Night of Wings and Smoke

  by David Dalglish

  BOOKS BY DAVID DALGLISH

  THE HALF-ORC SERIES

  The Weight of Blood

  The Cost of Betrayal

  The Death of Promises

  The Shadows of Grace

  A Sliver of Redemption

  The Prison of Angels

  The King of the Vile

  The King of the Fallen

  Legacy of the Watcher

  THE SHADOWDANCE SERIES

  Cloak and Spider (novella)

  A Dance of Cloaks

  A Dance of Blades

  A Dance of Mirrors

  A Dance of Shadows

  A Dance of Ghosts

  A Dance of Chaos

  THE PALADINS

  Night of Wolves

  Clash of Faiths

  The Old Ways

  The Broken Pieces

  THE BREAKING WORLD

  Dawn of Swords

  Wrath of Lions

  Blood of Gods

  THE SERAPHIM

  Skyborn

  Fireborn

  Shadowborn

  THE KEEPERS TRILOGY

  Soulkeeper

  Ravencaller

  Voidbreaker

  VAGRANT GODS TRILOGY

  The Bladed Faith

  The Sapphire Altar

  The Slain Divine

  THE ASTRAL KINGDOMS

  Radiant King (2025)

  LEVEL UNKNOWN

  Level: Unknown (2025)

  1

  The mountain road is treacherous, but at last you approach its end. The ground slopes downward, the flattened path easing from the towering stone of Alma’s Crown toward a more gentle, but no less cramped, pathway through a forest of towering pines, their branches freshly dusted with snow. Not far beyond them is the small village of Elkwerth, and the reason you have come all this way from the grand city of Londheim.

  Elkwerth’s request didn’t state why they needed a Soulkeeper, but the insinuations were dire, and so you have traversed the wilds at your Vikar’s request.

  Keep me safe these last few miles, will you, Lyra? you pray to the Goddess of the Day as you walk the cold. I’d hate to freeze when a fire and warm bed are finally within reach.

  It may be dark, but the stars are out and the moon is high. It is from that light you see the glint of the ambushers before they make their presence known. A hint of steel. A flicker of moonlight off a buckle. Two men. They’re trying to hide behind the pines.

  They’re bad at it.

  You halt just before the tree line, pretending all is fine and you haven’t noticed them. With almost casual boredom, you draw your pistol from its holster at your hip. As your thumb cocks open the chamber, you slip your free hand into one of two pouches attached to your belt and withdraw a small red orb the size of your pinkie. It is a flamestone, and you set it into the chamber, then cock the hammer back farther, locking it in place while sliding a metal shield across the opening to prevent an early discharge.

  From the other pouch you draw out a single lead shot. A ramrod is stored in a sheath underneath the barrel, and you pull it out, slide in the shot, and pump twice, finally loading the pistol.

  It takes you about eight seconds to finish. During that time, the two ambushers in the trees do not leave their spots behind the pines. You catch them watching you from the corner of your eye. Are they afraid, or merely waiting?

  Pistol loaded, you lower it while also tilting it slightly so its aim remains parallel to the ground. Ready, you rest your other hand on the hilt of your sword. Two men, one pistol shot. You’ll need steel if the other has more bravery than smarts.

  Into the forest you walk, following the path. Your senses are on edge. You hear the rustle of pine needles, then the crunch of snow that is much too heavy for any animal of the forest. Even if you hadn’t seen them, you’d have detected their presence. You are at home in the wilds. They, clearly, are not.

  “Halt where you are, miss,” one says when you are directly between them. You calmly obey.

  “How strange,” you say. “I never expected a warm welcome to these woods.”

  The two men emerge from their hiding spots. One of them is a beefy looking fellow, strong-jawed and wielding a short sword. The other is shorter, a bit scrawny with how his skin more or less hangs from his bones. Most troubling, he has a hunting bow with an arrow nocked and ready to fly.

  “Mouth shut, you hear me?” the sword wielder says. “Just open up that coin purse and give us half. That’s all, half.”

  You glance his way. “Only half? How generous.”

  “Hey, we said no lip,” the bow holder says, taking a step closer. You turn toward him, deciding him the more immediate threat. You trust your reflexes and training to handle the short sword. An arrow, properly aimed, however…

  “Forgive me,” you say, “But I’m not sure I am in a giving mood.”

  The bowman’s eyes widen. He’s seen the pendant hanging from your chest. It’s a silver crescent moon tucked into the bottom third of a downward-pointed triangle. The symbol of Anwyn, Goddess of the Dusk.

  “Damn it,” he mutters. “Brent, she’s a Soulkeeper.”

  To your amusement, the sword wielder, Brent you assume, retreats a step.

  “No reason a Soulkeeper would be out here at the ass crack of the world,” he says, but there’s doubt in his voice. You decide now is the time to push them. Rely on the surprise of your profession.

  “Soulkeeper Robin, at your service,” you say, and lift your pistol so it aims straight at the bow holder. “Now put down your weapons and run far, far away from here. I’ve no desire to perform two reaping rituals tonight.”

  “Put…put that down,” the bowman orders.

  “Jack…” the other says, lifting his sword. “Jack, we should do what he says. This ain’t no trader or physician.”

  You smirk.

  “So you would rob me even if I were a physician come to heal the sick?” you ask. Your finger tightens on the trigger of your pistol.

  “Just half,” Brent mutters. A pitiful defense. He’s not leaving, though. He’s still keeping close. Whether these two are friends, brothers, or more, you don’t know, but it doesn’t look like either is ready to abandon the other.

  “Last chance,” you say, locking eyes with Jack. “Which do you think will travel faster, your arrow, or my lead shot?”

  He pulls the string back the tiniest bit further. The muscles in his arms are straining. He’s been holding that arrow nocked for much too long. It’s affecting his posture, and his aim. There’s no hiding how much the arrowhead is wobbling.

  “You’ll truly let us go?” Brent asks. The big man is the smarter of the two. He knows the legendary skills of Soulkeepers. He knows to be afraid.

  “He’s seen our faces,” Jack insists. “What if Elkwerth called him here to find us and kill us?”

  “I’m not here for you,” you say, though you aren’t certain. The village elder was cryptic in his request, but you feel confident the letter would have stated as such if the matter was only a couple of troublesome bandits robbing the mountain pass.

  You take a single step toward Jack and aim directly at his forehead.

  “Put. The bow. Down.”

  For the briefest moment, you think he will listen. And then he lets the arrow fly.

  You don’t move. You don’t dodge. You trust in your aim and pull the trigger of your hammerlock pistol. The hammer slams down, its sharpened spike rupturing the flamestone you slotted into the chamber. It erupts, propelling the lead shot out in a blast of fire and smoke.

  Your aim was true. His was not. Your bullet strikes him between the eyes, caving in the bones of his forehead. His arrow passes just over your shoulder. You feel the wind on your neck as it flies by. Jack will feel nothing as he drops, his limbs flailing, his legs buckling underneath his body.

  “Jack!”

  You spin in place, your whole body on the move. Your right hand shoves your pistol into its holster at your hip, while your left grabs the hilt of your sword and pulls it free of its sheath. The big man is bearing down on you, his eyes wide, his mouth twisted into a snarl that is almost feral. He’s not thinking anymore, not after seeing his companion shot dead.

  Your sword easily blocks his clumsy downward chop. It’s all strength and brutality, and perhaps on a lesser foe, it might have worked. Your legs are properly braced, though, and your grip on your sword tight and with both hands. Steel rings out, startling in the night. He tries two more times to batter you down, as if you are a tree trunk he can split down the middle, but you hold your ground.

  He’s impatient and overwhelmed. He’ll make a mistake soon enough.

  That mistake comes when he tries to back away after his third hit fails to break your guard. You dash right into him so that he’s on his heels before ever realizing you have taken the offensive. His short sword loops wildly before him. It’s all panic. He has no idea where your sword will be.

  One thrust, straight to his chest. He gasps as the tip slips through his ribs and into his heart. Blood dribbles down his lips, first a little, then more as you tear your weapon free. Brent collapses to his knees, the sword falling limp from his fingers as both hands clutch at the wound. He looks at you, trying to say something, anything, before the last of his strength gives out and he falls face first into the snow.

  The ensuing silence is jarring, broken only by your breath and the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your e
ars.

  “Stubborn fools,” you say, cleaning your sword from a rag kept in the pocket of your long coat before sliding the blade back into its sheath. “What did you think would happen?”

  Still, you cannot leave them here. You have your duty as a Soulkeeper. Their souls, no matter how tainted, deserve a better fate than remaining trapped within their mortal bodies. It will delay your travel, though. Just when you were starting to look forward to putting your feet up before a warm cabin fire.

  You look to the road leading to Elkwerth, and the people waiting for your arrival.

  “I hope you’re worth it,” you mutter, and prepare for the two robbers their pyres.

  2

  The reaping hour approaches. The pines encircle you, their branches softly swaying in a faint wind. The mountains of Alma’s Crown form a towering wall to your west, as if reaching for the very stars. The moon is high, shining its light on the corpse laying wrapped upon the pyre. A small boy named Edwin. He’d not lived to see his ninth year.

  “Thank you for coming,” Elise says. She is the mayor for the nearby village of Elkwerth, and would have been responsible for leading this reaping ritual if not for your arrival. Edwin’s parents stand behind her, haggard and quiet. They’d spent their tears over the past two days as the people of Elkwerth debated whether to wait for you, or hold the ritual themselves.

  You’re glad they waited for you. The sending of souls has grown increasingly difficult as of late.

  “I only wish to offer what comfort I may,” you say, and kneel before the pyre. “Now let me pray.”

  The words were always the same, and you know them well. It was a prayer to the Three Sisters, the goddesses that watch over all the Cradle. Gratitude for Alma in granting life, Lyra for caring over Edwin during his short years, and then a plea to Anwyn to take his soul up to the heavens for an eternity of bliss.

  When the prayer ends, you scoop a handful of snow and press it over Edwin’s still face. All across the Cradle, the people used the nearby elements to grant their funeral pyres. Mud from the ocean waters for those who lived along the coast, rich black prairie soil for those among the grasslands. Here among Alma’s Crown? The snow would be his pyre mask.

  When the snow is packed, you remove your leather glove. This must be done by hand. Carefully you draw a triangle upon the mask and then a circle around the downward point. Each side of the triangle represents one of the Sisters and their connections to the others, while the bottom circle was both sun and moon, life beginning and ending at the same place in the heavens.

  Finished, you stand and dig your hands into the pockets of your dark leather coat. There is nothing more to do than wait for the reaping hour to arrive.

  “He’ll go, won’t he?” Edwin’s mother asks. You haven’t gotten her name yet. Elise had grabbed you the moment you arrived in Elkwerth late that afternoon and begged you to lead the reaping ritual.

  It’s been two days, and still Edwin’s soul remains in his body, she’d said. I don’t want to bury him, but I fear I waited too long already.

  You insisted it was not yet too late, not when no ritual had yet been performed. And so the body was brought out to the circle of pines beyond the village and laid upon the pyre. Snow had steadily formed a layer upon him, a sick jest given his death. He’d wandered from the village, been lost for several hours unable to find his way home, and then perished of frostbite.

  A cruel fate, and a sadly common one here in the far west.

  “Do not fear,” you say to the parents. “Anwyn’s eye is forever upon us. Though you grieve now, know his suffering is at an end, and he rests within light and comfort.”

  You fall silent. The reaping hour has arrived, and you feel it like a touch of fingers upon your neck. The world tenses. The animals of the forest go silent and still, for even the natural world recognizes this divine hour and pays their respects. You hold your breath and stare at the symbol you drew upon Edwin’s forehead.

  Underneath your shirt hangs a silver pendant, a downward pointed triangle with a silver moon transcribed into that bottom edge. It is the symbol of Anwyn, goddess of the dusk, caretaker of souls, she whose hands lift the soul into the hereafter. The symbol of all Soulkeepers. You clutch it through your shirt as you stare at the body.

  “By Alma, we are born,” you whisper into the silence. “By Lyra, we are guided. By Anwyn, we are returned. Beloved Sisters, take her home.”

  A soft blue light swells from Edwin’s forehead, shining as a translucent pillar reaching all the way to the stars themselves. The triangular symbol brightens, and a little orb of swirling light rises from his forehead. You relax as it begins to ascend the blue pillar. Edwin’s soul had separated cleanly from the body.

  Though the Mindkeepers of the Keeping Church debated a soul’s true makeup, you have never wondered. Within that brilliant light was all that made up a person; their emotions, their memories, their whole life, rising into the heavens. All across the Cradle, hundreds of similar rituals were performed in kind, aiding Anwyn in reclaiming the lives granted by Alma at the moment of birth.

  The orb rises upward, slowly at first, then faster and faster as the blue pillar of light lifts it heavenward. By the time it vanishes from view, the beam has faded and the reaping hour passed. Owls resume hooting, and in the distance, you hear a chorus of wolves crying to the moon.

  Only then did Edwin’s parents begin to cry.

  “No burial, then,” Elise says. She shivers in her fur coat and shakes her head. “Thank the Sisters for that. I thought…I feared I had waited too long. That I had doomed the poor boy with my doubt.”

  You put a hand on her shoulder and smile.

  “Every reaping ritual is a burden,” you say. “Do not blame yourself for your uncertainty.”

  With the soul departed, the body was but empty flesh. It was the cast off shell of a cicada, or the shed skin of a snake. You remove the cap to your oilskin hanging from your belt and begin splashing it across the pyre’s thin, dry wood. When emptied, you put it away and withdraw two flint stones from a belt pouch.

  A few quick strikes, a fall of sparks, and the oil lights. Triangular stones created the pyre’s outline, with thick, braced logs to hold the body atop its bed of kindling. It’d taken you an hour to build the pyre so that it would safely burn throughout the night. All that would remain come morning would be the triangular symbol of the Three Sisters.

  Elise speaks a few whispered words with the grieving parents while you watch the pyre burn.

  “Is she here to help Arbert?” you overhear the father ask. “I know it’s been weeks, but if anyone can find Rachel…”

  The mayor shushes him quite harshly. You purposefully look away and pretend not to hear. They depart, and the mayor returns. Her gray hair hangs low over her face, and the dark circles under her eyes imply many recent sleepless nights.

  “It wasn’t my own failures I feared,” she says as she joins you. The light of the pyre shines across you both. “It’s the burial. Anwyn has abandoned us here in the Crown, Soulkeeper. That, or my own rituals are weak and useless. Most every ritual over the past five years has failed, and we’ve been forced to bury the dead instead.”

  You say nothing, just let her talk. If the soul did not depart, then the body would be buried. Sometimes, on its own, the soul would rise up from the grave during the reaping hour to ascend, but it was a rare occurrence, and even rarer over the past two decades. Most likely, the soul would remain within the decomposing body, waiting until the end of days when the Three Sisters called up each and every soul, both living and departed, to join them in the heavens.

  Most Soulkeepers, whether it was right or not, felt like the failure of a soul to ascend was a judgment on their own prayers and rituals. It didn’t matter that it had grown harder over the decades, to great debate amongst the Mindkeepers. If Elise had presided over that many burials, the burden she felt…it must be horrible.

  “You should have summoned a Soulkeeper,” you say, and then immediately feel guilty for admonishing the tired woman.

  “We did, several times,” Elise says. “But it’s a long trip from Crynn to here, and even longer from Londheim. We make do out here in the mountains, Soulkeeper. Even if we don’t like it.”