Soul Siphon: Set includes four books: Midnight Blade, Kingsbane, Ash and Steel, Sentinels of the Stone (Soul Stones) Read online

  A set of hands grabbed him, yanking him into the deep dark of an alley. Fear spiked within him, accompanied by a surge of adrenaline. He tried to resist, but the hands held firm.

  “Be quiet or you’ll wake the whole street,” a voice whispered—Rommel’s voice.

  He settled down, his fear ebbing, replaced by relief. The hands released him. He turned to look at Rommel, but couldn’t see a foot in front of his face. The rustle of steel plate armor told him they were not alone. Rommel’s whole team was in place.

  “He’s ready?” Rommel asked.

  “Yes,” Callum said.

  “Good,” he said. “Report to Platz at the western wall.”

  “My lord? The plan was—”

  “Plans change. That’s an order,” Rommel said with finality.

  “Yes, my lord,” Callum acquiesced and bowed in the darkness, not that anyone could see him.

  He moved off into the night, careful to avoid impaling himself on an unseen weapon.

  Platz was overseeing the breach, but Callum was supposed to be a part of the infiltration team. It didn’t make any sense to him. It was his contact after all. He deserved to be there as Rommel beheaded Gramoll and ascended to high lord. He yearned for a place of respect among Rommel’s men.

  In the end, he had little choice. He did what he was told. Insubordination led nowhere but the gallows.

  Arriving at House Gramoll’s western wall, he checked in with Platz. The moonlight softly illuminated the area.

  “Can you believe this? After all I’ve done,” Callum fumed to his superior.

  “He didn’t inform me of the change,” Platz said, frowning, his displeasure likely directed at his lack of involvement in Rommel’s ever-changing plans than over Callum’s predicament. “Try not to get in the way. This isn’t the training ring.”

  Callum bristled at the comment.

  “Here we go,” Platz said. He held up a hand, signaling no one Callum could see. Platz ducked behind a supply cart. Callum followed his lead, watching the wall from behind it.

  The night stilled, his heartbeat growing louder and heavier with each second. An explosion rocked the ground, great plumes of yellow and orange bursting forth. Bits of stone and smoke fell around them.

  Platz coughed beside him, as did a few other soldiers waiting in the distance. The dust settling, Callum stood and drew his sword. Shouts erupted from behind the wall. Rommel’s men emerged from their hiding places and swarmed the rent that now stood where the wall had been.

  Platz and Callum reached the breach first, climbing over the crumbling stone. Callum hopped down into a small street beside the House barracks as a trickle of enemy forces advanced on them.

  He dodged the first man’s swing, but Platz felled him before Callum could counterattack. The captain pushed past him to take on the next man in line. Callum huffed.

  Their blades connected. Callum slipped around and ran his sword through the guard’s side. In doing so, he didn’t see the third man bearing down on him until it was too late to parry. He left his blade half buried in the guard and dived to the side, narrowly avoiding certain death.

  The man, now off balance, easily fell to Platz’s swing.

  “This isn’t a competition,” Platz spat.

  “Then don’t make it one,” Callum said under his breath, climbing to his feet.

  The rest of House Gramoll had begun to stir. Lights sprung up across the House grounds. More Gramoll guards emptied the barracks and engaged with the invading House Rommel.

  As Callum retrieved his weapon, more of Rommel’s soldiers poured in around him. The two armies clashed. He tried to push his way to the front, but the fight was too thick. He ascended a set of stairs that led up to the battlements, crossed over them, and entered the door of the upper room in the gatehouse.

  Someone yelled from behind him. He turned to see a man lunging at him with a dagger. He grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted, and disarmed him, pinning the man to the wall.

  “Callum?” the man said in relief.

  It was Gerald.

  “What are you still doing here? You could get yourself killed—you’re bleeding. What happened?” Callum asked.

  “I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen,” he said.

  “Tried to tell who? Tell him what?” Callum pressed.

  “They’ll be slaughtered,” Gerald said.

  “Speak clearly. What’s going on?” Callum asked again.

  “The wedding. Lord Gramoll invited half of Havan’s nobles and their guards inside the great house this evening. There are twice as many soldiers here as you were expecting.”

  Callum cursed.

  “I told Lord Rommel as much and got this as thanks,” the man said, pointing to the gash on the side of his head.

  Callum ran over to the ladder that led down to the front gate and he began to descend.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Gerald asked.

  “Don’t worry about it. Stay hidden and keep your head attached,” Callum replied as he reached the bottom. He exited the gatehouse and stepped out into the courtyard. He was behind House Gramoll’s forces.

  As he drew near to the battle, someone called out, “Over here!”

  Callum’s heart leapt into his throat as he ducked behind a crate in the shadows and kept still, footsteps thundering past him. When his breathing steadied, he emerged and advanced on the rear of the group. Callum let out a roar and the soldiers nearest him turned to face him.

  The first man caught a sword in the throat before he even knew what happened. The second man managed to ready his sword, but Callum batted it away and stabbed him in the shoulder.

  Two more surrounded Callum, one on either side. A sword came in from the front, but he parried it. Callum spun, and dodged the second strike from behind. In that motion, he scooped up the sword of the first man.

  It took everything Callum had to parry both men. A sword sailed in high from the left at the same time another came in low from the right. He blocked the strike up high, but only deflected the other, his opponent’s blade nicking his armor. The man on the right aimed for his head. Callum ducked under the swing while bringing his own weapon to bear to combat the sword that now raced for his knees from behind. At the last second, the man jerked high. Callum managed to parry, but his opponent swung hard, knocking Callum’s sword wide. The guard in front saw an opening and lunged. Callum did the only thing he could and dropped to the ground.

  His opponent, surprised by such a ridiculous move, fell off balance and tripped over Callum, his sword impaling the other guard. The man recovered at the same time as Callum and intensified his attack, furious at the accidental murder of his comrade.

  Callum looked at the swords in his hand. Realizing he didn’t need both, he tossed one at the man, who skidded to a halt, batting away the weapon with his own. The action cost him, though, as Callum used the distraction to slip inside the man’s reach and end his life.

  Three more soldiers advanced on Callum. As the lead man bore down on him, Captain Platz intercepted him and cut him down. The two stood back to back, prepared for the next attack.

  “Foolish boy,” Platz called back. “I don’t know why I stick my neck out for you.”

  Callum deflected an attack and called back, “Captain, we have a problem.”

  Platz didn’t immediately reply as he was busy decapitating his opponent.

  Together, Callum and Platz made quick work of the third man.

  “What problem?” Platz asked.

  Callum told him about the nobles and their guards.

  Platz cursed.

  At that very moment, the doors to the great house swung wide and more soldiers wearing the crests of various families flooded into the courtyard.

  “Retreat! Back to the breach!” Platz called out.

  Slowly, the soldiers of House Rommel disengaged and ran back for the rent in the wall and their escape. Callum and Platz held the line. One of Rommel’s men tossed Callum a shield to keep th
e swelling army at bay. Side by side with his brothers in arms they fought. Callum surged forward, throwing his opponent back. His blade slashed an opponent on his right, then he turned and bashed another with his shield. The enemy filled in the gaps and closed in on them.

  The brother who’d given him the shield fell beside him, cut down by one of Gramoll’s men. Swords pounded off of the shield. He plunged his sword forward at abandon, hoping to hit something, but with each attack he took a step farther back, losing ground.

  Behind him, the first soldiers began climbing through the breach when screams erupted. Callum glanced back. Another, smaller army approached from the side.

  “Go, I’ve got this,” Platz said.

  Callum slipped away, another soldier filling his spot in the line. He tried to push through, but the second army squeezed Rommel’s men so that Callum could not get past. He climbed atop a supply wagon and hopped from crate to crate. When he reached the rear line, he launched himself into the air at the enemy. Callum held his shield out to deflect any errant weapons, and sunk his blade into the throat of the closest attacker.

  Ducking under a swing, Callum came up hard and severed the head from another man. The advancing army, momentarily stunned by Callum’s display, fell beneath the blades of Rommel’s men, buying the retreating soldiers more time.

  But their surprise passed quicker than Callum would have liked. In a matter of heartbeats, Callum and the rest of Rommel’s forces were pushed back, squeezed into the corner, cut off from their exit.

  Platz appeared beside Callum and signaled to the last soldier to make it through the breach.

  “Are we going to die, sir?” Callum asked, a spike of fear causing his hands to shake.

  “Don’t quit until you no longer draw breath. All is not yet lost,” Platz said to Callum. Then he yelled out, “Take cover!”

  Callum calmed himself and slipped behind the wall of a building a heartbeat before a second explosion rocked the wall. Stone flew inward, crushing half of the small army, the force of the blast knocking the rest from their feet.

  Callum looked to Platz, confusion splayed across his face.

  “Secondary bomb, in case the first didn’t work,” Platz explained.

  A third explosion shook the grounds in the distance, to the east. Callum didn’t have time to consider it, though, as the enemy who had fallen were beginning to climb to their feet. Rommel’s soldiers surged forward to attack the downed soldiers.

  Callum plunged his sword into a man’s back as he began to rise, dismembered another’s hands as he feebly attempted to prevent the attack, and impaled a soldier stumbling to catch his balance.

  When the smaller army lay dead or dying, Callum turned his attention back to their rear. The line had faltered, and Rommel’s soldiers were being gutted. Just as he thought the line would break, a shout rose up from behind the enemy and their attention turned. Callum jumped atop a crate to get a better view.

  Yet another army approached from the east, engaging House Gramoll’s soldiers.

  “Ober,” Platz said, smiling. “Push back!”

  Callum had forgotten about House Ober. His spirits soared. He shook off his weariness and advanced. Instead of falling back, each swing of Callum’s blade took him a step forward, pushing Gramoll’s forces back into the courtyard. Elation coursed through him as his foes retreated. Empowered by victory after victory as men fell at the end of his blade, he batted swords aside and ran over his opponents.

  But as Houses Rommel and Ober pushed Gramoll’s men in tighter together, their forces reformed, and Gramoll turned the tide yet again. An enemy guard shoved Callum back and Rommel’s army began to lose ground. In defiance, Callum yelled out and his attacks grew more ferocious. But instead of flesh, his sword bounced off steel. Despite facing two armies, Gramoll’s numbers simply outmatched the combined efforts of Rommel and Ober.

  Callum would not give in to fear, taking to heart Platz’s instruction. He would fight to the last breath. His sword connected with his opponent’s, but the other man was stronger. Callum blocked to the left, to the right, retreating a step with each attack. The soldier’s advance pushed him down to one knee and with a final swing knocked Callum’s weapon from his hands.

  With victory just moments away, his opponent smiled, raising his sword.

  A voice called out in the night over the din of the fighting. The man faltered, and Callum reached for his sword. The voice yelled out again, louder. The man turned his head briefly, but it was enough for Callum. He stood to his feet and danced back a few paces to safety.

  The voice called out again, the fighting all but stopping as eyes, both friend and foe, moved to the grand balcony on the third floor of the great house.

  “Men of House Gramoll! Defenders of our dear lords and ladies of Havan!” the voice said.

  Callum squinted in the night. Rommel. It was Rommel who stood on the balcony.

  “Lay down your arms, your battle is lost,” Rommel continued. “Behold your great patron, Lord Gramoll.”

  Something flew from the balcony. Men moved out of the way as a body slammed into the dirt. Gramoll lay dead, blood falling from his mouth. Gasps of horror mixed with shouts of anger rose up from the crowd.

  Rommel continued, “And your lords. Those who pledged their allegiance to the wrong man.”

  Stones rained down on the courtyard. But as they settled, Callum realized they were not stones, but the heads of Havan’s lesser nobles.

  “I say again,” Rommel said, “lay down your weapons. Your fight is lost. No more blood need be shed this night.”

  For a moment, the night stood still. Then a single clang reverberated through the courtyard as a sword hit the ground. In rapid succession, Gramoll’s army, though still nearly twice the size of their attackers, laid down their arms.

  The battle was over. Callum silently applauded Rommel, the change in plans suddenly making more sense. Rommel not only defeated his opponent, but every one of Gramoll’s supporters in one evening. And, most likely, doubled his own garrison.

  Yet at what cost? Callum wondered.

  A soldier ran up to Platz and said, “High Lord Rommel requests your presence, Captain.”

  Platz sheathed his sword and began to leave, but the messenger did not move.

  “He also requested that you join him, Callum,” the man said.

  “Me?” he asked.

  “Come along,” Platz said. “Let’s not keep him waiting.”

  Platz and Callum followed the man out of the courtyard and were escorted to the room adjacent to the balcony. It appeared to be Gramoll’s bedchambers.

  “Ah, Platz, good to see you still live,” Rommel said.

  “No thanks to you,” whispered Callum.

  “What’s that, boy?” Rommel asked. “Spit it out.”

  “You knew.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid.”

  “You knew about the wedding. About the lords being invited and the increased security. Yet you sent us in anyway. Sent us to die,” Callum accused.

  “Yes, I knew. Received an invitation myself. I planned all along to strike tonight. I couldn’t rightly tell you. Gramoll has too many spies. Too many listening ears. Speaking of spies…” Rommel said, looking to Platz. “Phase one is complete. It’s time to initiate phase three.”

  Platz nodded. “I’ll send Burk first thing in the morning.”

  “No. Change of plans. Send Callum,” the high lord said.

  “Send me? Send me where? What’s phase three? What happened to phase two?” Callum asked.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you ask too many questions?” Rommel asked, rubbing his forehead.

  Platz was the one to speak. “We’re sending you to Sunbury. To kill the crown prince.”

  If Callum only thought Rommel was trying to have him killed before, he knew it for a certainty now.

  PART 2

  “Callum,” the quartermaster said in a deadpan tone, looking down at a piece of pape
r.

  Davion Callum approached the armory. One of Sunbury’s guards dumped a set of basic leather armor, a black tunic with the Sunbury royal crest, a gray training shirt, and a short iron sword into his outstretched hands.

  A sergeant with a nasally voice, McKinnon by name, said “All right. Bigsby, Callum, and Geoffreys, you’re with me. Come along.”

  Callum and the other recruits followed the officer to the barracks: a long stone structure built into the ramparts surrounding the palace a few paces from the stables and armory. They entered through an old, sturdy wooden door, traversed a common room where several soldiers in various states of attire were resting, and into the dormitory.

  The room reminded Callum of the orphanage he grew up in: a narrow room with bunk beds dotting either side. The only notable difference was these bunks fit three. Anyone unfortunate enough to get the top bunk only had about two feet of clearance. The sergeant led them past several sets of bunks and stopped next to one no different from all the others.

  He looked down at his list, lifted a page, and said, “Let’s see here… Geoffreys, you’ve got the bottom, Bigsby the middle, and Callum,” he said, letting the page fall back down, “that leaves the top for you.”

  Callum groaned.

  “Quit your whining, boy,” McKinnon said. “For that, no dinner for you until you’ve run a few laps around the palace grounds.”

  Callum thought he had left the “boy” bit back in Havan. “How many?” he asked.

  “See that gray shirt?” the sergeant said, pointing to the training shirt in Callum’s arms. “Don’t come back until it’s nearly black. And you will address me as sir.”

  “Yes sir,” he whispered.

  “I can’t hear you,” the sergeant said, enunciating every word.

  “Yes sir!” he said.

  Callum dropped his gear into the chest at the foot of the bed and changed into the training shirt. He pulled the piece of parchment he always carried with him out of his pocket, its corner singed and ink fading. He looked at his name written on it, folded it back up, stuffed it under his pillow, and left the dormitory.