Game of Souls (9 page)

S
ecrets of a Derin

T
he day’s heat coupled with the Parmien Forest’s oppressive swelter bore down on Keedar like a physical weight. On days such as this, he wondered if the God, Mandrigal, supposedly the sun, was not actually one of the Ten Purgatories’ flaming pits. If Keedar were anywhere else, he would have looked around for a blacksmith’s furnace. The greenery, the abundant trees, the earthy smells, and the detritus rustling underfoot told him there would be no such sighting. Vines snaked through undergrowth before creeping up trunks and losing themselves in the leafy covering. The main hunt company passed one of the ancient white ashes; the holes among its branches and trunks inhabited by numerous birds, their songs a lively chorus. Days this warm, when summer was supposed to be all but ended, meant winter would be terrible.

Winslow rode on his right; Gaston on his left. Their friends, Rellin and Harmon, kept heir own company with another group of nobles, shunning Keedar. For his part, Keedar basked in the attention, and the curious and at times scornful glances he received from the nobility. Count Cardiff’s horse trotted nearby, the man appearing bored with the proceedings. In the distance, the hounds bayed.

Through the trees galloped a soldier on a dun mare. He pulled up before the count. “The hounds are trailing one, my lord. Less than a mile from here.”

“Well, gentlemen, this is what you came here for,” Count Cardiff yelled, “the one to take him down gets three months tribute free.” He gestured to the guard who wheeled his mount and headed back the way he came.

To see nobles dig in their heels, flap their reins, and whoop to the top of their lungs took Keedar by surprise. Within moments, the fifty men and their soldiers sped off in pursuit, their horses’ hooves thundering over the forest’s sounds. He made to follow but a gloved hand on his reins stopped him. Winslow’s hand. Along with the younger Cardiff, there was Gaston, the count, and his guard complement.

“What are we waiting for?” Keedar asked.

“My father.”

Count Cardiff was staring off at nothing. The shimmer of his nimbus expanded. This time, there was no wash of emotional intent from the man. Keedar felt no mental impact at all, but he noticed a build in physical pressure. A moment later it stopped, and the count’s
sintu
returned to normal, or at least normal for him.

“Derins are smarter than most animals.” Count Cardiff’s face showed the strain of whatever he’d done. He walked his horse closer to Keedar’s mount. “Smarter than most humans too,” he added softly. “Did you know they can also meld?” After a glance at Keedar’s gloves, the count searched his face. “That’s how they trap their prey, by influencing their mind, giving them a sense of false security when in fact the derin is close by. It’s also how they escape. They can leave a trail, a scent in whatever direction they choose.”

Unflinching, Keedar met Ainslen’s penetrating, green eyes and shrugged. “Actually, I didn’t know that. My father considers them a worthy challenge, plus their fur fetches a fortune in Rockbottom Plaza. There’s always some noble’s representative willing to outbid the next man for derin fur, flesh, or blood.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“The price or what it is they want?” Keedar asked. “I figured it’s because most nobles aren’t very good at hunting derin. Plus, they have the coin. Why put yourself at risk when you can simply buy what you need? As for the derins themselves, their fur keeps out not only cold but moisture. It lasts for decades. More than one apothecary swears by the healing powers of their blood and meat. And the wisemen? The wisemen claim they can tell a man’s future when they drink their concoctions made from derin piss or shit.”

“In ways, true. But there’s more to it than that.” Count Cardiff flicked his hand out. In response, his guards trotted out of earshot. He gestured to Gaston and Winslow. “If you will also excuse us?” When they left, he turned to Keedar. “Have you ever heard of the Dracodar?” The count’s voice was little more than a whisper.

Keedar felt as if his heart stilled. “I’ve read about them. They’re the first melders. The strongest too. The old tomes say most Mareshnans can trace their bloodlines back to them, Kasinians included.”

The count’s face lit up. “A dreg that reads. You’re full of surprises. Well, let me guess,” he continued in a conversational tone, “these books of yours, they mention how one might attain a piece of a Dracodar’s power, correct?”

The question cut too close to home. Keeping his face expressionless as his stomach churned was a chore in itself. “Yes, but the Dracodar are all dead. The ones that weren’t eradicated in the Thousand Year War died years later to the races they encountered across the Renigen Sea.”

Count Cardiff’s smirk let Keedar know how much the man believed the history books.

“Let’s assume there might be Dracodar alive today,” the count said. “If one were captured or killed, its body would be worth a fortune, perhaps a king’s ransom.
If
what they say about ingesting the creature’s flesh or donning its scales are true. Think about it, to be able to wield soul magic comparable to the ones once worshipped as Gods? Who wouldn’t want that?”

“You sound as if you doubt your own words.”

“On the contrary, my young dreg, I feel exactly the opposite.” A smile that said the count knew things others simply could not comprehend flitted across his features. “You see, derins have similar effects. The power is in very small quantities, and one has to be an extremely strong melder to harvest it, but its are there for the taking.”

Speechless, Keedar left his mouth hanging open, the earlier concern for the count’s knowledge a fleeting memory. Thoughts reeled through his head at the revelation. He glanced up in time to see Count Cardiff watching him, his green eyes glinting with the sun’s rays, a predatory hunger shining deep within. He snapped his mouth shut.

“Well, now you know why derins are so sought after despite the dangers. You also know why they’re so difficult to capture or kill.” Ainslen’s stare didn’t waver. “Which begs the question: how did a young boy escape a derin’s clutches? Why is he wearing gloves made from the beast’s leather? Unless, of course, the story you told my son was a lie.”

Keedar’s heart hammered. The plan had been for the count to be so enraptured with the idea of a melder within the Smear that he’d venture into the district himself as the rumors increased. But Count Cardiff had him here now.

“Well?”

“I-I lied, my lord.”

The count threw his head back and laughed. When he stopped, his eyes were steely pinpoints. “No, you’re lying now.”

“I—”

Count Cardiff held up a gloved hand. “A tidbit for you. Something that whoever might be trying to teach you to meld either failed to reveal or you seem to have forgotten. Every living creature possesses some form of soul magic. It’s as natural as breathing. Sometimes, it’s employed under extreme emotions, like dangerous, life threatening situations.

“Why do you think a hunter in the woods might manage to lift a trunk weighing several thousand pounds off his friend? Or a man might leap a crevasse? Or survive the freezing wastes within the mountains when buried under by an avalanche? The mind triggers their soul, opening up the vital points, bringing out abilities they wouldn’t possess normally. The difference with a melder is that we can learn how to open them on our own, harness our essences at will.”

Keedar acknowledged the count’s words with a nod. It had been one of the first concepts Father taught him, but that had been so long ago, he hardly ever considered it. Recalling Count Cardiff’s words, he frowned. He had the distinct impression the count was including him when he said ‘our’. “If that’s the case, perhaps you’re right. I might have triggered some hidden ability back then to save myself.”

“And again when you helped my son?”

Keedar shrugged, turning his palms upward “I guess.”

“Some coincidence. You should come to the Ten Hills and be tested again.”

A lump grew in Keedar’s throat. “We both know what it means if I were to pass.” He couldn’t contemplate his own death.

“They’re exceptions to every rule.” At first, Keedar thought the count must be joking. The man’s face was as grave as the king’s headsman. “I could claim you as family. A bastard son. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I-I don’t know. There’s my father and—”

“I can be very convincing.” If Ainslen’s expression matched the headsman before, his entire countenance now reflected something worse, something dark, deadly, and unforgiving. “I will grant you some time to think on it. Until then, let’s hunt.” The count rode off to meet his guards.

“What was that all about,” Gaston asked as he rode up next to Keedar.

“Probably my father making one demand or another,” Winslow added.

Keedar shook himself. “Um. He wanted me to know what would happen if he discovered I was part of the plot against you two.”

“Why would he think that?” Confusion clouded Winslow’s face. “As much as I’m loathe to admit it, you did save us. We were at your mercy.”

That was different coming from Winslow. Keedar regarded him with an arched brow.

“What? Any man who survives a private conversation with my father deserves a little bit of respect.”

“Never mind that I dragged your ass out of the Smear,” Keedar said dryly.

“You didn’t exactly drag us,” Winslow protested.

“Have it your way.” The little back and forth made Keedar breathe easier.

“We better catch up to them,” Gaston said.

Keedar frowned. “Aren’t they going in the wrong direction?”

Count Cardiff and his men were heading west when the others had gone east.

“However it is he finds derins, he’s never wrong.” Gaston flapped his reins and rode after them.

With no choice in the matter, Keedar followed.

H
unter and Hunted

P
roof of Gaston’s words arrived soon after. While the hounds bayed and shouts and whoops continued from the west, Count Cardiff led them to a clearing in the forest’s eastern depths. A white ash tree occupied the center. Even by the trees’ standards, this one was gigantic, at least twice the largest one Keedar recalled seeing. The trunk itself could be a large home.

A derin rested on its haunches next to the tree.

In all the hunts with his father, Keedar had yet to see one this size. As big as a pony, the derin watched them, its color blending with the trunk. Its short hair lay flat much like the hounds. This one had no mane, which made it a female. If the beast stood stock still, closed its mouth so the pink tongue didn’t show, and kept the black beads it had for eyes shut, he wouldn’t have seen it. Count Cardiff’s raised hand and subsequent pointing had revealed the location. Although the derin didn’t stand or growl when they approached, its pointy ears pricked up.

Memories flooded Keedar of his first encounter. No matter how many times he saw one of the creatures or how many years he’d hunted them, the recollection still lived, bringing with it a measure of fear. That day was much like this one: hot, sky so clear and deep it seemed to stretch on forever, each breeze or gust a gift. Sweat trickled down his forehead. Something was watching him. Every crack of a twig, rustle of leaves, cry of the forest’s denizens set him on edge. They did the same now. Any shadow felt as if whatever watched also followed. He broke into a run, crashing through brush and branch. When he finally stopped at a clearing, his back against a white ash at its center, a derin slunk from the forest’s edge. It stared him directly in the eye. Frozen, heart thumping, the air chokingly palpable, he prayed the creature wouldn’t see him. The pressure threatened to crush him. Whispers—impressions more than words—coaxed him to relax.

“Keedar!” A hand shook his shoulder. “Keedar!” The voice called again.

The world came back into focus. With a shake of his head, Keedar took in his surroundings. He was in the Parmien Forest, but he wasn’t alone. Gaston, Winslow, Count Cardiff and his men were with him. Winslow was the one with a hand on his shoulder.

Immediately, his attention narrowed in on the derin. Without a doubt, he knew the beast had been in his head. Judging from the experience, this was not the first time. Worse still was the realization that the creature had not been alone. Confirmation came with a chorus of whinnies.

“Count Cardiff,” Keedar yelled. He yanked on his reins, trying to bring his dun under control.

Spear in hand, the count was already off his horse. “I know.” All around him, his retinue of guards dismounted. “You four,” he pointed out some men, “keep an eye on the beast next to the tree. The rest of you focus on the woods.”

“What’s happening,” Gaston asked, voice thick.

Winslow must have sensed the danger, because he too leaped off his horse. He drew his sword.

“Get your bow and be ready.” Keedar swung down off his mount. “There’s more than one derin. It might be a pack.” He withdrew the two slim blades he kept hidden in the sleeves of his tunic. “A good knife is a man’s best company in the Smear,” he said in response to Winslow’s raised brows.

As if the creatures heard him, growls and snarls issued from the woods. Chirping birds cut off. The once warm day abruptly grew cold. Branches snapped. Padded footfalls abounded.

“Tighten the circle,” Count Cardiff called over the heavy breaths of men and the snorts of mounts. “Put the horses on the outside.”

Eyes rolling, many of the horses fought, straining against the reins. One of the guards released his. The animal reared, dropped back to the ground, and took off toward the trees. The horse galloped as far as the fist gap in the foliage when a dark form bounded from the brush. Another leaped from among the tree branches. The horse screamed. High pitched growls and snarls followed as the two derin tore flesh from bone, dragging their prey to the ground.

As terrifying as the sounds were, Keedar recognized another danger. His heart rattled in his chest.

“Above us!” Keedar glanced up into the great white ash’s branches that spread like a web of wood.

Derins dropped from the limbs. Keedar lost count at five. Screams ensued. Something heavy, carrying a musky stench, slammed into his back, all muscles and sinew. Claws raked at him.

Keedar cried out, a burning pain scouring his back and side. He felt wetness. Twisting, he stabbed, his blade sinking into flesh until his hands and hilt struck fur. The derin whined. He plunged the next dagger in, withdrew, and repeated. He barely heard the snarls or felt the teeth. Blood gushed over his fingers, hot and thick, its sharp scent driving him on. Despite his sticky hands, he didn’t stop until the body became limp.

Cries, wails, and yells of those dying or fighting echoed all around him. Derins let out high-pitched growls. Keedar pushed the corpse off him. He staggered to his feet, his side and back throbbing.

Leathers ripped in several spots, blood seeping through, Count Cardiff was protecting Winslow and Gaston. The man’s spear spun and whipped in his hands, a blur of dark wood and flashing steel. Each time it snaked out, a derin whined and bounded away. Guards still fought, but most were down with derins atop them, worrying at the corpses or at men who screamed before their throats were torn out.

The massive beast they’d tracked to the clearing stalked to one side. Not once did it join the fray. Head down, ears laid back, it slunk back and forth, beady eyes trained on Count Cardiff and his wards.

Count Cardiff’s and Keedar’s eyes made four.

“Run,” the count mouthed.

As he uttered the word, Count Cardiff slammed his spear into the ground, butt first.
Sintu
swept up around him in a torrent so large and solid, it blocked him and the two boys from view in a translucent sheet like a waterfall. Their forms were an indistinct blur.

Through the wavy haze, a red hue grew. It exploded outward.

A concussion rocked Keedar, blowing him off his feet.

When he managed to scramble to his knees, and eventually stand, his ears rang. Somehow his mind clung to the count’s order. Saliva thick in his mouth, driven by the ghastly images of death all around him, and the pain in his side, he fled.

He had no particular direction in mind, but by instinct and habit, he headed northeast. Years spent running the forest with his father took over. Nothing mattered to him but the need to escape. Not the ringing, not the burning along his ribs, not the screams he left behind. What a few moments ago had been a racing heart, the choking taste of fear, became exhilaration. Exerting himself in the wild was freedom. When he let himself go in this fashion he had no worries. The world belonged to him.

One thought dominated his mind as he bolted.
They will not see me. They will not see me. I am not here.
He begged for it, demanded it. In his heart, what he wanted would be. There could be no other outcome.

When he darted through the same gap where the horse died minutes earlier, no derin sprang onto him. The corpse was still there, mangled and bloody, barely recognizable as a mare. Exultant, a grin spread across his face.

A thud sounded less than a dozen feet away. From the corner of his eyes, he caught sight of a white blur the size of a pony. The reek of a wild animal assaulted his nostrils. What had been joy quickly degenerated into a fear so strong it set his feet churning faster, his heart keeping pace.

He bounded up among the trees, leaping from one branch to the next. Each jump was a combination of instinct and skill honed from practice. He didn’t need to think, only to react.

The white blur keeping pace through the brush below pushed him harder.

Legs burning from the effort, he had no idea how long he fled. Every sound brought nightmares of padded paws giving chase. Visions of large canines tearing into his flesh drove him faster. Cool breezes whipped by him. Sweat brought tears to his eyes, its salt making him lick his lips. Trunks, branches, and brush whipped by. Shadows grew teeth. Snagging twigs were claws. Every indistinct patch or mound became the white derin.

In the midst of his flight, he lost himself. He floated. No branch could block his path. No foliage could hinder him. No root or vine could trip him.

When he sensed full daylight with no shadows, no trees in his peripheral vision, grass under his feet, he dared a glance behind him. He was clear of the Parmien Forest.

A roar echoed, rolling across the plains.

Keedar smiled, knowing it was a cry of utter frustration. As he ran, the smile grew to a pout. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Neither Uncle Keshka nor Father had shown up as promised. The pain from his wounds could not compare to that in his heart.