Shaman of Souls Read online

  Copyright © 2021 R.M. Wilshusen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Sidhe Publishing LLC

  Print ISBN: 978-1-7370165-0-2

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-7370165-1-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021907401

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1 The Outcasts

  Chapter 2 The Seeker

  Chapter 3 The Soldier

  Chapter 4 The Outcasts

  Chapter 5 The Seeker

  Chapter 6 The Outcasts

  Chapter 7 The Soldier

  Chapter 8 The Seeker

  Chapter 9 The Outcasts

  Chapter 10 The Soldier

  Chapter 11 The Seeker

  Chapter 12 The Outcasts

  Chapter 13 The Soldier

  Chapter 14 The Seeker

  Chapter 15 The Outcasts

  Chapter 16 The Soldier

  Chapter 17 The Fallen

  Chapter 18 The Citadel

  Chapter 19 The Outcasts

  Chapter 20 The Soldier

  Chapter 21 The Citadel

  Chapter 22 The Outcasts

  Chapter 23 The Soldier

  Chapter 24 The Citadel

  Chapter 25 The Outcasts

  Chapter 26 The Soldier

  Chapter 27 The Citadel

  Chapter 28 The Outcasts

  Chapter 29 The Soldier

  Chapter 30 The Outcasts

  Chapter 31 The Citadel

  Chapter 32 The Soldier

  Chapter 33 The Outcasts

  Chapter 34 The Citadel

  Chapter 35 The Soldier

  Chapter 36 The Outcasts

  Chapter 37 The Citadel

  Chapter 38 The Soldier

  Chapter 39 The Outcasts

  Chapter 40 The Citadel

  Chapter 41 The Soldier

  Chapter 42 The Outcasts

  Chapter 43 The Citadel

  Chapter 44 The Soldier

  Chapter 45 The Apprentice

  Chapter 46 The Outcasts

  Chapter 47 The Citadel

  Chapter 48 The Soldier

  Chapter 49 The King

  Chapter 50 The Shaman

  Criske Val-Zhang let out a yawn as he pulled on his boots, making sure that they were securely on his feet by stamping some feeling into his toes. Even though it was early summer, the nights were far too cold for his comfort. “I hate patrol day,” he mumbled to no one in particular. Regardless of his own feelings, he stood, ensuring his uniform was in order, his thick truncheon and knife in his belt. He tossed on his cloak and flipped the hood up to hide his ears.

  Despite how much he hated patrol day, he couldn’t afford to miss the extra coin.

  Shuffling over to the end of the barracks, he ran his finger down the long wooden board near the entrance to check the sheet that listed who his patrol partner would be for the day. After finding his own name, he scanned over to the person next to him. “Henrik…Ihvihlan?” Criske tried to wrap his mouth around the name, fighting the fog of in his mind.

  “Oh. A Dwarf. Great.” He had never worked with this particular Dwarf before. Most of the Dwarves he met were silent, brooding types. They said nothing to him while on patrol. They were too busy scanning the crowds like bloodhounds trying to sniff out a blood trail. No doubt about it, this was going to be a long shift. Especially since he had a double today.

  “Ah! Greetings, Khlanro. I see you are already set to go this morning!” Criske jumped and turned, a hand reflexively going to his knife. He slowly eased his hand off the hilt when he saw the speaker. Facing him was a rather unusual Dwarf. His face was clean-shaven, his long and curly black hair plaited in a braid that hung partway down his back. He was rather tall for his race, just over five feet, though he was still around half a foot shorter than your average female Elf. His chocolate-brown eyes were bright with excitement and far too much enthusiasm for this early hour. He stepped forward, extending an arm that was covered in scars and muscle. Whoever this was, he had clearly been well fed when he was younger.

  “I am Henrik Ihvihlan. I will be your patrol partner for today.”

  Criske extended his thin, comparatively delicate hand and grasped Henrik’s. “Criske Val-Zhang. Pleasure,” he said cautiously. “You ever done a morning patrol?”

  Henrik nodded, staring at Criske’s face with an air of detached curiosity. Then his face lit up in recognition. “Ah. So you are the Half-Elf in our unit!”

  Criske yanked his hand out of Henrik’s. “What’s it to you?” he asked coolly.

  “I heard that you were quite the patrolman. I was hoping I could pick up some pointers from you. I am rather new to the city.” Henrik raised his hands in a mollifying gesture. “I meant no disrespect.”

  The Half-Elf looked at his new partner, unsure how to process the statement, before finally saying, “Alright. Let’s go. We can’t afford to be late to the merchant’s district. There’s always activity going on there.”

  With a swish, Henrik put his cloak on in one smooth motion. It had multiple stains and had clearly seen wear and tear. New to the city he might be, but whoever Henrik was, he wasn’t unaccustomed to harsh weather and long travel. Not a bad trait for a fellow Guardian to have.

  “Are you one of those already-trained guys?” Criske asked as they headed out of the barracks. The sun was already rapidly starting its climb, the very top of the celestial disk braving the horizon and entering a new day.

  Henrik laughed. “Yes. I am. Though that isn’t uncommon in my Khlanriir, for those of us who join. We can’t afford to let down the Trifecta.”

  “How were your marks for basic training?” Criske asked. It was time for an honesty check. If his partner was going to hang him out to dry, he’d prefer to know now, instead of when he was stuck with a knife in his back.

  “My marks were relatively high. Though, I heard a rather terrifying girl from the Human Territories surpassed everyone with relative ease. I had hoped to score higher, but that just means I’ll have to put in more work than the rest of them when I’m on actual duty.” He clapped Criske on the shoulder. “That is why I need to learn from my betters, no?”

  Criske felt the knot in his stomach ease slightly. This one was kind of stiff, but at least he seemed more levelheaded than most. Regardless, he would have to do. The walk through the Guardian headquarters didn’t take Criske long. “Headquarters,” in reality, was a rather glorified term for the squat buildings made of stone and mortar, the slate shingles beaten down by weather and time. Even though they were the international guards of the Trifecta, the three nations preferred to spend most of their money on the fortresses of their actual homeland.

  Henrik appeared to take a deep interest in his surroundings, staring at the stonework and cobblestone pathways. “Not bad,” he mused. “Not Dwarven made, of course. But I must say that Humans have always done a great job with what they have.”

  Criske couldn’t help smiling at the comment. “You an expert on architecture?”

  Henrik shook his head. “Far from it. More like an enthusiast. It takes a lifetime to be considered an expert mason or architect. I actually—” Henrik faltered in embarrassment. “I was actually an archaeologist before I joined.”

  Archaeology was a subsect
ion of history that involved gritty labor, little glory, and a lot of plinking away at rocks, from what Criske knew. And that was not very much. Unsure what to say, he decided to let the statement lie with a noncommittal nod. “C’mon. It’s going to be packed if we don’t hurry up.”

  Trifectus’ markets were always jammed in the early rush. Too many merchants, too few spots. It was a surefire recipe for trouble.

  Passing through the open gates of the headquarters, the pair entered the city proper. Most merchants who weren’t farm laborers, smiths, or bakers had yet to open shop. There wasn’t much point until the later morning when most of the merchants had finished setting up for a day of dealing. As it stood, the narrow streets were empty, save for the occasional beggar to whom Criske tossed a coin or two. He came across a particularly old man with a dirty face and wild hair sticking out every which way.

  “Hey, you still alive, you bag of bones?” Criske said with a wave.

  The old man blinked awake, smiling when he saw Criske’s face. He spoke with a gruff and strained voice, like a man who had spent most of his life shouting. “I dunno some days, Half. My joints creak and groan like an ol’ ship’s. Warnin’ you: word is there are a few jewelry merchants down there today. I’m bettin’ that a few will try and lighten their load.”

  Criske nodded and bade the man goodbye after handing him a chunk of bread from his lunch ration. He hurried through the streets, dipping into the still-dark back alleys he had memorized since he had started patrolling the city two years ago. Henrik, looking confused, followed him. “Is that man reliable?”

  Criske nodded. “Yeah. Old man Ranth is a good one to lean on. No one pays much attention to a blind guy. Seem to forget he has ears. Follow me. It’s about to get very loud.”

  Sure enough, Criske could already hear the cacophony of the merchant quarter up ahead, even though it was still a city block away. When they rounded onto one of the merchant streets, Henrik let out an impressed whistle. “That…is quite a Bazariliiq.”

  Criske nodded. “Yeah. Now keep your eyes peeled. There are going to be a few cutpurses here—guaranteed. If you see anything, let me know, but do it quietly. Last thing we want is to have them make a run for it, yeah?”

  “Understood, Khlanro.”

  Criske adopted what he called his “scanning stance.” To the common observer, he was just perusing the stalls, taking a gander at the morning’s river fish, wheat crops, trinkets, and the like. In reality, he was using his peripheral vision to spot any sly hands or weird movements. It was a trick that had kept him alive over the years: keeping his head down and senses sharp.

  Henrik had a very different tactic. The Dwarf would often stop and strike up conversation with the merchants, asking them how their travels were, how business was lately, and comment on particular histories. But every so often, Criske could see Henrik’s occasional tilt of the head, as if he were listening for trouble.

  It wasn’t long before he found it.

  A rather greasy-looking fellow tried to snag a low-hanging pheasant from a merchant while Henrik’s back was turned. The Dwarf’s truncheon came down with a solid thwack just inches above the would-be thief’s fingertips. Henrik turned to the man and gave him a small smile. “Hold, my dear man.” He pointed to another pheasant just above the one the man was going to steal. “You should consider this one instead. It has a little less meat on it, but the stock it would make would be fantastic.” Henrik turned to the merchant, a portly Human huntsman. “Wouldn’t you agree, Siirnah?”

  The merchant looked at the pheasant for a moment. “Ah yes. I do believe it would. And the price is almost half.”

  “Forget it,” growled the other man, sulking off and vanishing into the crowd.

  Criske walked over and looked at the pheasant. He pointed to the knotted strings that held their limp feet to the stall. “You mind?” he asked the merchant. The man gave him an impartial shrug. Criske quickly took down the pheasants and tied them back up with a constrictor knot. “There. They won’t be able to snatch off you so quickly.”

  The merchant looked at the knots and thanked them. The two Guardians returned to their patrolling. The hours passed by slowly and were relatively uneventful in Criske’s eyes. Henrik’s approach was a good one, he decided. A little haphazard and random, but he had an advantage that Criske did not: size. Even though Criske was taller, Henrik’s broad shoulders, straight back, and demeanor seemed to dissuade crime by his mere presence. It made it all the easier for Criske to seemingly vanish into the shadows and wait.

  He didn’t have to wait long. “Stop, thief!”

  Criske whipped around to see a man taking off and then disappearing into the crowd. Henrik was trying to muscle his way through the surrounding people but wasn’t making much progress. Criske turned to see a nearby building. Without hesitation, he threw himself at the walls and began to climb, scrambling quickly up the stone and mortar with the tiny handholds that presented themselves to him. In a matter of moments, he was on the roof, the sprawling city laid out before him in all its vastness. He hurried to the edge of the building where he could see the street and the running thief, and followed, easily maintaining his balance, occasionally making a steady leap from building to building. After about a block, the thief ducked into a nearby alley to catch his breath.

  “Got you,” Criske muttered. He dropped down from the roof, using a brief cling to the edge to lessen the impact of his descent, then rolling to absorb the impact. He stood up in front of the thief, blocking the only exit out of the alley. The thief turned and his eyes widened in horror.

  “What? But…how…”

  Criske looked at the man’s arms carefully for any kind of knife before he got closer. He had heard stories about guards or watchmen who didn’t bother to check and, all too often, paid for it dearly later. A cornered person who was desperate would fight for all they were worth. When no knife or shiv was forthcoming, Criske calmly walked closer to the man, making sure to speak clearly. “Release the goods that you stole. Place them on the ground. Lay down any weapons you have. Resisting arrest will result in increased jail time. You don’t want to do that. It’s nasty in there.”

  The man took a step back, and Criske saw his hand instinctively go toward his back pocket. It was the only warning Criske had, but he leaned back just in time to avoid getting slashed across the face. The man started swinging at him wildly with the knife. “You’re not taking me!” he screamed, his eyes wild. “I need to feed my family, damn it! I’m not going to let them starve!”

  Criske dodged the knife again, watching the thrust go by him. He responded with a kick that landed solidly on the man’s stomach. The thief fell backward and landed with a grunt, the air rushing out of him. He rolled on the ground with a groan. Next to him, Criske saw the stolen objects: two loaves of bakery bread and what looked like some kind of cheese, all wrapped in cloth. Upon closer inspection, he saw that the man he was talking to wasn’t really so much a man as he was a young adult, maybe just two years older than himself. The Half-Elf sighed and knelt down next to the hacking, wheezing thief. “Hey. I get it. You’re desperate. You can’t stand the thought of seeing them hungry. You can’t bear to think of their faces when there’s no food on the table.”

  “What would you—” The young man turned and froze as he got a closer look at Criske. “Oh…Great Answers…you’re a Half.”

  The young Guardian sucked in a breath. “That’s right,” he said, resigned.

  The two of them stared at each other for a moment, a mutual understanding gradually forming in their eyes. The thief lowered his gaze. “So…what happens now?” he mumbled. “You haul me away to the stocks? Nail my ear to a post?”

  Criske heard the sound of heavy, rapid footfalls behind him. He turned to see Henrik rounding the corner, his truncheon drawn, clearly ready for a fight. “Hey, turns out he wasn’t a thief!” Criske called. He subtly pulled a few coins
from his own purse and held them up. “He just couldn’t get the merchant accept his payment and panicked when the guy started screaming.”

  Henrik looked up at the sky and let out a groan. “Of course. Of course!” he said. “Khlaniik forbid we catch a real criminal! I was looking forward to an actual fight for once!”

  “Perish the thought,” Criske said with a small grin. He turned back to the young man, pocketing the rest of his coins once more. “I’ll just take your payment back to the merchant. You hurry along home, yeah?”

  The young man looked at Criske in relief. “Who are you?” he asked.

  Criske held out a hand and hauled the young man to his feet. “Criske Val-Zhang.” He jerked a thumb at the heavily breathing Dwarf behind him. “That’s Henrik, my patrol partner. We’re Guardians of the Trifecta.”

  He leaned in and whispered quietly to the young man, “Do not let the normal Watch catch you. They’ll likely shake you down. Out of this alley, I’d stick to the less beaten paths, yeah?”

  The young man nodded. “I won’t forget this, Val-Zhang,” he said. He quickly hurried past Criske and Henrik, then disappeared out of sight and around the corner.

  Henrik walked up to Criske. “You ran on the rooftops…” he said. “Yeah.”

  “I trust you do know that’s illegal?”

  “Sure do.”

  Henrik stared at Criske for a moment, looking him up and down, like he was a sculpture in some kind of museum. Then, he smiled, patting him on the shoulder. “Good man,” he said. “We need to show those city Watch men how to really get things done, no? Come, let us go give the money to the merchant before they lose all hope of us returning.” Despite being the constant flow of traffic, Henrik led the way back to the merchant’s without fault. They returned to the baker, paying him his due.

  The rest of the trading rush hour occurred without incident, and it wasn’t long before the sun had carried itself into the late morning. It was fortunate it was still early summer. The press of people so close together, all moving and screaming as they shifted, was creating a terrible smell Criske doubted would be improved by hotter weather, even though he had no personal experience with Trifectus in the hotter months.