Souldrifter: The Dreamwielder Chronicles - Book Two

by Garrett Calcaterra

  She had lost count of how many times she tried to slip into a dreamstate. The clicking, the whirring, made it nearly impossible to do so. One time, maybe twice—she couldn’t recall anymore—she had almost touched her power, and it had been the same as that first time after the switch when the body thief had awoken her: a cacophony of metallic clanging and screeching in her mind, like she were inside the inner workings of a bell tower pealing out a song of chaos. Her mind would go blank, and when she awoke from the stupor it was only to be welcomed again by the clicking and whirring. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t dream. All she could do was remind herself to breathe in and out. Guards that she didn’t recognize came occasionally and poured tepid broth down her gullet with a funnel. In between the gagging and swallowing, she would cry out to them.

  “Help me. I’m your queen! Makarria.” The words came out barely intelligible, garbled by her pain and the foreign feel of her tongue rubbing against the gaps of missing teeth in her new mouth.

  The guards would only laugh at her. “Nice try. You think us fools?” they’d ask, and if she persisted, if she pleaded them to summon Fina or her mother, they’d punch her in the stomach, sending her undigested broth back up the way it came. The last time they’d come, she’d said nothing. She just focused on her breathing, and spoke to herself, trying to drown out the machinery by repeating over and over the names of her friends: Mother, Father, Caile, Taera, Talitha, Siegbjorn, Natale, Fina… Someone, please come save me. Mother, Father, Caile…

  • • •

  Lord Derek droned on for what must have been the third straight hour about the noble lineage of House Derek. Caile groaned inwardly. Who cares if his great, great grandmother was the second cousin to some lord descended from Sargoth Lightbringer? He could be a direct heir to the Lightbringer himself, and Lord Derek would still be an arrogant moron, unfit to lord over a pigsty, let alone a kingdom.

  The past three days had been exactly the same. The hearings were nothing more than a well-orchestrated show, posed to stage Lord Kobel as the only viable candidate as the hearings came to a close in the coming days. Now that Caile saw what a farce all of it was, he was angered, exasperated, and, more than anything, overcome with a sense of helplessness. After his arrival and little speech about the Old World, he had been certain that someone would come to him, whether it be to gain his support or gauge his threat as an adversary. But nothing. On top of that, his private entreaties to the ambassadors from Golier and Norg to secure the Gothol Sea with a heightened naval presence had been for naught. Ambassador Rives had scoffed at the notion the Old World might invade, scoffed a little too readily in Caile’s estimation. The ambassador from Norg didn’t scoff at the prospect of invasion through the Gothol Sea, but rather was forthright in saying his nation didn’t care. The Kingdom of Norg’s primary concern was with maintaining naval dominance of the Norg Sea.

  What made Caile feel more helpless than anything else, though, was that he had heard nothing from his friends. Siegbjorn’s airship was gone three days now, yet Caile still had not heard from Talitha. Had the northman dropped her off as planned? Was she able to sneak back into Col Sargoth during the first night? The second? Had something gone wrong? And why haven’t I heard word from Makarria? Caile had foregone dinner in the mess hall and waited in his room each night since arriving, holding his orange marbled speaking stone in his lap, waiting, hoping that Makarria would contact him. If nothing else, he told himself, she would want to check in to learn how the election was progressing. But again, nothing. Had something happened to her? Or was she still too disgusted with him? Twice Caile had held his orange speaking stone to his face. Twice he had closed his eyes and concentrated on the image of Makarria’s yellow speaking stone, and both times he had changed his mind. He couldn’t bring himself to call out her name. What would I even say to her? That I’ve accomplished nothing?

  He’d contemplated calling out to Talitha’s stone that morning before the hearings began, but the sorceress had made him swear to do no such thing before she had left. “Who knows where I might be hiding,” she had told him. “The last thing I need is your voice coming out of my rucksack and giving me away. Just wait. I will contact you if need be.”

  That left him on his own, with only Thon to help. And I’m tired of waiting around, he decided as Lord Derek droned on. It’s time to poke the hornet’s nest and see who comes flying out. The houndkeeper couldn’t be working alone, he knew, and everything that had transpired so far pointed to the Old World. They had to have an agent in Col Sargoth bribing or intimidating people into voting for Kobel, and if Caile could figure out who—if he could eliminate that agent—then just maybe he could turn this election into a fair contest.

  When the houndkeeper finally banged his gavel and adjourned the day’s hearing, Caile waved for Thon to follow him, and made straight away out of Lightbringer’s Keep to the northern courtyard.

  “Where are we off to?” Thon asked, half-jogging to keep up.

  “The northern smelting factory to inspect Guderian’s war wagons,” Caile told him, not bothering to keep his voice down as they exited past the guards at the gates into the streets of Col Sargoth. If someone is watching us and hears, all the better.

  “I thought the factory was locked down and guarded by the cavalry,” Thon said. “Will they let us in?”

  “I’m an official emissary from Queen Makarria. They’ll have to.”

  Thon shrugged, seemingly content to trust Caile and enjoy the walk through his home city. Caile led the way north, sticking to the main thoroughfare, dodging between carts and steam-powered rickshaws. Despite not having a king in place, the city actually seemed to be thriving more than when Caile had last been in Col Sargoth. At least it was more lively. Under Emperor Guderian’s dominion, the city dwellers had lived and worked in muted fear. By night, the taverns were full enough of gests and laughter as people lost themselves in spiced grain spirits, but in the daylight hours people had gone about their business with little joy. It was different now. There were more people in the streets, and there was an excited energy about them, even among the poor beggars, which they saw in increasing numbers as they walked farther from Lightbringer’s Keep into the industrial borough alongside the Sargothian River. The buildings became smaller and more ragged, the people poorer, even those who weren’t beggars. The residue of the dormant smelting factory became worse, too. The wood paneling walls of the ramshackle homes were covered in black soot. The side streets weren’t paved like the main thoroughfare, but rather consisted of hard-packed dirt, wet and dark with oil stains. The air reeked of rotten eggs.

  “Sargoth’s hairy arse,” Thon said. “I remember the river borough being a bit rundown, but it was never this bad.”

  “It was probably worse when the smelting factories were still running,” Caile replied. “When I was here last year, you couldn’t even see the sky because of the smoke and soot, and that was from Lightbringer’s Keep. I can’t imagine how bad it was here.”

  The smoke stacks of the smelting factory loomed ever larger as they drew closer to the river and the rundown houses gave way to warehouses. The whistles and shouts of sailors and dockworkers filled the air, carried on the chill breeze coming off the Sargothian River. The cold air did nothing to staunch the smell of tar and rotten eggs, though.

  Caile and Thon came to a halt as they passed a warehouse and the smelting factory itself came into view. It was not so different from the surrounding warehouses in size or shape, but it was made of brick rather than wood, and it had smoke stacks: three of them, protruding from the crestline of the steep-pitched roof and towering a hundred feet into the air. This is where they were made, Caile told himself. The war wagons that cut down my countrymen outside Lepig. Caile had killed Wulfram on the rain-soaked battlefield that day, but along with the fallen sorcerer, thousands of Pyrthin cavalrymen also died, mowed down by the war wagons like wheat beneath the scythe. The sounds of men and horses screaming still haunted Caile’s dreams.


  With a deep sigh, Caile pushed aside the memories. “The place is ass-ugly from the outside,” he remarked. “Let’s see if it’s any nicer on the inside, shall we?”

  “I’m doubtful,” Thon replied, but the two them strode forward nonetheless.

  The giant bay doors were closed and chained shut, but two armed guards stood at attention in front of the nearby walk-in doors. Their horses were nowhere to be seen, but it was clear by their armament that they were Sargothian cavalrymen, the elite fighting force of the Sargothian army. They carried round shields and flails with spiked balls, and wore black surcoats emblazoned with the symbol of Sargoth—a white sun radiating five shafts of light—over the top of their light armor.

  Caile made straightway toward them and handed over a letter from inside his doublet.

  “I am Prince Caile Delios, emissary of both the Kingdom of Pyrthinia and the Kingdom of Valaróz. I have been charged by Queen Makarria Pallma, Dreamwielder, Merciful Conqueror of the Kingdom of Sargoth, to inspect the war wagon factory and ensure the Sargothian cavalry has kept it secure.”

  The guard with the letter gave no more than a cursory glance at Makarria’s note.

  Good thing, Caile thought. All Makarria had time to write was a vague letter proclaiming me her official emissary. It says nothing specifically about the factory.

  “You’ll have to speak with the commander,” the guard said, handing the letter back to Caile.

  “I don’t have time to wait for the commander to stroll on over from the keep, soldier,” Caile said. “Summon whoever is in charge here on the premise. I know Queen Makarria left more than two cavalrymen and a couple of chains around the door to secure the factory.”

  “She left an entire squadron and the commander himself.”

  “The commander is stationed here?” Caile asked, surprised. That was a good thing as far as the security of the facility went, but not such a good thing for Caile’s prospects of talking his way inside. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Send for him immediately.”

  The soldier frowned at Caile’s flippant remark, but did as he was told, slipping through the doors into the factory and leaving his comrade alone to guard the exterior. Within moments, the soldier returned with a similarly adorned man, tall and lithe, with narrow shoulders, but long, lanky arms beneath his black surcoat. He carried in the crook of one arm an open-faced helm with ram horns, and the dark hair atop his head was trimmed short, little more than a week’s stubble after having shaved it clean.

  “Prince Caile of Pyrthinia, this is Commander Buell of the Sargothian cavalry,” the soldier introduced them.

  Commander Buell lowered his head in a poor semblance of a bow. “Your Majesty. I’m told you brought a letter from Queen Makarria authorizing an inspection of the facility?”

  Caile handed over the letter. “Commander, you’ll find the writ pronounces me as Queen Makarria’s emissary, with full authority to act on her behalf.”

  “It says nothing about inspecting this facility,” the commander said, glancing over the letter.

  “Queen Makarria couldn’t possibly be expected to anticipate every task I need to undertake while overseeing the election. Perhaps you haven’t heard, Commander, but a new king of Sargoth will be elected in eight days, and the Old World is watching the proceedings very carefully. If anything goes wrong with the election, if they sense any sort of civil unrest—if anything happens to this factory—then they will attack the Five Kingdoms.”

  Commander Buell snorted. “What does the Old World care about a kingdom two thousand some odd miles away?”

  Caile took pause. It was foolish of him to speak so cavalierly of the Old World to this man. It was one thing throwing names around at a bunch of politicians, but what if the Old World had already gotten to the commander, too—perhaps bribed him or threatened him? Commander Buell was a man who could do something about Caile’s meddling. Too late now, Caile decided, almost hoping for violence so he would have a clear-cut enemy to fight.

  “Well Commander, you can ask the Old World yourself when they invade in a week, or you can let me inspect this facility,” Caile said. “They’ve already made demands of Queen Makarria. She’s turned them away, but only her promise that Sargoth is secure keeps them from attacking. It’s our belief they’re after the war machines, or at least the steam technology to make them. That’s why I was sent here with such haste. I need to see the factory, Commander. I need to confirm Queen Makarria’s faith in you that the machines are secure.”

  Commander Buell pursed his lips and glanced from Caile back down to the letter, and then up to Thon, just noticing him for the first time. His eyes narrowed. “And who’s this with you?”

  “Thon Hilliard,” Thon answered. “One of your countrymen.”

  “More than a mere countryman,” Commander Buell said. “I know you.”

  Caile shifted his weight so the hilt of his sword moved clear from the edges of his doublet. It’s looking more like a fight with each passing moment. What did you do to get sent off to Khal-Aband, Thon?

  “Yes, I was a sergeant in the cavalry once,” Thon told the Commander, righting himself to stand stiffly at attention.

  “And you were taken prisoner by order of Emperor Guderian himself. I remember well. Your captain was commanded to restrain you and hand you over to Guderian’s private guards. We were not told why, and we never saw you again. We thought you dead.”

  “Queen Makarria and I freed him from Khal-Aband,” Caile said, still unable to read Commander Buell’s demeanor toward Thon, still ready to fight if need be. “He and another prisoner were the only survivors.”

  “Khal-Aband actually exists? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, not when it comes to Guderian’s paranoia.” The Commander stepped forward and Caile tensed, but the tall man merely smiled and clapped Thon on the shoulder. “I’m glad to see you survived, soldier. I would be happy to discuss reinstating you back into the cavalry if you so desire.”

  “Thank you,” Thon said, “but I owe Prince Caile and Queen Makarria a debt for saving me. I am in their service now.”

  Caile smiled, relief washing over him. He was a good soldier after all, just like he said. “Commander, if all goes well over the next week and we avert war with the Old World, then Thon is free to do as he pleases and rejoin you if he likes.”

  “All right, but make sure to keep him in one piece for me,” Commander Buell said. “Let’s give you the grand tour, shall we?”

  The two guards threw the doors open and Caile and Thon walked into the smelting factory behind Commander Buell. The interior of the building was expansive, but there was little wasted space. A massive forge dominated the area nearest the entryway, a potbellied furnace larger than some castles Caile had seen. It was fed by an array of black iron pipes thick as tree trunks and an iron-track conveyor belt as wide as the city streets outside. Caile spied two more identical ones farther back in the factory.

  “The raw ore from the mines is purified into iron ingots in the southern factory,” Commander Buell said. “This is where the second stage of smelting occurs and, of course, where the actual construction of the wagons takes place. The pipes you see are for the ether, which fuels the smelters. The belts feed the coal and ingots into the furnaces. From there the liquid alloy that forms flows downstairs. Up here, everything has been secured since Guderian’s death—shut down and locked up. The only dangerous component topside would be the ether storage tanks, which are in the stockyard out back. They too are sealed, secured, and guarded day and night. If anyone managed to get past the sentries outside the wall surrounding the stockyard, they’d still have to scale the wall and face the sentries inside the stockyard before they could get anywhere near the tanks. By then, the sentries would have raised the alarm and the attackers would have an entire regiment of cavalrymen to contend with.”

  Caile recalled his own tank he had constructed on the outskirts of Lepig. That tank had been made of wood and stored five thousand gallons of naphtha. It
was meant to fuel the hydraulic cannon Caile used to combat Emperor Guderian’s war wagons. In the end, it had been successful, but Caile had been terrified the entire time that Sargothian archers would set it aflame before the hydraulic cannon could ever be put into action.

  “What are the ether tanks made of, Commander?” Caile asked. “Are they flammable?”

  “They’re made out of the same iron alloy as the war wagons. They’re not flammable. Sustained heat could cause the ether to expand and the tanks to explode, but the stockyard is equipped with an equal number of water tanks, ready to extinguish any flames. My cavalrymen are trained to do exactly that.”

  Caile nodded and followed after Buell, who led the way toward the center of the factory. In the open area between the first two forges, an encampment of sorts had been constructed. Nearly a hundred cavalrymen mulled about, playing dice at square tables, sparring with wooden practice flails, nibbling food at the cook stations, or napping in their cots.

  “My best regiment is stationed right here in the factory,” Buell said. “The men are on rotation and get two days leave every week. Otherwise, they are here on call, even when not on patrol. I myself have made it my interim headquarters. We have a fully stocked larder and armory. We’ve built a stable and a riding arena in the loading yard near the river docks to conduct our practice drills.”

  Thon brightened at the mention of the armory. “Commander, I know I’m not part of the cavalry—not anymore, at least—but do you suppose you could spare a flail? Prince Caile was kind enough to lend me a sword, but it’s not anywhere near the same as a proper flail.”