The Third Soul Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  The hysterical tone in her voice frightened her, and she forced herself to calm down.

  “I hate this place,” Rachaelis said. “The slaves. Why must we keep slaves? Why must the Adepts take children with talent from their families? To guard the world from the demons of the astral realm, I know, to guard humanity from the dangers of dark magic. But…why must we be so cruel? They’re training me to be hard, to be cruel.” How easily she had frightened that overseer. How much easier would it be if she lived to become a full Adept. “This…isn’t right, some of the things the Conclave does.”

  That bothered her almost as much as the prospect of dying in the Testing.

  The things she might be forced to do, if she became a full Adept.

  A silver flash illuminated the room.

  Rachaelis knew that silver flash. An astraljump, the spell the Adepts used to whisk themselves around the city in a heartbeat, produced a flash of silvery light. Rachaelis stood from the stool, expecting to see Mauriana, the Magister of Initiates, come to chastise her.

  Instead, Thalia Kalarien stood in the doorway.

  Thalia was only a few years older than Rachaelis, but taller, with bright green eyes and elaborately arranged black hair.. She wore the blood-colored robes of a full Adept, with a close-fitting black collar and black trim on the sleeves and hems. A sword hung from her right hip and a long dagger from her left. The sword was a cortana, the formal sword of Araspani nobility. The curved dagger was a sicarr, a dagger worn only by the Adepts.

  Thalia’s face was grim, and she walked to Rachaelis’s side without speaking. That was so unusual Rachaelis found herself at a loss.

  “Thalia,” said Rachaelis. “Did Master Nazim send you about the slave? I can explain.” She paused. “You did worse when you were an Initiate. I helped you, remember.”

  Thalia sighed and put her hand on Rachaelis’s shoulder.

  Rachaelis frowned, and her eyes strayed to Thalia’s belt. Thalia only wore the cortana and the sicarr on formal occasions. Like meetings of the Council of Magisters. Funerals. The raising of a new Adept.

  Or a Testing.

  Rachaelis’s stomach twisted into a knot.

  “I greet you, and I bid you to hear me. Are you Rachaelis Morulan, Initiate of the Conclave of Adepts?” said Thalia in formal High Imperial.

  Thalia never spoke in High Imperial. Thalia hated High Imperial, and preferred to speak in Callian. Callian had better curse words, she claimed.

  “Yes. I am she,” said Rachaelis in High Imperial. Her voice, like her hands, did not tremble.

  “The Council of Magisters has bid me to speak to you on their behalf,” said Thalia. “You are summoned. For twelve years you have been an Initiate of the Conclave, and now the Magisters command you to face the Testing. Prevail, and you shall take your place as an Adept of the Conclave. Fail, and you shall surely die.”

  Rachaelis closed her eyes for a moment. Then she squeezed her father’s hand, and turned to face Thalia.

  “I will come,” she said.

  “Then the Magisters await you,” said Thalia, laying a hand upon Rachaelis’s shoulder. She gestured, the power of an astraljump spell enveloping Rachaelis, and the room dissolved into silver light.

  Chapter 2 - The Hammer of Dark River

  It had taken twelve years, but Corthain Kalarien came home again at last.

  He stood on the prow of the ship, watching the harbor, the breeze catching at the tails of his black coat. Choppy white waves slapped against the ship's sides, and beyond he saw the forest of masts filling the harbor, and then the city of Araspan itself.

  Home again.

  A thousand stone towers rose from the city, each more ornate and elaborate than the last. Beyond, upon an outthrust spur of the mountain, the Ring loomed over towers and masts alike. The fortress was a relic of the Old Empire, built in ancient days, and in the fifteen hundred years since the Conclave had fled to the Isle of Aras, the Ring had never fallen.

  Corthain watched it in silence.

  Twelve years. He had come home.

  The last place he wanted to be.

  He turned. Two men waited for him. One was middle-aged and grim, face and hands marked with a soldier's scars, a mail coat over his chest and a sword at his belt. The other was shorter, and never stopped smiling, and had the sort of face that made the fathers of unmarried virgins reach for their axes.

  “That is a great bloody lot of towers,” said the smiling man.

  “They call Araspan the City of a Thousand Towers,” said Corthain. “The Adepts build the towers, and so do the nobles. They spend oceans of coin trying to outshine each other. A pity you’re not a stonemason, Luthair. You could make a fortune.”

  Luthair snorted and spat over the rail. “Honest labor? Pah! That’s a fool’s game. The clever live by their wits.” He looked at the city and grinned again. “Though I wondered if they’re compensating for some…shortcoming, aye?”

  The man in the mail coat snorted. “Of course you’d think that.” He faced Corthain. “Your wishes, my lord domn?”

  “Tell the others to bring the casks from the hold, Rikon,” said Corthain. “We’ll rent wagons once we arrive, and proceed from there.”

  Rikon bowed and marched away.

  Luthair leaned against the rail, still grinning to himself. “Coming home again, eh? Must please you to no end.”

  Corthain shrugged. “No. I was only too glad to leave.”

  Luthair shook his head. “But home again after ten years.”

  “Twelve, actually,” said Corthain.

  Luthair lifted an eyebrow. “Begging your pardon, my lord domn,” he always made that sound sarcastic, “but I thought you said that you had been banished for ten years.”

  “I was,” said Corthain. “Twelve years ago.”

  Luthair blinked. “So…you didn’t want to come back.”

  “Your wits remain keen as ever,” said Corthain. “And I am only here now because of necessity. My domnium is filled with vineyards. Selling wine to Araspan’s factors would bring a great deal of coin to my freeholders.”

  “But there’s something else, isn’t there?” said Luthair. “Some girl, I bet. That’s it, isn’t it? Some comely lass who captured your heart, and you’ve been pining for her ever since.” He snorted. “It would explain a lot, actually.”

  “Hardly,” said Corthain.

  “Or a married woman!” said Luthair. “That was it. You seduced a married woman, the wife of some powerful Adept, and he had you banished from the city.” He grinned. “I wager she’ll be glad to see you now, coming back as the great and mighty Hammer of Dark River.” He frowned in sudden concern. “Unless she’s gotten fat, of course.”

  Corthain laughed. “As ever, I shall heed your counsel.”

  “So how did you get banished, begging your pardon,” said Luthair.

  “It’s hardly important,” said Corthain.

  “I’ve been in your service for years now,” said Luthair. “Haven’t I shown myself to be trustworthy?”

  “No,” said Corthain, “but I didn’t take you into my service for that reason. And there are men who have been with me for longer who don’t know why I was banished.”

  “True, true,” said Luthair, “but none of them have my charm or wit.”

  Corthain snorted. “You truly cannot abide an unanswered question. Like an itch for you, isn’t it?”

  “No, my lord domn,” said Luthair. “It’s much worse. It’s like…it’s like seeing some naked lass, all eager and willing, and she’s just out of reach…”

  Corthain laughed. “Perhaps I’ll tell you the story someday. In the meantime, I suggest you make yourself useful and keep the sailors from sampling the casks. I did not bring you along to endure your stale attempts at wit.”

  “You wound me, my lord, you wound me,” said Luthair, but his grin never wavered. With that, he swaggered in the direction of the cargo hold.

  Annoying man. But useful.

  Corthain watched
as they passed other ships, all of them laden with trade goods. Araspan could feed itself; the Isle had enough farmland for that, but everything else had to be imported. The foul smell of human waste hit his nostrils. and Corthain gazed across harbor with sudden anger.

  “Name of the Divine,” growled Rikon, stepping to Corthain’s side. “What is that reek?”

  Corthain pointed across the harbor. “You see those ships? Those three, over there by that Orlanish galley?”

  Rikon squinted. “Khauldish, I think.”

  “Slave traders,” said Corthain. “From Khauldun. They sell their own countrymen, and raid the surrounding lands for slaves. Any land that falls into civil war, the slavers descend upon it like vultures. Quite a few Jurgur slaves, I suppose, after Dark River. They’ll be stacked in the holds like cordwood, drowning in their own filth. Each one of those ships will hold five hundred, maybe six hundred slaves.”

  “Name of the Divine,” swore Rikon again, and he spat over the rail. “I’ve no love for the Jurgur dogs, that’s true. But to end crammed into a slave ship…that’s a cruel fate, one I’d wish on no man.”

  “This is a cruel city,” said Corthain. He made a decision. “Rikon. Go find Luthair, have him gather all my people on the deck. I want to speak to them before we go ashore.”

  “My lord.” Rikon bowed and marched away.

  Corthain scowled at the slave ships. He had no reason to return to Araspan, to the city of a thousand towers and a hundred thousand slaves. But he was responsible for more lives than his own. After the Battle of Dark River, he had sworn to protect and defend the people of his domnium. And the men of his domnium relied upon the wine trade to sustain themselves, to support their wives and their children. The Isle of Aras had no vineyards of its own. The people of his domnium could secure great prosperity in trade with Araspan.

  If their domn had the wits to seize the opportunity.

  “My lord domn.” Rikon’s gruff voice cut into his thoughts. “Your retainers await your command.”

  Corthain climbed down to the middeck. He had taken seven sworn guardsmen with him, including Rikon, all of them veterans of Dark River. A half-dozen porters and three maids, overseen by Rikon’s wife, a terrifying matron named Morwen. And Luthair, who had expertise in a surprising array of fields.

  “Listen to me,” said Corthain. “You are all of Callian blood, raised on Callian soil. And there are laws in Callia. A peasant may go before the King's court and levy charges against a domn. He may not win, but he has that right. Araspan is different. Here a lord may strike a commoner or a slave dead on the street, and no one will gainsay him. You must beware the nobles. Avoid them. They will wear finer clothes than anyone else in the city, and every noble, man or woman, carries a cortana…a sort of ceremonial sword worn on the right hip. Do not cross them, and do not antagonize them.

  “Second, beware the Adepts. They wear red robes with black collars. Some of them are Magisters, masters of the Conclave, and wear black stoles in addition to their robes. Avoid them both. The Adepts are the true masters of Araspan, and the law gives them the right to do as they please. An Adept may murder you over a copper coin, and no one will stop him. Stay away from the Adepts.

  “Finally, the slaves. You will recognize them at once. By law all slaves must wear orange clothing. Most are too beaten down to be dangerous, but some will think nothing of murdering and robbing a few foreigners. Do not go into the streets alone. There are countless slave traders in Araspan, and some of the bolder ones might try to snatch a lone outlander from the street. And that would be ill for them, since then I would have to go to war against the slave traders.”

  His people laughed at that. And, Corthain thought with some bitterness, why should they not? He was the Hammer of Dark River, the man who had smashed the Jurgur horde and saved the gathered armies of a dozen nations. If any man could wage war upon a slavers’ guild, it was Corthain Kalarien.

  The weight of their trust made him weary. It had at Dark River, and it did now. But he was their domn, and he took his oaths seriously. He had led them here, and he would see them safely home.

  “We shall not disappoint you, my lord,” said Rikon.

  “Aye,” said Morwen. “Any man doesn’t pull his weight, I’ll strip the skin from his hide with my bare hands.”

  “Now, that would be a sight,” said Corthain. “I expect nothing less from you. Keep your wits about you, all of you.”

  They went about their tasks, and Corthain turned to watch the harbor once more. The ship slid into its proper pier, and Corthain’s people piled the casks of wine on the deck. At last the sailors tied the mooring lines, and Corthain strode down the ramp, the stone of the pier hard beneath his boots.

  So. Home again. After twelve years.

  The captain, a stout man in weather-stained canvas, joined him.

  Corthain turned. “Luthair has seen to your final payment, I trust?”

  “Aye, my lord,” said the captain. “It’s just…I wanted to speak to you. I had four sons at Dark River.”

  Long experience kept Corthain from flinching. “Did they make it?”

  The captain shook his head. “Two of them fell. But the other two...they would have perished, if not for you. I just wanted to say…it was an honor to have you aboard my ship, my lord.”

  “Thank you,” said Corthain, “but there were many brave men at the Battle of Dark River, your sons among them. I was just in the right place at the right time.”

  Yes, he thought, the right place at the right time. A quarter of a million men from a dozen different nations died on that day because of his decisions. The dead had lain unburied for so long that thousands of them rose again as demon-possessed ghouls, and it had been another battle to deal with them. Uncounted thousands of women became widows on that day.

  And they called him a hero for it.

  But he thanked the captain again and went to the docks. In short order he found teamsters available for hire, and led them back to the ship. The porters loaded the four wagons, and they rumbled into the city, Corthain’s guards keeping a watchful eye on the casks of wine.

  “Where to, sir?” said the lead teamster, a gray-haired man with muscle-knotted arms and a gut like one of the wine casks. He seemed scandalized that Corthain had chosen to walk, rather than take a horse, a carriage, or a palanquin like a proper noble.

  “Is the Silver Coin Inn still open?” said Corthain.

  “Aye, it is,” said the teamster. “Decent enough place for a merchant, though not fine enough for a lord.”

  “Well, I am here as a merchant,” said Corthain, slapping one of the casks, “so it will serve.”

  The wagons rolled up the street, the horses snorting and grunting with the load. Crowds thronged the docks, sailors and laborers going about their business. Quite a few Jurgurs, remarkable for their red hair. No doubt refugees from the horde had wound up here. And slaves, Jurgur slaves and slaves from every other nation, slumped in their ragged orange clothes. No nobles or Adepts, but Corthain supposed they rarely came to this part of Araspan. Corthain looked towards the towers, and one caught his eye, a two-hundred foot fortress of gleaming red stone. The ancestral tower of House Kalarien.

  Corthain didn’t know whether his father still lived.

  “Tell me,” said Corthain. “Who is First Magister now?”

  The teamster blinked. “Magister Talvin, sir. Three years now, with two left on his term.”

  “What about Arthain Kalarien?” said Corthain.

  “Oh, him, sir?” said the teamster. “He’s the Lord Governor this year. Deals with all the matters of the city, oversees the law courts and such. Keeps the slaves in line, he does. A hard man, but fair, I think.”

  “Yes,” said Corthain. “I’m sure.” His father was many things, and hard was certainly one of them.

  His sister…Corthain wondered what had become of Thalia. She had been thirteen when he had left, an Initiate in the Conclave. Was she even still alive? She would have gone thr
ough the Testing by now, and assuming that she had survived, she would be a full Adept. Not that it mattered. She hated him for what had happened to Solthain, and he doubted that twelve years had softened her feelings.

  “You’re familiar with the city, sir?” said the teamster. “Not many outlander lords would known about the Silver Coin Inn, or Magister Arthain, begging your pardon.”

  “Yes,” said Corthain. “You could say that.”

  The Silver Coin Inn was four stories of stone and timber beneath a roof of clay tiles. It catered to outlander merchants, and offered warehouses for guests to store their goods. And as an added bonus, the Inn owned no slaves, but employed freeborn servants. After some haggling with the innkeeper, Corthain rented the top floor for his retainers, and one of the warehouses to store his casks of wine. As his porters started to unload, he circled around the back of the warehouses, intent of observing their security for himself.

  And stopped.

  Four men lounged against the back wall of the warehouse, watching him with narrowed eyes. They were Jurgurs, tall and pale, with thick red hair and blue eyes. Ritual scars covered their cheeks and jaws. Warriors, then; every Jurgur of the warrior caste marked his face with scars to show that he had no fear.

  Or at least they had, until Corthain had shattered the Jurgur horde at Dark River.

  “Well,” said one of the men in Jurguri. “What have we here?”

  “Some Callian lordling,” said a second man. “Probably with a fat purse.”

  Corthain snorted. He had warned his people against wandering about alone, and here he had disregarded his own orders and blundered into a band of robbers.

  “Let’s take his gold and dump his corpse in the harbor,” said the first man. “No one will care if another dead man washes up with the tide.”

  “Until a demon enters into the corpse. But you are correct,” said Corthain in Jurguri, and the robbers looked at him, startled. “One corpse in the harbor will not draw attention. Nor will four, for that matter.”

  “You speak our tongue, dog?” said the first Jurgur. “It is dishonored coming from your filthy lips.”