Soul Render (Soul Stones Book 1)

by T. L. Branson

  “I’d like one of those,” Shaw said, laughing. “Think we could talk Callum into ordering a few for the barracks?”

  “Got a better chance of your ugly hide wooing a woman tonight than that,” Gill quipped.

  Shaw shoved Gill into the wall of the tunnel.

  “Ow,” Gill said.

  “Sorry,” Shaw replied. “Must have slipped.”

  They exited the tunnel out through the strong iron door.

  “Come on,” Gill said, yawning. “Let’s go get those naps.”

  “I’m afraid your break is going to have to wait,” Callum said. “Lord Drygo is requesting your presence at once.”

  All weariness fled from Shaw in a heartbeat. His eyes grew large and he could have sworn his heart skipped a beat. He swallowed, hard. He had tried to use the last ten days to forget all about what happened in Celesti. It was his fault after all. He and Gill messed up allowing those troublesome youths into the abbey in the first place.

  He didn’t remember walking there, but a moment later he found himself in front of the king.

  “Fools!” the king shouted, flipping over a table, its contents spilling onto the floor.

  Shaw flinched, but kept his gaze forward.

  “I gave you one job,” Drygo said. “One job! Protect the Soul Render while scholars studied it.”

  Gill said, “I’m—”

  “I’m not finished!” The king roared. “Not only do you fail in your task, but you two idiots get bested by riffraff. Did I hear this correctly?”

  Shaw opened his mouth to speak.

  “One of them is younger than my daughter, for Iket’s sake,” Drygo said.

  “Think of the good news, my lord,” Gill said. “The eldest discovered how to activate the stone.”

  “Good news?” the king asked in mock excitement. “You think someone stealing my power right from under my nose is good news?”

  “Uh, well, no, my lord,” Gill said. “Not when you put it like that.”

  “Uh, well, no my lord,” Drygo repeated. The king thrust out his hand and grabbed Gill by the throat. “Incompetent fools!”

  What happened next Shaw had only seen one other time before and it horrified him. The whites of the king’s eyes turned solid black. Gill’s face drained of all color and black lines began to course across his skin as he clutched at Drygo’s hand. Gill’s body spasmed and contorted in ways it wasn’t meant to. He screamed.

  Shaw’s breathing grew heavy.

  Gill’s body settled, bones out of place, life gone from his body.

  Drygo’s body simmered with rage.

  When Shaw’s breath caught in his throat, the king got in his face and asked, “Do you have any good news for me?”

  “No, sire,” Shaw said.

  Drygo stepped away and took a deep breath. He looked down at Gill then back at Shaw and said, “Your sins have been paid for. Do not forget my kindness this day.”

  “Thank you, sire,” Shaw said, bowing.

  “But fail me again,” the king said in a tone that sent ice through Shaw’s veins, “and you’ll wish for such a quick and merciful death.”

  Drygo turned and walked up the dais to his throne. Shaw’s breath shuddered and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Now,” the king said, with a forced smile, “let’s give our new guests a proper reception.”

  Shaw returned a lot sooner than Will expected. Instead of Gill, another guard Will didn’t recognize accompanied him. The tips of three of the stranger’s fingers were missing. Shaw took care of John for a change, while Will got Stubby.

  Shaw seemed a little on edge, and he pushed them along faster than Will could comfortably move. The ten-day journey only did so much in healing his wounds. His hand scabbed over and had begun to heal, and his shoulder felt better, but the jab of pain in his chest meant at least one of his ribs was still bruised.

  They climbed several flights of stairs and passed through many more hallways. The farther they went, the more the décor changed from the cold, damp grays of the prison to the lavish golds and purples befitting the king’s seat of power. But as they exited the entrance hall and grew closer to the king’s throne room they left elegance behind for something more foreboding.

  Gone were the bright and vibrant colors. In their place stood deep reds, grays, and black. Fewer windows lined the walls, then completely vanished in front of a grand marble staircase wrapping around a spectacular fountain. No, not spectacular—horrific. At its center, instead of a statue or some other ornament one might expect, was what appeared to be a pile of bodies. Most of them were the light gray of hewn stone, but on the top lay a real body.

  Blood from the motionless corpse mixed with water, turning the fountain a vibrant fuchsia. His contorted and sunken face made him almost unrecognizable, his only distinguishing feature a bandage across his forehead.

  There was no question; the man lying dead on the fountain before them was Gill. Will chanced a glance back at Shaw and his expression showed a mix of agitation and worry. His own stomach tightened into knots once again as fear rose within him. He tried to push it away, but it had already gained a foothold.

  Stubby ushered Will up the stairs. Shaw pulled John along behind them. They reached the top and came face to face with a striking mural of a dragon curled around a set of double doors, its eyes staring into Will’s with desire, as if ready to consume his soul.

  Flames shot from its gaping maw like a river spilling onto the floor beneath them. Flecks of red and orange embedded in the marble appeared to writhe in the firelight that filled the room from above. They approached the doors, which were etched with the royal crest, and they swung toward them as they drew nearer.

  Inside sat a wide room with a long line of soldiers creating an imposing sight. They stood fully suited in black steel plate armor with the crest etched in red on the chest. Red cloaks, cinched at the base of the neck, cascaded down their backs, terminating below the waist. Beyond the guards, on a raised platform, sat a black throne.

  And Drygo.

  Will stopped walking, his feet refusing to move, and his mouth dropped open. A sweat broke out on his forehead and his chest began to heave. Stubby gave him a shove and he continued walking.

  To Drygo’s right stood Callum, bedecked in the ceremonial attire befitting the grand marshal. The royal guard moved as one and extended their halberds, creating a tunnel of death as Will passed between them.

  When they reached the king, the others bowed. Will gazed straight ahead at the man before him. He was just a man, after all, and not the demon some painted him to be, though his eyes were cold and hard as the dark steel surrounding him.

  Stubby kicked Will’s legs from behind, forcing him to his knees.

  His eyes remained on the king.

  Stubby and Shaw backed away, leaving Will and John kneeling before the king.

  “Welcome to Shadowhold,” the king began, his voice matching the ice in his eyes.

  “Welcome? Welcome?” John spat out. “You’ve murdered thousands, invaded our home, and killed our father, and you welcome us?”

  Drygo inclined his head, but sat motionless and calm. One of the guards slapped the butt of his halberd into the back of John’s head. The king’s gaze shifted to Will. John started to say something, but Will coughed and shook his head, silencing him.

  “I’ve been apprised of your exploits in Celesti,” the king said, motioning toward Callum. “I commend you for your effort. I might have even considered offering you a position in my royal guard had you not ruined my greatest possession.”

  At the mention of the stone Drygo’s voice began to rise and he, likewise, rose from the throne. He stepped down from the dais and stood beside a small table bearing a vase filled with flowers.

  “You refused to speak to Callum, but you will answer to me,” he yelled, throwing the vase to the floor.

  Will flinched as it shattered, scattering the flowers and spilling water all over the throne room.

  Dr
ygo took two quick strides to stand in front of Will as he said, “Now tell me how you activated the stone.”

  Will craned his neck to look at the king, held his gaze, and said, “As I told your stooge: I. Don’t. Know.”

  The king’s face contorted in rage for an instant, but then was replaced with that same steely visage as he said, “While that may be partly true, you’re not being entirely forthcoming.”

  Drygo turned to John and examined his face.

  “Your brother, by my guess, and the younger of the two of you, am I right?”

  Will’s fear grew tenfold. It had already jammed a foot in the door, through which despair flooded in, but as the king ran a finger down John’s face and grabbed him by the chin, it kicked down the door and terror stalked in.

  John tried to move his head, but the king held him tight.

  Teeth clenched, his breathing heavy, Will trembled as Drygo’s eyes, those horrible eyes, turned black as the darkest night. John began to convulse and he fell to the floor.

  Something stirred within him.

  Iket’s here? The woman’s voice in Will’s head returned after so long. No, no, no… this is not good.

  John screamed.

  Will closed his eyes and he began to hyperventilate.

  “Will—help—me!” John cried.

  Will fought against the tremors that threatened to shake his resolve. He had to help John, but what could he do?

  Make something up, she said.

  What? Will asked.

  If you want to save your brother, make something up, she said again.

  “Blood!” Will yelled.

  Drygo looked at him, puzzlement on his face. John’s seizures slowed.

  “What did you say?” the king asked.

  “Blood. I was bleeding. I had a gash on my hand and my blood touched the gem right before it glowed and released its magic. Blood activated the gem.”

  “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  He turned back to John and his convulsions intensified again.

  “No! I told you what you wanted to know. Stop this!” Will pleaded, but the king did not hear, or if he did, he did not care.

  Do something! Anything! Will yelled at the voice in his head.

  There is nothing to be done. You cannot defeat Iket, she replied.

  Iket? Like the god of death, Iket? Will asked, blanching at the notion.

  Drygo’s face once again shone pure rage as he used that dark magic on Will’s brother. John’s skin shriveled and turned pale while his cheeks sank. Some of his bones popped out of place and others snapped like a branch bearing the weight of snow. John’s body came to rest, life gone from his eyes.

  “No,” Will said, barely a whisper. “John… My fault—my fault,” he muttered.

  John’s death tore open a rift in Will, flooding him with emotions that had been locked away for twelve years. The throne room disappeared as his mind went back to that day.

  Will was a little boy again. Rain pelted from the dark, foreboding skies in the town square of Celesti. Covered in mud, he huddled against his mother’s soaked dress. Robert stood beside him, John in their mother’s arms.

  Eight men knelt before the crowd, guilty of treason because they refused to accept Drygo’s victory when the city fell. They were each given one last chance. Pledge allegiance to Drygo and they could resume their position in the guard. Refuse, and they faced death. The first two renounced their decision and were accepted, escaping death. But when the soldier stood before his father, they gave him no choice to recant. They declared him an enemy of the crown, accused him of aiding and abetting fugitives who had committed treason.

  Will’s father was lifted to his feet. Drygo’s men handed him a sword, giving him one last chance to defend himself. He squared off against his opponent, clenching his hand against the sword, gauging the weight of it. Lightning flashed in the sky and thunder smashed through the courtyard as if the gods themselves battled before them.

  Will’s father lunged, trying to take his opponent by surprise, but caught nothing but air. He adjusted his position and swung his sword at his opponent’s left flank. Drygo’s man parried it and hit their father’s sword arm out wide, knocking him off balance. Will’s father tried to regain his footing, but slipped in the mud and landed on his back. The other guards—Drygo’s guards—roared with laughter.

  His opponent stood back, allowing him to regain his footing. Their father appeared to have pulled a muscle from his fall. He made another lazy swing and his opponent countered hard, freeing the sword from his grasp. The man followed through, burying his sword to the hilt into their father’s chest. As their father sagged on the man’s arm, he lifted his head, his eyes catching Will’s. They stared at Will and then glazed over. The man shoved him off his sword into the dirt to the cheers of his fellow soldiers.

  “Curse the gods!” roared someone as if from a great distance.

  The throne room drifted in and out of focus. Drygo backhanded Will and he fell to the ground. He sliced Will’s palm with his sword, blood flowing from it. Drygo bathed the stone in Will’s blood as he lay there, staring off into the distance. Will felt none of it, his body refusing to accept reality.

  Nothing Drygo tried worked. The Soul Render in his hand remained dim and unresponsive. As Drygo raged and screamed, sound fell away. No voices, no blowing wind, no rustling armor, no heartbeat. Just a dead, eerie silence.

  Will was in the throne room, but also hundreds of miles away and a lifetime ago. His mind retreated deep within himself and dissociated from his body.

  As someone hoisted Will up from the ground, sound crept back in, soft and muffled as if through a great fog.

  “I promised him… my fault…” Will repeated over and over.

  “Take the body and hang it at the front gate,” the king commanded, pointing at John. “I want everyone to remember what happens when they defy me.”

  He paced back and forth, muttering to himself. He stopped.

  “Perhaps it needs more blood. Why not spill it all?” Then Drygo said to no one in particular, “Yes, that will do.” He turned to look at Callum. “Davion, prepare the executioner’s block. He dies tomorrow at sunrise.”

  For days, Robert shadowed the king’s men as they trekked from Celesti to Shadowhold. Each night he probed their perimeter for a weak spot and each night he found none. When the entourage marched into Shadowhold, Robert all but knew there would be no saving them. Still, he watched the palace from a dark corner looking for any opportunity to save his brothers. He would not give up.

  Any hope that still burned within him was snuffed out as the palace doors opened and two guards emerged carrying John’s body. Robert’s stumbled backward, his back slamming into the wall of a building. He closed his eyes and the emotions of that day long ago flooded through him as well. What he felt, though, was not fear or grief, but pure, unadulterated rage.

  Tomorrow.

  Sunrise.

  He dies.

  Though the words hung there like a distant buzz, they didn’t sink into Will’s mind, didn’t register. Shaw and Stubby dragged him through the palace and back to the prison, but he couldn’t hear their steps or the moans of prisoners he knew should be there. He couldn’t smell the mold, the urine, or the blood.

  John’s death destroyed all hope. Will felt like a child once more, unable to resist, unable to fight, unable to help the ones he loved as they were butchered in front of him. He would never forgive himself. Will had promised John. He had promised him they would get out of this, that he would protect him. John’s death was his fault. His fault, his fault, his fault, his fault, his fault…

  They tossed his limp body into the cell, but he didn’t feel it hit the floor. In his mind, stone gave way to an endless pit. Down, down, down through the darkness, he plummeted. Above, he saw a pinprick of light where his prison cell remained even as his mind fell deeper into despair.

  Will screamed and no one heard. He looked for John, but he was alo
ne. He could not stop his descent. There was nothing to grab onto, nowhere to go, so he gave in. He gave in to his misery. He fell for what seemed like hours.

  Get a hold of yourself, the voice said.

  Will perked up. The voice sounded different. Before, it always sounded like it was in his head. This time, he heard it as if she were in the room with him.

  His fall slowed then stopped as his feet touched down on some unseen surface in the black. A beautiful woman walked toward him. Her long black hair fell down around pointy ears.

  “You’re an elf?” he asked her.

  She nodded. “As are many of the gods.”

  “You mean you’re Lotess? It wasn’t merely your stone, but you?”

  “Indeed. Our souls are now intertwined,” she said.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she placed a finger to his lips. “Now is still not the time for questions. With Iket so near, your life hangs in the balance. The stones are being found. Magic is awakening once more. Should all the gods rise again, the world will be in mortal peril. You must survive. We must survive. If not for your own sake, then for the sake of everyone you know and love.”

  Lotess placed her hand on his shoulder and said, “Go now. Awake. Fear not. I will be with you.”

  Then she threw him up into the darkness with blinding speed, the hole of light above him drawing closer and closer in a matter of heartbeats. Noises invaded his ears, but instead of the screams of prisoners, he heard the low rumble of many conversations. The smell of fresh bread, salt water, and fresh air flooded his senses.

  He was not in his cell.

  5

  Thousands of onlookers crammed into the space around the raised platform in Shadowhold’s central square. Robert hung in the back, wanting to avoid any unnecessary attention.

  “Time to pay up, Sebastian,” a gruff voice said in an unfamiliar accent.

  Robert glanced over his shoulder to see three men crowding around a visibly frightened man in his fifties. Robert turned his attention back to the platform. He wasn’t going to get involved with things that weren’t his business.