The Quintessence Cycle- The Complete Series

by Terry C. Simpson

  A glint of something caught his eye. Not one thing. Thousands. He gawked as gold, silver, and bronze Dracodar flitted among his men, a river of scales that coiled and curved, and cut a swath through the westerners when it met them.

  “Impossible,” he whispered. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine this many Dracodar and Aladar still lived.

  Some had human faces, faces he thought he recognized. He shook his head. That wasn’t Housemistress Estelia, was it? A smile from the gold-scaled woman swept away any lingering doubts.

  In an instant they were past him and wading into the enemy ranks. They fought in close quarters, using claw and fang, ripping through any who stood before them. Soon, the women faced off against Soulguards, and even those fights ended in their favor more often than not.

  Thoughts whirling, he sought comprehension. How in the Ten Heavens were these women Dracodar and Aladar? How was it that he had failed to notice their power in soul? The answer surfaced in a flash, confirming old suspicions. Many of them were Kheridisian. Overlooked because they were not only women but also whores.

  Above the clamor of battle, the thunder of a charge caught the king’s ear. It seemed to originate from two directions. He turned to the sound. Sure enough, there to the southeast, in fields between Despora and Merelyn, was a massive mounted cohort of horses, byagas, and ereskars. He laughed at the sight of the Star of the Dominion on their banners.

  There was another standard also. A white crown. The Kheridisians.

  Peering southwest, he picked out another assault to the enemy’s rear and flank. He squinted, trying to be certain his sight did not deceive him. White crowns flew above this second division. Also the Farish Isles’ Lida worm.

  However, more surprising than the banners were the mounts and riders. Giant armored derins, hornbears, and korgan cats carried Dracodarians. Leading the vanguard was a golden-scaled Dracodar atop a hornbear larger than all the others.

  Out of curiosity he peered toward the northern part of the battlefield where his men had been faring the worst. What he saw made him gawk. The Caradorii from the ships along Lake Humel were now fighting the western counterparts. Head shaking in disbelief, Ainslen praised the Dominion.

  He had little time for much else as the ereskar’s last breath gave out. The beast crashed to the ground. Ainslen magnified his legs and leaped from its back, over the crush of warriors, and landed in the High King’s vicinity.

  Dracodarian-forged sword in hand, he met the nearest Soulguard with all the speed of the Wind Blade, shearing through the man’s armor where it joined at the neck. A quick twist and he’d dodged the next warrior’s attack and stabbed him beneath the armpit. He withdrew in time to parry Taakertere’s first blow, swords ringing upon impact, the reverberations running up his arm.

  They backed away and circled each other, the battle raging around them. Taakertere was slim, slightly taller than Ainslen, gilded armor spattered with blood and gore. Bright, amber eyes peered at Ainslen from a fair-skinned face. Glyphs decorated his sword, a large blade he held with two hands, a weapon that would seem too heavy for the High King, but he handled it as if it were weightless.

  Ainslen tried to gauge the High King’s strength in soul. The man had to be magnifying his body to wield the sword so effortlessly or to have made such easy work of Ainslen’s men. But no hint of such power was evident. No enhanced or enlarged muscles, no melds, no nimbus of sintu, or even the faintest wisp of soul’s luminescence.

  Before the first creeping edge of doubt crippled him, Ainslen threw open his vital points. He called forth his stolen abilities. He joined Jemare’s speed with his own, at the same time manifesting replicas of himself. With a thought he’d ignited the outer layer of his nimbus and created a score of fiery globes. He flung them toward the High King and dashed in behind them.

  Arm magnified for the expected parry, he instead met empty air as the High King leaped to one side. The fiery globes exploded into the ground or among nearby combatants, burning holes through chests and backs.

  Having planned for the dodge, Ainslen already had his replicas sweeping in. No matter how quick the High King might be he wouldn’t be able to dodge them all. Ainslen smiled at the ease with which he’d won.

  The High King stepped into their attacks. The blows did not land. Soul unraveled within a foot of the man’s armor. A flick of Taakertere’s sword undid Ainslen’s manifestations. In the same instant the High King charged Ainslen.

  Even as Ainslen brought his sword to bear, his eyes widened. He’d hardened his sintu , confident in its ability to stop the High King’s strike before their weapons collided. Taakertere’s sword sliced through Ainslen’s soul. Ainslen barely managed to turn aside the blow.

  Fool, you should have known one of them might possess a weapon like yours.

  Taakertere surged forward, sword licking out like a whip, an extension of his arms, strikes falling in a rapid succession of silent fury. Ainslen staggered back before the barrage.

  Each attack carried no great mystery as to its location, yet Ainslen struggled to dodge and parry them. Moments before the blade itself touched his soul, he felt each blow, as if the weapon were actually wider than it appeared. If not for his enhanced speed and his nimbus, he might be dead.

  Driven back, he put every ounce of his power into his defense. His eyes kept searching for an opening but found none. He tried to discern the High King’s melds, but that too proved futile. The skill had to be the use of the cycle the westerners coveted. All around him the fighting had stopped as ally and enemy alike watched the duel.

  The vibration of his sword in his palm became constant, the clash of steel incessant. His earlier expenditure in soul, and the amount of power used now, wore on him. His reserves rapidly diminished.

  Sweat poured down his face. His legs and arms grew heavy. His chest was afire, his breaths raspy. It was all he could do to focus on staying alive.

  Slowly, the exhilaration of battle ebbed from Ainslen. He swallowed against a suddenly dry throat and tried to blink away sweat. Without thinking he brought up his free hand to flick away the salty wetness.

  Taakertere’s weapon sheared through Ainslen’s derin leather armor along his side and across one shoulder, and cleaved through the scales beneath. The blow left a trail of fire. Ainslen cried out, stumbled, and his legs crumpled beneath him. Everything seemed to slow as he fell back. Taakertere stabbed, triumph in his eyes.

  Someone clad in leather, with a Magnifier’s enhanced girth, flashed across Ainslen’s vision. The person jerked when the High King’s sword plunged into them. A jabbing sensation sent a flare of pain up the same side Ainslen suffered his previous wound. The sword extended from the person’s back, red trailing down its length.

  Ainslen glanced down. The weapon’s tip had punctured his scale armor but had only penetrated an inch or two into his abdomen. Hazline’s own luck. He sucked in a painful breath against the feel of cold steel.

  A voice brought his attention to his savior. Not any voice. Sabella’s.

  “Take me as you did Miurin,” she called out in a wheezing breath, blood bubbling from her lips. “Kill this bastard.” She latched her arms around High King Taakertere.

  Teeth gritted against agony, Ainslen opened himself to both baltus and entope . Soul beckoned all around. From the living and the dead. It was an ocean, a torrent of power. He drank greedily.

  Soul flooded him. The life energy burned and tingled and sent jolts through him unlike anything he’d ever felt. He glanced down at his skin. It pulsed and glowed white, even more so around the sword, which he’d inadvertently plunged deeper into his side when he moved. He could sense it poking through his back.

  Strange , he thought, why doesn’t it hurt? Throwing his head back, he cackled at the sensation of such immense power. No longer was he a man. He was a God.

  And he had a kingdom to save and an enemy to kill.

  Sabella’s shriveled arms still clung to the High King, somehow with enough strength
to hold him in place. Ainslen stood, ignoring the tearing of his flesh as Taakertere’s weapon ripped from his side. It was a small discomfort. He opened his hands, palms up. Tendrils of soul shot out, latching to every weapon he could find within his immediate vicinity. Those tendrils became extensions of himself.

  He closed his fists and snapped his arms forward. The weapons: swords and lances, axes and hammers, flew into the air. They paused for a moment. With a thought Ainslen directed them to the High King.

  Taakertere became a pincushion.

  A grin spread across Ainslen’s face. He made to take a step toward the dead man and Sabella’s desiccated corpse, but his legs failed him. He collapsed to one side and met the ground with a thud.

  Soul leaked from him. The smoky luminescence swirled and danced into the air. The sight was one of beauty. He held up his hand to the energy, caressed it, watched it play over his flesh. He smiled blissfully, such was the power’s utter magnificence.

  Weakness and blinding pain claimed him then, so intense he managed but a wordless scream. Spasms wracked his body. The world blurred.

  He hurried along Pauper’s Circle in the Smear, sick with worry over Marjorie and Kenslen. What possessed the boy to venture into this madness? Why hadn’t she waited for me to return? Smoke and flames rose from numerous homes, choking the air with heat and the stench of char. Screams and cries rang out. As did the clash of steel and the whoosh and boom of melds.

  Blades in Jemare’s livery ran by him. They engaged several dregs dressed in the Consortium’s colors and made quick work of them. Squinting, he peered through the smoke at King Jemare’s familiar form. The king and his royal guards charged into a house. What had brought the man here of all places? Whose home was it?

  Ainslen dashed after the king, his wife and son forgotten for the moment. An opportunity to kill the king might arise here. Such a chance might not come again for years, if at all.

  The sound of battle resounded from within the home. A woman screamed. Ainslen rushed toward the door, drawing on his soul to summon the Wind Blade.

  He barely had time to harden his nimbus into a shield when a blast of soul slammed into him. The power ripped the door from its hinges and shattered the windows. It flung him from his feet. He crashed onto his back a dozen paces away. Something wet splashed onto him in several places. He smelled blood.

  Shaking his head, he climbed to his feet. The bodies of Blades littered the ground, most of them but so much meat. From within the home, a fount of soul raged. Power unlike any he’d felt before. Drawn like a fish to bait, he stumbled around a corner of the house toward a window and peered inside.

  The room was in shambles. Dead Blades were on the floor, legs, arms, and heads at impossible angles. Those that did have their limbs intact. Flames licked at furniture. Near a doorway was King Jemare. He straddled a woman’s body. No, not a woman. Something else. Where there should have been skin, she had scales. Soul enveloped her and the king. Jemare’s head snapped down toward her neck. There was a tearing sound. He came away with flesh between his teeth. The king swallowed. And then returned to his meal, slobbering and slurping. Ainslen covered his mouth to suppress the urge to vomit.

  This was madness. Madness like that of Hemene the Savage. Like the guisers’ tales.

  As the king gorged himself, the power of his soul grew. Not only was Jemare eating now, but his nimbus also intertwined with the thing on the floor. Wherever the king touched, he sucked in soul. Great bands of it. Soul so thick, so powerful, Ainslen could taste it, could feel it. The king became like the sun.

  In that moment Ainslen knew he could not defeat Jemare. He was no match for the king’s new power. And in that instant, realization dawned.

  Jemare had somehow found a living Dracodar, hidden here among the dregs. The implications and possibilities were endless. They left Ainslen reeling.

  Drunk with power, Jemare clambered to his feet. Ainslen ducked below the window. The king’s uneven footsteps crossed the room and then thudded outside. They meandered away from the home.

  Ainslen stood, placed his hands on the sides of the window and climbed through. He approached the body, the metal stench of blood near overpowering. The face was an unrecognizable mess as was much of her. But there was no denying the scales. Or her soul.

  He closed his eyes, swallowed the lump in his throat, and lowered himself over her. You can do this. You can do this. Hands trembling, he gripped a shoulder.

  Power engulfed him. He threw his head back at the ecstasy of it. Voices came to him. They urged him to partake. They spoke of his greatness. They lauded his accomplishments. They promised his rise to the throne. If he partook of the feast before him.

  And so he did.

  He did not know how long it lasted. Or how much he ate. But at some point he stumbled away from the house.

  Everything around him seemed a dream. The air was so pure, the colors so vibrant, the feel of the ground beneath his feet as if he were barefooted. He could tell each grain of sand, the edges of every stone, of every cobble. His ears identified sounds from next to him and way in the distance, beyond his sight. The odors should have been a near unrecognizable mélange, except for the most pungent. Instead, he sifted through each scent, could point directly to their origin. Blood. Offal. Rodents. Musk of human sweat. Unwashed bodies. Dirty clothes. Rot and filth. Somewhere among it all was flowers. And a few meals, their spices threading the breeze.

  He became acutely aware of the people around him, those fleeing, those hiding in buildings, those doing battle. He saw their souls, the weakest like thin, dissipating mists, the strongest much thicker, glowing. Even the smallest critters were laid bare. He reveled in the new power and craved more.

  Something tickled the edge of his mind. Some memory or recollection of a task at hand. Unfinished business. Frowning, he tried to recall but failed. It would come to him soon enough. For now, he needed to sate himself. A part of him wanted to return to the Dracodar remains, but a voice warned against it. If Jemare returned and found him there, Ainslen would surely die.

  He strayed down alleys, not quite knowing where he was headed. His feet seemed to move of their own volition. A burst of soul on the other side of a building caught his attention. He followed, drawn by his appetite.

  When he rounded the corner a woman was stumbling toward him. A mass of bruises covered her face. One arm hung limply at her side. None of that was of any consequence. She was strong in soul.

  Hunger rising, he strode toward her. To his delight she rushed into his arms. She sobbed and heaped him with thanks and praise. In return he whispered assurances, offered comfort. She smelled of sweat and blood, but the bouquet from her hair overrode those scents. He frowned.

  Ginger spice?

  He shrugged. None of it mattered. Already his soul drew on hers. He squeezed her against his chest. She cried out, tried to free her arms. Soon her feet were drumming the ground. He squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, willing his mind to take all the power she had to give.

  Something smashed into the back of his head. For a moment lights danced across his vision. The woman fell from his arms. He felt the next blow before it landed, turned, and caught the club with one hand. A young man stared up at him.

  Without thought Ainslen summoned the Wind Blade. He struck in one motion. The boy’s head parted from the neck and shoulders. Ainslen stepped over to the young man’s body and partook of his soul.

  He glanced up at the sound of soft footsteps. A woman watched him. She had raven hair, an angular jaw and chin, and eyes like amber gemstones.

  “Weren’t you searching for your wife and son?” Those amber eyes drifted from the body beneath Ainslen to the woman.

  In that same instant the fog of soul craze left him. Reality fell like a hammer. The earlier prick of lost memory surfaced. “No, no, no. In the name of the Dominion, no!” He scrambled to his feet.

  Prayer changed nothing. At his feet were the bodies of his pregnant wife, Marjorie, and his son Kensl
en. He fell to his knees, sobbing.

  A hand stroked his head. “Dear, dear,” said the stranger. “I can help you. I can ease your pain. You will find a boy when you leave this place. Make him your own. As for what you think you did here, it wasn’t you. It was the Consortium who killed your wife. You blamed your son for being weak and you took his life. So shall this be until the day you take your last breath. On that day, you will remember this night, the Night of Blades, and you will know me.”

  Warmth spread through Ainslen. His grief dwindled.

  The woman walked away. Then she turned when she stood near a lamp. He saw her clearly now, features a bit different, yet still familiar.

  “Terestere,” he whispered.

  Terror stole his dying breath.

  R eunited

  I n a bedroom that reeked of medicine and raw wounds, Elin-Lahnim stood beside Leroi Shenen, gazing down at King Ainslen. Body purpled with bruises, the king rested on sheets stained a reddish brown. Blood-soaked bandages hid the massive gash in his side. His skin was pasty, devoid of vitality. The scales that merged with his flesh to create armor were no longer vibrant; they were dull and dark, charcoal instead of silver, reflective of his soul’s debility.

  King Ainslen Cardiff was dead.

  Elin-Lahnim repeated the words. Again and again. She sought satisfaction, a glimmer of vengeance fulfilled. Of rectifying her mistake that allowed the Red Swamps. With his dying breaths, he’d triggered her meld. He’d come to know his own horror and the engineer of his demise. But as it had been with the deaths of Corgansetti and Janania, as it had been with Jemare, and countless others, she found no vindication. Perhaps the emptiness stemmed from her inability to complete the dream she’d allowed herself for so many years, the one where she stopped Ainslen’s beating heart with her own hands. And yet, she knew it wasn’t that. Vengeance was incomplete until Vasys Balbas met his end.