Soul Hosts

by Joseph Isaacs

  Chapter 6

  The Last Wolf Ride

  ‘He started it.' The argument of four-year-olds and four-thousand-year olds alike- Solita

  --

  After delivering Night's food the following evening, Wayden approached Anaz's door. He pressed his ear against the thick wood, and was rewarded by the sound of the Mantu woman's voice again. "…the Tulkarian's consciousnesses and put them in there."

  "We can't yet, Queranos,” Anaz said. “Not without a Three Moons' Night."

  “Then we must be patient. We have to prevent the juncture on the field.”

  “At any cost.”

  Wayden shifted his weight slightly. The floorboards groaned.

  "Do you hear something?” Anaz asked. “I swear, if it's that Toast again, prophecy or not, I'll teach him a lesson."

  Silently cursing himself, Wayden jumped over the rail, and ducked into the orphan’s quarters, just as Anaz's door swung open.

  Wayden slumped into the rushes next to Rif, who was already asleep.

  Since this Queranos mentioned the Tulkarian's consciousnesses, she must know about Arth. Did she know about the woman's voice inside of Rif’s mind as well? How?

  Wayden lay awake for a notch, when a sensation of sadness from Kolram swept through him.

  "Are you all right?" Wayden asked.

  "I've remembered something,” Kolram said. “About my wife. About my life."

  Kolram’s grief resonated, a sensation of sinking into a sea of sadness. An image of Kolram and Solita’s wedding in the Great Tree passed through Wayden’s mind, them kissing in the rain- Wayden pushed the memories away, returning to the present.

  "It was Dracon Niar and Ice King Dakarth," Kolram said. “It was them. They summoned us to Dark Fist. The last day I was alive.”

  Wayden stopped himself from whistling, not wanting to wake the orphans. The Dracon, was bad enough, but Dakarth son of Asgaroth remained the iron-fisted leader of Raslo for the last two millennium. In comparison, Gar Skymaster, up in his mountain fortress, seemed an easy target. “You're sure?"

  "I'm remembering more. About the last day I saw her. The last day we existed in our own bodies."

  "Can you show me the memories?"

  “Relax your mind.”

  Kolram's memories became Wayden’s. The fur of the skywolf rubbed against him. Solita nestled against him, warming his front even while the cold wind whipped his back. The wolf beat its mighty wings, propelling them faster than a galloping horse. They flew on bumpy currents of air, hundreds of feet above the pine-dotted, icy terrain of Raslo.

  To the east, loomed the Kaldian border, marked by the spiky tips of the Ridgeback Mountains. Towards the South, the summit of Mount Despos looked like an anthill in contrast to the great wall of ice that stretched beyond it forever. The sunset reflected against the wall, splintering into a light show that no Glower Mage could match. The north fell behind them and the west promised endless ice.

  He snuggled against Solita. Her fur hood had blown loose, and pressed his frozen nose into the meadows of her indigo curls. She smelled of lavender and lilacs.

  Dark Fist loomed closer. The temple was aptly named; the tightly clenched fingers of stone forming its walls jutted skyward. Kolram had never been inside, never seen the body of Darius Dragonking or Asgaroth. Both bodies were entrapped by Guardian magic, but the amber energy shield would be transparent. It would be like beholding Gods.

  Kolram moved his mouth close to Solita’s ear and shouted over the wind, “Isn’t Temple Dark Fist the old Guardian headquarters?”

  "It still may be," Solita replied. "My teachers claim their ancestors still live there, the Order of the Guardians and Centuron, deep in the bowels of the earth, dedicated to making sure the trapped Immortals and wraiths are never revived."

  "Centuron isn’t beloved in Helos for imprisoning the Dragonking."

  "The Raslonians are no happier about the imprisonment of Asgaroth. Yet, the war between Dragonking and Asgaroth was killing thousands yearly. They had to be stopped."

  "Asgaroth started the war," Kolram shouted over the wind.

  "'He started it.' The argument of four-year-olds and four-thousand-year olds alike."

  "He stole one of Darius's wives."

  "One of his eight wives, whom he loved so much he beat her, and finally killed her. Asgaroth and Lyssa truly loved each other. Darius should have let her go."

  Kolram sighed. "Let's not argue. Whoever was at fault, it matters no more."

  “As you like. Besides, you know I'm right."

  Kolram chuckled. "I know you are wonderful, I'll grant you that."

  "Flatterer. Do you see those stones ahead?" Solita pointed at four enormous boulders, encircling Dark Fist. One was shaped uncannily like a skull, another like an anvil, the third a maiden, and the fourth a moon.

  The wind whipped Kolram's hood off. “They’re hard to miss.”

  "The Anvil is rumored to be the Guardian Gate. The original Order of the Guardians met Centuron there when they were planning to entrap the Immortals."

  Kolram saw no sign of a gate or door of any kind. Perhaps it was a secret door, like the ones the Weaver wove.

  "Are you supposed to be telling me all this?” Kolram asked. “I thought you Guardians were supposed to be tight-lipped."

  "My lips were never tight where you were concerned." She laughed, pressing against him.

  “What do you say we forget about the Dracon and Ice King Dakarth's summons and fly off to a more private location?”

  Solita laughed. “Would that we could.”

  The lovers’ flight reached its end. Their winged wolf descended through a breach in the eastern wall of Dark Fist. A heart-like sound thumped in the distance. The floor of the room consisted of a granite outer ring and a marble inner ring, separated by a third ring made of glowing amber Guardian Magic energy. Their wolf landed on the outer ring.

  On the inner ring the other Grandmasters, looking impatient, awaited. A cadre of guards surrounded them, half in the orange cloaks of Flickers, the other half Raslonian armor: bones grafted into black metal. They stood in a semi-circle around a dais. Beneath the dais lay the two Immortals.

  Asgaroth lay trapped horizontally, sleeping on his bed of stone. The Dragonking was held standing up, near Asgaroth, yet in a separate shield. Blankets of woven energy snakes encased them both in separate shrouds. Kolram could see how Lyssa had fallen for Asgaroth. High cheekbones, a square jaw, dark hair, brooding eyes. There was little hint of the evil which lay beneath.

  "Why separate Guardian shields?” Kolram helped Solita down from the wolf. Her hands were frozen. He gave them a quick rub. “Why didn’t Centuron put them in the same field?"

  "They were trapped at separate times and in different fashions,” Solita whispered, as they approached the inner ring. “Asgaroth was entombed by a spell using the blood of each type of magi. No one knows what trick Centuron used to entrap Darius."

  "And the Shadow Queen?"

  "No one knows where her body is."

  "You're allowed to be telling me all this?"

  "No. Don't you dare share this information or I won't kiss you for a month. Well, a week. A day at least. Half an hour."

  They stifled their giggles as they stepped over the energy snakes, and into the inner ring. Of all the Grandmasters, Arth looked the most miserable. His pale face was even more lined than usual and there were bags beneath his bloodshot eyes. Arth’s sister had been killed less than a month ago.

  Nadra, the Grandmistress of Flame, glared at Kolram. "Could we get this over with? I've better things to do than watch Kolram and Solita fawning over each other."

  “Evening, Nadra. Burn any houses down lately?” Solita asked.

  Nadra scowled at her.

  “Let there be peace,” Grandmistress Jijari said, the bells tinkling in her long purple braids. “It is unseemly to argue in a place of holiness.”

  Raslonian soldiers poured through a side door, silencing furthe
r argument. One called out, “All bow to King Dakarth, supreme ruler of Raslonia, Land of Ice and Might, wielder of the Sword of Night, First Seat upon the Council of Steel, son of Asgaroth, the Bone King.”

  Dakarth stepped forward, the spitting image of his father, though ironically he looked a bit more aged. It made sense, Kolram supposed. After all, he was only the descendant of an Immortal, not an Immortal himself. His black cloak draped over his heavy chain-mesh. His glittering black sword hung from its sheath. Four bone-armored guards stood at his side.

  “All bow for Dracon Niar,” a gray-bearded Dragon Knight called out. “Lord of Helos, Land of Fire and Light, son of Terok, Possessor of the Red Blade, Wearer of the Crown of Fire, First Seat upon the Court of Flames, heir to the Dragonking, and Head Whisperer of the Temple of the Third Moon.”

  A man with a red crimson veil and a white sword at his hilt strode forward. His red jeweled crown flickered as he walked. Guards in orange cloaks surrounded him.

  "Greetings, Grandmasters. I apologize for the delay," Dakarth said, his voice echoing off the crystalline walls. "I promise you tonight will be a night you shall never forget."

  Wayden sat upright. Cook was rattling his bell downstairs. “Breakfast!”

  Wayden rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep. Memories and dreams sometimes bled one into the other.

  Wayden let out a yawn and stretched. "Wraithin' hell, we were just getting to the good part."

  "Is the good part my wife and I getting killed?" Kolram asked.

  "Aye. I mean no. Kind of."

  "Impressive, three answers to the same question, each more insulting than the last."

  Rory bellowed, "Wakey, wakey. It’s that time of year again. The Dracon's harvest needs gathering! 15 year olds grab breakfast first and in a notch will be in the wagon."

  Just as the last orphan clambered in, Anaz came down the steps. Wordlessly, he clambered on the driver’s bench, beside Rory.

  "Anaz, you don't need to come," Rory said.

  "I insist." Anaz drew his sword and sharpened it with a whetstone. "I feel today my help might be required."

  Wayden exchanged glances with Rif. Did Anaz foresee a battle approaching? Was he keeping Rif and Wayden alive because of their roles in his prophecy?

  "You ain't practicing unauthorized magic with that cauldron of yours, are you?" Rory asked, as he gave the reins a shake. "What type of trouble you seeing in yer water?"

  "Just an instinct, and besides, I’m feeling a bit cooped up. Of course, I wouldn't practice magic without the Dracon's leave."

  "Well, that's alright then," Rory said. "Anaz, do you know anything about writing poetry?"

  "Yes. I know not to."

  Rory mumbled something suspiciously like ‘Stupid Ozac.’

  Soon they left the perimeter of Vilanos and entered the countryside. Their wagon wheels crunched through brittle autumn leaves. The cobblestones of the road gave way to a river of mud and muck, while overhead the sky formed a thick, gray blanket. Rain would bring a final boost to the crops, but if the temperature dropped early, as the weather witches of the four towers had predicted, snow would smother the last harvest. A lean winter for the wealthy meant even less for orphans.

  The smell of manure lay thick in the air, as they rode past huts made of wattle and daub. A tiny brook trickled alongside the road. A lime-skinned Mantu woman with gold, bulbous eyes passed them, her green hair blowing in the wind. She pulled a rickshaw, stacked with ears of corn. A young swineherd steered his sows across the road. Chickens squawked and darted as a red-haired girl chased after them.

  Rif stared intently at the girl, an odd expression on his face. The dead girl the Guard found in the pine grove had red hair as well. Of course, almost half the girls in the Draconodom had red hair. Still, the intensity of Rif’s stare unnerved Wayden.

  “What do you remember about Arth?” Wayden asked Kolram.

  Wayden and Kolram focused for a moment, their minds in unison, unearthing buried memories. Kolram had followed Arth into a Raslonian tavern, filled with a throng of drunken people. The stench of body odor and tobacco wafted through the air. Wind and snow hammered the window glass, but the tavern’s hearth was lit, and a bard played Death and the Sailor's Wife on his drum-harp.

  By the time Kolram made his way through the crowd, Arth was already seated at a wooden table in the corner, nursing a goblet of brandy. Veins like tree roots bulged across his pale-white forehead. His eyes darted back and forth. Kolram suspected Arth was on the brink of insanity, following the recent loss of his sister, but it wasn't worry for the Grandmaster of Soul-stealing that prompted Kolram to spy upon him. It was suspicion about his pupils: the new Dracon and Dakarth. What had these two powerful leaders and Arth been up to, with these books of Raylar they were keeping secret? What dark magic were they practicing?

  Kolram approached Arth through the crowd. "May I sit?"

  "Wraith off," Arth snarled.

  Kolram stood his ground. "Arth, I heard about the death of your sister. I'm so sorry."

  Arth flicked his wrist, showering Kolram's face with the contents of his goblet.

  Brandy dripped from Kolram's chin. His robe was sodden. The bard froze, the music stopping as Kolram became aware of all the eyes upon them.

  Arth turned to a tavern-wench, a Raslonian female with indigo hair. "Another glass. Make it two. One to drink, one to throw."

  The tavern wench scurried off, dark-blue hair bobbing. The bard started a new song. Kolram cringed at the opening notes of The Dragon and the Princess.

  He wiped the dripping brandy from his face. "I just wanted you to know that I’m here if you want to talk."

  "You don't care an Ozac's eyeball about me or my sister,” Arth said, with a bitter twist of his lips. “You want to find out about our new school of magic. You'll learn naught from me."

  Heat rushed to Kolram’s cheeks.

  The bard sang, "The knight he came to save the lass and shoved his lance up the dragon's..."

  The crowd shouted, "Hey!"

  The wagon bumped, jolting Wayden to the present.

  Kolram's memory had been so visceral, that it was jarring to find himself riding through the country of Helos. Rif was back to his normal smiling self again. Whatever the meaning of the look that had passed over his face, it was gone now.

  "Arth was involved in a secret school with Dracon and Dakarth,” Wayden thought. “We know he's a soul thief. Arth must have been teaching the Dracon and Dakarth how to soul steal."

  Up ahead, a man struggled with a broken wagon’s wheel. A traffic jam of carts stretched back from it. Rory cursed. "This will hold us up a bit. If you need to relieve yourself, do it now."

  Wayden and Rif leapt from the wagon and headed to a different clump of bushes than the Dariuses. Anaz's eyes tracked him, but the Ozac kept his distance.

  Mist rose where his urine splattered against the tree roots and bramble. Wayden had learned a lot when he’d risked talking to Anaz. Maybe this communication trick Kolram advocated would work with Rif as well. "Do you have Arth’s voice in your mind?"

  "You kn-kn-know?"

  Wayden glanced around for prying ears. He whispered, "Rif. I’m a Glimpser. Kolram is in my head."

  "W-w-wait. What?"

  "I was born with the voice of Kolram in my mind. My twin brother had one too- Jijari, a Water Prophetess."

  "You have a twin br-br-brother?" Rif asked, adjusting his breeches.

  "In my Glimpse, I heard Arth in your mind, but there was also a woman. Do you have two people in your mind?"

  "Arth's s-s-s-sister was attacked, Arth was there. He used Soul-stealing. H-h-he…"

  "All right, they cleared the road!” Rory shouted, “That's enough watering the fields. Everyone back into the wagon.”

  Grumbling, stiff, and still sleepy, the orphans climbed back aboard the crowded wagon. A short notch later, the wagon reached the Dracon’s field, a rich plot of land that sprawled end
lessly with golden shafts of wheat. A score of peasants were already at work: gray-haired crones with stooped backs, dirt-covered men with arms like hairy tree trunks, hefty matrons, and barefoot children who spied from behind sheaves of wheat. Mavik would have made a lovely watercolor of the scene.

  They climbed out of the wagon and joined in the harvesting. Wayden had grown stronger, and he found it less tiring than last year. The peasants sang a working song as they swung their scythes to a reaper’s rhythm:

  Cut 'em, bind 'em, throw 'em in the wagon

  Bag it, tag it, bring it to the mill

  Oh whoa, bring it to the harvest

  Oh whoa, fire in the mill.

  Oh whoa, bring it to the harvest

  Oh whoa, fire in the mill

  The song, and the work, inspired a hypnotic rhythm. Sweat dripped from their brows despite the cold.

  "So what were you saying about Arth's sister?" Wayden asked, as he swung his scythe at a stalk of wheat.

  Rif planted the base of his scythe in the ground. "Belok, he...wait...do you h-h-hear something?"

  Wayden listened, trying to filter out the noise of the singing. A faint scraping sound, like insects, clawed beneath his feet, growing louder by the moment.

  "Stop singing," Wayden shouted. “Listen—”

  Rory glared at him. "Who are you to—"

  Then a brown, leathery, pincer-like hand burst through the earth and grabbed Rif's leg.