Read Online Souldancer (Soul Cycle Book 2) by Brian Niemeier - Free Book Online Page B

filled the silence between with tales of forgotten objects, places, and peoples. From time to time Nahel would vanish into the wasteland, only to return just as suddenly with news of the way ahead.
    No one complained when the afternoon heat arrived—except for Damus. “Hell is rightly famous for its heat,” he said, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, “but this is just unreasonable!”
    “Thank you,” Xander said.
    Damus’ sodden brow furrowed. “Whatever for?”
    “Knowing that hell is milder than Mithgar will be a comfort if I die unshriven.”
    The Gen looked as though he meant to say something, but he only shook his head and laughed.
    Though they’d only been traveling together a short time, Xander felt he was quickly coming to know the other three. Damus’ vanity was balanced by a noble sense of duty toward those he deemed his inferiors. Arcanadeus’ patience and cleverness gave Xander cause to question whether all guildsmen were truly reprobate. But if anyone disproved first impressions, it was Nahel. The malakh’s ferocity matched his bestial looks, but his affable manner made Xander ashamed of having feared him.
    Near sundown Xander chose a campsite in the shade of a weathered triangle of rock, and Damus helped him set up their spacious Nesshin tent. Nahel strung his bow and returned with four wild birds from which his arrows emerged pristine. “Worked arrows are tough to break,” he explained.
    Xander cleaned and roasted the fowl. His pride gave ample seasoning to their gamy flesh.
    After supper, Damus favored his small audience with a haunting melody. Arcanadeus pored over his map. Nahel polished his blades. Xander's mind drifted through exotic worlds conjured by the music as sparks from the fire rose to dance among the stars.
    His awareness came crashing back to reality when something jabbed him.
    “Your thoughts seem to be wandering far afield,” said Damus, pressing his flute into Xander’s round stomach. “Best keep your wits about you. This is wild country, not a pleasure park.”
    Xander swatted at the flute, but Damus removed it with a deft turn of his wrist before the blow connected.
    “I have traveled this land all my life,” Xander said, doing his best to project confidence. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
    The fire cast a mischievous gleam in Damus’ eye.
    Nahel looked up from his polishing. “Don’t get him started.”
    The warning came too late. Damus took a deep breath and said, “To the northeast—near enough by ether-runner, but far from such good fellowship—lies a joyless village called Vale.”
    “My people travel to Vale each year at harvest time,” Xander said. “I know it well.”
    “Nahel and I suffered a lengthy delay there before coming to Medvia.” Damus nodded at Arcanadeus. “They say the villagers nearly burned our good Steersman as a necromancer.”
    Arcanadeus spoke without raising his eyes from his map. “A tale best left untold.”
    “Some might say the same of this tale,” Damus said. “But young Master Sykes has given challenge, and honor compels me to answer.”
    Nahel sheathed one of his swords. “Just make it fast. We need our sleep for tomorrow.”
    “Let us turn in now,” Xander said. “There’s little to tell about Vale.”
    A sly grin curled Damus’ lip. “Have you heard of the Journey to Save All Souls?”
    The question gave Xander pause, so rarely did he think of others’ religious practices. “It sounds familiar. A harvest festival, I think—though it ends before my clan arrives.”
    Damus shook his head. “A festival? No. Ritual describes it better. Each year, right around this time, the people of Vale single out one of their own—usually an orphan, a bastard, or a criminal; failing that, someone unfit for useful work but sound enough in mind and body to travel alone on foot. It is this journey eastward across lonely plains and broken mountains which the villagers believe obtains their salvation for another