The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  Bogdanya raised his hand to his ear and let his arm fall. His gaze did not waver from Ainslen’s face.

  Six dark-skinned, red-coated Thelusian soldiers entered the tent in pairs. Each pair carried an ironbound chest. A Blade Captain ducked inside and glanced toward the king. Ainslen waved the man off. If the Stonelords intended harm, then they’d grossly underestimated him.

  The Thelusian soldiers walked around the two thick posts. They set the trunks down in front of Bogdanya and the others, bowed deeply, and departed. Ainslen scrunched up his nose at the whiff of something unpleasant.

  “You asked for proof.” Bogdanya stood and pulled on a pair of black leather gloves. He leaned down and flipped open the lid of the first chest. “Here it is.”

  Inside were several pieces of leather armor: harnesses, greaves, bracers, and pauldrons. Embossed into the pieces were a series of swirls, whorls, and intricate little patterns formed by the rivets. The design was undoubtedly Farlander.

  In one quick motion the Stonelord picked up one of the harnesses and tossed it to the king. Ainslen caught the armor.

  A jolt of soul almost made him drop it immediately. His eyes narrowed.

  “Turn it over.”

  Ainslen complied. The leather was a darker shade than any he could immediately call to mind, although there was a familiarity to the material. But the texture and thickness differed from goat, lorin, horse, derin, or byaga hide. Something else drew his eye. Squinting, he picked out an odd pattern in a faded blue. A sword and a shield if he wasn’t mistaken.

  “My love, is that what I think it is?” Terestere was leaning over beside him.

  “A tattoo,” Bogdanya answered before the king did.

  “How can you be so certain?” Ainslen fought against the ideas his mind conjured.

  “Because I designed that insignia for my personal guard.” The Stonelord flipped open the next chest. “This is all that’s left of a few who decided to engage the Farlanders.”

  Death wafted from the container. Ainslen shied away for a moment before molding his spine to steel. Inside were lengths of dark brown hide. The distinctive sword and shield stood out on many.

  Bogdanya was already opening the final chest. “And here are the Farlanders’ tools of choice.” Skinning knives of various types and sizes filled the interior. “Still, as damning as all this may be, there is more. Guards!”

  Four Thelusian soldiers dragged in two prisoners. A fifth guard followed with a coiled rope. They dropped the men on the ground before the two wooden posts. The captives were dirty, clothes in tatters, exposing scarred bodies, but there was no denying their identities. One was a flat-headed Vailonder, the other a tawny, yellow-haired Allonian. Of the two, the Allonian was in worse condition. His kind was of a large build, capable of matching a Thelusian’s girth. The man’s ribs showed; his face was haggard, his cheekbones jutting beneath tight skin. Both their expressions were empty, hopeless.

  “Sire,” Bogdanya said, “what comes next is particularly gruesome. You may wish to excuse the queen.”

  “Am I not a person? Am I not here?” Terestere snapped. “He’s the king, but my husband doesn’t speak for me. Next time you would do well to address me directly. As for whatever is about to transpire, I’m capable of dealing with anything a man can manage.”

  Despite the circumstances Ainslen couldn’t help his smile. Bogdanya’s chastened expression made the exchange even more satisfying.

  “I apologize, my queen. No disrespect was intended.”

  Terestere offered the slightest dip of her head. “Carry on with your demonstration.”

  A snap of Bogdanya’s fingers set the soldiers to work. They looped four lengths of rope onto hooks at the top and bottom of each post and left the ends hanging. After they stuffed the Allonian’s mouth with cloth, they passed the rope through loops on the shackles, and hoisted him up. They ripped off his clothes, exposing the many scars that scoured his body. He hung, arms and legs spread wide, chains between them taut.

  The emptiness faded from his eyes then. He looked up and down at the ropes; his eyes bulged. Choking sounds escaped his throat. For scant moments he tried to rock back and forth, but his movement was minimal. Something inside him broke, for he began to sob, the sound made worse by the gag.

  And then the sobs stopped.

  He became silent and still, face peaceful despite the wet trail down his cheeks. Eyes alight with defiance, he stared at Ainslen and the others, the rise and fall of his chest slow and steady.

  One of the soldiers made his way to the trunk to remove a curved skinning knife. He unchained the Vailonder and placed the weapon in the man’s hands. The Farlander stared at the knife then cast one pitiful glance in Bogdanya’s direction before he stood slowly. He shuffled over to the Allonian. Nimbuses flared around the soldiers. The Allonian became unnaturally stiff.

  The Vailonder said one word in a harsh tongue to his counterpart, his tone filled with regret. Then he set to work. His first cut began inches below the throat, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the Allonian who had now closed his eyes. Slowly, the Vailonder’s blade slid down to the pelvis, a line of red chasing the incision.

  He paused for the briefest of moments, an artist preparing a canvas, and then the knife flickered. He cut and sliced with all the precision of a master, a man who’d honed his craft to the finest details. Up, down, left, right, to the back, sides, and in front, his hand was that of a director at a ball or a guiser playhall, his weapon the wand, the sounds of each slice the symphony. Blood sprinkled onto his face, his clothes, turning his dingy attire crimson. It dripped onto the ground, soaked the rug, its odious scent smothering the air.

  Gurgling cries echoed from the bloody Allonian, soon descending into moans. His chest heaved now; his throat worked furiously. His eyes shot open and rolled back a second later. The only thing stopping the unconscious man’s head from lolling, his body from going limp, was the meld that held him.

  Ainslen squinted. When the first cut was made he’d noticed a slight increase in the Allonian’s soul. Now, the life force surged from the man. The king imagined the thrill of ingesting the power. Only a miniscule amount passed beyond the manacles at the prisoner’s wrists and ankles.

  Curious as to how the others were handling the gruesome spectacle Ainslen studied them. Nadya gripped the sides of her dress, but her expression remained calm. Severine’s throat worked as he swallowed, and though he grimaced, he didn’t avert his gaze. Bogdanya was a rock. Most surprising was the queen. She watched with an intensity that bordered on fascination.

  The Vailonder stopped, chest rising and falling with exertion. He held his trembling hands at his sides. The patter of blood on the rug was abnormally loud.

  “He is allowing the soul to peak,” Bogdanya said even as the king opened his mouth to ask. “It’s similar to training melders, how we expose them to a threat or imminent death to induce their ability to touch soul or to achieve a new cycle. At this moment the soul is working furiously to heal the body, expelling a great amount, which is absorbed by the skin and flesh. And now the finish.”

  The words had barely left Bogdanya’s mouth when the Vailonder reached up and peeled back skin from his victim’s chest. He worked with the practiced ease of a chirurgeon, undisturbed by the layers of exposed tendon and muscle.

  The wet, tearing sound made Ainslen’s stomach quiver, but did little to dissuade his hunger for the victim’s soul. The glimmer of a memory from the Night of Blades assaulted him. He saw the faces of his dead wife and son, and steeled himself against the vision.

  The sound of Severine’s retching broke Ainslen from the reverie. Nadya was whispering a prayer. One of the Thelusian soldiers vomited. Even Terestere, who moments ago appeared so unflappable, had closed her eyes.

  “I’ve been a fool,” the king said as the last of the skin fell to the ground. All that remained was on the hands, feet, and head. The Vailonder reached up and sliced the Allonian’s throat. “I allowed them to
take dregs to work the mines to help supply the army. They weren’t supposed to take citizens.” And you should have looked further into the lack of prisoners in the Dreadwood, instead of accepting the story Seligula gave you. You knew something was wrong. He ground his teeth.

  “No one could know this was their intention, sire.” Bogdanya gestured to the soldiers. They chained the Vailonder, cut down the corpse, and took the men away, leaving behind the red mass of skin. “It took months of torture to break that one so he could show us.”

  “Still, experience should have taught me better.” He shook his head, picturing the unguarded villages and towns at the Farlanders’ mercy.

  “The question now is what will you do?” Bogdanya and his counterparts stared at the king, awaiting an answer.

  Ainslen studied their faces but found nothing to give away their feelings. He’d come hoping to scare them into submission. That was no longer an option. The Empire was trapped between two monsters with but one discernible path out. When he spoke he delivered his words with confidence. “We’ll use the Farlanders to defeat the west, and then we turn on them before they can do the same to us. Here’s what I need of you.”

  “After what you’ve just witnessed you still insist on using the Farlanders?” Bogdanya glanced over to his two counterparts. “Can you believe this?” They shook their heads. Bogdanya turned his attention to the queen, gaze lingering. She shrugged.

  “That’s the fundamental difference between you and I,” Ainslen said. “The reason I currently rule the Empire and you serve at my whim. Neither emotion nor my stomach can blind or move me. I see use in things other people find sickening.” He laid out his plans.

  P ersuasion

  T he crimson snake of Thelusians coiled down the hills and onto the plains, their march a rhythmic beat interspersed by trundling wagon wheels, the brays of their mounts, and the jangle of weapons and armor. Their cavalry rode byagas, taller and wider than any horse, tails short and heads massive. The Thelusians merged with the ranks of King’s Blades and Kasinian armies west of Merelyn. Terestere picked out a few Marish standards among the bevy of flags representing the kingdom that called the Wetlands home.

  At another time the Empire’s force might seem a formidable one, numbering over a hundred thousand. But not today. Not in the face of the enemy streaming through and past Danalyn’s black walls.

  Flying the pennants of its five kingdoms—Berendal, Carador, Aladel, Tesadon, and Nausir—the western army was a glittering, endless ocean. Their lines were colored waves, spanning south toward the Shifting Stones Mountains, all the way north past the city, and disappearing toward the western horizon. A reddish-orange inferno no longer glowed from Danalyn; neither did a black pall boil into the sky, but the wind still carried an acrid hint of decimation.

  “I still don’t understand your insistence on using the Farlanders,” Terestere said as she walked her horse toward Merelyn, the king beside her, their escort of Blades spread in a circle around them.

  “Really?” the king said. “Of all people I thought you would understand, given your lack of loathing for what happened in the tent.”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes appearances can be deceiving, my dear.”

  “So that wasn’t fascination written on your face? You were a fish drawn to a dangling worm.”

  “I’ve lived so long and seen so much that few things horrify me. You forget to whom I was married before you. There were things in the dungeons beneath the Golden Spires to make the strongest man wake in sweats. Perhaps some of it tainted me, made my fancies become a bit morbid. The things men can do to one another cease to appall me. Amaze? Yes. Terrify? No.”

  “It’s a shame you had to go through such pain. The strength you’ve shown through it all makes me love you even more.”

  The tenderness in his voice made her smile. “Either you succumb to the ills of life or you become immune to them.” She’d developed the latter so long ago it was a wonder she could still conjure any emotion.

  “Indeed. And that is why we still need the Farlanders.” King Ainslen pointed toward the enemy host. “Most wars are won by strategy, cunning, training, but this one might be decided by sheer numbers alone.”

  “You may be right.”

  “Yet, you still agree with the Stonelords’ opposition to my plan.” He sounded hurt. “Like them, you would prefer us to continually fall back across the Swords until the Darshanese, Farish Islanders, and the Kheridisians join us. All to ensure the Farlanders don’t play a major role in our victory.”

  “I might not have shown it in there, but the thought of what they’re doing to the people sickens me. It’s an abomination.” A part of her wanted to strike at the Farlanders immediately, before they discovered her people.

  “As I told Bogdanya,” Ainslen said, tiredness in his voice, “I understand the sentiment, but there’s still the major flaw. Should we defeat the westerners in the way you all suggest, our men will be exhausted and vulnerable, and thus easy meat for the well-rested Farlanders. Besides, such continual retreat makes me appear weak.” His voice had become iron. “I will not falter against these savages again.”

  Forced to concede the point, she nodded. Still, there had to be a way to persuade the king to await further reinforcements and abandon the Farlanders altogether. She’d bent his mind as much as she dared. Too hard a push now might fracture her fraying hold. Of late his mental capacity had grown stronger, most likely an effect from the soul he’d stolen from Delisar. She counted her blessings that he lacked the ability to discern the melds she’d woven.

  “What if the westerners decide to press the issue?” Perhaps if she pushed by the tiniest of increments, she could sway him, make him see more of a threat. Siege engines were moving up through the mass of western soldiers, steel and wood against a backdrop of endless blue sky. “Despite the earlier battle, they must know the advantage they hold. I can’t imagine their commanders would wait for us to gather full reinforcements. They will try to crush us unless we do the unexpected and strike from a position that appears greatly disadvantaged. Hamada’s letter said the Kheridisians are close. I say you wait. Their numbers might provide the needed boost.”

  The king stared off toward the armies, a dreamy expression on his face. Then he shook his head; his eyes re-focused. The first wrinkles of a frown formed on his forehead.

  Terestere felt her meld slip. Her heart sped up. She waited, breath held, praying the remainder of her mindbend held. Killing the king now was sure to ruin everything.

  “Should that be the High King’s strategy, I have a way to dissuade him.” Ainslen continued the conversation as if he’d been with her the entire time. No sooner had he said the words than he turned and signaled toward Blade Sabella.

  Tension eased from Terestere. She’d come so close to flaring open her vital points she felt the surge of soul beneath.

  A shout from Sabella set the bannerman up ahead to waving his pennant, the Hand of Soul writhing in the wind. Similar responses repeated among the Empire’s massed army.

  Without warning, the plains between the opposing armies fell away. It didn’t crack or fracture. One moment there was an expansive stretch of dirt and short grass, and in the next the space was a gash that disappeared to the north and south. The fissure coughed up clouds of dust. The ground quaked, bringing a fearful din from animals and men. When the dust cleared, there remained a chasm at least a hundred feet across.

  “Why activate the traps now?” It would do well for her to maintain a façade of ignorance in matters of war. “Why waste them instead of saving them to hurt their full army?”

  “How quickly you forget my near death at Danalyn, my love. I wasn’t willing to risk them taking control of the traps here. And even if they had no knowledge of these, this gives them something more to consider, makes them become more cautious. In turn, our men can now retreat without worry.” As the king spoke his army was leaving the field.

  “So what now?”

  “We ab
andon Merelyn, leave a force of Blade assassins behind to harry their scouts, and activate the new traps I set should the brunt of their armies enter the city.” Ainslen pulled on his reins and angled his horse away from Merelyn and toward the distant towers of Despora, the next Sword of Humel. “I’ll recall the Heleganese and all the wisemen to Despora. According to Kurosh, the brunt of the Farlanders should arrive soon enough. We make our stand then and show the savages what it means to face the full Empire on the field.”

  “The westerners will have two of our precious Swords. What if they decide to split forces, send an army south into the heart of Kasinia while they keep us occupied here?”

  “History says they won’t.” Ainslen shook his head. “A smart general studies past campaigns before embarking on a new one. From the patience shown by the western generals, I’m certain they know the risk in such a choice. It led to their defeat on the other occasions they thought to test the Empire. No, they will continue to mass their forces and focus on us. For them, destroying all the Swords will ensure victory.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Terestere said. Events were racing along faster than she anticipated. Her hand had been forced. Waiting was no longer an option. In her head she was already writing the messages to be sent to Kheridisia. Having exhausted all her moves, she also prayed Thar and her children were faring better than she was. The next step rested in their hands.

  W inds and S words

  T he man stood at the bow of the rowboat, unaffected by the craft’s rise and fall, the salty spray of choppy waves, or the wind flapping his cape and billowing his deep blue shirt. He was tall, bronze-skinned, and filled out his clothes. Wisps of hair like fine, yellowed grass whipped across his face; the rest hung down his back. Six burly oarsmen were his sole company, their glistening arms working in symphony. For all the ease the man displayed, there was an air of command about him, belied by his smooth, mundane features, made dangerous by the lack of obvious guards. At his back was his massive fleet, each ship angled broadside. Soldiers crowded the decks. Firebreathers bristled like black spines.