Surviving Synn

by L Shannon

  Tascryn: Surviving Synn

  By

  L. Shannon

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Tascryn: Surviving Synn

  Copyright© 2006 L. Shannon

  ISBN: 978-1-60088-132-9

  Cover Artist: Dan Skinner

  Editor: Leanne Salter

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Cobblestone Press, LLC

  www.cobblestone-press.com

  Dedication

  To my high school English teacher. Thank you for not throwing a fit every time you caught me reading romance novels during class. Thank you, Leanne, for keeping me on track. You have excellent whipping skills. Also a special thank you to Jacob. You provide boundless amusement and much inspiration...

  The Hall of Souls

  I entered the Hall of Souls.

  I sought salvation for my lover.

  I wandered those dark halls in vain.

  His hope for salvation was over.

  He swore to love me forever.

  He touched me with passion unbound.

  He offered me all the dark love of his heart.

  A century of love, but first his soul must be found.

  The Hall was filled with the darkest night.

  The Hall concealed secrets, left forever unfound.

  The Hall flooded my heart with fears and doubts.

  My footsteps echoing, my despairing heart did pound.

  I ran through those halls.

  I sought his soul desperately.

  I gave my life to the foolish quest.

  My love would wait for eternity.

  Perhaps in time I will find him still.

  Perhaps with luck his love still thrives.

  Perhaps mistakes are forgotten in the past.

  I know not, but will wait until that day arrives.

  I wander the Hall of Souls.

  I wander for eternity.

  Chapter One

  Niflheim, land of the dead

  “Say what?” Tarvyn stared at Master Pahele in complete shock.

  “I said, you have a tasc. You are needed to go immediately to transition the souls on the Isle of Re. There isn’t time for any of your jokes today.” Pahele, who was usually so tolerant of his joking, was obviously in a foul mood.

  “I heard that part. It was the battlefield part I’m having trouble with.” He was never sent to battlefields. The mere thought of him in a fight was ridiculous.

  “Tarvyn—” Pahele growled and grabbed him by the shoulders. To any other the grip might be painful, but to Tarvyn it was the firm grip of a leader who was also a parent figure to them all. “I can’t even imagine how you’ve survived all these centuries.” Those huge black hands shook him hard.

  “Must be my wit,” he said dryly.

  “I don’t have time to deal with this. You heard the assignment. Now, go.” Pahele turned, dismissing him.

  Is he serious? The Master’s actions surely seemed to be honest. “I really have to go to a battlefield?”

  Pahele’s enormous black wings rose briefly then drooped with a sigh. “Yes. For once, your duty is outside of a bedroom.” He turned to face him. This time his expression was more gentle. “Now go, before I decide you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

  Tarvyn dropped to one knee before him and waited to be sent. He could take himself, but his master’s warm palm rested against his forehead, offering to take the burden of forcing his body through the realms. The powers flowed over and through Tarvyn, beginning the odd sensation of being folded and bent to the will of the energy. He pinched his eyes shut to avoid the dizzy sensation.

  Damn, I’m going to a battlefield....

  And then he was there. This place of battle wasn’t what he expected. There were no flying canon balls, no volleys of arrows, and no charging warhorses. In fact, there was no sign of active fighting at all in the dim moonlight.

  Because the fighting is done. All that remained were the dead and dying.

  From the edge of the battered forest, Tarvyn stared out at the bloody field stretched as far as he could see. Just what in the name of Pahele’s royal ass was he supposed to do here? He was a Synn demon, proud of his skills of seduction. He could seduce even the strongest soul into accepting whatever horror the Norns planned.

  But what can I do here?

  The stillness of the land shifted as the wind increased and dragged the nightmare scent of the battle over him. The sharp taste and smell of blood filled his mind, bending him over with nausea. The flood of emotions hit him next, the waves of fear, pain and despair dropping him to his knees to gag and gasp for air.

  He expelled the foul air but choked on the next breath.

  Pahele, my master, I cannot do this! Tarvyn silently cried out.

  Tarvyn, you must. I have no one else. His master’s voice overflowed with weariness.

  “I know not how to ease this suffering. Please, Master...”

  Then Pahele stood before him, his massive strength lifting Tarvyn to his feet. “I will show you.” Pahele became the buffer that allowed Tarvyn to walk among the dead. “These souls need you. You must see past their pain. You must help them pass on from this suffering.”

  “How can I help them with either seduction or with my pheromones?”

  Pahele led Tarvyn forward to the edge of the field. “Most Synn could not. You are different, though. Your essence is stronger than most. You can seduce with both pheromones and touch. All you need do is touch the men who are suffering. You can ease them into the peace of death.”

  Pahele laid his large palm against the forehead of a man who lay gasping in pain. The soldier settled back to the ground as if asleep. It was a sleep from which he would never awaken.

  Within seconds, the man’s soul sighed out onto the air as a fist-sized cloud of diamond dust.

  “Should I collect the souls as well?” He didn’t know what the other demons did during tascs. As a Synn demon, he usually wasn’t present for the death of the individual.

  “No, others will see to that duty. Just ease their pain then return home. Now, I must go.”

  “Yes, Master. I will do my best.” He tried to force confidence into his tone.

  “I know you will, Tarvyn.”

  He continued as Pahele had shown him, moving from one man to the next. Not all the men would die on this field, but he could help those meant to move on to the next life. How many here? Tarvyn looked around him, searching the bodies for the telltale markings of mortals close to passing. There were so many…a hundred or more. The hours crawled by as he walked among the dying. After a time he stopped feeling their pain...

  After a long time.

  * * * * *

  French Island of Re, September 1627

  Captain Bailey kneed his charger into a gallop, knowing his men would follow. Each was doubled up with a foot soldier. The nine of them were returning to tend wounded, and if time allowed, bury the dead. The rest of his crew was preparing his ship to sail, in the hopes of catching up to the retreating Lord Admiral. This was their last chance to save any wounded.

  All realized there would be more burying than tending. Already he could see the scavenger birds circling the area in the dim morning light. Many would be feeding upon the bodies of men he’d known—men who were now past caring what fed upon their flesh.

  The horses snorted and balked as they reached the vast blood-soaked field.
He held up a hand to signal a halt. His men looked to him for direction. “Jamie will settle the horses here on a picket line. Skillet can set a rough camp under the trees. The rest of you men will help search for the living. The living will be our only concern. As they are found, they will be tended and moved to Skillet’s camp. Jonah, please assemble a frame to carry them on before you begin searching.” He slid his injured leg over the rump of his mount, stepping to the ground with a grunt.

  Bailey watched as Jonah helped Jamie run the picket line. Within seconds, Jamie was claiming his charger, and Bailey began working his way through the bloody field. As his men joined in the search, he motioned them into a loose line in the hope of finding more living.

  The first few minutes were long and disheartening. Then Thompson called out, breaking the silence. “Found one, sir.” Thompson dropped to his knee beside the man, and one of the others moved to join them. The rest moved on.

  If there was one, there could be more.

  Many hours later, Bailey was still searching. Dusk was falling. Darkness would bring the search to an end. So far, he and his men had found almost three-dozen survivors. Some of those probably wouldn’t live much longer even with help.

  Stretched out behind him were the bodies that had been checked. Hundreds of bodies. Comrades and enemies alike littered the field, and only a few were left to check for life. After so much death, Bailey hoped there would be at least one more man found alive before they were forced to give up. Always he hoped for more. Now, here at the far end of the field, he prayed for one last triumph, for a sign of life to wipe out all the grim memories.

  And he found none.

  There was only the stench of death. Not the smell but the hopelessness.

  Bailey waved the other two men back to the camp. He couldn’t face them, yet. His men expected him to be strong, even when they failed to cope. They relied on him, and he wouldn’t—nay, couldn’t—let them down. He had to be strong while they watched.

  And that was why he walked into the woods before sagging to the ground in the black shadows. Here, out of sight, he released the pain, letting his palms swallow the sound of his sobs. He had been at this battle and was responsible for plenty of the blood drenching the field, but the battle was past, and now all that remained was death and duty.

  He pulled off his kerchief and wiped at his face. Some of his men probably guessed that he had reached his breaking point, but even they wouldn’t want to see the evidence of it. Bailey stood slowly. It was time to return. He started back to the camp by way of a trail through the woods. Between the trees, he caught glimpses of the French fort, St. Martin, which they’d failed to defeat. Months of fighting were ended with this final battle. His ship would be the last to retreat and, even now, waited hidden while the enemy bit at the heels of Buckingham’s fleet.

  His steps faltered. Too many men had died and, in the end, they’d died for nothing.

  Not more than twenty feet from where he’d rested, he nearly tripped over another body curled between the thick roots of an ancient tree. Damn, this one was no more than a lad and not even dressed for battle. The boy was covered in a long, thin tunic that was caked with blood and filth. His pale blond hair lay in tangled waves over the arm that was still protecting the boy’s face.

  Bailey was hit again with the terrible waste of life that came from their pointless battle. “Poor child...” He hadn’t stood a chance.

  The boy shifted and moaned into his arms.

  He’s alive!

  Bailey knelt down beside him. “Here, lad, how badly hurt are you?” He rested a gentle hand on the lad’s shoulder and was surprised by the lithe muscling he felt through the thin blue material. Then the young man lifted his face and blinked.

  The lad had the longest lashes, and they framed his pale-blue eyes more perfectly than the night sky could frame the full moon. His delicate features were filled with youth, but not near as young as Bailey had first thought. Through the layer of grime remained tracks that had surely been left by tears.

  The boy shifted to sit with legs pulled up before him and arms wrapped around his knees. “Hello.”

  “What’s your name, lad?” The sight of the tearful trails cracked loose a long-forgotten compassion inside Bailey. For too long he had walked through life doing as he was forced and hardening his heart to the effects on those around him.

  “I’m called Tarvyn. Who are you?” The lad had a lilting voice, which was at odds with the battlefield.

  “Captain Bailey. I and my men came to help survivors from the battle. My healers can check out your injuries.”

  The boy shook his head slowly while those large eyes never wavered from his own gaze. “I’m not injured.” And proving his point, the boy, Tarvyn, stood.

  Bailey rose as the boy did and was surprised to find there wasn’t much difference in their height. The lad was only a hand span or so shorter, much more a young man than a boy. “Then can you help to tend to the men who are? The sooner we can see to them the sooner we can make our own way back to England. We’ve found many who may yet be saved, and if time allows we’ll also see to the digging. Your hands will be gladly put to use.”

  “What digging?”

  His throat itched at the lad’s innocent question. “The digging of graves for the dead. We cannot take the dead with us. Will you help out, lad?”

  He glanced around as if another might answer for him. Then the boy sighed. “I... Yes, I can help.”

  Chapter Two

  Tarvyn wasn’t sure why he agreed to help. In truth, he wasn’t even sure why he hadn’t already returned to his home in Niflheim. Surely, Pahele knew he wouldn’t have the strength to return on his own, especially after being stranded in Mitgard during daytime. He wasn’t one of the day-walkers, and he couldn’t handle being under the sun like they could. After seeing to his tasc, he’d been forced to hide from the dim sunlight in the deep shadows of the woods. And even with that protection, he was stressed and weary from the sunlight drawing his energy away.

  Why hadn’t Pahele taken him home? Something must truly be wrong for the master to leave him in such danger. Surely, Pahele would retrieve him before another day could break. If not, he’d have to find a mortal who could help him regain his lost energy.

  Synn were built for sex, and it was the act of sex that rebuilt any energy lost during tascing a soul. Pahele would know that tascing the dying soldiers would cost him too much energy and offer him none in return.

  What was even stranger was that he was almost happy to have a little longer here in the mortal realm. Perhaps it was the weariness that the giant of a man carried with him. It called out to Tarvyn and awoke a foreign urge to lighten the stranger’s burden.

  Tarvyn followed the man’s broad shoulders along the path until they reached the other end where several men were milling about with various duties. Most appeared to be tending the wounded. There was a dark cast to the men’s expressions. They were nearly despondent in their grief.

  One of the men called out to Bailey, halting his motion mid-step so suddenly that Tarvyn crashed into the man’s hard back. Before he could stumble from weariness, Bailey’s arm caught him, steadying him with a strength that took away some of the harshness of the long day.

  “Easy, lad.” Bailey released him and made a motion toward the injured men. “Why don’t you help over there? Take Thompson’s place and send him over to help me.” Then the big man turned away, leaving Tarvyn to follow his orders.

  It was an odd feeling being among the men. Usually his time was short and focused only on the seduction he used to transition those he was sent for. Never before had he been treated so…human.

  He shrugged his shoulders and moved toward the man called Thompson. If this was where he must be, then he would look on it as an adventure. And if Pahele was too busy to summon him, then he would just wait and look for a means to rebuild his Synn powers enough to carry his own butt home.

  He approached the man Bailey had pointed out. “
Hello. Bailey said I should help out over here.”

  Thompson turned from where he knelt at a man’s side and offered Tarvyn a cold stare. “Who are you?”

  He hadn’t expected the rebuttal. He straightened his shoulders. “Bailey found me on the far side of the woods.”

  “Captain Bailey. And what were ya doing on the St. Martin side of those black woods? Were you with the damn French? Be you a friend or foe?”

  “I’m no enemy. Bailey—I mean, Captain Bailey—said he needed you to help him over there. Said I was to help out with the injured.”

  The man harrumphed and slapped the damp rag into Tarvyn’s hand before heading off toward Bailey.

  Now what was he supposed to do to help these men? Tascryn demons were not susceptible to illness, and harming one wasn’t easy either. In the many centuries he’d been around, he’d never had to deal with this side of death. He’d only handled the ones fast approaching the other side who needed a little tempting to accept their coming fate.

  The man that Thompson had been tending shifted restlessly on the ground where he lay. His shirt was opened, showing a sword slash across his abdomen. There were other wounds as well, but the bloody gash was the one that held him at the edge between life and death.

  Tarvyn knelt beside him and continued to clean the wounds with the rag, as Thompson must have been doing. As he wiped over the man’s stomach, the tear in his flesh wept blood down over his side to his already soaked shirt.

  So much blood…

  How could the man live after such an injury? Would it be kinder for him to help the man’s soul flee now? No, he couldn’t. The man wasn’t marked for transition, and it wasn’t a Synn demon’s place to judge who was to live or die. Even if it had been, he didn’t want to be the one to bring death. He tucked away his Synn powers, locking down his ability to free the man’s soul. At least this once, he wanted to help rekindle life.