Soulbinder (Book 3)
Read Soulbinder (Book 3) Online
Authors: Ben Cassidy
The Chronicles of Zanthora: Book Three
Soulbinder
By
Ben Cassidy
Copyright © 2012 by Ben Cassidy
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2012
Books in the Chronicles of Zanthora:
Redemption (Coming Soon)
Tales of the Two Rings:
Daughter of Llathe: A Tale of the Two Rings
Tales of the Two Rings: Volume 1
Tales of the Two Rings: Volume 2
Tales of the Two Rings: Volume 3 (Coming Soon)
To join an email update listserv for future releases, contact:
Dedicated to Michael and Mark,
my Maklavir and Joseph
Contents
Chapter 1
Kendril always hated having to kill someone. Especially before breakfast.
He pressed the barrel of his flintlock pistol a little harder into the cheek of the person before him.
The man looked back at him in terror, his face smashed against the wooden boards of the tavern wall.
He didn’t look nearly so tough now, Kendril thought. Considering the poor fool was a trigger’s pull away from a messy death, Kendril couldn’t really blame him.
The room was deathly silent. The table and chairs still lay haphazardly on the ground where they had been thrown, while the dirty floor boards were covered with the yellowed playing cards that had been sent flying moments before. Poker chips lay scattered everywhere.
By the frost-covered window another man was getting to his feet, a knife at his belt half-drawn.
Only half-drawn, because Kendril’s other hand held a second flintlock pistol aimed at his head.
“Kendril,” said a voice from behind him, “for the love of Eru put those guns away.”
Kendril shifted his eyes back and forth between the two men he held at gunpoint. “Stay out of this, Maklavir.”
Brushing himself off, Maklavir rose to his feet, giving a heavy sigh. He was a tall man, immaculately dressed in fine silk clothes with a purple cape and a prominent silver buckle on his belt. Dark hair and a sharply-trimmed goatee accentuated his face, while a sword that looked as if it hadn’t seen much use was fastened to his belt.
His friend was far different in appearance. Draped around Kendril was a long, weather-stained black cloak, with a hood that covered his head. Along with the two pistols he held in his hands, the hilts of two short swords glistened from underneath the folds of his cloak. His boots were spattered with mud and snow. Black gloves covered his hands.
“I was handling this just fine,” said Maklavir sourly.
The man by the window shot the purple-caped man a hate-filled look. “You’re a dirty liar and a cheat.”
Maklavir spread his hands in frustration. “I told you, I wasn’t cheating. You were just playing badly, that’s all. Now look, maybe we—”
“You’re a dead man, ambassador,” snarled the man with the pistol against his cheek. His eyes shifted warily back to Kendril. “And so are you. We have friends in this town.”
Maklavir sighed, looking down at a trampled card on the ground. “
Diplomat
, not ambassador. And I’m not even that any more. Look, can’t we just talk about this?”
The man by the window looked over at Kendril. His hand tightened on his dagger. “You picked the wrong fop to help, stranger. You must have a real death wish.”
Maklavir replaced a cap with a bouncing yellow feather on his head. “Actually, he
does
have a death wish. He’s a Ghostwalker.”
If it was even possible, the two men’s faces paled a little bit more.
“A Ghostwalker?” stammered the man against the wall.
“You’re lying,” snapped the other one.
“Care to find out?” said Kendril.
There was another moment of agonizing silence.
Finally, the man against the wall dropped his sword with a clunk.
With a resigned scowl the man by the window let his dagger fall back into its sheath, then pulled his hand away.
Kendril took a step back, his pistols still leveled at both men. “Now both of you get out, before I decide to redecorate in here.”
With a silent look of rage at the Ghostwalker, they shuffled through the door out into the bustling common room of the tavern.
Kendril watched them carefully until they disappeared out the front door into the frosty morning air. Giving a satisfied sniff, he re-holstered his pistols.
“What in the Halls of Pelos was
that
?” said Maklavir as soon as they had gone.
Kendril gave his friend a surprised look. “What was that? That was me saving your life. The big one already had his sword out, for Eru’s sake.”
Maklavir angrily grabbed one of the wooden chairs and set it back upright. “I told you I had it under control. Until you came in here, that is, waving those confounded firearms of yours around—”
Kendril’s eyes glowered darkly. “Those ‘confounded firearms’ just saved your life, you pompous windbag. Two more seconds and you would have been dead on the floor.”
Maklavir set the table back up with a stifled groan. “Oh, I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. Any winnings I might have gotten are gone either way. I don’t suppose
you
managed to procure any coinage last night?”
The Ghostwalker scowled, then glanced at the busy street outside the window. “No.” He gave Maklavir a side look. “So
were
you cheating?”
“No,” said the diplomat coldly. “I told you before, Kendril, I don’t cheat.”
The young man in the black cloak grunted. “Right.”
They moved back into the common room of the tavern. The place was large, with long rectangular tables running down the center of the room. A fireplace stood against the far wall, with a nondescript painted landscape hung above it. A bar ran across the wall to their right, and the tavern owner and his assistant were busy delivering breakfast to people seated at the tables. Illuminated in the gray morning light streaming in through the windows, the tavern had the vaguely dirty, unsophisticated look of a hundred other taverns in a hundred other small towns.
Kendril had seen enough of them to last a lifetime.
They moved around one of the larger tables, avoiding a man who was tearing furiously into a stale loaf of bread. No one seemed too concerned about the scuffle that had occurred just minutes ago back in the card room, but that didn’t particularly surprise Kendril. Stefgarten was filled with miscreants and vagabonds of every description, and fights in this town seemed fairly common. He had seen two break out in the street in as many days. One had ended with a man getting killed.
It was all rather typical for a little border town like Stefgarten. The refuse from both Merewith and Valmingaard seemed to congregate here, looking for a place to trade furs, drink booze, and play cards where no pesky officials would bother them. Technically, Stefgarten was in the borders of the Empire of Merewith, but Merewith was fractured and divided into countless duchies and baronies. The Emperor in the capital city of Varn did not have much actual authority over many of the outlying provinces. Kendril didn’t know what petty lord held sway this close to the border of Valmingaard, and frankly he didn’t really care. Whoever it was had obviously given up any attempt to govern this backwater little town, and Kendril couldn’t much blame them. Stefgarten wasn’t exactly the kind of place worth caring about, much less fighting for.
The sooner they got out of here, he thought for the hundredth time, the better.
“Well,” said Maklavir, shaking his depleted coin purse miserably. “I suppose we have enough for breakfast, anyway. Might as well start the day on the right foot.”
Kendril rubbed his eyes wearily as they sat down at one of the long tables close to the fireplace. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
“Yes, well eat up, because this is probably the last meal we’ll have for a while, not to mention beds for the night. I can only hope Joseph and Kara are having better luck than we are.”
Kendril leaned back in his chair. He watched the thin crowd in the common room warily. “They certainly can’t be having much worse.”
“No,” said Maklavir with a sigh. “They certainly can’t.” He looked up as a tavern maid came up to the table.
“What’ll it be, gents?” she announced.
The diplomat gave a disarming smile. “Your beauty is enough for me, my dear.”
The maid giggled, her cheeks blushing slightly.
Kendril rolled his eyes. “Bread and cheese for me,” he said. “And an ale.”
Maklavir gave his companion a sharp look. “It’s nine o’clock in the morning, Kendril.”
“You indulge in your vices, Maklavir,” Kendril replied with a quick glance at the wench, “and I’ll indulge in mine.”
The diplomat shook his head, then smiled up at the girl again. “Bread and cheese for me as well, my dear, though plain water will suffice.”
Batting her eyes one more time at Maklavir, the maid turned back to the bar.
Kendril folded his hands together on the surface of the table. “Do you have to do that all the time?”
Maklavir rubbed his hands together, looking up in surprise. “Do what?”
“Flirt with every woman who gets within fifty feet of us. It’s annoying.”
The diplomat glanced up at the painting above the fire. “I find that flirting is a rather necessary prerequisite when it comes to enjoying the company of a beautiful woman.”
Kendril crossed his arms. His eyes wandered to a bearded man at the next table. “Here’s a thought. Maybe for once you could
forgo
the company of a beautiful woman and leave us all in peace.”
Maklavir looked over at his friend. “Just because you’ve made a silly vow never to touch a woman doesn’t give you the right to deny others the same.” He cocked his head. “You’re unusually nasty this morning. Anything you want to talk about?”
“With you? No.” Kendril’s eyes followed the tavern maid as she returned to their table with their food and drinks.
“Thank you,” said Maklavir with another smile. He pressed a coin into the lady’s hand. “And this is for you. A small price to pay to view such a lovely face.”
She smiled again, hesitating for a long moment before she turned quickly back to the bar.
Kendril grabbed the handle of his ale mug. “Want to give away any more of our money?”
Maklavir shrugged and picked up his bread. “Tavern maids make next to nothing, Kendril. A little tip won’t hurt.”
The Ghostwalker lifted his mug sarcastically. “Here’s hoping you make it into her bed, then. I’d hate to think that coin was wasted.”
Maklavir took a bite of his bread and gave Kendril a cutting look. “My, my, you’re positively vitriolic.”
Kendril took a long draught of the ale, then set the mug back down on the table. “Why shouldn’t I be? We’ve got no money, we haven’t heard from Joseph or Kara in three days…” he glanced down suspiciously at his drink, “and this ale has more water in it than the Arneth River.”