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

by T. L. Branson

  “Could be,” Drygo said. “Even if it’s not, maybe they know something.”

  “Only one problem,” Khate said. “It didn’t look like anyone is living here. At least, I didn’t see anyone.”

  “Maybe they’re all sleeping,” Lind offered. “Could be we slept in the middle of the day and now it be the wee hours of the morning.”

  “Or it’s abandoned,” Tulias said, “and whoever lived here died a hundred years ago.”

  Khate shook her head. “Not likely. The buildings were in good repair and well kept. I would expect the undergrowth to have taken over if it were abandoned.”

  Drygo said, “Well, there’s only one way—”

  A branch snapped behind them. They all turned and found about a dozen men and women pointing swords at them. Khate thought about engaging them, she still had her sword out, but a warrior didn’t engage an unfamiliar opponent, especially not when outnumbered.

  Callum must have agreed because he called out, “Fall back!”

  Khate turned and ran down the nearest path. A man stepped out from behind a tree and held his sword up a foot from her face. She raised her hands, backing up.

  They were surrounded on all sides.

  ***

  Ocken was well and truly lost now. He swore he passed the same root system four separate times. He gave up calling Khate’s name after his throat ran dry and hoarse from all the yelling.

  After running for hours, he lay down in defeat. Though he stopped moving, his heart beat faster and faster with each passing minute. The trees, though tall, crowded in around him. His world spun in circles. He felt like he did in the night, but it wasn’t night. At least he didn’t think it was.

  Why do I still feel this way?

  Ocken sat up. He almost fell over again, but put a hand down to steady himself. He closed his eyes to stop the spinning. Placing both hands on his head, he took a deep breath. He did it again, loud and long. With each passing breath, the ground beneath felt more solid.

  When the vertigo passed, he opened his eyes. Maybe it wasn’t the night that bothered him. Was there something at work here? Was it the magic of the forest playing tricks on him?

  Ocken didn’t think so. In that moment, he understood the nature of his fear. Light or dark, that did not make a difference, neither day nor night.

  What Ocken feared was being alone. When night fell, he was immersed in the illusion of solitude, but Ocken had never been alone. Never in his life had he been alone before this moment.

  He had felt alone. He felt alone when his father left him, he felt alone when his mother left him, and he felt alone when Thren left him. That was why, even though he was surrounded by his comrades just the night before, the fear still came.

  And now, for the first time, he was faced with a deep, penetrating solitude, and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to find his friends. He didn’t know if they cared. Were they even looking for him?

  It didn’t matter. He had to find them. He had to.

  Ocken climbed to his feet once more and began his search again.

  ***

  “Who are you?” a voice called out.

  Khate looked for the voice’s owner, but couldn’t see who had spoken.

  Callum stepped forward and said, “We mean you no ill will. We are travelers from Sunbury to the west.”

  “Travelers, you say?” the man said, emerging from behind the line of villagers. “And what brings you to our home?”

  He was an older man, possibly in his sixties by the gray in his hair and beard, but he held himself like a man in the prime of his youth. He wore simple clothes, as did all the villagers, yet his were more colorful, bright and vivid. Around his neck hung a chain, but what the chain held was hidden from view behind his tunic.

  “We’re lost,” Callum said. “The same as you.”

  “What makes you think we’re lost?” the man said. “Perchance we came here to escape the petty squabbles of the realm of men.”

  “Nobody goes to the Wandering Wood of their own accord,” Geoffreys scoffed. “You’d have to be bleeding mad.”

  Khate agreed with him, but doubted the wisdom of saying so plainly.

  “So you say, yet here you are,” the man said, sweeping his arm out toward them. “So I ask again, why are you here?”

  Callum and Drygo looked at each other. Drygo nodded and then Callum said, “We seek a sacred place, a temple hidden deep within the heart of the wood.”

  The villagers gasped.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Now, why would you want to go there?”

  Callum answered, “We don’t share such intimate knowledge with strangers, Mister…?”

  The forest lay silent save for the shuffle of clothing and armor as both sides tensed and held their weapons tighter.

  “You may call me Eamon,” the man said at last.

  Eamon raised his hand, palm out, and lowered it. The villagers lowered their weapons. Drygo did so as well, the others following his lead.

  “My name is Alexander,” Drygo said.

  He omitted his family name. Khate assumed it was for anonymity. No telling when these strangers ended up here, or where they hailed from.

  “And this is Callum,” Drygo said, indicating the grand marshal. He then introduced Tulias, Geoffreys, Lind, and Khate.

  “Come,” Eamon said, turning back to the village and waving them forward. “Let us talk more in the village. We’ll see if we can help you find this… temple you seek.”

  The villagers sheathed their weapons and followed their leader back up and over the knoll, out of sight.

  “Do we trust him?” Callum asked.

  “What choice do we have?” Drygo said.

  “There’s always a choice,” Khate said, drilling her eyes into him.

  “Beats wandering,” Tulias said. “Besides, they’ll likely have food.”

  Geoffrey’s stomach chose that exact moment to let out a deep, loud rumble. Khate chuckled. Geoffrey’s face turned as red as a rose.

  Eamon appeared at the top of the knoll. “You coming?”

  They all nodded and followed after Eamon. As they crossed the bridge over the rent in the earth, Khate peered down over the edge. It was so deep she couldn’t see the bottom, only black, inky darkness. A chill ran down her spine.

  Eamon led them up the slope of the forest floor past houses and buildings. They looked… almost normal, like someone transported them straight from Sunbury. Where had they gotten the stone for the masonry? It was just one more mystery to add to a long list of odd things about this wood.

  A young woman stood on the porch of one of them, sweeping off the dust and the dirt. She narrowed her eyes at them, but did not cease her task. Another villager carried chopped wood up the street. He backed away granting them a wide berth, dropping a piece of wood in the process.

  The village appeared as if it had existed for years, decades even. But Khate noted there were no children. It all struck her as very abnormal, yet commonplace all at once.

  They reached the grand house at the back of the village and Eamon came to a stop.

  “Welcome to my home,” he said. “It will be my pleasure to host you this evening.”

  Eamon swung open the front door and motioned for them to enter. Khate followed the others through the doorframe and into a wide entry hall. A set of stairs lay ahead that terminated at a landing midway to the next floor and then turned and continued up the other direction. A hallway to the left of the stair led to some rooms in the back, but Khate could not make out much of the details in the dim lighting of the home.

  Eamon walked past them and led them up the stairs. The stairs led to another chamber, about twice the size as the first. Ahead lay a set of open doors leading to a balcony that overlooked the village. Behind them, the room opened up and ran the full length of the house. Chairs and couches dotted the room facing out toward a fireplace, a small fire blazing in its hearth and a pile of wood beside it.

  “Please, hav
e a seat,” Eamon said.

  Khate looked at her companions. They all had stunned, wary expressions, probably thinking the same thing that she was. How was this here? How was any of this here?

  Khate sat down hesitantly, the soft, plush material giving way as she settled into the couch. Her eyes scanned the wall at the paintings that hung there. A picture of a large, well-built man caught her eye. He reminded Khate of Ocken, though the man looked nothing like him.

  Shame washed over her that she had forgotten their lost companion. They would never find him sitting in the comfort of this stranger’s home.

  “My grandfather,” Eamon said, following Khate’s gaze, though he offered no further explanation.

  Eamon pulled up a chair, turned it toward the companions, and sat down.

  “You said you had information about the temple?” Drygo asked, impatient.

  “All in good time,” Eamon said. “First, I thought you might like something to eat. Surely you must be famished from your journey? I have alerted my cook and she is even now preparing the table for us.”

  “But—” Drygo began to say.

  “You are too generous, Mr. Eamon,” Callum said, elbowing the king.

  “Just Eamon is fine,” he said, crossing his legs. “Pray tell, how long have you been lost in our forest?”

  “We aren’t lost at all,” an impatient Drygo said.

  “Oh? So you know the way and can get there with ease?” Eamon asked.

  Drygo did not respond.

  “As I thought,” he said, smiling. “Care to answer my question?”

  “A day, maybe more, maybe less,” Callum answered. “It’s hard to tell the time here.”

  “That it is. The magic takes some getting used to,” Eamon answered.

  “So it is magic?” Khate blurted.

  Eamon chuckled. “Yes, the Wandering Wood is a creation of the god Erintos, designed to confuse and confound its inhabitants.”

  “One of the gods made this place?” she asked in disbelief.

  “Of course,” he said, still smiling. “Where else would such powerful magic come from?”

  Khate wanted to wipe that smile straight off his smug face. She didn’t like his attitude. He was toying with them and enjoying it.

  Eamon continued, “You should count yourselves lucky. Others have stumbled upon our village only after wandering for weeks, almost starved and severely dehydrated.”

  “Others have come here?” Khate asked, perking up. “You haven’t happened to have a seen a big man, the likes of your grandfather, wander through here in the last few hours?”

  “No, I’m sorry, we’ve not had visitors in some time,” he said. “In fact, I must apologize for the way we treated you. The last people to come through were less than peaceable. We have since taken precautions.”

  Khate slumped back into her seat at the news.

  “What happens when people come here? How do they get out?” Geoffreys asked.

  “They don’t,” Eamon said, his expression flat and devoid of emotion.

  Geoffreys blanched.

  “Oh, many have tried,” he explained. “They have left our doors seeking their way home only to return here and take up residence with us.”

  “So you were once lost and found your way here?” Callum asked.

  “Me?” Eamon said, pointing to himself. “No. I have always lived here. This is my home and I have known no other.”

  “You were born here?” Khate asked. “Fascinating. How come I saw no children?”

  “There have been no children here for some time,” he said with a frown.

  Drygo’s irritation and impatience reached a head and he stood abruptly. “If there is nothing you can tell us, I’m afraid it’s time for us to be going.”

  “Sit down,” Eamon said with some force.

  Drygo stared at him in shock, blinking.

  “I will tell you what you desire to know.”

  The king’s lips curled into a smile as he plopped back into his chair.

  Eamon said, “The temple is—”

  The door behind him, next to the fireplace, burst open and a short, rather full-figured lady emerged.

  “Dinner is ready, Lord Eamon,” she said, bowing.

  “Ah, yes, well,” he replied, smiling again. He looked at Drygo as he said, “We’ll continue this conversation after we eat.”

  Drygo huffed and crossed his arms, but at the mention of food, none of them were ready to leave anyway. They all stood and followed Eamon into the room behind the fireplace. Inside stretched a long table sufficient enough to seat every man and woman in the village. Only seven seats at one end were prepared with table settings.

  Once they were seated, the large woman reached over the table and pulled a cover off the main platter. Beneath it was a full roast turkey.

  “There’re turkeys in these woods?” Lind asked, salivating. “I’ve not seen nary a squirrel.”

  “You’d be surprised at what you can find if you only open your eyes,” Eamon replied.

  Khate narrowed her eyes. With every word that came out of Eamon’s mouth she liked him less and less. He’d not given them anything actionable and he seemed to dance around their questions without providing straight answers. Perhaps it was her own general mistrust in people, but she, like the king, grew more agitated.

  It wasn’t until a fork full of turkey was on its way to Geoffreys’s mouth that she remembered what almost happened at the Eastgate.

  “Wait!” she yelled.

  Geoffreys jerked backward, nearly knocking his chair to the floor. He was caught when his legs connected with the table, knocking over his glass of wine and causing the rest of their plates to shake.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Eamon blustered at the stained tablecloth.

  A maid rushed into the room with a towel, dabbing at the spill.

  “How do we know the food isn’t poisoned or something?” she asked.

  Eamon coughed and held his hand to his chest. “You wound me. You think my hospitality so poor that I would resort to poison?” His expression turned into a wicked smile. “No, if I wished you dead, you would already be so.”

  The others shifted nervously in their seats.

  “Here,” he said, taking Geoffreys’s turkey from him. “Let me prove it to you.” He began eating Geoffreys’s meal, including his newly poured glass of wine. “See? No harm has come to me. Please, eat. It is my pleasure to care for you.”

  With a cautious hand, Khate stabbed her fork into her plate of food. She held it in front of her mouth, closed her eyes, and stuffed it in. Her eyes flicked open in an instant. It was the juiciest piece of meat she’d ever eaten. The skin was packed with spice and flavor. She chewed it slowly, savoring each moment.

  Khate dived into the rest of her meal like she hadn’t eaten in a week. The others followed suit. When her plate was empty, she leaned back and placed her hands on her stomach and took a deep breath.

  The maids returned at the conclusion of their meal and cleared their plates from the table. Next they brought out dessert. A rich, chocolate molten lava cake cooked to perfection: light and fluffy on the outside, warm and creamy on the inside. Khate didn’t think she had room, but it looked irresistible. She decided Eamon was tolerable if it meant eating such wonderful food.

  Khate almost cried as she ate the last bite. It was so good. A quick glance at the king told Khate he hadn’t felt the same way. His cold, penetrating eyes didn’t move from Eamon. His face was a mask of stone.

  “Dinner’s over,” he said. “Now, you were saying about the temple?”

  “The temple,” Eamon said. “Yes, the temple. I will tell you about the temple. Over tea, shall we?” He rose from his seat and held out a hand to the door leading back into the living room.

  Lind led the way as he was seated closest to the door. Khate followed and returned to her seat on one of the couches.

  The fire was dying, its flames small and weak. Eamon picked up a piece of wood from
beside the hearth and leaned over to place it in the fire. As he did so, a medallion attached to his necklace fell out from his tunic. It spun as it dangled, the light of the fire catching on a magnificent black diamond at its center. Khate stared in awe at the diamond’s beauty, but didn’t have long to admire it as Eamon stood and tucked it back inside his tunic.

  Any further thought of it disintegrated as the large lady bustled through the door again carrying a large platter with teacups and a pot of tea. Eamon sat down, crossed his legs, and took a cup from the maid. He popped something into his mouth and then took a sip.

  “What was that?” Geoffreys asked.

  “Oh, just some herbs for an old man’s aching bones,” he said with a smile. “Drink, while it’s warm.”

  Khate grabbed her cup from the maid and took a sip herself. It had an odd flavor to it. Not bad, but nothing like any tea she’d had before. She took another sip and it began to grow on her.

  “Now, the temple,” Eamon said.

  “Where is it?” Drygo asked.

  “Before I tell you where it is, I fear I must warn you of its dangers,” Eamon said, leaning forward and frowning. “There is a great evil lurking there, trapped for a millennium. If you seek the temple, I must strongly advise against it. The rewards are not worth the risks.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Drygo said, bringing his own cup to his lips.

  “Very well,” Eamon said, sighing and sitting back in his chair. “To get to the temple you need only ask the Wandering Wood to take you there.”

  “That’s it?” Khate asked. “There’s got to be something you’re not telling us.”

  “It is as I said. The magic of the forest takes you where you want to go or brings to you the thing you ask of it.”

  “I haven’t ceased to want the temple since we arrived,” Drygo said. “If what you say is true, how is it that we haven’t found it?”

  “Did you ask the forest, aloud, to guide you there?”

  “Well, no. That would be foolish,” the king said.

  “Oh?” Eamon asked, steepling his fingers. “By whose standards?”

  Khate closed her eyes and whispered so only she could hear, “Please, O magical wood, bring Ocken safely to me.” She didn’t know if it worked, so she prayed to Erintos for good measure, since Eamon claimed he’d created the Wandering Wood.