Soulbreaker (18 page)

2
0

S
orrows

P
ractice daggers extended, Keedar circled, straining to discern a weakness in Winslow’s soul. All he required was the slightest crack to launch a mindbend. But the misty haze of
sintu
flowed around Winslow’s entire body in a complete nimbus, even, and several feet thick. The manifestation of the first outer soul cycle was so strong Keedar felt it from a dozen paces away. Through its translucence the giant trees at the edge of the Treskelin Forest appeared wavy, as if seen through a desert’s rising heat.

Keedar tried to ignore the sweat trickling down his face, the salty taste, but despite his loose-fitting cotton trousers and shirt, he was hot. Uncomfortably and unnaturally so. Not that he was complaining … much. He preferred his current disposition as opposed to the life he once knew on the Smear’s streets: bundled up, nursing the warmth of coffee or mesqa, or crowded around a fire. The winter was turning out to be one of the most brutal he’d witnessed, which made him all the more content with the little cottage in the Treskelin Forest.

As he shifted in the opposite direction from Winslow, he thought of Keshka, wondering how the old man was faring in his endeavor. Three weeks had passed since Keshka left, three weeks without word from him. That in itself wasn’t unusual, but the urgency with which Keshka had left bothered Keedar. It concerned him enough to ask Stomir if they could sneak into Kasandar by way of the Undertow. A request the Kheridisian bluntly refused.

“You’re thinking too much,” Winslow called from opposite him, turning his foot-long practice dagger with a flick of his wrist. “How are you supposed to judge if I’ve grown any better when you’re distracted?”

“I see you well enough,” Keedar retorted. He refocused on the task before him.

“
Now
, you do. A moment ago? Not so much.”

“I—”

“Don’t waste your breath.”

Keedar ground his jaw. Winslow’s ability to perceive the truth, or at least what a person believed to be the truth, made for conversations that would try a wiseman’s patience.

“Now, if you don’t mind?” Winslow beckoned him on.

Ignoring his brother’s apparent arrogance, Keedar pictured the vital points around his own body as if they were veins, and willed them to open wider. Soul gushed forth in greater amounts than normal. He activated
tern
, increasing the amount of soul around his legs and arms. The weight of his limbs became like feathers. Pulling harder on
tern’s
influence, he darted in, a streak of cloth, flesh, and slashing steel.

His attacks landed, but none penetrated more than a quarter inch into Winslow’s nimbus. The deflected strikes sent vibrations up through Keedar’s arm.

Faster and faster Keedar stabbed and sliced, hoping to slash areas before Winslow could apply his protection: a combination of
tern
and
sintu
that thickened his nimbus
.
But Winslow kept up, nimbus flashing, steel ringing as he parried any blows too swift for his melding ability. When they leaped away from each other, mere seconds had passed in what felt like an eternity. They were both breathing hard.

A smile spread across Winslow’s sweaty face. “I see you have adjusted to my little change.”

Keedar nodded. In their first encounters, when Winslow hardened his
sintu
, he’d made it like iron. Striking its surface allowed Keedar to build a rhythm and discern the weakest areas. Since then, Stomir had taught Winslow how to adjust his use of
tern
by applying
shi
, the last median cycle, to create a malleable nimbus, one with the consistency of wet clay. The first few times they’d sparred afterward, the change from the reverberations and solidity of metal to the sucking feel of the softer substance had caught Keedar unawares. He’d lost those sessions. In the next two days he’d gone from winning every fight to losing a little less than half.

“So, what do you think?” Winslow asked.

“You’ve improved. You’re almost able to keep up with me now. And your knife work is better than I expected.”

“Almost able?”

“Right arm, stomach, left ribcage,” Keedar replied.

Winslow glanced down, head shifting from left to right and back again. Several slices marred his clothes in those three spots. “How? I know I was fast enough with each meld.”

“You
were
fast enough but …” Keedar held up his daggers. While applying
tern
for his arms and legs, he’d done the same to his daggers, surrounding them with soul by use of
shi
. It gave an extra six inches of reach, making his weapon more like a short sword.

Winslow’s eyes widened. “I-I never considered that.”

“I know,” Keedar said, chest swelling with pride.

“My old swordmaster would have said such tricks lack honor.” Winslow sheathed his dagger, disappointment thick in his words.

“Sounds like something a Marishman or a noble would say … or a person upset by a loss.” Keedar released his meld and put away his weapons.

“Honor in battle is for guisers’ tales,” Stomir called from where he stood overseeing their training. “In a true fight, survival is all that matters.”

“The nobles always spoke of fighting fairly. It’s why they called for duels,” Winslow argued doggedly.

“Nobles.” Stomir snorted. “What’s noble about us? We’re dregs, remember? Besides, the only thing fighting and fairness have in common is the “f”. A man who goes into a fight expecting it to be fair is courting death. As for the nobles, very few, if any, deserve their title.”

Keedar knew Stomir’s words to be true. He’d learned the harsh lessons of such a life in the Smear. Eventually his brother would experience the same.

“Have you ever wondered why Delisar kept your melding a secret from you?” Winslow asked.

“More than I care to recall.”

“And?”

Keedar shrugged. “At this point it doesn’t matter anymore. What’s done is done.”

“You were training under him all that time, and he made you believe what you did was simply the natural abilities of your soul cycles, that you were a cycler, when in fact you had already become a melder.” Winslow shook his head. “Upset barely describes how I would feel.”

Closing his eyes, Keedar tilted his head, first to one side, and then the other. A vein pulsed at the side of his neck. Winslow’s words brought a plethora of unwanted memories, many he’d submerged deep in his mind through constant training. A hundred scenarios played out as to how he could have changed things for the better. And yet … “I wasn’t ready.”

“But—”

“Knowing myself as I do now, I would have done something stupid.”

“Stupider than running off on your own to warn people in the Smear when you should have escaped with me?” Winslow’s lips twitched as he tried to suppress a smile.

Keedar gave a rueful shake of his head. “I admit it wasn’t my smartest moment.”

“Understatement.”

“Fine, fine, fine, I messed up. Feel better?”

“A little, but to tell the truth, I wished I had done the same,” Winslow said.

On the porch, Snow bounded to her feet, snarling in the direction of the forest. Keedar spun just as Heart dashed from among the trees. Blood covered the male derin’s fur. After a series of barks to Snow, Heart turned and galloped back into the dense underbrush. Before Keedar could move, Snow sped by him.

Bewildered, Keedar regarded the still shaking brush. A sudden thought rose, sending prickles along his skin.
Where was Keshka
? Heart would not have returned without his master.

“What are you waiting for?” Stomir’s words cut through Keedar’s thoughts as the Kheridisian dashed by. “Go, go, go, Keshka’s in trouble.”

Spurred on by a cloying fear for Keshka’s life, Keedar ran as if Hells’ Angels were chasing him. He pushed himself harder and faster, gaze riveted on the fleeting white and grey forms of Snow and Heart. Stomir sprinted ahead of him, weaving his way through brush, over roots, around trunks, leaping over or ducking under branches, feet gliding inches above any surface as he relied on
sintu
to pave the way. Winslow was perhaps a dozen steps behind, making a good account of himself despite not being at full strength.

As he relived the images of the blood on Heart’s fur, the look in the derin’s eyes, the barks to Snow, Keedar pictured a wounded Keshka struggling against packs of the forest’s predators or worse yet, Farlanders and Blades. He was uncertain what help he might be, and yet he knew he had to try. He was a melder now, and as such, trying was better than the alternative. The circle of thoughts brought a fresh surge of dread. His legs pumped harder.

They found Keshka among the ice-covered rocks and shale below the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows, his clothes a bloody mess. The two derins stood nearby, both of them whining. Keedar’s heart hammered as he approached his father. He prayed for the first time in years. When Keshka’s chest rose and fell, Keedar thanked the Dominion.

2
1

R
eports

“Y
ou should have conferred with the Order before you made such an announcement,” High Priest Jarod said. He stood across from Ainslen, one hand stroking the Star of the Dominion where it hung chest high from a gold chain.

Ainslen knew his decision to abolish the Day of Accolades would infuriate the Order, but the choice was also a logical one. Jarod’s demand for an audience came as no surprise. “The Order could not possibly expect to go unscathed in all of this,” the king said. “We all had to make a sacrifice. This was yours.”

“The Day of Accolades has been a priceless commodity, not only to the Order but to the nobility as well,” Jarod argued.

“Perhaps in the past. Of late it’s been more of a benefit to the wisemen than to the nobility.”

“Rubbish,” Jarod said. “I suppose Winslow no longer counts, or did you forget how much of a help he was to you?”

“Winslow was not a product of the Day of Accolades. Regardless, that is all in the past,” the king replied calmly. “Tell me, what was Cortens’ original purpose for the Smear?”

Jarod scowled. “You know it as well as I do.”

“Well then, seeing that the Consortium helped to make certain anyone with a modicum of strength in soul has abandoned the Smear, how does it serve as the crop of power it once was?” Ainslen paused for a moment before he added, “It doesn’t. So why keep it as it is? We all reaped the benefits as much as we could, the Order more so than anyone else. At least the wisemen were only hated because of the examiners and not due to the other role some of you played. It’s time to accept that the old methods are useless now. Fear, misery, and suffering cease to be motivational tools that encourage the dregs to give up their gifted. On the other hand, my proposal will work. We will start fresh, build anew, lure back some of those who left. Coin, my friend, is still what they covet beyond all else.”

Thin lips folded, Jarod nodded. “Your argument makes sense. Sometimes it is difficult to give up the things one has come to rely on. I will do my best to woo support from Mother and Father.”

“Thank you, that is all I ask,” Ainslen said. “And I assure you that once they’re again receiving an influx of strong soul, any complaints will diminish. Also, let them know that with this act I can bring the Empire together that much faster.”

“Let us hope so, for your sake.” With those words, the High Priest gave the slightest of bows and departed.

The king allowed ample time after Jarod left before he pulled on a rope hanging near his chair. Minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. He gave permission for entry.

Borosen Prestiss strode in, a book in one hand. He was a slender man, shifty-eyed and non-descript, even down to his dark hair and style of dress. He could fit in anywhere he chose. Such things came in handy for a merchant renowned for his successful trading runs to the Farlands. As such, he was well versed in their tongue. He also happened to be a most reliable spy and had gathered the brunt of the king’s information in regards to the Farlanders. To any who did not know the man, he would seem inconspicuous, harmless even. One might pass right next to Borosen and not notice him or even sense his melds. His was a rare skill.

“You summoned me, sire?” Borosen’s voice was soft, easily overlooked.

“Yes. I have two Farlanders waiting to report. They have a bad habit of speaking their language at times. I wish for you to listen, and should you hear anything of interest or out of sorts, let me know.”

“Done.” Borosen took a seat in a chair not far from the king. “Whenever you’re ready.” He opened his book and perused the pages.

The two Farlander scouts and a Blade presented themselves not long after. The more Ainslen learned of the Farlands, the more intrigued by it he became. He still could not bring himself to refer to the place as Jiantona, as its inhabitants called it. The Farlands was more fitting. Still, he had chosen to study their races in order to tell each apart and to become familiar with their customs. One that made him grimace was the use of their emperor. Why have such a ruler if the final decisions to most issues had to pass through the council of their warrior caste? Ainslen shook his head, attention drawn to the men before him.

On one knee, the Farlanders waited, eyes averted. They would stay that way until he chose to speak. He had handpicked these two for their fluency in Kasinian, a byproduct of the Order’s missionaries and the Empire’s mercantile endeavors.

One was an Allonian, a Caster named Marosim, skin like polished sandalwood, features hard. The hairless, smooth-faced man beside him was Tethuma, a Jophite and an Alchemist, but he did not wear his race’s customary robes. He was dressed in thick woolens, like his partner, and his sunburnt complexion reminded Ainslen of the days during the summer when he’d spend time on his estates on the shores of the Raging Sea. Their clothes were splattered with muck and water stains, signs that they’d come to him immediately as ordered.

The Blade with them was Hatharan, a seasoned veteran of many a campaign who had the scarred hands, missing ear, and grizzled look to prove it. He was standing, a leather satchel tossed over one shoulder.

“So, what word from the Swords of Humel?” Ainslen asked.

The Farlanders raised their heads. An old scar ran the length of Marosim’s face from right forehead down to his chin. Tethuma stared at Ainslen for a moment, eyes a brilliant shade of green and blue, like the sea along the coasts of the Farish Isles.

“Seems we’ve been away from the Swords for too long, sire,” Hatharan said.

Ainslen focused on the old Blade, eyebrow arched. “What drew you to such a conclusion?”

“Apparently, until months before Succession Day, the Caradorii had been doing brisk business with the towns and cities that the Swords have become. Bloodleaf and Calum root have made numerous merchants rich. Black ash too. Word had it that they were mainly interested in books about us, and sometimes in gold, silver, and steel.”

Ainslen tapped a finger to his chin as he contemplated the news. Calum root was popular in many forms, dried and smoked in rolled paper, or mixed by an apothecary with certain herbs to form powder that was either sniffed or used in Calum pipes. When heated, the mixture gave off the most potent fumes, inducing a dream state that many claimed brought them closer to the Gods. The powder had become coveted by the nobility, particularly along Walker’s Row. Bloodleaf was the poor man’s version of Calum powder, and produced a more numbing effect rather than euphoria and visions. Most people smoked it in regular wooden or metal pipes or preferred to chew it. Chirurgeons and medicos swore by Bloodleaf.

More important than the manufacture of the products, was who stood to benefit from this abundant trade with the Caradorii. Humel Hill owned the towns and cities that the Swords had become, taking its tithe from them to present to the Empire. As the Hill’s leader, it was an ideal way for Count Fiorenta to pay for the Blades he was required to provide to the forts.

Ainslen had often wondered how the count had been able to cover his expenses and yet still maintain enough forces to defend his Hill on Succession Day. Fiorenta’s coin had been key in securing a treaty with the Darshanese, even if he tried to claim the support came from old allegiances. The count was a secretive man, and perhaps he hid much more from the crown. A thorough check of his books might be required, but that concern was for another day.

“Is there a point in telling me about trade?” Ainslen asked. “I sent you to the Swords to bring me news of forces rallying in the west.”

“Sorry, sire, but this was part of that same issue.”

“If so, then continue.”

“The Caradorii broke off all trade soon after Succession Day. Not only that, but they abandoned their settlements in the Wetlands or any other place close to the Swords.”

Ainslen frowned. “Any raids since?”

“None.”

“How is it that I’m now hearing of this?”

“Well, the commanders of each Sword said they mistakenly addressed the news of it to King Jemare.”

The king gave an exasperated shake of his head. He wondered why Fiorenta had not informed him. The man had to know. “Did the commanders send scouts across the border?”

Hatharan passed the leather satchel to the king. “Reports, sire. When any scouts attempted to venture farther into Carador, they were cut down.”

“So we have no knowledge of what lies out there?” Ainslen mused. The more he heard, the more he disliked. The Voices’ warning was proving to be true.

“That’s where they come in.” Hatharan nodded to the two Farlanders. “A squad of theirs went in after ours. A few of them returned, but they would say nothing of what they saw, and instead demanded that we head here.”

As per my instructions.
Ainslen turned his attention to the two melders. “What did you find?”

Tethuma uttered something in his language, the tongue musical in its lilt, many words ending with a pronounced ‘e’ sound.

“In Kasinian,” Ainslen prompted.

The Jophite blew out an annoyed breath. “Signs of an army, one that could drown your lands in blood.” His tone rose and fell at odd points that still gave it a sing-song quality.

“Signs? What kind of signs?” Such a force was a frightening prospect. The Caradorii melders rivaled the Blades of old.

“Wheel marks from thousands of wagons, fields stripped bare, farms empty of livestock,” Marosim said, accent thick, words slow.

“And the actual warriors in this army?” Ainslen asked.

Once more Tethuma spoke in the Farlander tongue, but this time the inflection of his words carried a familiar hint of warning. Marosim nodded once.

“Sorry,” Tethuma said. “I am too accustomed to my own language. Only one of our men managed to return after coming close enough to see the main army. The rest of us were engaged by their outriders.”

“This man, where is he?”

“He does not speak your tongue, so he was sent to report to Warmaster Seligula.”

“My orders were for the scouts to return here, first,” Ainslen said coldly.
Warmaster? Seligula had presented himself as a general.
The Farlanders made to speak but he held up his hand. “What did this man of yours see?”

“Borina reported well over a million soldiers, split between infantry and cavalry,” Tethuma said. “There were catapults, trebuchets, and several other siege engines that flung large spears that might split a man in two.” He said that last with a mocking smile on his lips.

“Ballistae,” Ainslen said with a nod.

“If you say that is what they are, sire.”

Ainslen stood and began to pace, mind working as he calculated the possible attack destinations. He couldn’t picture the westerners venturing directly across the Banded Sea. Kheridisia spanned the length of the Blooming Coast, and its people would fight to the death against any who dared venture into their forests. Hells, the forests themselves were a threat. Although the Empire had defeated the Kheridisians once, those were the days when Cortens, Hemene, and other monarchs still had actual Dracodar fighting for them. Even Jemare’s victory during the Red Swamps had been more a combination of luck and an overzealous and naive commander rather than the ability to break the Kheridisians.

As for sailing around the Banded Sea and up to the River Ost, his control of the Islanders and the Darshanese gave him the most formidable armada. Completely overland would be the western armies’ best choice. If he were their commander he would go through the first of the Swords, Danalyn. Take it, and they would have a highly defensible foothold. Such an assault made him realize the rashness of his decision in throwing out the Heleganese Voices.

“This … Borin …” Ainslen said. “I must speak with him myself. Hearing his words directly is vital to our preparations.”

A quick look passed between the two Farlanders. A brief discussion in their tongue followed.

“So the Kargoshi are here,” Borosen said quietly, closing his book. Wide-eyed, the two men stared at the merchant.

“Who?” the king asked.

The spy turned to Ainslen. “When I heard of the attack on you, I wondered, but by the time I visited Jarod, the body was already gone, so I couldn’t confirm my suspicions. The Kargoshi, or Soulbreakers, in our tongue, are elite assassins employed by the Farlander warrior castes.” He nodded to the Farlanders. “In their histories, it’s said that the Dracodar races originated in the Farlands, far to the east, out in the ocean. They spread their seed and ruled the Farlands until one day they began to grow ill. A plague decimated their ranks, threatened their very existence, similar to our own Blight.

“A Farlander, Vasys Balbas, claimed responsibility for the disease. No one knew from where he came, and the reports of his early life are as varied and ridiculous as any myth. To prove the plague was his doing, he had several Dracodar imbibe a healing tincture he created from a rare metal found deep in the mountains. It cleansed the disease, made them stronger, but at the same time it deformed them, covered their scales in grey metal. Even worse, in order to live, they had to drink this concoction every few months.

“Yet, as to be expected, most preferred a chance to live. Balbas continued his experiments and produced more of this elixir. Terrified by the prospect of extinction, many Dracodar gave up their freedom in exchange for life. Balbas had his first Soulbreaker army.

“One of the noted effects of becoming a Soulbreaker was their ability to disrupt another person’s soul, often ignoring melds used in defense or directed at them. With his army of Soulbreaker slaves, Balbas defeated the remaining Dracodar.

“Over the centuries, most Dracodar adapted to this plague, but the damage to their line was done. Still to this day, the warrior castes choose the strongest Dracodar susceptible to the metal’s effects and convert them to Soulbreakers. Those who volunteer are given places of honor, their families provided for and spared the fate that most of them suffer as fodder for the melders in the Farlander armies. It is this discovery, and his invention of the early firesticks, that earned Balbas the title of Warmonger.”