Game of Souls

by Terry C. Simpson

  The fight seemed almost too easy.

  Against his force of Farlanders disguised as Thelusians, the Blades had come charging into the main courtyard. Soul flowed from every one of them, linked together in a thick layer with the consistency of iron. He’d seen this attack many times: the Blades, many bare-chested, slamming into a foe’s flanks, taking no wounds from their opponent’s swords or bows. Each one in that first line of attack would be Magnifiers, able to strengthen the natural capacities of their bodies or apply that effect to an object they held, making it near unbreakable. What followed would be a massacre as the opposing force panicked in the face of enraged Blades tearing them apart, smashing them into the ground with bare feet and fists.

  Except not one Blade made it into the Farlander ranks.

  Five thousand strong, the Farlanders formed a square, their booted feet resounding with impeccable timing. In need of every bit of power, they had dropped the forms they’d created using soul. The short spears they had held became firesticks. A short, squat race of them, none taller than five feet, made up the two outermost lines, each a Magnifier bearing a rectangular shield to match his or her height. Behind those, and armed with their deadly firesticks were two lines of ranged attackers, much taller, their hair so blond it appeared white. Casters, complexions like polished sandalwood, made up the fourth rank, followed by Alchemists in their flowing robes, heads bald. They held the center near Ainslen and Seligula.

  They worked with seamless, lethal efficiency. Whenever the Blades charged, the Casters dropped the shield made from soul they had erected ahead of the line of Magnifiers who were playing the part of footmen should anyone breach the lines. Thunder followed. As one, the firesticks spat flames, smoke, and metal balls. Those who shot would fall back to reload. The next rank took position. The Alchemists waited.

  Ainslen had no idea exactly how the firesticks worked. All he could tell was that the men applied some type of powder in a bracket, sighted down along the barrel, squeezed their finger, and magic happened.

  Enhanced with soul applied by the Alchemists, the balls ripped through the Blades whose hardened skin may as well have been paper for all the good it did them. Holes riddled their bodies. On every assault, more fell dead than were able to retreat wounded and bloody.

  Ainslen covered his ears each time the firesticks released a barrage. He also shuddered. For the first time, he understood the scorn Seligula had for the Kasinian forces. Faced by this kind of attack, by such fatal precision, they stood no chance.

  When the Blades changed tactics, allowing their own Casters to hurl soul enhanced by fire, earth, or given sword-like properties, the Farlanders had an answer. Linked in a way he’d not seen before, the Magnifiers lent their strength to their shields, making them several feet thicker and taller in an almost solid band of soul. Small pockets opened in the shield. Specific Farlanders stepped forward, better shots with their weapons than the best bowmen known to Ainslen, and picked off the Blade’s Casters.

  When any attacks flew over the formation, the secondary Magnifier rank threw their shields like boomerangs, disrupting the opposing meld. As each one connected to a projectile or reached its apex, it immediately flew back to the owner on strings of soul provided by the Alchemists.

  Faced with such carnage, with utter defeat, the Blades fled into the Spires, no doubt hoping to draw the Farlanders into a more even fight. Smart, Ainslen thought. It was a tactic he would have used.

  Seligula called out commands in their sing-song language, his voice rising above the chaos of battle. The Farlanders separated into groups of ten comprising of each melder type. They headed after the fleeing Blades.

  A fifth of the force stayed. Ainslen made his way into the Golden Spires, intent on taking the throne room and King Jemare. Despite the knot in his gut at what he’d witnessed, he could not contain the thrill rising in him.

  Today, he would finally attain the crown.

  “Did I not tell you these rusted Blades would be no match?” Seligula’s smug expression tore at Ainslen. The general strode down the hall with his hands behind his back. “We have hundreds of years worth of experience fighting melders, defeating actual Dracodar. Your half-breeds were never a threat.”

  Ainslen opened his mouth to answer, then frowned. They had passed the first hallway without any resistance. He cocked his head, listening for any sounds of conflict, but there were none.

  Seligula chuckled. “This is nothing new. We have seen this before. Utterly smashing the enemy’s morale often has this effect.”

  “I see.” Ainslen might have agreed, except he knew the Blades. He had been one of them. The way they threw themselves without fear of death at the Farlanders was part of decades worth of training. They would not have given up the Golden Spires. Unless … unless ordered to abandon their posts by the king.

  Although troubled by the prospect, Ainslen smiled. Was it going to be this easy to become king? Lost in thought, he heard little of Seligula’s boastful chatter. When they reached the long foyer before the throne room, the golden double doors were open wide. King Jemare waited near the throne in leather armor to match the Blades, a sword on his hip.

  “Just kill him now and be done with it,” Seligula said.

  Ainslen ignored him. Wary, he let their contingent enter first and spread around the room, searching out the archways for any hidden adversaries. They found none.

  “It’s just me, old friend,” the king called. “Is this not what you wanted? A duel between you and I?”

  “I could simply have you killed.” The idea was tempting.

  “But you will not. Your pride won’t allow it. You always felt you were better than me, even when we were Blades together.”

  “Indeed. And now I get to prove it. Seligula,” Ainslen waited for the man to step up next to him, “there are ten entrances within this room, each at an alcove. Dispatch your men outside each to make sure no one disturbs us. Then you may take your leave.”

  “If that is your wish,” Seligula said, “but this is a wasteful risk.”

  “This is tradition,” Ainslen responded, lowering his voice, making it flat. “I would not expect you to understand, nor do I need you to. Simply do as I ask.”

  “So be it.” The general stalked off.

  “Farlanders,” King Jemare shook his head and made a tsking sound. “Of all the people, you choose the greatest threat to our own freedom. You would risk that much to overthrow me? Does wearing this mean so much to you?” He pointed to his crown.

  “Yes,” Ainslen kept his gaze on the king while he waited to feel if they were alone. “But this isn’t only about the throne.”

  “Oh?” The king appeared at ease as he spoke. The weariness Ainslen noticed before was gone. It was as if the man was refreshed, younger, more vibrant. “What else could make you take such extreme measures, such actions that would be frowned upon by those you seek to rule? You speak of tradition. It is a tradition that Kasinian’s people pull down monarchs who they feel have broken the spirit of Far’an Senjin.”

  “I can deal with the people. I am sure those in the Smear will side with me once I do away with the Day of Accolades.”

  “What?”

  “You asked what else could make me do as I have done.” A sense of calm suffused Ainslen. “And you dare mention Far’an Senjin. To the abyss with the Game of Souls, may Desitrin shit on it. You took from me the one thing that meant more than life itself.”

  King Jemare’s brows drew together, and by his expression, Ainslen saw he did not comprehend or was playing innocent. He loathed the man.

  “You can stop the charade. It did not take me long to discover the true purpose of the Trial of Bravery.” Ainslen shook his head, rage building like a weight in his chest. “Sending noble children, enticing them with the promise of becoming a Blade, all so you can determine their power in soul, those who might be a threat, so you can be rid of them. How many wives, mothers, children, have you taken in this fashion? How many have you snuf
fed out for the precious game?” He clenched his hand into a fist, his fingernails digging into his palms.

  “Countless. This is comical, Ainslen. You and your righteous anger.” The king suppressed a chuckle. “You scream and rage over your loved ones, but is that any different from what we do on the Day of Accolades, from what we do to other kingdoms, to mere villages?”

  “They are beneath us! How dare you speak of them as if they are our equals?”

  Jemare smiled, but his eyes were steady, assessing.

  Chest tight, Ainslen inhaled deep and slow, refusing to be goaded into attacking before he was ready. Whatever emotions he felt needed to be put to good use. A slight pressure pushed at his mind. He squinted at Jemare. As he thought, the sintu around the man’s body writhed.

  “So our lives are worth more than theirs?” Jemare’s voice became conversational. “Far’an Senjin is what it is, what it has ever been. The ruthless survive and the pitiful, kindhearted masses fall to the wayside. It is the way of things. It is our way. Nothing you do will change that.”

  “No!” Ainslen bellowed. “You took my wife and child from me. You took my love.”

  “As King Tolquan took mine.” Jemare shrugged. “I could not have them back as you cannot have yours returned to you. Call it a rite of passage. I made you as he made me, forged in the fires of suffering and pain. You’re my greatest creation.”

  Memories of Marjorie and Kenslen came alive in Ainslen’s mind. Her face, her ginger-spice scent, Kenslen’s innocent smile, his thirst for learning. Then the image of her ruined body superimposed itself over those, the blank expression in Kenslen’s eyes after witnessing his mother’s death. The things he had been forced to do to the boy … all because of Jemare and his blind pursuit of Tharkensen and Elysse.

  “Besides,” the king continued, “how much did you really care for them? You see, I know what you did. I always have. You convinced many that your brave wife gave birth to Winslow on the night she died, that the guilds were also responsible for Kenslen’s death. None of it is true. You killed him, your own son, in a vain attempt to grow stronger. And you took someone else’s child from the Smear to replace the one your pregnant wife lost.” Jemare shook his head slowly, smirking. “Did you really think that suppressing Winslow’s soul, slowing his training, would fool me? When I’m finished with you, he will be mine. The Soul Throne can use him.”

  Ainslen roared and dashed forward. His secret would die with the king. A sword of pure soul sprung to life in his hand. It was white like a misty collage but no less sharp.

  With a deft sidestep, King Jemare deflected the first blows. His expression was calm, serene. The impact of their weapons reverberated through Ainslen’s hands.

  By far the bigger and stronger man, Jemare gave little ground, but Ainslen had speed as his advantage. He called on it now, applying his soul to his legs, to the flick of his arms and wrists. With form after form, he struck. A torrent of blows. Rapid. Nonstop. Tireless.

  Jemare gave him that infuriating smile again. And kept up. With a simple change of his arm’s angle, a twist of his wrist, a tilt of his head, a lift of one leg when Ainslen spun and struck at his feet, the king countered or made him miss. Jemare had always been better than him with the sword and melding, but Ainslen refused to be denied.

  They fell into a pattern of offense against defense with the king not once attacking. It became a dance interspersed with recollections of Marjorie in this same throne room, dressed in a beautiful gown, the centerpiece of a ball. With each image, the cold of sorrow and the heated fire of rage bloomed within Ainslen’s chest. He fed those emotions into his soul, into his strikes. He became faster. He was Ainslen the Wind Blade once more, his attacks swirling like the eddies they imitated.

  And still, Jemare kept up. The man was supposed to be a Caster, but here he was fighting with improbable speed.

  Sweat poured down Ainslen’s face. His arm throbbed. The moment his blows flagged a miniscule amount, Jemare changed from defense to offense.

  When the king struck, it took all of Ainslen’s strength to parry the blow, all of his agility to avoid being skewered. Even then, King Jemare scored several nicks.

  Something heavy slammed into Ainslen’s back. As he plummeted forward, he twisted at the last moment, hit the floor and rolled away from the king. He snatched a look over his shoulder to see a chair had flown across the room with a part of Jemare’s soul still attached to it.

  A crackling sound and sudden heat made Ainslen snap his head around. He dived across the carpeted floor. Flame struck with a roar, blasting heat against his face, smoke curling up from the charred area where he’d stood moments ago.

  The king shrugged.

  Breathing labored, anger leaking from the extended battle, Ainslen found a calm determination. He gazed at the soul around King Jemare. A hiss escaped his lips.

  He had expected the king to possess the abilities of at least three different types of melders. Exactly which, he’d been unsure until now. But this last was surprise. If he strained hard enough, he could make out what appeared to be an alternate version of the king, made up purely of soul like a white spirit. It shifted as the king moved, a sword in its hand. Ainslen forced his mouth shut.

  “You did not expect your king to be some weakling, did you?” Jemare backed off a step, and although he appeared nonchalant, the rise and fall of his chest said he pushed his limits. Certain of his victory, he beckoned for Ainslen to stand.

  “No,” Ainslen said as he pushed to his feet, “I thought you were stronger.” He allowed any emotion to drain from his face. “All my research told me you might be a Dracodar. Even your tiny ability to touch minds. I hoped and hoped. Only to be disappointed. I know all you can do now, and I can match it.” He blew out an exasperated breath. “What a waste.”

  “A brave try, I must admit,” Jemare said, shaking his head. “You are almost believable. Even if you were still Ainslen the Wind Blade your death would be inevitable. Now, come, embrace death.”

  “No, my old friend.” Ainslen reached deep into himself, calling forth the soul he’d siphoned through his mosquitoes over the years, tapping into the depths he’d ingested from Kenslen, engaging the power from the Dracodar scales he’d found during the Night of Blades in Delisar Giorin’s home. The power burned in him with a heat to match the sun. “It is you who die.”

  Ainslen’s soul split in two as he drew on what he’d taken from the king. With his first move, he mimicked Jemare’s speed and strength. Jemare blocked the first strike.

  Faster.

  The second strike scored a nick. Ainslen’s stomach fluttered. He smiled.

  Faster.

  Ainslen marveled as his four arms became a blur, unleashing blow after blow. The king no longer had that smug expression on his face; his brow creased with worry as he barely managed to deflect some strikes. With each score, each rent in the king’s leather armor, each flicker of blood on his blade, the flutter in Ainslen’s stomach grew. It bathed his body, sang to him, he could see Marjorie’s smiling face, Kenslen’s graceful body as he practiced for the Trial.

  He grinned as he struck once more. Drawing on Sorinya’s strength, Ainslen paused mid thrust, slamming his fist into the marbled floor. The impact blew back the king, who compressed his soul in front of his body to absorb the impact. Using the velocity provided by the explosion, Ainslen sprang forward, meeting Jemare in one massive leap.

  The king’s arm raised in time to block the blow. Ainslen yanked on the soul he’d attached to it during the fight, pulling Jemare’s arm down.

  A barely audible gasp escaped the king’s lips as Ainslen’s sword pierced his heart.

  “Y-you copied my abilities,” the king said as he crumpled to the ground. “Im-Impossible.”

  Mouth open wide, unable to utter another word, Jemare’s attention went to the wound. He touched the area with his derin leather gloves, his hand coming away bloody, and then he looked up at the count.

  Ainslen bent close
. “This is for Marjorie,” he whispered.

  He straightened, and then kicked Jemare in the face. Once. Then again. And again. With each thud, elation ran through him. A small sense of satisfaction joined it. He promised Marjorie to continue kicking until the king was but so much meat.

  Sacrifice of a Father

  The candlelight cast monsters against the closet wall and into the dark room beyond. Keedar wished he had a drink to relieve the dry chalk his mouth had become. Wine, water, juice, any liquid would suffice. He licked his lips as if it would help.

  They were on their way. Murderers. Every one of them.

  Nothing he or his father could do would change that. No misdirection, no amount of pleading, fighting, nothing. The soldiers would be there in minutes. Suffused by hopelessness, Keedar shuddered, his skin clammy, crawling, and cold. The closet’s confines did nothing to help his fear. It was suffocating. He wanted out regardless of the consequences. Only Father’s presence prevented him from fleeing into certain death.

  Fitting how they ended up here in their old home. He couldn’t think of a better location for his final resting place.

  Flames. Scales. Mother’s laughter. If the Gods were so watchful, so caring, how could Hazline, the so-called maker of Fate, be so cruel as to have them return here?

  Keedar recalled how he’d sped across the Smear, warning as many as he could. By the time he returned, the fighting had reached Pauper’s Circle. Cut off from the sewers, Father and a small group fought against soldiers and melders. Sintu spilled from too many bodies to count. The battle played out in violent bursts between weapon on weapon combat, men using soul magic to rip apart foes, tear huge bits of masonry from buildings to fling at the opposing forces, or sending flames in lances that left scorched bodies in their wake. At times, one melder or another faced off, conjuring weapons that struck in blurs too fast for his eyes to follow. Father’s men got the better of every exchange.