Read Online Soulbreaker by Terry C. Simpson - Free Book Online

witnessed Jemare gorge himself on Dracodar remains and stumble outside, infused with unbelievable power. Unable to resist, he partook of what little was left, watching as the soldiers battled against Delisar and Tharkensen.
    Afterward, drunk with the soul craze, he’d stumbled through the Smear, following Jarod. Until he encountered Marjorie. He relived the horror of her battered face, of her stomach deflated when hours before it had been swollen with child. He had vomited at the mess that was their baby, delivered stillborn, and turned on Kenslen where the young boy whimpered nearby. His son’s weakness disgusted him. He drew his sword, pulled on his soul, and with a stroke, he took Kenslen’s head.
    Deep into the craze, and filled with rage, he became aware of the soul seeping from the still warm bodies. He hungered for it. At the same time it struck him that his family was dead. He wanted them returned to him. He would do anything to have them back in any form. So he made their souls a part of his.
    Stumbling through the Smear he’d come across Winslow, wailing, alone and cold. He’d seen the soul in the baby and took him. After that night, that taste, his hunger was never sated.
    Ever since he was a young boy, the Blades had enraptured him, and so did the tales of their predecessors, the Dracodar. The exploits of men like Gothien the Shadow Blade, his old mentor, or Myron the Sun Blade, and Roslav Quickthrust had inspired him to greater heights, made him dream of a day when the king would pin the sword to his lapel, and he would earn a title like theirs. Even Tharkensen the Lightning Blade, who he’d fought beside before the man turned traitor, had played a part in his growth. Thar’s speed and namesake strikes had fit his legend. When the king stopped to consider the names, he hadn’t seen them as dregs at that time, but as great warriors, melders that he wished to outstrip.
    After he left the Smear that night he set out on his quest, not only to find remains, but also to discover the possibility that some Dracodar still lived. He poured his resources into archaeological finds across Mareshna, all the way to the Farlands. He even trained with the Order to access their knowledge and to borrow coin from them for his endeavors.
    His research revealed that for years the Smear’s dregs had hidden their most gifted children from the wisemen on the Day of Accolades. In that time, the old, loyal Blades had died, some in battles, and others of natural causes.
    The effects of the dregs’ actions had been far-reaching, depleting the Empire’s armies of one of its greatest assets. He had sworn to change that. Already, he possessed one key, and soon he would have another. Patience, he told himself, patience.
    Memories subsiding, Ainslen shuddered, the need to rush down into the dungeons and tear into Delisar almost overwhelming him. His soul surged, essences pouring from his body. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, and forced the vital points from open circular nodes into tiny slits. The Soul Throne partook, but he was unconcerned. With an effort of will he could retrieve the power it stored.
    As he waited for the delegates, the king contemplated the lack of any attempt to save Delisar. The escaped Consortium members did not know the location of their leader’s prison, but until recently, Delisar was flogged at the gibbets, and criers announced each punishment beforehand. He had also mentioned plans for an upcoming execution where they might be overheard. Could I be wrong about the Lightning Blade? Is he really dead? If so, then who was it that saved Winslow and Keedar? He would find out soon enough, even if it meant launching an assault into Kheridisia.
    “Sire?” Sabella’s soft voice was a distant echo. “The Heleganese ambassadors have entered.”
    At the throne room’s arched doorway, Lieutenant Costace of the watchmen waited in front of the six ambassadors. Costace, a rather large, swarthy Farish Islander, had