Soulbreaker (12 page)

“Sire.” Sorinya offered a dip of his head but remained standing. The other Blades were down on one knee.

“What news.” Ainslen ignored the slight.

“Your spies were correct.” Sorinya’s voice was a deep rumble. “We discovered Count Adelfried in a small town, on his way north.”

“Excellent. You captured him?”

“No. He managed to escape.”

“Explain yourself,” the king said between clenched teeth.

Sorinya shrugged. “He had some two hundred Blades with him. He left them to fight while he made good his escape.”

“Did you at least manage to kill them all? My orders were to give no quarter to disloyal Blades.”

“We did.”

“Good. What of any other soldiers or people in his retinue who survived?”

“Taken to the mines. We did have one issue.”

Ainslen arched an eyebrow.

“Queen Terestere was with him. We captured her.”

Ainslen’s breath caught in his throat, and it took all he had not to leap from his seat and demand she be brought to him. He schooled his face to calm. “Is she in good health?”

“She’s seen better days, but there’s nothing about her that some rest, a hot bath, and clean clothes won’t fix.”

Nodding, Ainslen considered the last time he’d seen Terestere. She’d been sitting beside Jemare, resplendent in a silver gown, amber eyes with a hint of green assessing him. Her smooth, defined cheeks and chin, tanned skin the color of milky coffee, made her appear much younger than the century and a quarter that she had to be. Such appearances were common in people who had grown an affinity with the first two soul cycles. Often the person did not know they maintained them. Too bad she’d not developed into a melder. Warmth crept up his loins to accompany the thoughts of her.

“Where is she now?” His mind worked as he considered a change in plans that would secure him a unified Empire. He glanced over to Jarod. Their gazes met, and in the High Priest’s eyes Ainslen perceived recognition of what Terestere’s presence could mean.

“In one of the lower apartments. I had Lieutenant Costace of the watchmen escort her there. I did not know what to do with her, but I assumed you wouldn’t want her confined to the dungeons.”

“And you were absolutely right,” Ainslen said. “What of this other matter? The missing Blades?”

“That’s been Felius’ area.”

Ainslen shifted his attention to Felius. Although he often saw the Minstrel Blade as a waste of soul, the man did have his uses. Of late though, Felius’ results had been disappointing.

“It appears that not all of the missing were deserters,” Felius said, bald head bowed.

“Where are they, then?”

“Captured, I believe. The trackers have assured me that it is a distinct possibility.”

Ainslen frowned.
Who would be so bold or so strong to hunt King’s Blades?

Before an answer surfaced, a musky scent made the king wrinkle his nose.
A wild animal? Up here, some thousand feet in the air?
His heart skipped a beat as he held up a hand. Everyone froze. By instinct he added
tern
to his natural layer of
sintu
.

The windowpanes to the balcony shattered, two massive forms crashing through. They were men, or so Ainslen thought, despite their scarred visages, the animal stink about them, and their convex eyes, so much like that of a snake. They were bent low to the ground, one hand resting on the carpet for support, heads slightly up like a dog ready to pounce. Muscles rippled beneath skin pulled so tight it looked as if it would rip. Despite the frigid temperature outside, they were bare-chested, shoulders like huge, rounded boulders. The cuts they sustained from the broken glass bled little, too little to be ordinary. Something glinted within the gashes.

Sorinya and Felius stepped in front of Ainslen and Jarod, Felius with his sword drawn, and Sorinya having summoned his ebon blade. Jarod had produced a dagger from somewhere.

Sabella and Cordelia charged the two strangers, bodies enveloped by
sintu
. Cordelia was the quicker of the two, sword flashing in an arc. Her blade took the closest assailant across the neck. A killing stroke. The weapon shattered with a resounding clang. The man smiled, baring pointed teeth.

His partner lashed out, whip fast.

Cordelia flung her arm up to block, and drew on the second of the median cycles,
hyzen
, placing the majority of her soul into that arm. She augmented her nimbus with
tern
, making it solid. In that same instant she used the final median cycle,
shi
, to complete the meld. A refractive surface covered her arm, imitating the hardness of a diamond, from which she had gained her title as a Blade.

The attacker’s fist struck. Cordelia’s nimbus splintered, tiny cracks running across its surface. The blow lifted her off her feet, flung her across the room, her head striking the wall with a sickening crunch.

Ainslen stared, mouth open. He’d placed the Diamond Blade within his personal guard for her near unrivaled skill as a Magnifier. She had been a fly to this assailant. And unless his eyes deceived him, the man’s power did not come from his soul. Neither of the hulking men before him possessed enough soul to have made it as a common soldier.

The man looked down at his fist. It was a mass of smashed flesh and shiny metal. When he glanced up his face wore the same smile as his counterpart.

For the first time in years, Ainslen found himself frozen, unable to think fast enough, not reacting out of pure instinct, his old calling as the Wind Blade failing him. His heartbeat roared in his ears.

Sorinya was a black blur. His sword flickered across the killer’s eyes. Yowling, one hand over his face, the killer swung, a wide, sweeping punch. Sorinya danced around the arm, his blade changing shape to a width the size of a finger. It shot into the man’s earhole and punched through to the opposite side with a wet pop. The killer crumpled.

Wide-eyed, the first assassin spun, managed to duck Sorinya’s next attack, and leaped back through the shattered windowpane. He vaulted over the banister.

Hells’ Angels.
Ainslen ran out to the balcony, boots crunching on glass. He looked down in time to see the assassin hit the ground near a group of soldiers, the sound of the impact an echoing boom. Flagstones fractured, the cracks spreading outward, dust and debris careening in every direction. Nearby soldiers fell, many struck down by shards of stone. The man was off and running before anyone could react.

“Sire, are you hurt?” Sorinya’s words brought Ainslen out of his shock.

“No, no, I’m fine.” Ainslen said. Fighting echoed from the direction the man had gone. “Get after him.” At the king’s command, Felius ran for the door, surprisingly fast for a man carrying such weight. “Sorinya, you stay with me. Sabella, send for more guards.” Ainslen gazed over to Cordelia’s unmoving form. Blood spattered the white wall and left a red trail where she’d slid down. “Jarod tend to her.” The High Priest’s dagger disappeared behind his wide, blue belt, and he shuffled over to begin his work.

King Ainslen manifested his Wind Blade, the weapon silver and blue, its edge keen. He’d tasted fear and hadn’t like its flavor, not one bit, but by the Dominion he would savor it until he discovered who or what those men were, and who was responsible for the attack. His hand gave a spasm where he clenched his sword hilt.

Scowling, he strode to the dead assassin’s corpse. He took his horn-rimmed glasses from his coat pocket, applied a tiny bit of soul to increase their effect, and studied the body. Although smashed, he could make out tiny details in the grey metal that covered the man’s arm. With a flick of his sword Ainslen sliced open more skin and then pushed it apart. He stared open-mouthed for a moment before he caught himself. Swallowing, he removed his glasses, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and replaced them on his nose. What he’d seen did not change.

Scales. Like a Dracodar.

By the Dominion.
The king made the sign of the circle on his forehead.

“What is it,” Sorinya asked from behind him.

Ainslen cursed himself for not noticing the giant man’s approach. “Nothing of concern. Watch the balcony.”

Sorinya’s eyes narrowed, but he complied. When the Ebon Blade was out of earshot, Ainslen allowed himself to breathe. Searching the vaults of his mind the king attempted to find any reference to Dracodar with iron scales. He found none. Not in Etien’s Compendium or the more than hundred books he’d gathered on the race from throughout the Empire and beyond. Reports of scales either referred to gold, silver, or bronze. And while some mistook bronze scales for Dracodar, the creatures that possessed them were an offshoot, Aladar. Moments like this made Ainslen envy the scholars of the Fabled Era. They had likely forgotten more about Dracodar than most people had since chronicled.

At least he had some insight into the assassins’ strength. From his experience, they could challenge Delisar. In the opposite circumstance he might have smiled, but they had attempted to take his life.
Who sent them?
The secretive Kheridisians seemed a likely source for they were the only race he could not account for in his research. Their provision of the Dracodar remains he gave to the other counts had often made him wonder what else they hid. Added to that was Winslow and Keedar’s mysterious savior. However, besides the few Kheridisian males who became wisemen, only their women were allowed in Kasinia, and those women took to whoring like no other. The Order tested all of them. They were weak in soul.

“She’s dead, sire.”

Ainslen glanced over to the High Priest. “Have my servants collect her body.”

“And the other?” Jarod gestured with his head to the assassin. He squinted as he regarded the corpse.

“A gift, for your wisemen. Find out all you can about it, then do what you will.”

Jarod nodded his thanks and hurried out.

Dawn trickled through the windows by the time Felius Carin returned hours later. Licking his lips, he prostrated himself before Ainslen’s chair.

King Cardiff recognized the look on the man’s face. “I’m tempted to kill you where you grovel.”

“I’m sorry that he escaped, sire.” Felius Carin kept his head pressed to the carpet.

Ainslen chortled, but the sound held no mirth. “You failed again as you failed with Winslow and Keedar. You’re the fabled Minstrel Blade, a renowned Mesmer, greatest mindbender in the Empire … if you tell it. Couldn’t you have sung to them with that sweet voice of yours? Made them believe they had no reason to flee?” It took all of him not to put an end to the man, but Felius still had some use.

“No, sire. That is not how my power works. I cannot force a person to do something contrary to their very being. I may coerce gently, tap into emotions.”

“What use is that?” Ainslen hissed.

“It allows me to—”

“Don’t you dare, you dimwitted pig. You should be ashamed to call yourself a King’s Blade.” Ainslen quivered with the red tide rising inside him. Someone had to pay for all that was happening of late, for the uprisings, the missing Blades, the insult of an assassination attempt.

“Sire,” Shaz called from where he stood at the back of the room, “his skills might still prove worthy in the future.”

Ainslen stopped with his hands hovering over his sword. He’d sent for the slant-eyed, scar-faced Marishman to become a part of his personal guard until Cordelia’s replacement arrived. “What do you suggest?”

“That is your choice, but killing him might not be for the best, considering this night’s events.”

Taking a deep breath, Ainslen eyed Felius Carin. With a sneer, he said, “I relieve you of your rank. Consider yourself lucky I did not slay you. Be gone from my sight.”

After Felius shuffled out, a courier arrived bearing a message. When he saw Leroi Shenen’s name, Ainslen groaned..

1
1

D
eath of a Boy

S
omething was wrong. Terribly wrong. Winslow opened his eyes. He felt stronger than he ever had before, but he knew his body was a skeletal husk, more sinew than meaty flesh.

Am I dead? Is this one of the Ten Purgatories?

When last he woke he could barely move, the inside of his shelter so frigid his fingers had grown stiff. He still felt the cold, but it no longer affected him. The sensation was as if the freezing temperature existed somewhere else, far outside his body, but not seeping into him.

He coughed, a low hollow sound that rattled his chest. The dome reeked like death.
He
reeked like death. Frowning, he considered that for a moment. Differentiating between smells had been near impossible for weeks now, but he easily placed the fetid stench of his own mess, piss, sweat, and … he sniffed.
Animal droppings? Not from inside. Outside.

Winslow forced himself to sit up. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, breath escaping his mouth in smoky plumes. He narrowed his eyes. Seeing his breath should have been impossible. The shelter’s interior was a dark pit, but the white walls around him were as clear as if he stood outside on a bright sunlit day.

Dripping water echoed, the sound loud enough for its origins to be next to him. The wind moaned, a croon that rose and fell in pitch as it encountered outside surfaces. He cocked his head to one side and listened. Breathing. Not his. Low, yet excited. Distant.

That bit should have brought a measure of fear crawling inside him, made his stomach clench. It did not. He was calm.

The thing shifted beneath his skin. He glanced down. Along the back of his hand, under his skin, tiny ridges protruded. They pricked a memory. Armor. Finely crafted scale armor. The type he’d seen in books detailing the Kheridisian marauders during battles such as the Red Swamps.

Why would there be armor beneath my skin?

From instinct he touched his vital points. They were already open wide, soul gushing forth, his nimbus so thick it passed into the surrounding walls. He studied the passage of soul, eyes climbing his forehead.

The luminous outer and median rings that housed their respective cycles were different. No longer were they wisps of white. They glowed and throbbed like a beating heart, and although circular in shape, the outer ring clearly had ten sides. Not only that, but he was now aware that similar rings
made up
his soul. Millions upon millions of them.

After the initial shock wore off, he took in the cycles. Before today, his sight had been limited to the cycles of
sintu
,
koren
,
tern
, and
hyzen
He now discerned the two remaining median cycles,
sera
and
shi
. The inner ring still contained four unrecognizable cycles. A grin spread across his face. The activation of
shi
meant he had earned the right to be called a melder.

It was time to leave.

He surveyed the icy walls, slick from the low heat he generated when he thought of a fireplace and inadvertently melded. They were smooth, one complete dome, and had swallowed his three-foot stick. Digging out would be impossible even if his muscles still functioned normally.

Keshka’s constant teachings repeated in his head.
“When you’ve earned the title of melder, either you will be able to accomplish a thing or you will not. Effort, will, and a natural ability toward one type or another will make you what you are. You’ve already shown the power of a Magnifier, able to change your mass to strengthen your body, increase your speed, or replicate metals and stone and apply it to an item. Only through experimentation will you know what else you can achieve. Melding is not a finite science, it is a mystery, a power almost as unfathomable as the Gods themselves.”

Recalling the Blades’ training sessions he had watched for years, Winslow decided to copy fire. Casters were able to fling it through the air in balls, or bars, or send it roaring across the ground. Alchemists possessed no Caster skills, but would summon flames around their fists or feet, multiplying the deadliness of their unarmed combat. That last echoed the natural meld he created to heat the shelter’s interior.

Winslow concentrated on the feel of heat, thrusting the idea into his soul. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. With the third effort, he clenched his fists and strained. His soul remained unchanged.

On his next attempt, he did not only imagine heat, he pictured an actual fireplace. Again, he was unsuccessful. The next try brought a flicker of warmth into his toes and fingertips. Enthused, he tried for more, but to no avail. A dozen more tries brought a bit more progress, the heat increasing. Concerned, he pondered the effect and then created an additional layer of soul beneath his nimbus, augmenting it with
tern
. Several more attempts saw no further advancement in his manifestation of fire.

Teeth gritted in frustration, he closed his eyes and imagined he was in a blacksmith’s forge. Flames roared from the stroke of the bellows. Sparks flew. A wavy haze rose from molten metal, liquid orange poured into a cast. The smith’s hammer beat against super-heated metal. Steam spilled from a blade as it was quenched. In his mind’s eye he was that steam, that metal, that flame, those sparks.

A sizzling sound erupted all around him. When he opened his eyes, his nimbus was the hue of fire, licking out in every direction. The front of the dome was gone, melted. Steam rose from the opening.

He took in deep gulps of sweet air. Stretching his legs out in front of him brought such intense agony that he had to scoot forward until he was outside. When he made to stand his legs failed him. He pitched onto his side, snow melting at his touch, the sound of it loud in his ears.

Winslow rolled onto his back. As strong as he felt in his mind, his body had the weakness of a decrepit old man. He relaxed, ignoring the wetness seeping through his clothes. The sky was a white and grey soup above him, the wind a dirge that sighed through the trees. Sweat trickled down his face. He became acutely aware of the drip of water, the smell of animal droppings, and another squishing noise.

Footsteps.

Winslow flopped over onto his belly. An attempt to push up onto his feet again failed. His legs and feet had forgotten how they worked. Panic set in. Perhaps if he remained still, he wouldn’t be noticed.
Sure, a creature that sniffed you out, clawed all over your hiding place, is going to miss you now that you smell like a spoiled three course meal.

A glance in the direction of the footsteps revealed a tall, hulking form. Its garb glistened.
Armor of some sort, perhaps?

Winslow managed to push up on his arms, and drag his knees under him. He heaved himself to a kneeling position, stretched his right arm out, palm down in the soggy snow, and settled on the side of his thigh and bottom, body crying out from the torturous effort. He had a good view now.

The approaching form was a bald-headed man, swarthy, wearing bronze scale armor. He had overlong arms and hands tipped with claws. A length of hide covered his loins. Winslow frowned.
Why would an armored man wear such a thing?
He met the man’s gaze. Brilliant amber eyes with black, convex pupils, stared back at him. They reminded Winslow of a snake. As the man drew closer Winslow saw that the armor fit too snug, like a second skin. It even covered the eyelids, the ears, and the nose. Winslow froze, mouth open. This wasn’t armor. The scales
were
skin. The sight tried to prick a memory, but such was his shock that Winslow’s mind refused its normal work.

Those amber eyes moved in a dozen different directions, but Winslow knew the stranger looked at him. He carried something in his hand. The hand flashed out, sending what it held through the air in an end over end arc. When it dropped next to Winslow, he caught a whiff of a familiar scent.

Meat. Burned meat.

Eat.
The voice carried no tone or inflection.

The sight of the food, however badly cooked, set Winslow’s belly growling. His pent-up hunger came crashing down. He snatched the meat and ripped off a chunk with his teeth. Despite the burned flavor, it was sweet, so sweet he thought it the best meal he ever tasted.

As he ate, Winslow studied the man who had remained several feet away, watching him, lips slightly parted. Something was … off, something more than the skin and the eyes. Still chewing Winslow looked at his own arm. He saw his nimbus, clearly defined. The luminescent surface stretched to at least eight feet in every direction, except near the stranger. It spanned to only five feet in that direction before it halted, pressed up against a surface Winslow couldn’t see.

Winslow recalled how the stranger had spoken to him. The man’s mouth hadn’t moved. The words had been inside Winslow’s head. Winslow stopped eating.

The man had melded, but not once had his soul been revealed. The effect could be achieved through the use of
koren
, but this was not that. This was different. Even now, Winslow knew that what he felt pushing against his own nimbus belonged to the stranger, and that it had to be the man’s soul.

“Wh-who are you,” Winslow managed, voice hoarse to his own ears, meat forgotten.

Na-Rashim-ha-Den, your protector.

“Protector? From what?”

The forest. It is not done with you yet, but at least you followed the rules. Unlike the one before you who left the shelter too early and chose to do battle instead.

Keedar,
Winslow thought.

Yes, that one.

Winslow’s lips curved in a slight smile. Keedar had beaten this creature. He shook his head with the thought.
Thought
. His eyes narrowed. He hadn’t called Keedar’s name; it had been a thought, and still Na-Rashim had answered.

Your brother did not defeat me. He survived. With his current skill he might need another fifty years to best one such as I.

“Wh-What are you?” Winslow asked, dread balling in his chest.

Na-Rashim’s eyes distended and flitted about several times, giving a distinct impression of confusion.
You stand above us, but do not know us. Strange times, these. I am one of your distant cousins, an Aladar. Look at your skin, what lives beneath it.

Winslow held out his arm. The thing beneath his skin shifted. “I want to see,” he whispered, hands shaking. A mass of ridges pushed against his skin until they imprinted themselves upon it, and then they pushed through. . He felt no pain and saw very little blood, and by the time the transformation finished, his forearms were completely covered in golden scales. That earlier prick of memory surged. Picture-filled pages flipped through his mind, pages from Ainslen’s books.

“Dracodar,” he mouthed.

That is what you are,
Na-Rashim answered.
A Pure son of a broodmother.

Winslow found the words hard to comprehend despite the evidence before him. “What is it you want from me?” he asked in an effort to settle his racing thoughts.

Nothing. It is my task to protect you for two days, feeding you that which will return a portion of your strength. Afterward, you go back the way you came. Then your test will be complete.

“You claim I stand above you. Why?”

Na-Rashim shrugged.
It is the way of things. Now, less talk and more eating.

Winslow spent the next two days beside the solitary tree. The Aladar said nothing more in his head. Na-Rashim brought meat, most times raw, and Winslow would practice his new meld to provide a cooking fire. On the first day, he’d stopped calling upon his flame nimbus, no longer needing it for heat as the clearing had taken on the Treskelin’s normal humidity. By the end of the second day Winslow had gained enough strength and control to be able to run, but he was still skin and bones.

Na-Rashim pointed out into the forest.
The worst is over. Now that you have some semblance of strength, the forest creatures will give you a wide berth. Show weakness, though, and they will strike. Now, return the way you came.

“Thank you,” Winslow said.

The Aladar nodded once. Winslow set off, jogging at first, and then picked up speed. Before long he was darting through the forest.