The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  Such mischief was a worthy distraction to the terror his mind conjured whenever he stopped to contemplate his predicament. He also avoided staring at their loincloths and strips of leather wrapped around their forearms and shins. The material brought unwanted memories of the overseer’s words and mad laughter. Yet, for all their fearsome appearances, they hadn’t been what he expected: gruesome beasts with gnashing teeth who prepared cookpots full of human parts.

  Chasing away the thoughts, he found solace in the direction they traveled. They were headed east through the forest, toward the Bloody Corridor. If any mercy lived in the world, they would cross paths with Martel’s men. If not, he had to engineer one more escape, one to last long enough for Martel’s scouts to find him. As impossible as such a chance sounded, it gave him a glimmer of hope.

  Until they entered a clearing filled to bursting with soldiers in pale leather armor, grey cloaks emblazoned with ereskars.

  Keedar turned to run but the scar-faced Soulbreaker snatched him by his arm. The grip brought a jolt of pain. Wincing, Keedar allowed himself to be led.

  The soldiers watched him curiously before resuming their activities. He frowned. They were all Marishmen, Thelusians, Kasinians, and what appeared to be a few tattooed Farish Islanders. A few patrolled the encampment with derins at their sides.

  His eyes narrowed at two of the men in particular, figures he knew all too well. Martel the Sword pored over a map on a makeshift table. Lomin was beside him. Keedar’s knees felt weak. Their treachery filled his thoughts. As did his fate.

  Two other men stood with the traitors. The shorter had eyes like emeralds, and sandy hair, well-oiled to match his beard. He was the former Count Adelfried of House Coren. Standing beside him, watching Keedar with mild interest was the former Count Cardinton of House Jarina, tall, broad of shoulder, silver overrunning once auburn hair.

  Martel looked up from the map, tanned face darker than usual, green eyes lighting up. “There you are! With you safely in hand we can begin.”

  Despite the smile on the face of the man he once thought of as a friend, Keedar’s gut churned. Even more so after taking in the armor they all wore. It was leather. And pale. Fashioned from human skin.

  A jumble of sound invaded Keedar’s thoughts. Such was his shock that it took a moment before the sound resolved into voices. His brow furrowed. Voices in my head? In a frantic moment he realized he’d released his hold on sintu.

  Even as he thought to draw on the cycle, he felt no malice in the tones. They had the same jovial quality as men and women chatting about the day while sitting around a campfire. And they originated from the Soulbreakers. He whirled, staring at them.

  “They’re usually quiet,” Martel said, “but you’ll get used to it. There’s little to nothing you can do to stop them if they want to be heard. Now, come, we must talk about Thar.”

  “I have nothing to say to you about my father,” Keedar snarled.

  Martel’s brows wrinkled in amusement. “We shall see.”

  A scar-faced derin trotted over to Martel. He ran his hands through its mane, held on for a moment, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he focused on Keedar, expression grim. “About that discussion.” The derin ambled off into the dark trees.

  A B loody C orridor

  T har was standing, his gaze following an ereskar as it headed to the water troughs. Soldiers chased away derins that had made a game of leaping into the water. The ereskar drank its fill then joined the cohort ready to depart. The game had become a ritual since Thar’s arrival. As had the presence of red-coated Farlander officers, voices filled with urgency as they directed slaves, workers, and soldiers alike. Each cohort consisted of several ereskars, baskets on their sides brimming with leather-armored soldiers. Some baskets held firebreathers, piled atop each other like metal logs, while others contained dismantled drays.

  “Why would they abandon this place now?” Sorinya asked. “It’s perfect for their operation.”

  The same question nagged at Thar when the Farlander intentions became evident. The invaders were already down to half their original force. Removal of prisoners from the stockade had increased. Activity in the workshops had grown, the clang of hammers persistent, waking him in the morn and ushering him to bed at night.

  “A threat.” Thar eyed the forts along the plateaus. The firebreathers were still there, guarded by a few more Farlanders than before. “From whom, I’m not certain, but appearances say it’s coming from the Renigen Sea.” He nodded to the fortifications. All but two of the weapons pointed toward the eastern coasts. He wished to be up there now with a vantage of the ocean.

  “The Darshanese or the Farish Islanders?” The ebon-skinned man shook his shaggy head. “I doubt it’s them, but if not, then who else could muster a large enough force to worry the Farlanders?”

  Possible answers eluded Thar. “Regardless of the reason or those responsible, it plays into our favor. When Hazline decides to blow the winds of fate in your direction, you kiss his ass and say thank you.”

  “How long until our people arrive?” Sorinya asked.

  “A few hours at most. Make certain everyone is ready.”

  Sorinya nodded and moved off to King Hanlin and a Kasinian prisoner. Words passed between them, and then the men melted among the other captives.

  Morning dragged into afternoon with Thar still tracking the army. With the majority of the ereskars gone, he was swiftly losing the chance to complete his goals. Hopefully his other forces could delay them enough, but for the moment there was another task he had to finish.

  He frowned at the echo of distant rumbles, the sounds like the rolling peals of thunder during a tirade by Keneshin, the Grey God of Storms. Except the few clouds present were white wisps, the sky blue, Mandrigal a golden ball of warmth.

  Drumming hooves mingled with the dissonance of labor within the workshops. Moments later a white-haired Vailonder appeared from the road to the coast, heels digging at his mount’s sides, cloak spilling behind him. He drew up short before their command post, leaped off his horse, and dashed inside. Several red-coated officers hurried after him.

  Thar pondered the Farlander’s arrival, attention split between the man and the muted thunder emanating from the distant beach. He made a decision, connected with the minds of his derins, and sent them on a task.

  Minutes after the men gathered in the command post, a runner trotted out. He wove his way among the structures, disappearing for a few moments before appearing near the mouth of the jagged trail that led up the mountain to the forts along the plateaus.

  The link to Keedar pulsed, and Thar felt along it. His son was close, no farther than one of the Blooded Dagger peaks to the left. Thar fought the urge to glance up in that direction, focusing instead on the Farlanders who had every remaining ereskar lined in ranks and were pouring into the baskets.

  A whine made Thar glance down. The scarred derin waited on the other side of the fence, snout bloodied, keys between its teeth. He reached down and through the bars. The animal dropped the keys into his palm.

  He strode away and lost himself in the thick of the prisoners where he unlocked the manacles. He passed the keys to the men and women gathered around him. While they worked, Thar tore a strip of cloth from the sleeve of his shirt and wrapped it around his forearm. His allies copied him, having rid themselves of their shackles.

  Several roaring booms echoed from the fortifications atop the plateaus. White smoke drifted in the air near the mouths of the firebreathers. Soldiers milled around the weapons, working in practiced synchronicity. Two cleaned the device, while another loaded black spark-powder into a breech on its bulbous rear end. One more stood ready with a kerin ball the size of a man’s head. When the cleaners finished, he dropped the ball into the firebreather’s mouth. A last man poked a pole down the barrel. After he removed the pole, the men stepped behind the weapon.

  Vailonders strode forward, soul billowing around them. Tiny flames like candles appeared on thei
r fingertips. They touched the rear of the firebreathers. The other soldiers covered their ears.

  Successive booms resounded like wrathful thunder, the echoes becoming a knell. The firebreather’s rocked back on their large wheels. Plumes of smoke puffed up from their mouths, hiding the men for a few moments.

  On an escarpment above the fortifications, a movement caught Thar’s eye. One thing became many, resolving into ereskars, dozens of them, each carrying baskets filled with soldiers. A metal box had replaced the basket atop their backs, offering protection for the drivers. Beside the beasts were perhaps a score of Blighted Brothers with giant swords.

  Shouts rose outside the stockade. Several men were pointing up. A dozen or more Soulbreakers made impossible leaps to the rocky crags along the slopes on either side. In giant hops they scaled the mountains to meet the enemy.

  Boulders detached from along the slopes, some floating for a moment before streaking down toward the Soulbreakers. Many missed or were shattered by the beasts. The ones that slammed into their targets sent the creatures careening back down, dirt fountaining up when the Soulbreakers slammed into the ground.

  The duller pops from firesticks rang out. Blazers sighted along their weapons, firing up at the men and ereskars. None of the animals fell, but the same couldn’t be said for several soldiers in the baskets.

  Among the encroaching force, Lomin brought a firestick to his shoulder and shot. Thar frowned. Where were the rest of the men he and Lomin had trained? If they did not engage the Blazers the assault would fail almost as quickly as it started.

  As if they read his thoughts, the Blighted Brothers ripped huge chunks of rock from the mountain. They hurled them at the Blazer positions within the forts. The barrage continued, boulders crashing down faster than the Blazers could get a chance to aim and fire again.

  An exultant roar echoed from the throats of the men on the slopes. The ereskars swept down the mountain. A few Blighted Brothers continued their onslaught while others of their ilk leaped to meet the Soulbreakers.

  Thar raised his arm and let it drop. Soul surged down the line of captives standing closest to the fence, each of them a Blade. They blasted the stockade apart, splintered wood becoming a mass of death and destruction, cutting into the Farlanders outside. Screams rang out.

  Two Soulbreakers who were still approaching the stockade strode through the attack, debris thudding against the transparent shields of their nimbuses. Beyond them, the Farlanders formed ranks among the makeshift buildings and tents. Bellows from a thousand throats announced the second wave of Martel’s soldiers as they poured from the tree line to the enemy’s flank.

  Thar let out a shout, magnified by soul, his voice carrying above the clamor. The battle seemed to pause for a moment, all attention riveted on him. His golden scales tore through his skin. Extending a nimbus no more than a foot from his body, he charged the Soulbreakers.

  He slipped between their massive bodies, so close the lines between their scales stood out, and the fetid stench of their breaths filled his nostrils. Claws and fists and feet swept at him in blurs of motion too fast to track, even with his vision magnified. But he felt each as they touched his nimbus. He dodged strike after strike, bringing frustrated grunts from the creatures.

  Defense was all that mattered for the moment. Unlike the Soulbreakers, he lacked the advantage of bodies laced with kerin. One successful blow from them would end him. Yet, the risk of his demise brought on a smile. Charges and tingles rolled through him.

  A shadow loomed over Thar’s shoulder. He dived to one side, coming up in time to see three grey-scaled Blighted Brothers land on the ground a few feet from his former position. They screamed their defiance at the Soulbreakers before engaging them, ancient blades humming as they sliced the air.

  Cackling, Thar rejoined the fray. He drew forth the energies within him, the charges scouring his insides, ones he’d grown to recognize as functions of his own body. Blue lightning crackled down his arms to his hands. When his fist connected with the midsection of the Soulbreaker he faced, Thar released a jolt. The creature yowled, acrid smoke drifting up from its body along with the smell of burnt meat. Before his opponent could leap away, Thar snatched it by the wrist. Energy surged. The Soulbreaker danced on its toes before going limp.

  Leaving the Blighted Brothers to battle their kin, Thar called forth a gleaming sword and leaped atop the roof of the closest structure: a smithy of some sort. He surveyed the battle, taking in the crush of bodies as the sides struggled in the narrow spaces between buildings. As planned, his men had gone after the weapon stores first. So armed, they were fighting their way through the workshops. Memorizing the areas where his forces were weakest, he took a running leap over the mass of straining bodies and clashing steel.

  He landed among his Blades and freed prisoners, a few of the latter shying away as they took in his gilded scales, no doubt reliving stories of the Dracodar as members of Hells’ Angels. Their trepidation ended when Thar sliced through three Egini warriors. He snatched up one of their shields.

  “Forward!” he screamed, and surged into the gap created.

  With a roar the others followed. The Farlander line broke. Thar left the freedmen to it and sprang away in search of the next skirmish in need of help.

  Time and again he gave support to lines on the verge of buckling. He focused on any Blazers, disrupting them before they could assemble in complete formations. The ebb and flow of the battle took on a life of its own, many times with his side on the cusp of loss. With each recovery he found himself thanking the unknown enemy in the Renigen Sea.

  Whenever the chance arose, Blazers tried to pick him off, but with his nimbus spread wide, Thar felt the kerin balls. Each time, he brought the rectangular shield up an instant before the attacks struck him. The balls clanged into the shield and either fell to the ground or ricocheted harmlessly.

  The battle raged, a thing alive with the grunts of straining men, the shouts of encouragement and elation from some, and the whimpering cries and moans from others. Ereskars employed by both sides bellowed as they smashed their way through groups of men, goring them with tusk and tooth. Two of the beasts were locked in combat, blood streaming from gouges sustained when they rammed into each other. The malodor of death, blood, piss, and shit stifled the air, as did acrid smoke from burning structures.

  Hours later, an exhausted Thar surveyed the battle once more from atop one of the few buildings not in flames. Despite their depleted numbers the Farlanders had managed to organize several formations. The occasional pop from firesticks rang out, driving back Thar’s forces each time. A Sorinya led group was one of the few holding their own against the Farlander onslaught. Thar knew his men were too weak, too tired to last much longer.

  “Retreat!” Thar bellowed, voice carrying above the din.

  His men fell back on each side, clogging the two entrances to the paths that led up to the forts. He prayed they had done enough to distract the Farlanders.

  “We hold here to the last man! No one passes.” He took in their disheveled appearances and grimy faces and willed them to be strong. They nodded and gripped their weapons a bit tighter.

  The Farlanders advanced, their warriors shifting into formations. At their rear, Martel’s decoy group from the forest was down to handful of men. Once they were dead, the end would be swift for the rest of Thar’s force.

  Several firesticks belched flame from among the enemy forces. Men fell dead around Thar. With his shield he knocked aside the balls intended for him.

  He was on the verge of telling his men to attack before the enemy was completely formed when something crashed among the Farlanders, flinging aside men like dolls, sending smoke and a shower of dirt and stone skyward. A firebreather’s boom rolled between the mountains. The smoke cleared to reveal a massive gouge in the earth. Farlander bodies littered the ground.

  There came another impact and blast, but this time he was able to track the projectile’s blurred passage seconds befo
re it cut a swath through the Farlander ranks, leaving debris, blood, body parts, and corpses. More firebreathers spit fire, smoke, and kerin balls along the plateaus, the ensuing rumbles like the Grey God’s thunder.

  Chaos descended upon the Farlander ranks. Their warriors fled in any direction that might take them away from the decimation. They’d gone but a step or two before the latest barrage smashed into them. Where there had been men and women, there was only the dead and the dying. Thar smiled.

  The clouds were blood-red tendrils when he found himself standing at the window of one of the recaptured forts. Martel and Keedar were with him. Down below, in what remained of the workshops, Sorinya was disposing of the atrocities they’d discovered: the mutilated corpses, dried meat, and mounds of skin tanned and cured and limed into leather for Farlander armor. Oily smoke billowed up from bonfires.

  Out on the choppy waves, a battle raged. However, the combatants he determined to be allies were not as he anticipated. Instead of ships flying the flags of Darshan, or the Farish Isles, or even Thelusia, they all bore the Farlander ereskar. They fired upon those belonging to Seligula, which flew the king’s Hand of Soul. Water fountained up on a miss; wood and fire and men on a successful hit. Several ships on both sides either leaned listlessly or were sinking. Men in the water were like insects in a puddle.

  Hundreds of ships broke the horizon, black blots and white sails on an ocean tinged red by Mandrigal’s single eye. It was not long before those belonging to Seligula turned tail, some heading for the shore, while others fled south along the coast.

  “I’ll need a few dozen of your best Blades, the ones not too exhausted to meld,” Thar said. “Pack them on ereskars. We’ll leave the brunt of the men here until we return.” He was about to say more when he recalled a detail from the day’s battle. “What happened to the Blades trained to use firesticks? And Guai?” He turned to face his son and Martel.