The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  Eng nodded. “When no other option is left to us and the matters involve thoughts we would rather not share.”

  Eyebrow arched, Keedar considered the words. “What could be so important now to force you to talk?”

  “Come, you must see for yourself.” Without waiting, the three turned away and headed toward the line of hills. Keedar hurried after them. They strode up the closest incline, lay flat on their stomachs, and peered over the edge.

  Not much had changed about the battle. The sides were locked in a boiling mass of combat across the field. The Empire held their own for now, but the enemy numbers would soon weigh on them. Already one flank was retreating, a wave of westerners pushing into the Empire’s lines.

  “What am I supposed to see?” Keedar asked.

  “Them.” Eng was peering in the direction of the black-robed reserves.

  “Who are they?”

  “Dracodar from our old home at the Tomb of Shattered Souls.”

  “Is that the reason for the robes? To keep their identity a surprise until the moment they attack?”

  “The robes are a part of their sentence. Unlike us, not all of them have been completely altered by the Blight as yet, but they have all taken up the burden of our suffering and shame. We once were as they, serving penance at the Tomb.”

  “As for attacking,” Chey said. “The Abandoned do not fight; they will not break their oath.”

  “Not until they hear the words to free them,” Tres added, “Words delivered by either a God or one of their agents.”

  “Neither will they defend themselves if attacked,” Eng said.

  “So you’re telling me that they’re both Blighted Dracodar and normal ones hidden by those robes, who will only fight if they hear a certain set of words?” Keedar refrained from mentioning how ridiculous the idea seemed. He didn’t wish to insult the Brothers or their beliefs.

  “Yes, words to release them from the debt they feel they owe to Hazline and Rendorta. As we did.”

  “What debt? And who freed you?”

  A pained expression crossed Eng’s face. “Our people failed as guardians long ago. That lapse brought about the deaths of the Eternals Rendorta and Hazline and the ruination of Fate. For our crime, the Eternals abandoned us here. We swore the oath of repentance then, never to fight, to always sacrifice, to be humble, to suffer until the Eternals accepted us once more and set us free. That is the debt they pay. Envald belonged to Hazline. He gave us our freedom.”

  “And he passed our bond to you, which means you must do the same for them.” Chey nodded in the direction of the black-robed people.

  “How? I’m neither a God nor an agent of a God. I’m not certain I even believe in the Dominion.” Keedar stared down at the Abandoned. There were at least twenty thousand of them. He recalled Envald’s mention of passing a bond, but he’d thought nothing of it. The story was absurd, but for the Brothers to reveal they could speak showed they were ardent in their faith.

  “It does not matter what you believe. You hold the bond now. He speaks through you. You must say the words Envald left you,” Eng said.

  Still fighting with the idea, Keedar glanced from one to the other, trying in vain to piece it all together. “You repeatedly mention this bond. Is it a power, like soul? Something I’m supposed to feel?” He searched within himself but found nothing. “I’m no different now than when we left Envald.” He wondered if the man had survived.

  “We do not know. For us, it just is.” Eng shrugged. “All they need now are the words left to you.”

  “Hells’ Angels, what words?” Keedar shook his head. “And even if I knew them, how are you so certain these other Abandoned will fight for us?”

  “I do not know for whom they will fight,” Eng said, “but at least they will be free.”

  “That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

  Eng glowered for a scant moment before he once again became impassive, scaled features smooth but for the scar across his eye. “Then you must fight your war without our aid. We will not risk hurting them while they are under oath.” He crawled backward down the hill. Chey and Tres followed his lead.

  Keedar chased after them, a sense of desperation rising at the prospect of losing the Brothers. “We need you in order to win. Please reconsider. You’re like them or used to be one of them. Perhaps you can convince them to give up their oath.”

  “They will close their minds to us, but to one such as you, they will not. If you touch theirs first.”

  Teeth gritted, Keedar decided on another approach. “You said I have your bond. I command you to help.”

  Eng scowled, the expression one of disdain. “The bond does not work that way. It makes us partial to you but does not make us slaves. We are free.” Eng strode away with the others in tow. They went among their kin. After a few moments they all removed their swords from their backs, stabbed them into the ground, and sat.

  With a sigh Keedar made his way down the hill. There had to be some other way to resolve this issue. He turned at the sound of padded feet. Winslow rode up on his massive hornbear.

  “Everyone but you and yours are ready.” Winslow nodded toward the Blighted Brothers. “What’s their problem?”

  “Remember the reserves out on the field? The ones in black robes? They’re Dra-codar.”

  “Yes. The Abandoned. The First-Born told me of them. A tale about dead Gods and Goddesses, and some oath.”

  “Well, the Brothers won’t fight unless I free the Abandoned of that oath.”

  “How are you supposed to do that?”

  “They claim it’s something Envald passed on to me.”

  “Then free them if you can. Without the Brothers, we lose.”

  “I would, if it were so simple a choice. Freeing the Abandoned will allow them to either help us or to defend the westerners.”

  Winslow looked at him askance. “We can’t afford such uncertainty at our backs. Not now.”

  “And yet if we do nothing, we’ll be defeated for certain.”

  Expression thoughtful, Winslow studied the Brothers. “Do you know how to free them?”

  “I just might, if my memory serves me right.”

  “So try. There’s not much time left if we’re to maximize the advantage of an ambush. As it is, we might be dead either way. I’ll let the others know what’s happening. I wish I could spare you some men in case this fails but we can’t afford it. Wait for us to charge, then do what you need to. However it goes, I hope to see you on the battlefield as soon as possible, brother.”

  “Same here.” Keedar nodded to his brother, their gazes locking for a moment, and then Winslow rode off to the massed army.

  He called to his ereskar driver, and while the soldiers loaded into the baskets he visited the Brothers. “I’ll go to them and say what I hope are the right words. For all of our sakes, pray they choose to fight for us.”

  Eng bowed and then rose to his feet. “We will watch and pray from atop the hill.” He yanked his sword from the ground, sheathed it over his shoulder, and then signaled to the others.

  Letting out a long resigned breath, Keedar made his way back to his ereskar. He climbed into the topmost seat and waited for the charge. Mounts stamped their feet, snarled, or growled with anticipation and impatience. Leather creaked, armor and weapons jangled. The soldiers were silent, expressions determined. On the breeze rode the clangor of war.

  Winslow, Stomir, Martel, and the First-Born were at the head of the army with rank upon rank of Dracodar and Aladar on armored giant hornbears, derins, and korgan cats. Kheridisians and Farish Islanders were on horseback. Winslow pointed and his bear leaped forward. The others surged after him, their departure quaking the ground.

  Sitting in the other basket near the ereskar’s neck, the driver yanked on the manifested chain reins. The animal ambled forward, pace easily matching the charge. Up the hill and down the other side, they ran, the army a flowing river to their left. Not one among the charging soldiers hooted o
r hollered, the commanders having impressed upon them the importance of surprise. Ignoring them for the moment, Keedar focused on the black-robed Abandoned. They had turned to face him.

  Each was taller than the average man. He couldn’t see within their hoods, nor discern anything of their actual appearance. His chest tightened, and it took an effort of will to suppress a sudden desire to ride the other way. Did he truly want to see them without their guises? What if they decided he was the enemy when he freed them? And could accomplishing the task be as simple as the words he thought he needed to say? The questions assaulted him until he stopped before the Abandoned.

  He became acutely aware of those unseen eyes regarding him. He wiped at sweat trickling down his forehead, the day abruptly too hot, the breeze absent, the battle a distant buzz. The fetid musk of Dracodar was thick in the air. “I’m here to speak to whomever leads you.”

  No response. Just the feeling of eyes hidden by black hoods.

  Recalling Eng’s words, he extended his sintu , forming a meld to brush their thoughts. He encountered great resistance, a wall formed by nimbuses to match or surpass the Blighted Brothers. And then it melted as if it hadn’t existed. First came impressions. The impressions formed words in his mind. They carried a sense of authority.

  When you speak to one, you speak to all.

  I was told I hold a bond to you, passed to me by someone you know, an agent, a man named Envald.

  The Wind. He is many things, but a man, he is not. You are his echo. What would you do with this bond?

  Free you.

  Do you know the words?

  Keedar took a slow breath. Sometimes you must abandon all you know to be free to fight. The Eternals’ blood is not on your han ds

  A flutter passed along Keedar’s soul so slight he almost missed it. But it was there. He received a sense of gratitude, relief, and a tinge of elation, but nothing else. No words.

  The Abandoned cast aside their black robes. Keedar gasped as the manifestation that had kept them hidden fell away. All of them were clothed in loincloths and roughspun tunics. They were Dracodar and Aladar of all shapes, sizes, and sex. More than half of them had grey scales. Others were half-breeds, skin mostly human with strips of scales along arms or legs or on the sides of faces much like birthmarks. A few had the complete appearance of men and women. Soul hovered around many, while some lacked its presence. Keedar had an inkling the absence was nothing more than the effects of the quintessence . He envied them.

  A humongous golden Dracodar, larger than any of the Blighted Brothers, regarded Keedar for a moment. Then he closed his eyes and turned slightly southwest, face held up to the sky. When he opened them again, he bounded away, the first leap taking him some twenty feet. The other Abandoned took off after him and they soon disappeared over the line of hills, heading farther into the western lands.

  Thank you.

  The thought was unexpected, but immediately he knew it was not from the ones who’d just left. Eng stood beside Keedar’s ereskar, the rest of the Brothers with him.

  Where did they go? Will they fight for us?

  Not today, but neither will they attack you.

  Keedar sighed. He’d hoped for another ally, and for scant moments the power he’d witnessed from the Abandoned made him think victory would be possible. Now, he’d wasted time, and still had no certainty as to their intentions. But at least he still had the Brothers.

  They did leave me with a warning for you.

  Keedar frowned at Eng. A warning?

  Stay away from the quintessence. It is more curse than blessing.

  Keedar pondered the words, but they made little sense to him. He had other, more important things to worry him.

  Out on the battlefield, Winslow’s forces had slammed into the backs of the westerners. The attack had worked, but the enemy numbers were so great they were able to respond and blunt the ambush’s impact. Winslow fought desperately, the ancient sword given to him by Thar cutting arcs through the air, his body completely transformed into golden scales. Keedar bellowed to his driver, commanding him to join the fray, while hoping Eng was right about the Abandoned.

  C rossed S words

  T he Empire was losing the battle. And the war with it. The thought curdled Ainslen’s insides.

  Soulguards and western melders were cutting down his Blades and soldiers. Count Lestin had fallen, and so had many others whose strength he’d relied upon. Discharges from firesticks and firebreathers were sporadic, the balls themselves not having the devastating effect around which he had planned his strategy. The Soulguards’ armor and shields were somehow able to deflect most, if not all the damage. The air stank of blood and offal. Men roared, cried, and screamed; animals brayed, neighed, and bellowed; steel rang on steel; melds crackled and exploded.

  So much had gone wrong, from his reliance on the Farlanders, to Seligula’s betrayal, to the Empire’s mightiest being surpassed in ability and numbers. Added to all that was the absence of the Kheridisians, the Farish Islanders, and the remainder of the Order.

  Yet, he couldn’t concede defeat. He wouldn’t surrender. The Empire would prevail. He believed it with all his heart no matter how dire the situation.

  Clothes soaked with sweat, and sullied with the blood of his foes, he peered up to the heavens. The sky was so clear the Dominion had to see what was transpiring. “I’ve been ever faithful to you, and you’ve blessed me with the reward of your chosen. You’ve listened to me time and again. Listen to me now. Show me the way.” He waited for a sign but none came. There was only the chaotic battle.

  His men rallied around his ereskar with Sabella at their head, the female Blade two times her normal size, smashing skulls and ribs with a huge mace. The ereskar used its tusks to mangle anyone in its way and would often squash enemies beneath its feet, braying and bellowing the entire time.

  Ainslen unleashed lightning, manifested pillars of stone that swept through enemy lines, summoned walls to block attacks, released waves of arrows and spears of pure soul, and even created a replica of a firebreather. On several occasions he manifested his namesake, the Wind Blade, hurling the creation of pure soul. It spun end over end, revolutions increasing until it was a blue blur that sliced through flesh and bone before he yanked it back to him on a thread-like tether of soul.

  Summoning Hagarath’s skill as the Blaze Blade, he scorched warriors where they stood, blew holes through them with fiery globes. He magnified his body like Fiorenta the Mountain Blade and coupled it with Sorinya’s Ebon Blade strength to decimate those who launched themselves in the air to him. He was the Wrath Blade, flames unfurling from him in a replica of Leroi’s fire whip. Still, for every score he killed, double their number swarmed forward, roaring defiance.

  Death meant nothing to them. It did not instill fear, did not encourage caution. If anything, it seemed to enrage them, to infuse them with some primal force he couldn’t begin to fathom.

  A shield-bearing Soulguard leaped above the mass of struggling men and women to land atop Ainslen’s ereskar. This too had become commonplace, quickly teaching him the weakness of direct soul against their armor and shields. Still, the king manifested a copy of his ancient sword, a weapon crafted from Dracodarian-forged steel. The original weapon he coated in soul to match its twin. Using a meld for ultimate balance, he dashed across the ereskar’s back to the Soulguard, swinging the swords.

  Ainslen struck, tapping on his speed as the Wind Blade. His hands blurred. The Soulguard dodged and parried as expected. Their weapons clashed time and again, ringing out each time. When Ainslen landed a blow on armor or shield, his melds wavered and almost shattered. It took a great effort of will and an increased infusion of soul to maintain the manifestations.

  With a sweeping blow from his shield the Soulguard knocked one of Ainslen’s weapons away. It spun out of the king’s outstretched hand. The man’s teeth showed in a smile, eyes within the full helm carrying the certainty of victory.

  Until the king’s sword
swung up from behind the Soulguard, still connected to Ainslen through a tether of soul. With an extra burst of manifested might Ainslen yanked on the tether. The weapon, the real Dracodarian-forged blade, punched through the man’s armor and burst from his chest in a spray of blood. A low gurgle escaped the dying man’s mouth.

  Ainslen whipped out his hand, flinging the weapon back the way it had come, while he kicked the Soulguard from atop the ereskar. The man fell and was lost in the chaos. Ainslen flicked his wrist and reeled in the blade, its hilt slapping into his palm. He sheathed it and shook his head, regretting the lack of an entire armory of the weapons with which to equip his men.

  But there was no time to wallow in what was not to be. A cohort of westerners on yuros had slammed into his army’s northern flank. Already several of his divisions were retreating before the onslaught. There was but one path to certain victory: killing High King Hemindel. Searching the tumult, Ainslen found him. Dressed in gilded armor, riding atop a massive yuro, and accompanied by four Soulguards, the High King was hacking a path through soldiers.

  “Thank you,” Ainslen whispered fervently, a smile crossing his face. “There,” he shouted to his driver and pointed, “get to them.”

  The Jophite yanked on the reins and sent the animal smashing through the enemy, many of whom died either flailing at the beast or attempting to evade it. Ainslen picked off as many as he could to help ease his passage. Sabella and several Blades followed in the wake of destruction.

  Progress, however, was short-lived. For all its size, the ereskar could suffer but so many wounds. With a plaintive cry, it slowed. Enemy warriors swarmed the animal, hacking and stabbing.

  He fought desperately, flinging melds as fast as thought. He slashed and chopped at any enemy close enough, the scent of blood and bowels, the ring of steel, and roar of men driving him. His chest burned with exertion but he refused to falter. The ereskar buckled beneath him.

  Sabella and a dozen Blades fought in pockets, trying their best to clear a space to Ainslen. The attempt was futile, the numbers they faced too overwhelming. Swallowing, he stared all around. He’d become so consumed by the chance to kill the High King that he’d rushed in headlong without thought. Now, there was a gulf between him and the brunt of his army and any hope of retreat.