The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  Snarling, the Queen turned to the melders on the wall near her. She drew on her soul, touched minds already in her grasp, and transferred a bit of power into them. “Your king needs you. Go to him.”

  Nimbuses flared. The men flung themselves from the castle walls.

  She prayed Hazline would spare Ainslen’s life.

  S corched L and B lack S ky

  T oday, he would destroy the western kingdoms’ most vaunted warriors and kill their ruler. Today, he would become the first of the Empire’s monarchs to bring the west to heel. Throughout Mareshna the victory would become a tale of Kasinian prowess and the indomitable strength of Danalyn, the first Sword of Humel. As well as his own skill as a melder. The name King Ainslen Cardiff would rise above all others in the annals of Mareshnan history.

  He would usher in a new age. An age filled with great works to rival the Winds of Time, to surpass the Fabled Era. After he’d conquered the west, he’d bring the Farlanders to heel and rule them also. Mareshna would be unified as never before. He would surpass even the ancient Dracodar. The image of it all made him shiver.

  A series of grating sounds, like a man coughing up phlegm, returned him to reality. Seven westerners approached on yuros, the strange animals making the wretched noise. The beasts reminded him of hounds, if hounds ever grew to a horse’s size. The yuros had short hair, bodies rippling with muscle, necks that stretched forward eagerly, thick legs and padded feet that churned through mud with ease.

  Six of the warriors were Soulguards, complete in silver armor, fair-skinned faces partially hidden by full helms. Each held a long lance upright, the weapons manifestations of soul. On their other arm they carried a shield. Nimbuses warped the air a dozen feet from each of them.

  The seventh man also wore silver, but filigreed in gold. His weapon was a sword in an ornate scabbard. He was a head taller than the others. They slowed as they crossed the area where the mud ended and grass and dry ground prevailed.

  Ainslen reined in across from his opposite. His Blades took position beside him. “High King Taakertere Hemindel, I presume.” A nod was the only answer. The yuros made their throaty noise, slobber dripping from their toothy maws as they regarded the horses.

  Blue eyes stared out from the helm. Taakertere said something in his tongue, glancing over his shoulder. The words sounded displeased, further confirmed by the way he spat to one side.

  “What did he say?” Ainslen asked Curate Goroni.

  “He named you serensenjiren. It means shadowsouled.”

  “An insult?”

  “Not an insult,” the High King replied. “Simple truth. It is what you are. I can see it in you. You are tainted by the shadowsouled. You ate of them. And thus their sickness is a part of you.”

  Ainslen arched an eyebrow. “Are you referring to the Dracodar?” He pursed his lips at the High King’s nod. This was the first time hearing that someone could discern when a person had ingested Dracodar soul without seeing a meld to judge strength. Another thing struck him as odd. He frowned as he studied Taakertere. “I’m surprised you speak our tongue. Though it does make this easier.”

  “I learned your language during those years when your old king invaded our lands. It seemed necessary for the future.”

  The man spoke true. Ainslen smiled. “Hopefully it’s a brighter future than it looks to be.” He nodded in the direction of the enemy encampment. “Perhaps it’s best for us to formally introduce ourselves. I’m King Ainslen Cardiff, Holder of the Soul Throne, Blessed of the Dominion, Sovereign of the Kasinian Empire.” He inclined his head toward his opposite.

  “I am High King Taakertere Hemindel, Balbas’ Echo, Lord of the Dragon Gate, Ruler of the Lighted Path.” Hemindel’s eyes did not so much as flinch.

  Ainslen’s smile broadened at the resonance that emanated from the High King during the reply. He would enjoy killing this lying, pompous bastard. “Then let the negotiations begin.”

  He’d barely said the words when soul surged. It originated from all around him, the air, the ground. The world blazed a violent hue of red and orange even as he threw open his vital points to summon additional protection. The attack blasted him from the back of his horse, sent him tumbling through grass, scraping and bumping along the ground. Withering heat washed over him despite his nimbus.

  Ears ringing, vision blurred, he tried to think. He hadn’t seen the meld. The Soulguards hadn’t moved. He shook his head in an effort to gather his senses and staggered to his feet. His nimbus had held. Barely.

  He hurt all over. Grimacing at the stench of charred flesh and burnt hair he backed away from the heat of roaring flames. Smoke rose from him in wispy strands.

  As his sight cleared he saw the field was afire, the conflagration engulfing everything close by. A glance down revealed blackened clothes, his skin red and raw beneath. The scales from his fusion were scorched. With the sight came an increase in pain. Wincing, he summoned soul and sealed the hurt away. He reached up to wetness leaking from his nose. His fingers came away bloody.

  He made to take a step toward his Blades’ charred remains. His knees buckled. Someone caught him before he fell.

  “I’m here, sire.” It was Sabella, face dark with soot, hair a tangled mess.

  The sweet breath of relief eased through him for a moment. He made to speak but his mouth was ash.

  “Blade Miurin and I survived the attack,” she said, “but we must get away.”

  “They’re coming,” said Miurin.

  Beyond the flames Ainslen made out movement, mired by the billowing smoke. He thought to meld but he was weak, mind still jumbled by the attack. His voice was a hoarse croak when he spoke. “Unhand me.”

  “No, sire,” Sabella said, voice firm. “We must leave this place, get to the walls. If we don’t, we die.”

  He swallowed, fighting against the first prickles of fear. “I will not flee. We must fight … teach them the folly of attacking the Empire.”

  “Don’t let pride make a fool of you,” Sabella said.

  He tried to shrug her off, but she held fast. “Unhand me, woman. I will not run. A king fights honorably, to the death if need be. Fleeing from the enemy will not be my legacy.”

  “Desitrin shit on your honor and your legacy,” she snarled. “Neither means anything if you’re dead. We’re leaving. You can take my head later. Miurin, give me a hand.”

  Miurin grabbed his other arm and flung it over her shoulder. The two women magnified their strength, picked him up, and ran, each stride a jounce on the uneven ground. It must have been a most humiliating sight. He cringed, imagining the words on the tongues of his subjects along the walls as their king, their champion, a Blade of much renown, was carried like a helpless babe. Yet, he offered no resistance.

  Speech strained, Ainslen asked, “What hit us?”

  “Our own traps,” Sabella replied. “They turned them against us, somehow diverted the melds.”

  “How?”

  “Only the Ten Heavens know.”

  Even as they fled toward Danalyn’s black walls and the gate’s darker blotch, Ainslen knew they would not make it. They had too much distance to cover. When the flame trap subsided the Soulguards would be on them in minutes with those yuros. He could see the beasts tearing at his flesh. His stomach clenched, fear bitter on his tongue.

  He’d wanted to achieve so much, but his aspirations were not to be. His era would die here before it began. He would die here, in this empty field, away from the heart of the Kasinian Empire, carried by two women, killed by a man who wasn’t even the High King. He almost laughed at the absurdity.

  Closing his eyes, he muttered a prayer to Hazline and her Thirty-two Winds, beseeching them for good luck. When he opened his eyes the walls were still distant. Figures milled along the crenels like a thousand ants. Mounted soldiers were streaming from the gates. As much as he wished they would rush to him before the ranks formed, he knew Lestin wouldn’t risk it. Not without assessing the danger of losing Danalyn itself
.

  You were a fool. You should’ve listened to his counsel, brought more Blades.

  Something long and silver flew from atop the wall. Another followed, and another, and then more still, until there were too many to count. He frowned at them. The first one soared over him, its passage a vibrant hum.

  A javelin.

  He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the first one skewer a Soulguard in the chest as the mounted man leaped through the dying flames. Dozens more of the warriors were riding through the firetrap. Javelins greeted them, puncturing melds and armor like so much paper. Some knocked away the javelins with their shields as they rode. Archers formed ranks beyond the Soulguards.

  “We won’t make it like this,” Miurin said.

  “I know,” came Sabella’s solemn reply. The women slowed, and then stopped. “How much strength have you regained, sire?”

  A lesser man might have ordered them to keep running so he could cling to the faintest hope. He was not that man. He stood on his own, bracing himself against fresh agony. “Enough to fight.”

  Sabella shook her head. “You’re not going to fight. You’re going to run while we hold them here.” With those words, her nimbus flared, bright and thick.

  From deep inside, he summoned strength. “This is the first battle, my dear.” He sucked in a pain-filled breath and told himself none of his wounds existed. All that mattered was this moment, here and now. He turned to face the oncoming Soulguards and the archers. The women did the same. Javelins zipped overhead. “We cannot afford to lose this clash.”

  “You’re more important than a loss today,” Sabella said. “I didn’t sacrifice everything to see you die now.”

  “You two can argue later,” Miurin growled. “I’ll do what’s needed here. Just run. Both of you.”

  Ainslen recognized the collective twang of thousands of bows. Arrows shot up to blacken the sky. He could meld, could cast a shield to protect the three of them, but with his soul depleted, they would still die to the charging Soulguards. A rush of soul brushed his nimbus.

  “No, Miurin, no,” Sabella whispered. “Gods, no.”

  Miurin was swelling rapidly, body expanding to immense proportions. Her magnification ripped her armor and clothes to shreds. She stepped in front of Ainslen and Sabella, faced them, and spread her arms wide, her girth matching a shed. Ainslen looked on, helpless.

  The arrows cast a shadow that raced across the land. They fell. A rain of wood, feathers, and steel. The ground grew black with them. Many thudded into flesh. Miurin’s flesh.

  Her eyes narrowed at first, and her teeth showed, gritted against the onslaught, against agony. Moments later her face contorted. A few shafts protruded from the top of her head, her outstretched arms. Ainslen could only imagine how many pierced her back. Blood trickled down her forehead, around her massive torso, down her legs. It dripped, a patter, and then a rain, a rain that turned the grass red, and filled the air with the reek of iron.

  “Go before the next volley,” she sputtered, blood bubbling from her lips. “Don’t waste my death.”

  Something heavy thudded to the ground beside Ainslen. He twisted, gathering soul to attack. Sabella stayed his hand.

  The man beside him was Porsen, the ballista commander. Several more thuds followed. All around the king were the melders who operated the ballistae on one side of the wall. He made to ask why they’d come, how they’d managed to reach him so quickly, to scold them, but instead he smiled. One didn’t question the Dominion’s blessing. It was to be embraced.

  Arrows fell again. The melders created soul shields.

  Miurin was whimpering, her body giving little jerks. Ainslen gazed into her eyes. They were growing dull. The woman’s chest heaved, her lungs trying desperately to cling to life.

  “Sabella.” Expression stolid, he met the Blade’s hard eyes, “I can save us both, but what you see here must remain here. No matter what you think. Do you swear it?”

  “I do.”

  Truth.

  He rounded on Porsen. “A smoke manifestation. Now. To hide us from the city and the enemy.”

  A moment later the ballista commander’s soul surged. Dark, gray smoke poured from him.

  Flaring his vital points, Ainslen turned to Miurin. He touched the cycles koren and entope. “What life you have won’t be wasted, my dear. I will make it to safety.”

  Using koren to hide the meld, he pulled on entope and siphoned her soul as he’d learned from the Farlanders in the Dreadwood. Miurin’s skin grew pale, began to shrivel. Her body slowly shrank and the king could see beyond her now. A gasp escaped Sabella.

  The Soulguards were less than three hundred feet away.

  “Sabella, stay with me,” Ainslen ordered.

  “Yes, sire.”

  Ainslen regarded the ballistae operators. “The rest of you will fight for the Empire like you’ve not fought before. To the end. Your king will be beside you.”

  With those words, he took the rest of Miurin’s soul, just as she gave her last breath. Picturing himself, he melded.

  One manifestation stepped from him. Its features were his. Another followed. Two became five, became ten, became a score in a few seconds. With a roar, Ainslen sent the replicas sprinting toward the enemy.

  He pointed and raised his voice. “Follow your kings.”

  Yelling in defiance the men charged through smoke toward certain death.

  Soul spent, Ainslen collapsed, but Sabella was there to catch him. His voice was a mere whisper when he spoke. “Take me home.”

  Arms the size of a man’s thigh, Sabella picked up the king and threw him over her shoulder. She leaped away from the battle and fled.

  Ainslen watched his warriors die, watched the Kasinian Empire’s first defeat, and wept. Not for the loss, but for the sacrifice undertaken for his sake. The last sight he had was of a scorched land and black sky, arrows falling all around him, Soulguards still in pursuit, Sabella stumbling. His eyes closed.

  M issing N obility

  L ord Marshal Leroi Shenen’s lips almost curled in disgust as he regarded the men and women seated at the table. Most were nobility so freshly minted he smelled the stink of lower class upon them. With a deep breath he suppressed the need to grimace. None of them deserved the positions they held, but good King Ainslen had deemed it necessary. The nerve of the man. The accessions were obvious insults, but who would complain? Cardinton and Adelfried were exiled and branded as traitors to the crown. Leroi was the last of the original counts powerful enough to be a full Blade, and thus, a challenge. And he’d sworn not to kill the king. You should have invoked your right to see him put before the Judgment Council. He shook his head, regretting the choice even now.

  “How are you handling the disappearance of yet another noble?” Lord Lorinel Gortal was a soft-spoken man, the type who appeared unassuming but could drive a dagger between a man’s ribs and not lose a night’s sleep. He had the face for it too, narrow eyes and thin lips that many attributed to a sprinkling of Marishmen somewhere in his bloodline.

  “I have General Sorinya and one other looking into it.” He hated having to answer their questions, but playing along with Ainslen’s charade was necessary.

  “Looking into it?” Lord Menseral scrunched up his freckled face. His clothes appeared as if he’d slept in them. Not surprising for the owner of the second-largest foundry in the Artisan Quarter. He was the closest to a true noble due to his assets and his shrewdness in Far’an Senjin, but he lacked the most important attribute: strength in soul. “This isn’t the same as the courtesans fleeing the guiser halls and heading off to Melanil. Or the dreg complaints about their missing loved ones. These are nobles, like myself … like you … like all of us here.”

  “Us?” This time, Leroi grimaced. He made to say more but instead resisted the urge to completely embarrass the man for lumping them together. Menseral’s face reddened.

  “Now, now.” Lord Pelkesh peered over his thick-rimmed glasses. “Let’s not do
wnplay the exodus of the best whores and guiser halls in the entire Empire. They helped to keep many a man sane and entertained. Much rather our boys using a dull sword to keep themselves busy than to engage in constant duels like those Marish fools. Not to mention how the trade and taxes fattened the city’s coffers. Bloodleaf and Calum powder is worth half what it was then.”

  “Oh, shut it, Lord Pelkesh.” Lady Pashna Gortal waved the man off, at the same time raising her hand to dab at her face with a perfumed silk cloth. If only the woman would wear something lighter than a layered silk dress she might not sweat like a pig. “You men and your addiction to the guiser halls, taverns, and whorehouses when you have us wives waiting at home. I’m glad they’re gone. I swear, I’ll never understand the attraction, particularly since so many of those swine are Kheridisian savages.”

  “You wouldn’t understand, would you?” Pelkesh said into his mesqa as he raised his glass to take a sip.

  Pashna scowled. “I understand enough to not be surprised if Monere or one of the others ran off after some whore. What surprises me is that you’re still here. Shouldn’t you be with them?”

  Smiling, Leroi tried not to breathe in too much of the thick musk Pashna called perfume. He picked up a glass of Darshanese red, put it to his nose and sniffed, savoring the sweet bouquet while he studied her.

  She and her husband had designs on Keneshin Hill. The king might have abolished the practice of Far’an Senjin when it came to the throne, but his decree didn’t stop the Game among the lesser nobility. It had served to intensify the rivalries.

  “Your attempted insult aside,” Pelkesh said casually, “they could’ve decided to seek sanctuary elsewhere. If the likes of Countess Rostlin and others of similar standing did it before and right after Succession Day, who’s to say those missing didn’t follow suit?”

  The others nodded their agreement, even Menseral, who still seemed a bit skeptical. At least they hadn’t mentioned the more sinister rumors floating around the city as to the disappearances. He found it difficult enough dealing with petitions from dregs who were spreading those tales. Dracodar or Farlanders, indeed. He almost snorted.