Soul Siphon: Set includes four books: Midnight Blade, Kingsbane, Ash and Steel, Sentinels of the Stone (Soul Stones)

by T. L. Branson

  The floor groaned beneath Callum’s feet. He cringed.

  “What’s that? Who’s there?” McKinnon asked.

  Callum sighed, straightened his posture, and pushed open the door.

  McKinnon recoiled. “What?… How?… I—”

  “Idiot,” Platz reiterated, shaking his head.

  The sounds of battle drifted in through the open window. Sunbury’s king and royal guard engaged in all out assault against Havan’s spies just outside the tavern where he now stood.

  “It’s done,” Callum said before they could speak.

  “What?” McKinnon asked again. “What’s done?”

  “The reason I was sent here,” Callum explained. “I’ve completed my mission.”

  “Lies!” McKinnon said, growling. He advanced on Callum.

  Platz put out his arm and said, “What proof do you have?”

  “My word isn’t good enough?” Callum retorted.

  “Proof,” Platz pressed him.

  Callum pulled a weapon from his waist. McKinnon and Platz started to draw their swords.

  McKinnon stopped mid-draw, his eyes narrowing. “The prince’s dagger—”

  “From above the fireplace,” Callum said, nodding.

  Callum pulled the dagger from its sheath. Its blade dripped with fresh blood Callum hadn’t cleaned off. He threw the dagger and sheath at Platz’s feet, the weapon clattering as they landed on the floor. He pulled something else from his pocket and tossed it at the man. Platz caught it, turned it over in his palm, and held it up for McKinnon to see.

  “The prince’s signet ring,” Platz told the sergeant.

  “By the gods,” McKinnon said, picking up the dagger, staring at it. His jaw hung open. “He did it.”

  “No thanks to you,” Callum said, his voice dripping with venom.

  McKinnon was quick on the uptake, “Or every thanks. You were going soft. You needed a push.”

  “Enough,” Platz said, pocketing the ring. “We must rejoin the battle. Come with me.” He turned to leave.

  Callum’s heart beat a little faster. “I wouldn’t do that,” he said. “You’ll be slaughtered.”

  “What do you mean?” Platz said, slowly looking over his shoulder then turning again to face him.

  McKinnon tried to slip through the door.

  “Why don’t you tell him, Sergeant?” Callum asked, drawing attention to him before he could escape.

  “W…what?” McKinnon said.

  “Out with it,” Platz said.

  When McKinnon wouldn’t speak, Callum sucked in his breath and continued, “The prince confessed something to me as he lay there dying. He warned me that Sergeant McKinnon’s true allegiance lay with Sunbury.”

  “Of course he would think that,” McKinnon pleaded. “He was supposed to think that. He—”

  “In exchange for a hefty promotion to marshal, McKinnon gave him a list of all the spies he ‘believed’ to be working with me,” Callum said. “I believe he was tying up loose ends. Getting rid of anyone who knew of his origins.”

  “Is this true?” Platz said to McKinnon, his features stern.

  “What does it matter?” McKinnon asked. “The prince is dead. No one will know.”

  “On the contrary, the prince sent out a message just after you left,” Callum explained to McKinnon. Turning to Platz he said, “Your spies are as good as dead.”

  “Idiot,” Platz said a third time.

  “There’s more,” Callum said.

  Platz scoffed and waved, giving Callum permission to continue.

  “McKinnon gave up troop movements. Sunbury is aware that half of your forces are hidden in the sewers. They are, even now, likely preparing an ambush. You must pull them. Now. Launch your full strike before it’s too late.”

  McKinnon said, “Captain, I’m sorry, I—”

  Platz held his hand up, stopping him. “There’s only one reason why I haven’t killed you already,” he told McKinnon. “You have one shot at redeeming yourself. This is your mess. Clean it up.” At that, he spun and raced through the door to alert his forces.

  “I suppose I should thank you,” McKinnon said when Platz was gone.

  “Huh?” Callum asked, perplexed.

  “Living with a secret is a tremendous weight I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying,” he explained. He walked over and clapped Callum on the shoulder. “I’m sure your father feels the same way. He sends his regards and his thanks,” McKinnon said, plunging the dagger into Callum’s stomach.

  Callum nearly doubled over from the force of it, but the blade did not pierce his skin. He delivered an uppercut to McKinnon’s chin that sent the man flying to the floor.

  “What?” McKinnon asked, scooting back as Callum advanced on him.

  Callum lifted his shirt to reveal chainmail armor. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh. His fears confirmed, he didn’t know whether to be disappointed in his father or pleased with himself for anticipating the move. He would prove his worth in the end.

  Opening his eyes again, he advanced and stepped on McKinnon’s hand. The dagger dropped to the floor. Callum drew his sword and held it just above McKinnon’s throat.

  “Do it. Kill me now,” McKinnon said, closing his eyes.

  “Yours is a fate worse than death,” Callum said. “You’re a pariah on both sides. You’ll never find rest wherever you pillow your head, always looking over your shoulder.”

  Callum swung his weapon away and stabbed down into the man’s right hamstring.

  McKinnon wailed, clutching at his leg.

  Assured that no pursuit would be coming, Callum marched out of the room.

  ***

  Exiting the tavern, Callum entered the street along the harbor where the battle raged in full force. The smell of the salty air mixed with the copper tang of blood. The setting sun painted the sky red. Red to match several hundred streams that now filled the cracks of the stone beneath his feet, running to the sea.

  Callum scanned the tangle of bodies for Platz. He found him, deep in the heart of the fight, engaged with King Drygo and his personal guard. He rushed to join the struggle.

  A soldier wearing the blue and gold of Havan stumbled backward and tripped on Callum’s outstretched leg, falling to the ground. Another man, dressed in Sunbury’s black and red bore down on the fallen man.

  Callum danced back away from their conflict. Familiar faces blurred all around him. It became difficult to distinguish between friend and foe. As they, too, both recognized him, neither side opposed him.

  He ducked under a blade meant for someone else and hurtled over a kneeling man. When the press grew too thick, he withdrew his blade and decided to make his own way. Callum impaled an unsuspecting man, making his allegiance known. Shock splayed on the man’s face as he slid from Callum’s blade and lay on the ground dying.

  Steadily drawing closer to Platz and the king, he stepped over the man and ran at the next enemy—who raised his sword in time and parried Callum’s blow.

  “Traitor!” the man spat over their crossed weapons.

  Callum shoved him off and came in low. His opponent parried yet again. The man countered, swinging high. Callum raised his weapon and blocked it, then punched the man in the face with his free hand. The man grabbed at his face as Callum plunged his sword into his enemy’s abdomen.

  He cut a path before him, driving his blade into the back of one man, cutting off the arm of another, and slashing the throat of a third.

  In the mad rush, he’d lost track of Platz. He climbed atop a crate that sat against a building. Platz and the king fought less than twenty feet from him, but it might as well have been a mile as a sea of men separated them.

  A battle cry rose above the din as more soldiers wearing Havan’s colors charged up the docks, spilling from the sewers below. Callum’s lips pursed and his eyes narrowed as he observed the newcomers. They joined the fray. The resolve of Sunbury’s forces faltered at the enemy reinforcements.

  Havan paid litt
le heed to their swelling numbers and their own shouts increased as they pressed forward. Seconds later, those shouts turned to cries of death. The newcomers, instead of attacking Sunbury, turned their blades on Havan. Horror crept onto the faces of Havan’s soldiers. The expressions of Sunbury’s men turned from fear to confusion to understanding as they regained their composure and pressed forward.

  Callum’s eyes drifted back to the king and Platz still entangled in one another’s blades. Movement caught his eye. From the opposite side of the street, Callum saw a figure rapidly approaching the fighting pair. Callum hopped down from the crate and rejoined the battle.

  With renewed focus, Callum ignored the soaring weapons and flying fists, knowing he must reach Platz and the king. He plowed forward, shouldering his way through the throng.

  At last, the final body fell away, giving him a clear view of Platz. The king was on his knees, his guard lay dead on the ground around him. Platz bore down with his sword. The king raised his weapon to block against Platz’s strike, but it was batted away, disarming him.

  Callum lunged forward to take the life of the man he hated, a man who had shown him little kindness and much contempt at every turn. Before he could reach them, however, Platz swung and cleaved the king’s head from his shoulders.

  “No!” a voice called out as a soldier burst into view, sank to his knees, and cradled the king.

  Callum’s step faltered and came to a halt beside Platz. All around him, soldiers stopped their fighting to behold the scene.

  Platz raised his weapon to slay the newcomer, but pulled back, confusion splaying across his face. The soldier bore Havan’s colors, not Sunbury’s.

  The man’s head turned and made eye contact with Callum, deep sorrow and sadness written on his face.

  “The prince?” Platz said aloud. “But—”

  Platz followed the prince’s gaze and turned to look at Callum, his eyes wide and jaw slack. Before Platz could say another word, Callum thrust his sword into the captain’s chest. Platz’s eyes grew wider still and a wheeze escaped his throat. His hands clutched at the blade as he fell to one knee then toppled over. Callum knelt down and reached into the captain’s pocket, retrieving the prince’s signet ring.

  He turned and slowly walked over to the prince. The armies roused around him and Sunbury’s guards killed what little of Havan’s soldiers still lived. Callum plopped on the ground beside his prince, his friend, his brother.

  He thought he’d feel a sense of accomplishment or victory at Platz’s death, but no joy could be found under the shadow of grief.

  ***

  The prince slammed his fist onto the desk in his room, crumpled the map atop it, and threw it across the room. With a yell, he grabbed the inkwell from the desk and hurled it against the wall. Callum flinched as the glass shattered, leaving a black splatter behind.

  Drygo sunk into a chair, placed his shoulders on the desk, and massaged his face with his hands.

  “Say that again,” the prince asked the man at the door.

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty—”

  “Don’t,” Drygo said, holding up his hand. “That’s not my title.”

  “But, Your Majesty—” the man stuttered.

  “Don’t,” the prince said again.

  “Very well… Your Highness,” the man said, clearly uncomfortable. “In addition to the loss of your father, all of the royal guard and over half of our total forces have fallen.”

  Drygo took a deep breath and sighed. “Thank you, Captain, you’re dismissed,” he said without looking at the man.

  The captain left the room, leaving Callum alone with the prince. They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, Callum not wishing to intrude on the prince’s thoughts.

  “I’m appointing you as grand marshal of my royal guard,” the prince said casually, breaking the silence.

  Callum choked. “You’re what?”

  “Did I stutter?” the prince asked.

  “Well, no, but just earlier this evening—”

  “It’s in the past,” Drygo said flatly.

  “I—”

  “It’s in the past,” the prince reiterated, enunciating each word. Drygo lifted his head and looked Callum in the eyes. His face softened as he continued, “Not many could do what you did. I trust you with my life.”

  Callum nodded.

  “But I will have your oath,” Drygo quickly added, “that you will always be honest with me and will stand by my side no matter the conflict.”

  “I swear it,” Callum said.

  The door burst open and Chelsea rushed into the room. She was hyperventilating, tears streaming down her face. She ran straight to Callum and embraced him, placing her head on his chest. Warmth flooded through him that no fire could provide. He placed his arms around her and held her tight.

  No words could be said. None needed to be said. They stood there, neither of them moving. Callum kissed her forehead and ran a finger down the side of her face, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

  Drygo stared at them and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  Standing, he said, “Well, since I’m not needed here…”

  Chelsea let go of Callum and turned to hug her brother. After a brief moment, the prince released her and stepped to the door. Before he left, he looked Callum in the eye and nodded.

  As soon as the door had shut behind the prince, Chelsea said, “I was so worried about you.” Her breath stuttered as she inhaled. “And then some of my father’s men came and I… I…”

  Callum pulled her into his arms again. A tear fell off her cheek onto her blouse.

  “Please don’t leave me,” she said. “Don’t ever leave me.”

  Turmoil raged in his heart. Unwittingly, he was the very cause of her grief. He knew of the plans to overthrow her kingdom. Knew of them and said nothing. He may not have killed her father, but he certainly made no effort to prevent the events that led to it. And for whatever reason, her brother chose to forgive him.

  He didn’t know if he could tell her. If he could ever tell her. He didn’t know if she would forgive him. Didn’t know if he could ever do enough or say enough to atone for it. There was only one thing he did know: He wouldn’t stop trying until the day he died.

  He pushed her back at arms length, wiped a tear from her eye, and smiled. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the old piece of parchment that bore his name.

  “Is that…?” she asked.

  Callum nodded. He opened it, looked upon its writing once more, and tossed it onto the hot coals of the dying fire. A flame leapt up and engulfed his old life, giving birth to a new one.

  KINGSBANE

  CHAPTER 1

  Life was a blessing and curse. Life brought with it such joy, warmth, and love. But it also brought hardship, pain, and suffering. Life was filled with struggle and strife. Kingdoms waged constant wars. Friends turned to bitter enemies. Strangers thieved and murdered for the pettiest of reasons.

  Indeed, death could be a great gift. Pain and sorrow filled the hearts of those left behind, but to the departed? Rest, peace, and a solace from the torrent of troubles that plagued the world.

  Peace sounded wonderful to Ocken.

  The palace bustled with rabid ferocity. Shouts rose up all around him as he ran. He had to get to the healers, and fast.

  A servant ran out into the hallway and collided with him. The young woman bounced off of him, landing hard on the marble floors. Ocken plowed through, not even slowing his pace to apologize.

  He was a beast of a man. Six foot six and all muscle. It was in his blood. The Khur were not a dainty folk. It was one of the reasons why he had been accepted to the king’s royal guard. Enemies thought twice about crossing a man like Ocken.

  He stormed through the palace doors and out into the courtyard. The moon hung high in the dark of night.

  Why did every crisis have to happen at night?

  He hated the night. The Khur tribe lived in the harsh climates of the desert. The
night was a time to be feared. Temperatures plummeted and all manner of creatures emerged from their holes. His mother brought him and his brother, Thren, to Sunbury after their father died by the jaws of the vicious kranack.

  Ocken shrugged off the painful memory and set his mind to the task at hand. The healers. He had to retrieve the healers.

  Exiting the gates to the palace grounds, he wound his way through city streets and alleys. Firelight from the lamps flickered off the battered walls and stone paths beneath his feet. The thunderous beating of his boots and the deep heaving of his own breath drowned out the usual sounds of wagons being pulled along the bumpy street at the day’s end or children playing in their homes before bed.

  When he arrived at the healers’ home he didn’t bother knocking and barged right in. An old man, Alijah, bolted upright from his seat at a small table, spilling soup all over himself, the table, and the floor.

  “What is the meaning of—?”

  “No time,” Ocken said. “The queen needs you. Now!”

  The creases of anger drained from his face, replaced with shock and concern.

  “What’s wrong?” Alijah asked as he gathered his cloak from a nearby rack and flung it onto his back.

  “I don’t know, she just collapsed,” Ocken replied.

  The old man grabbed his bag of medicines and followed Ocken out the door.

  Ocken raced to the end of the street and made to turn down an alley when he noticed the healer had fallen behind. Alijah hobbled down the path at a snail’s pace, both from the weight of the bag and his aging bones.

  Ocken returned to Alijah and heaved the healer up onto his shoulders.

  “Whoa,” Alijah said in surprise, clutching the bag to his chest as he bounced in the air.

  Ocken’s return to the palace was not as swift as his exit. With each passing second the queen’s survival hung in the balance. He hoped they were not already too late. Two guards swung open the palace doors to admit the duo. The shouts in the palace had ceased as the shock of the crisis faded away, but it was no less busy.

  “Get out of the way,” Ocken shouted, shoving aside a footman carrying tea. The platter clanged as it hit the floor followed by the shattering of the kettle, its contents spilling everywhere. Ocken wasn’t sorry. Many things may lie damaged in his path this night, but his queen would not be one of them.