The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  Flexing his wrists, Thar once again tested his strength against the kerin manacles. The chain offered a tiny clink but the thick bracelets didn’t budge. If he looked closely he could pick out swirls in the metal’s dull, grey surface. As he’d suspected, it was the same as Dracodarian-forged steel.

  “It won’t break or bend,” whispered Monere from behind Thar, voice trembling with fear. “I’ve tried it all.” The Kasinian melder had been a wealth of information. Unlike many of the others here, who were dregs, Monere had the light skin synonymous with Kasinia’s nobles. According to the man’s story he was a minor count who’d shown support for King Jemare and was paying for the mistake. “The metal doesn’t let soul travel beyond it either. No matter how many times I’ve tried, I can’t complete a meld. Neither can anyone else I’ve spoken to. Can’t even harness one of the cycles.”

  Some of the man’s words were truth. Thar had experimented for months, even before his capture. Try as he might, he couldn’t open the vital points on his hands and feet, and therefore couldn’t meld. However, those areas after the restraints weren’t completely devoid of soul. A miniscule amount bypassed them. With his heightened senses he could touch that trickle, giving him one glaring difference to Monere: he could still manipulate the cycles.

  The discovery shed a bit of light on some of the Farlanders’ ability to direct the kerin balls with soul. And how the Soulbreakers were able to meld despite bodies laced with the metal, bodies completely poisoned by the Blight. With enough time he was certain he could unearth the secret behind the differences in its entirety.

  Sorinya spoke, voice rough and low enough for Thar’s ears alone, “I told you this was a bad idea.”

  Thar matched the man’s timbre. “Yes, you did.”

  “And you didn’t listen.”

  Thar snorted. “Complaints from a man your size aren’t endearing. Is your name still the Ebon Blade? Or is it now the Whining Blade?”

  “If you had to watch your people die you would feel the same way,” Sorinya hissed.

  “Is that so?” The corner of Thar’s lip curled. “Aren’t the people in the Smear mine? As well as the Consortium members Ainslen left to rot in the gibbets? Or better yet, my brother, Delisar?” That last question made Thar fold his fingers into a fist. A cold rage rose in him, one he had to force down into his belly. It simmered there, awaiting release.

  “I’m sorry,” Sorinya said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “On that, we agree.”

  “Not just about what I said, but also about Delisar. I warned him against the attack that day. I feel as if I failed him, as if I failed the queen.”

  “He left you with little choice. If he’d followed the original plan he might still be here today. Yet, I don’t blame him for the effort. As I don’t fault you for your words.” Thar cleared his throat against the sudden thickness formed by memories of Delisar. “Grief and vengeance can do that to a man, even one with your experience who should know better. Don’t let either consume you.”

  Sorinya glanced toward the ships, voice filled with melancholy. “Do you believe it’s as bad as the spy’s reports?”

  “We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  The Thelusian hawked and spat into the frothing red tide that washed up to hide their feet. “Murderous beasts.”

  “And then some.” Thar thought back to the time he’d spent with Envald and the Blighted Brothers. Could the leader of the Dwellers be right about the leather armor these Farlanders favored? Borosen had also been of the same opinion. The scope of the claim was frightening. The discolored sea was like the Aprasor Ocean around the Farish Isles on days when lidahunters caught several of the giant sea worms and the coasts ran red from butchery.

  “I still think we should have followed the original plan and taken Kasandar,” Sorinya said. “Or freed the prisoners here on the beach, and then forced the Farlanders to tell us where they’re holding King Hanlin and his court.”

  “Duly noted. Again.” Thar had to give the giant man credit for his perseverance. Sorinya had argued against the attempt to infiltrate the beach, providing any number of reasons as to why their capture would be a disaster. When Sorinya got his mind to a thing he was like a hound with a scent. At court he’d been a terror as a boy and had frustrated Ainslen to no end.

  “But you still won’t change your mind, will you?” The Ebon Blade blew out a resigned breath. “Very well. The men are in place. I hope the brothers will be also.”

  “They will.” The guards called for them to halt. Thar nodded out to sea. “Seems as if it’s our turn.”

  More than a score of rowboats bobbed up and down on the water, oars turning in a steady rhythm. Standing on the prow of each rowboat was a Farlander of Egini descent, ereskar cloaks ruffling behind them. Perhaps only two among them measured over five feet, and most had either shaved heads or shiny dark hair that fell to their waists. The ones with shaved heads had mustaches that circled their mouths, ending in lengthy, oiled, braided beards. Each was a Magnifier, the irregular bulge of their arms and legs giving them away.

  When they were a dozen feet from the shore the Egini all leaped to the beach, cloaks billowing out, giving life to the ereskars imprinted upon them. The boats rocked from the pressure used to carry the men the distance. The newcomers spoke to the flat-forehead Vailonders in the typical Farlander singsong lilt, but among themselves, their speech changed, became a series of grunts, clicks, and odd sounds deep in their throats that Thar swore would hurt were he to try them. Moments later, the Farlanders herded Thar, Sorinya, and the other prisoners onto the boats.

  Thar huddled among the prisoners, doing his best impression of a man who feared for his life. Sorinya sat with his shoulders hunched in an attempt to appear less of a menace. The rowboats headed out to sea, crashing through the salty spray of choppy waves. Thar took a backward glance toward the shore. One part of the plan was well underway, and he hoped the others were progressing as well.

  Concern for Winslow and Keedar gnawed at his gut. If there had been another alternative he would rather them not be involved in this, but Elysse had built this part of the strategy around them. With both in his thoughts, he felt along the soul links he’d attached to them. Winslow was a distant pinpoint to the west; Keedar, much closer. Although the connections would eventually fade, he was glad for the reassurance.

  By now Winslow should be well into his training among the Dracodar in the Treskelin Forest. Keedar was in the capable hands of Martel the Sword and Blade Captain Guai. He wondered if the dangers they no doubt faced would bring about the changes needed to activate the quintessence . Success in this final endeavor might well require the ability.

  He was still thinking of the young men when the rowboats drew alongside a hauler, the wood of its waterline stained red. Up on the ship, massive Allonians, hair the color of flames or a dark yellow, threw down thick ropes. The Egini tied off the ends of the ropes onto rings at the bow, stern, and on opposite sides at each rowboat’s middle. Arms bulging, the Allonians pulled the boats out of the water and up the side of the hauler. When the small vessels were nearly even with the deck, the Farlanders secured them with hooks and chains.

  Prodding with their spears, the guards sent the prisoners scurrying onto the slick deck to form a line. Thar allowed himself to be herded with the others, cowering the same as they did. An Egini and an Allonian stood behind Sorinya, no doubt threatened by the man’s sheer size. Not that the Allonian wasn’t almost as huge. Thar’s lips gave a slight twitch at Sorinya’s attempt to appear less conspicuous. Might as well convince a crag goat that the three hundred pound korgan cat with fangs the length of an arm meant no harm.

  Thar glanced up and the down the line of some hundred prisoners. And became crestfallen. He’d relied on the subtle shift of positions his men had effected, similar to Sorinya, but that had changed. Most of his Blades were not aboard this hauler. He counted those at his disposal on the ship and decided they would have to do.

 
; Someone shouted a few words in the Farlander tongue. The invaders snapped to attention. From belowdecks came an Allonian even bigger than Sorinya, dressed in leather armor embossed with a pattern of swirls, curves, whorls, and rivets more elaborate than all the others. It was also trimmed in a light green. The man’s face could have been carved from granite; his eyes blazed a clear blue to rival the sky. Even without the strong nimbus about him, the man commanded attention. Two Egini followed the Allonian, so compact they were like children in comparison.

  Expression studious, the man strode down the line of prisoners, booted footsteps resounding on the wooden planks. He would pause here or there, dip or shake his head in approval or denial, and continue on. His eyebrows rose at the sight of Sorinya, and he gave the kind of nod a horse trader might when he found a promising steed. At Thar, he stopped and frowned. Thar averted his gaze, a cold prickle running through his body. When the Allonian moved down the line the tightness in Thar’s chest eased.

  “Kasinians,” a deep voice called out. On the upper deck stood a swarthy Darshanese man dressed in a jacket that reached to his thighs. His already hooked nose had an abnormal bend that said it had been broken on more than one occasion. “You’re all now the property of the Jiantonese kingdom. My master, Captain Furasim Menral, who walks in the Light of the Divine, Vasys Balbas,” he added, nodding in the direction of the Allonian, “thinks a few of you still have some fight left. It would be an inconvenience to lose you all, so he’s decided to be lenient.”

  At that last word, two lithe, white-haired Vailonders strode forward, both taller than any man on deck by at least a head. They took one of the prisoners before whom Furasim had paused. The man, a youthful Thelusian, tried to resist but the shackles enfeebled his efforts. Not to mention the fist to the groin. With a groan, he dropped to his knees.

  The Vailonders dragged the young man before Furasim, who was now positioned directly in front for all to see. Furasim stood before two wooden pillars. Three chains were riveted into them. One spanned between the tops of the pillars, while the others hung from each side at the bottom. The lower two had kerin manacles on the ends.

  The Farlanders forced the Thelusian to his feet. While they held him, two more of their kind looped the top chain under the restraints on the man’s hands. They connected the manacles to his feet. When they pulled the upper chain taut, they raised the Thelusian by his hands, suspending him spread-eagled a few inches off the dark-stained deck. The Thelusian bucked and writhed with little effect.

  Furasim took a few deliberate steps to one side, gaze fixed on the line of prisoners. He nodded once.

  Nimbuses flared around the Vailonders. Knives appeared in their hands, both manifestations of soul whose edges would never grow dull.

  The Thelusian’s struggles ceased. He became rigid, too stiff for it to be his own doing. His eyes bulged. “No,” he blubbered. “Please, no.”

  The two men stepped in close, hands moving deftly, with such quickness they blurred. Skin fell away from the Thelusian, black mired in red. The red painted the deck’s dark wood.

  The man screamed and screamed and screamed. Thar swallowed. Soon the shrieks became whimpers. And then moans. And then silence.

  It was over in minutes but seemed to last an hour. A pile of red and ebon skin occupied the space beneath the Thelusian. To Thar’s left and right prisoners fainted or retched, spewing whatever they had last eaten.

  Sorinya was silent. And that silence said more than a thousand words.

  “Be calm,” Thar hissed under his breath. Sorinya’s response was a solitary nod.

  The drip, drip of blood became loud to Thar’s ears. He suppressed the loathing that threatened to surge into something more. Prickles ran beneath his skin. With them came tiny charges, tingling through him.

  Some of the Farlanders laughed outright, while others offered grins and smirks. They left the prisoners to watch the hanging man as he writhed, each twitch weaker than the last. All along the line came the murmur of fervent prayers.

  When the guards returned to lead the prisoners toward the hold, Mandrigal was in its dying throes, leaving the sky and clouds with purple bruises. On the way they passed a group of Farlanders stacking hides. And then they were down the ramp, into the dark hold and the cells within.

  Crowded with several thousand prisoners, the hold smelled of shit, and piss, and unwashed bodies. The stench of sickness permeated the air. Bile rose in Thar’s throat. Men, women, and children coughed and muttered and huddled, and quite a few raised their hands toward the guards, begging for release. When the door to the hold closed they were left in near absolute blackness. Wails, moans, and prayers became the order of the evening.

  Some time later, the hold opened. Most of the wails cut off, replaced by whispered prayers. Torchlight flickered down the ramp, accompanied by the thump of boots. Guards appeared, grim features highlighted in shadow and flame. The prayers ceased.

  Thar had been accustomed to prisons at one time in his life. He’d been the gaoler, the man who got the answers needed. He found it odd that there was no uproar, no clamoring or begging for release. No hands reached between the metal bars; no one pleaded their case. Most shied away from the front of the cells.

  The guards strode down the length of the hold, spears held tight. One of them perused a sheet of paper by torchlight. He spoke in the Farlander lilt, singling out a dozen prisoners, including Monere and three of Thar’s men. A scuffle ensued as the chosen tried to resist but were quickly disabused with spear butts. The guards led the prisoners above deck.

  “May the Dominion shine on their souls,” someone yelled.

  Others picked up the cry. The prayers, wails, and moans resumed.

  “Why pray for them?” Thar called out above the din.

  “You don’t return when they take you,” the first voice answered. “We’re aboard what amounts to a floating slaughterhouse. And we’re the cattle.”

  From the dark came Sorinya’s voice, little more than a snarl. “I told you we should have freed them on the beach.”

  As much as Thar hated to admit it, Sorinya might have been correct. Yet, he also knew the necessity of sacrifice.

  Another thought struck him as the hauler lurched into movement. The corpses on the beach were but a sliver of the prisoners taken, as were the amount on each boat. So where did the Farlanders do most of the slaughtering? How did they dispose of the bodies? Frowning, he considered the chance they were headed to that very location. With the thought, he became acutely aware of the tiny charges constantly running through his body, and with them, the rage lurking in his gut.

  C ruel and C old

  T he yellowed infection of sulfur deposits spread along the mountainside opposite and below Keedar Giorin. A honeycomb of mines pockmarked the rock face like fabled entrances to the Ten Purgatories. Brick ovens dotted the incline, discolored smoke billowing from them, the fumes noxious, acrid, a bird farm filled with rotten eggs. Despite the scented scarf covering his mouth, his upwind location, and the distance of the rocky outcrop on which he lay, the reek was still overpowering.

  Keedar flinched at the rumble of thunder, becoming acutely aware of the long scar across his back. Lightning again laced the clouds but gave him a sense of reassurance despite the promise of rain that would make a misery out of his already uncomfortable job. Sighing, he adjusted the blanket under him against the rocky edges that poked through his homespun linen shirt and made him wish for a leather top similar to the pants he wore. He’d already scouted for more than half the day and wanted nothing more than to be able to stretch. Or to begin the attack. Gritting his teeth against impatience and the soreness radiating from his back, he returned his attention to the scene below.

  The dissonance of varied labor echoed up the mountainside: picks pinging on stone, axes chopping trees, steam hissing from the ovens, fires crackling. Farlander overseers in ereskar cloaks shouted commands, quickly followed by the crack of their whips. Able-bodied men and women did the brunt o
f the work, their skin and loose-fitting cotton garb stained yellow by the sulfur deposits. Mine-boys, not all of them boys, carried smaller baskets of the yellow ore to men who operated the ovens. The bakers threw in the mineral and waited. As the ore melted, it oozed downhill, and the bakers prodded and poked at it to free the deposits. Another set of workers collected the cooled byproduct in wooden buckets.

  Every worker was a slave.

  Olive or tan-skinned Kasinians, slant-eyed Marishmen, ebony-skinned, big-bodied Thelusians, hook-nosed Darshanese. Regardless of race, age, or sex, they were put to work by the hundreds.

  The operation sprawled across the mountainside here in the Blooded Daggers, one of at least two such remaining mines, the location of the second one still a mystery. Farlander guards, wearing the pale leather armor their kind favored, kept watch along the slopes, employing whips or worse to keep the slaves in check.

  One section of the work area consisted of caves where children gathered bat shit by bucket-loads and delivered them to piles near bonfires. Workers at the fires used some type of boiling water filtration system and ashes to produce a white salt-like substance. Many of the children moved with a stiff monotony, eyes open but not seeing, not registering much around them.

  Farther down the mountain, in a forest green with fresh spring growth, slaves chopped down trees and made wood blocks. They loaded them into carts pulled up the incline by sandy-colored byagas, the short-tailed, big-shouldered animals braying as they labored. Another slave group took the loads and built compact conical huts with a central chimney and a single door. They covered the exterior with moist clay and set fire to the wood. With this method they produced charcoal in substantial quantities.

  Not far from the charcoal huts were sand pits that held several hundred horses. There, slaves collected shit and piss-soaked sand in carts and took them to the bonfires.

  Another area featured the strongest slaves, many of them cyclers, able to use soul to augment their strength but lacking the ability to meld. Picks swinging incessantly, they mined kerin from a rocky incline striated with the grey metal deposits. Others traversed farther into the tunnels for more nodes. Skin glistening wet, immense Thelusians pushed wheeled carts filled with kerin from the same tunnels.