The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  “An ally is an ally.” Envald shrugged. “I take them where I can find them. There are forces at work here beyond your understanding.”

  “I guess I’ll take your word for it,” Martel said.

  “There won’t be any more single cohorts,” Cardinton said. “By now their commanders must have gotten word. Their need to reach their destination as quickly as possible made them travel in small sizes to counter the chance one lame ereskar could force the entire army to a halt. Surely they know someone is exploiting the weakness; they’ll come en masse. If that turns out to be the case, then we must retreat. I suggest we do so now before they have a chance to scout us out.”

  “We can’t leave, or rather, we shouldn’t,” Keedar said. All eyes shifted to him. “My father stressed the importance of denying Ainslen his Farlander reinforcements. Shouldn’t we remain here, fight them off for as long as we can until the battle at the Swords is decided?”

  “I tend to agree with the young man,” Martel said.

  Shenen shook his head. “On a different day I might side with you both. However, against the troops they sent up the Ost combined with those you said left the Bloody Corridor, we’d be like ants caught in a flood. What do you suggest, Envald?”

  Eyes narrowed, the man was staring south, across the Parmien Plains toward the Parmien Forest. Keedar enhanced his vision but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Envald?” Leroi Shenen repeated.

  “Send word to your Blades. Tell them to go to the Swords. Have a few travel to cities and towns on the way and warn them of this army. Anyone strong in soul must flee from them.” The man was still focused in the same direction. “Keedar, you and Martel will be in charge of the Blighted Brothers. They will follow your orders. Your appearances may be different, but you’re of the same blood. Take them and join Winslow at the training ground in the Upper Treskelin, then hurry to your mother with all the Dracodarians you can muster.”

  An uneasy prickle crawled up Keedar’s spine even as he made to question Envald as to what army he was referring. Then he saw it: a tiny, lone figure at the forest’s edge.

  “Who is that?” Martel asked.

  “Vasys Balbas, the Farlander ruler, someone well beyond the abilities of any single person in Mareshna,” Envald said. “Lord Shenen was right. It is time to abandon this post.”

  “Even if that’s true,” Keedar said, “he’s miles away. What threat could he pose?”

  “Boy, do not question your betters,” Envald snapped. His gaze still hadn’t left the newcomer. “If you wish to live to see another day, if you hope to prevent any Dracodar you know from becoming Soulbreakers, including your mother, do as you are told.”

  Other forms eased from the forest. Thousands upon thousands of them. They spanned the grasslands. They bore no pennants to announce them. Neither did they require any. Those not atop ereskars marched in formation. Keedar frowned. Unless his eyes deceived him, the pace of the march was impossibly fast. He hissed as realization dawned. The Farlander soldiers were running, covering the fields in a leather-clad wave of thundering feet. It took only a moment to realize a huge portion of them also had scales for skin. Grey scales.

  “May the Dominion shelter us,” Martel whispered.

  “Come,” Leroi urged, “we must go. Now!” He signaled to a nearby Blade. The Blade placed a horn to his mouth and blew. The sound echoed, long and mournful. It repeated from too many directions to count.

  “If their speed is any judge,” Martel said, “we won’t get very far.”

  “I will stall them. It is me he wants for now.” Envald finally tore his gaze away from the approaching man and the army. “Use the ereskars. Leroi, you will go directly to the queen with the Blades and the supplies. She expects you.”

  “You heard the man.” Martel grabbed Keedar by the arm. “It’s time for us to go.”

  “What can you hope to do against them?” Keedar asked, fighting down desperation. “You’re one man. We could use your power elsewhere.”

  Envald turned to Keedar, eyes twinkling, lips curved up slightly. “Sometimes all it takes is one to make a difference. If you must take something from here today, it is this: sometimes you must abandon all you know to be free to fight; the Eternals’ blood is not on your hands. Remember those words well. They have power. A time will come for you to use them. Eng, Chey, and Tres will help with anything you need from the Brothers. I pass their bond to you.” Although out of earshot, the three hulking Blighted Brothers turned as one.

  And then Envald vanished. One moment he was standing in front of them, and the next he was simply gone. There was no sign of soul to indicate a meld.

  “There.” Martel pointed.

  Little more than a speck at the foot of the mountains was Envald. He strode out into the field and faced the oncoming army. A dozen Blighted Brothers joined him.

  Reluctantly, Keedar allowed himself to be led to the ereskars. The first throes of battle chased him as they fled down the mountain’s opposite side, the sense of failure near overwhelming. Taking a deep breath, he focused, filling his thoughts with delivering a warning to his brother and mother. And wondering if this army was the one Thar had waited to greet. He hadn’t begged the Dominion for anything in years, not since the Night of Blades. He begged them now, for speed on his trip and for his father’s safety.

  They pushed the ereskars hard through a vale, the River Derin a snake in the distance, the Upper Treskelin Forest a dark stain beyond it. Martel rode in the basket beside him, while several Blighted Brothers drove the beasts. The remainder of Brothers filled the baskets. Although the sounds of battle faded behind, Keedar still glanced back, expecting Soulbreakers to burst from the small forest at the mountain’s base, or hoping to see Envald. Neither occurred. His worry and fear of pursuit remained even after they’d crossed the river and were a few hundred feet from the Treskelin’s green knit.

  Another dread took hold of him then. From his experience during the Fast of Madness, the trees themselves were a hindrance. So were the predators that called the Treskelin home. Navigating through the dense forest on the cumbersome ereskars would be a terrible idea on a normal day. Doubly so with the current circumstances.

  Keedar opened his mouth to give voice to his concern when he noticed a change in the trees, subtle at first, but then it became undeniable. Jaw unhinged, he stared, not quite believing his eyes. A space had opened up, the forest shifting as if some giant beast shook branches and limbs and crashed into white ash tree trunks. Soon, there was a path lined by ash trees, wide enough to accommodate the ereskars.

  Without slowing, they galloped into the forest. Tension eased from Keedar’s shoulders. Still in awe, he glanced behind. The forest had closed again.

  “How?” he asked.

  “I’ve never known for certain,” Martel said, “but I’ve only seen it happen in the presence of Dracodar or Kheridisians. Some type of bond. Regardless of who or what might be responsible, I take blessings as I get them. Especially today.”

  Keedar nodded, the first inkling of hope easing through him.

  J udgment

  W hen Winslow entered the room, a smile lit up Kel-Nasim’s face. The Aladar sat up on the bed, but despite his improved demeanor, his eyes were tired, his face haggard. “You do realize it is not necessary to visit every morning and night?” Bandages swaddled Kel-Nasim’s chest and stomach and were wrapped over the top of his right shoulder.

  “I know, but I can’t help feeling as if all this is my fault.” Winslow stepped inside, grimacing at the stink of dolen comingled with medicine and partially healed wounds.

  “Not the most pleasant of scents.” Kel-Nasim chuckled. “But at least I can smell, I am alive. I have you to thank for that. As for blame … I followed you of my own free will and would gladly do so again. If anyone is at fault, it is Tak-Larim. I wish I had been there to see Yan-Harin slay him.”

  “Me too.” Winslow recalled Yan-Harin’s return with the tribe leader’s head. It was im
paled atop a pole in front the encampment. “So, how are you feeling?”

  “Not bad. I keep having nightmares of the race, and dreams of the Tomb of Shattered Souls. Between the two I cry for sleep. What of you? Have the First-Born made a decision yet?”

  Winslow shook his head. “They already promoted the majority of the other apprentices to warriors, but the last rumor I heard said they were leaning toward denying me. Regardless of what happened, I didn’t achieve a position to place me with the vanguard. I risked everything for nothing, and you almost died.”

  “And I would do it all again,” Kel-Nasim said. “It was the most glorious race I have ever been a part of. Not many have ever tried to go through the forest. And of those who do, very few survive.”

  “That doesn’t exactly make me feel good about my decision. More foolish? Yes.”

  “One man’s stupidity is another man’s courage. Dracodar live for courage.”

  Winslow smiled ruefully. “Is that why some appear to hold no grudge against me now?”

  “Most likely.”

  “So all I needed to win them over was to make a fool of myself? Someone should have told me; I’d not have kept them waiting.”

  Kel-Nasim laughed, a low rumble in his chest. And then he began to cough. He reached toward a pitcher. Winslow picked it up and immediately turned his head against the reek of dolen. He held out the container. Still coughing, Kel-Nasim accepted the pitcher and put it to his head. He took a long draught, throat working as he swallowed. When he finished, he belched. “Much better.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Disgusting.” Winslow fanned his hand in front of his face.

  “Delicious.” Kel-Nasim smacked his lips.

  Winslow knew it was all for show, a lie with which he played along. “To each his own. So, tell me, how much longer before you can resume training? Have you asked the medicos?”

  “Another week.”

  “That’s great news. I can’t wait to show you how much I’ve progressed. Yan-Harin says I’m almost ready.”

  “I always said it was in you. You are one of us, there is no denying that.”

  Winslow’s chest swelled. “From the first day, you’ve been a friend when others would have nothing to do with me. I owe you for that alone.”

  “You owe me nothing.” Kel-Nasim waved him off. “Have you at least been allowed to practice formations with the riders?”

  “Yes, but I think it’s just a courtesy. When they finally deny me I think I’ll be happy.”

  “Why? To be a part of the vanguard, to fit in, is what you worked for, what you almost died for.”

  “It is, but someone has to keep you out of trouble, stop you from sullying your good name. It’s been on the tongue of all the women, particularly Kir-Tashin. You should hear them speak of Kel-Nasim The Brave who fought Tak-Larim The Mad. You’ll be married soon enough.” Winslow struggled to keep a straight face.

  A horrified expression passed over Kel-Nasim’s features. And then his eyes narrowed. He picked up the pitcher and threw it. Winslow ducked. The container broke on the wall behind him. The two friends burst into laughter.

  A cough at the door made Winslow turn. It was Stomir, dressed in Kheridisia’s blue and green uniform, the jacket snug fitting. An insignia of a crown was stitched into a breast pocket. Numerous pins adorned the lapel. “Glad to see you in better health, Kel-Nasim. Winslow, the First-Born have summoned you.”

  Closing his eyes for a moment, Winslow heaved a sigh. At last the time had come. He nodded to his friend. “Pray for me.”

  “Already done.” Kel-Nasim smiled. “Not that you need it.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Winslow followed Stomir from the hut.

  Outside, the air was cool, misty, carrying a hint of rain. The morning sky wore a dirty, grey fleece, Mandrigal a hazy ball hidden behind it. Tribe members went about their daily business, bustling to and fro. Already the apprentices and newly raised warriors were making their way toward the pens. They would retrieve their mounts and head out to the massive clearing where the Dracodar cavalry generals taught attack formations and strategy.

  “Everyone is talking about the race, and specifically, about you,” Stomir said.

  “I wish they wouldn’t.”

  “Too late for that now.”

  Winslow sighed. “Anyway, how did you fare with the ones the Longing took?”

  “We failed.”

  “Sorry to hear that. I’d hoped for a different outcome.”

  “As did we all.”

  Winslow eyed Stomir’s clothing. “What’s the story behind the uniform?”

  “I had to meet the Kheridisian commanders and their lords to bring them here.”

  “Oh. Any particular reason why they came?”

  “To coordinate with us.”

  Winslow looked askance at Stomir. The man’s response had given off a slight resonance. A lie? Why? Pondering the question, he continued on their path.

  They strode briskly across the yard to the meeting hut. Winslow’s heart raced as he contemplated the impending decision. Although convinced he would be denied, he tried to maintain a positive outlook. He entered the hut behind Stomir. The interior was spacious, yet he couldn’t help the feeling of confinement that came over him, the dread settling in his gut like an undigested meal. Sitting at the long table was Lo-Janim, Jin-Tarin, Pir-Mashin, Lon-Pashir, and Yan-Harin.

  “Welcome, Winslow.” Lo-Janim gestured to a place directly in front of them. Winslow strode forward. “Be at ease.” The amber-eyed Ganhi leader nodded to Stomir. “You may wait outside.”

  “Thank you.” Stomir bowed and took his leave.

  A heavy silence settled in the room. The First-Born regarded Winslow with blank expressions.

  Lo-Janim spoke. “Do you know why we summoned you?”

  “I believe so.” Winslow shifted uncomfortably under their studious gazes.

  “Tell us.”

  “For your decision on whether I earned a place in the vanguard despite my failure in the race. And to let me know if I’ve been promoted to warrior.”

  “Do you think you should be rewarded with either of those?” Pir-Mashin asked. This close, Winslow could see why so many Dracodarkind considered her to be one of the most beautiful among them. Her scales were lustrous, her form so shapely it seemed more like a carving than that of an actual living creature.

  “As much as I’d like to say yes,” Winslow said, “I don’t believe I should. The goal in the race was to place in the top half. I did not. As for promotion, if Yan-Harin’s kind words are any indication, then I’ve done well enough in soul and melding, and those you assigned to teach me of Kheridisia and its peoples appear satisfied with my knowledge. However, the race itself was the final test, and despite what transpired, there’s no denying my position in it.” Even as he finished, Winslow cursed himself for a fool. He’d planned to plead his case, but the words tumbled out of their own volition.

  Jin-Tarin leaned forward to look in Yan-Harin’s direction. “Did I hear him correctly, Yan-Harin? He said, ‘your kind words’.” Mirth filled his voice. “Lon-Pashir, Pir-Mashin, when have you known him to offer kind words to anyone? It must be some trick.” The two female Aladar grinned. “Are you certain it was he who was your instructor? He taught the three of us, and he made us all cry. I had not cried before and have not cried since. Even stubborn korgan cats do as he says without complaint.”

  Yan-Harin’s expression was a stone. That made every First-Born member burst into laughter. Winslow covered his mouth with his hand.

  “Just tell the boy our decision,” Yan-Harin grumbled. The laughter subsided.

  Lo-Janim dabbed at his eyes and became serious. “This council agrees with your assessment, that regardless of your intent to save Kel-Nasim, you failed in the race, and should not be promoted.”

  Winslow’s heart sank. For a moment he thought to use Tak-Larim’s interference as a reason. But warriors didn’t make excuses. Neither
did leaders.

  “But,” Lon-Pashir said, green eyes twinkling, “several tribe members have offered their places in the vanguard. One of those places is yours, should you accept.”

  Winslow opened his mouth and closed it, unable to speak. He shook his head, eyeing first one tribe leader then the other. “I can’t … it isn’t right.”

  “It would be a dishonor to refuse such an offer,” Yan-Harin said. “For a warrior, giving up their place is a great sacrifice, one not done lightly.”

  “I-I don’t know what to say.” He felt as if he floated on air.

  “Say you accept,” Yan-Harin said.

  “I … I accept.” Winslow did his best not to grin, but he did crack a smile. “Thank you, thank you so much.”

  “Do not thank us or them just yet,” Lo-Janim said. “There is more.”

  The tightness that had fled moments ago returned tenfold. “More?”

  The First-Born stood and filed toward the door. “Follow us.” Lo-Janim took the lead. Legs wooden, Winslow trudged behind them.

  Outside, in two lines that started on each side of the door, Dracodarkind stood shoulder to shoulder. Where the Dracodar ended, a square formation of green and blue clad Kheridisian soldiers began, extending to the tree line. The occasional wind unfurled a standard held by one of their bannermen: a crown surrounded by wisps of white.

  To their flanks were swarthy Farish Islanders, sleeveless vests exposing the tattoos crawling up their arms and chests. Each of them wore a cloak made from the hide of giant lida seaworms. Their banner depicted a lida coiled around a ship.

  Stomir, two women, and one man, all Kheridisian, waited in the middle of the square. The others wore similar uniforms to Stomir’s, albeit lacking his collection of pins. Stomir held something covered by a velvet cloth.

  The First-Born stopped before them. They separated, one to each side until Winslow was left in the space they vacated. Winslow took a few tentative steps between them, uncertain of what to think, do, or say.

  “In accordance with our treaty and protection,” Lo-Janim announced, voice rising above any murmurs, “and as the forest spirits have deigned, this is our choice.” He gestured to Winslow.