The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  Stepping backward up the ramp came a baldheaded Jophite. The still taut ropes bypassed him. Arms extended, his attention was focused downward. The glow of a meld encompassed his body. He and the Allonians inched onto the deck in this fashion.

  A form near the size of a wagon, slate-grey like the cloudy skies, edged up the ramp. It took a moment for Terestere to grasp that what she saw was only a head. A massive eye rolled, slobber flew from a mouth filled with yellowed teeth, and a giant round ear flapped. One white tusk jutted at least a foot past the lower jaw on the side to Terestere, its twin poking below the opposite side. Two horns the length of a man stood out atop the creature’s head, a head pointed down like a stubborn horse pulled by its rider.

  The wispy glow of soul around the Jophite increased. A baying noise issued from the beast’s mouth like a great war horn, a last defiant trumpet. And then the creature seemed to give in. It walked up the ramp on four legs like ash tree trunks, gargantuan body stretching behind it, ropes connected to a manacle of grey metal around its neck.

  At its full height, the beast measured some twenty feet, possibly more. A canopied basket stood on its back. One more hung on each flank, several times larger than the first, attached to each other over its back like a saddle. Rope ladders were connected to them, lying flat against the creature’s body.

  “What is it?” she asked, breathless.

  “An ereskar.” Ainslen’s reply rang with pride.

  “How? They’re long dead. And if you let some tell it, they never lived, they’re myths.”

  “Every myth carries a semblance of truth. Ereskars are very much alive and common in the Farlands.” Ainslen nodded toward the Jophite. “Henezuma there is a Mesmer of some renown, as are any of the ereskar handlers. It takes an exceptionally strong mind to control the beasts.”

  “I thought Mesmers could only affect sentient minds?”

  “Who is to judge what is sentience and what isn’t,” Ainslen replied. “When hounds bark, howl, or whine, are they not speaking? Birdsong, is that not language? Language we do not understand, but language all the same. Who is to say our speech isn’t the true primitive communication? Perhaps the animals all around us laugh at our so-called heightened civilization.”

  Terestere had not pondered life in such a fashion, but the king did have a point. As she watched, the Jophite strode up to the ereskar, one hand held out to reveal something in his palm. The man stretched his arm up to the creature’s maw between the two tusks. The beast snorted, and a moment later, a long tongue snaked out to snatch whatever morsel the Jophite offered. Mewling sounds of contentment ensued.

  Without further preamble the Jophite stepped closer, positioning himself at a point below where the chest and legs joined. He stretched up to touch the ereskar just where its torso began, and the glow of soul surged once more. The Jophite’s lips were moving the entire time, like a man whispering to a horse or his favorite pet.

  Terestere held her breath. She swore the ereskar would eat the man. Those rows of sharp teeth spoke of a creature that preferred meat.

  As the Farlander stepped aside, the creature leaned forward, knees bending until they touched the ground. The Jophite climbed the ladder and took a seat in the front of the upper basket. When he was in position, the Allonians tossed the ropes up to him. The Jophite tied off two and kept the others. A flap of the ropes and the ereskar stood. With practiced efficiency the Jophite tugged on the ropes, maneuvering the ereskar to the ramp, the ship rocking as it walked, footsteps loud on the wooden planks. The beast moved down onto the pier. Terestere would have expected such a gigantic creature to break through the planks, but the wood did not so much as bend.

  “They meld, also,” Ainslen said, seeing her surprise. “Like our derins or the Treskelin’s great ash trees. With soul they control their weight. But that’s not the best of it, wait until we’re atop them.”

  “Atop them?” Her eyes widened. “As in riding them?”

  Ainslen was grinning. “Yes, you didn’t think this was all for show, did you?” He took her to the ereskar’s flank, the beast’s skin reminding Terestere of iron.

  From the warehouse came ten more ereskars, gait stately, almost a glide despite their girth. These were smaller than the one before her, and several lacked horns. A Farlander rode each.

  “Why no horns,” she asked.

  “Females,” said Ainslen.

  “Ah.”

  “Time to get you into your seat.” The king nodded to Henezuma.

  The ereskar got down on its knees once more. With the help of the king and two Blades, she was able to climb into the basket on the side, and from there, into the topmost one where two seats with leather straps waited behind the Jophite. A partition separated them with ample room to stretch her feet. At the corners of their section were two short metal pedestals, atop which sat bowls filled with coals, covered with a wire mesh.

  “Comfortable?” Jemare asked.

  “As comfortable as one might be atop a twenty foot tall legendary monster,” she said dryly. She couldn’t help the quiver in her stomach at the idea of riding the beasts. The musky stench she recognized from the ship was thick in the air, carried on the cold wind.

  “I remember feeling much the same my first time.” Ainslen leaned across her, drew the leather strap across her waist, and fastened it on an iron rung between them. He did the same for himself.

  The sensation of entrapment almost brought on a panic, but she calmed herself by taking in the other creatures. Blades climbed into the baskets on the sides of nine of the ereskars. Farlanders crowded the last one. With the exception of the ereskar she rode, each beast carried at least twenty men and women. At last the king’s personal guard took their places in the baskets below her.

  “We are ready, Your Majesty,” Henezuma said, turning to peer over his shoulder at them.

  “Then let us be off.” To her, he said, “Hold tight, I doubt this will be like anything you’ve felt before.”

  Before Ainslen finished his words, the ereskar bayed, long and drawn out. The basket began to shake, soft at first, and then with increasing violence. The ereskar was either quivering or straining, which one she could not tell. Terestere clutched the wooden rail in front of her. The shaking continued and with it came a sense of great weight.

  With a final trumpet the ereskar shot forward like a javelin fired from a ballista. The motion squashed her back into the cushioned seat and snatched her breath. For a moment her stomach felt as if it had fallen away from her. The world became a blur.

  At first she was terrified, but exhilaration soon replaced fear. She threw back her head and laughed at the incomprehensible speed at which they traveled, her hair streaming about her face. The deep snowdrifts did not matter. Neither did any small woods in their path. The ereskar barreled through them all. Surprisingly, its gait was not that of a lumbering behemoth, it was a glide, almost as if its feet skimmed the ground. When she peered over at the other beasts they were kicking up fountains of snow.

  They ran, using no conventional roads. In fact, they avoided any of the well-traveled routes and instead cut directly across the Plains of Torsien to the Whetstone Mountains. Her earlier excitement lessened as the cold seeped through her clothes and the wind picked up. She drew her scarf up to cover her mouth and pulled down her hood. Soon she was shivering and hugging herself.

  Seeing her discomfort, Ainslen unbuckled his strap, and tugged on a thin rope attached to the canopy. A length of fur rolled down in front of Terestere, blotting out the wind. The king melded, forming flames around his fist. He reached across to touch the contents of the bowl on the metal stand closest to her. The coals sparked to life. She offered him a smile even as he repeated the process on his side. It took a few moments but with the lack of wind, the heat offered by the brazier was enough to keep her from freezing.

  Curious, she glanced over the side to the basket filled with Blades. Heavy fur hid the men completely. Looking up she saw a similar fur on her open side
. She yanked on the rope connected to it, and the covering fell into place.

  The king kept his side open. Past him she saw that they had already gained the Whetstone Mountains. Instead of skirting the peaks, they had chosen a path along one of the many lower ridges, snow and ice and rocky inclines offering little hindrance to the ereskars. Time wore on, but a moment’s calculation was all it took to realize that in some six hours they’d covered twice as much distance as they would have on horseback. Lost in thought at the implications of the feat, Terestere watched the cliffs and hills roll by. At this rate they would reach Gartos in a little over a week. She hoped she would be ready.

  F irebreathers

  S eated on the porch as if he didn’t have a care in the world, Thar read from Etien’s Compendium.

  Unlike us, a warrior caste and an emperor lead the Farlanders. I’m uncertain whether the heads of the caste, a Warmonger and three Warmasters, can meld, but they’re said to be able to separate men from their souls. I have tried in vain to find some truth in this.

  Far more worrying are their firesticks. Made of a long metal tube, perhaps half the length of a spear, which is then mounted into a type of wooden handle that they place on their shoulders for stability, they are the most deadly weapons I have come across. They load specially prepared powder and metal balls, enhanced by their Alchemists, into holes at the rear of the metal tube, near the handle. They create the powder from sulfur and charcoal found within the mines that populate their mountain ranges. From some of the same mines and caves, their slaves cultivate another mineral from crystals, and from of all things, bat droppings, to complete the process. To my amazement I found that the slaves were all Dracodar.

  They manufacture a larger version of the weapons, called firebreathers, in foundries like our bells. The Dracodar slaves smelt iron and pour it into molds, enhancing the craft with their melds. Firebreathers range in size and are often mounted on their ships.

  The Blazers, for this is what they call those who can wield the firesticks, are attuned to their weapons by way of tern and hyzen. By applying all of their soul to their eyes they do not miss a target. The best among them can even direct their metal ball after it has been fired. A target a mile away might as well be within a dozen feet. The Blazers are also capable of creating a tiny spark, that when combined with the powder makes the firesticks shoot their deadly projectiles. When a Blazer phalanx attacks, it sounds as if the heavens are raining thunder.

  The passage matched his experience with Flathead and reports of the battle on Succession Day, at what people now called the Bloody Spires. He’d pieced together scenarios from reliable sources, witnesses to the massacre of King Jemare’s Blades. If, by all accounts, these Blazers were near untouchable within the Farlander formations, then he either had to break the formation, strike first, or find a way to neutralize the firesticks. The latter seemed the best choice. He continued to read.

  I found the metal for the balls most interesting. In ways it reminded me of raw Dracodarian steel before it is forged. I was able to discover that it is mined from the largest of their mountains, Nazbrath. They worship the place, claiming that it is the burial ground of one of their Gods, Azuth. I need to look into their pantheon, for it bears disturbing similarities to the Dominion despite the names of the Gods.

  Thar frowned as he considered the paragraphs again. Counts Cardinton and Adelfried reported that they had the Blades loyal to their cause ready in the Blooded Daggers. The remainder of the melders the Consortium had collected and trained over years would be a worthy addition. They made a considerable force, but in the face of ereskars, firesticks, firebreathers, and this metal, they were vulnerable. One hope lay in the knowledge that the majority of the king’s forces should now be heading to deal with the threat from the west. That should provide the opening needed to take Kasandar.

  But what if the Empire loses to the west? What then? He shook off the thought. He needed to have faith in the plan. It would work. Century upon century of planning and training, of building an army not seen since before the Culling, would bear fruit. It had to. The alternative was decimation, genocide. The thought made him shudder.

  A scream cut through his musings. It was just outside the three hundred foot range of his jin. Moments later, an icy prickle across his skin revealed that the intruders had crossed the circle of his meld. None of them possessed the power to be the king, yet they were all strong enough to be Blades. He flipped his book shut, wondering if any of them would be skilled enough to make it to the cottage past Na-Rashim and his Aladar counterparts.

  More screams echoed, some closer, some farther. The clash of steel on steel mingled with the cries. Thar hated the idea of slaughtering men and women who might have proven useful to the cause, men and women who had once been like him: children taken advantage of when they knew no better, minds bent to forget their origins. However, some things could not be avoided. These deaths were one of them.

  By the time the fighting ended, only a single soul had come close to the clearing. That one was moving away, fleeing, no doubt. A moment later the soul winked out. It reappeared again at the edge of Thar’s range with jin . At least one of you had the sense to use lumni. Thar shook his head, disappointed that the king had chosen not to send any of his Farlander Dracodar.

  Na-Rashim strode into the clearing, bronze scales glistening, leather loincloth dark with blood. Thar dropped his sintu , knowing the Aladar’s preference for mind communication. The Aladar made his way onto the porch, the floorboards not offering a creak of protest despite his size. One of them managed to escape.

  “You mean you let him go,” Thar said. Na-Rashim shrugged. “It’s fine. I understand the need for the forest’s legend to live on.”

  There is something you should see. Na-Rashim held out a long arm, paper clutched between his clawed fingertips.

  Frowning, Thar took the sheet. When he turned it over, he hissed. There, drawn in detail as they had looked before Succession Day, were Keedar and Winslow’s faces. Hells.

  A white form dashed from the edge of the trees. Thar leaped to his feet before realizing it was Snow. However, his concern did not flee; it heightened. Only a dire problem would have made Perlar send the derin. Thar walked to meet Snow, fighting the urge to run, fighting the building trepidation. He plucked the message from around Snow’s neck, opened it, and began to read. His heart stopped.

  The boys knew of the order to have Delisar executed. No words would stop Keedar now. Snarling, Thar took off at a dead sprint toward the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows and Kasandar.

  I n the D readwood

  C ontrary to its name, the Dreadwood was a sprawling wonderland. On another day Ainslen might have stared in awe at the ice that hung like crystal spearheads and the hoarfrost that covered the trunks and branches like moss and wreathed the trees in white. But not today. Today he had no time for niceties. The stop at the old mines had proven fruitless, the trackers stating that the rebels had abandoned them days ago. The remaining Consortium members, and whatever dregs they took with them, could be anywhere by now.

  “You should arrive in Gartos later this evening,” he said to Terestere. “I will give you a day to talk some sense into the Stonelords. In two days, if I still have not received word that they have come to terms, then tell them to look to Rion when Mandrigal sets on the third day.”

  She frowned at him. “If that is your wish.”

  “It is, ” Ainslen said. “The meeting should take place in Brenn Tower. Its highest balcony or windows should provide a good view. Until we meet again, my sweet.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, taking in a deep breath of her scent. After a final hug, he climbed down from the ereskar, flicking a finger over his nose at the animal’s stench. “Take good care of your queen.” He nodded to the lieutenant of Terestere’s Blade contingent. The man bowed. Ainslen watched as the ereskar galloped away before he turned toward the forest.

  Seligula waited at the tree line, the shaved sides of his head oile
d to a sheen, sharp blue eyes tracking the Blades behind the king. He was dressed in his customary pale leather and a black and tan lida hide cloak. His long black braid hung to his waist near the hilt of a sheathed dagger. Two Farlanders accompanied him: an Egini and a Jophite. No soul emanated from the men.

  “Your Majesty, why risk discovery by the Thelusian scouts when I could have come to you?” Seligula’s voice carried less of a musical lilt than most Farlanders.

  “I’m certain none saw us. Not only did we come over the Whetstone Mountains, but I also had the main force of my army head north along the Empire Road toward Melanil, bearing my banners as if I were among them. Our enemy’s focus will be there.”

  “Still, I could have met you, rather than see you take any risk whatsoever.”

  “A man who risks nothing gains nothing, Warmaster Seligula.”

  The Farlander froze for a heartbeat before he said, “Indeed.”

  “Why is it that you hid your position from me?” Ainslen stopped before the Farlander. An odious mix of perfume and old death wafted from Seligula, causing the king to grimace before he caught himself.

  “I did not hide it. I gave you my position as it would be in terms of your own people. Your generals lead your armies, do they not?” Seligula asked. The king nodded. “Then that is the closest comparison that a Warmaster has in your world.”

  “It’s my understanding that you do more than that. You might as well be a prince.”