Game of Souls (18 page)

T
he Undertow

C
arrying a bundle wrapped in cloth in one hand, Keedar surveyed the buildings. The main edifice in Pauper’s Circle was a reflection of the area: charred, shingles missing, wood rotted, with lifeless eyes for windows. Since the Night of the Blades, only the hardiest and most destitute still resided within spitting distance of the Circle. If the rest of the Smear was laden with refuse along the streets, then Pauper’s Circle was a veritable dump. And it reeked like one. The cold air helped dampen the stench, but not enough to prevent Keedar from feeling as if he’d spew his dinner. Garbage was piled so high a person would need to climb over to gain access to the alleys and buildings on the other side, unless they knew the citadel’s tunnels, specifically those within the Smear. With one last glance at where his mother had burned, Keedar took a deep breath, pulled a scarf up over his mouth, and entered the tunnel.

Once he ventured deep enough that darkness devoured him, he stopped. Inside the shaft felt colder than outside. He closed his eyes and concentrated, delving into his soul around his eyes, calling on
tern
. From pressure points around his body, he siphoned a miniscule piece of energy and added it to his eyes. Heeding his father’s warning about weakening other parts of his body when using
tern
, he compensated by making his
sintu
thicker, near solid.

When he opened his eyes, the tunnel appeared to have a dim glow. Not as bright as daylight or even an oil lamp, but it allowed him to see a few feet ahead in abject darkness. Tiny eyes by the hundreds glinted like glittering coals. He cringed at the number of rats before he set off. Water trickled down the walls, its tinkles an odd counterpoint to the rodents voicing their displeasure at his presence. He sloshed through all manner of filth, much of it writhing with its own life. More than once he kicked off rats that decided to take their protests another step further. They squealed then. When he reached where the tunnel split four ways, he headed to the left. Something bigger than a rodent splashed nearby. Keedar was glad for the partial darkness. If he’d seen whatever it was, he might have been inclined to flee. Instead, knowing the tunnels like he did, he trudged on.

He arrived at a blank wall blocking his path. Stretching his hands out, he felt around for where the wooden panel should be. In daylight, it looked like any other part of the wall. Once he located the piece, he rapped three short times, followed by two more, and then another three. Nothing changed about the surface in front of him, but he got the distinct sensation that he was being watched. Bumps raised on his skin.

Moments passed filled with the drip, drip of water, the splashes from the sewer’s dwellers, rats’ squeaks and squeals, claws scrabbling on stone, his breathing, and the nauseating stench. The grind of well-oiled gears joined the noises, followed by a low rumble. Slowly, the wall slid to one side.

A long hallway stretched before him like a road to one of the purgatories. Torches in sconces threw light along its length, but even they weren’t enough to defeat the shadows that capered with the crackling flames. Dressed in deep blue, silent guards hugged the spaces between each torch. The insignia of a ship glinted on their lapels.

Without his night vision, they would have fit the descriptions of the Hells’ Angels waiting to escort the condemned. With it, they were members of Father’s guild: the Shipmen.

Keedar stepped inside. The wall closed behind him.

“Yes, Martel, I know you’re there,” Keedar said, voice echoing.

An indistinct blur on his right became the Sword, who called the Undertow his home. The man’s prowess in stealth was second only to some of the Blades.

Martel dipped his head. “I still say it isn’t fair that one as young as you should be able to see or sense me so easily. Even Delisar has trouble.”

Keedar had no intention in telling the man it was no easy feat. Instead, he shrugged. “Some people are better at some things than others. Isn’t that what you and Father always say when you’re teaching me?”

“Your arrogance doesn’t help either.”

Keedar bowed. “I learned from the best.”

Martel’s teeth flashed in the dark. “Indeed, you did. Well, let’s not keep your father waiting.” They headed deeper into the Undertow.

Kasandar was a citadel built upon the corpses of many cities and with many lives. As above, the dead left their marks here in the Undertow. Metal and glass glinted from the walls around him. Statues peeked from among rubble, heralds of an era gone by. What they walked on might have been a street, the flagstones below them broken and crumbling. Keedar could picture a wide avenue and some king in his coach pulled by fabled ereskars, the giant beasts flicking their man-sized, round ears, swishing their tails, and baying as they lumbered on, each step an earthquake’s rumble. The Undertow was as much a part of the citadel as any other, with the folks of every race who couldn’t find a home above or lacked heat during the frigid winters, deciding to live within Kasandar’s ancient flesh like parasites. The farther away Keedar traveled from the sewers, the more the odors changed. Now, the air held a mixture of mustiness, rust, dry rot, and mold. A few hundred feet deeper, he picked out incense: saffron and a hint of jasmine to be exact.

“I see you’re ready for tonight.” Martel broke the silence. He nodded to Keedar’s choice of grey and black cloth in imitation of the Snakes. “I suppose that’s your change?”

Keedar held up the bundle. “The finest noble’s clothing a silver round could buy.”

Martel whistled. “You could have picked up some lovelies with that.”

“I could but then my father would have my head.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you do it. But to be honest, Delisar has no concept of fun. He lost that when …” Martel’s voice trailed off.

Knowing what the Sword was going to say, Keedar fell into silence. The last thing he needed tonight were thoughts and dreams of Mother. His father had assured him that the upcoming attack was the first major step in repaying those responsible for her death. Heart heavy, he let out a sigh. Perhaps tonight Father would begin to lift some of the weight, ease some of the burden and grief, the deep-rooted anger he carried like a mantle.

They turned off through an archway and into a side lane. The lighting here was so bright Keedar shaded his eyes. He released his
tern
, allowing his night vision to dissipate. It took a few moments for the effect to wear off, but when it did, they were in a well-illuminated area with roaring braziers and several structures, each converted from old ruins. Men and women in Shipmen garb bustled about purposefully, making last plans. Young boys ran back and forth with notes and messages from one section to another. A few acknowledged Martel with nods or quick bows.

When they reached the central room, Martel opened the door and ushered Keedar in. Oil lamps lit the room, and a brazier lent its heat. Books by the stacks leaned against walls, or were strewn across the tables and chairs. On one table sat a half-eaten meal. Father was poring over a map, pointing out something to several hard-eyed men. Each was dressed as a noble. The men nodded their understanding.

One man appeared to disagree. He was taller than the others, all muscle and sinew. White streaked his beard and mustache, his hair was snow, but Uncle Keshka’s disposition spoke of a younger man, one in his prime. A sword stood out in a scabbard on his hip, its hilt unremarkable. He and Delisar argued out of earshot. Finally, Uncle Keshka threw his hands up and stalked toward the door.

When he saw Keedar, his eyes narrowed. He drew abreast and looked him up and down like a drillmaster inspecting a raw recruit. Tenderness showed in his expression. “I pray he doesn’t make this mistake, son. If he does, there will be nothing but the sorrows for you. I’ll wait as long as I can.” Without waiting for a reply he left.

Keedar frowned at his uncle’s words. He looked from Father to the closed door and back again. Still confused, he walked over to Delisar.

“Right on time,” Father said before turning to his men, shaking each hand in turn, and watching them take their leave. “Martel, if you would be so kind to make sure I’m not disturbed.” Delisar rolled the map and tucked it under one arm.

“Yes, sir.” The Sword slipped from the room.

“Well,” Father’s gaze roved over Keedar, “I can’t say I like you in the Snake’s colors, but it has to be done. Remember—”

“I know, Father. Only stay as long as needed for you to use me as a locator. Are you certain the count will be unable to disrupt it this time?”

“I’ve taken extra precautions so rest assured.”

“What if something should go wrong?” As much as he hated the possibility, Keedar knew it had to be considered. Father always stressed trying to prepare for any eventuality.

“Then you head to Uncle Keshka’s without fail.”

“Through the pass?”

“Or by any other means.”

Keedar’s brows climbed his forehead. He hoped it would not come to such a choice.

Father strode over and hugged him. Taken by surprise, Keedar automatically returned the gesture. After a moment, Father held him away, peering into his face.

“This has been a long time coming, son. The road from here will only grow more dangerous. Your uncle argues against this, but we must make a stand now. This is the best time with the Day of Accolades soon upon us. If all goes well, in a few weeks, we’ll be well away from Kasandar and any troubles our people face. We’ll be returning one day, not as beggars or outcasts, hiding who or what we are, but as saviors, rescuing the kingdom from its greatest enemy.”

“Who? The Farlanders?”

Stories along the docks had increased of late, saying that the Farlanders had invaded along Marissinia’s eastern coast. Supposedly, they were unstoppable, having conquered every land across the Renigen Sea. More than one ship had returned from those ports bearing the news and the Farlands flag: an ereskar with a man atop. From all accounts, the creatures had died long ago. The sailors claimed the contrary, going so far as to state that the Farlanders rode the beasts like horses. Keedar was confident in the Blades’ ability to stop this threat. If the Marishmen, with their renowned swordsmanship, metal armor, and synchronized phalanxes didn’t defeat them, then the giant Thelusians surely would. Even then, there was still the Steppes of the World and the Bloody Corridor to cross.

“Yes and no,” Delisar answered. “First we rescue the kingdom from itself as your mother dreamed of doing.” His voice hardened. “The reason we suffer is because of the kingdom’s greed for more power rather than protecting the people. The willingness to kill, eradicate an entire race for personal gain, for something they were not born with. Unless, we let it be known that we’re no one’s meat, the trend will continue.” He paused. “Why do you think the Farlanders crossed the sea?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s for us. For what’s left of us. To exact revenge and claim the remainder of what they think they own. Today, we embark on a goal began centuries ago in preparation for their coming. Winning is the only way we survive. Anything less is death. Should we fail we become what you see down here,” Delisar pointed at the history books and old maps, “memories. Now come, there’s much you must learn about the box.”

R
ekindled Trust

M
uch had changed about the Golden Spires. Unlike Ainslen’s previous visit, King’s Blades by the hundreds, separated by rank, stood in neat rows along the causeway that led to the entrance.
Sintu
’s faint glow encompassed each of them. Along the wall carved from the same stone and metal as the towers, archers and lancers stood at attention.

A Blade approached, dressed in light leather armor similar to his counterparts. He bowed. “Count Cardiff, apologies for the delay. The king will see you now.”

Without a word to the man, Ainslen strode toward the massive gate. The guards stared straight ahead, as if oblivious to his presence, but he knew each one saw him and were ready to strike him down should the word be given. Adjusting his glasses with his forefinger, he smiled. Jemare was worried.

Although they appeared to be on good terms, Ainslen knew better than to think Jemare completely trusted him. He would be a fool to do so. Jemare was as shrewd as he was powerful. With the rumors planted to point at every house, the king would weed out each potential threat if he could. The latest ploy had been to divvy up the city in ten sections between the major houses. Those who produced the most for the king’s coffers found themselves in his good favor. The others? Not so much.

A Blade had visited the underachievers, those who did not maintain the required quota. On one such occasion, the Blade returned with the head of a prominent family member.

A neat method in which to rid oneself of enemies, Ainslen confessed to himself. Directly attacking any one the houses would have drawn the ire of all ten as well as Kasinia’s people and outlying lands. Such action might lead to an open rebellion larger than the king could hope to contain. Attempting to rule under force of arms without the people’s support had failed other tyrants in the past. Kasinia’s subjects respected Far’an Senjin and all it represented. The Dominion had always blessed whichever kingdom played it the best. For over a thousand years now, their light shone on Kasinia, and with it came prosperity.

The situation played into Ainslen’s plans as the weaker houses scrambled for outside resources provided by the Consortium. With Walker’s Row and the Smear itself falling under his thumb, he easily met the king’s needs. If he didn’t, he had his allies to rely upon for additional coin.

Deep in thought, Ainslen strode through the main courtyard. The majority of the sculptures had been removed, and people’s heads bobbed around the manicured gardens. Under the watchful eyes of older Blades, children progressed through rigorous training regimens, churning what were once thriving lawns into sandy patches, the grass brown and withered. Whether beaten with wood strips repeatedly to strengthen their bodies, contorted into extreme positions, or repeating a litany of exercises and forms, one aspect remained constant around each. Their souls were among the strongest Ainslen had witnessed in quite a few years. Where had the king discovered this new crop? Ainslen had sent examiners to every major town or village. He was certain of it. Deep in thought, he ascended the stairs, and entered the spires proper.

Troubled by the king’s recruitment, Ainslen could not help but notice the abundant guards along the main hall and its many offshoots. Not all were Blades, but they were melders. He absently waved away servants who bore dishes as was customary to any noble visiting Jemare. The scents from his favorite meats and fruits did little for his growing sense of trepidation. By the time he reached the throne room’s vast double doors, his stomach was in knots.

“Count Ainslen Cardiff of House Mandrigal,” an attendant announced.

The doors swung open, letting out the sweet aroma of various incenses that burned on the ten braziers lined on one side of the chamber. A carpeted colonnade spanned a hundred feet into the room. It ended at a short set of stairs that led up to the high seats. To Ainslen’s surprise, no other Blades or guards occupied the room. In fact, the chamber’s only inhabitants were four attendants, Queen Terestere, and the king. Ainslen refused the urge to frown at the emptiness, but the soft thud of his own footsteps sounded loud to his ears, a reminder that he alone approached Jemare. This was one of the few times Ainslen wished several of the other counts or nobles had been present. He expected Blades or guards to appear at one of the many shadowy archways beyond the open spaces on either side of the colonnade. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he strode forward.

King Jemare dwarfed the Soul Throne on which he lounged. In his embroidered shirt and pants, crown perched on his head, hair in neat silver braids, beard shaped in a triangular goatee, he appeared almost as imposing a figure as Ainslen recalled. Almost. As Ainslen approached, he could tell the man’s cheeks were a tad more withdrawn than he remembered a few months ago, shoulders not as chiseled in his fitted garb. If Ainslen expected the king’s face to be a mask of concern, what he saw there left him taken aback. Although Jemare attempted to give off an air of a man in full control, relaxed, carefree even, Ainslen couldn’t help but note the glint in the king’s eye, the slight tightening of his jaw, and a miniscule clench of his fists on the massive throne’s armrests. A second before Jemare wrenched his emotions into tranquility, his
sintu
flared with a subtlety that might have went unnoticed had Ainslen not been a master melder.

Queen Terestere, on the other hand, was as calm as the ocean on a windless day.

When Ainslen reached the stairs, he stopped, dropped to one knee on the lush carpets below him, and bowed. He kept his head down, not daring to breathe, all the while hoping whatever ill will the king harbored would be kept in check.

More than one king had succumbed to the pressures of Far’an Senjin in the past. One such monarch, Hemene, had called the counts to him in singular, private audiences such as this, slew them, and partook of their souls. He’d been known as the Hemene the Savage ever since. Hemene’s rule ended soon after as the entire city rose against him.

Not that Ainslen expected Jemare to be as brazen or as stupid as Hemene. The king was a formidable plotter. If he wanted Ainslen dead at this very moment, it would have to come in the form of a duel. In order for a king to duel one count, he had to battle all ten one after the other with the lesser houses also present. Jemare outstripped them all in single strength, but in the Empire’s history, no king had survived after delivering such a challenge.

“Rise, Count Cardiff.” The king’s smooth baritone echoed through the chamber.

As he complied, Ainslen made sure to meet Jemare’s gaze.
A man who cannot look you in the eye is a man with malice in his heart.
It was one of Jemare’s favorite sayings.

“You look well,” the king said.

“As do you, sire. And you, my queen.” Ainslen smiled and dipped his head to Terestere.

She nodded in kind. The gold circlet on her forehead stood out amid the raven wisps that framed her face. Ainslen could not recall a single time he ever had a sense of bad intentions from the queen. Her eyes, amber with a hint of green, always appeared kindly, even when she attempted to keep her expression neutral as she did now. In her presence, he could not seem to stop the slight increase in his heart rate. The few times he’d spoken to her at a ball or banquet had remained imprinted in his memory. The slight brush of her hand on his. Glances that promised a little more. A smile to make a man swoon. Her choice of ginger spice for perfume only added to the allure. She never made any advances, but he had the feeling she wished he was king.

“It feels longer that it has been since we last met, Ainslen.”

Heat rising in his face, Ainslen cursed himself for allowing the distraction. “Indeed, sire.”

Only a few months had passed since King Jemare had left with the counts from Serentar, Rendorta, and Coren Hills to meet with the envoys from Thelusia, Darshan and Marissinia. He’d also used the time to send word to the kingdoms in northern Kasinia. Near seven feet tall, the king had been as robust and steadfast as Ainslen remembered, a giant among his court. A shell had returned.

“I know that look in your eyes,” the king said as he clasped his hands. “No need to be concerned. I am as strong as the day I left, perhaps more so.”

“Yet something has you worried enough for me to notice.”

“Do you remember when we first fought the Kheridisians?”

Ainslen nodded. Both he and Jemare were young then, Blades in King Tolquan’s employ. At the edges of the Treskelin Woods, the brown-skinned Kheridisians had used mud to camouflage themselves as they lay in ambush for the Kasinian forces. Jemare had led his faction of Blades deep within the enemy ranks as if he hadn’t picked up on their presence through their
sintu
. When he neared the position of the strongest among them, he’d stabbed down into the soft earth. Blood pooled up. The Kheridisians had spilled from the ground and trees like an army of ants. Before they attacked, Jemare threw down his weapons and issued a challenge to their leader, a bear of a man with teeth chiseled to fangs.

The Kheridisians had a great respect for unarmed combat. They saw it as the Gods’ will in deciding who should lead them. A silly custom.

While dueling the Kheridisian, Jemare had used his skill as a Manifestor to create blades made from pure soul along his arms and hands. Although bigger, his opponent was no match. He died in flurry of slices. A simple enough act to kill an overconfident enemy. In essence, he had cheated, but the deed was done. The enemy army had broken, slinking away into the surrounding forest.

“We are to these invaders what the Kheridisians were to us back then,” the king declared.

Ainslen gasped. “They cannot possibly be that strong.”

“It’s the reason I ordered you here today, Ainslen … the reason I called the same audience with each Hill. We cannot afford Succession Day anytime soon. Some of the others do not agree, therefore I need to see where you stand.”

“I stand with the crown.” As much as Ainslen blamed King Jemare for his part in Marjorie’s death and for not curtailing the guilds long ago, he needed to convince the man of his loyalty. All else in due time.

“Good. With your visits from Shenen and Rostlin, I was beginning to wonder what you planned. To tell the truth, it was a bit troubling. For a moment, only for a moment, mind you, I considered lending my strength to the others.”

The king was letting Ainslen know he had men watching the count’s movements or spies within his home. Ainslen felt his lip twitch. He expected no less. “A man must consolidate his position, sire. Test the waters, if you will. We fought many a war together. I defended your life with my own as a Blade. As tempting as Succession is, Kasandar and Kasinia as a whole has thrived like never before under you. House Mandrigal, House Hazline, and House Antelen would like it to remain so.”

“And Count Cardinton?”

“House Jarina has its own designs.”

“I see.”

“I expect you to have your doubts, sire. However, I intend to show you just how much your rule means.”

Intrigued, the king’s eyebrows arched. “How so?”

“Only together can we hope to hold off the Farland invaders,
if
what is said of them prove to be true,” Ainslen said. He knew the reports were indeed correct.

“As I said before, if you doubt that they are formidable,” the king’s voice grew grave, “possibly capable of defeating us as they did the Dracodar, wielding weapons we have not seen before, then, let me confirm it for you now. Word arrived just today that Ernassa fell to them several weeks ago.”

“Impossible.”

“I have called all our allies to a meeting,” King Jemare said. “With you on my side, I may yet gain the support of all the Hills. These invaders have chosen an optimal time to stage a campaign against us. Right when the depths of the game point to a possible attempt at Succession Day. We must consolidate our forces. Thelusia and Marissinia will have to fend for themselves until we gather our strength.”

“Then the news I have should be even better received,” Ainslen said. “Through my contacts within the Consortium, I’m bringing in a prize to Kasandar, smuggled from King Lomas’ vaults deep in Kheridisia.”

King Jemare frowned. “You seem to be hinting at something that could give us the upper hand should these Farlanders defeat the Marishmen and the Thelusians. Few things exist with such power. I can only think of one in Kheridisia. And that was a rumor, as our incursion into their territory proved. Are you telling me differently?”

As the king’s eyes shone with greed and wonderment, Ainslen grinned. “You are exactly right, sire. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the rumor to be true.”

“Wait,” the king said in a breathy voice, “this is why you sent for so many Blades. And why your Thelusian abomination caused havoc in the Smear. Here I was thinking you were plotting against me …”

Ainslen allowed himself to appear hurt by the suggestion.

“I-I’m sorry, old friend.” Jemare’s face softened, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. “With everything that has transpired since these reports, I had no choice.” The apology was as genuine as any Ainslen had ever heard the king deliver.

“Forget all that, sire” Ainslen waved the king off. “The delivery will be here in a few months. It’s due weeks before the Day of Accolades, which is fitting. It will more than make up for the Blades I lost when I present it for bidding at the auction. Then we can make real plans, starting with a small Thelusian force I can employ.” Ainslen smiled as warmly as he could. “Since these Farlanders took Ernassa, I suggest we meet them in the field and not wait for them to besiege us. We can send word to King Menquan and the rest of Darshan. He should know of the attack by now. Have him mass his fleets. That should prevent an incursion up through the River Ost. There will be no need to beg for his help, and if he doesn’t see the urgency of the situation, and the threat to his own shores then he’s a fool. With those borders secure, we can dispatch our forces to defend the passes through the Whetstone and the Daggers.”