CORRUPTED SOUL (SOCIETY'S SOUL Book 2)

by Amanda Twigg

  “Why did you come, Thisk?”

  He held his sword beneath his folded arms. “To do my job.”

  “And that includes checking in on me?”

  A pause. “It includes making sure you won’t cause trouble.”

  Oh shelk. “So, Father did send you?”

  “No, he doesn’t know I’m here. He ordered your arrest, but I helped you escape. I have to make sure that you won’t inflict more damage.”

  Only ever my guard. “So, you’re correcting your mistake.” Landra had thought of Thisk as a friend. The loss emptied her of fight. Don’t cry again. Cried enough.

  “Really, what are you going to do?” he asked.

  The future hadn’t been high in her thoughts. Her childhood desire to travel the cities didn’t hold appeal now, and her chances of becoming a Warrior had vanished. As for finding love, she couldn’t imagine wanting to touch anyone in that way now. A knot formed in her chest that wasn’t likely to ease.

  “I won’t cause trouble,” she said, and then Gallanto’s order came to mind. “I’m going to save our people.”

  She had no idea what her mission entailed or how to accomplish that feat. The magic power system was nearly depleted, but she was no engineer. Something about receiving instructions from her long-dead ancestor meant she had to try. Gallanto’s order was etched eternally on her Soul, like the law on his plaque.

  Pity softened Thisk’s weather-beaten features. “Think smaller.”

  “Smaller? Then, I want to come home.”

  His lips disappeared into tight line. “Everyone saw what you did, Landra. If you come back, it will start a war. Chief Hux will have to order your execution. Think smaller.”

  Wow. “I want to live,” she said, choking on the words. “Can I do that at least?” Tightness clamped her chest, and she sighed to release unwanted tears.

  Thisk hung his head. “I’m not going to pretend, soldier, it will be hard. The leaves have dropped, so you might have six weeks of safety left out here.”

  “Where else can I go?”

  “Nowhere in the city. Can you find the cavern again?”

  “No!” Landra’s firm answer made Thisk start. She wouldn’t return to the place of her misery, and Turgeth might be waiting.

  “There could be one way.”

  Landra didn’t like Thisk’s tone. “A way to live?”

  “To get back to the city.”

  Even better. Hope shoved her doubts aside. “How do I do that?”

  “The veteran you spoke of, Oakham. Didn’t he say you had red in your aura?”

  “I… Yes.” She’d never wanted her magic, but even now, she saw jagged patterns in Thisk’s aura, and they filled her with dread. Is that deceit? Are you manipulating me, Warrior Ranger Fourth Thisk? Are you just like Preston?

  “I heard that Templer crews trawl the underlevel in search of recruits, no questions asked,” he said. “If the magic’s in you, they take you up for training. Success gets you a new temple ranking pin. You’d be restricted to temple zones, but at least you’d be fed and out of the cold. You would survive.”

  Landra closed her eyes. Is this what it comes to? After all my fine dreams of becoming a Warrior, indulging in hated magic becomes my only option.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, not wanting to voice her doubts. She wasn’t certain magic could break through her grief anymore. Auras still shone, but Gallanto hadn’t appeared, despite the Collector being close. In a weak moment, she’d tried the hethra for a glimpse of home—nothing.

  “Don’t think too long. The council isn’t thrilled about criminals joining the temple. There’ll be a clampdown soon.”

  “Criminals like me?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I’ll probably just wander deep into the remote lands,” she said, knowing it meant death.

  The rigid lines in Thisk’s aura showed understanding. He straightened. “I have to return to the city tomorrow. Duty calls.”

  Landra’s fist rose to her mouth, and she was young again. “So soon?” She’d been enjoying their time together, more than she wanted to admit.

  “I don’t have a choice. I left a guard with Dannet, but I can’t be away for long.”

  This is how it has to be. Deal with it, Landra. She pulled her shoulders back. “It will feel good to know you are looking over my brother. Dannet is the chief elect now.”

  “In name.”

  “Is there any other way to be chief elect?”

  “That position is yours, Hux. I thought you understood. Once you took the knife from your father, succession was set. Only a challenge or your death can revoke it.”

  “So, what am I doing out here?”

  “I never said the chief elect can’t be executed for treason.”

  Treason? Wow. Landra felt overwhelmed by the injustice. “I don’t deserve this. What did I do that was so wrong?”

  “Leave the party. Face the soldiers waiting to ambush Dannet.”

  “They would have taken him, thinking he was the elect, Thisk. I couldn’t do that to my brother.”

  “You made the decision of a loving sister, but sacrificing yourself put our fragile peace at risk.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t have killed Preston either?”

  “He—”

  Landra didn’t allow him to finish. “He was a vengeful traitor, plotting to bring down the treaty, Father’s rule, and our entire world. I had to do it, Thisk.”

  The Warrior gave a rueful smile. “I know. Your decision secured our future for the next decade, and you did it for the sake of the people, regardless of consequences for yourself. Truthfully, that’s the moment I fully considered you worthy of being my chief elect. Not at the time, but in light of your report, that was the only loyal course.”

  She’d longed to hear those words from Thisk and wanted back her mentor’s regard, but the words changed nothing. “I still can’t come home.”

  He sighed and sheathed his sword. “We need wood. Split a few logs before you settle down for the night.”

  She nearly protested. Swinging an axe would pull on her wound more than wielding a sword, and they didn’t need more supplies, but Thisk knew what she really needed. She bundled up, went outside, and set to work. Splitting logs didn’t make her life better, but it distracted her from the pain.

  She slept a heavy rest of weariness that night until faces intruded. Preston turned away in disgust, allowing Turgeth to pummel her body. Mendog pushed him aside, and she couldn’t breathe. Her gasps sang into the room, increasing in volume with each tortuous exhalation. Mendog reached out, and her breath became a scream. The piercing noise started loud and then rose higher in a screech of despair.

  Thisk’s touch woke her, and she slapped him away. Her sweat-drenched blankets fell to the floor, and it took a moment to find peace. As she pulled the covers back into a cocoon, her darting eyes searched for danger. Without a word, the Warrior returned to the stove to warm his hands.

  Next morning, she climbed out of bed, still weary. Thisk waited at the table, fully padded up and ready to leave. Food was on the stove, a fire was in the hearth, and the Collector hung in his hand.

  “D’you want to come to the city limits with me?” he asked.

  Yes, yes, yes.

  She shook her head. “I can’t.” If I go that far, I’ll beg you to take me inside. Not the memory I want to leave you with. “There are things to attend here. I need to close the house against the coming winter, gather more herbs, and secure the cover for the log pile. Don’t want damp from snow to make the wood useless.”

  Thisk didn’t find any hint of a smile. He placed the Collector down on the table.

  “Please take it with you,” she said.

  His wandering aura asked questions. “Holding it doesn’t mean you have to kill again.”

  “I know. I’m finished with that, but the knife won’t be safe where I’m going.”

  He didn’t ask for details, but he set the Collector on the tab
le. “In case you change your mind. I have to take your pin, though, that third-year cadet insignia Preston gave you.”

  To make sure I can’t get back inside. She turned her jacket collar over and uncovered the two-bar cadet pin. As she handed it over, their eyes met.

  Don’t talk to me now. I want to be strong.

  He buried the pin in his sack, stood to attention, and saluted. “Chief Elect Hux.”

  Words caught too tight in Landra’s throat for her to reply. He didn’t wait for her to recover and left through the door. It clanged behind him, like prison bars slotting into place.

  She should have left it at that, but yearning made her run to the window. She watched Thisk’s back as he receded into the distance. Look around, just once. He never did.

  Shelk. Have to live with that now.

  Chapter 18

  After several days of consideration, Landra felt less inclined to succumb to a remote land death. Can sit here and freeze into a block of ice, or fight to survive.

  It took a good week to set the house right and gather supplies. Extra weatherproof clothing; thigh-high, double thickness boots; a collection of knives; a sleeping roll; and enough medicine to stem any infection lay before her.

  Should protect me in the shelk-hole underlevel until temple recruiters do a sweep. Don’t want to pass in heaps of puss. Better a knife to the heart. That thought shot steel up her spine.

  She organized the collection into a shoulder sack and stocked a smaller bag with food and water flasks. In a last moment change of mind, she dug the Collector out of her belongings. It could amplify her magic and increase her chances of temple acceptance, but the ceremonial blade usually delivered more trouble than it saved. Magic-imbued it might be, but the connotations of the Collector were all Warrior. It had no place where she was going.

  Should she hide it? Her eyes darted to a grain barrel and then to a roof beam where no one would think to look. In the end, she set it down on the table next to the stove. Thisk could reclaim the dratted thing on his next visit, and good riddance. No matter how right it felt to leave the weapon behind, turning away sent snakes wriggling through her gut.

  She secured the door, tugged on the log cover’s line to make sure it would hold, swung the packs high on her back, and set out for the city. A final memory of her time with Thisk intruded when she passed a knife blade rammed into a tree.

  Her arrival at the city perimeter met frost-silvered walls. She made the tricky climb to the overlevel and tried six different trapdoors before deciding they were all locked. Could knock and ask to be let in. It would take the guards by surprise. No one expected a soldier to head down to the underlevel—not willingly—but she guessed the encounter would end in a scrap and she had no energy left for hurting anyone.

  Woah. Arrogant. When did I decide I could take on guards and win?

  She relegated that option to a last resort and headed back down the ladder to the forest floor.

  Most of the wall’s wooden planks sank deep into the earth, like teeth in gums. She skirted the perimeter, hunting for gaps, but their good state of repair made breaking through impossible. At a point where the ground turned boggy, moving silt brought her to a halt. She spotted tempting holes below the wall ahead, and mud oozed beneath them as if remembering a river’s path. A testing step forward made her boot sink with a slurping pop. Shelk. I’m collecting more desperate options than good ones. Would it hurt if I caught a break?

  She dragged her leg free and stumbled, falling back on her bottom, but she couldn’t wallow. If the self-pity she’d walled up behind determination broke free, she was done. Clambering back to her feet, she brushed herself off and retraced her steps.

  Cold seeped through her clothes on the trek around the city, and she clenched her teeth against the ache it awoke in her leg. Just as it seemed like she might complete a circuit to the far side of the bog, a fault in the wooden structure came into view. Two panels stopped short of the ground, as if built wrong during the base’s construction.

  Too small to squeeze through. Staring didn’t make the gap any bigger, so she kneeled down and plunged her gloved fist into the gunk below the planks, trying to gauge how deep the hole went. Her fingers couldn’t reach the bottom.

  An uneasy mixture of caution and recklessness warred within Landra. She wanted to live. Why else come here? But she felt too pressed to add this new opportunity to her collection of last resorts.

  Awful risk to get somewhere I don’t want to go. Her heart charged into action. Feet first? Nah!

  She covered her head with the cloak, nipped her breath tight, and dove through the gap. Gods of the mist. That’s ice. She was committed now, but her planned swimming action became more of a squirm. At the first imagined sting of corrosive mud on her skin, her back jerked against the upper plank and caught. Stuck? Gods no. Don’t breathe. Ignoring the demands of her clamoring heart, she willed body to relax enough to bend, and more squirming pushed her forward. Her head cleared free of the mud pool and the far side of the wall, and her shoulders followed.

  Gods. Free. She struggled and dragged the sacks through before allowing her splutters to erupt. “Holy son of the shelking mist.”

  It wasn’t until Landra’s panicked breathing settled that she could take in her new situation. It could have been worse. She’d emerged onto a raised rock, amidst a sea of mud. She stripped her mud-clad outer garments away, pinched her gloves between two fingers, and held them out to watch the gunk drip free “Ugh.” They went into the swamp, along with her hat.

  Boots survived and the trousers, but the cloak is done for. She had one last job for the mud-heavy garment. She turned it inside out and used the clean side to wipe herself down, taking particular care around her face and eyes. Once she’d determined her jacket kept out the worst of the cold, the cloak followed her gloves and hat into the swamp.

  Well, I’m here, but does every small action have to be a trial? This is exhausting. Could’ve died in that hole. Not the best end for a chief elect.

  No matter how Thisk tried to declare her in that position, Landra couldn’t think of herself as chief elect. Had she ever thought herself worthy? She considered the skills that accompanied the grand title and found them inadequate for her current predicament. Packaging her fear and loss away again, she dug a spare hat and gloves from her sack and set her back against the wall. A straight route could only lead to the temple at the city’s center, so she didn’t bother checking a map before setting out.

  Taking the direct path proved easier said than done, but diversions around mud-slug bogs and along paths of solid ground didn’t stop Landra. She recognized her destination when a flight of wide stairs appeared. Solid doors barred the top, fencing the bottom, and temple walls stretched away from each side in a solid ring. A fortress.

  She’d visited the depleted magic well with Oakham, so picturing what lay beyond came easy: trees with magic-burned trunks, spluttering power licking roots, midlevel walkways overhead, and…

  Shelk. Gallanto’s plaque. Never thought to come back like this.

  Gramps’s absence came as a relief. What would he make of her new associates? She couldn’t reach the stairs because a mass of swampers blocked the route. The scabby wretches sprawled in the mud, trying to cling to the barrier at the bottom of the stairs. The scene was as hopeless as Landra had ever witnessed. A deathly smell and spasmodic wailing added to the atmosphere of despair.

  This was Landra’s future. Shelk. She glanced about, hunting for a decent spot to claim.

  A voice stole her attention. “You don’t belong here.”

  She searched the swampers to find the source. Too many people. Too many wrecks. They clung to rocks and huddled on pillars, but many more wallowed in the mire. Her gaze tracked over the group, unable to distinguish individual auras in the faint, blue mass. A deeper blue aura caught her attention, and the robed owner had his grey-whiskered face turned up in her direction.

  She wanted to agree with thightly re old man, but
a sad sigh pushed through her lips, and her stare locked on his puss-filled sores.

  “Tell me about it,” she said, but inside she was dying.

  Unfortunately, I do fit in. I’m one of you now.

  Chapter 19

  “You here to die?” the aged swamper asked.

  This wasn’t a conversation Landra wanted, and her stomach churned. Up close, she flinched at the sight of sores on the wretch’s scalp, which oozed more puss through thinned strands of grey hair. Dead man talking. Infection’s caught hold.

  “I’m here for the temple,” she said.

  “Oh.” He reached up from where he wallowed to tug on her jacket. “Fine cloth, that, girl. You a ranger?”

  She yanked away. “No. Don’t do that. I don’t like being touched.” His attention made her uncomfortable, so she sidled around the edge of the swamper group to escape.

  The old man creaked to his feet and followed. “You a thief, then? Cos that’s ranger wear, for sure.”

  “No!” She pierced him with an indignant stare. His stringy beard matched the hair on his head, giving him a wild look that she didn’t want to face. There was so much suffering down here, grief near filled her up. If she didn’t stay strong, she might break apart.

  “Well, what are you then, girl? Beneath those muddy clothes, you look fit and well. My guess is not a lick of mud reached inside that jacket or your boots. You a spy, here to check on us swampers? Report on numbers and the like?”

  “I’m none of those things,” Landra said. “I just came prepared.”

  “I’ll say. Looks like a month’s worth of credits on your back. Give me your boots, girl. If you’re here to die, might as well help an old man out.”

  Now, she turned to really look at her heckler. His annoying words had changed into a demand and had the potential to turn into a threat. Like you can fight with those stringy arms. His skeletal frame showed weeks of starvation, and firm boots against his feet would likely break open more sores.