Soulbreaker

by Terry C. Simpson

  A chuckle echoed. “At a loss for words?”

  “I’m done with the games. Either attack or leave me be.” He separated his mind from his pain.

  “Neither is an option.”

  “Then show yourself. Why hide in shadows?”

  “Because it is fun? The expression on your face is worth its weight in coin.”

  “Fun is relative.” Thar ground his jaw in an effort to suppress his rising anger. He hated feeling helpless. The last time he experienced the sensation was when he lost to Elysse.

  “Agreed.” The voice was directly behind him.

  Thar whirled. A man in a patched velvet jacket with an oversized collar was standing less than ten feet away at the edge of the building’s ruins. How had he gotten so close? Why didn’t I feel his movement? Didn’t I use jin? Thar felt along his soul. He had activated the tenth cycle. The dome created by the meld stretched a hundred feet past the stranger.

  “I am Envald of the Dwellers.” Envald held his hands up, palms facing outward in a nonthreatening gesture.

  “The Dwellers?” Although wary, Thar made his voice as conversational as possible. From centuries of experience he had learned how to tell when someone meant harm. No such intent radiated from Envald, but that didn’t mean the man was trustworthy.

  “Those who dwell beneath.” Envald gestured around them. The susurrus of voices began once more. Thar cocked his head to one side. “Be not afraid. They are but children, curious at the sight of an Outsider. They wonder if you will be accepted.”

  “Accepted for what?” Thar’s brow wrinkled.

  “Every few decades, when the winter is dire or when there has been an uprising among the Outsiders, some of you find your way here.” Envald leaned on a wall. “Those without violent intentions, who do not stink of murder and rape, are allowed to join us should they wish. Or are given our assistance if they require it. ”

  “And the others?”

  “Left to wander aimlessly.”

  “What happens to them?”

  Envald shrugged. “They either become fodder for the Blighted Brothers or are taken in by them. Sometimes both. Once in a great while one escapes the Brothers. When next we see the person, their minds are broken, and they whisper words of having seen Hells’ Angels.”

  “How do you know I’m not one of those you named? And who are these … Brothers?”

  Envald smiled. His teeth were filed to points. “The same way I know of your bad decision. And … I would smell it.” He licked his lips. “As for the Brothers, some would call them monsters, remnants of a bygone time, men and women twisted by a plague that scoured the world.”

  Frowning, Thar asked, “Why let them live then? Why not kill them?”

  “Because every living thing is precious, no matter how horrid. Each deserves its time in this world, has its use. Theirs will come one day.”

  As Thar made to reply, a wave of dizziness dropped him to one knee. He was abruptly cold, hands numb and jittery. He lost a hold of his melds and the world crashed down around him, black and cold as death. Then came a shout and the sensation of being carried. A flurry of questions followed, one more adamant than the others.

  As darkness took him, he heard someone say, “No, this one is not food, he is of the brood. We are poison to our own kind.”

  20

  Sorrows

  Practice daggers extended, Keedar circled, straining to discern a weakness in Winslow’s soul. All he required was the slightest crack to launch a mindbend. But the misty haze of sintu flowed around Winslow’s entire body in a complete nimbus, even, and several feet thick. The manifestation of the first outer soul cycle was so strong Keedar felt it from a dozen paces away. Through its translucence the giant trees at the edge of the Treskelin Forest appeared wavy, as if seen through a desert’s rising heat.

  Keedar tried to ignore the sweat trickling down his face, the salty taste, but despite his loose-fitting cotton trousers and shirt, he was hot. Uncomfortably and unnaturally so. Not that he was complaining … much. He preferred his current disposition as opposed to the life he once knew on the Smear’s streets: bundled up, nursing the warmth of coffee or mesqa, or crowded around a fire. The winter was turning out to be one of the most brutal he’d witnessed, which made him all the more content with the little cottage in the Treskelin Forest.

  As he shifted in the opposite direction from Winslow, he thought of Keshka, wondering how the old man was faring in his endeavor. Three weeks had passed since Keshka left, three weeks without word from him. That in itself wasn’t unusual, but the urgency with which Keshka had left bothered Keedar. It concerned him enough to ask Stomir if they could sneak into Kasandar by way of the Undertow. A request the Kheridisian bluntly refused.

  “You’re thinking too much,” Winslow called from opposite him, turning his foot-long practice dagger with a flick of his wrist. “How are you supposed to judge if I’ve grown any better when you’re distracted?”

  “I see you well enough,” Keedar retorted. He refocused on the task before him.

  “Now, you do. A moment ago? Not so much.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t waste your breath.”

  Keedar ground his jaw. Winslow’s ability to perceive the truth, or at least what a person believed to be the truth, made for conversations that would try a wiseman’s patience.

  “Now, if you don’t mind?” Winslow beckoned him on.

  Ignoring his brother’s apparent arrogance, Keedar pictured the vital points around his own body as if they were veins, and willed them to open wider. Soul gushed forth in greater amounts than normal. He activated tern, increasing the amount of soul around his legs and arms. The weight of his limbs became like feathers. Pulling harder on tern’s influence, he darted in, a streak of cloth, flesh, and slashing steel.

  His attacks landed, but none penetrated more than a quarter inch into Winslow’s nimbus. The deflected strikes sent vibrations up through Keedar’s arm.

  Faster and faster Keedar stabbed and sliced, hoping to slash areas before Winslow could apply his protection: a combination of tern and sintu that thickened his nimbus. But Winslow kept up, nimbus flashing, steel ringing as he parried any blows too swift for his melding ability. When they leaped away from each other, mere seconds had passed in what felt like an eternity. They were both breathing hard.

  A smile spread across Winslow’s sweaty face. “I see you have adjusted to my little change.”

  Keedar nodded. In their first encounters, when Winslow hardened his sintu, he’d made it like iron. Striking its surface allowed Keedar to build a rhythm and discern the weakest areas. Since then, Stomir had taught Winslow how to adjust his use of tern by applying shi, the last median cycle, to create a malleable nimbus, one with the consistency of wet clay. The first few times they’d sparred afterward, the change from the reverberations and solidity of metal to the sucking feel of the softer substance had caught Keedar unawares. He’d lost those sessions. In the next two days he’d gone from winning every fight to losing a little less than half.

  “So, what do you think?” Winslow asked.

  “You’ve improved. You’re almost able to keep up with me now. And your knife work is better than I expected.”

  “Almost able?”

  “Right arm, stomach, left ribcage,” Keedar replied.

  Winslow glanced down, head shifting from left to right and back again. Several slices marred his clothes in those three spots. “How? I know I was fast enough with each meld.”

  “You were fast enough but …” Keedar held up his daggers. While applying tern for his arms and legs, he’d done the same to his daggers, surrounding them with soul by use of shi. It gave an extra six inches of reach, making his weapon more like a short sword.

  Winslow’s eyes widened. “I-I never considered that.” />
  “I know,” Keedar said, chest swelling with pride.

  “My old swordmaster would have said such tricks lack honor.” Winslow sheathed his dagger, disappointment thick in his words.

  “Sounds like something a Marishman or a noble would say … or a person upset by a loss.” Keedar released his meld and put away his weapons.

  “Honor in battle is for guisers’ tales,” Stomir called from where he stood overseeing their training. “In a true fight, survival is all that matters.”

  “The nobles always spoke of fighting fairly. It’s why they called for duels,” Winslow argued doggedly.

  “Nobles.” Stomir snorted. “What’s noble about us? We’re dregs, remember? Besides, the only thing fighting and fairness have in common is the “f”. A man who goes into a fight expecting it to be fair is courting death. As for the nobles, very few, if any, deserve their title.”

  Keedar knew Stomir’s words to be true. He’d learned the harsh lessons of such a life in the Smear. Eventually his brother would experience the same.

  “Have you ever wondered why Delisar kept your melding a secret from you?” Winslow asked.

  “More than I care to recall.”

  “And?”

  Keedar shrugged. “At this point it doesn’t matter anymore. What’s done is done.”

  “You were training under him all that time, and he made you believe what you did was simply the natural abilities of your soul cycles, that you were a cycler, when in fact you had already become a melder.” Winslow shook his head. “Upset barely describes how I would feel.”

  Closing his eyes, Keedar tilted his head, first to one side, and then the other. A vein pulsed at the side of his neck. Winslow’s words brought a plethora of unwanted memories, many he’d submerged deep in his mind through constant training. A hundred scenarios played out as to how he could have changed things for the better. And yet … “I wasn’t ready.”

  “But—”

  “Knowing myself as I do now, I would have done something stupid.”

  “Stupider than running off on your own to warn people in the Smear when you should have escaped with me?” Winslow’s lips twitched as he tried to suppress a smile.

  Keedar gave a rueful shake of his head. “I admit it wasn’t my smartest moment.”

  “Understatement.”

  “Fine, fine, fine, I messed up. Feel better?”

  “A little, but to tell the truth, I wished I had done the same,” Winslow said.

  On the porch, Snow bounded to her feet, snarling in the direction of the forest. Keedar spun just as Heart dashed from among the trees. Blood covered the male derin’s fur. After a series of barks to Snow, Heart turned and galloped back into the dense underbrush. Before Keedar could move, Snow sped by him.

  Bewildered, Keedar regarded the still shaking brush. A sudden thought rose, sending prickles along his skin. Where was Keshka? Heart would not have returned without his master.

  “What are you waiting for?” Stomir’s words cut through Keedar’s thoughts as the Kheridisian dashed by. “Go, go, go, Keshka’s in trouble.”

  Spurred on by a cloying fear for Keshka’s life, Keedar ran as if Hells’ Angels were chasing him. He pushed himself harder and faster, gaze riveted on the fleeting white and grey forms of Snow and Heart. Stomir sprinted ahead of him, weaving his way through brush, over roots, around trunks, leaping over or ducking under branches, feet gliding inches above any surface as he relied on sintu to pave the way. Winslow was perhaps a dozen steps behind, making a good account of himself despite not being at full strength.

  As he relived the images of the blood on Heart’s fur, the look in the derin’s eyes, the barks to Snow, Keedar pictured a wounded Keshka struggling against packs of the forest’s predators or worse yet, Farlanders and Blades. He was uncertain what help he might be, and yet he knew he had to try. He was a melder now, and as such, trying was better than the alternative. The circle of thoughts brought a fresh surge of dread. His legs pumped harder.

  They found Keshka among the ice-covered rocks and shale below the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows, his clothes a bloody mess. The two derins stood nearby, both of them whining. Keedar’s heart hammered as he approached his father. He prayed for the first time in years. When Keshka’s chest rose and fell, Keedar thanked the Dominion.

  21

  Reports

  “You should have conferred with the Order before you made such an announcement,” High Priest Jarod said. He stood across from Ainslen, one hand stroking the Star of the Dominion where it hung chest high from a gold chain.

  Ainslen knew his decision to abolish the Day of Accolades would infuriate the Order, but the choice was also a logical one. Jarod’s demand for an audience came as no surprise. “The Order could not possibly expect to go unscathed in all of this,” the king said. “We all had to make a sacrifice. This was yours.”

  “The Day of Accolades has been a priceless commodity, not only to the Order but to the nobility as well,” Jarod argued.

  “Perhaps in the past. Of late it’s been more of a benefit to the wisemen than to the nobility.”

  “Rubbish,” Jarod said. “I suppose Winslow no longer counts, or did you forget how much of a help he was to you?”

  “Winslow was not a product of the Day of Accolades. Regardless, that is all in the past,” the king replied calmly. “Tell me, what was Cortens’ original purpose for the Smear?”

  Jarod scowled. “You know it as well as I do.”

  “Well then, seeing that the Consortium helped to make certain anyone with a modicum of strength in soul has abandoned the Smear, how does it serve as the crop of power it once was?” Ainslen paused for a moment before he added, “It doesn’t. So why keep it as it is? We all reaped the benefits as much as we could, the Order more so than anyone else. At least the wisemen were only hated because of the examiners and not due to the other role some of you played. It’s time to accept that the old methods are useless now. Fear, misery, and suffering cease to be motivational tools that encourage the dregs to give up their gifted. On the other hand, my proposal will work. We will start fresh, build anew, lure back some of those who left. Coin, my friend, is still what they covet beyond all else.”

  Thin lips folded, Jarod nodded. “Your argument makes sense. Sometimes it is difficult to give up the things one has come to rely on. I will do my best to woo support from Mother and Father.”

  “Thank you, that is all I ask,” Ainslen said. “And I assure you that once they’re again receiving an influx of strong soul, any complaints will diminish. Also, let them know that with this act I can bring the Empire together that much faster.”

  “Let us hope so, for your sake.” With those words, the High Priest gave the slightest of bows and departed.

  The king allowed ample time after Jarod left before he pulled on a rope hanging near his chair. Minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. He gave permission for entry.

  Borosen Prestiss strode in, a book in one hand. He was a slender man, shifty-eyed and non-descript, even down to his dark hair and style of dress. He could fit in anywhere he chose. Such things came in handy for a merchant renowned for his successful trading runs to the Farlands. As such, he was well versed in their tongue. He also happened to be a most reliable spy and had gathered the brunt of the king’s information in regards to the Farlanders. To any who did not know the man, he would seem inconspicuous, harmless even. One might pass right next to Borosen and not notice him or even sense his melds. His was a rare skill.

  “You summoned me, sire?” Borosen’s voice was soft, easily overlooked.

  “Yes. I have two Farlanders waiting to report. They have a bad habit of speaking their language at times. I wish for you to listen, and should you hear anything of interest or out of sorts, let me know.”

  “Done.” Borosen took a
seat in a chair not far from the king. “Whenever you’re ready.” He opened his book and perused the pages.

  The two Farlander scouts and a Blade presented themselves not long after. The more Ainslen learned of the Farlands, the more intrigued by it he became. He still could not bring himself to refer to the place as Jiantona, as its inhabitants called it. The Farlands was more fitting. Still, he had chosen to study their races in order to tell each apart and to become familiar with their customs. One that made him grimace was the use of their emperor. Why have such a ruler if the final decisions to most issues had to pass through the council of their warrior caste? Ainslen shook his head, attention drawn to the men before him.

  On one knee, the Farlanders waited, eyes averted. They would stay that way until he chose to speak. He had handpicked these two for their fluency in Kasinian, a byproduct of the Order’s missionaries and the Empire’s mercantile endeavors.

  One was an Allonian, a Caster named Marosim, skin like polished sandalwood, features hard. The hairless, smooth-faced man beside him was Tethuma, a Jophite and an Alchemist, but he did not wear his race’s customary robes. He was dressed in thick woolens, like his partner, and his sunburnt complexion reminded Ainslen of the days during the summer when he’d spend time on his estates on the shores of the Raging Sea. Their clothes were splattered with muck and water stains, signs that they’d come to him immediately as ordered.

  The Blade with them was Hatharan, a seasoned veteran of many a campaign who had the scarred hands, missing ear, and grizzled look to prove it. He was standing, a leather satchel tossed over one shoulder.

  “So, what word from the Swords of Humel?” Ainslen asked.

  The Farlanders raised their heads. An old scar ran the length of Marosim’s face from right forehead down to his chin. Tethuma stared at Ainslen for a moment, eyes a brilliant shade of green and blue, like the sea along the coasts of the Farish Isles.