by Ben Cassidy
The Chronicles of Zanthora: Book Three
Soulbinder
By
Ben Cassidy
Copyright © 2012 by Ben Cassidy
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2012
Books in the Chronicles of Zanthora:
Ghostwalker
Throne of Llewyllan
Soulbinder
Demonbane
Oracle
Redemption (Coming Soon)
Tales of the Two Rings:
Daughter of Llathe: A Tale of the Two Rings
Tales of the Two Rings: Volume 1
Tales of the Two Rings: Volume 2
Tales of the Two Rings: Volume 3 (Coming Soon)
To join an email update listserv for future releases, contact:
[email protected]
Dedicated to Michael and Mark,
my Maklavir and Joseph
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 1
Kendril always hated having to kill someone. Especially before breakfast.
He pressed the barrel of his flintlock pistol a little harder into the cheek of the person before him.
The man looked back at him in terror, his face smashed against the wooden boards of the tavern wall.
He didn’t look nearly so tough now, Kendril thought. Considering the poor fool was a trigger’s pull away from a messy death, Kendril couldn’t really blame him.
The room was deathly silent. The table and chairs still lay haphazardly on the ground where they had been thrown, while the dirty floor boards were covered with the yellowed playing cards that had been sent flying moments before. Poker chips lay scattered everywhere.
By the frost-covered window another man was getting to his feet, a knife at his belt half-drawn.
Only half-drawn, because Kendril’s other hand held a second flintlock pistol aimed at his head.
“Kendril,” said a voice from behind him, “for the love of Eru put those guns away.”
Kendril shifted his eyes back and forth between the two men he held at gunpoint. “Stay out of this, Maklavir.”
Brushing himself off, Maklavir rose to his feet, giving a heavy sigh. He was a tall man, immaculately dressed in fine silk clothes with a purple cape and a prominent silver buckle on his belt. Dark hair and a sharply-trimmed goatee accentuated his face, while a sword that looked as if it hadn’t seen much use was fastened to his belt.
His friend was far different in appearance. Draped around Kendril was a long, weather-stained black cloak, with a hood that covered his head. Along with the two pistols he held in his hands, the hilts of two short swords glistened from underneath the folds of his cloak. His boots were spattered with mud and snow. Black gloves covered his hands.
“I was handling this just fine,” said Maklavir sourly.
The man by the window shot the purple-caped man a hate-filled look. “You’re a dirty liar and a cheat.”
Maklavir spread his hands in frustration. “I told you, I wasn’t cheating. You were just playing badly, that’s all. Now look, maybe we—”
“You’re a dead man, ambassador,” snarled the man with the pistol against his cheek. His eyes shifted warily back to Kendril. “And so are you. We have friends in this town.”
Maklavir sighed, looking down at a trampled card on the ground. “Diplomat, not ambassador. And I’m not even that any more. Look, can’t we just talk about this?”
The man by the window looked over at Kendril. His hand tightened on his dagger. “You picked the wrong fop to help, stranger. You must have a real death wish.”
Maklavir replaced a cap with a bouncing yellow feather on his head. “Actually, he does have a death wish. He’s a Ghostwalker.”
If it was even possible, the two men’s faces paled a little bit more.
“A Ghostwalker?” stammered the man against the wall.
“You’re lying,” snapped the other one.
“Care to find out?” said Kendril.
There was another moment of agonizing silence.
Finally, the man against the wall dropped his sword with a clunk.
With a resigned scowl the man by the window let his dagger fall back into its sheath, then pulled his hand away.
Kendril took a step back, his pistols still leveled at both men. “Now both of you get out, before I decide to redecorate in here.”
With a silent look of rage at the Ghostwalker, they shuffled through the door out into the bustling common room of the tavern.
Kendril watched them carefully until they disappeared out the front door into the frosty morning air. Giving a satisfied sniff, he re-holstered his pistols.
“What in the Halls of Pelos was that?” said Maklavir as soon as they had gone.
Kendril gave his friend a surprised look. “What was that? That was me saving your life. The big one already had his sword out, for Eru’s sake.”
Maklavir angrily grabbed one of the wooden chairs and set it back upright. “I told you I had it under control. Until you came in here, that is, waving those confounded firearms of yours around—”
Kendril’s eyes glowered darkly. “Those ‘confounded firearms’ just saved your life, you pompous windbag. Two more seconds and you would have been dead on the floor.”
Maklavir set the table back up with a stifled groan. “Oh, I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. Any winnings I might have gotten are gone either way. I don’t suppose you managed to procure any coinage last night?”
The Ghostwalker scowled, then glanced at the busy street outside the window. “No.” He gave Maklavir a side look. “So were you cheating?”
“No,” said the diplomat coldly. “I told you before, Kendril, I don’t cheat.”
The young man in the black cloak grunted. “Right.”
They moved back into the common room of the tavern. The place was large, with long rectangular tables running down the center of the room. A fireplace stood against the far wall, with a nondescript painted landscape hung above it. A bar ran across the wall to their right, and the tavern owner and his assistant were busy delivering breakfast to people seated at the tables. Illuminated in the gray morning light streaming in through the windows, the tavern had the vaguely dirty, unsophisticated look of a hundred other taverns in a hundred other small towns.
Kendril had seen enough of them to last a lifetime.
They moved around one of the larger tables, avoiding a man who was tearing furiously into a stale loaf of bread. No one seemed too concerned about the scuffle that had occurred just minutes ago back in the card room, but that didn’t particularly surprise Kendril. Stefgarten was filled with miscreants and vagabonds of every description, and fights in this town seemed fairly common. He had seen two break out in the street in as many days. One had ended with a man getting killed.
It was all rather typical for a little border town like Stefgarten. The refuse from both Merewith and Valmingaard seemed to congregate here, looking for a place to trade furs, drink booze, and play card
s where no pesky officials would bother them. Technically, Stefgarten was in the borders of the Empire of Merewith, but Merewith was fractured and divided into countless duchies and baronies. The Emperor in the capital city of Varn did not have much actual authority over many of the outlying provinces. Kendril didn’t know what petty lord held sway this close to the border of Valmingaard, and frankly he didn’t really care. Whoever it was had obviously given up any attempt to govern this backwater little town, and Kendril couldn’t much blame them. Stefgarten wasn’t exactly the kind of place worth caring about, much less fighting for.
The sooner they got out of here, he thought for the hundredth time, the better.
“Well,” said Maklavir, shaking his depleted coin purse miserably. “I suppose we have enough for breakfast, anyway. Might as well start the day on the right foot.”
Kendril rubbed his eyes wearily as they sat down at one of the long tables close to the fireplace. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
“Yes, well eat up, because this is probably the last meal we’ll have for a while, not to mention beds for the night. I can only hope Joseph and Kara are having better luck than we are.”
Kendril leaned back in his chair. He watched the thin crowd in the common room warily. “They certainly can’t be having much worse.”
“No,” said Maklavir with a sigh. “They certainly can’t.” He looked up as a tavern maid came up to the table.
“What’ll it be, gents?” she announced.
The diplomat gave a disarming smile. “Your beauty is enough for me, my dear.”
The maid giggled, her cheeks blushing slightly.
Kendril rolled his eyes. “Bread and cheese for me,” he said. “And an ale.”
Maklavir gave his companion a sharp look. “It’s nine o’clock in the morning, Kendril.”
“You indulge in your vices, Maklavir,” Kendril replied with a quick glance at the wench, “and I’ll indulge in mine.”
The diplomat shook his head, then smiled up at the girl again. “Bread and cheese for me as well, my dear, though plain water will suffice.”
Batting her eyes one more time at Maklavir, the maid turned back to the bar.
Kendril folded his hands together on the surface of the table. “Do you have to do that all the time?”
Maklavir rubbed his hands together, looking up in surprise. “Do what?”
“Flirt with every woman who gets within fifty feet of us. It’s annoying.”
The diplomat glanced up at the painting above the fire. “I find that flirting is a rather necessary prerequisite when it comes to enjoying the company of a beautiful woman.”
Kendril crossed his arms. His eyes wandered to a bearded man at the next table. “Here’s a thought. Maybe for once you could forgo the company of a beautiful woman and leave us all in peace.”
Maklavir looked over at his friend. “Just because you’ve made a silly vow never to touch a woman doesn’t give you the right to deny others the same.” He cocked his head. “You’re unusually nasty this morning. Anything you want to talk about?”
“With you? No.” Kendril’s eyes followed the tavern maid as she returned to their table with their food and drinks.
“Thank you,” said Maklavir with another smile. He pressed a coin into the lady’s hand. “And this is for you. A small price to pay to view such a lovely face.”
She smiled again, hesitating for a long moment before she turned quickly back to the bar.
Kendril grabbed the handle of his ale mug. “Want to give away any more of our money?”
Maklavir shrugged and picked up his bread. “Tavern maids make next to nothing, Kendril. A little tip won’t hurt.”
The Ghostwalker lifted his mug sarcastically. “Here’s hoping you make it into her bed, then. I’d hate to think that coin was wasted.”
Maklavir took a bite of his bread and gave Kendril a cutting look. “My, my, you’re positively vitriolic.”
Kendril took a long draught of the ale, then set the mug back down on the table. “Why shouldn’t I be? We’ve got no money, we haven’t heard from Joseph or Kara in three days…” he glanced down suspiciously at his drink, “and this ale has more water in it than the Arneth River.”
“Joseph is a skilled trapper,” said Maklavir as he cut off a slice of the grayish cheese. “And Kara’s a fairly decent woodsman herself. I’m betting they’ll have some furs to trade when they get back.”
“They’d better,” glowered Kendril, “because so far all we’ve gotten from your card playing are death threats.”
Maklavir waved his knife in the air. “I told you, I had that under control.”
Kendril sighed, looking off to the side and rubbing his arms.
The air in the common room was chilly, despite the blazing fire just a few feet away. Last night’s bedding hadn’t kept out the frigid cold much, either. Of course, even that would be better than sleeping out in the stables, which is what they were facing unless they got enough money for rooms tonight.
All in all, Kendril thought to himself as he looked over the tables of the common room, things were about as low as they could get. To make matters worse, if he had just gotten out of bed five minutes later Maklavir would most likely be dead right now and he could have been spared the tediousness of having breakfast with the man.
Tomorrow he was definitely sleeping in.
They ate in silence, enjoying as best they could the meager fare before them. As Kendril drained the last of his ale, Maklavir yawned, stretching his arms as the fire crackled nearby.
“I suppose we should go get the animals,” he said, his voice drained of enthusiasm.
Kendril nodded, wiping his chin. “When did Joseph say he and Kara would be back?”
Maklavir brushed some crumbs off his trousers and got stiffly to his feet. “Sometime today. He wasn’t much more specific than that.”
Kendril got up as well, and cast a quick look at a group of men clustered at one of the other tables. “Hopefully they’ll find us, then.”
His companion sighed. “Hopefully.”
They moved to the door of the simple tavern and headed outside.
The first bite of air was startlingly cold, and Maklavir pulled on his gloves against the chill.
Kendril closed the door behind them and glanced around.
The front porch of the inn was small, opening abruptly onto the main street of Stefgarten. Icicles glistened brightly in the morning sunshine from where they hung along the edge of the inn’s roof, and the wooden steps leading down to the street sparkled with ice as well. Snow covered the entire street in front of them, close to a foot deep in places. A small lane had been plowed through the center of the road, and snow had been piled against the buildings on either side. The constant churning of passing people and animals had turned it an unhealthy brown, and in places the dirt showed through the trampled snow on the bottom of the lane.
Kendril glanced up at the bright sky above, then moved for the stairs that led to the street. He grabbed the railing carefully as he descended, trying not to slip on the icy footing.
Cold winters were certainly not a strange sight this far north, and life in Stefgarten plodded remorselessly on through the inclement weather. Several travelers worked their way down the street, keeping their heads down against the crisp air. A large wagon carrying several barrels creaked through the snow, a small gray dog yapping and biting at the heels of the weary horses that pulled it. Across the street under the awning of the local general store three men were drinking whiskey and laughing uproariously at some joke. A woman wearing a dark blue handkerchief over her head hurriedly crossed the street, huddling a screaming infant close to her chest.
Kendril pulled up his cloak against the cold breeze. He watched the road carefully.
Maklavir clambered down the steps as well, both hands on the rail.
Three men came out from an alleyway across the way, wearing wide-brimmed hats and keeping their faces down out of the wind.<
br />
“It was like this all the time in Valmingaard,” said Maklavir conversationally as he stepped cautiously into the snow. “Bloody cold almost the year round. Can’t say I miss it much.”
Kendril crunched into the snow. He glanced over at the woman and her screaming infant. “The Valmingaard border’s not far from here, just a day’s march or so to the north.” He smirked. “Maybe we should drop in and say hi to your old friends at the royal court.”
“That wouldn’t be such a good idea,” said Maklavir as he tried his best to avoid getting snow on his trousers, “what with the banishment and all. The King was never too good at controlling his temper, and I have a feeling—” He glanced up, his face suddenly blanching. “Great Eru!”
Kendril whirled. One hand reached for his pistol.
The three men that had appeared from the alley were coming towards them. Two of them were the same ruffians that Maklavir had been playing cards with that morning. The third was a large man who looked to be a friend of theirs.
Somehow, Kendril thought as he whipped out one of his pistols, he had a feeling they weren’t interested in another game.
The gun was barely in his hand before one of the men swung a large wooden club. It caught the barrel of the pistol and knocked it out of Kendril’s grip.
The firearm flew into the snow a few feet away.
His wrist still ringing from the blow, Kendril jumped back and fished wildly for the hilt of one of the two short swords buckled to his belt. He crashed into Maklavir, and sent them both sprawling back against the wooden steps.
The diplomat gave a sharp cry of pain as the sharp corner of one dug into his ribs.
The man with the club was readying another blow when his foot slipped on a patch of ice. He wobbled and threw out both hands to steady himself.
The second man drew his knife, then caught sight of Kendril’s pistol in the snow. He rushed off to the side, and reached out a hand for the gun.
With a muffled curse, Kendril shoved Maklavir aside and drew his sword. He nearly lost his footing on the icy ground.