The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  “Who were they?” Thar nodded toward the stakes when Akari regained his place in the basket.

  “Envald and his guards.” Akari’s voice was empty, his eyes cold pits.

  “Was Balbas responsible?”

  “I already told you. He’s the only creature in this world capable of besting one of us without a massive army.”

  They rode on in silence, bypassing the burning stakes. The signs of the army’s passage veered northwest toward the Upper Treskelin Forest. For the first time Thar noticed the plumes of smoke drifting above the dark greenery at various points. He called for more speed. Even at their increased pace it would take days to journey to the forest. He tried not to think, to remain calm, but worry for Keedar and Winslow assailed him. Doubly so whenever they stopped to eat or rest. He prayed the boys had heeded the warning.

  “Wouldn’t heading directly north take us to the Swords faster?” Akari asked one evening.

  “Yes, but there’s no sense in going there if we can catch them in the Treskelin,” Thar said. “Although Balbas shows he can defeat whomever he faces so far, each battle slows him.”

  “I know Balbas. He will have taken the fastest path to your Queen, leaving his army to fend for itself.”

  “He’d go alone? He waited to gather them, even sent a portion of them toward Ainslen as a distraction to mask his counterstroke. By now he knows you and Yeren are here. If he’s as smart as he seems, he wouldn’t risk such a move. Besides, you said he’d look to convert as many with the quintessence as he can. The greatest concentration of those with the cycle is in this direction.”

  “He doesn’t need to oversee the transformations. Listen to me. You must give up this quest of yours. You cannot save everyone. Reaching the queen first is paramount.”

  “And leave my son and nephew to their fates?” Thar relived the horrors at the workshops, but with Keedar and Winslow as victims. He would not allow it to happen. Not to them. He clenched his fist. “You stopped me once. This time you’ll have to kill me.”

  “What if the young men are already safe? What if they heeded the warning you sent and are already on their way to their mother? Then this detour is a waste of precious time.”

  “I can’t live with ifs right now. I must be certain.”

  “Remember, I warned you.”

  “If it’s so damned important, and time is so against us, why don’t you and Yeren use that little trick of yours to take us?”

  “Our power doesn’t work that way.”

  “Then I do this my way.”

  ******

  The next day, moments before they plunged into the Upper Treskelin, Thar allowed soul to ease from his vital points, directing it out to engulf his cohorts so the forest would accept them. The trees parted for the ereskars and the path remained as they rode. Decimation greeted them in many places, great ash tree trunks snapped in two like twigs. Some were charred, shriveled things. Carcasses of giant korgan cats, hornbears, and derins marked the enemy’s path. As did the litter of Wild Ones’ corpses.

  The first town they encountered was Kheridisian. Not a building remained standing. Some appeared as if they were taken apart log by log. Others had collapsed. Most were charred husks. Buzzing flies and death’s redolence led to a temple. The enemy had piled corpses to the ceiling. Men, women, children. Thar burned the place down and said a prayer to the Dominion.

  Deeper into the Treskelin they rode, reaching Endosar next, a Dracodarian village where he’d trained during his first years with Elysse. The slaughter was worse than in the town. Not only had the Farlanders killed, but they’d also fed upon the souls of many, and stripped them of their skin and scales. They left the bloodied, emptied husks suspended from stakes. With tears rolling down his eyes, Thar gave the order for his men to set Endosar ablaze.

  A knot in the pit of his stomach, he watched the conflagration. He soaked in the heat of it. Some of the flames licked out to the forest, but as they were wont to do, the trees produced steamy moisture and smothered the fires. He cried as much for the death of people he knew as for the massacre of Elysse’s children. A part of him was glad she wasn’t there to witness the wanton slaughter.

  “There is no use in stopping,” Akari said. “You can expect the same from every place they passed. I’d hoped you wouldn’t have to see this, to experience such tragedy, but you refused to listen. All we can hope for now is that your loved ones left in time.”

  Heeding Akari’s words, Thar pushed on, praying to every deity he knew. When they finally reached the training camp, the place was empty. Balbas’ army had destroyed a few buildings, but Thar found neither corpses nor signs of a battle or prisoners being led away. Sorinya reported indications of a mass exodus headed north. Closing his eyes, Thar breathed a sigh of relief.

  “There’s something else,” Sorinya said. Thar opened his eyes. “The Farlanders … they didn’t continue toward the Swords of Humel.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, it’s not as if they tried to hide their intentions. They headed west.”

  “West? Into the wastes before Berendal?”

  “It is as I thought,” Akari said. “This army is going to the Tomb of Shattered Souls, which house the Dragon Gates. The place holds a wealth of kerin unlike any other, as well as the greatest concentration of ancient Dracodar. Possibly of any Dracodar. Which means Vasys Balbas has either captured your queen or is on the verge of doing so. We should have gone to the Swords, but you allowed your fear to blind you.”

  Pent up worry, sorrow, exhaustion, and hunger chose then to steal coherent thought from Thar. He’d been so concerned about the boys he’d gone days without a proper meal. Coupled with his failure to catch Balbas’ army or to save some of the villages and towns, his senses reeled.

  “You can’t keep on like this.” Sorinya reined in beside Thar’s ereskar. “Neither can the men or animals. We all need a good rest. And you need to get some food in that body of yours.”

  Numb, Thar nodded. He couldn’t afford to lose more time, but an exhausted and famished army was useless in battle. Squeezing his eyes tight, he gave the order to break for the night, and prayed to the Dominion that he make it to the Swords of Humel before Balbas struck.

  R etrieval

  A inslen read the courier’s message. This one was from Kasandar. A slew of others from different cities littered the table. They all told the same story. Betrayal. The Farlanders had been raiding Marissinia, Thelusia, the upper reaches of Darshan, and Kasinia. They weren’t taking only dregs or commoners, but also nobles, even from the heart of Kasandar.

  When he’d first received word of Leroi’s action in the city, he’d become outraged. The man was undermining plans without realizing. And yet, how can you blame him? From all accounts he’s done a better job at defending the people than you.

  The second part of the letter detailed a massive battle between Farlanders and another unknown force west of Kasandar on the Parmien Plains. According to the report, the Farlander army was enormous and had been victorious. It spoke of monsters, Dracodar with grey scales, a veritable herd of ereskars, and too many Farlander melders to count. No doubt existed in Ainslen’s mind as to this army’s intentions or the man who would be at its head. Swearing to teach Seligula a lesson, he set flame to the paper, holding it in his hand while it burned.

  With his plans to use the Farlanders in tatters, he was forced to rely on the Empire’s forces. At least he had Kurosh and his cohort. Their weaponry would still make a huge difference. Of that he was certain. All that was needed was to ensure they never learned of Seligula’s treachery, if they did not already know. The risk of the latter meant he would need to keep an eye on them.

  The king took in the commanders seated at the table. For days, these men and women had met like this, revising the plan to defeat the westerners. Some had done so with little rest, not even stopping to take baths. The room reeked of their unwashed bodies and the food they’d consumed earlier. With the arrival of King Menq
uan and his Darshanese, the recall of the Heleganese to Despora, and the brunt of the Order’s wisemen within a few day’s ride, there was no longer a good enough reason to wait. There’d been no word from the Farish Islanders, but he hadn’t relied on them before, and wouldn’t do so now. Providing them with remains had been a mistake. He’d be certain to remember their betrayal.

  A missive from King Weilondran had arrived, stating that the Kheridisian armies waited somewhere within the northernmost reaches of the Shifting Stones near Danalyn and would coordinate their attack with his counterstroke. He still had yet to meet Weilondran or his emissary but was assured of his trustworthiness and reliability from Patriarch Hamada, who he believed because of Terestere.

  “No one knows the exact location of Seligula’s army,” Ainslen said, “but the last report says they entered the Treskelin Forest. That alone should slow them enough for us to deal with the westerners.”

  “In light of this news,” said King Menquan, stroking the tip of his bulbous, hooked nose with his thumb, “can we rely on this Weilondran not to turn away to defend his cities? Any sensible king would look to save his own first.”

  “It’s a risk we’ll have to take.” Ainslen shrugged. “Even if he does, it still helps us. It should stall Seligula long enough for us to be even more prepared.”

  “And the Farlanders currently here in Despora?” asked Stonelord Bogdanya.

  “We destroyed any messages intended for them,” Lestin said. “And will continue to do so. Just need to keep them in the dark until the battle starts, then they’ll have no choice but to fight for us, regardless of what they know.”

  “Should they become a problem,” Ainslen said, “and force us to kill them, Elder Geoshom has assured me that we have several wisemen capable of using both the firesticks and firebreathers.” The king glanced in the direction of the new Elder.

  Geoshom nodded. “We do.”

  The king held the wiseman’s gaze. “How will we know the Kheridisians?”

  “Beyond them killing our enemies? They ride under a white crown. The Crown of Souls.”

  Ainslen did not like the name. They’d have to change it out of respect for his Hand. “Good enough, then. With that said, there’s no more preparation needed. King Menquan.” Ainslen dipped his head in the Darshanese’s direction. “Lords and Ladies, the time has come to put these savages in their place.”

  Grim-faced, the commanders filed from the room, heading toward a battle to define the Kasinian Empire’s history. Ainslen was last, offering a prayer to the Dominion before leaving. They had guided him this far; they would see him victorious.

  ******

  Riding atop an ereskar, Ainslen took his place at his army’s head. The animal bayed and snorted in the direction of the Blades on armored byagas beside him. Despite the difference in the size the byagas were not cowed. They answered with long croons. Behind them were the horsemen, steeds whickering and stamping impatiently.

  Under an azure sky streaked with wisps of clouds, the rest of the Empire’s army massed, banners streaming. The Hand of Soul and Star of the Dominion were the most prominent. Interspersed among them were Thelusia’s Black Wall, Darshan’s Warship, Marissinia’s Tower, and Helegan’s White Mountain. The Thelusians occupied one flank and the Darshanese the other. Kasinians, Marishmen, pasty-skinned Heleganese, and the Farlanders made up the core. There were also several thousand wisemen in their blue and red robes.

  Due south and southwest were the westerners, sun glinting from their armor and weapons, Merelyn’s towers blots on the horizon at their back. The massive forms of siege engines stood behind them, destructive sentinels of wood and iron. Even with his reinforcements, the enemy greatly outnumbered the Empire. Ainslen took a quick glance over his shoulder to Despora’s bulwark where Terestere would be watching above the gate. Today, he would make her proud, and when he returned, their lovemaking would be a thing for a guiser’s tale.

  He turned to the battlefield. The flutter of his heart became a drum. The sun was a warm caress on his head, the wind calm and expectant, the grass greener than he could remember. Breathing in, he savored the scents of ereskar, byaga, man, and weapons freshly oiled for the day’s work. He raised a hand, knowing all along the lines the bannermen repeated the gesture with their battle standards.

  His hand fell. The ereskar bayed. The world surged forward.

  Instead of its usual ground-eating strides, the ereskar ran more like a horse at full gallop. The thunder of hooves and feet and the roars of men swallowed all other sound.

  Up ahead, the enemy’s dark stain seeped across the plains. Siege engines recoiled and hurled fiery boulders and barrels into the sky. Propelled with additional force by way of melds, the projectiles spun end over end, arcing toward the charging Kasinian forces.

  Soul flared all along Ainslen’s cavalry line, originating from every Blade skilled in manifestation and casting. Watery globes formed in front of them, steadily increasing in volume. Then with hums like javelins shot from ballistae, the spheres zipped into the air. They crashed into the incoming projectiles, dousing the flames. Smoking and steaming, the barrels and boulders continued to fall.

  A squad of Blades on foot surged past the cavalry, legs magnified to increase their speed. Their bodies swelled to match, muscles bulging through their leather armor. Almost as one they launched themselves into the air.

  The Blades met the projectiles with a flurry of punches and kicks. The detonation of the impacts rolled like thunder. A rain of debris fell. Dust drifted in the air.

  The cavalry rumbled along beneath. The flying Blades fell quickly, then slowed their descent, and without breaking stride, rejoined the charge. Imagining the shock of the western commanders, Ainslen smiled.

  Another salvo from the siege engines was met with the same results. So was a third.

  By now, Ainslen could clearly see the enemy infantry. They ranged in shape and size, uniform and armor. Their howls rose with their approach.

  Ainslen slowed, and his guard with him. The others continued on. Consisting mainly of Thelusians and Darshanese, the infantry roared past him, a river of man, flesh, and steel.

  The two sides clashed. The cavalry washed over the first few enemy ranks. Order disintegrated. The battle became clumps of warriors striving to destroy each other.

  Soul magic flared, waxed and waned. Western melders and Blades magnified themselves into giants, laying about with manifested swords, clubs, or axes the size of men, splitting opponents in two. Flames curled through the masses, some like whips, others in bolts, spears, or balls; others running across the ground as if following a trail of oil. Combatants blurred, speed too fast to track without enhanced vision.

  The westerners held through the initial onslaught. But faced with byagas, horsemen, and Blades, they soon broke. A horn sounded in the distance. The first of the western forces turned and ran. Ainslen’s men did not give chase.

  The first pops from firesticks rang out. Enemy soldiers fell. Perhaps a hundred of what had been some three thousand men made it back to where the western armies massed.

  Cheers followed. Ainslen smiled. He focused on the High King, who was surveying the field. The Soulguards near him were pointing. Ainslen nodded in their direction before ordering his ereskar driver to take him back to where the Farlanders and the majority of his soldiers waited.

  “A good beginning,” King Menquan called out from atop his byaga as Ainslen rode by.

  “Too bad it was nothing more than a skirmish,” Ainslen said. “It was their test to see what we could do. Let them think on it for a bit.”

  “Seems they aren’t waiting. Look.” Menquan jutted his chin out, indicating something behind Ainslen.

  The king turned in his basket. The surviving members of his infantry had stopped their return and were facing the field once more, weapons held expectantly. A few led away those too hurt to be of any help. Out on the plains, somehow already among the dead, were the black-robed Abandoned. This time they did
not have carts and wagons with them. “Kurosh, if they should attack, you know what to do.” An order rang out from the Farlander Warleader in a singsong lilt.

  The Abandoned collected corpses and stacked them into a pile, moving with the obvious speed and strength of magnification. Others tended to the wounded who were still capable of walking. For those unable to rise to their feet, the end was swift. Within an hour they completed the task, leaving three hills of corpses. As the Abandoned sped away, the hills burst into flames. Oily, black smoke billowed into the air. A breeze carried the scent of scorched flesh.

  “Are the men ready,” Ainslen asked Lestin. The westerners had once again formed ranks.

  “Yes.”

  “Have the other commanders lead them this time. We observe unless something changes.”

  The battle played out in much the same way as the first. So did the next two skirmishes. While the Abandoned were again burning the corpses, Kurosh approached.

  “Sire,” the Warleader said, “although your warriors have done an admirable job in returning much of our ammunition, I am afraid we will still run out if this continues.”

  “What if we send your Blazers to do the retrieval? Since they’re connected to the balls by soul, wouldn’t that be more efficient?”

  “It would, if the kerin balls were still there.”

  Ainslen frowned. “What do you mean?” He glanced toward the still smoking pyres. “Did they melt?”

  “At first, when every soul thread was severed, we thought that was the case. It was not. The people in black took them. I am an Alchemist of some skill; I can feel a piece of my soul from miles away. I placed a bit of it on a few of the balls. They are now somewhere amongst their army.”

  “Could they use them?” Lestin asked.

  “Not without the firesticks or an affinity to kerin in their blood,” said Kurosh.