The count’s soul expanded in a sudden burst. Instead of luminescent smoke it took on a more solid appearance, its edges becoming like flames. And then they were flames, red and yellow and orange, licking out from Hagarath. Snowflakes melted even before they touched the count’s meld, dissipating when they encountered his nimbus’ distorted haze.
Ainslen had seen such an effect before. It was favored by Casters trained in the arts passed down by Myron the Sun Blade. Instead of making their soul into actual fire, which was possible, but took three times the power, the melders created two layers. The outer one was a manifestation of oil or tar, while the inner was a pocket of protection against the heat. Creating a spark, they set the flammable layer alight.
Hagarath folded his arms, chest high. Globes of fire slowly rose from him, hundreds of thousands of them, like raindrops in reverse, but in various sizes, some as big as a fist. He flung his hands outward. An enraged roar escaped his mouth. The globes shot toward the king, sizzling the air, fiery hail leaving a smoking trail.
Calling on his Alchemist abilities, Ainslen pushed a thin meld from his feet into the wooden floor and the ground below it. He magnified the muscles in his legs to increase their power a hundred fold. As the globes raced to within a foot of striking him, their heat distorting the air, Ainslen leaped high above them, the thin meld extending below him like rope.
In the same instant, he enlarged his Wind Blade into a massive half-moon shape, its edge so refined that it could slice through a hair. He flung it down at Hagarath with the strength of twenty men. Light, though the weapon was, it spun end over end, its speed such that it appeared as a complete silver and blue circle, each revolution releasing a swoosh of sound that grew faster and faster until they were near inseparable.
The count had already launched a secondary attack, but the Wind Blade sliced a path through the fiery globes, and left flames licking out in every direction. Hagarath darted to the side and summoned a third volley even as the Wind Blade cut through empty space where he’d stood. A smile spread across the count’s features. The Blade sheared a swath into the platform before arcing off into the air, its speed slowing until the weapon hovered in place.
The third volley hissed through the air toward Ainslen. He made his body several times its normal weight. The tether he’d attached to himself stopped him in midflight, and then yanked him back to the ground, the globes singing his hair as they came within inches of burning holes through his body. Ainslen landed, weight adjusted so as not to crash through the floor.
A fourth collection of fiery globes formed around the count. The king yanked on his tether. The end that had traveled underground past Hagarath shot up to connect to the Wind Blade. The manifested weapon abruptly reversed direction and sliced neatly through Hagarath. Ainslen caught the weapon by its handle.
Hagarath’s flames guttered and went out. The globes vanished as the soul that powered them dissipated. The count’s torso slid from atop the lower half of his body, hitting the floor with a thud. His legs fell to one side.
As he turned to face Fiorenta, Ainslen’s control over his two replicas waned. His vision doubled before merging once more. Gritting his teeth, he tightened his grip on his six-foot weapon and strode toward the count. The king dismissed the two copies.
Fiorenta bellowed something guttural. His mass increased, the floor bending, wood splintering. He grew an additional six feet or more, a behemoth of a man. The platform beneath him crumbled, shaking the entire structure.
Undaunted by the transformation, Ainslen took off, sprinting toward the count. He thought to fling his Blade, but he doubted the effect it would have. Instead, Ainslen threw open his vital points wider than he ever had before. The flow of soul threatened to swallow him.
Spectacular, he reminded himself. This kill must be even more spectacular.
With a roar, Fiorenta drew back a great soul-enhanced fist, took a step forward, and punched down. His hand tore through wood and into the ground below with a quaking boom. Again and again his fists rose and fell, one, two, three, four times. The impacts crashed above all other sound. Stone, earth, and wood surged forward, a roiling wave of debris taller than a man, ripping the platform apart.
Legs pumping, Ainslen again reduced his weight. At the last moment before the first piece of the wave’s debris struck him, he hopped onto a flying bit of rubble, and then to another, and another, like a man picking his way across stones in a pond. He became a blur of motion, momentum building as he raced across the wave. Half the distance to Fiorenta, Ainslen pushed off a boulder, vaulted up into the sky, increased his weight a hundredfold, and descended, his Wind Blade cleaving the air for a killing stroke.
A foot from the count, the soul blade stopped cold, held in Fiorenta’s great fist of pure soul.
Ainslen smiled. The Wind Blade changed. One instant it was a half-moon sword and the next it was a manifested firebreather. Fiorenta’s brow furrowed as he stared down the gaping, black barrel. The weapon thundered. A ball of soul tore through flesh and skull.
The resulting explosion ripped into the ground, blasting Ainslen into the air just as he again made himself weightless. Debris hurtled toward him. His weapon became a blade once more. Arm flickering, he sliced through wood and stone alike before they struck him. Bits of splattered flesh were all that remained of Fiorenta.
Still facing the carnage, Ainslen drifted down like fluff. When he landed among the shattered parts of the platform, dust and smoke choked the air around him. He applied the properties of the wind to his soul, built it within himself like the pressure of a boiling pot, and just when the sensation became unbearable, he blasted the soul away. Smoke and dust cleared, spreading in a circle with him at the center. All around him, the fighting had stopped.
43
In A Dark Pit
Reassured by the thought of Keedar and Winslow’s safety, Thar took one last look down into the square. Count Hagarath and Count Fiorenta were dead, the tiered platform torn apart.
At some point during the fight, the Ebon Blade had taken the queen to safety. The king beckoned to High Priest Jarod, who stood with the Elder Ten. Ainslen’s soul was a flickering flame compared to its previous conflagration. The thought of where the king had gained his power shook Thar to the core. Not that the king’s ingestion of soul wasn’t expected, for it had been one of a few possible outcomes, and was an integral part of the plan. But it was one thing to talk about such a heinous act, build a strategy around it, and completely another to know it had occurred. Thar shuddered, chasing away images of a mutilated Delisar.
He turned toward the distant Golden Spires and the multitude of rooftops that spread before him like a sea of snow-and-ice-capped waves. The Winds of Time chimed to announce the hour, the clock face and its ponderous gears undisturbed by the weather. Somewhere within the Spires’ dungeons, if he was a good judge of Ainslen’s power, Delisar still lived. Hold on, brother, help comes.
Thar copied the drab sky and the swirling snow, shrouding his body with their appearance. He made a flying leap across the space between the first buildings, landed on an icy parapet, and ran as if it were a broad street on a summer day. Soon he was darting from roof to roof, no more noticeable than the snow whipped by the wind’s gusts.
When he gained the walls of the Winds of Time, Thar made the soul around his hands and feet into claws. He scaled the edifice, not pausing until he was atop the roof, the clicks of gears and ticks of seconds audible amid the wind’s dirge. Down below, the King’s Blades battled against those wearing the colors of the rebellious counts.
He scanned the grounds for Farlanders, but as he’d noted on his trek through the city, they were conspicuously absent. Frowning, he paused at one of the many courtyards. There, footsteps had churned the ground more than any other.
Thar launched himself from atop the roof, decreasing his body weight at the same time. A gu
st snatched him. Arms spread, soul manifested into a semblance of wings, he directed himself to the courtyard, drifting over the battle and beyond. No sooner had he touched the ground than he was off, running hard for an open doorway ahead.
The fetid stench of blood and death assaulted him as soon as he stepped inside. He knew dungeons when he smelled them, and also recognized the scent of recent battle. Viscera. Excrement. Stairs lead down, a corpse sprawled on the landing below.
Panic stirring in his chest, he waited a moment, listening for sounds of combat. None emanated from within. He drew a cloak of sintu and tern around himself and leaped down stairs from one landing to the next, following a trail of carnage.
One thing became evident the farther he descended. The dead were all Blades.
At the bottom of the final set of stairs was a door, wedged open by a corpse. Thar stepped over the man’s remains and into a room lit by torches on pedestals. Over a score of bodies, all of them King’s Blades, littered a walkway bathed in blood. To either side were prisons, sitting atop metal spires that disappeared down into a black void. One cell door was open.
Thar’s heart thumped as he approached the room. Outside of it were several more Blades, the ends of heavy chains near where they lay. Inside was more of the same, with one distinct difference: Delisar’s scent.
Stomach knotting, he followed the smell and bloodied footprints that led outside. They continued down the length of the walkway in the opposite direction from which he entered. Before the trail reached the far wall, it stopped, the toes of booted feet facing outward into the dark pit.
Thar combusted a bit of his soul and dropped it over the edge. It fell and fell and fell, highlighting pockmarked walls before it struck bottom. The capering flames exposed a niche strewn with debris.
Without hesitation he stepped off the edge, allowing himself to fall quickly before arresting his descent by changing his weight. He floated the rest of the way down. The second he touched the bottom, Thar activated jin, and hissed. “Envald, what purpose do the Dwellers serve here?”
Darkness shifted at the edge of the fire. Dressed in black clothing from a bygone era with a cloak to match, Envald stepped into the light. “We were sent to help rescue someone.”
“Who?”
“Your brother, of course.”
Thar stiffened. “Who sent you?”
“The broodmother.” Envald beamed, the flames casting an eerie light across his pointed teeth. “She said you would come. Follow me.”
Thar was tentative at first, but it made no sense for the Dwellers to save him only to kill him later. Besides, this was the second time Envald had mentioned the brood. “My brother … how is he? Is he alive?” They passed into a tunnel lit by torches.
“You must see for yourself.”
When they gained the passage’s far side, Envald stopped. He turned and gestured, soul flaring around him for a heartbeat. A low rumble echoed down the tunnel; the earth quaked. A cloud of dust followed, causing Thar to step around the corner of the opening. Moments later all was silent again.
“To dissuade the king and his men should they decide to follow,” Envald said in response to Thar’s questioning glance. They continued on their way.
“That won’t stop Ainslen.”
“It will delay him enough for us to make good our exodus.”
“And if he continues to pursue you?” Thar asked. “I doubt he will give up the prize he once had. He has enough manpower to make your life difficult.”
“More difficult than it already has been? That would be some accomplishment. Regardless, we will be gone by morning.”
Thar recognized their location now. They were in the Undertow. Ancient structures grew evident, their upper portions a part of the surrounding rock walls. “And what if the king continues to chase?”
“All he will find here is the wrath of the Blighted Brothers. There.” Envald pointed.
Vision adjusted, Thar made out the gargantuan figure. The dull, grey scales were unmistakable. The head turned, exposing a twisted visage and slitted eyes.
“Kargoshi?” Thar whispered.
“No. The Soulbreakers are a distant relative of the Blighted Brothers, but they were created in the same way, a product of the Blight, the disease originating from the Farlands and a man named Vasys Balbas, a man who survived the Pillars of Dissolution, or what the Dracodar once called the Dragon Gates.”
Thar knew the last bit of that story all too well. When he became Elysse’s consort she had told it to him on several occasions. Balbas was from another part of Mareshna, not accessible to most, a remnant of a war that was as ancient as the world itself.
“At that time the Order of the Dominion was still in its infancy,” Envald continued. “When their missionaries traveled to the Farlands they discovered that the Dracodar were little more than slaves. Powerful, yes, but still subservient.
“Balbas introduced them to kerin, a metal he brought with him through the Pillars. With it he poisoned the Dracodar, for he knew of their weakness, and of the human ability to recover from the sickness he spread. The leader of the missionaries at that time was Cortens Kasandar. He returned across the Renigen Sea with the metal, searching out any places where it might be found in the Empire. The rest is history. One other thing I must tell you. These Farlanders, the armor they use. It contains a great deal of soul.”
“I noticed. It reminds me of derin leather.”
“Precisely, but this leather we have seen before. In times gone by, before the broodmother came to us, we hunted for it.” Envald stopped and faced Thar. “It is human skin.”
Thar couldn’t suppress his shudder. He pictured the thousands upon thousands of Farlander soldiers. The images made him retch. This had to be the threat for which Elysse had prepared them. Swallowing, he pushed the horror from his mind.
Envald indicated a lone building, torchlight flickering within its confines. “Your brother is in there.”
The tale forgotten, Thar ran toward the building, his mind a jumble of panicked thoughts. For almost a century, he, Elysse, and Delisar had worked on this part of her plan to revive their people, to prepare for the threat the Farlanders would bring. He’d always thought he would be the one sacrificed to raise a new Dracodar king. He had accepted the idea of death long ago, even before he met her. It was the reason he’d taken on the deadliest assignments, searched out the most gifted foes, disappointed every time their reputation proved to be a lie.
Elysse had changed all that, and between her and Delisar he discovered reasons to live. Through Elysse, he fathered many children, helped provide a future for a people on the verge of extinction. A Pure, she’d called him, a title he wore with pride. Between men like himself, Delisar, and a hundred others, as well as women like Elysse, the Dracodar once more had a brood.
Delisar deserved to see the brood thrive. He deserved to have Winslow at his side. He deserved to see their labor bear fruit.
Chest tight, Thar entered the building, and stopped in his tracks. Silence greeted him, so thick he could hear the crackle of flames from the room’s torches. Each footstep was a thud. The stench of grievous wounds assaulted his nostrils. On the floor was a form covered up to the neck in a sheet so red it looked as if it were washed in blood. A lamp was next to the person. Thar’s legs grew wooden as he approached, heart thundering. He barely recognized Delisar’s sallow face, overgrown with hair.
“I tried to save him,” a tremulous voice said from a shadowy alcove. Curate Selentus stepped into the light. “But there was only so much I could do.”
Stomach churning, Thar reached for the sheet. His breathing sped up, chest quivering with each inhale and exhale. He pulled back the bloody cloth. And immediately turned away, spewing his stomach’s contents.
Wiping away the residue, he whispered, “Dear Gods … why, why?” Thar wis
hed what he’d seen was a nightmare, a dream gone wrong. He retched again. After a deep shuddering breath to calm his insides, he looked upon what remained of his brother.
The flesh along Delisar’s legs and arms was torn, ripped, meat and muscle hanging, bone showing through. His torso was far worse. A gash ran from sternum to groin. The wounds scouring Delisar’s chest looked as if great claws had torn into him. Thar had seen such injuries before, when a Korgan cat or one of the Treskelin’s giant bears mauled its food.
As much as he wanted to look away, he couldn’t, not even with the bile rising in his throat. He was transfixed, not only by the horror of what lay before him, but also by the idea of the suffering endured by his brother. He knew Delisar had tried not to cry out, had steeled himself against the pain, but a man could bear only so much. Eventually Delisar had screamed. The image of Delisar with his mouth open, face contorted, imprinted itself in Thar’s mind.
A tempest rose within him. It screamed and wailed and raged with all the ferocity of a lightning storm. Charged energy coursed through his body. It manifested in emerald arcs, rippling up his fingers, across his arms.
“I think the king meant to keep him alive, but the soul craze took Ainslen. He lost control,” Selentus said.
Thar spun and snatched the Curate by the throat. He lifted the man off his feet as if he were weightless.
“Stop.” A hand rested on Thar’s shoulder. “The broodmother has a purpose for this one yet.” The voice was Envald’s.
Thar continued to lift Selentus. The charges within him built. They screamed for release.
“If you kill him, you ruin Elysse’s plans, you ruin all your plans, and it might even cost you the revenge you crave,” Envald said.
Elysse. The plan.
He almost said to the Hells with the plan, but he knew that was not what Delisar would have wanted. Neither would he if their roles were reversed. He dropped the Curate. “Get out of my sight.” Without turning his back on Thar, the wiseman scurried away.
Soulbreaker Page 31
