Soulbreaker

by Terry C. Simpson

  “I will not stop running until I reach the clearing. I will not leave the shelter once I create it, no matter what I see or hear.” The words left Winslow’s mouth without thought. After repeating it a thousand times a day for the past months, the recitation was like breathing. But for one significant difference: with the imminent test, the words hinted at extreme danger. He swallowed. “How, how will I know it’s time to leave or that the test is finished.”

  “You simply will. Now, begin.”

  Winslow focused on the thirty-two vital points. They came alive, soul gushing forth to connect them together along his head, arms, legs, and torso, the final one at his heart. Three circular rings, like luminescent smoke, one inside the other, enclosed each vital point. Within the rings were the soul cycles, balls of concentrated energy he could draw upon. The outer and median rings contained three cycles each, while the last held four. The act of opening the flow of soul magic brought a rush. His entire body tingled.

  In his mind’s eye, he drew on the first of the outer cycles, sintu. His soul sprang up around his body, forming a foot-thick nimbus. His surroundings changed. He felt the patter of raindrops moments before they touched him, the wind before it brushed the hairs on his arm, the individual grains of sand in his boots. With his first step forward, he sensed the mud before his feet touched the ground.

  The lump in his throat and the flutters in his gut receded. So did the quiet urges from the Treskelin’s confines.

  Winslow bounded forward. He ran, pulling on the third cycle, tern, hardening the nimbus below his feet, but at the same time making it malleable to conform to the mud. Within moments he was sprinting. Not once did he slip.

  The forest swallowed him.

  As he wove his way through the trees, footfalls deadened by the mattress of humus, he increased the use of tern around his ears. His hearing sharpened. The patter of raindrops and water runoff became clear, he pinpointed distant wolf howls and bear roars, the rustle of critters through underbrush. Stealthy footsteps kept pace to his left and right, accompanied by the even breathing of a practiced runner. Something much bigger loped farther ahead, hidden by deep shadows.

  His heart thudded against his ribs, but he refused to allow fear to overcome him. Instead, he focused on what lay ahead.

  By the use of sintu he dodged branches before they could whip his arms and legs, ducked those too high, and leaped over roots that would trip him. He and the forest were one, its dappled shadows a friend. He made certain to maintain his sintu to keep out any attempts to bend his mind. The trees and creatures in the Treskelin were known for such skills. He’d seen more than one beast walk into a tangle of thorns or become ensnared within vines. A fawn had once trotted over to Snow, mesmerized, laid on the ground, and not even offered so much as a kick when the derin bit into its throat.

  Something massive, furred, snarling, and all claws and fangs bounded from his periphery. The beast leaped.

  Winslow’s heart stopped, but his reaction was instinctive. He directed tern to the area, solidifying his sintu. The creature slammed into it. Winslow didn’t slow to see the effect; he kept on running full tilt.

  He lost track of time and the number of attacks he survived. A few were head-sized stones or arrows and spears that he deflected with his augmented nimbus. Inevitably, his speed and strength ebbed.

  Breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face, heart a beating drum, he drew on the second of the outer cycles, koren. His heart rate slowed and a sense of invigoration swept through him. However, the next stone that flew from the forest’s confines passed through his sintu. He dodged, barely avoiding the rock.

  Winslow could feel the soul draining from his vital points. If this clearing was much longer in its appearance he would fall to whatever enemies and beasts pursued him. As the thought crossed his mind a light appeared a few hundred feet ahead, brighter than the other patches allowed in by the dense canopy. With an extra surge he headed for it, goaded by a sense that he had almost completed this part of the test.

  Eyes narrowing as he drew closer, Winslow thought to slow, but was spurred on by his pursuers. He burst into a clearing and almost fell, his body in shock as he went from humidity that left his clothes soaked and sticking to his skin, into air so frigid his legs buckled. Stumbling in knee-deep snow, he wheezed, immediately hugging himself. His hold on sintu fled, and he fell head first into the powdery fluff.

  Somehow, he managed to scramble forward. Turning onto his back he clawed at his empty weapon sheath. Eyes darting from side to side, he scanned the woods for his pursuers. He saw nothing but shadows and trees. Low growls and padded footsteps abounded, but no man or beast stalked after him.

  With relief came the cold, biting into him. He forced his mind to work. Warmth. I need warmth.

  A large tree occupied the middle of clearing. This one wasn’t ash; it was oak, the trunk perhaps a hundred feet across. Hoarfrost crowned its leafless branches.

  He pushed himself to his feet and trudged to it. A swirling wind kicked up, making him wish for a hooded cloak. Thick flakes pelted him, encrusting his hair and eyelids.

  Picking a spot downwind, he cleared snow from the area near the trunk, scooping with fingers that fought against his efforts to stretch them out. He stuck his hands under his armpits and proceeded to sweep away the rest of snow with his feet. When he finished he sank down against the trunk, hands and feet long having lost all feeling.

  His soul was dismally low. One chance remained for him to build the shelter.

  Shuddering, he pictured a dog kennel with a finger-sized opening for air. Drawing in a deep breath he opened his vital points as wide as he could manage. Soul gushed forth. He fed it to sintu, and then hardened it with tern, shaping it into the image of the dome he held in his mind. He pushed the sides away from his body. Flakes drifted down to the exterior and stuck. Time dragged as the snow collected. He lost track of how long he managed to hold the last trickle of sintu augmented with tern. A moment before unconsciousness devoured him Winslow imagined a fireplace. It was the last image before his mind went black.

  4

  Signs

  The throne room was abuzz with talk of the Heleganese representatives. Did they come to pledge their allegiance or to personally declare war? King Ainslen Cardiff wondered, leaning back into the Soul Throne, the great ivory, silver, and gold seat that was not simply a chair but part of the wall from which it jutted. The diminutive, milk-skinned people from the north had ever been a strange sort, if a bit too bold. He did have one surety. They were not here to make an attempt on his life. They always let a man know their intentions before dispatching their spirit assassins. A show of honor, they called it. He preferred to name it stupidity. You didn’t let a free man know you wanted him dead. You did the deed before he had a chance to prepare himself.

  “I lost another dozen men, sire,” Count Leroi Shenen said through clenched teeth.

  Preoccupied by his thoughts, King Cardiff had forgotten the fair-haired count was standing beside the throne. Leroi’s lithe frame and shifty eyes gave the impression of a snake poised to strike. The king had hoped that the sound thrashing he gave the count had disabused Leroi of any treacherous thoughts. Perhaps he underestimated the man’s perseverance. “I warned you not to send them into the Treskelin, but you would not listen. Now, you suffer the consequences.”

  “What would you have me do? Pretend all is well? Sit around and wring my hands like a woman?” Shenen’s face was dark with anger. “I should ask why it is that you seem to have so little concern for Winslow’s safety, but then his upcoming marriage to my daughter was to seal our pact, a pact you no longer need to recognize in his absence. I—”

  “Would be careful of my words if I were you,” Ainslen said, voice even. “Your tone flirts with accusation, so, let me be clear before your mouth finds itself bedded by my sword. Winslow is my son; it is stru
ggle enough to consider what he might be suffering at the hands of his captors, or to think he might be dead, without the hint of an insult flitting around that small mind of yours. If I wanted to sever our ties, I would’ve killed you on Succession Day. Instead, I provided you with more power than you have ever seen, and kept to my part of our bargain despite the absence of a marriage. A grandson is binding enough, I should think.”

  “I wish to believe you, but Winslow should be your successor at Mandrigal Hill and yet you allowed Katuro to take your old house. As if that were not issue enough, you still have not sent men out to the Treskelin, perhaps some Blades, or these Farlanders of yours.”

  “Katuro was ready for the rigors of the court. Winslow was not. The holdings of Mandrigal Hill requires experience,” the king said. “As for the Treskelin, I haven’t sent anyone into its confines for the same reason that began this conversation: your dead men. In time, I will deal with the Kheridisians and whomever might have taken my son, but for now I must pick my battles with care. Until they do more than send messages, I have other issues to attend, an Empire to mend. After we bring Thelusia and Marissinia to heel, then we can deal with the issue of my son and those godless people hidden within the Treskelin Forest.”

  “I have your word?” Shenen asked.

  “You do.”

  “Very well.” The count’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “In the meantime, how do I deal with these rumors?”

  “Ignore them,” the king said, shrugging. “As I explained to you before, Winslow’s mother was half Marish, eyes as slanted as your grandson, Jaelen. You do remember my beloved wife, Marjorie, don’t you?” Shenen nodded. “Good. In the same fashion that a few of us show traits from other bloodlines, it’s been passed down to the boy. It’s the will of the Dominion. I, for one, do not question the choices made by the Gods. Neither should you.”

  “You sit upon the Soul Throne, so you would not.” Licking his lips, Leroi cast nervous glances at the throne. Greed lived in those eyes. So did fear.

  “That I do.” Ainslen leaned over to the count. “I know what you feel, my friend. I suffered much the same foolishness. Do as I did: if you hear word from any man questioning your grandson’s parentage, then challenge him to a duel. After you kill the first few, they will get the message. Now, if it’s not too much, our guests should be here at any moment.”

  “Yes, sire.” Count Shenen bowed stiffly before striding away toward the other nobles.

  Expelling a breath, Ainslen sat back on his throne but did not relax. He couldn’t, for the Soul Throne ate those who sat upon it. Not literally. It didn’t devour their meat, bones, and blood; it partook of their soul. And a person’s soul was as much a part of them as their physical being. While sitting upon the chair he fought a constant battle to prevent it from consuming him.

  To negate the leeching effect, he could’ve chosen a similar path as Jemare and so many other monarchs before him: encase the throne in its mold of grey metal. But then he wouldn’t feel alive. The persistent battle was a reminder that things more powerful than him existed in the world. He had the mold consigned to a storeroom.

  Thinking of the throne, he stroked the armrest, tracing his fingers along its silver-scaled design. Another person might think the scales an intricate work of a master metalsmith, but he knew them for what they were.

  Dracodar scales.

  Someone had crafted the throne using parts taken from beasts most thought to be dead, their remains powerful relics coveted by the nobility. Not only that, but the wall itself held even more secrets: the bones of legendary Blades as well as other remains, those placed there by Jemare in his heinous practice from the Trial of Bravery. That last made him grimace. Perhaps, like Hemene the Savage, the Soul Throne had driven Jemare mad, for only one who had lost himself to the soul craze would’ve committed such atrocities against noble children.

  Expression still sour, Ainslen thought of the man held prisoner in the dungeons, proof the Dracodar still lived. He could see Delisar even now, golden scales bursting through a layer of human skin. As he’d done on several occasions, the king wondered if Keedar and Winslow were the same, this change dormant in them. The king shook his head, not wanting to believe his own imagination.

  Even more fascinating was the idea that Jemare had known of Delisar and his family this entire time. Prior to the Night of Blades, the dead king had revealed his suspicions as to the location of Tharkensen and Elysse, but not once had Jemare mentioned that he suspected the renowned female assassin of being a Dracodar.

  Ainslen frowned. Or had the king not known? Was it a chance discovery? Ainslen himself hadn’t realized his find until he had Delisar in chains, recognized the man’s face and smell from the Night of Blades. All these years spent tracing their bloodlines, hoping to take advantage of the Smear’s dregs, when in fact there were actual Dracodar among them.

  The Night of Blades played out in his head. He sent Kenslen to take the Trial of Bravery, the test that particular night serving two purposes: to ascertain the skill level of the noble children and for an assault into the Smear led by King Jemare himself. When he returned home from a meeting he discovered Marjorie’s note, stating she’d chased after their son to stop his participation in the trial.

  With High Priest Jarod as his guide, he dashed into the Smear, but before they could find Marjorie, they were caught in Jemare’s battle at some home in Pauper’s Circle. Elysse’s home, he later discovered. He witnessed Jemare gorge himself on Dracodar remains and stumble outside, infused with unbelievable power. Unable to resist, he partook of what little was left, watching as the soldiers battled against Delisar and Tharkensen.

  Afterward, drunk with the soul craze, he’d stumbled through the Smear, following Jarod. Until he encountered Marjorie. He relived the horror of her battered face, of her stomach deflated when hours before it had been swollen with child. He had vomited at the mess that was their baby, delivered stillborn, and turned on Kenslen where the young boy whimpered nearby. His son’s weakness disgusted him. He drew his sword, pulled on his soul, and with a stroke, he took Kenslen’s head.

  Deep into the craze, and filled with rage, he became aware of the soul seeping from the still warm bodies. He hungered for it. At the same time it struck him that his family was dead. He wanted them returned to him. He would do anything to have them back in any form. So he made their souls a part of his.

  Stumbling through the Smear he’d come across Winslow, wailing, alone and cold. He’d seen the soul in the baby and took him. After that night, that taste, his hunger was never sated.

  Ever since he was a young boy, the Blades had enraptured him, and so did the tales of their predecessors, the Dracodar. The exploits of men like Gothien the Shadow Blade, his old mentor, or Myron the Sun Blade, and Roslav Quickthrust had inspired him to greater heights, made him dream of a day when the king would pin the sword to his lapel, and he would earn a title like theirs. Even Tharkensen the Lightning Blade, who he’d fought beside before the man turned traitor, had played a part in his growth. Thar’s speed and namesake strikes had fit his legend. When the king stopped to consider the names, he hadn’t seen them as dregs at that time, but as great warriors, melders that he wished to outstrip.

  After he left the Smear that night he set out on his quest, not only to find remains, but also to discover the possibility that some Dracodar still lived. He poured his resources into archaeological finds across Mareshna, all the way to the Farlands. He even trained with the Order to access their knowledge and to borrow coin from them for his endeavors.

  His research revealed that for years the Smear’s dregs had hidden their most gifted children from the wisemen on the Day of Accolades. In that time, the old, loyal Blades had died, some in battles, and others of natural causes.

  The effects of the dregs’ actions had been far-reaching, depleting the Empire’s armies of one of its greatest assets. H
e had sworn to change that. Already, he possessed one key, and soon he would have another. Patience, he told himself, patience.

  Memories subsiding, Ainslen shuddered, the need to rush down into the dungeons and tear into Delisar almost overwhelming him. His soul surged, essences pouring from his body. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, and forced the vital points from open circular nodes into tiny slits. The Soul Throne partook, but he was unconcerned. With an effort of will he could retrieve the power it stored.

  As he waited for the delegates, the king contemplated the lack of any attempt to save Delisar. The escaped Consortium members did not know the location of their leader’s prison, but until recently, Delisar was flogged at the gibbets, and criers announced each punishment beforehand. He had also mentioned plans for an upcoming execution where they might be overheard. Could I be wrong about the Lightning Blade? Is he really dead? If so, then who was it that saved Winslow and Keedar? He would find out soon enough, even if it meant launching an assault into Kheridisia.

  “Sire?” Sabella’s soft voice was a distant echo. “The Heleganese ambassadors have entered.”

  At the throne room’s arched doorway, Lieutenant Costace of the watchmen waited in front of the six ambassadors. Costace, a rather large, swarthy Farish Islander, had made a good accounting of himself when he reported of Winslow’s rescuer on Walker’s Row and for the swift action he took on Succession Day in deploying the watch. That last had saved the Vermillion District and Artisan Quarter from much destruction. For such work, and quick thinking, Ainslen intended to see Costace raised to marshal. The king gave the lieutenant a nod of assent, and Costace stepped aside.

  The procession of three men and three women glided down the carpeted colonnade, such was the grace with which the Heleganese moved. They reminded Ainslen of a derin stalking its prey: striding with ease yet ready to kill at a moment’s notice. The best Blades, the ones that had earned their names, carried themselves in a similar manner.