Blade and Soul: A Dark Fantasy (Kindred Souls Book 2)

by C. M. Estopare

  Up ahead, slamming hooves halted. Silence rolled upon the wind like snow.

  Reine saw this as her chance.

  She followed the bend, fingers pressed into the brittle hair of her mare's neck. Her knees bit into the mare's ribs as she hugged them tighter and tighter. Ravaging wind freed her hair of its tight chignon and she let her wavy hair float freely.

  Charlotte stood in the saddle as Reine passed her.

  Reine grinned. Sliding her gaze over her shoulder, she met Charlotte's flashing blue eyes as the older woman glowered. Stared.

  “Can't take it that I've beat you?” Reine teased.

  Charlotte promptly ignored her, hands moving to her hips.

  Behind Charlotte, Florette and Charlotte's guardsman pulled their horses to a skidding stop. Florette angled her horse into a turn. The guardsman snatched Charlotte's reigns, yanked them tersely and snapped his fingers. Vying for her attention.

  Burning wood bit Reine's nostrils. Manure and black cookfire smoke ambled lazily upon the wind.

  Reine brought her eyes to the front.

  Tents.

  Black and gold tents barricaded the dirt road. A smattering of black tents sat like fat beetles in the grassy plains on all sides. In the center of the massive formation, sat an enormous cookfire, its black smoke rising towards the sky like the desperate hand of a drowning man.

  The place was empty. Barren.

  From Reine's right and left, bow strings hissed. Arrows were pulled taut.

  “Merde—no! I'm not leaving her—merde, merde, merde—,”

  “I'm sorry, Madam, but she is lost!”

  “Lady mother—come!”

  A brittle wind passed beneath Reine's flared nostrils.

  Hanging her head, she lifted up her hands.

  SIXTEEN

  Marceline

  Marceline clenched her outstretched fingers. Unclenched them.

  Pushing herself up, she shook sweat drenched blankets away and inhaled. She let her head roll back. Her lungs blossomed open.

  She set her gaze forward.

  The cozy room was empty. The prying doctor and soft spoken herbalist gone. Vanished like a breath of stale wind. She listened to the manor. Closed her eyes and let her mind float away.

  Nothing. Silence.

  The manor was dead, as was the surrounding town.

  A boom ricocheted through the sky, followed by the callous crackle of brittle lightning.

  Slapping her hand to her side, she grimaced. Slithered the hand away and brought her gaze to her palm.

  Puss. Brown blood and puss globbed over her palm like slime.

  Closing her hand, she placed it on her side once more. She gagged, her stomach somersaulting before she hung her head. Acid bubbled inside of her, marching up through her throat. Frothing in her mouth only to come tumbling out as watery vomit.

  She heaved. Pressing both hands to the floor and arching her back. A stabbing pain speared through her diaphragm, burning through her. Forcing her stomach to dig its way into her ribs as she heaved and vomited once more.

  Coughing, she wiped her mouth.

  She froze. Heard voices.

  “You will give this estate over as reparations—or what is left of your family will suffer!”

  “Non, Monsieur—I have a duty to uphold to my husband.”

  “Your husband, the murderer?”

  Words drove through the town, heightened voices that boomed from the throats of gods. Every word forced the manor's old walls to tremble. Every intake of breath a gasp.

  A woman speaks, as does a man.

  The voices came from far away—from the town's northernmost gate.

  Perhaps everyone has gathered there?

  Marceline forced herself to stand. Slapped her hand to her side as her brain swam in her head, every armchair, and bookshelf in the room multiplying into two as her vision failed her. The dizzy feeling made her bow, made her heave up more vomit.

  She held her stomach now. Tumbled into a wall and fixed her hand to it.

  Slowly, her vision returned. Stabilized.

  She needed to get down there—to see what was going on.

  Sliding her hand against the wall, she made her way towards the door. Gradually, one foot in front of the other. Left, right—halt. She lurched forward. Panted. Blinked her double vision away and kept going. Kept moving.

  She needed to find Reine. She still had a duty to uphold. A job to do.

  She needed to find Reine.

  Marceline trudged towards the door. Collapsed in a heap before it. Shoving herself to standing once more, she clapped both hands over the handle and inched the door open. It creaked. The entire hallway was silent.

  Save for a few shuffling feet making their way through rooms. Entering the hallway only to vanish again.

  She spied three men in black. Heavy cowls concealing their eyes.

  They entered the hallway once more only for two to disappear. One stayed. Brought his gaze to her eyes and straightened from his crouch.

  He smiled cruelly.

  “Up there,” she heard him whisper. The man pointed.

  Marceline cursed. Flung herself around the door and rammed her back up against it. Slamming it closed.

  The walls shook from the impact. Outside, the voices continued to boom. Continued to argue. While, inside, shuffling feet raced up the hallway and moved towards her room.

  Marceline bit her lip.

  Her gaze fell to her side. The yellowed chemise she wore stuck to the wound eating into her skin. She didn't dare yank it.

  The footsteps ventured closer.

  Marceline eyed the room's single window.

  I can't fight, she told herself, not like this.

  And she threw herself from the wall. Lurched towards the window at a run-walk, and winced as a thousand little pinpricks of pain ricocheted up and down her right side. Her leg went numb—her heart throbbed. She winced, bit her lip and dove for the long rectangular window. Fingering the latch, it opened with a groan and a hiss.

  Behind her, the door opened. Wood thwacked the wall as her assailants entered the room.

  Marceline threw herself over the ledge. Found a foothold on the outer wall of the manor and held to mislaid bricks poking out at odd intervals.

  Rain pelted her head. Thunder boomed with a cry and she shut her eyes.

  For the first time—with fear souring her tongue and her vision going double once more—she shut her eyes and prayed.

  “Don't see no one here.”

  “Swear I saw someone—a girl.”

  “We aren't here to steal her children—,”

  “Think of the recognition we'd get for that, though...”

  Three men spoke. All Safranian accents.

  Marceline held tight to the brick. Her side throbbed. Burned. Saliva flooded her mouth.

  “Anything?”

  “Non...seems like someone bled out, though...”

  “Pity.”

  They moved about the room like specters, barely making a sound. Marceline held fast—hissed at a sudden sharp stab of pain in her side. Bit her lip and opened her eyes wide.

  The men stilled. Froze.

  They heard her.

  “You added this room to the layout?”

  “Mhm. We're doing good. Whatever you saw, twas probably nothing. A ghost...”

  Marceline shut her eyes. Silently thanked the Fates.

  “Don't say that...dragons live...witches—whose to say that—,”

  “Enough. Go on.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  They left the room. Feet shuffled and a door closed. Marceline hissed again—cursed as she slapped her hand to the window's lip and attempted to pull herself up.

  Steel slithered through muscle. Met wood with a thwack.

  She gasped. Opened her mouth to scream only for silence to come tumbling out.

  A dagger bit through bone and muscle, pinning her hand to the window pane like a spike.

  A man looked over the ledge, his
face concealed by a black cowl. His lips twisted and cracked.

  “Vive la Coutures.”

  And he turned on his heel, the man's dagger still implanted in Marceline's hand. In a flutter of black fabric, he disappeared. Joining his comrades in the hallway.

  Her head fell backward, her lips contorted. A howl raked the skin of her throat, her scream splintering her own ears as she shrieked at the pain.

  She dangled like a doll hanging from a noose. Dead. Useless. A collection of soiled rags.

  She couldn't stay like this.

  The rain fell harder now, washing her face. Drenching her clothes. It hid her tears as they traveled down her face, singeing her cheeks. Biting at the skin of her neck and collarbone.

  With the knife in her hand, she couldn't pull herself up and swing herself inside. With the knife in her hand—she was stuck.

  She bit her bottom lip and shut her eyes.

  Slapping her hand to the hilt of the dagger, her fingers slipped. Danced. Gripping it, she pulled. Whimpered. Saw a flash of white light. She moved the weapon, slowly. Letting the steel bite through her muscle, the dagger coming out the way in came in; through blood and bone and white hot pain.

  With a final yank, she ripped the dagger away. Threw it behind her. Heard steel hit cobbles hard.

  She gasped at the pain—couldn't revel in it as she pulled herself up and swung herself into the room. Her hand bleeding like a calf split open, blood spurting forth. Dousing her skin. Staining it.

  I am an Agent—I am more than this!

  She lied to herself—tried to force herself forward.

  I am Marceline Brandy—sworn to the Bann and sworn to Reine Savatier! I will see this contract fulfilled—

  Keeling over, she vomited. Went blind and heaved once more.

  I am more than this. I am more!

  The room came back into view. She sighed. Surveyed her hand and slapped it to her side.

  She needed to get downstairs and follow the voices outside. Whatever was going on—she was sure of one thing.

  Reine would not die.

  Not while Marceline still lived.

  FEAR. IT BLANKETED the surrounding crowd of farmers, mothers, and a smattering other rain drenched townsfolk like a blanket of soul-sucking midnight. A sea of terrified eyes looked to the wooden ramparts of the Roselets' high walls. Mouths hung open. Faces were drenched in tears, rain, and blood.

  Marceline lurched through the crowd, her side bloodied. The wound reopened, its black stitches plucked.

  Charlotte Savatier stood upon the walls' ramparts, her knuckles white as she grabbed the balustrade for support, “I repeat...again and again...Monsieur Couture, I beg of you...”

  Armies smelt of decay. Of death and flesh borne soot. Marceline wrinkled her nose, her mind going to the collection of war-ravaged men and women surrounding the Roselets' outer wall.

  An army had come, at the hail of the Coutures, seeking revenge. It left a sour taste in Marceline's mouth.

  A silver haired man shoved his way through the throng of anxious people. Marceline's face remained stoic as she met Gerard's kind eye.

  His eyes flashed as he looked to her wounded hand, her bloodied side. Standing an arm's distance away, he cocked his head and shook it. Shrugged his brown cloak off of his shoulders and proceeded to rip strips of cloth away from it, creating makeshift bandages.

  Without a word, he snatched her hand away from her side and patched it up. Weaving cloth around the cut. Treating her hand gently.

  Gerard let her hand go, “You're supposed to be abed! You're in no position to wander around—and fight?!” his gaze dove to her hand, “You're trying, aren't you? To kill yourself? You're a leanwit, Marceline—thinking death will save you from the Masters—,”

  “Are we under attack?” Marceline blurted, struggling to be heard over the booming voices speaking back and forth above them, “Where—where is Reine?”

  Gerard's anger vanished. He swore, the curse a whisper.

  “Gerard?” Marceline demanded, her head swimming. The crowd swallowing her, the bodies pressing, “Gerard—where is Reine?”

  It was a command.

  “I didn't want to be the one to tell you this...” he began, shaking his head. For a moment, he lost his resolve. Meeting her eye only to cut his gaze away and look to the sky. His expression became stone when he looked to her again. His face stoic. Rigid, “Marceline, it has been decided that you are unfit to complete your portion of the contract—,”

  Marceline pressed her lips together. Widened her eyes and stooped. Her vision was becoming double again—but she wouldn't let that stop her. Her rage was a silent one.

  Gerard stood tall. Raised his chin. Stared out into nothing, “You're dismissed.”

  She couldn't keep quiet, “Dismissed?” she hissed—the voices overhead booming once more, “What do you—,” she shook her head, pressed her fingertips into her wound, “—you have no right.” she decided.

  “It is not I who made the decision.” he sighed, shook his head, “I am only the messenger.”

  Marceline cursed.

  “Then who?” she demanded, “Who made the call?”

  Gerard's answer was cut short.

  Marceline heard a familiar voice float over those walls. One that called to her.

  “Please—mother is there nothing you can give...?”

  Silence. Rain fell. Mist wove through the crowd.

  “...I...I'm not ready—I don't want to die...”

  Callous laughter raked through the air, silencing the wind, “Do you hear that, Madam Savatier? Do you hear that?”

  Marceline heard a thump. Heard a rustle of skirts as Charlotte Savatier fell to the planks of the ramparts. The woman cried. Hissed through her tears, “I am...sworn...” she couldn't finish. Couldn't bring herself to condemn the soul on the other side.

  Marceline flew at Gerard, “Is that Reine over there? She's—she's in trouble and no one thought to wake me?! No one thought to give me a damn chance?!”

  He held his tongue.

  “May all of you burn.” she hissed, “I'm not done. Not yet.”

  Marceline tore at the wall—hobbling. Clutching her side. Biting her tongue, blood exploded in her mouth. Copper. Warmth. She let her side go, ignored the pain and eyed the short sword of a nearby Roselet Guard.

  Snatching the sword from the man's heavy belt, she shoved it into the belt of her own breeches and dashed towards the wall. Her side ripping, the wound opening wide. Fresh blood poured out, trailing down her right side.

  She clutched the wooden wall. Searched for divots and pulled herself up.

  It would be a far climb.

  Behind her, Gerard's kind eyes bore into her back. She knew he was shaking his head.

  “You're dismissed,” she heard him call, “let it go. You no longer have a duty to them. You're free...”

  She climbed. Slipped. Winced as pain tore at her, eating away at her. Her hand throbbed as she forced it to work. Bones splintered. Muscle grew red. Blood spewed, but she kept going. Kept climbing. Kept hefting herself up.

  I am not done. I am not—

  She reached the top with a strained grunt. Pulled herself up and stared.

  No.

  Reine stood on a raised platform. Fell to her knees before a bull-like man in blackened armor inlaid with gold. He stood like a statue, placing his hands on Reine's small shoulders. The girl shivered.

  She met Marceline's eyes. One was blackened.

  A sword hissed as it was set free. Silver glistened against a downpour of rain. The man behind Reine held the straight blade up.

  It hissed through the air, the rain.

  Time seemed to stop. Heavy droplets ceased in midair.

  Marceline opened her mouth—screamed—ripped the sword free from her belt and propelled herself from the wall.

  Five stories. A plunge. A spiraling drop.

  When the sound came—steel biting through skin, moving through bone—it bit through Marceline's he
art.

  And behind her, an entire town wailed.

  SEVENTEEN

  Marceline

  Marceline hit dirt. Collapsed, bones splintering. Snapping in her legs.

  A bright light stole her vision. Fire growing before her.

  Men and women screamed. A cacophonous warcry that shook the heavens.

  Adrenaline fueled her. Rage.

  Fear.

  Crawling through the dirt, she grabbed the short sword that fell with her and brandished it above her head. Silver glinted in the dull light. Her chest throbbed. Ached.

  From the corner of her eye, she spotted a willow of a woman. Standing, watching from the sidelines. An angel—a Fate?

  It did not matter.

  The pain in her legs subsided. Numbed her. Flashed her whole body with heat.

  She saw an undulating sea of men and women hefting spears, pulling bowstrings taut.

  They ignored her, the little pile of disheveled clothing and broken bones on the ground. They ignored her and prepared their siege engines. A monstrous battering ram roared past her head.

  Marceline screamed.

  Two women broke from the horde, approached her with daggers drawn and twisted scowls upon their faces.

  She didn't mistake the flash of pity in their exchanged glances. They didn't want to do this.

  Marceline flailed, the short sword in her hand swinging haphazardly. Swinging as if she were trying to ward off demons.

  “Don't come any closer!”

  One woman took a step back.

  “We're doing you a favor.” hissed the other one who approached, red hair pulled back into a messy chignon. Black grime and soot caked to her sweaty face, “Hold still. You won't feel a thing.”

  The soldier flew at Marceline.

  Marceline shrieked, angled the short sword for the woman's dirty face and sliced off three of the woman's fingers with a swing.

  The soldier shrieked. Flung her dagger into the dirt.

  The second soldier came at Marceline. Flanked her.

  Drove a claymore through her shoulder. Twisted it.

  Metal bit through muscle with a watery squelch.

  The surrounding army roared. Large wooden gates erupted, sharp wooden debris flew.

  Warm copper erupted in Marceline's mouth. She coughed. Gagged.