Soul Sanctuary: Book Two Of The Spirit Shield Saga

by Susan Faw

  “Keep him there. He will be useful as leverage in case our new priestess gives us any trouble. She will not resist us while her father’s life hangs in the balance.”

  Sharisha bowed once more. Then turning on her heel, she strode from the room, pulling the circular door closed behind her.

  Marea sat back in her chair and smiled. Soon she would meet Artio. Soon she would meet Avery. Soon she would rule the gods themselves. Her priests were in position and the potions, resurrected from the archives of old, were brewed and tested and working. She would gain control of the Flesh Clans and their leaders without her Clan Chiefs ever lifting a blade against another Primordial. She smiled broadly at her own cleverness then sighed, deeply contented. Soon, the entire world would kneel before her. Soon.

  Chapter 10

  Cyrus’s Plan

  CYRUS RODE AT THE HEAD OF A GROUP of twelve legion riders, every man handpicked for his particular skill set. His hands tightened then eased off the leather reins as he pulled his mount to a halt, just shy of the ridge of the mountainside they had been steadily climbing. A mist rose from the ground and swirling opaque fingers intertwined with the horses’ legs, obscuring the path.

  The last two villages they had entered and “surveyed” had produced only three Primordial males who confessed to having spotted the party he hunted. Not three days back, a group of three riders, two women and a man, had stopped for provisions in their village. With a little persuasion, the Primordials had spilled exact descriptions of their quarry and had led him to their aging trail.

  Usefulness at an end, Cyrus slew two of them with the curved hunting knives preferred by the Spirit Clans. He was here to sow discord and sow it he would, leaving wounds unique to the curved blades and careful to leave the bodies riddled with arrows fletched with the Spirit Clan’s favoured choice of feathers, all of which had been stolen from their villages a few days past. The bodies had been dumped along the path.

  The Spirit Clan’s villages were to be found in the valleys and open plains where grass was plentiful for their herds of deer and gazelle and the marshes and rivers teemed with fish and frog, while the Flesh Clans favoured hilly and mountainous terrain, prime for herding curly-horned sheep and nimble goats who foraged the steep mountainsides for vegetation. They built stone dwellings that doubled as defensible barriers and outposts to discourage foreign visitors. In the past, the two factions of Primordials worked as opposite sides of the same coin, but now, with the civil war, the Spirit Clans found themselves cut off and isolated by the Flesh Clans, hemmed in by the impassable terrain of the Highland Needle to the south and the Endless Oceans to the north. The few of the Spirit Clans who had created settlements on the human side of the Spine were rumoured to have disappeared without a trace. The Spirit Clans blamed the Flesh Clans, and the Flesh Clans blamed the humans. A few of the elders of both Spirit and Flesh Clan spoke of strange stirrings and signs, but these elders were largely ignored as their traditional views were regarded as not relevant to the modern situation.

  Cyrus and his hand-picked legionnaires rode toward their destination under the cover of darkness, a raiding party on the move, with horses shod in the Primordial fashion for silent passage. Reaching the river, they slowed their mounts and allowed them to pick their own path into the swift flowing waters and then headed upstream to rejoin the live trail leading to their quarry. The tracks were fresh. They should reach Faylea and their prey by morning.

  The men, halted behind him, waited, the leather creaking as they shifted in their saddles. Cyrus studied the ridge, the undulating landscape changing ever so slightly as his gaze rose to the crest, the vegetation becoming less defined and spookier, its edges blurred as though it was not quite part of this world. Cyrus rubbed his eyes and looked again. It still seemed slightly out of focus and only sharpened when he squinted. Large, perfectly domed tree crowns dotted the horizon, silhouetted by the setting moon, giant feathery pillows resting on a velvety blanket of night. One particularly massive tree towered above the others, its crown sharply defined by the fading moonlight.

  “The mists should burn off in the first rays of the sun,” the sole remaining Primordial mumbled, his wrists bound to the horn of the saddle, his heavily bruised lips barely able to part to allow the words to escape. He sat tall and proud despite the obvious distress caused by his various injuries. His black shoulder-length hair, matted with blood, stuck to the right side of his head while the left side gleamed in the reflected moonlight. “The mists of the dead only rise in the dark.”

  Cyrus glared at the man as his men muttered to each other, staring around suspiciously at the mists. Some of the older, superstitious men made a sign to ward off evil. Soldiers they might be, but superstition was a large part of a soldier’s life. Few would openly defy the gods and mock the dead. Cyrus nudged his horse forward with his heels. Once alongside the man, he backhanded him with the fingers of his steel-tipped glove. Blood sprayed from the barely crusted lips, and the man’s head snapped back with the force of the blow. Slowly, he straightened, returning Cyrus’s glare, not a trace of fear in his eyes.

  “You will speak when I ask you, not before.” Cyrus wiped his gloved hand on a cloth he pulled from inside his tunic. Splatters of blood shimmered brightly for a moment on the dull red fabric with a polka-dot effect before dulling. Cyrus swiped at them, and they faded into the cloth. “We do not care about your mystic Primordial ramblings. The dead are the dead. Mist is mist. Fullmer!” he barked, and a balding pale man with one glass eye nudged his horse from the collective and trotted up to Cyrus’s side.

  “My lord!” he saluted.

  “Take this Primordial popinjay with you and check out the mists. It may not be the dead, but it is a great place to lay an ambush. I want to know all that moves in those mists, and I want you back here before the coals are hot for breakfast. Take two others with you.”

  “Yes, my lord!” Fullmer saluted once again and with a wave, collected two other soldiers, and trotted away into the mist, leading the captive’s horse into the brush. They disappeared within seconds, the mists on the ground rising just high enough to obscure horse and rider. Above the mists, the elongated swelling of a new day blushed across the horizon.

  ***

  The soldiers, despite their armour and skill sets, scanned the rising mists with apprehension, pulling their knees up higher and leaving their stirrups behind so as to not have their feet touch the ethereal fingers of fog rising around them. A low moan issued from the ground and a collective shiver passed through the battle-hardened men. They had no fear of facing down another man or an army of them, but how does one fight spirits, if that is what the mists truly were?

  The Primordial did not react in any way to the mists. They swirled over his feet and wrapped around his legs, encasing him in a shroud of cloud that hid his lower body from view. The mists drifted higher until only the tips of his shoulders were visible, swallowing him and his horse and his surroundings. Then with a final moan, the mist covered him completely, and he vanished from view.

  The men, still leading the Primordial’s horse by a rope, paid no attention to him, as they were preoccupied with keeping their own bodies and mounts in visible range.

  They urged their horses to the crest of the rise. As the sun breached the ridge, the mists vanished, but so did the Primordial. The lead soldier hauled in the bridle rein, but it ended in nothing. Horse and captive rider had disappeared into the fog.

  ***

  Achak urged his mount forward, keeping to the mists, working at the ropes tying his hands to the pommel. He slipped a sharp piece of stone from his pocket. The rock was a form of shale that chipped in sharp layers perfect for arrowheads, but this piece was not as sharp as a true arrowhead, as he had not had time to refine the stone. Rubbing his bonds furiously against the leather restraints he slid the leather back and forth across the dull edge, but the thick leather held, refusing to part.

  “Thank you, ancestors, for your protection,” he prayed as he r
ode silently through the trees. “Phoenix, aid my blade,” he said to his Spirit Guide, not expecting an answer and was shocked when he felt the rock grow hot in his hand. He sawed into the leather and it started to smoke against the glowing edge. The leather parted like melting fat and fell from his freed hands. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, working the circulation back into them as the stone cooled, guiding his mount with only his knees. He pointed her into the dense underbrush thick with the spirits of his ancestors, feeling their welcome and their shelter, as he wound his way toward the ancient entrance into Faylea, an entrance long forgotten by the world.

  A stream wound along the base of the cliff and caves dotted the edge of the stream, natural occlusions that swelled with water during heavy storms but now were hollowed vertical depressions in the rock with a trickling stream bed for a floor. He chose a tall, thin cave to enter, the spirits around him brightening, providing him with a glowing blue light to illuminate his way. They whispered at his mind as he rode. He felt their concern and also a great joy that infused their presence. The spirits were very active today, more so than he had seen in a very, very long time. He had a sense that something wondrous had occurred although he could not tell what. Still, it was obvious that they wanted his help, for they guided his horse’s steps and showed him the direction they wished him to travel.

  Achak followed the cavern for roughly two hundred yards before the cliff face appeared. As he rounded a curve in the cave wall, broad stone steps were revealed, crisscrossing back and forth toward the lighter grey of the exit. He dismounted at the urging of the spirits and began the climb, leading his horse. The stone steps were etched to provide a sure footing in the damp climate. The spirits pulsed around him, cocooning him and his mount in their soft shield. Clicking on the stone, they steadily climbed, passing walls covered in frescoes, scenes of people and clans and animals long forgotten. Some of the animals were clearly creatures of myth, as Achak’s eyes had never seen them in the flesh. The elders had sworn they existed and during festivals would call on their particular guardian spirit to share in the celebrations with the clan and commune with the people.

  I did see a phoenix one time. I swear it was dancing in the flames of the campfire. It is my guardian, my mother had explained, and a powerful one too—a special guardian to come to one so young. Achak had seen it on his eleventh birthday, when he became a man. But he had not seen it again. Now at nineteen, he longed to know if it really did guide him. Perhaps the phoenix had protected him this day, as he was still alive.

  When the queen’s elite legion squad descended on the village of Antigonish, the residents at first expected a peaceful trading session with their border village, as was the norm. Many a legion division had passed by their collection of huts at the mouth of the Spine and had traded for goods and supplies to supplement their reserves while conducting their patrols. This time had been different. The elders of Antigonish had been carried away by the men, and the women and children slain. Achak was the only one left that could bear witness to the slaughter at the village. The weapons they bore were of the Flesh Tribes, and yet not one of them accompanied the soldiers.

  Where were the Flesh Clan warriors, and why did the legionnaires have Flesh Clan weapons?

  Have the warriors been slaughtered, the same as the people of my village, and their weapons stolen? And if so, which village has fallen? I must give warning to my people that the legions are coming. I must warn the High Priestess that the Flesh Tribes may be aligned with the men of the kingdom. If I do not warn them, who will?

  Achak reached the summit of the cave wall and stepped onto a stony trail that led to a cut in the rocky ceiling. Light spilled from the crevice and blinded him after the soft glowing of the spirits. As he walked toward the light, he felt ghostly touches along his back. They whispered in his ear. “Avery…Avery…Avery…”

  Chapter 11

  Transformed

  AVERY CAME TO, face down on the floor, just inside the door of the temple. Her cheek was pressed against the cold stone, the rough surface biting into her cheek. She blinked. The sideways tilt of the room was disorienting. Slowly, comprehension dawned, and with it a rush of memories that made her head ache. She gathered her strength and rolled over onto her back and promptly screamed as it came in contact with the floor. She sat bolt upright and flapped her arms to put out the sensation of flames dancing across her back. Then, she noticed her biceps. Tattoos covered ever visible inch. As she drew her arms back around and straightened them, she could see the tattoos did not stop there but continued down over her wrists and hands, to the tips of fingers. As she rolled her hands to inspect her palms, it was then that she noticed her legs were also covered in tattoos. Alarmed, she jumped to her feet and hurried over to a floor-length mirror halfway down the ornately carved walls, limping as she walked. She stepped up to the mirror and gasped at her reflection.

  She was naked. Naked, but every inch of her skin had been inked with vividly coloured tattoos. They were not random tattoos, however. They marched across her body like a moving panorama, scenes and images flowing from one concept to the next.

  It’s like the scrolling backdrop for the puppet plays, she thought, remembering the troupes of caravan actors that used to stop at Sanctuary-by-the-Sea during Beltine. She could follow one image of a fellow in battle gear from his house to a great battle scene. Slowly, Avery turned in front of the mirror, trying to follow his journey, but it was difficult to see every bit of the scene as other scenes intersected with it.

  Avery lifted her leg and displayed the sole of her right foot to the mirror. Not even her sole escaped images, although these were of people, seemingly writhing in pain, their mouths open in screams. Avery shuddered at the image and put her foot down. Perhaps it was better that that particular image was on the ground. She frowned, a thought bubbling to the surface and then popping before it fully formed. Frustrated, she continued her inspection.

  As her eyes traveled up her body, the reason for the chill on her head became evident. Her hair was gone, as though it had never existed. Not a single strand of her former silky curls remained. Instead, her scalp was etched with images of celestial import, familiar stars and planets that traveled the skies.

  She met her own eyes in the mirror and that was the greatest shock of all. Her eyes stared back at her from a silver base. Before, her eyes were set in white orbs, but now they rested in liquid mercury. The effect was frightening, and she blinked several times to reassure herself that her eyes were working properly, rubbing her fists across her closed lids to clear her vision. When she reopened her eyes, nothing had changed. She blinked again and stepped closer to the mirror. Faint lines ran through the silver, and they pulsed in time with her beating heart. She stepped back from the mirror and considered the problem. She could hardly stride around looking like this.

  What is happening to me? What am I going to do? Avery leaned in closer to the mirror, tracing a finger over her cheek, examining the swirling patterns that now decorated her skin. Runes. They look exactly like runes, and they are everywhere. My skin has been imbued with magic, the magic of the temple. These are the markings of a High Priestess, she remembered. Avery straightened away from the mirror. There will be no hiding from the world. Friend or enemy, every person I meet will have an agenda. They will seek to control me. I am truly alone now. She shivered, scared to face the future beyond the temple doors. It is likely that my entrance into the temple has not gone unnoticed. Who waits for me on the other side? Can the Primordial people be trusted? Avery thought back to her instinctual distrust of Sharisha and she shivered again. She longed to have Cayden with her. She had never been separated from her twin before, and scared as she was, she missed him intensely at this moment.

  At least Father is here with me, she thought in comfort. It is time to face the waiting crowds—(for she had no doubt that they waited beyond the double sealed doors)—but first I need clothes!

  Her eyes wandered over the room, and she noticed an
other door covered in carvings. She strode over and wrenched it open. A large walk-in closet was revealed, and wooden pegs dotted the wall from which hung robes of varying sizes and shapes. Along the back wall, shelves were stacked with folded clothing, and the bottom row contained boots. Avery strode to the cabinet and wrenched open several drawers. Inside were small clothes, belts, bracelets, and other artifacts. The carvings on the jewellery matched the tattoos on her skin. She disregarded the jewellery and pulled out some soft cotton underthings and slipped them on. Next, she pulled a silvery sleeveless shirt from a stack and slipped it over her head. It fell to her hips and hugged her form like a glove. Avery did not worry about whose clothes they were. The fit was right, almost as though they were made for her. Perhaps these belong to the High Priestess of the temple? But, if they are clothing meant for the High Priestess, then the Faylea High Priestess should be decked out in this clothing already. Obviously, she is not, which means…these clothes were meant for me, for if she had had access, then the clothing would be gone. I must be the true High Priestess. The thought rang true in her mind and with it, fear surged causing her heart to race.

  Another quick search of a stack of clothing revealed soft black leather leggings with fringes. She donned them and then pulled a belt from the drawer, leather embedded with thick silver links. Charms dangled from the links and tinkled as she pulled it though the loops and tugged the end through a heavy silver buckle in the shape of a bear.

  Next, she found a black leather vest with silver buttons and slipped it on over the silver shirt.

  From the drawers, wide silver bangles caught her eye, wide enough to cover her forearms from wrist to elbow. She picked them up and saw that they were cleverly jointed with tiny hinges that allowed her to slip her arm inside. They closed with a snap and she was pleased to see that she had full range of movement while they covered the tattoos. All that was visible were the twin birds that ran from wrist to fingertips.