The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  Another dozen of the creatures followed, also pulling cages. They walked at a pace faster than a horse’s trot, movement stately, more of a glide than the lumbering steps one might expect from such monolithic beasts. And they stunk. To such an extent that Thar would subconsciously scrunch his nose. It didn’t help to be at the ass end of one of the creatures. A massive shit barely described the beasts’ droppings. The green or brown stew was a delicacy for the congregation of flies buzzing around the ereskars and gathered near their rumps. Thar hated the little buggers. As did the prisoners, at least the ones who still had enough life about them to be bothered by the dark-winged nuisances, some the size of his thumb.

  Farlanders fussed over firebreathers alongside the road that began where the beach ended. Each weapon was mounted on a dray pulled by a two-horse team. Slaves were offloading more from a hauler and a battle galley. Thar had expected to find both ereskars and firebreathers, but the numbers were surprising. And daunting. They forced him to reassess his plans.

  Several more rowboats deposited prisoners on the beach. They huddled together, at least those who could stand. In every boat were a few who would never stand again. Soldiers herded the living into cages, men, women, and children. The Jophite-driven ereskars set off minutes later to join the convoy. Slaves made a mound of the dead.

  Goats , Thar thought. Goats heading to market. I wonder who pays the butcher’s bill.

  “Any thoughts on our situation?” Sorinya was standing behind Thar, watching the proceedings.

  “We might be in trouble.”

  “Might? Against this many, I’d say we are.”

  “Possibly. Although they’re far more than I expected, it may be a good thing.”

  “How so?”

  “If this convoy is any indication there’ll be even more captured melders and cyclers we can use when the time comes.”

  “If that’s the case, then why any concern?”

  “They’re escorting us to the workshops that were to be Martel’s target. Not only were they heavily guarded, but my spies also said they contained a few Soulbreakers. Our chances will depend on how much of the army this Seligula has sent toward the Swords of Humel. And how many prisoners can even lift a finger to fight.” Slaves had set fire to the corpses. Oily black smoke boiled into the sky. Thar was happy to be upwind. “I’ll have to get word to Martel, somehow, coordinate our efforts with his.” Thar could sense Keedar through his link, closer than before, a reliable sign that Martel’s force was still on course for the strike.

  They drifted into silence, watching the pyre. More boats bobbed on the water, heading to shore.

  A Vailonder approached their cage, his hair tied back into a ponytail that made his flattened forehead stand out. Keys jangled from a loop on his belt. He had a barrel filled with food scraps: bread, cheese, and dried meat. A swarm of flies had settled on the food, but the man paid no heed to them. Prisoners reached grimy hands through the bars, pleading either for food or for freedom.

  Three male derins with shaggy manes slunk a few feet from the Vailonder. He shooed them off, but the beasts ran only so far before returning. Shaking his head and grumbling in his tongue he threw pieces of meat to them. The derins snapped and snarled over the morsel until the largest of them sprang down from the slopes. She flicked her head and let out a low growl. The others retreated and let her have her fill. When she was done, they returned to fight over the scraps. Two ganged up on the one with grey fur and a scarred snout and drove it off.

  The Vailonder returned his attention to the prisoners. He lobbed the bits of meat and bread into the cage. A mad scramble followed. Flies swarmed toward the cage. The captives fought desperately, particularly the ones whose ribs showed from an extended time spent aboard the ships. Lips curled in distaste, the Vailonder threw some more before he moved on.

  Thar sat with his back to the bars, observing the tumult. Many prisoners appeared too weak to be of much use in a real fight. Even more so against a force as well fed and supplied as the Farlanders. Not to mention the Blazers he’d spotted among the ruined forts. And the Soulbreakers likely to be at their destination. Some prisoners had already surrendered to their plight, as evidenced by them not bothering to even bat away the feasting flies.

  A derin crept close to the cage, the one with the scarred snout. Thar leaned over to the prisoner beside him, a hook-nosed Darshanese man. The man was gnawing on a bone.

  “Give it to me,” Thar said. The prisoner made to say something, took one look at Thar’s face, and passed him the bone. “Thank you.” Thar tossed the bone out the cage.

  The derin sniffed at it, peered up at Thar, and sniffed again.

  “Go on. Take it.”

  The derin snatched up the bone and ran off.

  “That’s a waste of good food,” the Darshanese said.

  “Wasn’t a waste, and I can’t say the food was good. I wonder if you’ve ever stopped to think where they get enough food for everyone.” Thar gestured to the plateau and rocky slopes. A single crag goat, a decent-sized ram, watched the convoy from one of the peaks. “Even the goats have learned to keep their distance.”

  A horn mourned, low and lingering. The convoy set off, men marching, ereskars braying.

  Thar slept little the next few days and nights as he developed a plan. Every night when they made camp, and the place grew quiet, he heard a far off pounding, metal against metal, a haunting echo that did not die. Each day the link to Keedar drew closer.

  When the Vailonder brought food, Thar collected some of it, using Sorinya to make certain no one got in his way. None dared to cross the big Thelusian. Soon after the Farlander left, Thar fed the same derin. After the third day he had half dozen animals waiting for him, including the female leader.

  The convoy soon arrived at the workshops, part of a sweeping encampment spanning an area where the Bloody Corridor opened up to miles of rock-strewn land between the plateaus. The first thing to hit Thar was the acrid scent of metal works underlain by the stink of animals, waste pits, and a wisp of death. Tents and makeshift buildings dotted the landscape. Smoke billowed from many structures, the clang of hammers on anvils incessant. Animal pens lined one area, complete with food and water troughs. Wild derins slunk among the pens in search of food. Two of them leaped into a trough for a drink. A Farlander chased them off.

  Hope surged as he judged the army’s size. The force was smaller than he’d anticipated. As he watched, a formation set off at a march, taking a collection of prisoners.

  Optimism faded, replaced moments later by worry. Near a wooden stockade filled with prisoners were a score of Soulbreakers, muscles rippling beneath grey scales. Bent impossibly low to the ground they barged between the captives, often raising scarred visages to inspect those who drew their attention. Each was bare-chested, had claw-tipped hands, overlong arms, boulder shoulders, and measured at least eight feet when they stood to their full height. They wore leather loincloths and had strips of the same material tied around their forearms and shins like bandages.

  At first Thar was surprised the deformed Dracodar didn’t choose their more human forms. Until he noted the reactions to them. Every prisoner shied away from the creatures. Many cowered in abject fear or prostrated themselves as if in the presence of Gods.

  When the Soulbreakers found those they sought they plucked them out and shoved them toward a line of tents. Resistance resulted in a punch that knocked the offender unconscious. The Soulbreakers then dragged them off. Screams and cries ensued minutes after they disappeared among the tents.

  “Am I seeing things or are they choosing those strong in soul?” Sorinya asked.

  “They are. As soon as we’re inside spread word to those we can use. Reach out to Philo-dar like yourself, or any melders as strong, and prepare them. Hopefully the Marish king is here. Also, find any who are adept in manifestation. Saving as many as we can is our on-ly chance. And keep an eye out for the Farlander armory.”

  “Yes, sir.”

 
“Until then, we watch and learn.”

  The ereskars made their way close to the stockade, and Farlander soldiers emptied the cages, prodding reluctant folk through the lone gate. Inside smelled of unwashed bodies, shit, and piss. The men, women, and children within the confines were a forlorn bunch, bedraggled, expressions mostly vacant. However, unlike some who’d arrived from the ships, they were not malnourished. Thar grimaced as the idea of farm animals once again surfaced.

  Thar spent the next few days getting word to the strongest prisoners, imploring them to allow their souls to leak so as to mask their true power. Some resisted at first, clinging to soul in hopes of using it to free themselves. But each day the Soulbreakers or Jophites visited the stockade and chose a new set of captives to be led to the makeshift workshops. Most were from the folk who had chosen to ignore the warnings. Those picked never returned. It didn’t take long for the remaining prisoners to do as he bid.

  He also noted that the prisoners who seemed to have given up hope, the ones who didn’t even bother to chase away the flies, were always ignored. He let the flies settle on him. They itched but it was a minor discomfort.

  “How could King Ainslen use these monsters, knowing their intent?” Sorinya asked one day, tone thick with loathing. He was sitting in front of Thar as was their daily ritual.

  “Perhaps he’s as bad as they are.” Thar stopped scraping at his manacles with the bit of metal he’d dug from the ground. A small pile of kerin residue lay on a dirty rag beside him. On his other side was the remainder of lunch: scraps of a poorly cooked goat haunch. “My brother had a saying, ‘Men are monsters, and for a taste of power they will sink to new lows.’ Although, in this case, I think Ainslen underestimated his allies.”

  “How long must we let this go on?”

  “Not much longer, that I promise.” Every day Thar regretted his recent choices but knew caution was necessary. If he moved too soon they were bound to fail. Patience , he told himself. No matter how much it pains you, no matter how many they take. Patience.

  A whine broke his thoughts and brought a smile. He folded the rag over the metal filings, picked it and the meat up, pushed wearily to his feet, and strode to the stockade’s bars. Reaching his hand through the posts, he let the haunch fall at the waiting derin’s feet. It was the one with the scarred snout. He ruffled the animal’s ears while it was busy gnawing at the meat. With his other hand he opened the cloth and allowed some of the filings to drop onto the derin’s fur.

  Focusing, he took hold of the tiny trickle of soul creeping past the kerin manacles. He called on sera and touched the derin’s mind. Thoughts connected, a jumble of impressions, confused at first. Thar matched those impressions the same as he did with Snow and her pack. Responses came. Not only from the one he touched, but also from all of those nearby. Understanding dawned. He sent them on their way.

  Footsteps crunched in shale behind him. Thar turned to see Sorinya blocking the path of a tall Marishman. The sun had darkened the newcomer’s skin; his face was haggard. His eyes, though … his eyes were intelligent pebbles, pride and awareness radiating from them. He looked past Sorinya as if the big Thelusian did not exist. A feat in itself.

  “I’m King Hanlin, and as I’ve been told, you’re Thar the Lightning Blade.” The man spoke with a customary Marish drawl. “What do you want with me?”

  “To free you and your people.”

  Hanlin’s eyebrows rose. “And in exchange?”

  “You support the man who will become the Empire’s new ruler.”

  L eavetaking

  D analyn was going to fall, Count Lestin had insisted. Queen Terestere paced back and forth across the bedchamber, mind racing. She’d argued with the Marishman, informing him of the risk to the king’s health if he was moved at so delicate a juncture, but Lestin refused to listen to reason. To him it was better to risk the king’s death than to lose the entire war by committing forces to a hopeless battle. Neither was an option for her.

  She hadn’t anticipated that Lestin would attain his current position, not under Ainslen, and hence had only bent his mind enough to keep her identity a secret. She regretted her misstep. If there was man she wished she could have manipulated, it was he. But Lestin was as stubborn as he was ugly, made even more so by his open dislike for her.

  On the large ornate bed lay King Ainslen. Wisemen fussed over him. A lance of sunlight fell across him, emphasizing a naked body less like a man’s and more like a creature in the midst of its molt. Exposed, angry red flesh covered most of him. His skin was splotchy in some places, charred in others. Several spots were healed completely, the skin smooth and fair. Despite open windows the room smelled of sickness and the herbs used by the wisemen to treat the king’s numerous burns. They fed him dolen to replenish the soul he’d lost. During the past week he’d woken in fitful incoherent bouts before falling unconscious again.

  Terestere stopped pacing and turned to Blade Sabella. The woman stood with her back straight and head up, jaw set stubbornly. Her eyes shifted, tracking the wisemen as they worked. When her gaze passed over the king, she lingered for a moment, expression growing tender before it hardened once more. She had fought her way to the walls, defeating two Soulguards, all while carrying Ainslen.

  “You were supposed to make certain no harm came to him,” the queen said.

  Sabella hung her head. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. He wouldn’t listen. He—”

  “He isn’t supposed to listen. He’s the king. But as his personal guard you should’ve insisted on a bigger complement.”

  “I tried. He wouldn’t have it.” Her plea had a desperate quality.

  On the verge of telling the Blade Captain she should have tried harder, the queen stopped. The failure was as much her own as it was Sabella’s. Terestere softened her intended tone. “I would say you redeemed yourself a bit on the field, but there’s more you can do yet to help your beloved king.”

  Sabella’s head snapped up at that. Her expression grew intense. “Name it.”

  “Have your most trusted Blades watch over him. No one must interrupt the wisemen. Should he wake, if anyone asks, tell them he still rests, particularly Count Lestin.” Sabella frowned at that last. “Lestin wishes for us to abandon the city, but we can’t afford to move the king. Not yet. He could die if we do.”

  “I understand, Your Highness. I’ll see to it.” Sabella put fist to heart, turned on her heels, and left the room.

  “Elder Forstren,” the Queen called across the room when she was certain Sabella was out of earshot, “how much longer before my dear husband regains enough strength to be serviceable?”

  “Three weeks? Four?” The pudgy wiseman shrugged.

  “Good. See that he remains undisturbed and asleep.”

  “Yes, my queen. Burning urns of calum powder should do the trick.” Forstren bowed and got back to work.

  Terestere took one last look at the unconscious king. She cursed herself for allowing the present situation. She’d not only failed to kill the Berendali High King, but she had nearly lost a hold on the Kasinian Empire. And with it the culmination of a lifelong goal. Sighing, she proceeded to her meeting with Commander General Lestin and one last chance to convince the man.

  Messengers bustled in and out of the operations center, carrying word of the army now laying siege to Danalyn. The buzz of conversation filled the air. Lestin, short and wiry, yet carrying himself with an air that demanded attention, was poring over several maps. As usual his mouth was upturned in permanent distaste. He was speaking to his lieutenants. One of them leaned in and said a few words.

  He glanced up, slanted eyes narrowing when they took her in. “My queen.” His Marish drawl was thick, his bow a mere dip of his head. The Blades with him repeated the acknowledgment but they bowed from the waist.

  “Commander General.” She didn’t bother to nod.

  “If you men will excuse us,” he said, inclining his head to the lieutenants, “I need to speak with Her Highness.” The
Blades said their goodbyes and filed from the room. When they were gone, he turned to her. “Have you thought about my request?”

  “Your demand, you mean?” She approached the stone table and sat in a cushioned chair.

  He shrugged. “If it’s an apology you expect then you’ll be waitin’ a while. I had to make you understand how vulnerable we are here.”

  “I do, but the king simply cannot be moved. I’ve just left his chambers. His recovery is at too tenuous a point. There must be some way we can hold the city for another three to four weeks.” She’d considered tears, professions of love and wishing to see her husband on his feet again, but knew Lestin would not be moved by such a display. The vile little man was a stone.

  “We can hold for a week and a half at best.”

  “You will have to do better.”

  He leaned on the table, both hands forming fists, doing his best to loom. “There’s nothin’ I have to do. Time is what it is. I doubt even the Gods can change that. You’re likely to be the end of us if you don’t listen to reason.”

  She couldn’t help the twitch of her lips. Too often men had the idea they could dominate a woman simply by being men. “I’m listening but what I’m hearing isn’t reason. It sounds like a commander who is frightened of death.”

  He chuckled but no mirth touched his eyes. His face was impassive when he spoke. “Only fools claim death doesn’t scare them. I’ve been raisin’ Blades from when you were just catchin’ Jemare’s eye. I know a thing or three about death. And more than that about stupidity. This order of yours to defend the city is stupid.”