Thar feinted a kick to the right. When Barrel-gut shifted, Thar brought his foot up and over the shield too fast for the man to respond. The kick caught the Farlander in the side of the face. Pain shot through Thar’s foot. Barrel-gut was grinning at him, metal glinting where the kick had sheared away skin.
Hissing in surprise, Thar took a step back. The Farlander’s scales weren’t golden. Neither were they the polished silver or bronze he’d come to know. They were dull, iron grey.
Another blast of thunder chased away Thar’s shock. Flathead was standing, firestick aimed. Flames and smoke spat from the weapon two additional times.
Barrel-gut chose that moment to strike, hand a blur of movement, deceptively fast for his girth. With no time to dodge both attacks Thar raised his forearm, reinforcing it with soul to block Barrel-gut. The man’s fist connected with a resounding thud. The arm went dead.
Agony filled the next moment, white hot, scalding. Thar bit back a scream.
Such pain might have paralyzed another man, but not Thar. The tingling bursts that had edged through him now roared in his ears. The charges became a complete flow, circulating with his blood, within his soul. He offered Barrel-gut a mad grin.
The diminutive Farlander unleashed another blow that Thar sidestepped. A second later the metal balls screamed by the spot where Thar’s head had been. Thar dropped to one knee, anticipating their change in direction. He released the charges from his body into the water.
Radiant shades of blue lit the darkness like lightning on a moonless night. It crackled all around him, crawling with life, raced through his nimbus. A wiseman might have said Keneshin, the Grey God of Storms, had come to visit the world. Thar smiled that mad smile, teeth showing.
The two Farlanders stood on their toes, mouths open, spasms rocking their bodies. They were jittery puppets in a guiser’s play, strings yanked this way and that in a dance of death. An intermittent hum and the scent of cooked flesh and burnt hair washed over Thar. When he released the hold on his power, the men fell, their bodies splashing into filth. The metal balls dropped. Thar snatched them out the air and placed them in his coat pocket.
As he strode toward Flathead, feeling returned in slow increments to Thar’s left arm. The vital points Barrel-gut had sealed with his punch were opening slowly, once more allowing soul to flow. Flexing his fingers, Thar made a pleased sound in his throat, the hint of a smile curling his lips. Life once again held some interest.
Thar peered around until he located the partially submerged firestick. He picked up the weapon and slung it by its strap over one shoulder. Then, with one hand, he grabbed the dead man by the bottom of his leather trousers.
A jolt of soul shot into Thar. Startled, he dropped the Farlander.
The surge was similar to that attained when he used derin fur or leather. However, he could think of no beast from which he could gain the pale leather the Farlanders favored. He stored the information as another tidbit he had to learn about their various races.
On his second effort, the soul was less noticeable, and he dragged Flathead to his partner. He kicked aside Barrel-gut’s shield. It was a creation of soul and would cease to exist two days from when the Farlander manifested it. Humming to himself, he magnified his strength, took hold of the diminutive man’s ankle, and headed down the tunnels, dragging the men behind him.
Not once did he consider abandoning the corpses. These Farlanders, like him, were some form of Dracodar. Of that he was certain. If someone found them and recognized them for what they were, Ainslen’s men in particular, they could attain a wealth of power by feeding off the remains. The rebellion already had enough problems with the king’s current strength and allies. Neither did Thar consider feeding them to his own melders, regardless of how much it might enhance their power in soul magic. The practice was an abomination, one of the main reasons he’d rebelled against the Empire. As for himself, partaking of his own was poison.
He thought back to Tomas’ inability to sense the two Farlanders, and then to their lack of golden scales. They possessed a cycle they should not. The discovery of the quintessence in the dead men was worrying, more so than the confirmation that the Farlanders had Dracodar fighting for them. And yet he couldn’t help but try to make sense of that last choice.
Reports from merchants and the guild spy network stated that the Farlander Dracodar led a life mainly as fodder for the armies. Some were slaves. A specific number of them were kept for breeding. Supposedly none were allowed any semblance of freedom. So why fight alongside their oppressors? Generally, men fought for four reasons: emotion, a cause, money, or life. Discovering which moved these Dracodar would prove essential to the future.
Troubled by the thoughts, Thar made his way to one of the Undertow’s hidden entrances, the corpses sloshing behind him. He activated a switch hidden within the wall, and a brick partition slid aside to reveal a corridor. Minutes later he was striding through passages that time had forgotten, thick with dust and the smell of age, the dead men leaving a wet trail.
He traveled deep into the dank darkness of the Undertow until he strode along an avenue lined with statues of massive ereskars. The legendary beasts featured oversized ears, tusks and matching horns, and elongated snouts with rows of fangs in a face only a mother could love. When he found the rooms he sought, Thar stripped the bodies, planning to spend the next few hours studying them. Perhaps he would find answers to the secrets of their weapons and the odd color of their scales. Most of all, he would leave no trace of them when he finished.
Days later, Thar left the entrance to a cave hidden among massive boulders. At his back towered the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows. The Treskelin Forest was a tangled, dark mass ahead, the wind a kiss of cold that ruffled his hair. The sound of padded footsteps announced Snow and her derin pack as they exited the cave. Snow was the biggest of them, the size of a small horse, her short white fur lying flat and smooth like a hound’s. Her tongue lolled, and along with her canines that jutted past her lower jaw, she seemed to be giving a satisfied smile. Unlike the males, she had no mane. The other six derins were licking their chops, hints of scarlet marring their snouts.
Thar let out a frustrated breath, mist curling from his mouth. The Farlander corpses hadn’t revealed enough, but they had shown some troubling attributes. The grey color of their scales was artificial, some type of additional layer atop their natural gold. He grimaced, wishing he knew what it meant. Perhaps the Blade in his basement could offer some insight. The origins of their leather armor proved similarly futile despite his experience as a hunter. He folded the piece he had in his hands, rubbing it between his fingers. The material was pale, thin yet supple, and carried death’s noxious odor.
The firestick’s metal balls also niggled at him. The alloy reminded him of Dracodarian-forged steel, the same material used to craft his sword, and the weapons Winslow and Keedar wielded. However, any smiths who knew how to work the metal were long dead, along with the location of mines from which it could be gleaned. Those secrets were said to have disappeared during the Blight and the Thousand Year War that followed. And yet, here were these projectiles. Perhaps, like the few weapons of its kind that his forces possessed, the balls had been part of some lost cache.
Annoyed by the lack of answers, he took one step toward the forest before he stopped and frowned, attention drawn to the western sky. There, a column of colors blazed. They sent a chill through him.
And so it begins, he thought, so it begins. He broke into a jog toward the Treskelin Forest’s dark tree line.
3
Test of Soul
Despite the reassuring presence of Uncle Keshka and Keedar, the enormity of the moment weighed on Winslow. Over the past few weeks the feeling had built, and even the playful forays into the edges of the Treskelin Forest with his brother did little to ease it. He relished those. He could be different then, a young ma
n enjoying life, instead of one who could meet his end soon.
Winslow sighed. Either he returned from the Treskelin as a melder or he wouldn’t return at all. That was the sense the woods gave off. The mass of gigantic ash trees loomed before him, canopy near impenetrable, trunks like white pillars, roots a gathering of massive snakes that wormed their way underground to burst from earth rife with life and covered in a bed of humus. An unrelenting drizzle pattered, its voice like steam from a pipe. The Treskelin’s breath was wet earth, decay, and death.
To the west, a mass of vivid colors speared the clouds. The Crystal Skies, Keshka had named it.
Standing before the woods revived the memory of days spent hunting within the Parmien Forest with Count Cardiff, Gaston, and members of the court. Those days felt like a lifetime ago. The Parmien was a bright wonderland of orchards, spruces, and pines, a place one could bask beside a stream, dream the day away to birdsong, chirping insects, and cooling breezes. The Treskelin was a darker, dank forest, hot as the Ten Purgatories. It was a place of foreboding shadows and profound silences, punctuated by screeches and predators’ roars.
The worst winter in Winslow’s memory scoured the Kasinian Empire but did not affect the Treskelin Forest. A turgid mass of grey clouds boiled above him, clouds that should be dispensing the white blanket that coated other parts of the land, brought frost and rime, left things frozen in time. Instead, rain enough to drown the Treskelin fell in sheets.
In contrast, the Parmien Forest poked above the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows, limbs stalactites of ice that reached for the sky, the ground robed in white. The differences made him wonder if the Treskelin’s native Kheridisians were as the wisemen often preached: heretics who paid homage to dead Gods.
All this he had to conquer to earn the right to call himself a melder. Melder. Winslow rolled the word on his tongue, savored its taste. Nervous excitement fluttered in his belly.
For too long now he’d simply been gifted, a trainee, or a cycler as the Heleganese would call him, able to naturally manipulate a random soul cycle, but without any real control. The resulting magic was often inadvertent, like a drowning man not knowing how to swim but out of sheer desperation he kept himself afloat.
Becoming a melder was different. It meant thinking of an effect and creating it with a thought, with pinpoint control. A dream of his from the first day he’d seen the King’s Blades, majestic in their leather armor, the palm-sized pin of a sword shining on their lapels, able to wield soul magic like melders in the stories told by his nursemaid.
The last word made him wince. He no longer had a nursemaid. Or maids of any sort. No longer was he a boy of status. He was a hunted man. In a short few months he’d gone from the son of a count who was now king, to a commoner, the filth of society. An outlaw. A dreg.
Dreg.
The name reminded him of life’s peaks and valleys. One day you were on top of the world, bedding beautiful whores, drinking the finest wines, indulging in exotic meals. And the next, a hedge was your home, your arm was a pillow, and the cold, hard ground a friend you wished you did not know so intimately.
However, he still had a dream. Several in fact. Achieving this first one invariably led to the others. With a melder’s skills he could face his foes, confront the man he once considered a father, the man responsible for his mother’s death, the man who captured his true father and held him prisoner to be executed on the Day of Accolades. The man the Kasinians now called their king. The thought of Ainslen made Winslow’s blood boil, brought the bitter taste of hate to his mouth.
Not only had he sworn to free Delisar, Winslow had also vowed to get to know the son circumstance had forced him to abandon, the child he made with Elaina Shenen. Unlike himself, Jaelen would grow up knowing his true heritage. Never would the boy doubt his father’s love or who his father was. Winslow’s long hair and beard were reminders of that oath.
One last obstacle remained to fulfilling his first goal: the Fast of Madness. Winslow took a long, deep, calming breath. The anger deep in his gut lessened but did not completely disappear.
He flicked a gloved hand at the sweat and rainwater trickling down his cheeks and into his beard as he returned his attention to the woods. Passing the test meant so much that he couldn’t help his fear of failure. And yet he had that anticipation, a thrill for the challenge the Treskelin Forest presented. Bubbling beneath it was his dislike for the place. At times he swore he heard voices either pleading for him to stay away or beckoning him to enter. Neither boded well.
Keshka gave Winslow’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, fingers like iron despite his age. “You’re a Giorin, remember that. You will pass.”
The name made him consider his son again. He pictured month old Jaelen as a replica of himself and Elaina, smiling, happy. Winslow longed to see him, to hold him in his arms. Another dream of mine. Does he resemble her or me? He shook off the conjured images.
Regardless, Jaelen would be a Giorin also, despite Winslow’s own difficulty in perceiving himself as one of them, difficulty with the change in fortune as a whole. Although Delisar had treated him with nothing but respect in the training sessions, it had just been that: training. He’d thought fitting in would have been easier, knowing that Ainslen had stolen him from his parents, had killed his mother, that he had a real family now. But there were days when he struggled with it all, missed his old life, longed for its comfort and security.
“You’ll conquer this as easily as Keedar,” Keshka was saying.
“If that was easy, I wouldn’t want to see difficult.” Keedar spared his father a sidelong glance.
Winslow agreed. His brother was better and more developed in combat and soul magic. What Keedar lacked in his slender frame he more than made up for with speed and elusiveness. And despite all that, Keedar had returned bloody from his test, covered in scabs and half-healed wounds, not once sharing details of his ordeal.
“Anything you walk away from with all your limbs intact should be considered easy.” Keshka gave Keedar that easy smile of his, the permanent lines on his forehead those of a man who wore a constant frown. His snowy hair and white beard streaked with black suggested he had at least seventy years on him, and although he was much older than that, he had the physique of a man decades younger.
Keedar scowled at his father before he stepped up to Winslow, boots squelching through mud. “Whatever you see, whatever you hear, do not leave your shelter early. And remember to make a small hole for air.”
They grasped forearms, Winslow smiling at his brother’s concern. Keedar had become introverted since their rescue, focused on his training. When not involved in the litany of exercises and meditation, he seemed lost, thoughts distant, often staring toward the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows that hid Kasandar from sight. Their foray to the pond a few days ago had been a breath of fresh air until the bounty hunters ruined it.
“I’ll be back,” Winslow said.
“You’d better. I’d hate to save Delisar without you.”
“You won’t, that I promise.”
Winslow turned to his uncle. “Isn’t it time you told me exactly what happens if I fail?”
“You’ll belong to the forest.”
“Same thing you said last time. What does it mean?”
“You become a Wild One.” Keshka pointed toward the Treskelin’s brooding shadows.
Winslow couldn’t see the Wild Kheridisians, but he took Keshka’s word that they existed. He certainly felt as if he was being watched on many occasions, even now. Keshka claimed they were men and women who had either given their souls to the forest or had them taken. Winslow cringed at either prospect.
A low growl from Snow added to his trepidation. The derin lay near the cottage. Head raised, she peered at the forest before settling back down. Snow was the size of a pony, fangs like pointed forearms, snout short and broad. He still fo
und it difficult to comprehend Keshka’s ability to tame the beast. Not even the houndmasters could achieve such a feat, and they were among the Empire’s most renowned trainers.
“Are you ready?” Keshka asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be, but what if I happen across another set of bounty hunters?”
“You won’t. They know better than to venture this deep into the Treskelin. And even if they do, Snow’s pack will dissuade them.”
Winslow nodded.
“Remove your weapons,” Keshka ordered.
Winslow took his foot-long dagger from the sheath at his waist. He removed another knife he’d slipped inside the hidden sleeve in his boots.
“Hold them out before you, and then let them fall.”
The weapons landed in the mud with wet sounds. Winslow felt those eyes on him again, a prickling sensation that crawled up the back of his neck.
“Remember,” Keshka said aloud, “don’t pick any fruit or harm any creature within the forest. Due northwest from here you’ll find a clearing. You’ll know the one when you enter it. Make yourself a shelter like we practiced outside the Treskelin.” Winslow nodded even as tension built inside of him.
“It’s fine to be afraid.” Keshka had lowered his voice. “Respect fear; it’s one of the greatest motivators, but you are its master. A man can fall flat if he lets fear overwhelm him, but that same man can accomplish great things because of it. Fear for his loved ones, fear of death, fear of failure. Only you can decide which man you want to be. Learn when to listen to your soul and not your mind, and when to follow your heart. It’s a precarious balance. The wrong step in any direction and you’re dead.”
“All this talk of having fear, whatever happened to bravery?” Winslow quipped.
“Bravery isn’t the lack of fear, but a victory over it. Besides, being brave is one part idiocy, one part balls, and two parts death wish. Now, repeat our mantra.”
Soulbreaker Page 4
