Soul of the Prophet: The Elder of Edon Book I

by David Angelo

  “The second battle of Dar-Akan,” Rixis said, pointing at the ceiling. “It happened late in the Edonion civil war, just before the Faranchie forces surrendered. Over forty-two hundred Faranchies died on that day alone, making it the bloodiest day in the entire conflict. There I am over there.” Rixis pointed to a Cullidon clad in heavy, ornate armor, standing atop a stack of dead Faranchies with his arms at his side.

  “You—you were in that—?” Huac said.

  “Yes, of course,” Rixis replied, before Huac could complete his sentence. “I must have killed ninety Faranchies on that day alone. After the battle, I went around and chopped some of the fingers off the deceased…and gave them to a tailor.” Rixis motioned to the curled claws that lined his collar.

  “So, that—that’s what those—those are,” Huac replied.

  “Indeed,” Rixis replied. “I hope to add the next prophet’s finger to it when the moment is right. Speaking of which…”

  They continued down the marble hall, their shoes clicking on the polished floor, before stopping in front of the doors to an office similar to the one they had just exited.

  “Beyond this door,” Rixis said, “is a guard named Shyafly, one of the only members of Darancho’s protection unit who survived the attack three weeks ago. But there’s something…different about this survivor, which you are about to see.”

  Rixis knocked twice on the door of the office very slowly, then three times in quick succession. Immediately, the door was opened by a guard on the other side, allowing Rixis and Huac to enter. Shyafly sat in the center of the room, tied to a chair with his hands cuffed behind his back and two armed guards standing behind him. He wore nothing but a pair of leather pants, leaving his chest bare. There appeared to be a strange mark on his chest, like a burn.

  “Rixis,” Shyafly groaned, rocking back and forth, “I told you everything I saw. They came, they killed everyone, and one of them ran Darancho through the gut.”

  “I’m aware,” Rixis replied, pulling up a chair and taking a seat across from Shyafly. “I just want to ask you a few questions so that Huac here can add it to the record.”

  One of the guards handed Huac a piece of paper and a quill dipped in ink. After Huac made himself ready at a nearby desk, Rixis began his questions.

  “What did Darancho’s killer look like?”

  “He was red with blue markings.”

  “And?”

  “He had a long spike coming out of the back of his head, along with some spiny frills over his eyes.”

  “How old would you reckon he was?”

  “Twenty, perhaps a little younger. He was the youngest of the group.”

  “Speaking of the group,” Rixis said, giving Huac time to catch up, “who else was there?”

  “Oh, there were so many,” Shyafly replied, shaking his head. “The commander was black and white and had these two shells on the top of his head.”

  “Wahsmit…” Rixis whispered to himself. “Go on.”

  “There was a blue one, who seemed to be the oldest, and he had two short swords.”

  “That would be Rocklier. Anyone else?”

  “There was a green one who didn’t seem to feel any pain, a yellow one with a large gun, and an orange one with a horrible chain whip. Then there was a mixed breed, a female, with a large bow and arrow.”

  “That would be Wahsmit’s bitch,” Rixis said with a slight laugh. “He sure knows how to pick ’em.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you this, Rixis?”

  “Until I’m satisfied,” Rixis replied. “Also, you forgot to tell me what Darancho’s killer was using during the battle.”

  “It was some sort of bronze weapon,” Shyafly said, “with four claws, and it fit around the hand—”

  “Ahh,” Rixis said, nodding his head. “So he likes the claws of fate, does he? I haven’t seen a pair of those in ages. The Faranchies used to use them all the time, especially during the civil war. As I recall, it takes a very trained expert to wield a pair, which is quite rare these days.” Rixis looked over his shoulder at Huac. “Add extra emphasis to that last remark, would you?” He turned back to Shyafly. “Anyway, Darancho’s killer was also the one who gave you this, right?” Rixis pointed to the mark on Shyafly’s chest.

  “Yes,” Shyafly replied. “It felt like scalding-hot metal against my skin.”

  “What did he say it was?” Rixis asked.

  “He said it was the mark of the Dragon Storm,” Shyafly replied.

  “Did he say why he branded you?”

  “He wanted me to show it to all the members of parliament,” Shyafly replied, “including Scaljon, and to tell them that they’re all next.”

  “Are we?” Rixis asked.

  “I—”

  “That was rhetorical,” Rixis replied. “Of course we’re not next. If he thinks he can strike fear into my heart, then he’ll be surprised to hear that I don’t have one.”

  Huac turned to Rixis. “Sir, I’m run-run-running out of room.”

  “Hang in there,” Rixis replied. “I have just one more question.” Rixis leaned toward Shyafly, narrowing his eyes in a sharp ruby stare.

  “Did anyone say what the killer’s name was?” Rixis asked.

  “I think…” Shyafly said, “if I can remember correctly, his name was Fin.”

  Rixis smiled, showing his pointed white teeth, and laughed an evil cackle. “I’ve heard that name before,” he replied, running his tongue over his lips. “Place an asterisk next to that name, would you, Huac, and then add all of Fin’s record to this report, all of it. When generations of Cullidons study this conflict, I want them to know everything about the dragon who killed Darancho.”

  Pleased, Rixis stood up and addressed Shyafly.

  “Your work for the Cullidon assembly is appreciated,” Rixis said, “but I’m afraid I can’t let you go.”

  “Why?” Shyafly gasped.

  “Because you work for the church,” Rixis explained, “and I just dissolved the church’s authority. Everything that every leader of the church, from the moment of its inception until now, has said has been revealed to be a lie, and because you were protecting a church leader, you protected a lie against the state. Therefore, you are guilty of treason against the state.”

  “No!” Shyafly cried, rocking back and forth in his chair.

  “Oh yes,” Rixis said with a grin. “This means that your rights as a dragon no longer exist, and we have the right to do to you what we please. This leads me to my final request…”

  Rixis held up his right hand and extended his index finger. Before everyone’s eyes, the claw began to grow to the length of a hawk feather. Its point was like that of a needle and its serrated edges as sharp as the blade of a knife.

  “I want to add that burn mark to the record,” Rixis said, pointing the claw at Shyafly’s chest.

  “No, please!” Shyafly begged. “I’ll do anything! I’ll renounce my vows. I’ll become your slave…”

  “Hold him down,” Rixis commanded the guards, who grasped the sides of Shyafly’s chair. “You might want to cover your ears, Huac,” he warned as he bent down in front of Shyafly and brought his claw closer to the burn mark. “Scaljon warns me that your hearing hasn’t been good lately.”

  Rixis proceeded to drive the point of his claw into the skin of Shyafly’s chest before cutting a circle around the burn mark as slowly as he could, trying to keep from ruining its perfect image. All the while, Shyafly screamed, harder than he had when he was branded. When Rixis was finished cutting, his claw shrank back to its normal size, and he peeled off the piece of blood-soaked skin.

  “Take this,” Rixis said to one of the guards, “have it stretched and dried, and then give it to Huac so he can add it to the record.”

  One of the guards reluctantly took the piece of skin, being careful not to let the blood drip onto the floor, and carried it into the hallway.

  “Kill me…” Shyafly begged. “Just make it stop!”

&nbs
p; “Come on, Huac,” Rixis said, wiping the blood off his hand with a handkerchief. “Our work here is done.”

  “You bastard…” Shyafly whimpered. “May the Elder burn you to a crisp.”

  “And you there,” Rixis said to the remaining guard, “put this pathetic fool out of his misery before his cries alert the entire palace.”

  Rixis and Huac departed from the office and closed the door, just as the guard was pulling the hammer back on a loaded flintlock pistol. The muffled sounds of Shyafly’s cries of pain echoed into the hall, followed quickly by a sudden bang, and then silence.

  “Now that that’s over with,” Rixis said, putting an arm around Huac’s shoulder, “some Faranchie whores are coming to the palace in a few days. They’re twin sisters, I think. All I know is that they’re fresh, young, and there are enough to go around. Care to partake?”

  “I-I-I don’t u-usually par-par-partake in those types of activities.”

  “That’s what Scaljon told me,” Rixis said. “That you’re a bit of a workaholic who sacrifices his own desires for the sake of the kingdom. But the work you accomplished today was beyond your call of duty, and I think you deserve a break. Besides, members of my inner circle get the best, purest of samples the denizens of the countryside can produce. So what do you say?”

  “I’ll take that—that, in-into con-consideration.”

  “As I expected,” Rixis said. “I’ll have one delivered to your room when they arrive.”

  25

  NOT FAR FROM THE capital city, on a deserted stretch of dirt road that cut through thick woodland, a rickety old wagon, manned by a pair of Cullidons, creaked its way to Sebeth. The driver, a man named Crues, yawned as the wagon splashed through a stagnant rain puddle, spraying the sides with a new coating of dirty water. On this overcast morning, just after sunrise, the driver and his mate battled the desire to close their eyes. Occasionally, the driver shook himself to stay awake, though the gloomy day and the repetitive movement of the cart made it difficult to do so. Their third companion, a fat Cullidon with a greasy face, snored loudly from inside the cart. Even their horse looked tired; the poor mare had been walking since dawn.

  “Not much longer, girl,” Crues said, patting the horse’s neck. “Then you can take a nice long nap in the Diet’s stable, while I take a nice hot soak in a bathhouse.” The driver turned to his partner. “Ya know, Togo, before agreeing to work on Rixis’s behalf, I used to ask the Elder for energy during long rides like this one. But I guess I can’t do that anymore, huh?”

  “Rixis doesn’t care who you pray to,” Togo said, rubbing his eyes. “You can talk to the big lady in the sky all you want. But considering what you do for a living, I’m surprised that you talk to her at all.”

  “What I do for a living?” Crues replied. “May I remind you that you’re in this with me, buddy. Hell, you’re in charge of this shindig. I’m just here because you don’t know how to use a damn map.”

  “Sure,” Togo replied. “But keep in mind that you’re just as responsible as I for what is lying beneath this cart.”

  The driver rolled his eyes and looked ahead as the wagon approached a bend in the road.

  “Remind me again why we’re not taking a more direct route to the capital?” the driver asked.

  “It’s safer,” Togo grumbled. “That’s why.”

  “Since when?” Crues asked. “I thought this was the reason we did this sort of thing at night, so it wouldn’t arouse suspicion.”

  Togo sighed. “Don’t you read the newspaper?” he said, looking at the hands on a watch that dangled out of his pocket. “Don’t you know what’s been happening on the main roads, particularly at night, which might make this method more desirable?”

  “Oh, I see,” Crues said after a long pause. “You’re trying to avoid the Children of the Dragon Storm.”

  “Bingo,” Togo said, tucking his watch away. “There have been eight attacks in the last three weeks, all of them on the main roads leading to Sebeth, and every one of them happened at night. Plus, the targets of the attacks were coaches driven by Cullidons who, like us, were performing shady tasks in the name of the Imperial Parliament of Edon. Therefore, by reason of deduction, I think it’s safer for us to stick to the byways at an hour when our only company is the early birds.”

  “I’m pretty sure we’re safe now,” Crues said, looking around at the trees that loomed over either side of the road. “We’re miles outside of the resistance’s stomping ground. Even if we did cross onto the main road at the next fork, I think we’d be all right.”

  “Don’t be so sure of yourself,” Togo replied. “They can be anywhere, at any time. And from what I know, they’re none too kind to people in our profession.”

  “If you say so,” Crues said. “I still think you’re being a little obsessive, though. I mean, they can’t take out every trafficker on their way to Sebeth, not at their size.”

  “I suppose not,” Togo said. “But you can never be too safe.”

  The wagon turned the bend and started down a stretch of road that gradually narrowed. It was a few more miles before they caught sight of a hooded figure standing motionless in the middle of the road. As the wagon approached, they could see that the figure was a Faranchie in an old burlap cloak, its red tail dragging on the ground beneath the frayed strings of fabric. It looked like the Faranchie was either very old or very drunk, or both, since he seemed to sway back and forth, using a cane or a walking stick to support himself. He didn’t even notice the sound of the wagon as it approached from behind. Unable to pass the Faranchie on either side, the driver pulled up on the reins and brought the wagon to a halt.

  “Hey, you!” Crues called. “Get out of the way!”

  But the Faranchie didn’t seem to hear them.

  “This isn’t good,” Togo said, reaching for the pistol at his side.

  “Would you relax?” Crues said impatiently. “One minor snag and you’re already shitting yourself.”

  “I still don’t like it,” Togo said. “It could be a trap, for all we know.”

  “Or it could be the village idiot out for his morning stroll,” Crues replied.

  “Where is there a village?” Togo asked. “The nearest town is miles away.”

  “Well, maybe he’s a homeless guy living in the woods. Why don’t you ask him, if you’re so interested?”

  “Well, I’m not the one who’s going to talk to him,” Togo said. He glanced back at their fat companion.

  “Hey, Grog,” he said, but only got a snore in response. Annoyed, Togo swung his leg around the back of the wagon and kicked Grog in the side of his belly.

  Grog awoke and flashed an angry look at Togo. “What the hell?”

  “Rise and shine, lard ass,” Crues said. “I need you to get this moron out of the road so we can keep moving.”

  “Why don’t you get him out of the way yourself?” Grog growled.

  “Because while Togo and I have been awake since the crack of dawn, keeping this cart moving, you slept like the bloated sack of shit that you are. Now get up and get this son of a bitch out of the way before I cut you up and make bacon out of your jowls.”

  “Fine!” Grog said, pulling himself up and over the edge of the wagon. “Don’t get your panties in a knot.”

  Grog waddled around to the front of the wagon and approached the Faranchie, who remained oblivious to his and everyone else’s presence.

  “Hey, freak!” Grog called. “Get out of the way. Do you hear me? I said—”

  “I hear you, Kemp,” the Faranchie said, not bothering to turn around. “I know he’s coming up behind me, and I’m prepared.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Grog replied, reaching out to grab the Faranchie’s shoulder.

  Before Grog could even lay a hand on the burlap fabric, Fin whirled around in a blaze of fury, his cloak flying off his shoulders, his claws of fate ready to slice his attacker to ribbons. Fin stopped just shy of Grog’s jugular, the edge of his claw resting agains
t the greasy blob of flesh, under which lay the sensitive vein. Togo went for his gun, while a terrified Grog slowly reached for a pistol that was tucked into the side of his belt.

  “Careful, Bubba,” Fin said. “Don’t act like I don’t see what you’re doing. Do so much as scratch your dick, and I’ll bleed you like a side of mutton. That goes for all of you, including you two up there. Unless you want to see fatso’s insides spread out across the road, I suggest you keep your guns in your pants.”

  Togo’s hand froze inside his jacket, his fingers hovering over his gun. Slowly, he took his hand out of his coat and showed Fin his empty palm. He raised his hands in the air.

  “Told you it was a trap,” Togo whispered to the driver, who still clutched the reins of his horse.

  “Just be calm,” Crues said. “And before we go out guns blazing, see if you can bargain with him first.”

  “Why the hell do I have to bargain with him?” Togo asked.

  Fin peered over Grog’s shoulder. “You know I can hear you, right?”

  Crues gritted his teeth. “Just do it. You know how to do it better than I do.”

  Togo shifted in his seat and tried to play it cool. “What can I do for you, my young sir?”

  “Drop the bullshit,” Fin barked. “There’s something in your carriage that I’m looking for, something you stole that, according to a dream I had a few nights ago, is being delivered to someone very important.”

  Togo’s feigned confidence faded in an instant. “Fuck,” he said under his breath. “He’s got us by the balls.”

  “I heard that!”

  “If it would be of any convenience,” Togo said, his voice trembling, “I would gladly let you search the inside of my humble cart. But you will be disappointed, because you see, this cart of mine only contains our overnight gear and food preserves, all of which was purchased legally. I know not of any stolen goods that you claim to know—”