Soul Weaver: A Fantasy Novel (24 page)

Everywhere Alban looked, it was the same. Three-man squads of the black-armored Eyeless were tearing his men to shreds on every street. His blood ran cold. Shel’s plan had failed; the game was surely lost.

Rori screamed a warning, and Alban darted to one side as another of the emperor’s elite burst into the street from an alleyway. The monstrous Tophylax swung his sword, but Alban avoided it. Along with Rori, he took a corner and headed in the other direction.

The new street was nearly identical to the previous one. Alban lost his bearings. A figure exploded out of the hedge lining the side of the avenue, and Alban instinctively attacked before he recognized the man. He stayed the savage sword struck at the last second, his pounding feet stuttering to a standstill as he stared at the man in amazement.

“Rez!” Alban couldn’t believe it. “What of Kal and Shel? Are they close behind you?”

“There’s no time for them,” Rori shouted at him, tugging on his arm again. The redhead was lost to her panic. Alban shrugged her off with a scowl.

“She’s right,” Rez said gently, recovering quickly from the surprise of running into the duo. He glanced around, taking in the chaotic and one-sided carnage all around them. “We'll round up every survivor we can, but there’s no time to stand still. Not for a second. Let’s move!”

Before he had finished, Rez broke into a run. Alban and Rori followed their rescued leader with glad hearts lightened by the new hope he represented. But as he ran, Alban turned worried thoughts to the two women who had organized this attack and risked everything to save him. Where were Shel and Kal?

***

Jacin Verret stumbled through the smoke-filled alley, blind to where his feet fell. His sword hung limply from one hand. His armor was blackened with soot, dented in places. He was covered head to toe with ashes and blood.

After killing Rebley, he had struck out for the Noble District. That was where the Tophylax Emperia were; he had assumed it would be safe. Even if the rebels lacked the sense to stand down, the fighting would be one-sided and quickly concluded. Anything at all would be better than the blind chaos which consumed the rest of Solstice.

But when Verret reached the Archon’s Avenue, he had seen that this wasn’t the case. Just on the other side of the Street of Roses, the fighting was already over. Jacin watched in mute horror as a three-man squad of Tophylax slaughtered all in their path, peasant and archon’s armsman and Suncloak alike. It was brutal and indiscriminate. Jacin Verret turned from the sight and ran away.

He tried to find his way out of the city. Even without intervention from the Tophylax Emperia, the fighting elsewhere in the city was beginning to die down. It was inevitable. People had been dying far too quickly for it to last for long. Jacin Verret didn’t know which side was winning, and he didn’t care. He just wanted to get out of the city.

The alleyway he found himself in branched from the Street of Orchids and ran alongside a diamond-seller’s. Just ahead, Verret could see where the alley intersected another that ran behind the Jeweler’s Street. If he remembered correctly, that second alley would take him straight to the wall. Verret wasn’t sure what he would do when he reached it. One step at a time.

A noise from round the corner alerted him, and Verret slowed his steps and hunched his shoulders in nervous anticipation. He had avoided as much of the fighting as he could since leaving the Street of Roses, but here and there he’d been forced to kill someone. He was tired, but he would kill again if it got him out of Solstice.

The sound was a repetitive
chink-chink.
Creeping to the corner and cautiously looking around it, Verret saw two men in blood-stained golden cloaks. One of the Suncloaks held a thick metal spike against the bare stone of the city wall. The second man struck it repeatedly with a mallet, driving it into the stone. Another spike was half-buried in the wall at about knee-height.

They were pounding the spikes into the wall to make hand- and footholds, Verret realized. They were trying to get out.

“Peace,” declared Verret, announcing himself as he stepped slowly around the corner with his hands held far out to either side of his body. He didn’t drop his sword, but held it loosely and as non-threateningly as he knew how. “I only seek to escape the city, same as you men.”

They spun on him. Jacin didn’t recognize either of the men, but that was small surprise given how many retirees and new conscripts Pedderson had rushed into the streets to bolster the City Watch. They were armed, but their swords hung at their waists. The second guardsman adjusted his grip on the heavy mallet, but otherwise the pair made no threatening gestures.

Jacin Verret sheathed his sword in a slow and deliberate movement, then walked forward to join the two men.

***

It was the coughing that saved his life, Collam knew. He’d been coughing for a while now, but not so long that he had gotten used to the idea. They were painful, racking convulsions that shredded his throat and burned in his lungs. The coughing terrified him. It told him he was going to die soon. He was old enough to have seen plenty go this way. The first time his hand came away from his lips flecked with blood, he had wept.

Clutching at his throat and blinking madly, Collam sat up and saw the fire lapping at the curtains. He was in the common room of a public house in High Market. He and the lads had chased a handful of Suncloaks in here. There hadn’t been any rich folk at their tea, that was certain. Solstice was in flames. Now this house was too.

He couldn’t remember…No, wait. Jethry and Gaynes chased one into the back, probably through the kitchen. And then Collam and Breven and Lonas faced down them other two. Aye. And the one got the drop on me, Collam recalled. Lights out.

Looking around, he didn’t see Breven and Lonas. No sign of Jethry or Gaynes either, and there was only the one dead Suncloak. So it probably hadn’t gone well for the lads either, Collam thought. He was still coughing, but he was getting it under control. Wasn’t the same cough; he was so sensitive now, the first wisps of smoke had set him to coughing. Spiked terror into his unconscious mind. Saved his life.

Ironic, he thought. Ironic that the thing that was going to kill him woke him up before this whole place went up. Ironic that part of him wanted just to sit there and see whether the smoke would kill him before the flames spread across the ceiling, eating through until fiery beams gave way and brought the whole flaming house down on his head. For a moment – just a moment – either way seemed preferable to coughing up blood and black phlegm for the next year or so.

That was how old Gorman had gone, must be ten…twelve years ago. Gorman had welcomed death with tears and gratitude. Collam never figured on either of those for himself. He got up, one hand over his mouth. He was still coughing, but he forced himself not to suck in breath after each fit. He went to the door and felt at it. It wasn’t hot. He went through, and out of the house.

Collam didn’t know what he expected to find.

It was night, but the cloudy sky was brilliantly lit from beneath. The light flickered and danced on the contours of the smoky blanket that lay over the burning city. A hundred fires, a thousand burned in Solstice. The screams and the clatter of swords was gone, but every so often a wailing scream could be heard from somewhere far away down many streets.

Coughing and hacking, Collam stood on the stoop in front of the public house and stared all round. The only people on the streets were corpses. The Butcher’s bill, he remembered they’d called it in the army back when there’d been an army. All these dead men and women, gone to pay the Butcher. Thieves, merchants who had risen up in anger or shrunk back in fear, armored guards in tattered gold cloaks. Collam hung his head. He hadn’t known what to expect. He hadn’t known whether or not they’d won.

He still didn’t know, but he suspected they hadn’t. The only victor in Solstice this night was the Butcher.

Someone pulled the hood of coarse, hot wool off of her head and Shel saw that it was one of the hulking brutes in the spiky black armor. She spat, still feeling the scratchy black wool against her lips and nose. She wanted to sneeze.

The giant soldiers stepped back and faded into the shadows. It was probably the same one that had put the hood on her in the first place, back at Thorne’s manor. She didn’t know why they had covered her head, any more than she knew why they had bound her hands behind her back. The binding of her arms didn’t stop her from escaping; the twenty black-armored giants with their unbelievable combined power were quite enough for that.

She knew what they were, of course. Tophylax Emperia. The Eyeless. She’d heard them called something else: the Emperor’s Eyes. She understood why now. They were Soulless. Rather, they had been Soulless. Now, a single powerful soul inhabited them all. They were puppets; the emperor held the strings. The emperor
was
the strings.

The woolen hood had done as much good as the tight cords on her wrists. You blinded someone when you didn’t want them to know where you were taking them. There was only one place the Tophylax Emperia would take someone.

She was hanging by her arms. Thick manacles circled tightly round her wrists, fixed to chains that hung from the darkness above. She couldn’t make out the room she was in. A narrow beam of pure white light shone down. The outer edge of this moonbeam caressed Shel in its glow. There were two men standing in the center of the circle of light on the floor. She could see nothing else.

One of the men was Thorne. The other was ancient and terrible.

The Eternal Emperor of the Great and Glorious Golden Empire of the Long Summer was a tiny, wizened creature with sagging, wrinkled skin and rheumy, squinting eyes. His entirely hairless head bulged atop a fragile neck and stooped, weary shoulders. His wiry frame was no more substantial than if he had been made of sticks with some cracked, old leather stretched across the middle.

He was shirtless and wore a cape of golden silk and loose, cream-colored trousers. His bare chest was blazoned with an iridescently shimmering tattoo of the sun. He leaned on a gnarled wooden staff that was quite a bit taller than he was. A massive amber jewel topped the staff, catching the light.

The emperor hobbled closer to where Shel hung suspended at the edge of the light. Murdrek Thorne remained where he was. With the emperor’s back to him, the archon allowed himself to show a fleeting trace of emotion. Was it…irritation? Fear? Shel couldn’t tell. She didn’t care. She looked down at the ruler of all the realm and marveled at the intense and undeniable power which radiated from this tiny, misshapen figure.

He stood inches from her. Shel’s feet dangled an inch or so off the ground, but even without the added height the emperor would have stood barely as tall as her breast. He looked up at her with his sagging, red-rimmed eyes. Their irises were the color of the sky at noon in the high summer. She could almost see white flecks of cloud drifting across them, disappearing behind the impenetrable black of his tiny, sharp pupils.

“Hm,” he said. The emperor’s voice was a hoarse croaking deep in his throat, impossibly low and hard to hear. “Hah,” he added, then craned himself around to peer balefully at Murdrek Thorne. “You couldn’t have claimed this one, Thorne. You may have proven more powerful – but only just! And beaten her you might have, but defeated her? Hah! Never. She’s a Shadow.”

Thorne’s studied mask cracked in surprise. He reacted almost as if the emperor had slapped him across the face. He took an unthinking step forward, one arm jerking up to point at Shel. “What?” he cried. “No, my lord. They're all dead, at long last. I killed the last of them myself.”

“Indeed, hm?” The emperor turned back to Shel. With great effort and strain, he lifted up the end of his staff and poked it into her belly. The strain was real, but the effort was showmanship only. Shel felt his true muscles flexing, and then her sleeveless leather vest tore open down the front and fell away, exposing her. The emperor’s staff pointed directly to the faded blue markings encircling her waist.

“A Shadow,” the ancient ruler said again with a satisfied
hmph.

Thorne stared at Shel, amazement turning to revulsion. “So,” he said. “The gutterweave turns out to be a Shadow-lass.”

“Hm, yes,” said the emperor, lowering his staff and leaning heavily against it once more. “Fortunate for you my Tophylax arrived when they did, Thorne.”

“I had beaten her,” Thorne hissed angrily. “My lord,” he added belatedly.

“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” the emperor said with a wheeze of deathly laughter. “Beaten her, yes. But not defeated, no? I think not, Thorne. Hm. I think not.”

The archon narrowed his eyes. There was something in the emperor’s words, some further meaning he wasn’t privy to. Careful to keep it from showing on his face, he wondered if the old vulture knew of his own plans…

“You see, Thorne,” the emperor continued, turning and hobbling away from Shel. When his back was turned, the light from above dimmed almost imperceptibly. “You simply cannot wrest the soul from a Shadow by force. Hmm, no indeed.”

For the second time, Thorne reacted as though slapped. His eyes widened and his breath blew out in a little “oof.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Faugh!” The emperor cut off Thorne’s denial with a chopping motion of one hand. When the wizened little sorcerer spoke again, the words were directed beyond the shaft of light. “Bring the other one.”

Shuffling sounds in the shadows eventually became a hulking Tophylax Emperia herding a badly injured woman. Dirt and dried blood crusted her honey-colored hair.

“Kal!” Shel cried, the first she had spoken. She had meant to keep her silence no matter what Thorne and his master did to her, but the sight of her friend so beaten and haggard tore at her heart. “What have you done to her?”

“In point of fact,” said the emperor, “I saved her life. Hm. Yes, she would have died of her injuries were it not for me.”

“Shel!” Kal started forward, but the giant bodyguard grabbed her arms from behind and held her effortlessly in place.

“Now, now,” said the emperor, who had gone over to Kal and stood half a foot in front of her. He studied the thief with obvious interest. Her wounds were extensive. Dark, mottled bruising discolored her skin wherever it was visible; blood had dried on her face and clothes.

For his part, Thorne was beginning to look sick. With a sidelong glance at the emperor and Kal, he took a step backwards. The archon drew up short. Two of the Tophylax Emperia materialized out of the shadows at Thorne’s back. Each rested one hand lightly on one of the archon’s shoulders.

“There, hm, yes, there it is,” said the emperor without turning from Kal. “The traitor, he recognizes his doom. Hah.”

“What’s going on?” demanded Kal, weak but defiant.

Shel thought she knew the answer. She remembered what Thorne had said, when he held her prisoner and forced her to watch him torturing Rez. She smiled through the pain. She held little hope for her own survival, but she was comforted by the idea that she might get to see Thorne die first. Justice for Rez, at least, if for no one else.

“Yes, hm, tell us,” said the emperor. “Tell us, Archon Thorne. What is going on?”

“It’s not…” Thorne broke off and suddenly changed tack. “My lord, I have made a wondrous discovery.” The archon laughed nervously, trying to prove he wasn’t nervous. “I meant to present you with this new knowledge at the Conclave. You know that among your archons I have ever been your most loyal servant.”

“Oh, so you wished to set yourself above your peers, is it? Hm, yes,” mused the emperor, tapping his chin with the spidery fingers of one hand. “Yes, Thorne, that does sound like you. Very well. Present this tribute to me, then. Present it now, this wondrous new knowledge, hah.”

Thorne hesitated, biting his lower lip.

“Should I ask this child instead?” asked his master, reaching out and taking hold of Kal’s chin. She shuddered at his cold, dry touch. “She could tell me, could she not? Hm, Thorne? Hah?”

Shel was confused now. She had thought she knew what was going on. What did the emperor think Kal knew? Why wasn’t he asking her? She was the one who had heard Thorne admit his treason!

“What are you talking about?” she demanded.

“Shel…” It was Kal. The woman sounded miserable. “Shel, the other weaver…”

“Ahhh, yes,” said the emperor. “This other weaver. Tell us about him, child.”

“It was Rez,” sobbed Kal. Shel couldn’t understand. What was Rez? What did Kal mean? “Rez was the other weaver, Shel. Thorne…turned him somehow.”

“Hm, turned. Yes, I like that.” The emperor shook his head. “Ripped the breathing soul right out of his chest and replaced it with his own will. Not supposed to be able to do that, hm? Supposed to be impossible, hah?”

Shel was aghast. She couldn’t believe it. It was impossible. Wasn’t it? But if Rez had become their enemy, what other explanation could there be? Rez! Where was he now? Oh, Dunmir, thought Shel, everything was so much worse than she’d thought.

“Why didn’t you just kill him?” she moaned.

“What, kill his own brother?” The emperor shook his head, clucking his tongue sadly. Shel rocked back, swinging on her chains. She felt the blood drain from her face. Her entire body was cold. What did he say? It couldn’t be.

“The elder brother who stood in his way, hm? The proud brother who finally stepped aside, only to tarnish the family name with rebellion? Hah! Kill him? Why do that, hm, when you can possess his very soul and make him your puppet!”

“It will change everything,” Thorne promised. A note of pleading crept into his voice as he continued. “My lord, with so many of the others slain…my secret knowledge will reverse the damage this dreary day has brought. We'll have no further need of the archons and their tribute! No need of soul traders and their greedy hands sifting our gold. We can take the souls we need, take them directly from the people whether they will it or not. My lord…”

“Yes, hm.” The emperor spoke softly, but Murdrek Thorne fell silent at once. “Yes, I see. Hm. But, Thorne…” He turned around then, facing Thorne with malevolent glee. “Whatever could you mean,‘we?'”

“You!” amended Thorne, realizing his mistake. “Of course, my lord, you would have no need. I only meant…I only thought…My lord, I am your loyal servant. All I ask is to continue serving at your side.”

“The better to slip a dagger into it,” snapped the emperor. “Faugh! Enough of you.” His free hand flapped in a boneless wave of dismissal. One of the Tophylax Emperia holding Thorne reached up and twisted his head completely around. The body slumped to the floor.

The emperor hobbled over and squatted down over the corpse. He moaned softly as he lowered himself on his spindly legs. He searched Thorne’s robes with one bony hand, eventually coming up with a sparkling jewel. Shel could feel the resonance of the soul trapped within. Leaning heavily on his staff, the emperor rose with a series of grunts and grimaces. Wheezing for breath, he pocketed the gemstone and regarded Shel thoughtfully.

“Put the Shadow in her cell,” the emperor said at last, then turned to go. One of the Tophylax came forward, already reaching up for the chains that held Shel. At the far edge of the light, the emperor paused. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Hm, I nearly forgot.”

He turned around and stretched out one emaciated hand toward Kal. He made a claw of his fingers and pulled his hand back. Kal shrieked in pain.

“No!” Shel screamed, writhing away from the Tophylax and trying to get away. She wanted to run to her friend, to stop this somehow. There wasn’thing she could do.

Kal’s back arched and she howled in torment. It appeared, to Shel’s eyes at least, as a bulging mushroom of white light sprouting from Kal’s chest. Rapidly it was drawn out, elongating, stretching, resisting, succumbing. The ghostlight flashed across the room and was absorbed by the emperor’s claw-like, grasping hand. The ancient wizard smiled darkly as Kal sagged to her knees, the torment on her face sagging into blank disinterest. She was gone. She was Soulless.

The emperor chuckled. “Thorne thought he was clever, hm? Thought that he knew something I didn’t. Faugh! There’s precious little I haven’t learned in twelve hundred years.”

“Oh, Kal.” The tears spilled over Shel’s cheeks and she wept. “Kal, why? Why?” She bucked and struggled in her chains, pulling against the implacable hold of the Tophylax behind her. “You monster!” she screamed at the eternal emperor, who merely laughed.

“Child,” he said. “Still yourself. Your time will come soon enough, yes. It isn’t so easy with a Shadow, no. Hm, rituals and rigamarole to follow. Yes.” He looked up at the Tophylax holding Shel.

“Go on,” the emperor commanded. “The cell with her.”

It was dream-like, but not a dream.

He sat with his back against a tree. He knew he was near the edge of the forest, not far from the open fields surrounding the burning city. He knew that he had come here with these others, a dozen more survivors. They all seemed to know him. They even looked to him for direction, but he had none to give.

He wasn’t sure about who he was. He had been somebody, obviously, but it seemed he was no longer that person. The others kept using a name. Rez. It sounded right, except they all thought this Rez person was going to tell them what to do next. They expected Rez to have ideas and plans and goals. If he had any goals, he didn’t know about them.

That was strange, surely. But the strangeness didn’t matter all that much to him. It wasn’t a solid thing like the tree bole, solid against his back, or the hard dirt and rotting leaves at his feet. Those things were real. He wasn’t so sure about anything else.

These other people, though. They cared about things that might not be real. They clung to one another and didn’t even see themselves doing so. He could see it. They cared mostly about the same things, and so they stuck together and collectively attempted to alter what was outside themselves. It seemed to him that wasn’t going to get these people anywhere.