Soulbreaker (29 page)

4
3

I
n A Dark Pit

R
eassured by the thought of Keedar and Winslow’s safety, Thar took one last look down into the square. Count Hagarath and Count Fiorenta were dead, the tiered platform torn apart.

At some point during the fight, the Ebon Blade had taken the queen to safety. The king beckoned to High Priest Jarod, who stood with the Elder Ten. Ainslen’s soul was a flickering flame compared to its previous conflagration. The thought of where the king had gained his power shook Thar to the core. Not that the king’s ingestion of soul wasn’t expected, for it had been one of a few possible outcomes, and was an integral part of the plan. But it was one thing to talk about such a heinous act, build a strategy around it, and completely another to know it had occurred. Thar shuddered, chasing away images of a mutilated Delisar.

He turned toward the distant Golden Spires and the multitude of rooftops that spread before him like a sea of snow-and-ice-capped waves. The Winds of Time chimed to announce the hour, the clock face and its ponderous gears undisturbed by the weather. Somewhere within the Spires’ dungeons, if he was a good judge of Ainslen’s power, Delisar still lived.
Hold on, brother, help comes.

Thar copied the drab sky and the swirling snow, shrouding his body with their appearance. He made a flying leap across the space between the first buildings, landed on an icy parapet, and ran as if it were a broad street on a summer day. Soon he was darting from roof to roof, no more noticeable than the snow whipped by the wind’s gusts.

When he gained the walls of the Winds of Time, Thar made the soul around his hands and feet into claws. He scaled the edifice, not pausing until he was atop the roof, the clicks of gears and ticks of seconds audible amid the wind’s dirge. Down below, the King’s Blades battled against those wearing the colors of the rebellious counts.

He scanned the grounds for Farlanders, but as he’d noted on his trek through the city, they were conspicuously absent. Frowning, he paused at one of the many courtyards. There, footsteps had churned the ground more than any other.

Thar launched himself from atop the roof, decreasing his body weight at the same time. A gust snatched him. Arms spread, soul manifested into a semblance of wings, he directed himself to the courtyard, drifting over the battle and beyond. No sooner had he touched the ground than he was off, running hard for an open doorway ahead.

The fetid stench of blood and death assaulted him as soon as he stepped inside. He knew dungeons when he smelled them, and also recognized the scent of recent battle. Viscera. Excrement. Stairs lead down, a corpse sprawled on the landing below.

Panic stirring in his chest, he waited a moment, listening for sounds of combat. None emanated from within. He drew a cloak of
sintu
and
tern
around
himself and leaped down stairs from one landing to the next, following a trail of carnage.

One thing became evident the farther he descended. The dead were all Blades.

At the bottom of the final set of stairs was a door, wedged open by a corpse. Thar stepped over the man’s remains and into a room lit by torches on pedestals. Over a score of bodies, all of them King’s Blades, littered a walkway bathed in blood. To either side were prisons, sitting atop metal spires that disappeared down into a black void. One cell door was open.

Thar’s heart thumped as he approached the room. Outside of it were several more Blades, the ends of heavy chains near where they lay. Inside was more of the same, with one distinct difference: Delisar’s scent.

Stomach knotting, he followed the smell and bloodied footprints that led outside. They continued down the length of the walkway in the opposite direction from which he entered. Before the trail reached the far wall, it stopped, the toes of booted feet facing outward into the dark pit.

Thar combusted a bit of his soul and dropped it over the edge. It fell and fell and fell, highlighting pockmarked walls before it struck bottom. The capering flames exposed a niche strewn with debris.

Without hesitation he stepped off the edge, allowing himself to fall quickly before arresting his descent by changing his weight. He floated the rest of the way down. The second he touched the bottom, Thar activated
jin
, and hissed. “Envald, what purpose do the Dwellers serve here?”

Darkness shifted at the edge of the fire. Dressed in black clothing from a bygone era with a cloak to match, Envald stepped into the light. “We were sent to help rescue someone.”

“Who?”

“Your brother, of course.”

Thar stiffened. “Who sent you?”

“The broodmother.” Envald beamed, the flames casting an eerie light across his pointed teeth. “She said you would come. Follow me.”

Thar was tentative at first, but it made no sense for the Dwellers to save him only to kill him later. Besides, this was the second time Envald had mentioned the brood. “My brother … how is he? Is he alive?” They passed into a tunnel lit by torches.

“You must see for yourself.”

When they gained the passage’s far side, Envald stopped. He turned and gestured, soul flaring around him for a heartbeat. A low rumble echoed down the tunnel; the earth quaked. A cloud of dust followed, causing Thar to step around the corner of the opening. Moments later all was silent again.

“To dissuade the king and his men should they decide to follow,” Envald said in response to Thar’s questioning glance. They continued on their way.

“That won’t stop Ainslen.”

“It will delay him enough for us to make good our exodus.”

“And if he continues to pursue you?” Thar asked. “I doubt he will give up the prize he once had. He has enough manpower to make your life difficult.”

“More difficult than it already has been? That would be some accomplishment. Regardless, we will be gone by morning.”

Thar recognized their location now. They were in the Undertow. Ancient structures grew evident, their upper portions a part of the surrounding rock walls. “And what if the king continues to chase?”

“All he will find here is the wrath of the Blighted Brothers. There.” Envald pointed.

Vision adjusted, Thar made out the gargantuan figure. The dull, grey scales were unmistakable. The head turned, exposing a twisted visage and slitted eyes.

“Kargoshi?” Thar whispered.

“No. The Soulbreakers are a distant relative of the Blighted Brothers, but they were created in the same way, a product of the Blight, the disease originating from the Farlands and a man named Vasys Balbas, a man who survived the Pillars of Dissolution, or what the Dracodar once called the Dragon Gates.”

Thar knew the last bit of that story all too well. When he became Elysse’s consort she had told it to him on several occasions. Balbas was from another part of Mareshna, not accessible to most, a remnant of a war that was as ancient as the world itself.

“At that time the Order of the Dominion was still in its infancy,” Envald continued. “When their missionaries traveled to the Farlands they discovered that the Dracodar were little more than slaves. Powerful, yes, but still subservient.

“Balbas introduced them to kerin, a metal he brought with him through the Pillars. With it he poisoned the Dracodar, for he knew of their weakness, and of the human ability to recover from the sickness he spread. The leader of the missionaries at that time was Cortens Kasandar. He returned across the Renigen Sea with the metal, searching out any places where it might be found in the Empire. The rest is history. One other thing I must tell you. These Farlanders, the armor they use. It contains a great deal of soul.”

“I noticed. It reminds me of derin leather.”

“Precisely, but this leather we have seen before. In times gone by, before the broodmother came to us, we hunted for it.” Envald stopped and faced Thar. “It is human skin.”

Thar couldn’t suppress his shudder. He pictured the thousands upon thousands of Farlander soldiers. The images made him retch. This had to be the threat for which Elysse had prepared them. Swallowing, he pushed the horror from his mind.

Envald indicated a lone building, torchlight flickering within its confines. “Your brother is in there.”

The tale forgotten, Thar ran toward the building, his mind a jumble of panicked thoughts. For almost a century, he, Elysse, and Delisar had worked on this part of her plan to revive their people, to prepare for the threat the Farlanders would bring. He’d always thought he would be the one sacrificed to raise a new Dracodar king. He had accepted the idea of death long ago, even before he met her. It was the reason he’d taken on the deadliest assignments, searched out the most gifted foes, disappointed every time their reputation proved to be a lie.

Elysse had changed all that, and between her and Delisar he discovered reasons to live. Through Elysse, he fathered many children, helped provide a future for a people on the verge of extinction. A Pure, she’d called him, a title he wore with pride. Between men like himself, Delisar, and a hundred others, as well as women like Elysse, the Dracodar once more had a brood.

Delisar deserved to see the brood thrive. He deserved to have Winslow at his side. He deserved to see their labor bear fruit.

Chest tight, Thar entered the building, and stopped in his tracks. Silence greeted him, so thick he could hear the crackle of flames from the room’s torches. Each footstep was a thud. The stench of grievous wounds assaulted his nostrils. On the floor was a form covered up to the neck in a sheet so red it looked as if it were washed in blood. A lamp was next to the person. Thar’s legs grew wooden as he approached, heart thundering. He barely recognized Delisar’s sallow face, overgrown with hair.

“I tried to save him,” a tremulous voice said from a shadowy alcove. Curate Selentus stepped into the light. “But there was only so much I could do.”

Stomach churning, Thar reached for the sheet. His breathing sped up, chest quivering with each inhale and exhale. He pulled back the bloody cloth. And immediately turned away, spewing his stomach’s contents.

Wiping away the residue, he whispered, “Dear Gods … why, why?” Thar wished what he’d seen was a nightmare, a dream gone wrong. He retched again. After a deep shuddering breath to calm his insides, he looked upon what remained of his brother.

The flesh along Delisar’s legs and arms was torn, ripped, meat and muscle hanging, bone showing through. His torso was far worse. A gash ran from sternum to groin. The wounds scouring Delisar’s chest looked as if great claws had torn into him. Thar had seen such injuries before, when a Korgan cat or one of the Treskelin’s giant bears mauled its food.

As much as he wanted to look away, he couldn’t, not even with the bile rising in his throat. He was transfixed, not only by the horror of what lay before him, but also by the idea of the suffering endured by his brother. He knew Delisar had tried not to cry out, had steeled himself against the pain, but a man could bear only so much. Eventually Delisar had screamed. The image of Delisar with his mouth open, face contorted, imprinted itself in Thar’s mind.

A tempest rose within him. It screamed and wailed and raged with all the ferocity of a lightning storm. Charged energy coursed through his body. It manifested in emerald arcs, rippling up his fingers, across his arms.

“I think the king meant to keep him alive, but the soul craze took Ainslen. He lost control,” Selentus said.

Thar spun and snatched the Curate by the throat. He lifted the man off his feet as if he were weightless.

“Stop.” A hand rested on Thar’s shoulder. “The broodmother has a purpose for this one yet.” The voice was Envald’s.

Thar continued to lift Selentus. The charges within him built. They screamed for release.

“If you kill him, you ruin Elysse’s plans, you ruin all your plans, and it might even cost you the revenge you crave,” Envald said.

Elysse. The plan.

He almost said to the Hells with the plan, but he knew that was not what Delisar would have wanted. Neither would he if their roles were reversed. He dropped the Curate. “Get out of my sight.” Without turning his back on Thar, the wiseman scurried away.

Thar covered Delisar and then sat behind him. He cradled his brother’s head and stroked his hair. When the tears came, he let them flow.

4
4

A
Stolen Prize

K
ing Cardiff paced back and forth, still smelling of Count Hagarath’s and Fiorenta’s blood. Six Blades waited inside his chambers. Outside would be more. Another similar squad guarded the queen. He had placed Kasandar under martial law. Any person caught on the streets was subject to execution on the spot. Only the Elder Ten and their retinue had been allowed to leave the city. Detaining them would have sparked a battle he couldn’t afford.

The first signs that something was amiss arrived in the form of a message delivered from the Ten Hills. Leroi Shenen had killed Count Shaz. Ainslen was shouting for a coach to take him to the Hills when another message arrived. Someone, other than the soldiers loyal to Counts Hagarath and Fiorenta, had infiltrated the Golden Spires. All else forgotten, he’d commandeered the closest horse and raced for the castle. Slaughter greeted him when he reached the dungeons beneath the Desitrin Wing.

Delisar Giorin, or what was left of him, was gone. Curate Selentus was also missing. He’d left the Curate to take care of Delisar, keep his heart pumping until after the wedding.
The source of my greatest power snatched from me before I could complete the infusion. I knew I should have taken all of him. Why did I stop?
Ainslen grimaced.

He had expected a Consortium attempt to free Delisar, but it should have come at the execution. That had been the most likely location. The man killed by the headsman had been the former Count Melinden, made to look like Delisar through Ainslen’s Alchemical abilities.
How had they known the Consortium leader was still in the dungeon?
Treachery was the best explanation, but that meant either one of his trusted Blades or Selentus. Those Blades were all dead, making him regret the current Farlander absence. Following the blood trail beneath the cells had led to a dead end, one his melders were working to clear.

A knock sounded on the door, four raps followed by a bell that tinkled within the apartments. Sabella entered with Count Shenen close behind. The count’s eyes narrowed when he gazed upon the king, his fingers gave a slight twitch, and then as if nothing happened, his features smoothed.

“All of you,” the king said indicating the Blades, “take positions in the rearmost rooms and on the balcony.” When they did as ordered, Ainslen took a seat in his favorite armchair. He pointed toward a chair.

“I’ll remain standing, sire.” Leroi’s eyes shifted left to right as he took in his surroundings, perhaps calculating his chances, or so Ainslen hoped.

“Fine, suit yourself,” the king said.

Silence lengthened between them. Ainslen took in the set of Leroi’s shoulders and the apparent calmness. The tightness in those eyes gave him away. Any wounds the count sustained against Shaz had already healed. Leroi kept his soul under control but Ainslen detected the random flare.

“It seems the anger from whatever caused you to kill Shaz has not quite abated,” Ainslen said. A time existed when he’d wanted to be rid of the Marishman, but the man had proved himself time and again.

“Some of it is still there, yes.”

“Why did you attack Jarina Hill?”

“I did not attack the Hill. Shaz was overheard making comments concerning my grandson’s parentage.” Leroi met the king’s gaze, his normally fair face dark with anger, eyes smoldering pits. “I challenged him to a duel as you advised me to do.”

Truth
.
Shaz had been more of a fool than Ainslen thought possible. “And what were these rumored comments? How did you come by them?”

“Not rumors, facts.”

The king waited for Leroi to state the exact facts, but the blank expression on the count’s face said he would do no such thing. “Your source must be highly reliable.”

“I would say that a Curate is as reliable a source as any, both for the crown and the Order.”

Selentus.
Ainslen almost hissed the name.
What other information had the wiseman provided?
“Fair enough. I wonder what the man could have said that was so bad as to warrant his death.”

“That shall remain with me until the time comes for a hearing before the Judgment Council.”

The king almost smiled. Almost. He dipped his head instead. “As per our law.”

Ainslen could see the barely suppressed hatred in the man, the slight tick in his jaw, the fire in his eyes, and yet the man clung to his seemingly calm demeanor.
The right words, and I might turn that spark into a blaze, goad you into an attack.
He dismissed the idea almost immediately.

As an astute observer, Leroi would not fall for the ploy. Besides, such an act would serve no purpose now. Losing three powerful counts he could deal with. A fourth might be too much. No, the best course was to let things be for now unless Leroi forced the issue. He could kill the count when matters in the west were resolved. Still, he was curious as to how much Selentus had revealed.

“You must have heard by now … Hagarath and Fiorenta are dead. They tried to kill me, take the crown,” Ainslen said.

Leroi shrugged. “Far’an Senjin is a brutal business. I guess you were more powerful than they thought.”

“Indeed. A good thing you mentioned the Game of Souls,” Ainslen said, nodding. “No longer will it decide the Empire’s ruler. Lineage determines the crown now.”

“I heard that too. No surprise that you would make such a decision now, but I doubt it will change much.”

“How so?”

“I once said to you that we were like your horses that run the meadow. We are stuck in a cycle, doomed to play out our hands in struggles and politics from one generation to the next, never truly able to step away from what we worked for lest we lose it all.” The count paused, gaze becoming distant. “This is just another form of the game, another rendition of the cycle. You know as well as I do that Far’an Senjin is really a game of life, of lives. Whether yours, mine, or someone else’s,
death
is what we wager against when we play.”

“A bit morbid don’t you think?”

“But no less true.”

“Well, in light of the change, I might as well inform you that I’d sent Shaz on a mission into the Treskelin to locate Winslow,” Ainslen said. Leroi’s eyes narrowed. “Unfortunately, you killed him before he reported his findings to me. He was the expedition’s only survivor.

“The loss made me realize finding Winslow might take more than I anticipated. Therefore, until such time as my son is located, I will publicly acknowledge Jaelen as his seed and heir.”
At least until Terestere bears me a child.
“I hope it will appease what misgiving you had in the past and allow for your unfailing support.”

“Thank you, sire,” Leroi said, bowing smoothly. “I will let Elaina know of it, and celebrate this joyous occasion as soon as it is written in as law at the next Judgment Council meeting.”

Before the king responded, the four knocks and bell chime resounded. Sorinya strode in. The Ebon Blade paused, frowning at Leroi and the king.

“I will take my leave now, sire, if you will.” Leroi bowed again. “I have matters to attend to, men to account for after today’s chaotic events. I’m sure you do also.”

Ainslen gestured with one hand toward the door. Leroi turned on his heels and strode out. The king waved Sorinya over. “What is it?”

“Curate Selentus was captured trying to escape through the Antelen Gate. He’s currently being held in the Desitrin Wing’s main chamber.”

The king leaped to his feet.
Finally, some good news.
He gathered his Blades and made his way through the Golden Spires. At the Desitrin Wing’s main chamber he told his men to join the others already standing guard. Sorinya and Sabella protested, but he dismissed them and entered the room.

Statues of Hells’ Angels alternated with braziers along a carpeted walkway. The flames cast eerie shadows across the snarling faces of the man-sized effigies, made them seem bigger, more foreboding, gave life to the leathery wings that spread from their backs. Hair disheveled, woolens dirty, Selentus huddled on the floor across from the statue of Larom. It was odd seeing a wiseman in anything but the blue and red.

“Why did you betray me?” Ainslen’s voice echoed through the room.

Selentus started, wide eyes glinting. He scrambled backward until his back came to rest against Angel Larom. One look over his shoulder and the wiseman burst into sobs and frantic prayers.

“You forsook the Dominion.” Ainslen advanced slowly. “They have no use for you now. Unless … unless you confess to one of their chosen.” He gestured to himself. He had considered torture, but it was obvious the Curate was already broken. What Selentus needed was salvation. Ainslen squatted next to the Curate and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Talk to me.”

“It-it-it wasn’t my fault,” Selentus said, wiping tears from his face. “Someone bent my mind.”

Truth.

“Who was responsible?”

“Jarod.”

Truth.

A cold well settled in the pit of the king’s stomach. “Why?”

And so Selentus relayed a tale of the Order and their motivations to spread the Word. This, the king already knew. But then there came the story of Jarod’s own need to rise within the Order. What followed was an account of the High Priest’s machinations that included Marjorie’s beating, a beating at Shaz’s hands. The same Shaz that had worked his way into Ainslen’s graces, not only to help see Ainslen rise, which then benefitted Jarod as the hand behind it all, but to ensure the king never discovered the truth.

By the time he finished with Selentus, Ainslen had learned a few things. At Jarod’s behest, the Curate informed Leroi that Shaz had been sullying Elaina’s reputation among the members of his household, particularly those who were once Consortium members. Ainslen deduced that such an act was to kill off one of the last men who knew of the High Priest’s ploys, and yet have Jarod’s hands remain clean.

Hours later, after he dispatched a search for Jarod, the king stood over the Curate’s corpse, contemplating his next move. He could not war with the Order, for he needed them. But they needed him and his Farlanders also. However, as part of the price for him to do their bidding he would have Jarod’s head.

Footsteps announced Sorinya’s entry into the chamber. “Sire, the High Priest left with the Elders.”

“Then we have a trip to make, an appointment to keep with the Patriarch and Matriarch.” The king folded his hands into a fist.