Soulbreaker

by Terry C. Simpson

  Measured crunches through ice replaced his tormentors’ footsteps. Something bigger, heavier. It stopped, its breaths a rattle somewhere between a snore and a growl. Digging commenced on the dome’s icy walls.

  Winslow expanded his nimbus, and when he was certain it seeped into the walls, he drew on tern, made the nimbus solid.

  The scratching stopped. The thing growled, the same as before, deep and terrible.

  I won’t listen. I won’t listen.

  Something new crawled beneath Winslow’s skin. It had grown to be a part of him during the last storm. He wasn’t certain what it was, but the thing shifted with his thoughts. He no longer wanted to hear what was happening outside. The crawling thing complied, easing over his ears.

  Silence.

  Hugging his knees once more, he rocked back and forth. Soon, he would need to dig out. Soon. But not yet. Not now.

  8

  Schemes

  Through the slightly open door Count Leroi Shenen watched his daughter play with her son. Elaina was tickling Jaelen, the boy laughing in that innocent way all babies had. Leroi couldn’t help his smile whenever he saw them like this. It reminded him of his own childhood days spent on his parents’ estates. Thinking of his mother and father soured his mood. Not for any wrongdoing on their part or due to bad memories, but because Jaelen was being denied the invaluable blessing of two parents raising him. All because of Ainslen’s schemes. Once more Ainslen had ignored demands for a search. He loathed the man.

  The count growled under his breath and strode away from the door toward the sitting room and his visitors. Considering Winslow’s own questionable upbringing, he would have expected Ainslen to understand, but the man appeared more interested in denying Leroi what was rightfully his, what was rightfully his daughter’s and his grandson’s, rather than honoring the agreement. Ainslen said one thing with his mouth, but his actions dictated the opposite. Not once had the king sent men into the Treskelin to seek out Winslow’s captors.

  Why are you so willing to let them have your boy? He frowned. Unless the rumors are true and he isn’t your son. If not yours, then whose? The count stopped at one of the many family pictures along the wall, lamplight illuminating them. He considered Ainslen’s obsession with soul and the Dracodar. A thing the king hid from most, but Leroi’s spies among Ainslen’s servants reported the countless books and the constant trips to archaeological sites. The workers planted at those digs confirmed the orders to concentrate on Dracodar artifacts. Had Ainslen taken one of the dreg’s children prior to the Day of Accolades? Such an act would make sense. When he was still count, Ainslen would often complain that the Smear’s miscreants held back their most gifted babies.

  The wisemen had a different opinion of the disparity. The Order claimed it was a natural culling of the ability among the Smear’s folk, even suggesting that the Dominion had reclaimed the blessing they once bestowed upon the Dracodar descendants.

  Past generations of the Shenen family had dabbled in what he thought Ainslen might be guilty of now: taking a baby gifted in soul from the dregs and claiming the child as their own to bolster their lineage. Leroi’s great grandfather had been the product of one such coupling, and so was he.

  The king’s actions, or lack of actions, began to make sense to him now. Elaina’s strength could not be denied, even if she did not have the gift of melding. Jaelen showed hints of it himself. But then why not rescue the father? Why allow these ugly rumors to persist? Why not see the two of them married? Both of our families would profit.

  Even as he asked the questions, the answers presented themselves. Ainslen had always been greedy. Sure, he kept to his part of the bargain and gave up the Dracodar remains, for he did not fear the individual counts. He’d proven that. The scars of their duel that ran along Leroi’s chest and left leg still throbbed from time to time. However, the king would not allow the marriage, for it would mean a foothold for Shenen within the royal household, a foothold Ainslen might see as a vulnerability in Far’an Senjin.

  And in all this, the child suffers, and so the Shenen name is sullied. I will not have it. Leroi gazed at a drawing of him alongside Ainslen and Jemare, back when they were all Blades in King Tolquan’s service. I will find your son, and hold you to your debt.

  Count Shenen swept down the hall and into the sitting room. Looking out a window was Count Lestere Hagarath of House Keneshin, braided hair and beard falling down his chest. Lestere reminded him of a bear, if there was ever one as pale as mother’s milk. In one of the cushioned armchairs sat Count Pomir Fiorenta of House Humel. Pock-faced and balding, fingers long and frail, Fiorenta always wore black as if he were ready to greet Desitrin in the afterlife. The man’s lifeless demeanor often made Leroi wonder why Fiorenta was leader of the house dedicated to the Dominion’s God of War. One could easily be fooled by Fiorenta’s mannerisms, thinking the count slow. His mind was blade sharp and whip quick.

  “So how do we go about taking what should be ours?” Leroi asked, flopping down into one of the chairs.

  “Straight to the point, eh?” Hagarath turned from the window, a smile on his face, thick eyebrow arched.

  “I only have time for one type of game,” Leroi replied.

  “Fair enough.” Hagarath took a seat.

  “Before I decide on anything,” Fiorenta said, voice the rasp of a blade on leather, “what would all this benefit me? The king has already provided me with soul I could only dream of. He also showed each of us that we are no match for him. I’m quite comfortable in my current situation, so why would I risk it all?”

  “Risk is a key component for those with ambition,” Leroi said. “You know this as well as I do. Without risk, we’re just accepting whatever scraps are handed to us.”

  “I wouldn’t call the power we wield ‘scraps’,” Fiorenta countered, “but you’re right. I risked much when I backed Ainslen. I count my gains worthy. So again, I pose my question, what is it you would offer me?”

  Leroi studied Count Fiorenta. The man wouldn’t have come if he hadn’t already made up his mind, but Leroi would humor him anyway. “In the coming months the king will demand a large share of your business.” Fiorenta controlled the Calum powder and Bloodleaf trade. Not many knew he was the hand behind the recreation that dominated almost every tavern and brothel, filling their interiors with smoke, bringing ecstasy to those who partook. “If the rumors from the west are true, then the Caradorii have withdrawn, and it will only be a matter of time before the king learns of your exploits with them. He often wondered how you could afford the armies you mustered for Succession Day. Will you be satisfied with a mere sliver of what you hold now, or would you rather an Empire split evenly in three, with you free to do what you will in Danalyn and the other cities you currently govern?”

  Fiorenta pursed his thin lips and then nodded. “Let’s say your theory is correct, and assume that I agree, then what is you plan?”

  “Although he holds the crown, Ainslen’s armies are spread thin, despite the addition of his Farlanders. As it is, they’re occupied with the Thelusians. The Marishmen still stand despite their defeats at Ernassa and Garada. They employ stealth tactics now, harrying the Farlanders and the king’s men when they can and then disappearing back into the mountains or the forests of Keshan Dark. The king made the mistake of insulting the Heleganese. Their spirit assassins are as strong as any Blade. With more than half of Jemare’s Blades fled, Ainslen’s forces are horribly depleted, as can be seen by his use of the watchmen for tasks other than simple law-keeping.” He paused to let the men consider his words.

  “This is what I propose. Fiorenta, you have a good relationship with the Heleganese through your trade endeavors. We can offer them some concessions. They will take it rather than see their eventual annihilation. Hagarath, your house spoke in favor of the Thelusians in their wars against the Marishmen. Yours was a voice of reas
on when they were enslaved. Go to them. They, too, face the same threat from the Farlanders.

  “As for myself, my family line runs deep among the Marishmen. Their king owes the Shenen family for his daughter’s life. They will listen to me. By now, they hate Ainslen and these Farlanders.”

  “What of the Farish Islanders and the Darshanese?” Hagarath asked.

  “The Islanders are too few to matter. They will side with whomever seems to be winning out. As for the Darshanese, they have ever been cowards. When we make the move against the king they will sit back and wait. My men will be ready.”

  Hagarath nodded and then he frowned. “Did you approach the other counts with this?”

  “None of the others are worthy or can be trusted. Most already belong to the king.”

  “That would explain why Antelen Hill still lacks a leader,” Hagarath said.

  “And the king, himself?” Fiorenta asked. “He’s beaten us already.”

  “Yes, he has, but he was smart about it.” Leroi had given much thought to that day. The defeat haunted his dreams. He’d been more skilled than Ainslen as a Blade, and yet he’d lost. “Think for a moment … Ainslen is no fool and he hates losing more so than any other man I know. No king in their right mind would challenge counts to a duel with the kingdom at stake unless he could guarantee his victory. He even allowed us to consume Dracodar soul, enhancing our power before he fought us. I suspect you two were beaten as soundly as I was.” The men nodded grudgingly. Ainslen smiled. “Don’t you see?” Furrowed brows and narrowed eyes answered his question. Ainslen shook his head at the lack of understanding. “Obviously the king ingested Dracodar soul before us.”

  “That goes without saying.” Hagarath smirked.

  “Yes, but how long before?” Leroi asked. “There’s but one answer. The king partook of the soul and remains with enough time that they were completely fused with his body. It could have been months, perhaps years ago. Unlike us when we ingested the remains, unlike how we are now …” The armor under his clothes seemed to have a life of its own at times, clinging almost as if it were a second skin. It had grown in tune with his Manifestor abilities, shaping itself to his body. He’d taken to wearing it wherever he went. “Ainslen knew he was much stronger than us for that reason. Oh, he gave the duels the illusion of fairness, but in reality they were anything but.”

  A light shone in his co-conspirators eyes then; a light that said the deception angered them; a light that spoke of a taste for revenge. You should have kept your word, my king. Leroi smiled inwardly.

  9

  A Search for Answers

  How had Ainslen and the Farlanders crossed such a distance so fast?

  The question nagged at Thar as it had since Ainslen took the throne. He glanced over to the corpse of the King’s Blade that left the room reeking of blood and offal. Snow worried at the man’s stomach, her snout coming away wet and crimson. The Blade had no answers to Thar’s questions, and died rambling, spilling random secrets along with his guts. This was the sixth man that escorted Ainslen on his trip to Marissinia. Each torture session ended in the same result: failure. Thar was not deterred. Someone had to know the method by which the Farlanders achieved the feat.

  He strode over to the bucket he kept in a corner of the basement and washed his hands. After drying them on a rag, he lit two small braziers of cinnamon-scented incense and placed them on each side of the room. He paced over to the map on the wall. Illuminated by the room’s lamplight, it displayed Mareshna’s known territories. Lips pursed, he studied the routes through Marissinia into Kasinia. He had scouts along them all and not one of them reported seeing the Farlander advance army.

  How had the Farlanders done it? How did they defeat an impregnable city, cross so much territory so quickly, and take everyone unawares? Why hadn’t the Marish phalanxes risen up against them? Even if the Farlanders had defeated those armies, it would have taken some time. By the hells, just crossing the Bloody Corridor and the Blooded Daggers were a cause for delay.

  Brows furrowed, Thar sifted through his plans. They relied on the Farlanders attacking Kasandar eventually, but the city was not supposed to fall to them. Neither he nor the other Consortium leaders had been prepared for the Farlander speed in travel, and they had underestimated the enemy’s skills and weaponry.

  Not that they hadn’t been forewarned of the latter, but seeing the firesticks in action was a far cry from a written report. Besides, a part of him had not wanted to believe in the seemingly absurd claims of sticks that shot metal balls thousands of feet. As a result, the original guild leaders were dead, and the Stonelords and Overlords were at a disadvantage, likely to succumb to the Farlander armies. He blamed himself for not knowing more of their enemy, for not applying one of the same basic concepts he taught: to assume that what seemed impossible was possible.

  He traced thick fingers from Ernassa to Kasandar. The journey with such a force should have taken two months, not two or three weeks. Such speed wasn’t possible. Except it was. It had been done.

  The Farlander achievement would go down in the annals of history, questioned by academics throughout the Empire. Thar cared for none of that. His interest lay in unraveling the secret behind the feat. A chance at victory relied upon it.

  A cold breeze made him glance over to one of the walls. A panel slid aside to reveal the tunnel that led into the Treskelin Forest. Heart entered, bushy grey mane making the derin appear bigger than he was. He padded over to Thar’s side.

  Thar ruffled Heart’s mane, the derin growling in delight. He reached among the mass of hair to a spot below the neck. A piece of folded paper, attached by tern, came away in his hand.

  “Go, eat,” he said. Heart joined Snow.

  Thar unfolded the paper. Another name had been added to the list of Blades that accompanied Ainslen on his supposed ambassadorial rounds. Thar’s eyebrows rose. Felius Carin, the Minstrel Blade.

  Since Felius had fallen from the king’s favor for his failure to capture Winslow and Keedar, he’d been seen keeping company with Sorinya the Ebon Blade. On a normal day seizing Felius alone and alive might be a challenge. The two of them together? In Kasandar? Near impossible, most would say. Although certain he could achieve it, and tempted to prove it, he calmed himself, knowing that for Felius’ capture to work without suspicion cast in the wrong direction he had to wait until the Minstrel Blade was by himself. Patience would grant him the chance.

  Still, he needed answers, sooner than later. He returned his attention to the map. Any future plans began with discovering and disrupting the Farlander ability for speedy travel. Reports had it that days after the succession, their forces had decimated a Thelusian army near the Dreadwood. A trip that normally took weeks. Scowling, Thar mulled over the problem once more.

  As they often did, his thoughts steered him to soul magic. Many soul cycle combinations existed beyond his understanding. He would be a fool to think he knew them all. To this day he was still learning, growing. But nothing in all his research and practice, from when he first became a Blade, to when Elysse bested him and taught him much of Etien’s theories and techniques on soul, provided a hint or an answer to this dilemma. By all accounts, no human practitioner of soul, melder or not, of any mixture of types, should have been able to maintain the Farlanders’ speed for such a duration. Even he, being what he was, couldn’t replicate the feat. At best he could run for three days straight under the effect of a melding but would need another full day for recovery.

  Annoyed, Thar headed to his study area, certain the answers resided in Etien’s Compendium. Elysse had provided him with one of three complete copies that he knew of. On the verge of picking up the aged tome, a glint under several sheaths of paper caught his eye.

  Winslow’s dagger.

  In another week it would be three months since the boy left. Thar had allowed himself to be consu
med by plans to defeat the Farlanders, Ainslen, and most of all, to free Delisar. It had kept him from thinking of his nephew.

  By now, the change should have occurred in the boy. One of the wild brothers would be stalking the clearing, waiting to challenge him. Has he already lost, and become one of them? No, Winslow displayed the traits, the grasp on soul to master himself. Still, that niggling doubt tugged at the back of Thar’s mind, a doubt that made him want to go after the boy. But if he interfered, Winslow would not reach his full potential. Ever. Not to mention that Winslow carried enough of the Giorin ways that he would not forgive Thar.

  Blowing out a resigned breath, he made up his mind to give Winslow one more week. Not only for himself, but Keedar as well. Keedar had already found it hard to cope with the change in circumstances, and the added burden of worry over Winslow was pushing him to the edge of disobedience. His tireless practice of soul magic and swordplay barely held him in check.

  Thar worried for his son as he’d worried for all his other children throughout the long years. So many of them had grown to help the cause, while others had died for it. Too many others. Explaining the need to place Keedar in Delisar’s care had been painful. Keedar hadn’t accepted that the choice was made for his own safety and growth. The situation was proving to be a wound time might not heal.

  Not revealing that he was Tharkensen the Lightning Blade didn’t help. That too was another secret kept for the boys’ protection. At some point he would need to have a long talk with Keedar. Perhaps that would be the only way to curtail the mood swings.

  Thar picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write on a piece of paper. When he finished with his request, he gave a solemn smile, folded the letter, and placed it in a small pouch along with a piece of leather. He considered using one of his ravens, but the Empire’s archers were shooting down any messenger birds not owned by the king. Instead, Thar called on soul’s first median cycle, sera, projecting his request to Snow’s mind.