The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

Winslow nodded. “It reminds me of the Fast of Madness, when the Wild Ones chased me, and the forest itself seemed to rise against me.”

  “What you sensed then wasn’t a release of the pact, but a lessening of it by one of the caretakers like Na-Rashim.”

  “That’s the third time you mentioned this pact. What is it?”

  “Long ago, when the broodmother arrived here, she sacrificed a part of herself, some of her soul, and the souls of other First-Born, to the spirits of the Eternals in exchange for the forest’s protection. It attuned the forest to us, made the Treskelin accept us.

  “In the past, to keep us safe from armies and those who would hunt us, she would relinquish her pact. On those days, we remain within certain areas, safe places, while the forest feasts until the pact is reclaimed.”

  Winslow frowned. The prior week, after the First-Born had gone off for some meeting, the instructors had called a halt to all training. For days no one was allowed to leave the encampment. One of those nights had been filled with screeches, roars, and wild thrashings from the forest, a frantic tumult unlike any other. The following days were less volatile, but a sense of unease had existed ever since. “If the pact protects us, why release it during the time we trained? What was the threat?”

  “There is one other occasion when she gives it up.” Kel-Nasim glanced over, solemnity writ in the glint of his eyes and his timbre. “When she casts out those who would defy her, who would try turn the tribes against her.”

  “Tak-Larim. Ky-Sanim,” Winslow said under his breath.

  Kel-Nasim nodded once. “Although the forest sees us as part of it again, we are still not completely safe. Not that we ever are, but imagine if a sloth of giant hornbears or a pack of korgan cats or derins saw you only as food, the tastiest kind of food.”

  The idea brought on a shiver. Still, Winslow would not be dissuaded from veering off the path into the forest. Success meant too much. “King Ainslen is twisted by his hunger for soul. The soul craze has him in its grip. He’s slain countless for it. He killed my father for it. He tried to capture my brother and I for the same reason, and at one point hunted my mother. If he achieves the victory he seeks, then it will only be a matter of time before he invades Kheridisia to fulfill his craving. He sent bounty hunters after us once; he’s not likely to make the same mistake again. How safe will the Treskelin be against the armies of all Mareshna?”

  “I have no doubts as to our capability in war, but I see you are as stubborn as your bear.” Kel-Nasim shook his head ruefully. “Let me take the lead. It seems your bear and my cat have developed some differences.”

  The two animals had continued their rapport, grumbling and growling. Despite the apparent hostility, Winslow did not get the impression they wanted to fight.

  “This stretch is a good place to start.” Kel-Nasim gestured to the trail ahead. Although partially hidden by shadows like deepening dusk, it was some several thousand feet, marked by thick undergrowth where a large curve began. “We will cut through here.”

  Without further preamble Kel-Nasim yanked on his handholds and sent the korgan cat plunging into the forest. The moment the animal entered the trees it bounded forward into a run. Shags lumbered after them, the first steps seemingly slow and ponderous, but within seconds Kel-Nasim was no longer pulling away.

  They crashed through undergrowth and thin branches, dodged trunks and thick limbs. The forest’s clamor rose around them, the ceaseless chitter of excited gomerans, the songs of numerous birds, interspersed with the occasional growl or screech. The air was rich and ripe with decay and damp earth, the wind a pipe playing among the trees, its blissful breath ruffling Winslow’s hair, and dashing away his earlier apprehension. If the souls of dead Gods inhabited the Treskelin then the Gods ran with them. Giddy with euphoria, Winslow grinned.

  From the trees they burst onto the course. A quick glance up the trail revealed the backs of several riders. Without pausing Kel-Nasim crossed into the forest.

  And so, they ran, weaving their own path through the Treskelin until Mandrigal had crossed the sky, his lone eye a hazy ball descending on the other side. It had taken them until the latter quarter of the race, but finally they were in an adequate position. No longer did Winslow need to urge Shags on. The bear had taken to the jaunt even on the normal course and was only too happy to deviate into the forest’s depths.

  Winslow began to dream of a top ten finish, perhaps even a win. As improbable as such an accomplishment seemed at the start, it was now within grasp. They dove headlong into the woods once more, where shadows clung like skin to flesh, and the dark blotches of leaves shivered in the wind.

  A flash of silver landed between Winslow and Kel-Nasim. Soul surged. Kel-Nasim and his korgan cat tumbled in one direction, the beast releasing a pained yowl.

  Power slammed into Winslow, lifted him off Shags back, and tossed him aside like trash. He struck something soft, warm, and furry. A moment’s thought was all it took to realize Shags had moved at an unfathomable speed to cushion the fall.

  Snatching for his daggers, Winslow leaped up and faced his assailant. A body covered with silver scales towered before him. Tak-Larim’s scarred visage met Winslow’s open-mouthed stare. The Dracodar’s hands spread, claws like knives.

  Frozen, Winslow tried to will his body to work, his hands and feet to shift, but the world seemed to move so slow. Too slow. His chest heaved with each rasping breath; his skin was clammy despite the forest’s heat. He held his weapons in a death grip.

  Snow, Heart, and four derins burst from the trees. Snarling and growling, they leaped at Tak-Larim. The former tribe leader was a blur. Silver and steel glinted in the sunlit patches. Before Winslow could think to take advantage of the opening given to him, the fight was over. Snow and her pack were dead.

  Tak-Larim smiled a cruel, fang-filled smile. No mirth existed in it or in the glint of his eyes. Only murder. “Soft-skin, it is just you and I now,” he hissed. “I could have killed you already, but what satisfaction is there if you did not know it was I who did the deed? If you did not see me, feel my hot breath against your ear, smell the stink of it as I tore out your beating heart?” The Dracodar made a show of inhaling, long and exaggerated. “It is much sweeter this way. I can savor your death, your terror in knowing it comes and yet you can do nothing to stop it.”

  “I knew you would not die so easily.” Yan-Harin strode from among the trees to their left. His sudden appearance made Winslow’s heart soar.

  Tak-Larim snarled and crouched into a fighting stance. Soul billowed from him in suffocating amounts, pressing down on Winslow like a physical weight. Yan-Harin seemed oblivious to its effect.

  “Go, boy. You and your friend have a race to complete.” Yan-Harin’s body swelled, already massive arms and legs becoming like silver ash tree trunks. “Tak-Larim and I have differences to discuss.” His voice was a sharper rumble than before, an avalanche crashing down a distant mountain.

  Kel-Nasim tottered to his feet perhaps two dozen paces away. Blood showed on a gash along his shoulder. The korgan cat seemed unhurt if a bit dazed.

  Winslow managed to find words despite a dry throat. “I won’t—”

  “You will do as ordered, or else I will kill you myself,” Yan-Harin said as calmly as if he’d mentioned the forest was dark. “Now, go. I do not know how long I can delay him. And keep to the trail from now on. There may yet be others who survived the broodmother’s sentence.”

  Winslow mounted, finding it all too easy to comply with his instructor’s command. Shoulders hunched, he hung his head. Even as he berated himself for cowardice, he led Kel-Nasim back to the trail, trying and failing to conjure reasons why he should return to lend Yan-Harin a hand. He couldn’t even bring himself to glance back when the first sounds of the duel erupted.

  He’d gone some two hundred feet up the course, chased by the clash of steel, the ripple of soul, and his own shame when he became aware of Shags’ discontented snorts. Frowning, he glanced over his should
er to where his friend rode. The Aladar and his korgan cat were dark mounds on the ground fifty paces away.

  Winslow wheeled Shags around and dashed to their side. He leaped down before the bear drew to a halt. Kel-Nasim stared up at the knit of leaf and twilit sky beyond, chest heaving, breaths ragged. His eyes lost focus for a moment. The korgan cat was completely still, a red gash across its flank. Shags let out a mournful bellow.

  “He-he saved me from the worst of it.” Blood dribbled from the Aladar’s mouth. A neat slice ran up his chest and ended at his shoulder. “Tried to trade his life for mine.”

  “Shush, you’re not dead yet.” Working feverishly, Winslow tore off his own shirt and ripped it into several strips. Coating his hand with soul, he melded, manifesting the heat of glowing coals. “Brace yourself.”

  Kel-Nasim stiffened. Winslow stroked the wound’s edge, the blood hissing. Kel-Nasim cried out, his legs kicked, and then he was still. The Aladar’s chest still rose and fell. Barely.

  “Forgive me,” Winslow begged as he wound the makeshift bandage around Kel-Nasim’s chest. “I should’ve accepted the loss rather than go through the forest. Or even taken a middle position instead of pushing for more. I’m so sorry.”

  Despite Winslow’s efforts, Kel-Nasim’s breaths grew slower, weaker. His scales lost some of their luster.

  “Stay with me.” Winslow cradled Kel-Nasim’s head. “Please, stay with me.” Hot tears trickled down his face. He stared off into the dark trees. “You’re supposed to be alive, to be the Gods of these people. Do something. Help him!”

  The only response was the wind’s murmur, the occasional ring of steel, and thrashing among the trees where the two Dracodar fought.

  “I won’t let you die.” Winslow uttered the words as much for himself as for his dying friend, yet he felt helpless as Kel-Nasim’s soul dwindled. He opened his vital points and tried to will some of his own life into Kel-Nasim. The attempt failed horribly.

  Thinking of all the times he’d suffered wounds, he eased Kel-Nasim to the grass. Perhaps the Aladar had thought to bring dolen. Winslow strode over to the dead korgan cat to check the small sack on its side. It contained various tools but none of the tincture.

  Wracking his brain, Winslow considered everything he’d learned. He flared his vital points and drew on his soul, manipulating every cycle he could touch. Pain and fatigue spiked. He pushed them to the back of his mind.

  Focusing on the inner ring of nodes, he reached deep within himself. He called on his need, the desperation that fueled him.

  Kel-Nasim had to live.

  Kel-Nasim needed soul.

  Eyes closed, he repeated the words, again and again. It became a chant, a part of his will. Wider and wider he flared his vital points. Soul poured forth, a hundred fingers seeking to appease his need.

  Within the inner ring, two cycles opened. Baltus. Entope. He could tell their purpose simply by brushing them.

  The dead korgan cat pulled him. Its soul had dwindled but was still there, a presence easily overlooked. He snapped open his eyes. Winslow rested his hands on the dead cat and touched baltus . With a thought, he drew on the purpose he envisioned. He siphoned the remnants of the korgan’s soul. Entope completed the meld, allowing him to guide the soul into Kel-Nasim.

  Kel-Nasim gasped. His back arched.

  The meld ended of its own accord, the korgan cat an empty husk. Breathing heavily, legs weary, Winslow studied his friend. Kel-Nasim’s chest rose and fell evenly, and though still dull, his scales had regained a little luster.

  Letting out a long exhale, Winslow used his failing strength to magnify his arms and legs. He picked up Kel-Nasim and placed the Aladar over Shags’ back as gently as he could manage. With an additional manifestation of rope to hold his friend in place, Winslow climbed atop Shags and set off toward the finish. Kel-Nasim’s wellbeing dominated his thoughts more than the failure.

  C ouncil and C onsequence

  “A council is necessary,” Leroi said to Envald. On the table before him were reports on the progression of repairs in the River Quarter. “Everything that’s happened must be explained.”

  They had managed to turn away any other Farlander vessels, most of which seemed all too willing to continue up the River Ost without stopping in Kasandar. The nobles had demanded an explanation for all that had transpired. Left with little choice Leroi allowed them to speak to the freed prisoners and had made them aware of the Blighted Brothers.

  “You are the Lord Marshal, are you not?” Envald stood in a shadowy corner, away from the sunlight streaming through the study’s windows. He wore a dark blue suit, the jacket tapered to his form, and reaching to mid-thigh. Calling the man cadaverous would be an insult to corpses everywhere. His skin was milk with a river of black veins, the complexion making his flowing dark hair stand out, and created a frightening spectacle of his deep eyes. “Where I am from, disobedience is death. It is not as if any of them possess the power to challenge you.”

  “They don’t, but they could make my life as Lord Marshal more difficult.”

  “I told you before, your days seeing to the welfare of this city are at an end. You are needed for another task. One of more importance.”

  “What could be more important than keeping Kasandar away from the Farlanders? With their ships heading upriver we’ve effectively slowed their efforts to help the king.”

  “Slowed, yes. Effectively? No. Having lost a few of the Brothers, I will now require your Blades to help ensure your old king loses and your king-to-be wins.” Envald smiled, pointed teeth showing.

  “If this means I’ll be away from the city then I must call—”

  “Your council, yes. But, remember I warned you against it.”

  King-to-be . Leroi repeated the phrase over and over. As Envald set forth what was required, Leroi’s disbelief grew.

  ******

  Late that evening, the Lord Marshal sat at the head of the council table in the Grey Fist’s highest tower, studying the nobles within the room, each a representative for one of the other Ten Hills. The clamor of their debate reminded him of hounds chasing derins, or korgan cats hunting crag goats. Or perhaps goats alone, screeching and braying in human-like voices. He smiled inwardly. Argument suited his purposes just fine. It meant they were divided. Division, he could use.

  “We must be rid of them,” said Lady Pashna Gortal. She dabbed at her overly blushed cheeks with a neck cloth and took a sip from a glass of chilled plum juice. Leroi made the servants burn incense today, to make certain he wouldn’t smell the woman’s sickly sweet perfume. “They are vile beasts,” she continued, lip curled, voice like a chirping bird. “And only the Dominion knows what diseases they carry. Suppose they infect us with the Blight?”

  “Nonsense.” Freckle-faced Lord Menseral waved her off, clothes as unkempt as the last time Leroi saw him. The man seemed to stay awake for as long as his foundries worked, which was all but two hours of the day. “The lone Mystic left to service the city has assured us it’s not possible. The Blight was linked to the Dracodar through their souls. It can’t affect us. Never has.”

  “Those things are not Dracodar,” argued Lord Pelkesh, peering over his thick-rimmed glasses. “I’d be willing to stake a fortune on it.”

  “And you would lose it all,” Leroi said.

  “No one has seen a living Dracodar in centuries, and now we’re to believe there are a host of them?” Pelkesh scowled. “Besides, not much of this makes sense. Gold, silver, or bronze scales … those are the characteristics of Dracodarkind. It is well-documented in every piece of literature.”

  “Of healthy Dracodar,” Leroi shot back. “Etien’s Compendium mentions sickly Dracodar with skin like ash. So do other bits and pieces of tomes from the days right after the Blight.”

  “All the more reason for us to drive them from our city,” said the soft-spoken Lord Lorinel Gortal. The man had come dressed in a jacket of cloth-of-silver and velvet britches, looking for all the world as if he al
ready owned one of the Ten Hills.

  “How?” Pelkesh asked. “If they’ve lived in the Undertow all this time, how do we drive them out? No king has ever succeeded in clearing the place. Hells’ Angels, I doubt any human alive is familiar with all the passages.”

  Gortal pursed his lips. “Can anyone confirm if that was truly their home?”

  Menseral shrugged. “I see no reason to doubt them. It certainly explains the people who never returned from down there. If they didn’t eat them, then they must have been helping the Consortium all these years. After all, they and the dregs are of the same blood.”

  Leroi had heard enough. They needed someone to show them what they were missing. “Fine. Let’s have it the way of everyone who would be rid of the Brothers. You saw the destruction caused by Two Farlander ships. Tell me, what happens when the rest of the fleet appears en masse and we deny them safe harbor? Will they simply turn away? Should they decide to attack, whom do we call upon to do battle for us? Have you forgotten how they laid waste to Ernassa? A city that was supposed to be impregnable? One that held off the Empire’s forces in past wars?”

  “We could use your Blades and the watch.” Menseral leaned back in his chair, expression smug. “It’s the least you can do, seeing as how you failed to send all of your men with the king as commanded. I can add a few dozen bruisers from the foundries.”

  “I agree,” said Pelkesh.

  “A fine plan,” Leroi said with a derisive chuckle. “Your bruisers, who at best are cyclers, and my Blade complement will accomplish a feat the Marish phalanxes found impossible. Ten Hells, it took several dozen Blighted Brothers to beat back a few ships.” He shook his head and glowered at the two men. “Did you stop for a second to think before you spoke? Or did you just open your mouth to spout whatever piss came to mind?”

  Color rose in Pelkesh’s normally pasty cheeks. He adjusted his glasses on his nose. “None of this happens had you not interfered.”

  “Don’t you dare lay the blame for this on me. Was I to allow the Farlanders to enslave as many people as they liked?”