The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  The Allonian’s chest was heaving now. Spittle dribbled from his lips, snot from his nose. His right leg gave an involuntary twitch. He gibbered, sentences spilling over each other. One particular word repeated. Kargoshi. The mention of the Soulbreakers sent a chill through Keedar.

  “He says the place you seek is to the west,” Melisan said. “A corridor that cuts between gigantic cliffs. You’ll find the last mining operation there, but it won’t make a difference because it’s guarded by Soulbreakers. Our combined strength is like a fly compared to theirs. And if what you—”

  The Allonian laughed. A protracted, hysterical cackle.

  Guai shoved the hunk of meat into the man’s mouth and held it there. “Go ahead.” He watched the Allonian choke.

  The wiseman wrung his hands, clearly hesitant.

  “Continue,” Guai growled.

  The Allonian’s face turned blue. His eyes bulged. His feet kicked out, one after the other, fast, then slow, gouging the mud.

  “If … if what you saw here bothered you, the dead, the feeding, then it is ten times that where Soulbreakers work. Soon, you will be food also, as many of your people were before you.”

  Guai’s knife flickered. He took one step back, watching impassively.

  A red slash appeared along the Allonian’s throat. He gasped for air, but instead blew out crimson bubbles. Blood poured down his bare chest, his eyes widened, and then his head slumped chin to chest.

  The Blade Captain regarded the shackled Farlanders where they knelt, his face a mask. He turned to the surviving Blades who waited a little ways up the incline. Most were of Marish descent. “A sword is too good for these bastards.” His cold, hard voice rose above the wind. “Take them into the mines with the bodies of those they butchered. We’ll give our people a funeral pyre the Gods can’t miss even from the Ten Heavens. And may Desitrin shit on these Farlander souls.”

  No one cheered the pronouncement. They’d all seen the results of the Farlander savagery and hunger for soul. Those who didn’t vomit outright had broken into prayers or stumbled from the cavern. Some had sat outside, staring off at nothing, muttering to themselves. Others had taken to the sword. Now, grim-faced, clothes bloodied and muddied, they descended upon the prisoners like derins on fresh meat. They dragged the captives, who kicked, hollered, and begged, into the mines’ depths.

  When the deed was done, the sulfur and woodblocks within the mines set alight, the screaming of men and women echoing from inside, noxious smoke billowing out, two Blades blasted the entrance closed. Keedar’s insides twisted as he watched and heard, unable to block out sight or sound. Not that he wanted to. The memory of the enemy’s vile nature was a part of him now and would ever be. So it was for all of them, the horror reflected in their haunted expressions.

  The day had donned night’s black cloak by the time they left. Antelen was a sliver coin among twinkling fragments. They worked their way down the slopes, through the trees where the remainder of their force waited with the freed slaves, supplies, and horses. They camped in a clearing, built a smokeless fire, and set about preparing supper, the Blades glad to be off their feet after the battle.

  The freed Marishmen kept to themselves, huddled together, most still mourning their dead. Keedar felt for them and couldn’t shake the blame for some of their loss. He could only imagine their horror in seeing or knowing many of their friends and family had been fodder, both for the Farlander soul craze and to create their armor.

  “Does anyone have an idea where this main operation might be? The location the overseer mentioned?” Guai asked as they sat eating a spicy supper of venison, ground provisions, and coffee dark as mud. Or at least trying to eat. Some of the food was untouched.

  Keedar was still mulling over the details when it all clicked. “Kerin Pass at the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows,” he blurted. He gave a slight shake of his head, now realizing why the metal’s name had seemed so familiar. “How could I not have seen it before?”

  Guai was frowning. “I’ve only ever heard of the Cliffs from those tales about Prince Joaquin’s death. Any of you men know the place?”

  “It’s an old passage from the Parmien Woods down into the Lower Treskelin Forest along the southwestern border of Kasinia and Kheridisia,” Lomin said, voice seeming a bit raspier than usual. The pock-faced, one-eyed Blade looked up from his bowl. “There’s a Kasinian garrison there, whose men are most likely working with these Farlanders.”

  “I served at the garrison,” said Petra, one of the few female Blades in the company. “Small crew, twenty at best at any given time. Used to be more before the Red Swamps massacre.”

  “Let’s assume they’re using the garrison to base their operation,” Guai said. “Petra, you draw up what you remember of the place.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

  “You’re going to the Pass rather than to the Bloody Corridor?” Keedar had spoken before thinking his words through. “I thought Thar wanted us to take care of the workshops first?”

  The light chatter between the Blades ceased. The chirp of insects and distant calls of the forest’s nighttime denizens became loud in the camp’s silence. Most of the warriors had paused between taking a bite or had stopped chewing to watch the exchange.

  Guai’s eyes were cold, dark pits. “You saw what those monsters are capable of, what they did to my people, the mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, of some here. Would you have me leave the rest of them to that fate? Considering who you are, I would expect you to understand.”

  “I do, but the Soulbreakers … my father—”

  “Put me in command. Our task was to find the mines and destroy them, hopefully discover the remnants of the royal family and free them. We still have one mine left, the main one, according to the overseer. And that’s where we will go.”

  Keedar shook his head. “But Kerin Pass is in the opposite direction, beyond Kasandar, while the workshops aren’t far from here. There’s as good a chance they’ve taken your king to the workshops. And Thar wanted the workshops destroyed more than anything else. He also warned us to avoid the Soulbreakers unless we were with Martel’s group. You heard what he said as clear as I did. They’re more than a match for most Blades. You’re letting your feelings get in the way of what we should be doing.”

  “So you would have me allow more Marishmen to suffer? Is that your suggestion? That I leave them to be but so much meat?” Face mottled with rage, Guai stared down Keedar.

  “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Good.” The Blade Captain cast his icy gaze across the remnants of his force. “Does anyone feel as Keedar does? Because if you do, it’s best you leave right now. I’ve heard a lot of tall stories about these Farlanders, and so far they’ve been nothing special. However, if there’s cowards among us, I’d rather you run off elsewhere. I don’t need that type at my back.”

  The air was thick with silence and insect chirps. Someone coughed. Embarrassed, Keedar couldn’t bring himself to meet anyone’s gaze.

  “Actually,” Lomin said, still chewing, “I do.” Guai arched an eyebrow and opened his mouth to speak, but Lomin continued. “But I understand how you feel. I’ve felt the same way before, but I’ve also seen one of these Soulbreakers. Keedar’s right. Without the likes of Thar, your men are likely to die. So far we’ve been lucky not to encounter any.”

  “Then perhaps Hazline will shine on us again,” Guai said, voice soft, dangerous, “but I won’t leave the rest of my people now that I know their fate.”

  “Like I said, I’d do the same for mine.” Lomin put down his bowl, picked up his cup of mesqa, and held it up in toast. “May a fair wind find us on a warm day to bring us to success.”

  Guai copied the man’s blessing. The others did as well. The tension broke. A sudden sense of relief swept through Keedar. Supper resumed, the men talking amongst themselves as if nothing happened. Guai laid out plans to leave in the morning and appointed a few Blades to lead the slaves south to safe
ty in Keshan Dark, a forest controlled by Marish rebels.

  The night wore on without further incident, but Keedar had lost his appetite. While the men prepared for bed, he made his way close to Blade Lomin and sat. “Thank you.”

  Lomin stopped in the middle of taking a sip of mesqa. “Don’t thank me. He asked a question. I answered. In the future I’d be careful what I say around Guai, particularly when it comes to Marishmen. They’ve suffered a lot. As he said, being who and what you are, you should understand that, respect it.”

  A flush crept across Keedar’s cheeks. “But—”

  “But you’re afraid of the Soulbreakers, and your argument for the point of attack was sound. As it was from your father. However, men can only take so much suffering before they break. In that state they can’t be reasoned with. You let them go then, because opposing them would likely bring grief for one or both of you. Guai is at that point. Most of the Marish people are.”

  Keedar glanced at the Marish Blades, the dying fames flickering across their features. He could see wetness on more than one cheek. Many a man was staring off into night. Those who’d found sleep did so fitfully. The freedmen were a huddled bundle, clinging to each other for security and solace.

  The sight of these people brought forth memories of the Day of Accolades. How many times had he hid on the rooftops, fists clenched, swearing vengeance for the Smear’s folk? Reviled by their subservience? Angered by the way the nobility plucked from among them as if they were farm animals? How many bits of clothing had he collected to make a cloak of their misery? How many times had he asked Delisar when it would be their time to stand up and fight? He shook his head, and let out a regretful sigh for his words to Guai.

  “I see you understand,” Lomin said. “Now, go, sleep well, young Ganhi, tomorrow promises to be a long day.”

  Frowning at the words, Keedar nodded. He got to his feet and made his way to the spot he’d chosen for a bed. A bit of rutting around was all it took to make the grass comfortable. He didn’t realize the extent of his exhaustion until he was on his back, staring at the sky and Antelen’s silver disc. Sleep found him quickly.

  He woke to daylight and the peal of thunder. For a moment his mind conjured images of firesticks. And then he took in the windless clouds above him, dark and despondent, pregnant with rain. He stifled a yawn, stretched, and stopped, brows furrowed. It was quiet. Too quiet. He rolled over toward the camp.

  And found no one there.

  Keedar snatched up his sword belt, sword, and two daggers and scrambled to his feet. He spun, searching the clearing and the trees beyond. A single horse was tethered to a low-hanging branch. Churned ground showed which way the Blades had gone. Cursing himself for oversleeping, he ran for the horse. The first fat raindrops fell.

  He was on the verge of untying the horse when he noticed the knife driven through a piece of paper and into the tree trunk. A few quick strides and he’d plucked them down.

  You’ve questioned my orders one time too many. You should head to Martel, and tell him what happened here. If you choose to follow us, you won’t live to regret it. This is the only warning you’ll get, and only because of your father.

  Blade Captain Guai.

  Keedar read the letter several times, allowing the words and their implications to wash over him. For a few minutes he looked in the direction in which Guai and the Blades had gone. He doubted if the man would actually deliver on his threat, but as recently as Kalshen he’d seen men consumed by grief and rage. Still, Guai wasn’t Kalshen. Even at his worst the Blade Captain maintained a little bit of reason.

  Lips drawn into a line, Keedar considered the distance between himself and Martel, and the possibility of encountering stray Farlanders. He folded the letter, placed it in his belt pouch, and buckled on his belt, adjusting the two scabbards for a comfortable fit. When satisfied, he removed the reins, saddle, and bags from the horse. He made a makeshift set of straps from the reins, looped them though the saddle bags, and hung it crossways over his body, with the bags resting on his back. Then he slapped the horse and sent it on its way. The animal would prove more a hindrance than a help to his travel. He took a step toward the west, intending to pursue the Blade Captain.

  Something blurred at the edge of his vision, slicing through the drizzle. By instinct, he dived to one side, rolled and came up on one knee, cursing himself for not enabling sintu . He immediately corrected that mistake.

  A dull thunk sounded behind him. A quick glance revealed an arrow, quivering chest high in a tree trunk.

  He growled under his breath. A moment slower and he would have been that tree. Keedar focused on the direction from which the attack had originated. He saw no movement, and the only sound was the rain’s murmur.

  Heart racing, he stayed low and eased backward. When he drew abreast of the first trees, he darted behind one. He let out a relieved breath.

  For a moment he considered shouting to his assailant before deciding it would be a waste. In all likelihood the attack had been Guai’s final warning. Seething at the thought, he wove his way among the dripping trees in the direction he hoped to find Martel.

  O ne of Y ou

  H igh in the white ash tree, Winslow sat with his back against the massive trunk, legs outstretched along a branch wide enough to be a small bed. He recalled a time when he feared the forest, when stories and songs about shadowbearers or Wild Kheridisians would wake him in sweats. Those nightmares had become worse when Thar had revealed that failing the Fast of Madness meant becoming the same as a Wild One. He wondered if a similar fate waited for Dracodarkind who succumbed to the Longing.

  Pushing the gloomy thoughts from his mind, he took in his surroundings. The air was alive with birdsong and the fragrance of the forest. Dust motes danced through sunbeams. A troop of furry gomerans chattered nearby. They sprang from limb to limb or hung upside down, tails wrapped around branches. As long as he wasn’t perceived as a threat, the animals left him to his own devices. Beyond the smattering of trees here at the forest’s edge rose the green mantles and rocky shoulders of the Shifting Stones Mountains.

  Located where a small, fast moving river carved a channel through the forest, the tree proved to be the best spot from which to study the hornbears. The brown or black-furred creatures splashed in the water, either at play or hunting green-backed boquin fish, or small yellowtail eels. Others basked in the sunlight on the rock-strewn shore. Cubs groaned and hollered at their parents or chased each other through the brush.

  A different sloth of bears came each day, appearing when Mandrigal’s glow pricked the horizon. Dominant boars scouted the area, took a drink from the river, and once they felt assured of safety they bellowed to the others. A long line of the beasts then padded from the underbrush, mothers and cubs first, followed by young boars and sows. They left each evening as Antelen rose, silver against the darkening sky. In their absence, the occasional solitary hornbear would show up, drink its fill, feed, and leave. The latecomers were either old or infirm.

  Other animals frequented the water when the predators were gone. Most often were the wooly lorins, bigger cousins of the crag goats, so many with each flock they could be a mass of clouds with voices like bawling babes. Twice, a gigantic sandy byaga had visited, brays rattling in its throat, oversized shoulders and head snapping tree branches as it lumbered through the forest.

  An abrupt silence descended around Winslow. This, he’d become accustomed to since his first day here. And so had the hornbears.

  The giant boars bellowed warnings. Mothers gathered their young. Panicked, their roars and groans became more frantic with each passing moment. With the dominant boar leading the way the sloth fled deeper into the forest.

  Splashing water drew Winslow’s attention. A bear was still swimming in the river, oblivious to the sloth’s departure.

  A glint among the trees resolved into Hak-Danin, a young Ganhi , one of those who’d also failed the Trial of Bravery. He snuck to the water’s edge and squatted,
gaze intent on the hornbear. As had been the case with the other apprentices who’d come here to hunt, Hak-Danin had no weapon. The Dracodar hooted three times in quick succession.

  The hornbear stopped paddling and snapped its head around toward the sound’s origin. It growled, low and deep, and swam for the distant shore. The bear scrambled out of the water and shook itself, water flying from its fur and the ridge of ivory that ran from the crown of its head to its shoulders. Bellowing, teeth clacking, it turned to face the Dracodar.

  But Hak-Danin was already gone.

  Brows furrowed, Winslow searched the trees. There was no sign of the Dracodar. However, the forest’s denizens hadn’t resumed their leisurely rapport.

  With a groan the bear turned to lumber upstream toward the backdrop of the Shifting Stones. Hak-Danin dashed from the trees, body a golden blur. He leaped through the air and landed atop the hornbear’s back. Despite the Draocdar’s size, the bear’s girth made Hak-Danin appear as little more than a child.

  A nimbus of sintu flared around the bear. Roaring, the beast got on its hind legs, trying to dislodge the Dracodar. When that didn’t work, it dropped down on all fours and thrashed wildly, humus churning beneath its paws. Hak-Danin clung on, claws wedged beneath the strip of horn, flung this way and that as if he was not three hundred pounds of sinew and muscle.

  The two crashed through undergrowth or disappeared into the trees only to reappear moments later without much changed, guttural sounds issuing from the bear’s throat. On several occasions the hornbear tried to snap its head around to bite Hak-Danin, but its neck proved too short. It tried to slam the young Dracodar into the saplings or thicker trunks. Hak-Danin shifted each time, tossing his body over to the safe side. The struggle raged on for what seemed like an hour.

  At first Winslow wondered why the bear did not roll onto its back. After further study he could tell it was trying, but the apprentice would twist his body accordingly, shifting his weight to prevent the maneuver.