Soulbreaker (2 page)

“Perhaps one day join with the guilds and others like us, defeat the Empire, and free our people from oppression.” Keedar got caught up in the idea for a moment before he recalled days when the King’s Blades had marched into the Smear to hunt those who had avoided the Day of Accolades, on occasion their own parents or other family members. They either dragged their targets off to trial or executed them on the spot. Melancholy claimed him, and he let out a breath. “It’s a good dream, one I’ve had for years, but after Succession Day, I’m no longer certain. Ainslen, the Empire, the Blades, and these Farlanders are not only powerful, but they are many.”

“If the stories are true, then one Dracodar is the equivalent of ten normal melders,” Winslow argued. “Surely your father has a plan. He’s been at this for more than a century.”

My father, Keshka.
The thought still felt strange. All his life Keedar had been raised to believe Delisar was his father, and Keshka his uncle. In a short span, that had changed to the opposite. A part of him still regarded Delisar as he did before, and a part of him hurt from the lie the men had kept. “We can only hope. Delisar was always vague about the plan, often recommending patience.”
Ironic
, Keedar thought, picturing his uncle’s face.
Where was your patience when you needed it most?
The day of the auction surfaced, and he immediately slammed his mind shut against it.

He didn’t want the image of Ainslen ingesting Delisar’s soul to haunt him as it had on many occasions. The single thought of the king brought a surge of hate so strong that Keedar tasted its bitterness.

The echo of a korgan cat’s pain-filled scream cut through the air. Forehead wrinkled, Keedar gazed toward the sound’s origins. The location made little sense. Any predators big enough to threaten a korgan remained in the Treskelin’s deeper, darker confines, even with the plethora of food that migrated down to the warmer clime. He studied the cliffs. The crag goats were still there. He paused, counting. There were half dozen less. The goats always fled to the safety of the sheer rock face when threatened.
Why would so many of them climb down?

A sense of danger twisted in Keedar’s gut, one he couldn’t ignore. Life on the Smear’s streets, where indecision could mean death, had taught him to follow those instincts.

“Do you hear that?” Winslow asked, eyes focused on the trees.

Keedar didn’t need to ask after his brother’s meaning. He knew. The chorus of nearby wildlife was no more. Only distant sounds reached them. As he made to mention his concerns, four men stepped from the Treskelin’s undergrowth.

“Hells’ Angels,” he cursed under his breath. Beside him, Winslow tensed. They scrambled to their feet. “Stay calm. First we find out what they want.”

“Scratch my beard if I pick up on a lie?” Winslow asked. Keedar nodded.

The men all wore white fur coats over woolens, unbuttoned in an attempt to alleviate the humid temperature. Their garb confirmed Keedar’s suspicion as to the men’s origin. Three had swords, two of them stained red, the same arterial red that sullied their clothing. One of the men limped, his leg wrapped in bandages that seeped blood. He had a bow slung over his shoulder. Eyes wary, they scanned the area as they approached.

“Greetings,” the lead man said in crisp Kasinian. He wore his dark hair in a ponytail, bread trimmed to a triangular shape. “I’m Geran. This here’s Lothar, Kroenel, and Meklar.” He nodded to the wounded man first, then to one with a drooping eye, a scar across it, and finally to a gaunt-faced man with tattoos on his fingers.

Keedar nodded to the men. “I’m Renevar. This is Barstow.” The strangers stopped a few paces from the spit and dead coals.

“Our friend here is hurt,” Geran said. “We saw your fire, thought maybe there would be help.” The man’s gaze flitted past them to take in the rest of the area.

He was lying. Keedar knew it even without Winslow’s tell. They’d built a pit for the fire, and unless Geran had been standing over it, he would never have seen the flames. A combination of the smallest, driest twigs also ensured it had been smokeless.

“What happened?” Winslow asked.

“A korgan cat attacked our camp, went after our horses.” Geran scowled.

“Bastard killed two of our friends before we ended it,” Lothar said.

“One cat?” Keedar asked, frowning.

“Yes.”

“Must have been a big brute to take so many of you.” Keedar was certain he and Winslow were thinking along the same lines. Korgan cats hunted in triplets: two females and one male. Either the men were lying again or they had no idea just how much trouble they’d bought themselves. Winslow’s hand remained at his side.

“Damn thing was scary, tall enough for its head to reach my chest.” Geran nodded toward them. “With beasts like that on the loose, what are you two doing out here? Not the place one would expect to find Kasinians, and ones that haven’t seen twenty summers yet, unless I miss my mark.”

For at least one of us you are
, Keedar thought. “We ran away from home some years ago. Our parents wanted to send us off to the Order, but being a wiseman wasn’t in our blood. We have a thing for the ladies.” Keedar offered the men a lopsided grin and in return got forced smiles.

“I know what you mean,” Geran said, nodding appreciatively, “but to flee here? That’s a bit much isn’t it, particularly with all the stories about Wild Kheridisians and the like.”

“Better here than up there freezing our balls off.” Keedar gestured to the Parmien. “As for the Wild Ones, the only wild things we’ve seen have been the animals. And we only come down here for the winter, most of the year we travel the Ost, taking jobs as deckhands.”

“Makes sense.”

Despite the relaxed conversation none of the men had attempted to sheath their weapons. Meklar had a white-knuckled grip on his hilt. Of even more concern was Kroenel, who was peering at Winslow, brows furrowed. For the briefest of moments his eyes narrowed, the drooping one almost closing completely. Keedar swore he saw a spark of recognition. And then Kroenel was back to normal, if a stare that resonated violence could be called normal.

“Well, there’s enough yellowtail here to share with you, if you wish,” Keedar said, hoping to ease the tension. He had been on the verge of asking after the men’s business but decided against it. He gestured to Lothar. “You’ll want to get some dolin moss rubbed in that wound. Korgans have infectious bites. Wait too long and you’ll lose the leg.”

The men glanced at each other, no doubt trying to determine if Keedar’s story was true. Keedar waited, heart thumping, ready to dash into the water if the need arose.

“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Geran said, eyebrow arched. He sheathed his weapon. The other men followed his lead. “Where can we find this moss?”

“Just over there.” Keedar pointed to the pond. “Among the reeds. Barstow and I can snag a few, seeing as we know what to look for. Be much faster that way.”

“Appreciated” Geran nodded to the man with the scar, who was frowning again. “Kroenel, go with them in case they need a hand.” The man didn’t acknowledge Geran. “Kroenel,” Geran repeated, louder this time.

“What?” Kroenel scowled, making the scar across his eye more prominent.

“I said go with those two to get that moss.” Geran flicked his head in Winslow and Keedar’s direction. Kroenel nodded.

A blur of movement within the woods brought a halt to any protest Keedar thought to offer. He did all he could not to react or show his fear. “Let’s go.” He turned on his heels as calmly as he could manage.

As they walked, Keedar suppressed the urge to flee.
One foot in front the other, one foot in front the other
. “So, what brings you people to the Treskelin Forest?” He glanced over his shoulder to Kroenel.

“Hunting.”

Winslow didn’t scratch his beard.

“Ah, splendid game out here, I must admit. What are you after? Deer, goats, bears, perhaps some derins?” Considering the time of year he expected one or the other.

“Bears.”

Winslow scratched at his beard and neck.

“You should cut that thing off,” Kroenel said. “It’s why I keep mine shaved. Can’t stand the itching.”

“It actually soothes me.” Winslow chuckled. “I remember when I once felt as you do, but the ladies like to play in my hair. As long as they’re happy, I’m happy.”

“Hmmm,” Kroenel said, eyeing Winslow once more. “Something about you seems so familiar, but I can’t place it. What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t,” Winslow answered, “but it’s Renevar.”

Hells’ Angels
. Keedar held his breath, hoping the man didn’t catch the mistake. Seconds felt like forever. At any moment he expected a yell, or to see the man reach for his sword, hear the rasp of steel on leather. He fought against the urge to inch his hand to his dagger’s hilt.

“Renevar, Renevar … nah, can’t place it, but I never forget a face. It’ll come to me.”

Relieved, Keedar exhaled slowly. When they reached the water’s edge, he stopped. “We’ll dive among the reeds to gather the moss and drop it here.” Without waiting for Kroenel’s assent he waded into the pond.

“That was close,” Winslow whispered a moment later. “Sorry about that.”

“Just be glad this one isn’t too smart,” Keedar said. “If it was Geran we’d be in trouble.” When they were among the tall reeds, he maneuvered so he could see Kroenel. The hunter was peering at several sheets of paper. When Kroenel finished with one he would stuff it back into the satchel at his waist.

“So how do we escape this,” Winslow asked. “Even wounded, I get the sense that Lothar is a good shot.”

“Depends on how they handle the korgans.” Keedar grinned cruelly as he gave a slight nod in the direction of the forest behind the men.

Twice the size of a hunting hound, a male korgan crept from the trees. Its tawny, short hair lay flat on its back, its mane a bush from which grew a face with an elongated snout, black nose, and golden eyes. Another slunk behind it, this one lacking a mane, and tall enough to reach Keedar’s waist.

Kroenel yelled and went charging up the shore. The other three men spun, weapons brandished. The cats were on them in a flash of slashing claws and snapping jaws. Against one cat, they might have stood a chance. Against two, they were but so much meat. It was over in minutes, each man with his throat torn open. The cats settled down to feast.

Shuddering, Keedar watched. Winslow vomited. When the cats had their fill, they dragged one of the remains into the forest.

After waiting until the commotion in the brush subsided, Keedar said, “Stay here, I’ll go first, make certain it’s safe.”

“Be careful, brother.”

Keedar nodded. He eased through the reeds and up onto the shore. He paused, waiting for any movement in the trees. The wind ruffling his hair was a cold thing, prickling his skin. He crept among the rocks and shale until he encountered the first corpse.

A deep rumble made him freeze.

There, its body hidden by the undergrowth was the male korgan cat, golden-eyed gaze tracking him. Slowly, ever so slowly, Keedar lay next to the body. Kroenel’s dead eyes stared at him.

The brush rustled. Soft footsteps padded across the ground. Fear coiled in Keedar’s chest, a knotted thing that made it hard to breathe. His mouth dried, but he knew if he moved he was dead.

He flared open his vital points. He would fight if he had to, but there might be another way. Using the fourth cycle,
sera
, he projected his soul, filling it with his will, and one set of thoughts.

I’m dead. Ignore my body. The food is beside me.

A musky animal stench threaded the air. Keedar was certain the beast could hear his thundering heart. The pad of footsteps stopped inches away. Keedar held his breath, not wanting his chest to rise and fall. A shadow loomed over him. He did not so much as blink when he felt a heated, wet breath against his head and heard an animal snort. A warm, rough tongue touched his ear. It took everything in him not to leap to his feet.

I’m dead. Ignore my body. The food is beside me.
He repeated the thought over and over again. The korgan continued to sniff, a low growl in its throat. Keedar’s chest burned with the need to draw in air.

On the verge of panicking at his inability to divert the korgan cat’s attention, Keedar noticed his soul. It rose in its normal wispy nimbus. Keshka’s lessons on the beasts that inhabited the Treskelin Forest came to him. Korgans hunted by soul, using it to track their prey.

He opened his vital points wider, at the same time drawing on the first and only inner cycle available to him:
lumni.
With it, he expelled the majority of his soul toward Kroenel’s corpse.

The korgan released a rolling growl and leaped on the man’s body. From the corner of his eyes Keedar watched it tear at the corpse, the bitter scent of blood and offal filling the air. Minutes stretched before the cat dragged the body off by the arm.

Keedar’s lungs were afire as he waited until the thrashing sounds of the cat dwindled into the brush. He counted for an additional twenty heartbeats before he could bear no more. Heart hammering, he gasped for air. Sweet, succulent air. It rushed into him like life itself. Minutes passed before the forest’s songs resumed. When they did, he sat up, stomach heaving as he relived his brush with death.

Winslow ran up beside him, clothes dripping wet. “I-I’m sorry. I froze. I wanted to help, but …”

“I’m glad you didn’t try. The thing might have killed us both.” Keedar climbed to his feet, his body feeling as if he’d trained for an entire day.

“What did you do?” Winslow asked. “One moment I saw your nimbus and then it was as if your soul fled you.”

“It’s the seventh cycle, my first inner one.”

“Lumni?”

“Yes.”

“Really? When did you attain it? How—I’m sorry.” Winslow shook his head, mouth downturned. “You almost died and here I am asking after your meld.”

“It’s fine,” Keedar said. “I gained
lumni
the day I passed the Fast of Madness. And it’s not a meld, just the effect of that cycle. It allows you to expel most of your soul.”