The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  Resigned to the fact that his best choice was to go alone, he threw on a hooded cloak and headed out into the warm night. Antelen was a disc of silver radiance in the sky, glittering stars sprinkled in her black cloak. A trip to the stables, and soon he was riding down from Hazline Hill, the city sprawled before him, horse’s hooves beating a rhythm on flagstones. The other nine mansions of the Hills spread in a semi-circle, windows and grounds lighted, revealing a lack of guards.

  Within minutes he was off Ten Hills Avenue and trotting along the Forger’s Path in the Artisan Quarter, the air thick with smoke and the redolence of metal works. The large, flat, squat structures of foundries gave way to the smaller workshops and smithies, which in turn became shops. In normal times every store would be dark, the day’s work long done. But now, with the Empire at war, there was a great deal of activity. Hammers clanged and pinged, and from open doorways came the hiss of quenched iron and steel. Laborers carried goods to and from buildings or stacked them into crates or wagons. Throughout the entire Quarter would be much the same. War was good business, if your business was war.

  The Artisan Quarter became Rendorta’s Bazaar, where unlike the district before it, every shop was shuttered. Except for a few people, presumably shopkeepers who were late to close, the streets were empty. This, too, had become common, more so since the disappearances.

  Leroi grew more guarded the closer he ventured to Deadman’s Gap and the Smear. The armor fused to his body increased its reactions. A part of him hoped the culprits would try him; he could use a good fight. To his disappointment, no such threats materialized.

  At Deadman’s Gap he passed crackling bonfires, the flames setting the shadows of the gibbets to a mocking dance, illuminating the mounds of cloth and bones within the iron bars, the remnants a reminder for Ainslen’s enemies. Heat rose in waves, coupled with the humid air to make a steamy night feel like one of the Ten Purgatories. A mass of dregs now called the area home, the Smear a gathering of rundown buildings behind them, new wood and stone bright among blackened timbers. Leroi cupped his nose and mouth against the miasma of unwashed bodies, garbage, and human waste.

  He was glad when he passed into the Smear proper. Ahead, lanterns cut through the gloom; rodents scurried by, eyes aglow, and the occasional bony dog scavenged in the piled garbage, fur mangy enough to shame a sewer rat.

  Thickening his sintu like an additional cloak, Leroi kept a firm hold on his reins, whispering soothing words to the horse as it snorted in disquiet on several occasions. He called upon his meager Alchemist abilities to add a glow to his nimbus. No one could mistake him for other than what he was: a noble and a melder of some strength, a person with whom one did not trifle.

  He expanded his nimbus until it spread across the street in a circle around him, stretched up two or three stories to the roofs. Shutters closed. Dregs who might have thought to try him slunk back into the shadows. The curious kept their distance. Some trailed him, using the rooftops, silhouettes leaping spaces between buildings. Although he couldn’t see them all, he felt them, their souls a foreign resonance against his nimbus.

  A series of turns and echoing hooves down narrow lanes and alleys brought him to Pauper’s Circle. Looming in front of him was the shadowy carcass of Humel’s temple and its lichen-covered pillars. Humel himself stood guard, the War God’s statute that of a vast earthen creature astride a chariot pulled by a one-eyed horse. Arrayed on his back, spread from one shoulder to the next like a great fan, were his ten swords.

  Faint light glimmered from broken windows and other openings like a score of orange eyes tracking his movements. His followers had now stopped and were well back, none of them venturing to within a dozen feet of the temple yard and its broken cobbles, shingles, and strewn bricks. Leroi dismounted, took a deep breath, and headed up the short flight of stairs to the yawning double doors, booted feet loud in the night.

  Inside, torches in sconces capered to the wind that whistled through the mangled windows and shutters. Borosen Prestiss leaned against a massive pillar. Dressed in dark colors, he blended with his surroundings. Slender in stature and in face, he was the type of man one could stand next to and not remember. At his feet was a trunk.

  Gravel crunched under Leroi’s boots as he strode toward the merchant-spy, scanning the stairs leading up, many of the steps chipped and cracked, stone and debris carpeting dirty mosaic tiles. Holes in the ceiling revealed similar cracks in the floors above, the diamond twinkle of stars seen through them. Doors around the room led to the other wings within the temple, all of them dark. With his nimbus stretched to its limits he strained for a sense of anyone else. He picked out miniscule gatherings of soul, only large enough for vermin.

  He drew up short before the spy. “Greetings, Borosen. So, what is it she requires, and why choose this place?” His voice echoed above the crackling torches.

  “Greetings to you, too, Lord Marshal.” Borosen gave a slight bow. “You’ll be called on soon to attend her, but before that, there’s another issue with which she wishes you to lend a hand. In so doing, it solves a problem afflicting the city. As for this temple? It was the best place against prying eyes and ears. None of the other nobles would dare venture here.”

  “The problem you speak of, what is it? And what does she require of me?”

  “The missing people.”

  Leroi narrowed his eyes. “What of them?”

  “The Farlanders are taking them.”

  “Nonsense. Did Rilshir put you up to this?”

  “You should listen to the sergeant more often. He’s very observant. But to answer your question, no, he did not. This has been going on even before the king left.”

  “Ainslen knew of it?”

  “Yes, to an extent. His man, Shaz, oversaw who was taken and when. The dregs and commoners who reported to the Grey Fist were often chosen.”

  “But, why, why do this? To what end?”

  “As I said, the king knew only some. He was denied the entire truth. Ainslen thought he was giving up dregs just to build a work force for the mines the Farlanders rely on for their weaponry. He must have thought he could rid himself of the potential issues posed by any Consortium remnants, while at the same time increasing his strength. But the Farlanders kept quite a bit of their intentions from him.” With the toe of his boot the spy flipped open the trunk’s lid. By the faint light Leroi made out what appeared to be leather.

  “Take it out and tell me what you think,” Borosen said.

  The Lord Marshal stepped forward and leaned down to remove the material. The moment he touched it, there was a jolt of soul. Frowning, he pulled the leather out. It was pale, soft to the touch. He let it unfold, revealing a chestpiece with whorls and swirls. The design was distinctly Farlander. He would recognize their armor anywhere.

  “What you’re holding is human skin.”

  Leroi dropped the armor as if it were red-hot metal. Horrified, he stared at it. “Skin? What do you mean it’s human skin?”

  “The people the Farlanders have been taking either end up as slaves in their mines or skinned alive. I was told you might be familiar with the process.”

  Leroi’s head snapped up. “What?”

  “It’s similar to using Dracodar remains. The sort that now enhances your power.”

  “This … this can’t be true.”

  “I fear it is. You already know of Ainslen’s transgressions with his wife and son, his use of mosquitoes to steal soul, and the secret behind some of the Soul Throne’s power. This might be too heinous for Kasinians to consider, but believe me when I tell you this is the fate awaiting those the Farlanders conquer.”

  Leroi pictured the Farlander armies. Thousands of men and women equipped with such armor. No wonder they were so powerful. He shook his head. This had to be a mistake. Borosen was misleading him. And yet, Rilshir’s reports … everyone taken had some strength in soul. “I-I need proof.” The words seemed distant to his ears. He stared down at the armor.

 
“You shall have it,” said a deep, vibrant voice.

  Leroi’s head snapped up. Beside Borosen stood another man, head and shoulders taller than the merchant-spy, which made the stranger some seven feet. Dressed in an out-of-fashion tapered coat and snug britches, he had dark hair, corpse-white skin, and eyes that seemed to drink in the light. The man smiled, showing pointed teeth. The Lord Marshal hadn’t heard or felt the man’s presence. Leroi flared open his vital points, pulled sharply on his soul.

  The stranger raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I serve Queen Terestere.”

  Leroi released his hold on the meld. “Who are you?”

  “I am Envald. The queen sent me to assist you with what’s to come.”

  Tension eased from Leroi’s shoulders. He nodded to Envald. “This proof … where is it?”

  “I shall lead you there.” Without waiting, Envald turned on his heels and headed farther into the temple. Borosen followed. Leroi hesitated before hurrying after them.

  Their footsteps echoed as they made their way down several flights of stairs, the few torches casting shadows that seemed to mock Leroi. The stink of sewage grew with the descent. Leroi studied Envald the entire time but could not discern the man’s soul. The lack of resonance was disconcerting, as if the man was a figment of Leroi’s imagination. Yet, Envald was there, in front of him. At the bottom, Envald pulled open a door. Leroi grimaced at the flood of odious air.

  A ball of light appeared around Envald’s fist, which he held out in front of them to reveal a sewer tunnel. Leroi’s brows climbed his forehead at the lack of a nimbus or wispy soul strands around Envald. Such a thing should have been impossible.

  Their feet squished on the thin path next to slimy tunnel walls, brackish water with wriggling things to their left. Leroi tried not to imagine what he stepped in, but the stench of shit was overpowering. He kept a hand over his nose and mouth, at times wondering if this were some trap, if Monere and the others had walked into one in much the same way. Still, he followed, ready to unleash the most powerful meld he possessed.

  His mind wandered as he considered the ramifications of the story presented by the two men. He wanted to deny the possibility of Ainslen using his own people as slaves, the deception of the Grey Fist, but he knew how the man thought of late, how the man thought ever since the Night of Blades. The soul craze had the king in its grip. Ainslen felt he was above everyone, a God among men. And he coveted more power. Although Leroi could imagine Ainslen’s addled thoughts rationalize the use of dregs as slaves, he believed the king was unaware some of those folks were butchered for their soul and skin. The idea was revolting. Surely, the man couldn’t be that far gone to sanction such atrocities.

  Or could he?

  The soul craze had made Jemare steal noble children, using the Trial of Bravery as a test to gauge who was strong enough for his needs. Then, in the secrecy of the dungeons beneath the Golden Spires, he’d murdered them and ingested their souls. Hemene the Savage had killed countless Farish Islanders and had partaken of their souls and had also summoned his counts to him and slaughtered them. Ainslen had killed his own wife and child. What wouldn’t the king do while under its influence?

  Lost in his many fears, he followed as they navigated a myriad of twists and turns and tunnels. They finally stopped before an empty wall. Envald snuffed out his meld. There came the noise of oiled hinges. A door slid open, revealing the night, letting in a briny bouquet, and the lap of water against stone. They exited in the River Quarter onto an embankment, a bridge curving above their heads, the Ost a glittering darkness.

  Envald pointed. Docked to their right, across the open water, was a ship flying an ereskar flag and the Hand of Soul. Grey-cloaked Farlanders were herding men and women onto the deck. Kasinians, all of them in chains. Several ships were berthed at the other quays.

  Mouth slack, Leroi took in the procession. He berated himself for being a fool, for not listening to Rilshir. Or at least for not looking into the man’s earlier reports with due diligence. Perhaps some of this could’ve been prevented if he’d stopped the Farlander ships, diverted them while he sent word to the king. But what if Ainslen knew, and was a part of it? He shook his head. He needed time to gather further evidence and to act accordingly. Until he had such confirmation, there was a more immediate concern.

  “How do we stop them?” the Lord Marshal asked. “I have perhaps a thousand Blades, while the Farlanders have an army and weapons we can’t match. I could put out an order not to allow them to dock, but what then?”

  “No, we cannot tip our hand. Let them bring a few more ships,” Envald said, voice expectant, that of a man savoring a meal. “Then we take them all, for there is more to do than just save your people. Our task is to stop the Farlander reinforcements from reaching your king.”

  Leroi’s brows climbed his forehead at the proclamation. Madness had to be catching.

  “I have an army of my own, supplied by our dear queen. Potent enough to match them, but your men will still be needed.” Envald gazed directly ahead to where the arch of the bridge became the abutment on the other side.

  Leroi hissed at the six figures standing there. He hadn’t sensed them. They waited before the black gaping mouth of another door. At first he thought they were men, massive across the chest and at least matching Envald in height. Each carried a sword as tall as a man. Then one of them stepped into a sliver of moonlight. He had dull grey scales, a twisted visage, and slits for eyes. The color of the scales was off, but Leroi was certain these men were Dracodar.

  Q uestions

  K eedar grimaced at the reek of blood and vomit. He wished the flame-haired Allonian overseer would yield but simultaneously wanted the Farlander to continue to resist, to prolong his suffering. The Blades had tied the naked overseer to a tree, his arms bent backward behind the bole. His feet were splayed to either side, similarly bound, the ground beneath them a mix of churned mud and blood.

  Grey kerin shackles adorned the overseer’s wrists, neck, and ankles, preventing the man from melding. Dark residue dribbled from his mouth: the remains of a mixture of ground kerin bits and water. The effects of it were evident in the frothy puke covering his chest, the brown mess gushing down his legs, the way his stomach clenched, and his contorted face. A miasma most foul wafted from the man. Blood trickled from numerous cuts and slices about his body, the smell of it thick, cloying. Eyes burning with hate, the big man snarled something in his tongue.

  “What did he say that time.” Guai twirled a skinning knife between his fingers.

  “Says your soul is sweeter than the ones we found, that your skin would make a powerful set of armor, and that he’ll die before giving in.” Melisan cringed and tugged at one of his numerous earrings. The Kheridisian wiseman had vomited twice already.

  “You ought to oblige him,” said Lenyin, voice thick with hate.

  “Information is more important than his death,” Guai said.

  “They have mouths too, don’t they?” Lenyin nodded toward the Farlanders on their knees chained near the mine entrance.

  “What if they don’t know? This one does, and he will talk.” Guai stepped in close. With the knife he traced a bloody line down the Allonian’s sternum, to his stomach, and then to his groin. “Tell him I’m going to peel the skin off his balls like a fruit if he doesn’t tell me what I want to know. Then I’ll lop one off and feed it to him. I’ll do the same to each of his surviving men and feed him their balls. One of my melders will keep him alive and conscious through it all.”

  Melisan looked as if he would be sick while he translated. Blood drained from the Allonian’s face, but he spit at Guai.

  Guai’s knife stopped its twirl. His hand blurred toward the prisoner’s groin.

  The Allonian let out a keening wail that crawled across Keedar’s skin. The prisoner threw his head back, mouth wide in agony. His feet drummed the muddy ground.

  Melisan averted his gaze, vomiting once again. Bile rose in Keedar’s throat.<
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  In Guai’s hand was a strip of bloody skin. He held it up. With his free hand he grabbed the Allonian by the hair and tilted his head forward so the man could see. He then let the skin drop onto the overseer’s stomach. “Next, I lop one off. Tell him.”

  It took a moment for Melisan to gather himself before he translated. The Allonian’s head was bobbing up and down. Little whimpers escaped his mouth.

  “Soothe his pain. And then we begin again.”

  “He says he’ll tell you what you want to know,” Melisan said, voice tremulous.

  “Oh, I’m sure he will. Soothe his pain.”

  The wiseman took a few tentative steps to the Allonian and melded. Wispy soul strands caressed the overseer. They worked their way into the man’s exposed flesh. The whimpers diminished, his shoulders straightened, and his breathing calmed. Melisan stepped back and nodded to the Blade Captain.

  Sweat dribbled down the overseer’s forehead. The giant man’s eyes were frantic, shifting from side to side as they searched Guai’s face. Whatever the Allonian saw made his features contort with horror.

  Guai melded even as the overseer made a futile attempt to cross his legs. The meld forced the man’s legs apart, exposing his manhood. Staring the overseer in the face, Guai reached down slowly.

  Keedar turned away. The overseer blubbered out several protests, which soon became pleas. Then the Farlander let out a choked cry immediately followed by a scream that seemed to stretch forever. Keedar winced. The scream changed to whimpers and moans. When Keedar turned back, Guai was holding a small round mound of bloody meat. Keedar swallowed, fighting a wave of nausea, bile bitter on his tongue. Retching echoed from Melisan.

  “Soothe him before he eats,” Guai said.

  Face sallow, Melisan did as asked. This time, the meld was stronger, the soul thicker, and it lasted longer.