The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  Ever since Keedar had first heard Thar mention kerin, the name had seemed familiar, a prick at the edge of his memory. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t recall where he’d heard it before. A part of him said the familiarity was important, which added to his frustration.

  Wagons laden with kerin, charcoal, white crystals, and sulfur became part of heavily guarded caravans. Under grey skies that flickered with lightning, they wound their way through the Blooded Daggers and into the passes of the Bloody Corridor where the Farlanders set up workshops to produce the kerin balls needed for their firesticks. The other minerals were required for the black spark-powder that made the weapons work. From his vantage point Keedar could make out one of those caravans, specks in the distance as the men, horses, and giant ereskars traversed rock-strewn plains. Hopefully Martel would soon make smoking heaps of them.

  Keedar’s lips curled in anger with the thought of kerin. Even now, he felt one of the little balls crafted from the metal as it scoured his back, leaving a hot painful trail. A souvenir shot by a Blazer through a firestick. He could still hear the firestick’s sharp crack each time lightning flashed, see the flame as a second one sparked. Kerin had cut through his soul shield as if it were nonexistent. His savior had been months of practice in anticipation of the Blazers’ weapons. And a tree. More so the tree.

  Commotion at the kerin mine’s dark mouth caught his attention. He increased the flow of soul that fed the meld magnifying his sight. And winced.

  A flame-haired overseer in intricately designed leather armor shoved a slave in the back and sent him staggering. Ankles shackled, the frail man fell. The overseer, whose combination of hair, huge frame, and bronzed skin said he was a Farlander of Allonian descent, stalked after the slave, shouting in a garbled accent.

  The slave crawled to his feet. Not once had he cried out. Nor did his slanted eyes offer any hint of defiance or fear. His wrinkled face seemed … content. The slave trudged toward an open area stained a reddish brown.

  Why would anyone go so meekly to their own execution? No matter how hopeless the situation appeared Keedar knew he would have fought for his life. Survival was in his blood.

  A line of the slave’s fellow Marishmen paused to watch, baskets of kerin stopping among their ranks on the way to a waiting horse. The crack of a whip and yells from another redheaded Allonian set them back to work. From hand to hand the baskets passed along the line before the slaves slotted them into holders on the horse’s flanks. Another set of baskets was already on the way down the incline. Most of the other slaves continued about their business, ignoring the commotion, but there was no denying their forlorn expressions.

  At the red stained area, the Marish slave stopped. Another shove by the Allonian sent him down on one knee. Smiling serenely, the slave gazed up at the sky.

  The misty luminescence of soul sprang to life around the Allonian in a nimbus several feet wide. A huge sword appeared in his hand, as long as the man was tall, glinting silver in the sunlight.

  With one stroke the overseer took the slave’s head. Swift. Clean. A normal man might have needed two or three chops to cut through the bone and cartilage. The nimbus of soul magic dissipated like early morning mist; the sword vanished.

  Keedar didn’t flinch or avert his gaze. Into his memory he etched the image of the head, grey hair flying, lips curved with bliss. There, it would join the other mementos of atrocities he’d sworn to right, like Delisar’s death and his old patchwork cloak made out of bits of discarded clothing worn by people taken on the Day of Accolades. Absently, he stroked his shirt between his thumb and forefinger.

  The dead man’s frail body pitched forward into the dirt. It twitched. Once. Twice. And then was still.

  The senile slant-eyed Marishman was the third person the overseer executed that day alone. The other two had been a man and a woman, both hurt during a tunnel collapse. Their injuries had been minor, but that mattered little. They could no longer work, not without several weeks to heal. Thus, they became useless, a burden on food, medicine, and the Farlander mining operation.

  Several months ago the deaths would have bothered him. He was numb to them now. Life itself had become simple. You inhaled, you exhaled, or you didn’t.

  This way of being had crept up on him since Ainslen killed Delisar. Perhaps it had begun with the Night of Blades, or the death of Raishaar, killings in the Smear, or Rose’s murder, or when he’d killed Gaston. He was uncertain. With each ensuing atrocity he witnessed up here in the Blooded Daggers and the surrounding foothills, he grew increasingly numb to the loss of life. But not disconnected from the suffering. He memorized the tears and the cries, the screams, the whip descending on a bloody back, the men, women, and children shackled, made to dig with a pick or to work collecting minerals from a pool of piss or to shovel shit. The lucky ones among them got to stack wood blocks for the charcoal huts. Late at night, he relived the memories.

  He lacked the experience, and therefore the strength, to avenge the man he’d called his father, but he had the ability to carry on Delisar’s work, to see his legacy live. During the past years he’d done his part to save the Dracodar descendants, even if Delisar had not been clear in his plans. Those plans and that part had led King Ainslen to Delisar, and in many ways Keedar still blamed himself. Although the lure was Delisar’s intent, he still couldn’t help the feeling. So he embraced the blame, and now diverted his energy to the task before him, to seeing the Dracodar rise, and in the process helping Thar and his mother pull down the king.

  My mother. Alive.

  The thought still felt surreal. He remembered the Night of Blades, her golden scales, hearing her mad cackles, seeing her burn. Yet she lived. Not only lived; she was Elysse the Temptress, a legend, the greatest crusader for the Dracodar cause. She was their queen. He smiled at that last, picturing her from faint memory and from Thar’s descriptions: amber eyes, dark hair, and a pronounced chin held high.

  Footsteps crunched on gravel behind Keedar. He glanced over his shoulder.

  Blade Captain Guai stood on the crag goat trail down the incline from where Keedar sprawled, the wind ruffling the Marishman’s homespun linen shirt. Short for a Marishman, he was an aged veteran, and former captain among the Marish phalanxes at Ernassa before the city fell to the Farlanders.

  Guai pulled down the scarf from around his mouth, grimacing at the foul air when he did so. He spoke with a Marishman’s customary drawl. “Have you seen anyone who fits King Hanlin’s description?”

  “None. If your king still lives, he isn’t here.”

  “Has much changed?”

  “No.” Again Keedar checked the scene below. Two slaves dragged away the corpse. The overseer returned to the mine. “Guard shift changes every four hours and the patrols down among the trees take a break for a minute or two every hour.”

  “Any new guards?”

  “Fifty reinforcements by my last count.”

  “What of their melders?”

  “The same thirty Farlanders left here since Martel’s last raid on the caravan. How long before we strike?”

  “Patience. We’ll free the slaves soon enough. For now we await Martel’s signal. Raishai, Hualin, and Lomin will take care of the three Blazers as soon as they show themselves.”

  Nodding, Keedar considered their current dilemma. In order to protect the caravans from Martel’s raids in the stretch of land between the Daggers and the Corridor, the Farlander commanders had bled guards from the mining operation. They also placed three Blazers at vantage points somewhere in the hills around the mines. The distance from which they could accurately strike down a target made Keedar shake his head in disbelief.

  The weapon’s operation still baffled him. Kerin disrupted soul, and yet a Blazer was able to control the flight of a ball by attaching a piece of their soul to it. He’d tried to do the same, and although he could make a kerin ball move a little, it felt like a squirming fish in the grasp of his meld. Blade Lomin claimed there was some
affinity within a Blazer’s blood that aided their skill.

  “Are you certain Raishai and Hualin will fare well with the firesticks?” Keedar asked.

  “We wouldn’t be here otherwise. And I’d think twice about questioning Blade Lomin’s training if I were you. If he says they’re capable, then that’s the end of it. He’s spent ages studying the firesticks. He should know. Unlike you.”

  Keedar dipped his head, properly chastised, but still appreciated Guai for answering at all. “No insult was intended, but with such strange devices I can’t help my doubts.”

  “Doubt gets men killed. Worry about your job, not theirs.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The slap of running footsteps approached. Along the goat trail rushed Blade Lenyin, another Marishman. Chest heaving, Lenyin stopped before Guai. “Sir,” he began, sucking in a breath, “it’s Kalshen. He saw his family below. Morel is holding him back, but I don’t know how long he can manage.”

  Shit. Keedar scanned the ridge to his right where Kalshen and his group waited. Kalshen and Morel were having a heated exchange, the former pointing and gesticulating.

  “Come.” Guai took a step in the direction of Kalshen’s men. “We must stop him before he ruins everything.”

  “Too late,” Keedar said.

  Kalshen leaped from the ridge. He glided down, his trajectory taking him to a group of Marish slaves at the mouth of the kerin mines. They were the same slaves the guard had whipped when they stopped to watch the old man die.

  “Fool, he was only supposed to attack if he saw members of the court.” Guai’s tunic changed from white to red. “Keedar, keep an eye on things from here. Hopefully we make enough noise that Martel understands what’s happening before the caravan guards begin to head back.” He made a running leap over Keedar, red shirt ruffling in the wind. Lenyin jumped after him.

  The Blades along the ridge saw the signal. They launched themselves out over the mines, silent assassins in leather and cloth.

  Down below, Kalshen landed behind the guard. The Farlander turned, his hand on his sword. And caught Kalshen’s fist in the chest. The punch lifted the man off his feet, flung him through the air, and sent him tumbling down the hill.

  A horn bellowed. Once. Twice. Three times.

  From the mine entrance sprinted the Allonian overseer. His body was larger than before, legs like logs, arms muscled monstrosities. His leather armor strained to contain him. He charged Kalshen, swinging his massive sword, the Marishman like a mere child before him.

  Kalshen raised his arm to block the blow. To a person unable to discern soul, the raised arm seemed absurd when compared to the manifested steel hurtling toward it. For Keedar, Kalshen’s soul had taken on a solid thickness, its glow bright. The sword crashed into the nimbus and stopped before it touched flesh. But the blow staggered Kalshen.

  The Allonian swung again before Kalshen recovered. Yelling, one of the slaves, a woman, leaped in front of Kalshen. Steel met flesh. Flesh tore like so much paper. Blood fountained.

  Kalshen screamed. He scrambled to the woman’s corpse and cradled the torso in his arms. He paid no heed to the sword hurtling toward his head.

  Keedar looked away.

  Blades engaged the Farlanders all along the mountainside. Shrieking slaves fled in every direction. Women clung to the children and tried to put as much distance between themselves and the combatants.

  The air crackled with soul magic. Nimbuses flared, their misty luminescence waxing and waning in response to attack or defense. Melders manifested elements to hurl at their opponents or strode through the chaos wreathed in fire or clothed in metal or stone skin. Some wielded weapons of pure soul against manifestations of steel and iron. Yet others magnified their bodies, making themselves faster or stronger, muscles bulging from arms that were once normal. Sulfur ignited, leaving a trail of bright, glowing blue flames that consumed Blade and slave and Farlander alike.

  From the tree line swarmed a Farlander company, at least a hundred in number, clad in identical pale leather harnesses, cloaks emblazoned with ereskars. Among them were short, squat Egini, rectangular shields matching their height; giant Allonians, taller and wider than anyone on the battlefield; Jophites, in their plain robes, souls attached to daggers or circular discs that they flung out toward their targets and yanked back to themselves.

  Keedar hissed at their numbers and sudden appearance, berating himself for missing their presence. His eyes sought Guai. The captain was a storm of red, wielding a manifested chain with blades on each end. His weapon shot out as fast as the man could snap his arms, punching holes through heads and chests with wild abandon. Farther up the mountain the Blades held their own, but once the Farlander cohort made it to them, the battle would be decided.

  Blood bloomed on a Blade’s chest. Something lifted the man off his feet and tossed him aside. A crack like sharp thunder followed, echoing between the slopes.

  Cold fingers slid down Keedar’s spine. Frantic, he scanned the upper slopes.

  Raishai, Hualin, and Lomin’s groups fought a desperate battle against shield-bearing Egini who kept them away from three white-haired Vailonders armed with firesticks. The Blazers used the protection to shoot down into the battle, picking off targets.

  The pops came again and again, magnified by the echoes. Keedar knew a Blade died with each one.

  Panic stirring in his chest, his gaze found one of the wagons loaded with kerin, sulfur, crystals, and charcoal. Without a second thought, he flung open his vital points. Soul gushed forth. He took a few steps away from the outcrop, pictured massive coiled springs, and his legs manifested the thought. With a yell he hurled himself forward and off the edge. He passed over a part of the raging battle, the blue flames of ignited sulfur licking at him hungrily.

  Trying to judge his distance and trajectory he adjusted his weight. At the same time, he manifested a length of his soul into a chain with a four-pronged hook anchor on the end. He hurtled down, the ground a blur of yellow and blue and chaos.

  At the last moment he reversed his meld, making his body like a feather on the wind. When he landed he was already running toward the wagon, bending ever so quickly to snag a bit of ignited sulfur while hardening his nimbus to protect him against its heat.

  The Farlander cohort was three quarters of the way up the hillside.

  Keedar tossed the anchor over the lip at the middle of the wagon-bed. He tugged the chain. The hooks caught hold. As he ran he magnified his body, forced added strength into his legs, chest, and arms, but without the need to increase their actual size. He crashed into the wagon, sent it careening down the hill into the oncoming Farlanders, and extended the chain’s length.

  With a thought he changed the properties of the chain, copying the sulfur around him. He flicked the end into a pool of the flaming mineral. A whoosh, and blue flames shot down the length of his manifestation.

  Keedar dropped flat to the ground, hands covering his head, strength leeching from him as the cost for his quick, volatile expenditure of soul came due. Coupled with his earlier melds when scouting, he felt as if he’d run up and down the mountain nonstop for hours.

  A dull thump chased him to the shale and dirt. And then a roar. The ground shook. Heated wind washed over him, the air acrider than before. His ears rang. Familiar prickles raced along his skin.

  Something fell on him, hot despite his clothes. He fought against the urge to harden his nimbus, knowing it would further deplete his soul. Saving the last bit for a hasty retreat was a necessity. One hot thing became many, a rain of debris he wriggled to dislodge. The prickles increased, and the heat subsided as if related. He eased his head up to see that not all of it was debris. Some was soft. Wet. Red.

  Keedar glanced down as the prickling sensation dissipated. Tiny gold scales receded into his skin. He remembered when excruciating pain would accompany the change. Weeks of practice in secret had made the transformation as normal as breathing. He staggered to his feet, drew the two daggers from t
heir scabbards on his sword belt, and faced the direction in which he expected to see Farlanders.

  A giant hole marred the ground. Smoke billowed into the sky, oily and black. The air smelled like cooked meat. Flattened trees marked the area that was once the forest line, now pushed back several feet. Some trees were burned, the flames a mixture of orange and blue.

  The cohort was nothing more than mangled flesh and moaning men and women. Movement below was limited to spasms or a weakly lifted arm or leg. He sheathed his weapons as rain’s first patter began.

  Screams and cries reached him then. Slowly, he turned to face uphill, dread clawing at his chest.

  Bodies of Farlanders, Blades, and slaves were strewn about the mountainside. People stumbled, gazes vacant or etched with horror. Many had bloodied clothes, gashed faces, or nursed several other wounds. Some were but so much ripped flesh. Blue flames were devouring a vast number of them. Screaming and batting at themselves, they dashed about haphazardly as if they could escape the hunger of ignited sulfur. Eventually, they threw themselves to the ground, writhing, frantic. Their movements slowed. Ceased. Keening wails, incoherent mutters, and fervent prayers commingled with the moans and groans of the wounded.

  He thought he’d seen death before, that he’d come to accept it, had grown numb to it, that death had hardened him. But this, this tableau that repeated all along the mountainside was something different. It was death’s darker brother, carnage.

  And Keedar had introduced him to the innocent.

  He vomited. What have I done?

  Through a drizzle, world a blur, he stumbled up the hill among the dead and dying, among the living and barely alive. Face contorted, he held out a hand toward one person or another as if that single hand could make a difference, could erase the suffering, reverse the slaughter. “What have I done?” he mumbled.