scott Card, for giving me something to aspire to.
Most of all, I’d like to thank Elaine, and the kids, whose endless love and support keep my orbit stable.
Beware; don’t whistle, talk, or laugh into the night. Night eyes are upon you. Guard your soul with light and fear, for you know not what evil lurks in the blackness of that which is; and isn’t.”
— Hualapai saying
PART I -KINGDOM GONE
Four shackles. Chains pounded into granite by the blows of the blacksmith’s hammer.
They wouldn’t kill him—for they didn’t think it possible—so instead, they left him to suffer in agony, stretched across the face of an unfeeling mountain, forever facing east.
The harsh Mediterranean sun would rise day after day, year after year over the island where he was chained, bronzing his ruined skin, and heating his blood until he felt it would boil through his veins. Then, at night, the mountain face would cool, draining the heat from his splayed body as the cold wind passed. The fire of day and the chill of night had taken every measure of his energy—but it had not taken his life. He was not an immortal being, as his imprisoners believed him to be. In fact, death would have been the easier choice—but instead he kept himself alive by the sheer force of his will, and year to year measured the passing time by the steady pounding of waves on the shore below.
Each day, in the hours of twilight, the birds would come. They would pick at him as if he were a corpse, and his only defense was his anguished wail. The chains made sure of that. No amount of struggling could tear his arms or legs free from the anchors that held him tight to the stone.
Then at night, when the birds left, he would will himself to heal, refusing to die—refusing to reveal his own mortality to his captors, who still reveled in the palace far above.
With each sunrise his fury grew—but rather than letting it weaken him, he shaped his anger, and gave it focus. Then he would impel that anger deep into the heart of the mountain. He was a being of profound strength and spirit, and could accomplish such an incredible thing as feeding his anger to the mountain. He was far superior to the high-primates that infested the Earth—superior even to the twelve who dared call themselves gods. He had come to the Earth as a bringer of light. He had gathered The Twelve when they were nothing more than awkward human youths from distant, backward lands. He was the one who had shown The Twelve how to destroy the dark titans that had latched on to each of their bright souls. He had even offered them wisdom from beyond the bounds of this universe, and all he asked in return was that they kept his appetite sated. Yet in spite of all he had done for them, they chose to repay him by shackling him to the mountainside. If there was any goodness in him, it had been maimed by his years of suffering, leaving behind a sinewy scar of evil. And he learned to wear that scar well.
He knew there was a way out of this Hell they had created for him.
If he could survive long enough, his anger would provide him an escape.
Through thirty years of bondage, he forced his anger into the pit of the mountain, seeing in his mind the dense levels of strata that plugged the mouth of the silent volcano. He picked at that stone with his fury, creating tiny fractures in the volcanic rock . . .
. . . until the day he finally made it erupt.
After years of waiting, the eruption was sudden, quick and violent—the mountain shook with the force of a thousand earthquakes. Immense boulders sailed across the sea and toward the mainland with the force of the explosions.
Still his shackles held.
He heard a boulder pounding down the mountain above him, but couldn’t crane his neck far enough to see it. It hurtled past, for a moment eclipsing the bright sun, before crashing into the Mediterranean below.
Then he felt himself move. It wasn’t just the shaking of the mountain—it was something more. He felt himself begin to list forward. The force of the boulder smashing past had fractured the stone face of the mountain! The wall of rock behind him heaved, and fell forward.
The sky and Earth switched places, and switched again as he tumbled, still chained to the careening stone, certain it would take a wrong bounce and crush him—but instead the falling stone cartwheeled him down the side of the mountain and to the rocky shore, where the immense chunk of granite shattered into a thousand pieces against the jagged rocks that surrounded the entire island of Thera.
Waist-deep in the water, he pulled his hands and legs free from the pulverized stone. The heavy shackles still encircled his ankles and wrists, but now they anchored him to nothing but air.
Far, far above, the sky burned as lava spat forth from the bowels of the Earth, threatening the great summer palace high on the mountainside. It was a citadel of splendor, carved from the stone of the mountain itself, even more extravagant than the palace on Olympus, where The Twelve wintered. He had taught them how to create such a glorious place—as he had taught them so many things. Now that he was free, it was time for the twelve star shards on the mountain who called themselves gods to pay their debt to him in full.
He set his sights on the great palace, and hobbling on feet ruined from thirty years in shackles, he climbed toward the home of the so-called gods.
***
Human slaves and servants scattered wildly, paying him no heed as he hobbled across the grand marble courtyard, his chains dragging on the smooth stone. It was then that he caught sight of the beasts. They were all around. Strange miscreations that had no business on Earth. Something that was half man, half horse galloped clumsily down the palace steps. A winged lion with the talons of a falcon clawed at a wooden door, flapping its wings. The sight of these things inspired his rage to new heights. No doubt these creatures were forged by the hands of the blacksmith—whose talent for shaping flesh and bone must have progressed over the years. But the smith wasn’t the only one whose powers had matured. In fact, all around the courtyard was evidence of The Twelve’s supernatural abilities. Black scars in the stone spoke of their lightning tempers. Statuary that was human flesh turned to stone filled the grounds, their limbs and necks broken by the shaking of the mountain. A great golden mural attested to the shifting shape of the King—human to eagle, to tiger, and back again.
It had been an amusing-enough diversion to take these twelve, and set them above the rest of mankind— but a diversion was all it was supposed to be. He had not foreseen them turning on him as they had. Now, in the intervening years, their powers’ had grown unchecked, swelling wildly out of control. They were weeds, and like all weeds had to be torn out at the root.
An arch collapsed behind him as he crossed into the great hall. He barely flinched, for his mind was focused now. Time was short and the task immense. He could not be sidetracked.
He descended a narrow set of stairs toward the forge, as the shaking mountain settled to a slow rumble.
There, in the dungeonlike cavern of the forge, he found the blacksmith, cowering from the heaving force of the mountain. On the table lay the bronze form of a new creation: a hideous thing with snakes growing from its skull, like hair. It did not yet live, its metal not yet turned to flesh by the hand of the smith.
All-around were living monstrosities in cages. Creatures clearly too vile to be set free on the island. The cages shook and rattled with the rumble of the erupting volcano. Seeing this place made it clear that this day of reckoning had been too long in coming.
“Hephaestus,” he called out to the cowering blacksmith. The blacksmith stood, a full six foot five, but still as hideously ugly as he had been at fifteen... on the day Hephaestus had shackled his teacher to the mountain. All that talent in shaping flesh, yet the homely blacksmith did not have the power to change his own unattractive features.
“Prometheus!” wailed Hephaestus. It was a name The Twelve had given him. Forethought. Premeditation. As if he were the divine embodiment of some greater plan. He abided the name, as it served his purposes, although he much preferred to be called the Bringer, for he had brought them all into the glory which they now abused.
The Bringer looked with scorn on the snarling, caged teratisms. “Thirty years of practice, and these monsters are the best you can create? How can you call yourself a smith?”
Hephaestus quaked in his sandals, and spoke in a voice far too weak for such a large man. “They . . . They are for the King’s amusement.”
The Bringer nodded. “After today the King no longer needs to be amused.”
He strode forward, and Hephaestus quickly ran to the other side of the stone table. “We grew afraid of you,” he tried to explain. “They made me build those shackles. They made me hammer you to the mountain. I couldn’t go against their wishes . . .”
“You had nothing to fear then,” the Bringer told Hephaestus. “But you do now.” He held Hephaestus in his gaze as he moved around the table. “In these years I have come to realize that your species is not only corrupt, but pathetic. Unworthy of the slightest charity or sympathy.”
“Let me live!” pleaded the homely blacksmith. “I’ll do better! Kill the others if need be, but let me live!”
The Bringer thrust his hand forward, and grabbed the blacksmith by his tunic, pulling him closer. “Your selfishness disgusts me, " he said. “But enough chatter. I’m hungry.” And with that, the Bringer smiled, and, for the first time in many, many years, prepared to dine.
As he held Hephaestus, he forced an ounce of his true self up from the depths of the human body he wore. He opened his mouth, letting red tendrils of light stretch through the air, probing forward like roots seeking water.
Hephaestus gasped, but could not squirm out of his grip. The hungry tendrils latched on to the struggling blacksmith’s face, and the fight drained out of him as the Bringer began his feast.
“No,” the blacksmith screamed, but it was already too late. The Bringer cast him aside. Weakened, but still alive, Hephaestus felt his arms and chest. His body was unharmed, but something was different. Something was wrong.
“What have you done to me?” he demanded.
“I’ve taken from you what you never deserved, " said the Bringer. “I’ve devoured your soul.”
As he said it, the Bringer could see the weight of the loss beginning to take effect in the blacksmith. A living, thinking brain suddenly robbed of being. A body going through the motions of life, with nothing living inside. Unbearable emptiness.
The soulless blacksmith fell to his knees, covered his eyes, and wept the dry, anguished tears of the living dead.
***
Seeking out the others was a simple matter. He found most of them in their temples, still playing the parts of gods to the servants who had gathered there, seeking salvation from the erupting mountain. The “gods” must have sensed he was coming, for there was no surprise in their eyes—only fear. They knew of his hunger for souls. In fact, they had helped him gorge on the boatloads of virgins and eunuchs their loyal followers were so fond of sending from the mainland. They helped, that is, until they grew disgusted of the endeavor, and fixed him upon the mountainside. Now it was their souls that would be devoured, and they knew it. Some ran when they saw him coming, but he caught them as they fled. It was their fear of his hunger that gave him the upper hand. Even in his weakened state, the Bringer could latch on to their powerful souls and tear them loose as easily as a human might skin a rabbit. Others held their ground and fought him. Hera, Apollo . . . Yet with each soul he drank in, the stronger he became for the next confrontation. The self-proclaimed Goddess of Love did not resist him. Instead she wrapped herself around him, giving herself to him in one final moment of dark sensual ecstasy. Ares, on the other hand, proud and warlike as always, raised a sword and tried to cut him down, but in the end spat forth his soul into the Bringer’s devouring tendrils just as Hephaestus had, and the Bringer set his empty shell free to wander the crumbling halls of the doomed palace. Only Athena, seeing there was no hope, had the wisdom to take her own life before he arrived.
Finally, only one remained.
The King sat alone in his grand throne room, like a captain going down with his vessel. He must have heard the screams of the others, but did not lift a finger to help them. Even now they could be heard wailing in the crumbling chambers below, their soulless bodies still mimicking life.
The Bringer had dined on the others and was now bloated with power. He had never before dined on such great souls, and felt as if he would burst out of the human host-body that held him. Still he kept all of that energy contained within as he approached the King. He knew that this was his true adversary. The King was the strongest of them all, and would not be as easily defeated.
The King’s hair was white. Although he was no older than the others, he looked more weathered. Still his eyes were the same as they had been when he was fifteen. They held depth, and a hint of true greatness.
The King’s manner was calm, but the Bringer could feel his fear.
“Get off my island,” proclaimed the King.
The Bringer let loose a cold and bitter laugh. “It was not your island until I gave it to you, Zeus. You had nothing until I came to teach you of your powers.”
Then the King stood, stepping down from his heavy throne. “We would have defeated our titans, and learned of our powers without you. We would have achieved greatness all alone.”
The Bringer felt his lips curl from his own rage. “I see no greatness here. Only decadence and waste.”
“And you intend to end it?”
The Bringer smiled cruelly. “With great pleasure.”
Suddenly the King’s form began to change. His particular talent was the shifting of form. It was a formidable skill—something the Bringer hi
mself could not do . . . But the Bringer had a defense against it. He had had thirty years to plan for this confrontation—and for once he would fit the name they had given him, for the murder of the King was indeed a premeditated act. He only hoped the King had become so arrogant that he could be caught off guard.
In an instant, Zeus had transformed into a white tiger that pounced in a single bound across the great throne room. The Bringer felt the animal’s hot breath, and then pain as its yellow teeth dug into his shoulder. He tried to reach out and devour the King’s soul, but, as he suspected, Zeus was far too powerful and strong- willed to ever be devoured. So instead, he forced an image into the King’s mind.
A peacock.
A vain, ridiculous bird. A useless creature whose colorful plumes hid its stupidity.
The thought entered the King’s mind through an unguarded path, and instantly the magnificent tiger-king unwillingly transformed into the scrawny, flightless bird. It opened its mouth to roar, but could only squawk.
The moment the transformation was complete, the Bringer grabbed the bird-king by its long slender neck, and looked into its eyes. The eyes of the King, in the body of the peacock, no longer appeared wise. Just frightened.
“A fitting form for you, boy,” the Bringer told the King, for he still thought of him as the boy he once knew. Then the Bringer smiled broadly, and with a flick of his wrist, snapped the King’s neck.
He hurled the dying bird onto the throne, and the King reverted in midair, back into his white-haired self, before smashing down on the throne, neck broken. The light of his great soul left him as he released his last breath. Nothing remained of him but his broken body, slumping limply in the chair, his royal-blue robe now a shroud around him.
With the King dead, the Bringer focused his energy on the final deed to be done. He turned his thoughts to the center of the island, and spat forth all the energy he had collected from the devoured souls of the others, sending a shattering force to a single point beneath the island.
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