Game of Souls (22 page)

“You did not expect your king to be some weakling, did you?” Jemare backed off a step, and although he appeared nonchalant, the rise and fall of his chest said he pushed his limits. Certain of his victory, he beckoned for Ainslen to stand.

“No,” Ainslen said as he pushed to his feet, “I thought you were stronger.” He allowed any emotion to drain from his face. “All my research told me you might be a Dracodar. Even your tiny ability to touch minds. I hoped and hoped. Only to be disappointed. I know all you can do now, and I can match it.” He blew out an exasperated breath. “What a waste.”

“A brave try, I must admit,” Jemare said, shaking his head. “You are almost believable. Even if you were still Ainslen the Wind Blade your death would be inevitable. Now, come, embrace death.”

“No, my old friend.” Ainslen reached deep into himself, calling forth the soul he’d siphoned through his mosquitoes over the years, tapping into the depths he’d ingested from Kenslen, engaging the power from the Dracodar scales he’d found during the Night of Blades in Delisar Giorin’s home. The power burned in him with a heat to match the sun. “It is you who die.”

Ainslen’s soul split in two as he drew on what he’d taken from the king. With his first move, he mimicked Jemare’s speed and strength. Jemare blocked the first strike.

Faster.

The second strike scored a nick. Ainslen’s stomach fluttered. He smiled.

Faster.

Ainslen marveled as his four arms became a blur, unleashing blow after blow. The king no longer had that smug expression on his face; his brow creased with worry as he barely managed to deflect some strikes. With each score, each rent in the king’s leather armor, each flicker of blood on his blade, the flutter in Ainslen’s stomach grew. It bathed his body, sang to him, he could see Marjorie’s smiling face, Kenslen’s graceful body as he practiced for the Trial.

He grinned as he struck once more. Drawing on Sorinya’s strength, Ainslen paused mid thrust, slamming his fist into the marbled floor. The impact blew back the king, who compressed his soul in front of his body to absorb the impact. Using the velocity provided by the explosion, Ainslen sprang forward, meeting Jemare in one massive leap.

The king’s arm raised in time to block the blow. Ainslen yanked on the soul he’d attached to it during the fight, pulling Jemare’s arm down.

A barely audible gasp escaped the king’s lips as Ainslen’s sword pierced his heart.

“Y-you copied my abilities,” the king said as he crumpled to the ground. “Im-Impossible.”

Mouth open wide, unable to utter another word, Jemare’s attention went to the wound. He touched the area with his derin leather gloves, his hand coming away bloody, and then he looked up at the count.

Ainslen bent close. “This is for Marjorie,” he whispered.

He straightened, and then kicked Jemare in the face. Once. Then again. And again. With each thud, elation ran through him. A small sense of satisfaction joined it. He promised Marjorie to continue kicking until the king was but so much meat.

S
acrifice of a Father

T
he candlelight cast monsters against the closet wall and into the dark room beyond. Keedar wished he had a drink to relieve the dry chalk his mouth had become. Wine, water, juice, any liquid would suffice. He licked his lips as if it would help.

They were on their way. Murderers. Every one of them.

Nothing he or his father could do would change that. No misdirection, no amount of pleading, fighting, nothing. The soldiers would be there in minutes. Suffused by hopelessness, Keedar shuddered, his skin clammy, crawling, and cold. The closet’s confines did nothing to help his fear. It was suffocating. He wanted out regardless of the consequences. Only Father’s presence prevented him from fleeing into certain death.

Fitting how they ended up here in their old home. He couldn’t think of a better location for his final resting place.

Flames. Scales. Mother’s laughter.
If the Gods were so watchful, so caring, how could Hazline, the so-called maker of Fate, be so cruel as to have them return here?

Keedar recalled how he’d sped across the Smear, warning as many as he could. By the time he returned, the fighting had reached Pauper’s Circle. Cut off from the sewers, Father and a small group fought against soldiers and melders.
Sintu
spilled from too many bodies to count. The battle played out in violent bursts between weapon on weapon combat, men using soul magic to rip apart foes, tear huge bits of masonry from buildings to fling at the opposing forces, or sending flames in lances that left scorched bodies in their wake. At times, one melder or another faced off, conjuring weapons that struck in blurs too fast for his eyes to follow. Father’s men got the better of every exchange.

Until Sorinya the Ebon Blade appeared.

The Thelusian swept through like the night itself, smooth as sanded wood. Wherever the black blade wrought from his soul touched, men died. Sometimes the weapon didn’t actually scour a body. Sorinya would slice several feet from an opponent, but the effect was the same. A gash appeared. The person cried out. Blood fountained. The opponent fell dead.

When Sorinya and Father clashed, everyone gave them space. The two fought like Hells’ Angels, all blurred action, writhing soul, and meld after meld.

Black metal met Father’s silver blade in a clash of sparks. What followed was a battle of soul magic so incredible it was forever imprinted into Keedar’s mind. Their energy zipped back and forth, growing larger or smaller along certain limbs, hardening to parry an attack, lengthening a blade for a farther strike, adding to their legs and arms for speed or strength.

Neither man gave quarter, often standing so close that the fight should have been impossible. Yet it happened. Faces sweaty, both panting, they appeared evenly matched.

A knife flew from the crowd. Father shifted to parry at the same time that Sorinya moved. Sorinya’s sword swung down, the world itself slowing. Father’s weapon swept aside the knife and swung in an arc back to Sorinya. It deflected the blow ever so slightly, but the ebon blade sheared across his side.

Sorinya pulled up short before making the next strike. His face a mottled mask of rage, he stared into the crowd.

Count Cardiff stepped forward, “Finish him.”

The world exploded in white as Father slammed his weapon into the ground, the concussion knocking back all before him. Then he’d fled, his blue-garbed Shipmen dying in his wake to defend his retreat.

Drawn away from the recollection by the overpowering scent of blood, Keedar stretched out a hand to Delisar. The tattered fabric along the sleeves and chest of Father’s shirt were rough between his shaking fingers. And wet. Wetter than from the sheer moisture of Keedar’s hands. He prayed it wasn’t Father’s blood as he clung to him, listening to the uneven breaths.

Keedar couldn’t stop his face from contorting as he struggled against the urge to bawl. Deep within himself, he swore not to make a sound. He was a man not some child. Men didn’t cry. However, no matter how hard he tried, tears still rolled down his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes tight. Tight like the grip of Father’s arms around him. Keedar’s heart hammered even faster than his father’s own with the realization that this might be their last embrace.

“Don’t move an inch when they come.” Father pushed back from him until their gazes met. His eyes glistened in the candlelight’s flickering shadows. With his thumb, he brushed away Keedar’s tears. “Be brave. Remember what I taught you when we hunted. Treat this as if a derin is stalking you. Crouch here, and if someone opens the door, will them not to see you. It
will
work. Believe it, and it will be so.”

The flicker of his doubt must have been plain for Delisar to see.

“Trust me,” Father said, voice firm, almost commanding, yet a bit hoarse. Despite his trembling fingers, Father’s expression radiated confidence.

Keedar opened his mouth. Father’s finger on his lips stopped him.

“Shhh.” The finger lingered for a moment. “You must believe in yourself now. Listen to everything you hear. Remember all of this, every detail. When the window breaks, count to a hundred. If anyone comes before then do as I said. When they leave, head downstairs. You will know how to find the passage. Flee to Uncle Keshka’s.” Delisar cut Keedar off as he made to protest. “I know, the distance between here and his cabin or the Sorrows may seem farther than ever, especially now. But this is the very reason I made you walk those miles, run the Parmien so many times. You can do it, son.”

“Wha-What if they chase me?”

“You can hide from them as you will now. The forests, the brush, the stones, all of nature are your friends. Use them to your advantage. They don’t know this territory as well as you.” Delisar squeezed Keedar’s shoulders encouragingly. “You can do this, and you will.”

Somehow, Keedar’s doubts fled like a fleeting breeze to match that rattling their house’s shutters. He nodded.

Marching footsteps thundered a drumbeat of death, followed by running feet as well as the clink of armor and weapons. Someone in a gruff voice shouted commands.

Father blew out the candle. The closet and the room beyond plunged into darkness. An occasional caper of torchlight filtered in from outside. Shadows flitted by the closed windows.

“I love you. Tell your brother, I love him too, and that I’m sorry I wasn’t there as a father should have been,” Delisar whispered before his voice faded to nothing.

Keedar didn’t hear him move, but Delisar’s fingers caressed his face. Hoping to touch his father once more, Keedar extended his hand but met empty air. All that was left was the odor of blood, his sweat, and his rapid heartbeat. If someone entered the closet at that moment, he was certain they would hear his heart thump.

Ears straining for the slightest sound, he waited.

A window broke. Keedar began his count.

Father’s voice rang from outside. Steel clashed. Soldiers shouted. Dozens of boots increased in pace, thundering past the windows, steel jangling. The sounds drifted farther from the house.

Nightmare memories tore at Keedar. Recollections of his dreams crowded him, of seeing his father on the Smear’s cobblestones, gold scales tinting his skin, red leaking from his head and chest. He wanted to stand and give chase.

Several footsteps thumped inside. Doors crashed as men yelled to each other, searching each room in turn. Torchlight drew closer. With each booted step, Keedar’s heart beat that much harder. The taste of fear was bile in his mouth.

You will not see me. I’m not here. This is nothing but old clothes and shadows. Dirty, stinking, dreg left overs.
He willed the words into himself, into his soul. Then he extended it from him as far as he possibly could.

The light stopped at the closet. The door creaked open.

Not daring to take a breath, Keedar continued to enforce his will. Without moving, he shrank deeper into the corner. Head down, he took in the blood-spattered sabatons.

“Nothin’ here,” a gruff Marishman voice yelled from less than five feet away. “You?”

“The same,” came the answering call.

“Bloody nobles, got us in here doin’ the dirty work while the rest of them are havin’ all the fun. Cesare!”

“Yes?”

“Let’s go find somethin’ to liven up our night.”

“Sure.”

The boots disappeared; the illumination retreated.

In his mind, Keedar let out a relieved sigh, but he still held his breath. When he heard the footsteps exit the house, he finally exhaled. He mopped his brow. After continuing to count, he crawled from the closet. Lying on the floor, he stretched his cramped joints.

With some feeling worked back into his muscles, he avoided thinking about his father, concentrating instead on his escape. He eased into a crouch and from that position, made his way into the basement.

Father’s instructions replayed in his head. He cleared his mind and reached out with his soul. Within moments, he sensed the familiar threads of his father’s magic. It was as clear as if he had a lamp. He followed it into a hidden door below the staircase.

Minutes later, he was running deep within the dank, desolate wastes of the Undertow with Father’s last words replaying in his head followed by Uncle Keshka’s warning.

T
o Meet Once More

J
oints stiff with cold, Winslow waited among a tree’s branches near the pool. The night had been a terror unto itself. Soldiers fought their way into the sewers. The tunnels had a peculiar reek to them that he couldn’t place until they practically exploded into roaring flames. Consortium members had filled the drains with oil. King Jemare’s men roasted like pigs on a spit.

A man by the name of Martel, calling himself Keedar’s guardian, had led Winslow into the city under Kasandar. The Undertow, Keedar had named it. There was something vaguely familiar about the man. At first he didn’t believe Martel, but with more soldiers pouring into the sewers, Winslow had no choice but to trail him. Architecture he recognized only from history books passed by in a blur as he followed Martel through the maze of ancient cobbled streets and dilapidated buildings, many adorned with designs and structure that would still be a marvel today. When they exited, they did so through an abandoned mine located in some foothills a mile outside the citadel walls. Martel now kept watch on the ground, his form as much a part of the forest as the trees and brush.

Winslow’s mind raced as he took in the night’s events. Either the king’s men had orders to kill him or they simply did not recognize him. They did not hold back whenever he faced them. He counted his blessings for his training by his old swordmaster, the harsh tutelage provided by the Blades, and for what he learned from Delisar. If not for all three, he might have perished.

In the space of a few months, his life had changed completely. Had he not ventured into the Smear that night in an act of rebellion, he would still be living within the Hills’ safe confines, a part of a richer world where opportunities abounded. Now, he was little more than what he once hated. A dreg. An outcast. Relegated to rags and forever expecting a dagger in the dark from some assassin or King’s Blade sent by Counts Cardiff or Rostlin. He shook his head.

Sometimes, the truth and forging one’s own way didn’t seem worth the effort or the hardship. Yet, deep inside, he recognized it was such trials that shaped men, particularly the great ones. Perhaps such a future was beyond his immediate sight, but some good had to come of all this. For him, it would start with discovering his true lineage. Then one day claiming his child should Elaina go forward with the pregnancy. Amidst it all, he would need to deal with the Hills. The thought brought on a grimace and a lump in his throat. A task so daunting might prove beyond whatever meager ability he possessed.

Although he kept his gaze roving the forest for the slightest movement, he never saw or heard Keedar’s entrance. His only hint came when the crickets’ chirps paused and the woods’ numerous denizens ceased their song. A moment later, Keedar appeared near the water’s silver glint. He peered around. And then, he was gone again.

Straining his vision, Winslow attempted to spot his friend again but failed. Something tapped the branch near his head. He jumped at the sound, the impact loud in the still night. It came again. This time he traced the noise to a falling pebble. Keedar stood at the tree’s base.

Winslow scrambled down. “I thought you would not make it.”

“But you hoped.”

“Yes,” Winslow admitted, smiling for the first time since the battle. “It’s good to be around someone I know.” He understated his feelings. The relief at seeing a familiar face was near overwhelming. “So what now?” From the moonlight threading through the branches, he picked out Keedar’s furrowed brow. “What is it?” Winslow’s heart sped up.

“Stay still. We’re not alone.”

“No, a man who called himself—”

“No, I’m not speaking of Martel. There’s someone else here. Several people.” Keedar didn’t move but he peered across the clearing toward the treeline.

“Twenty of them to be exact.” Martel’s voice almost made Winslow jump out of his skin. Face mired in shadow, the manservant appeared next to them, focused in the same direction as Keedar.

“Several of them are strong melders,” Keedar added. “But how? How would they know?”

For the briefest instant, Martel’s gaze flickered to Winslow.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” Winslow whispered in earnest, on edge at the mere idea that they might suspect him. “I swear it.”

“You have as much to lose as we do now,” Keedar said, “so I believe you. Count Cardiff, on the other hand, used a skill to place the derin’s hunting scent on me. I fear he did something similar to you. With all the fighting, I forgot about it. My father always removed it first whenever you trained with us. I don’t know what they’re waiting for, but we need to get going. Hopefully, we can outrun them and find a place to remove the piece of soul he’s attached to you.”

“They were waiting for him.” Martel pointed.

The branches on the other side shook, and a wide form waddled out. Several others followed, their armor glinting in the moonlight.

Winslow gaped. He didn’t know if to laugh or be petrified.

The moon illuminated the first man as he stepped dead center into the space. It was Felius Carin, double chins prominent, his body bursting from the seams of his clothes. Any thought of laughter died in Winslow’s throat as
sintu
spilled from the man with such strength that he felt it where he stood. Never in a hundred years would he have thought Felius to be a melder.

“Winslow, Keedar,” Felius began, voice carrying clear and true in the still night.

Immediately, Martel held up his hand. Felius’ voice cut off, but Winslow could still see his lips moving. A moment later, they stopped.

Somewhere within the woods, an animal howled. It sent ice down Winslow’s spine.

“So, this is the mysterious Minstrel Blade.” Martel cocked his head, while still regarding Felius. “So those stories of his ability to enrapture a crowd weren’t exaggerated. Who knew he would be the one? You two should get going. I’ll see if I can’t make the fat man sing.”

“You cannot possibly hope to stand against them all alone,” Winslow blurted.

“Who said I’m alone?” Martel made a small gesture.

Men slipped from the shadows in numbers to match Felius’ counterparts. Each one of them wore Shipmen’s blue.

When the howl echoed once more, Winslow recognized the sound. Derins. Even they had gotten wind of impending death.

“Besides,” Martel dipped his head ever so slightly, “I have a favor to repay Cardiff and his men. They killed a few friends of mine.” The sinewy man’s gaze took on a feral gleam, and he licked his lips. “You know what they say; one good performance deserves an encore.”

The nimbus that sprang up around Martel took Winslow’s breath away. Combined with the man’s expression, it was as if he stood next to some wild beast. A reek emanated from Martel to match. Winslow couldn’t help but to cup his nose.

Palm up, Martel raised his hand below his chin and blew. Energy floated away from him like wisps on a breeze, heading toward Felius Carin and his men.

“I wouldn’t worry about the derins if I were you,” Martel chortled. “They will be preoccupied.” He faced Keedar, his face a slab of unyielding granite. “It has been a pleasure serving you, young Giorin. You
will
make your father proud one day.” He cracked a smile then. “As will you, young man.” He dipped his head to Winslow. “Now, run like you’ve never run before.”

With a roar to rival any beast, Martel charged Felius Carin and his men. The wave of blue followed, dark shadows spilling across an even darker ground.