Soulbreaker (28 page)

4
1

R
ipples In A Pond

“H
e’s moving,” Winslow said through the ice that caked his mustache. He stopped under an alcove and pulled back his hood. They’d been making their way toward the Ten Hills when the tiny glob in his mind that represented Keedar changed location. Before they left Martel’s house the men had showed him a map of Kasandar. With his knowledge of its streets he’d pinpointed Keedar’s former location on Jarina Hill. The map was now part of an image he could dredge up, the meld he used on Keedar a small dot on its surface.

“Where to?” Keshka asked.

Winslow squinted out into the swirling snow. “Heading south, across the city.”

“Deadman’s Gap,” Keshka declared with a hint of finality.

“Why there,” Winslow asked.

“It’s the execution site.”

A knot formed in Winslow’s stomach. He tried not to think of his father or brother, but he failed miserably. All he could picture was not only Delisar’s death, but also Keedar’s.

“We’re here.” Martel pointed at a sign, partially covered in hoarfrost. It read: Misori’s Stables, best horses in the Quarter. He was wearing the full uniform of a marshal of the watchmen, forest green with a red stripe down the sleeves, a pin on his breast declaring his station.

Within minutes the four of them were racing through Kasandar, cloaks billowing out behind them. They avoided the main avenues out of the River Quarter while weaving their way through the flow of traffic toward Deadman’s Gap. Winslow expected to be stopped at any moment, but the watchmen they met simply waved them on, some even clearing the way.

When they encountered the massed crowds several streets before the Gap they worked their way around them, circling until they’d crossed onto the opposite side of the avenue that separated the Smear from the rest of Kasandar. The din of voices was such that Winslow could not hear whatever it was Keshka was saying. When the others dismounted, he followed suit. Keshka indicated for him to lead. A sense of urgency cloying at him, Winslow took off at a run, focused on his brother’s location.

As they drew closer, Winslow slowed, noting the presence of Blades sprinkled among the crowds of bystanders. He dipped into an alley. The others followed.

“That building across the way. He’s somewhere in it.” Winslow nodded toward the ten-story brick structure.

“The roof,” Keshka said. “He’ll be on the roof.”

Winslow allowed himself a smile as he remembered Keedar’s recollection of his love for Kasandar’s rooftops.
“It’s like you can see the world from up there. See how the city came to be, and everything else around it. One day, when all this is done, I’ll draw a picture of how it looks.”

“Martel, you stay down here. Winslow and Stomir, with me.” Keshka headed across the street. He acted like any other person trying to attend the execution.

Winslow did his best to imitate his uncle, but his heart beat faster with each step. Martel spoke to one of the watchmen near the structure, pointing farther down the street. The guard nodded and hurried in that direction. Martel took up the man’s post.

By now the tracking meld was pulling Winslow, a huge knot in the back of his mind. They entered the building’s lamplit interior, made their way to the stairs, and ascended. Winslow’s heart beat faster the higher they climbed.

They were perhaps four flights up when the sound from the crowd changed. No longer was it shouts of approval. He could distinctly hear screams. The building shook with the noise of thousands of running feet.

“Hurry,” Keshka yelled. They ran the rest of the way to the roof.

They burst from the dimly lit, stuffy interior into the open air of the rooftop. Winslow shielded his eyes against a gust that pelted him with snow. Below them was chaos, people running in every direction, the surge of bodies moving outward like ripples in a pond. Over the din came the clash of steel on steel.

At the edge of the roof, facing Deadman’s Gap, Keedar crouched in dirty leathers and furs that were collecting a coat of white. Winslow followed the direction of his brother’s gaze.

Up on a platform at the Gap, five men fought. A woman and the Ebon Blade stood off to one side. Soul spilled from the combatants, its luminance brilliant. Three shone more than the others, and it took only a moment for Winslow to comprehend that those three were the king.

Loathing surged within Winslow, stronger than any he’d felt when he thought Ainslen was his father. He wanted to leap from the roof and charge Ainslen, plunge his dagger into the king’s chest. This man had taken his past from him, his family.

Family. A corpse on the lower platform drew Winslow’s gaze. It was headless. He gasped.

“Father,” Winslow whispered, voice distant to his own ears. “Oh, Gods, they killed him. No. No. No.” Although he had not known Delisar well or for long, it still felt as he’d lost a part of himself, as if a hole had been carved into his stomach.

“The man they executed,” Keedar said, “was not Delisar.”

At first the words did not register, but when they did, they resonated with truth. The gut-wrenching sensation of a loved one’s death became a faint glimmer of hope. “If that isn’t him, then where is he?” Winslow scanned the frenzied mass of people below, trying to calm his emotional tumult.

“If he still lives, Delisar is most likely guarded by the same type of melders who wounded me,” Keshka said. He was staring at the battle on the platform. “Stomir, take them to one of our ships, and then to the Blooded Daggers as planned. Tell Martel to ensure no one stops you.”

“I came this far,” Keedar said, voice soft. He too had eyes only for the king and the men below. “I won’t abandon Delisar now.” He stood and faced Keshka, expression defiant.

“The melders I speak of wield the
quintessence
.” Keshka regarded Keedar with a gaze that could break rocks. “They almost killed me. Both Delisar and myself taught you better than this. Bravery is one thing. Utter stupidity is quite another. You
will
go with Stomir. The question is if you wish to do so consciously or not.”

“I—”

“Before you say another word, take a look at the men down there.”

Slowly, Keedar diverted his attention to the battle. Winslow followed his gaze. The men fought with a speed that made them little more than blurs of violent action. One man was some eight feet tall by Winslow’s estimates, muscles bulging. The soul emanating from them was incandescent, a vibrant radiance that scoured their bodies. He’d never witnessed such power.

“Those men are all infused with Dracodar soul,” Keshka said. “Pair that with their experience of melding. Do you think you could best them?”

A long moment passed before Keedar answered. “No,” he finally said, shoulders slumped.

“
If
, and I say
if,
because the king’s power is an ominous sign to the contrary …
if
Delisar lives, men as powerful as those three will have him in their custody. Take in what you see below. Remember it. You must strive to surpass their skill in order to prevent men like them from breeding our people like cattle.” He paused. “Now, go. There is much for you to do in the days and weeks to come.”

“You’re not coming with us, are you?” Keedar asked, attention still riveted on the platform.

“No. I have something to see to.” Cold determination resided in Keshka’s voice.

Keedar turned away from the roof’s edge. He strode up to Keshka and threw his arms around him. “Be wary of the shackles they use. It inhibits soul. Only by using
lumni
was I able to escape. Make sure you return. I cannot afford to lose two fathers.” The wetness in his brother’s eyes brought tears streaming down Winslow’s face.

4
2

T
he Wind Blade

K
ing Cardiff unleashed a constant barrage of attacks from the two versions of himself. Not once did he falter or relent. Despite his numerical advantage he could not allow the counts the offensive. Facing both of them at once would be too much. Luckily, his replicas needed no defense. They were pure soul. Any cut or stab incurred from Hagarath or Fiorenta amounted to nothing more than a slight dissipation of the thick essences from which they were formed, immediately replaced by a new infusion.

Yet, he had not landed a killing blow. Blood dripped from a myriad of small wounds on both counts, but their faces were masks of determination as they fought. Neither appeared particularly weakened, while Ainslen could feel his strength ebb with each sustained meld. The power within him still felt fathomless, but the soul itself was depleting like any other.

No. Not like any other. Faster. If Delisar experienced this, how was it that he’d fought so long on Succession Day, particularly against Sorinya?
Ainslen shook off the thought. He would address it later. For now, he must concentrate on his foes. This fight had to end soon, and in spectacular fashion for it to have the desired effect. That meant embracing risk.

Ainslen leaped toward Hagarath with all the speed of the wind at his disposal, his manifested sword glowing white. He was a storm that whipped and spun from a multitude of directions. When he launched this attack, the king sent both his replicas at Fiorenta’s giant form.

Hagarath’s own red soul blade rose to meet Ainslen’s in a blur of movement bettered only by the greatest Magnifiers. No metallic ring echoed when the weapons clashed, just a steady reverberation like bundled lathes striking each other, playing a rhythm only another swordsman would hear or appreciate. Each parry made it appear as if Hagarath had several arms. The count shifted and ducked to avoid a few cuts, the long single braids of his beard and hair flying about him like rope.

Faster and faster Ainslen attacked, his sword an extension of his arm. Gone was the thrill he experienced when he battled Jemare. He was cold, a shell, this battle a means to an end, the coming death an example that had to be set. He added Sorinya’s strength to his strikes, driving his opponent before him.

Until Hagarath simply stopped.

The count stood there, face a sweaty mask, turning away each stroke as if they were mere practice swings. At the last moment Ainslen changed a slice into a thrust with a twist of his wrist. Instead of parrying, Hagarath shifted slightly, the blade plunging into his shoulder. They were so close Ainslen smelled the stink of the man’s breath. The smile became a grin. Hagarath’s free hand delivered a blow to the king’s midsection.

Ainslen just managed to augment his frontal defenses with the entirety of his soul. Still, despite protection that could withstand an avalanche, the punch flung him backward across the platform. Body twisting in midair, he stuck out his hand, magnified by soul, and pushed off the wooden surface into a neat somersault, reversing his direction. He landed on his feet. Ainslen coughed, mouth thick with the bitter taste of blood.

Across the way, Hagarath pointed his red sword at the king. The wound in the count’s shoulder was already closing, metal glinting through the layered clothing. Squinting, the king made out scales. Hagarath’s fusion with his recently acquired Dracodar remains had completed, accounting for the increased power he displayed since Ainslen defeated him on Succession Day.

The count’s soul expanded in a sudden burst. Instead of luminescent smoke it took on a more solid appearance, its edges becoming like flames. And then they were flames, red and yellow and orange, licking out from Hagarath. Snowflakes melted even before they touched the count’s meld, dissipating when they encountered his nimbus’ distorted haze.

Ainslen had seen such an effect before. It was favored by Casters trained in the arts passed down by Myron the Sun Blade. Instead of making their soul into actual fire, which was possible, but took three times the power, the melders created two layers. The outer one was a manifestation of oil or tar, while the inner was a pocket of protection against the heat. Creating a spark, they set the flammable layer alight.

Hagarath folded his arms, chest high. Globes of fire slowly rose from him, hundreds of thousands of them, like raindrops in reverse, but in various sizes, some as big as a fist. He flung his hands outward. An enraged roar escaped his mouth. The globes shot toward the king, sizzling the air, fiery hail leaving a smoking trail.

Calling on his Alchemist abilities, Ainslen pushed a thin meld from his feet into the wooden floor and the ground below it. He magnified the muscles in his legs to increase their power a hundred fold. As the globes raced to within a foot of striking him, their heat distorting the air, Ainslen leaped high above them, the thin meld extending below him like rope.

In the same instant, he enlarged his Wind Blade into a massive half-moon shape, its edge so refined that it could slice through a hair. He flung it down at Hagarath with the strength of twenty men. Light, though the weapon was, it spun end over end, its speed such that it appeared as a complete silver and blue circle, each revolution releasing a swoosh of sound that grew faster and faster until they were near inseparable.

The count had already launched a secondary attack, but the Wind Blade sliced a path through the fiery globes, and left flames licking out in every direction. Hagarath darted to the side and summoned a third volley even as the Wind Blade cut through empty space where he’d stood. A smile spread across the count’s features. The Blade sheared a swath into the platform before arcing off into the air, its speed slowing until the weapon hovered in place.

The third volley hissed through the air toward Ainslen. He made his body several times its normal weight. The tether he’d attached to himself stopped him in midflight, and then yanked him back to the ground, the globes singing his hair as they came within inches of burning holes through his body. Ainslen landed, weight adjusted so as not to crash through the floor.

A fourth collection of fiery globes formed around the count. The king yanked on his tether. The end that had traveled underground past Hagarath shot up to connect to the Wind Blade. The manifested weapon abruptly reversed direction and sliced neatly through Hagarath. Ainslen caught the weapon by its handle.

Hagarath’s flames guttered and went out. The globes vanished as the soul that powered them dissipated. The count’s torso slid from atop the lower half of his body, hitting the floor with a thud. His legs fell to one side.

As he turned to face Fiorenta, Ainslen’s control over his two replicas waned. His vision doubled before merging once more. Gritting his teeth, he tightened his grip on his six-foot weapon and strode toward the count. The king dismissed the two copies.

Fiorenta bellowed something guttural. His mass increased, the floor bending, wood splintering. He grew an additional six feet or more, a behemoth of a man. The platform beneath him crumbled, shaking the entire structure.

Undaunted by the transformation, Ainslen took off, sprinting toward the count. He thought to fling his Blade, but he doubted the effect it would have. Instead, Ainslen threw open his vital points wider than he ever had before. The flow of soul threatened to swallow him.

Spectacular
, he reminded himself.
This kill must be even more spectacular
.

With a roar, Fiorenta drew back a great soul-enhanced fist, took a step forward, and punched down. His hand tore through wood and into the ground below with a quaking boom. Again and again his fists rose and fell, one, two, three, four times. The impacts crashed above all other sound. Stone, earth, and wood surged forward, a roiling wave of debris taller than a man, ripping the platform apart.

Legs pumping, Ainslen again reduced his weight. At the last moment before the first piece of the wave’s debris struck him, he hopped onto a flying bit of rubble, and then to another, and another, like a man picking his way across stones in a pond. He became a blur of motion, momentum building as he raced across the wave. Half the distance to Fiorenta, Ainslen pushed off a boulder, vaulted up into the sky, increased his weight a hundredfold, and descended, his Wind Blade cleaving the air for a killing stroke.

A foot from the count, the soul blade stopped cold, held in Fiorenta’s great fist of pure soul.

Ainslen smiled. The Wind Blade changed. One instant it was a half-moon sword and the next it was a manifested firebreather. Fiorenta’s brow furrowed as he stared down the gaping, black barrel. The weapon thundered. A ball of soul tore through flesh and skull.

The resulting explosion ripped into the ground, blasting Ainslen into the air just as he again made himself weightless. Debris hurtled toward him. His weapon became a blade once more. Arm flickering, he sliced through wood and stone alike before they struck him. Bits of splattered flesh were all that remained of Fiorenta.

Still facing the carnage, Ainslen drifted down like fluff. When he landed among the shattered parts of the platform, dust and smoke choked the air around him. He applied the properties of the wind to his soul, built it within himself like the pressure of a boiling pot, and just when the sensation became unbearable, he blasted the soul away. Smoke and dust cleared, spreading in a circle with him at the center. All around him, the fighting had stopped.