Soulbinder

by Sebastien de Castell

  I looked over the ledge. Butelios had dropped a good two hundred feet before Tournam’s ribbons had caught him, but the enfeebled tendrils were struggling to keep him from falling further into the abyss. The bald monk grabbed at uncertain handholds in the rock face, straining to climb back up even with the support of the ribbons.

  I patted Tournam on the shoulder. “Looks slippery down there. You’d best hold on tight.”

  The glare he shot me could’ve frozen the sun right out of the sky. “You little bastard. You want me to save him so we’ll both be too weak to pursue you.”

  I ran back to fill my pack with what few supplies I could find. “Sorry about that, but you shouldn’t’ve made me leave my business partner behind.”

  “A squirrel cat? A God-damned squirrel cat? For the sake of some filthy rodent you’re going to make enemies of the Ebony Abbey?”

  I shouldered my pack. “You know something, friend? Most of the world already insists on trying to kill me. They would’ve finished the job too, if it hadn’t been for that particular rodent.” I headed off, away from the cliff. “So what’s a few more enemies?”

  Tournam kept yelling at me. I’m pretty sure he would’ve killed me then and there if he weren’t desperately hanging on to Butelios. I can’t say my step felt light as I entered the forest, but at least I was free. It would take a long while before my captors would be able to begin searching for me.

  That, friends, is what we call a break.

  I spent the next hour trudging through the snowy trees, stopping every dozen yards or so to go back and set false trails going in all different directions, the way I’d seen Ferius do when we’d been on the run in places that, while not snow-covered, had enough in common that I figured the same techniques would work. Eventually I decided it was time to head for my true destination.

  Having against all odds managed to pull off a decent stall and a solid break, it was time for the twist.

  I felt it was a safe bet that once Tournam had gotten Butelios back up the cliff, they wouldn’t even try to come after me. Instead they’d walk to the abbey to get help. While I had no idea how populated the Ebony Abbey was, I doubted anyone builds a monastery at the top of a mountain just to house a couple of monks. So pretty soon the passes would be filled with shadowblack brethren, seeking to hunt me down before I could find my way back to the Golden Passage. They’d be searching a long time.

  Despite appearances (and history, I suppose), I’m not a complete idiot. There was no way I could outrun a bunch of crazed monks—especially if they knew where I was headed. Since they likely knew all the paths down the mountain and I didn’t, I needed to head for the one place they would least expect me to go: the abbey itself.

  Once the bulk of the monks had cleared out to hunt for me, I’d sneak inside, steal enough supplies for my journey and then follow my pursuers from a safe distance. Since the bottom of a mountain is obviously bigger than the top, the lower we got, the more places there would be for me to hide until I could make a break for it. Eventually I’d find somewhere to buy or steal a horse and then make the trek back to the Golden Passage. My enemies would not only have failed to catch me, they’d have shown me the way off this ancestors-damned mountain and provided me with the supplies for my journey.

  See? That’s why the third part of a successful escape is called the twist.

  13

  The Twist

  I once asked Ferius if there was ever a fourth stage to a getaway plan. She responded by taking a puff from her smoking reed and blowing it out her nose. “Three’s plenty for any proper escape, kid. You find yourself needin’ a fourth, it means you’re in deep trouble.”

  By the time I got my first look at the Ebony Abbey, I had no doubt whatsoever that a fourth step was going to be required.

  This being the top of a mountain, I’d been expecting some kind of loose collection of log cabins or huts or something. Instead, from my precarious vantage point swaying atop the tallest and sturdiest tree I could find at the edge of the forest, what I saw took my breath away. Seven gleaming obsidian towers rose more than a hundred feet above the curtain wall, itself over fifteen feet high and travelling a good mile around the circumference of the abbey. Onyx pathways traversed three separate courtyards and linked enough two- and three-storey buildings to house an entire village. Outside the front gates, a glossy black stone path stretched out like a snake’s tongue, inviting you to come inside.

  How had anyone been able to engineer such a colossal edifice in secret? Where had they quarried so much black stone? Who had lugged it all the way up this mountain, and how did they supply themselves with enough grain, meat, timber and other provisions?

  I climbed back down the tree—which turned out to be harder than climbing up—and, once I’d caught my breath, resumed my painfully slow trek to the abbey. I was lucky that the forest was thick enough to give me cover as I walked all the way around. Ferius says castles are like horses: majestic from the front, but vastly less appealing from the rear. That’s because any large enclosed space filled with people produces a lot of waste (not unlike the rear end of a horse), and it has to come out somewhere. Regrettably, that somewhere is usually the best avenue for sneaking in and out.

  An hour of casing the abbey rewarded me with the entrance to a remarkably well-built sewage tunnel opening out over the side of a cliff not unlike the one where I’d stranded Tournam and Butelios. I stashed my supplies in the snowy underbrush and proceeded to climb down twelve feet of rocky outcropping without the benefit of a rope to land unsteadily at the edge of the tunnel. From there, I made a very unpleasant journey in darkness.

  It turns out that the defecation of holy people smells at least as bad—and possibly slightly worse—as that of the profane. Eventually, though, I passed beneath the abbey’s curtain wall and found myself in a network of less disgusting tunnels that connected the various towers and buildings to the sewer. I walked along, periodically looking up through gratings to stare into storage rooms, kitchens and two separate libraries. It wasn’t until I got to a grating that must have been near the centre of the abbey grounds that I saw any people.

  Actually, I didn’t see them so much as notice the pools of their blood pouring down the grating in front of me. That’s when I started hearing the screams.

  The soles of boots and sandals slapped frantically against the ground above my tunnel. Men and women fled, shouting words I didn’t recognise. There was just enough light in the tunnel for me to make out another grating some fifteen feet along a smaller duct to my right, with an iron ladder leading up to it. I ran there and climbed up. The grate was attached to hinges, and despite the fact that a sane person usually runs in the other direction from such things, perverse curiosity made me want to discover what was causing all this chaos.

  When I pushed up the metal grille enough to poke my head above ground, I saw a dozen men and women dressed in black robes, their shadowblack markings winding out in ribbons as they wrapped themselves around the limbs of a thing so mammoth in size and horrifying in appearance that I couldn’t tear myself away.

  The creature had horns on its head, but instead of one or two horns, like on the old Mahdek masks that used to terrify my own people, it had six. In a hideous symmetry, six limbs extended from its torso: four arms and two legs. The enormous chest heaved like a bellows and its enormous jaws tore into the flesh of a dying man who, despite his clearly mortal wounds, was struggling to free himself. Judging by the pile of at least a dozen dead behind the creature, I doubted he’d have much success.

  My people believe the shadowblack to be a conduit by which demons will one day manifest themselves into our world and use the power of the mages they’ve infected to bring untold horrors upon us all. Ferius considers that nothing more than folk tale and superstition.

  Turns out Ferius doesn’t know squat.

  14

  The Fourth Step

  My education on the subject of battling demonic forces had up till then been limite
d to three sources: Jan’Tep theories on the nature of cross-planar entities, borderland folk tales shared by tavern drunks eager to keep you refilling their cups, and my own natural aptitude for deductive reasoning. All three were telling me to run like hell.

  I felt certain I was on solid ground with this conclusion; I had no relationship to any of the abbey folk, with the possible exceptions of Tournam and Butelios who weren’t exactly fond of me. Furthermore, my entire plan had involved using chaos and confusion to facilitate my escape. Even I had to admit that a monstrous, six-limbed demon eating everyone in sight was a more effective distraction than pushing some guy off a cliff.

  I turned to head back down the tunnels beneath the curtain walls and away from the demon’s roars and the screams of the dying and soon-to-be-dead, determined not to join them. It was only when I heard a third sound that I stopped in my tracks. A crying child.

  Who the hell brings a kid to a place like this?

  I took a step back and glanced up through the grating to find a pale, skinny leg. A boy of maybe five or six stood there, his limbs trembling so hard it made the grate creak against its hinges. He didn’t run though, just kept shaking uncontrollably. I recognised that particular impediment, having experienced it myself many times. The boy was frozen with fear.

  “Kid, run!” I shouted.

  He didn’t respond. Well, not with words anyway. A cloying, caustic smell reached my nostrils just before a stream of urine came down the boy’s leg and through the grate. He was pissing himself. I jumped back and shouted at the top of my lungs, “Don’t just stand there! Run!”

  “Oh no,” the boy moaned. “Oh no.”

  It wasn’t immediately clear whether it was fear of imminent demise or shame at the loss of bladder control that had prompted his words. I’ve pissed myself on several occasions and I can’t recall which was the stronger impulse.

  “Boy!” I called out again, this time in an impression of the clear, commanding voice my father had always used with me when he wanted to force my body to act even if my brain wouldn’t. “You will turn around and run from this courtyard. Now!”

  Either he didn’t hear me, or I didn’t sound very threatening, because he just kept standing there, urine trickling down his leg. The shrieks and shouts from the courtyard were getting louder, which meant the monks were losing and it was past time for me to go.

  So why wasn’t I running as fast my legs would carry me?

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  I started back up the ladder. Annoying bloody Ferius Parfax. “Nobody gets to choose their cards, kid,” I imagined her scolding even over the din, “Only thing to do is decide how to play the ones you got.”

  The latch keeping the grate shut was on the outside. Fortunately the last few months hadn’t exactly been a time of frequent feasting for me, so my forearms were skinny enough to slip through. I slid the bolt and started pushing on the grate. The kid was still standing on it, but he was small and light enough that he just tumbled over. I climbed up until my waist was at ground level, tried not to look at the carnage or hear the screams and grabbed hold of the boy. He screamed and kicked at me of course.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I promised him. “I’ll get you out of here!”

  He was clawing with his hands at the ground, trying to keep me from pulling him into the sewer. I was afraid he’d break his own fingers. “Let go!” I yelled. “I’m trying to help you!”

  Then he sobbed something that made my day much, much worse. “What about the others?”

  “The others?” Only then did I hear the lighter, higher voices among those screaming for mercy. I turned to see the demon towering over black robes stained red from the dead at his feet, then watched as the creature took its first step towards an alcove on the far side of the courtyard where a dozen boys and girls huddled together, holding on to each other, waiting for the end.

  15

  The Epitaph

  I pushed myself up and out of the sewer entrance, then grabbed hold of the kid, forcing him to let go, and lowered him down. He landed poorly and gave a yelp that meant he’d sprained his ankle. A more capable rescuer would’ve done the job without injuring the person I was supposed to be saving, but I didn’t have much practice at being heroic. “Stay down!” I ordered him, then turned to face the enemy.

  What in the name of all my lousy ancestors am I doing? This thing is twelve feet tall and clearly unimpressed by the bevy of monks who’ve already died trying to stop it. What’s my grand plan?

  In the Jan’Tep tales of my childhood heroes never bothered with plans, because by the time the brave young mage faced his enemy, he or she had already learned the fantastical spell along the way that just happened to be the perfect way to destroy the monster. So far all I’d gotten on this trip was a nasty cold.

  My list of demon-fighting strategies being rather limited, I opted for the tactic best suited to both my skills and temperament: distraction followed by a very speedy retreat. Taking a run towards the demon, I popped open the leather case attached to my trouser leg. First up was a little slicing and dicing. I drew a half-dozen of the razor-sharp metal cards and sent them spinning at the demon’s head. For such light objects, they fly remarkably well. The first three missed—one bouncing off the edge of the alcove and actually hitting the foot of one of the poor kids huddling against the wall. He stared back at me with an expression that somehow managed to convey both abject terror and being mildly pissed off at me. Hey, you try throwing a card at a demon’s head when your arms are shaking and your legs are desperately trying to convince you to go in the other direction.

  Thankfully the next three hit their mark and bit deep into the back of the demon’s skull. A steel card embedded in your enemy’s flesh makes for a perversely satisfying sight. Too bad I didn’t get more time to enjoy it.

  The demon let out a growl that I was pretty sure came from annoyance rather than actual pain. As the massive blackened skull turned towards me, I ran around the other side. With only a couple of pinches of powder left in my pouches, I’d have to pick my target carefully. You might expect that would be the demon’s eyes or mouth, but trust me, most creatures do a pretty good job of shielding those especially vulnerable parts of the body. Besides, my priority here was enraging the beast enough to make it lose interest in the kids and focus his ire on … Well, I’d figure that part out later.

  This close, I could see the thick carpet of short, almost viscous hairs that covered the demon’s body, which made it impossible to ascertain if it even had the particular bodily apparatus required for my next trick. With neither time nor desire to investigate thoroughly, I aimed for where the target ought to be and left the rest to hope. I tossed the powders up in the air, formed the somatic shapes for the spell and uttered the incantation. “Carath,” I said, enunciating the word more heavily than necessary. Then again, the one thing you do not want to do when casting a spell is stutter.

  The explosion thundered through the courtyard as the twin red and black fires followed the line of my fingers to their destination. I heard a scream then; a howl that carried with it all the infernal depths of a demon’s fury. Turned out the creature did have the requisite body parts.

  Ancestors, I thought, as the monster spun around to find me with what appeared to be five angry red eyes. If I’m about to die, let my epitaph be this: “Kellen, son of Ke’heops, exile of the Jan’Tep, outlaw and spellslinger. He once blasted a demon in the testicles.”

  16

  The Shadows

  First came the roar, a ground-shaking thunder that carried with it the most noxious scent ever to assault my nostrils—and I’ve slept next to a squirrel cat after he’s eaten too many butter biscuits following on from a dinner of two-day-old rabbit carcass. Trust me, demon’s breath smells even worse. Though perhaps it was the bits of dead monk inside its jaws that were to blame.

  The lashing of tails came next. That’s right, tails. The grotesque creature had not one but three. Now I’m no expert in either
demons or zoology, but I really feel it’s unfair for any beast to have a triad of separately prehensile barbed appendages, each one sharp enough and powerful enough that when they struck the onyx flagstones of the courtyard, shards of black stone went flying.

  I leaped out of the way as best I could, my cheek feeling the wind as a tail’s spiky end nearly took off my right ear. Ferius performs these remarkable shoulder rolls that not only get her out of danger but also manage to propel her into the perfect position for a counter-attack. Me? I bashed the top of my head on the ground and flopped onto my back before rolling onto my belly and pushing myself to my feet.

  I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.

  The children, apparently having completed their assessment of my heroic abilities, unleashed ear-splitting screams that did me no good whatsoever. Those monks who weren’t yet dead staggered around in dazed confusion, their shadowblack markings looking soft, almost withered. They kept their distance, content to let me take the brunt of the monster’s ire for now, prudently reasoning that allowing the creature to tear me apart would give them extra time to recover their strength.

  As for the demon, he (though I didn’t know demon anatomy well enough to be sure—I inferred the “he” from the now-charred dangling bits between his legs) had thus far demonstrated only one virtue: he was slow. Not oh-I’ll-just-race-around-him-throwing-cards-into-his-weak-spots sort of slow. More oh-I’ll-really-see-it-coming-when-he-eats-me slow. I was dodging pretty quickly, all things considered, but doubted I could keep it up for long. I was going to need a little help.

  “Suzy,” I whispered.

  It’s actually quite hard to whisper while your lungs are pumping and you’re running this way and that, trying to keep from being crushed. But whisper magic requires a kind of patient emotional focus that you can’t get from shouting.