Soulbreaker (27 page)

“I doubt it. The same power you saw used at Rion will be brought to bear on the westerners.”

“It will be three of them against you.” Terestere reached over and touched his hand. “I cannot afford to lose another husband.”

He folded his other hand into a fist. The power of his soul licked out from him, and for a moment his eyes became dead. “Worry for them.”

At Deadman’s Gap the Blade complement escorted them to rows of waiting seats set up on a three-tiered platform. The top tier held two cushioned chairs for her and the king, large stone braziers beside each, their heat a welcome comfort. Ainslen directed her to sit on his right.

The counts and countesses took their places one level below. Foremost among them was Pomir Fiorenta and Lestere Hagarath, dressed in their finest. Two seats were empty. She scanned the nobles once more, even those in the chairs on the ground. Neither Counts Shaz nor Shenen were among them.

On the ground level were the lesser nobles. Behind them stood a line of Blades and watchmen at Deadman’s Gap. Across the street the commoners gathered, gazes expectant.

The headsman, dressed in black, the hood of his cloak drawn over his head, strode up the first set of stairs onto the platform’s lowest tier. Judging from his size, he either had to be a Farish Islander or Darshanese. The man carried a massive, two-handed sword, the flat of the blade resting on his shoulder. He stopped and waited at the chopping block, the curved depression in the wood stained brownish red.

Snowflakes drifted down as time stretched, landing softly before they melted. The queen made out the dirge of marching boots. Over a hundred Blades filed into the square, the ranks of nobles parting before them.

In their midst they dragged a man with unkempt hair, wild eyes, and an even wilder beard. Scars marred his chest and arms. She hissed at the sight of the chains and manacles attached to the man. For a moment, their gazes met. Her breath caught in her throat. So battered was the prisoner before her that he bore but a vague resemblance to the Delisar Giorin she remembered.

Her heart hurt when she looked upon his pain-etched face. The feeling surprised her. Not that she hadn’t cared for Delisar, for she had. A great deal. But long ago, she’d learned to separate her emotions from what needed to be done. She should be viewing this man as a stranger, but instead all she saw was another victim who had no knowledge of why he was going to die.

The Blades led the prisoner up to the chopping block. A hush fell across the square, the wind moaning as it gusted. The man was made to kneel, his head resting on the block’s stained depression.

King Cardiff made a single gesture with his hand. The headsman’s sword rose and fell. A thud followed. The crowd cheered, a roar that rocked the queen. The executioner bent methodically, picked up the dead man’s head, and held it up for all to see. The cheers grew so loud she could barely think.

She did not realize she was crying until she tasted the salty tears. She had not wielded the sword nor sentenced the man, but she was no less responsible. She could’ve talked Ainslen out of this deed, convinced him to make a different choice. Instead she’d let it happen. She cringed.
Of all the deaths I’ve seen before, why does this one trouble me so?
She knew the answer even as she asked the question.

In single file the Elder Ten made their way up onto the platform, arraying themselves to her right, cloaks flowing behind them. So deep was she in her thoughts that Elder Hamada’s words became distant things, murmurs on the cold breeze. Not until she could distinctly hear the wind’s low croon did it register that he had stopped speaking. Silence hung over the area, thick and heavy. Her heartbeat became the percussion of rough hands on a hollow drum.

The proclamation …

Cold prickles running down her spine, the queen directed her attention to Hagarath and Fiorenta. The world seemed to slow, the swirl of snowflakes increasing. Even as she found their backs, the two men were leaping to their feet, throwing off their cloaks.

Lestere Hagarath’s face was a mottled mask. The sword in his hand was of pure soul, red and vibrant, its hue highlighting his neatly braided beard. No longer did Pomir Fiorenta appear to be the pock-faced, harmless, waif of a man. He’d swollen to three times his size, his clothes shreds of material that fluttered from his body. Ropes of muscle bulged along his arms, legs, chest, and back.

The world crashed back to full speed, the wind icy, snowflakes like a million swirling petals. Chaos reigned. Men and women were screaming, scrambling to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the pending fight. The Blades had drawn their weapons and formed a square around the platform. None of them advanced. Someone snatched at her hand. She almost lashed out before noticing it was Sorinya.

“We must get away, my queen,” the Ebon Blade pleaded.

“No.” Ainslen was standing in front of them, arms spread wide, a gleaming silver blade in one hand. “My wife and I stay here. We do not flee when faced with a challenge. We meet it blow for blow.” He smiled at her. “Cowering is for cowards.” Soul whipped about him like the wind, glowing with such power it knotted her stomach. She squinted, and then her eyes widened. Additional duplicates of the king appeared. As one they strode to meet the counts.

Fear bubbled inside her. Not for herself, not for the king, but for her plans. If he died this day all would be for naught.

3
9

A
lmost Dead

B
arefooted, Keedar huddled in a corner on the cold stone floor, legs drawn up under him. Iron chains ran from the manacles on his ankles and wrists to rings set in the wall. He could only move some six feet before they pulled tight. The dungeon smelled of piss and other unsavory odors. From outside came the dull roar of distant voices.

Time and again he’d drawn on his soul. The vital points had opened and allowed soul to flow. All but the ones located on his hands and feet. Without the complete set of thirty-two, the circulation was stunted, incomplete. He could call forth the energy but he could not meld. It was as if his soul did not exist on those portions of his body.

The restraints. It had to be them. He could think of no other explanation.

Voices and footsteps echoed from down the hall and its line of cells. He recognized Shaz’s Marish drawl and one of the man’s guards. Keedar let his head slump as if he were still unconscious, but inside, he seethed. Here was the man who had killed Raishaar and Rose, the man who hunted him and Winslow after Succession Day. How much more blood stained the traitor’s hands?

“We’ll have to start taking them out to the mines as is,” the guard said, “and that trip to the Bloody Corridor can be pretty long.”

“Double the escort, then, use the watch if you must,” Shaz said. “I’ll impress upon the king how much of a shortage we currently have.”

Shortage of what?
Keedar wondered. He’d also never heard of any mines in the Bloody Corridor.

The footsteps stopped before his cell. A scraping sound followed as the metal slat that covered the small window slid aside.

“Count Shaz,” another voice shouted. A pause. “It’s Count Shenen, my lord, he’s upstairs demanding to see you immediately.”

“Let him know I’m on my way,” the count called out. “When all the fuss of the execution is over, make sure this one is awake,” he said, voice lowered. “I want to give him the news myself. I want him to know how it feels to lose a father.”

“Yes, my lord,” the first guard answered. The slat closed; the footsteps and voices receded.

The execution … what a fool I’ve been. I should have listened to Keshka.
A tear trickled down Keedar’s cheek. He had come to help Delisar and all he’d done was get himself caught. Now, he too would die.

Die.

The word sparked something in him, the thing he kept locked away, that unfeeling part of himself. He allowed it a bit of freedom as he tried to think.

The manacles prevented him from melding, but what if he simply activated a cycle? Curious, he touched
lumni
. The cycle responded, pushing soul from his body. He let it to run its course. Weakness stole over him. Within the next few minutes his slump was no longer an act. His breathing slowed. Keedar heard the window slat slide open once more.

“Time for you to—Hells’ Angels!” It was the guard’s voice. “Darsus, come quickly. Haripo, fetch a wiseman. Hurry!”

The jangle of keys came a moment later. They slid into the lock. The door creaked open.

Chin resting on his chest for effect, eyes mere slits, Keedar watched booted feet hurry over to him. Another pair joined the first, the men smelling of sweat and leather.

“What happened to him, Marko?” Darsus’ voice carried a Marish drawl.

“Don’t know. Maybe the knock he took on his head was worse than we expected. Or it could be from the cold. His clothes were partially frozen when we caught him in the sewers. All I know is he had color to him a while ago and now he’s paler than a Heleganese spirit assassin. Help me carry him to the table.”

Rough hands grabbed Keedar. Someone undid the manacles on his arms and then those around his ankles. Keedar waited until the person shifted to hold him under his armpits. He sucked back a portion of expelled soul into himself.

Keshka’s words ran through his head.
Sooner or later you will need to kill again, whether you wish to or not. Embrace that reality.

Not only did he embrace it, he set it completely free.

“Wait,” Darsus said. “His color—”

Keedar snapped his eyes open. He punched up, wrenching himself from the person’s grip. In the same instant he solidified the soul around his fist, shaping it into a point near a foot long. The blow struck the softness beneath the chin. A choked cry issued. And then a gush of warmth. Keedar yanked his hand down, ignoring the thud of the body behind him.

Darsus was in front of him, snatching for his sword hilt. The guard’s mouth opened, chest heaving as he drew in a breath to shout. Keedar imagined the air in the man’s mouth were a thick cloth. He willed it to be so. And it was. Eyes bulging, Darsus clawed at his throat.

“You brought me here through a passage,” Keedar asked, voice a little more than a hoarse whisper. He stepped forward, took Darsus’s sword, and held it to the guard’s gut. “In which cell is it?” Darsus’ face was growing red as he strained to breathe. Keedar eased his meld.

The guard gasped for breath, sucking in air before he spoke. “D-d-down the hall,” he sputtered. “Fifth cell on your left.”

“Pass me your keys and show me which one. Don’t let your eyes leave mine. If you so much as tense, I hope you know how to digest metal.”

Lips trembling, Darsus reached down to the keys, round-eyed gaze not once leaving Keedar’s face. The keys jangled for a moment before he held up the entire loop by one. “This is it.”

“Where’s the execution taking place?”

“Deadman’s Gap.”

Keedar stuffed the man’s mouth with air and ran him through. Darsus slumped to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Taking a few deep breaths, Keedar maintained the cold detachment that had allowed him to kill. He compared the two dead guards’ feet and removed the boots he thought would fit. He pulled them on. For a moment he considered taking their clothes too, but the blood stopped him, its stench too strong, cloying.

Sword in hand he peeked out of the cell. The hallway was empty. He jogged down the passage, counting cells. From upstairs came the shouts and cries of men, the clash of steel. Tempted as he was to venture in that direction, his mind giving purchase to the hope that it might be his rescuers, he stopped at the fifth cell, and opened it.

A quick scan of the floor showed the fresh scrapes from a hidden door. Similar perusal of the wall revealed the switch. In the next minute he was within the sewer’s dark confines, at home with the incessant dripping of water and squeaks and squeals of its many denizens. Never before had the fetid stench been so sweet.

Spurred on by the thought of the execution, he began to run, memories of Delisar chasing him toward the Smear.

4
0

T
he Wrath Blade

A
mid the cries of the dead and dying, the clash of steel, the grunts of exertion, the march of booted feet, and jangle of armor, Leroi strode through the mansion on Jarina Hill. Ever since Curate Selentus had parted with his knowledge Leroi had waited. He had bided his time, struggling to hold back, struggling with the urge to confront the king, with his need to march on House Jarina.

And now was his chance.

Selentus’ reasons for unveiling his secret were beyond the count, but they mattered not. Too much of the story sounded like truth. Backed by the queen’s word, the revelation could not be denied. He pictured young Jaelen again, closing his eyes for scant moments, his body quivering as the image of Elaina superimposed itself over that of her son. Confronting her had revealed that the nightmares she suffered were of her ordeal, each of them seeming so real she had begun to believe them to be true.

Anger bubbled up at the thought, anger that this beast of a man, this creature, who without his title was little more than a dreg, would dare lays hands on Elaina. The thought sickened him. With it came more rage, such that he saw red. Wrath lent him strength, and with it he would slay all involved. If the Gods were just, today the king would fall to Hagarath and Fiorenta. If not, Leroi swore to see the deed done himself, no matter how long it took. But right now, at this very moment, his focus was solely on Shaz.

Men came at him, but they were nuisances. Whether to a sword or a meld, they fell. He left many screaming, bodies shriveled, armor melted as the fire of the Wrath Blade consumed them. Others avoided him, preferring to engage his Blades. He smiled cruelly. Witnessing a man clothed in flames could have that effect.

“Shaz!” he shouted, voice carrying above the din. “Show yourself you raping beast. Face me and pay for your crime.”

“Crime?” a soft-spoken Marish drawl asked. Shenen spun. Dressed in black, scarred face and arms masked by shadows despite the daylight, Shaz stood next to an archway. “All I did was repeat what your kind has done to those in the Smear for centuries, what you did to my sisters. It hurts, doesn’t it? The best part is that not once did she complain. She begged for it.”

Roaring, Leroi attacked. Flames lashed out from him, extending across the distance. Shaz was gone in a blur of darkness, like night leaping from one spot to another.

Leroi gritted his teeth, eyes tracking his enemy. Again and again he struck, the fire curling from him in the form of an unfurled whip, an extension of his Alchemist and Caster abilities. Shaz appeared to split, two forms darting in opposite directions. With a thought Leroi divided the end of his flame whip, changed its trajectory, and sent it hurtling after both.

As his meld met the resistance of both forms, a sense of satisfaction passed through Leroi. It changed to surprise the moment both blurred images burst into smoke. Realizing his error, Leroi banished his whip, instantly applying the properties of an iron shield to the nimbus of soul along his back, infusing it with the strength of a Dracodar’s scales.

Something slammed into him from behind. He was flung across the room, hurtling toward the wall. Transferring soul from his back to his front took nothing but a thought. He crashed through the wall amid a roar of tumbling rocks, broken wood, and debris. The taste of blood in his mouth was a reminder that despite his strength and the armor under his clothes, he could be hurt, even killed.

Calm yourself, fool. Your rage is a tool to be used wisely, not flailed around like some willful child.

Dust coiled in the air like a fine brown and white mist as he stood. He was in the middle of another room, this one larger than the first. Shaz stepped through the opening, smoke wrapped around him in a shadowy cloak.

“I’ve seen that skill before,” Leroi said.

“You should have. My father was known for it. He trained many of you nobles who made it to the rank of Blade.”

“Your father is Gothien the Shadow Blade?”

“Was.”

Leroi cocked his head to one side. Gothien had grown too old to serve in the armies or train the young ones. He’d been allowed to retire to a farm northwest of Keshan Dark.

“Ah, like so many others before you, you’re oblivious to the ruthlessness employed by your line of kings and by Far’an Senjin itself.” Shaz grimaced, the expression making an already morbid face even more grotesque. “Or you simply wish to play dumb.”

“What do you mean?” Leroi opened his vital points wide, drawing on the brunt of his soul. The power suffused him. Shaz was no untested student, but a melder of skill who would not be overwhelmed by sheer strength. Leroi had underestimated the man at the outset. He refused to make the same mistake twice.

“Your kings make believe the Blades are free men when they reach a certain age, giving them lands and titles.” Shaz’s lips curled. “Have you ever visited one of those homes? No? Well, if the Blade lasted long enough to have children, the wisemen paid him a visit, in the company of Blades, of course. They would test the man’s children, and if those children showed the needed strength in soul they were treated in the same manner as those on the Day of Accolades. I watched, hidden away as they took my brothers who would later die in wars. As for my father who once served the king loyally? Butchered and made a part of the Soul Throne to feed power to those who sit upon it.”

Leroi opened and closed his mouth. He meant to deny Shaz’s claim but he couldn’t. He’d felt the incredible power given off by the throne.

Shaz cracked his neck from one side to the other. “So, now you understand. I had to see you nobles suffer for what you did to my father; I had to see you kill each other, destroy the kingdom you coveted. Father gave his all and still it wasn’t enough.”

Despite his simmering anger, a part of Leroi felt for the man. “Neither my daughter nor I played a part in your father’s fate, so why her?”

“Opportunity?” Shaz shrugged. “You are all to blame, the nobles, the dregs, everyone. So, she deserved what she got. If it was up to me it would have been worse.” He licked his lips. “I can’t wait to take her again. And the next time I will let her know who is giving it to her when she yells to for me to go deeper.”

Leroi’s rage surged, the redness in his vision growing white. His single whip became a hundred. He would strip this monster’s skin from his body, peel back every layer until nothing but red was left.