Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2) (3 page)

What sort of creatures hunt not to feed,
Xander thought,
but to torment their prey?
Only Thera’s demons, and the wicked men she inspired, indulged in such wanton cruelty.

The last sign of pursuit had come hours ago, and Xander thanked God for the blessed—though likely temporary—reprieve. But the steadily brightening eastern sky confronted him with a new dilemma. The warming air would soon turn the desert into a vast furnace sapping him of moisture and strength.

He could still hear his father's rebuke, yet his mother’s parable had sunk deeper roots in his heart. The clan had deemed Xander unfit to live among them? He would prove them wrong.
Abandoning me was their choice. I choose to survive.

Xander adjusted his shoes, wrappings, and cloak with the care of a soldier donning his uniform. He took stock of his resources. The results weren’t comforting. He’d lost his spear, and worse, the water skin and high energy cake that his people carried for such emergencies. Besides his clothes, he had only a canvas bag of small sundries. He tried to pick out signs of human presence like smoke from morning cook fires or birds circling over trash piles.

The barren sands extended in all directions, their golden surface pristine.

Weary from flight and thirst, Xander let himself fall backward onto the sandy slope. He stared skyward, ignoring his parched throat and pondering what to do next. Without food or water, reaching town was his only chance. The caravan had been within days of the pass that led to Medvia, but he had only a vague notion of how far he lagged behind.

The mountains should be near.
He could find wild game there, or even a spring. But now, scanning the empty horizon, Xander saw no sign of the weathered peaks that divided the Desert of Penance from the Desert of Immolation.

Xander sat up on the dune face with a grunt. He wrapped his arms around his legs and laid his stubbly head on his knees. A growing sense of dread told him that even if he reached the mountains, he would lack the strength to find food and water.

How can there be hope in such desolation?

Xander didn't immediately notice that his movements had caused a minor sand slide. He lay back and allowed himself to be carried down the gentle slope into the trough between dunes. Fine sandy streams poured over his shoulders and covered him to the neck.

Lying motionless at the dune’s base, Xander decided that this place was as good as any to wait out the worst of the heat. Resting until early afternoon would conserve his strength and leave enough daylight to cover a respectable distance. Recent experience warned him against traveling by night.

The weight of his fatigue had just closed Xander’s eyes when shrill chittering pierced his brain like a baling hook scraped over slate. He bolted to his feet, shedding a torrent of golden dust. That unholy sound had echoed overhead last night, driving on the frenzied pack. A chorus of howls joined the savage music. In the narrow trough between dunes, it seemed to emanate from all directions.

Though weaponless, Xander readied himself as best he could. He was too spent to run. His only chance was to remain still and hope that the threat passed him by. Almost unconsciously, he called upon his power to affect motion, wrapping himself in subtle layers of invisible protection. The act mainly served to ease his panic. Turning a clumsy spear thrust was simple; surviving now would be a miracle.

A lupine head leered down from the crest. It signaled to the pack with a howl that shook Xander’s bones. Black eyes studied him with calculating menace that banished all doubt of the wolf’s depraved intelligence. Xander lay transfixed like a mouse before a serpent, but the beast’s gaze proved less captivating than the three raw slashes that traversed the orbit of its right eye from brow ridge to cheekbone.

The time for stealth had passed. Xander struggled to free his legs from the sucking sand as the wolf charged toward him with slavering bloodlust.

Xander was sure that the man bounding down the opposite dune was an illusion born of thirst. The green-cloaked stranger hurtled down the slope, touching the sand only once to channel his momentum into a rolling leap that landed him before the wolf.

The beast sprang. Something like a mirror catching a red sunset flickered in the stranger’s hand. The stench of burned hair stung Xander’s nose. He watched in awe as black blood gushed from the wolf’s thick neck and shoulders. It belted an awful, despairing roar.

Xander’s amazement turned to shock as the wolf became a man wearing leather and furs. The two-skinned beast contorted ghoulishly in midair, slammed into the far dune, and lay still.

Staccato screeching filled the sky. The stranger leapt up the dune face toward the hideous cry’s source and vanished over the crest. He never looked back.

Xander gaped in disbelief.
Was that a malakh?
Does God protect me though his people cast me out?

A second wolf came galloping along the valley floor. It lunged at Xander, gnashing its snaggled maw.

The monster’s sudden charge left Xander too startled to do more than will the wolf away. The creature balked, checked by an unseen force that made the air before it thick as rock.

Xander’s shock yielded to deep-seated fear. His power had slipped the bonds he’d carefully laid upon it for years.
I must control it,
he thought, knowing the risks of failure.

The wolf raged against the pounding force that kept it from its prey. Xander watched in dismay as first one; then another forepaw twisted itself into a clawed arm that lurched forward and planted itself in the sand. With growing speed, the beast dragged itself toward him.

Mortal terror gripped the young Nesshin. The power begged to slip its leash, but he dared not let go. He fell to his knees, and the beast’s rank breath stung his gasping lungs.

Xander threw the last ounce of will not needed to contain his gift at the maddened wolf. The blow sent the monster skidding back, but it was an empty victory. With his strength gone, his foe would finally devour him.

Tribal lore held that God called to those near death. Xander just heard distant chittering followed howling—multiple savage voices raised in alarm.

The wolf’s conical ears perked up while its dark eyes held Xander in a timeless Void. Its tongue brushed across black lips. Then it turned and raced up the dune, once again on four legs.

Xander felt as if he were underwater. His eyes lolled heavily in a head packed with mud. Shaking, he tried to stand, and his muscles cried out in protest. Somehow he gained his feet and fled.

Damus Greystone woke in his suite at the Date Palm, Medvia's best attempt a hostelry. He squinted at the plain wall clock and saw that it was noon—high time he made another escape attempt. Instead he sighed in resignation, burrowed under the clean-scented sheets, and went back to bed.

But unwanted thoughts kept him awake.
She could still be out there somewhere in the ruins of this world, yet here you lie abed.
Warm sunlight poured through the windows and set the whitewashed walls aglare. Damus squeezed his eyes shut, but to no avail.

Damus rolled onto his back and cast his half-lidded gaze about the room. Besides the vigilantly ticking clock, an austere ceramic jug on a small shelf was the only ornament. The furnishings were equally sparse—just the bed, a full-length mirror in a wrought-iron frame, and a table with a ladderback chair. Lacking storage space, he’d draped his once fine coat over the chair and propped his rapier and bamboo flute against its arm.

Damus lay wondering what in the Nine Circles an enlightened Gen such as he was doing in such a stultifying town.
Ah yes. Our guides abandoned us.
Their cowardice rankled him worse than the superstition that had thwarted his bid to reach Ostrith from Vale.

At that moment Damus should have been mere days from Highwater. Instead, miles of desert lay between him and anywhere remotely promising. The likelihood of finding Guild artifacts in a backwater like Medvia approached zero. As for Guild prisoners, he’d do just as well searching back in Avalon.

Queen and country call,
Damus thought,
and blood makes even sterner demands.
The meticulous gears of his mind began turning, seeking a means of escape from his predicament.
If we could reach a Guild House on foot, and if the gate still worked…

“Damus!”

Shaken from his reverie by the gruff invocation of his name, Damus reflexively jerked his head toward the doorway. He parted the silver hair that had whipped across his eyes and saw an imposing humanoid figure. Red-gold fur covered the canine head and burly arms. A cuirass and sturdy leather breeches concealed the rest of the short but otherwise human form.

“Nahel,” Damus reproached his visitor, “didn't I tell you not to bother me unless it was important?”

Nahel’s gravelly voice complemented his doglike muzzle. “Yeah, you did. But it's—”

“Nothing you could say justifies invading my private quarters,” Damus interrupted. “I was contemplating the serenity of this fine afternoon until you shattered it.”

“Sorry,” Nahel began again, “but the queen wanted me to—”

“I know. Her Majesty charged you to guard her envoy on his errand. And God forbid we invite her displeasure. But would it vex you too sorely to knock?”

Nahel frowned. His spade-shaped ears swept back against his head, and the full weight of his amber gaze fell upon Damus. “I
did
knock. First soft; then hard.”

A recent memory broke into Damus’ racing train of thought. “Oh. That's right. I set a sleeping Mystery on myself when I retired last night.”

Nahel’s frown hardened into a grimace.

Damus met his companion's indignant stare, swept off his bed sheet, and sat up. “What? Sufficient rest is vital to my art. Inspiration often comes to me in dreams, and you know how raucous the late night crowd is. I may as well be sleeping in the bar!”

Nahel sighed and rolled his eyes. “Sorry. I'll know better next time.”

“No apology necessary. A little courtesy is all I ask.”

“Can I tell you why I’m here?”

Damus stood up and stretched. “If you must.”

“You know,” Nahel snorted, “time was a Gen could pray his whole life and never get a visit from a malakh.”

Damus clapped his furry friend's muscled shoulder. “I do appreciate your company, but it's natural that a sophisticate like me and a provincial such as yourself should sometimes be at odds.”

“I know you're not used to life on the road,” said Nahel. “I’m not exactly at home in this Stratum either.”

“It's been centuries since humans fraternized with your kind, let alone us Gen. Frankly, living in Avalon has detached us all from the Middle Stratum. Perhaps it’s best if you return home. Her Majesty may relax the travel ban if you ask nicely.”

“I doubt she’d take the risk if I came back empty-handed.”

Damus thought for a moment. “Agreed. Some word of her daughter or another old associate may cover readmission.”

Nahel pointed at him. “I meant
you
—the one I’m here to guard. Without me, you wouldn’t make it past lunch.”

“Of course. But tell me, Nahel. Doesn’t it bother you owing fealty to a—”

“Do you want me to tell you what's going on, or not?” the malakh interrupted.

“Certainly. Say on.”

“I’ve been poking around, even though you said, ‘The worst this flyspeck has to offer is late turndown service.’ I’m not so sure about this place. It’s quiet—like the buildings, the streets, and even the land are asleep.”

“Not that there’s much else to do here,” Damus said.

Nahel’s eyes moved from side to side as if the sunlit room held hidden foes. “I smelled something wrong when we got here. It’s like the air’s heavy; weighing everything down.”

“Nahel, do me the favor of climbing down from that lofty abstraction.”

“Sorry. It’s just that whatever’s sleeping might wake up, and we shouldn’t be here when it does.”

“‘We should leave Medvia’ is a tautology,” Damus quipped. “Sadly, it’s one we can’t act on, absent willing guides.”

The twin sheaths of Nahel’s blessed short swords slapped against his thighs as he approached the east window. His furry hands gripped the sill. “I was just talking to some of the Shrine Guard. They said there’s Nesshin in town.”

Damus sprang into motion, snatching up his possessions from the chair. “The Nesshin? That’s the best news you could’ve brought. If I can arrange passage with the tribe, we’ll be on our way first thing tomorrow!”

Damus had nearly finished buttoning his brocaded silk shirt when Nahel chimed in again. “The guards didn’t say it was
a whole tribe
; or even a clan. ‘A stranger wandered in from the desert—one of those Nesshin,’ was what they said.”

Damus’ brow furrowed as he thought. A moment later, his eyes shot open and focused tightly on his escort. “All may not be lost.”

“Don’t get carried away,” said Nahel. “He might be on his own.”

“The fact to keep in mind about nomads is that they’re, well,
nomadic
. A close-knit family structure is vital to desert-dwelling peoples. Therefore where you find one nomad you’ll invariably find others! Let’s greet this newcomer. We’ll at least get our foot in the tribe’s door.”

“You’ll get your foot in
something
,” grumbled Nahel.