by Chris Holzworth

 Part One

I first met Amral Jeyn in the crush of shoppers crowding Nys Eka’s dockside markets. I’d just delivered something for Ashlenant to smuggle overseas. Didn’t know what, didn’t care—but coming from Ash, you could bet a pretty tall pile of stros it wasn’t anything innocent. Lost a few hours catching up with her, traded goodbyes, then hopped off her boat and clamored down the gangway.

That’s when I caught Amral staring at me, perched at the market’s edge. No furtive glances, no subterfuge. Concern faded like water in sand.

Still, a lifetime or two in the city teaches you that anyone giving you a hard look is probably peddling some brand of trouble. I plunged deeper into the sea of shoppers hoping he’d lose me in the mob. Almost reached the Dusk Span when, slipping between a pair of stalls, I found him waiting on the other side.

“You’re the soulwalker, aren’t you?” It leaned more toward statement than question.

Here we go again.

“How you know that name?” I asked. A hint more bite than intended.

“You are perhaps not as unknown in the city as you’d like, soulwalker,” he said with a smile, taking a step closer.

“Don’t call me that.”

“What should I call you?”

“Kuran’s just fine.”

“Very well then, Kuran. My name is Amral Jeyne. I am in need of your service.”

“No.”

“Please, hear me out.”

“Absolutely not. I’m not for hire. There’s countless sellswords swigging beer at every bar in Nys Eka. Go hurl your stros at them. They’ll happily risk their necks for a few stacks on whatever fool’s errand you got lined up.”

“I didn’t think the soulwalker would lower his worth to that of a common sellsword.”

“Yeah, well. You were wrong.”

“That may be, but I don’t think I’m wrong in believing you are among the very few suited to handle this particular problem.”

“Dahfede’s balls, what are you on about?”

“Something precious has been taken from me, soulwalker—”

“Kuran.”

“Yes. Kuran. Sorry. My sister’s sword—it was stolen from our house.”

“It’s a hammered steel and a handle, friend. Go find a new one. The sentimental value’s not worth the trouble.”

“Perhaps not usually. Unfortunately, this sword is quite unique. Not many have had dealings with the Amata and lived to tell the tale, like you.”

“You don’t say.”

“My sister shared that honor. She returned from the Wasteland with the bones of one that almost claimed her life, and from them forged a weapon. A magic blade of considerable power.”

“And you let this sword get lost in the wild.”

“I did not ​let ​it go anywhere. As I said, it was​ robbed f​rom me.”

“What, your sister—mighty warrior that she is—can’t reclaim the sword herself?”

“She’s dead.”

“Guess not, then.”

That struck a nerve. Shift of his jaw as clenched teeth tried to suppress the flash of anger that stole through him. Seemed the casual dismissal of his much-venerated dead sister was a step too far. Well, at least that meant he was serious.

“I would think the soulwalker of all—”

“Kuran.”

“Yes. Kuran. I would think that you of all people would show more concern about rogue magic artifacts falling into the wrong hands.“

Fucking fireside stories. That nonsense haunted me wraith-like from one life to the next. I pressed thumb and forefinger into my eyes, suddenly exhausted. Behind the shuttered lids, I could see the disapproving glare Ashlenant would pin me with if I turned this fool down. Dark Emissaries damn it all.

“Fine. Why don’t you take me back to your place and tell me everything.”

A smile broke apart his bitter look.

“Follow me,” he said.

Part Two

Amral wasn’t much like his sister, as it turned out. Although the way he told it, she was the strange one. Born into a line of affluent merchants, Amira—his sister—decided to pursue a life of violence over the cushioned safety and financial stability of mercantile interests. Wanting instead to carve her own path, she took up sword and shield and joined Granseal’s Guardians. When the sky ripped open above Zarephath, she was shipped up north.

There’s a good chance Ash and I fought shoulder to shoulder with the woman. Maybe at the Siege in the Square, or Tower’s Fall. If she could walk away in one piece from Zarephath, though, it was tough to believe anything in the city could take her down.

But Amral seemed certain about what happened to his sister’s sword. Convinced, you might say.

“It was Theda.” He paced along a wall lined with leather-bound books. “Had to be. That swindler has it out for our family.”

True to the wealth conveyed by Amral’s plush robes, his three-story home was a testament to accumulated riches. Overstuffed chairs stood sentry in every corner. Curios lined the walls, opulent displays of money and power that would probably impress most people who set foot in the residence. To me, they seemed little more than a collection of dreck.

“And why’s that?” I asked, swirling the cup of wine he’d poured for me earlier. Probably expected me to comment on its vintage or something. I guess my aristocratic etiquette had gathered rust in the last few lifetimes.

“Jealousy, I imagine.” He gestured at our surroundings. “The Jeyn line’s done well for itself, and our services during the Zarephath campaign built us quite the reputation among Nys Eka’s nobility.”

“I still don’t see how that would drive the man to kick in your door and steal a family heirloom. Seems a pretty petty move on his part.”

“The sword is built from the bones of an Amata, soulwalker.” Amral looked at me as though I were stupid. “Any number of Nys Eka’s less reputable institutions would stack stros to get their hands on something like that. The Malrain, the Knights of Sevenec. Hell, even Granseal’s Guardians.”

“Fair. So what makes you think the Guardians ​didn’t​ take it? Or the Malrain, for that matter?”

“I suppose that’s not out of the question,” He scratched his beard in thought. “Though, I doubt the Malrain know the sword exists. Not unless Theda tipped them off. As for the Guardians, I don’t know. Samara runs a tight ship, and she respects her soldiers. It would be dishonorable to steal a dead woman’s sword.”

“Would they have any compunction about buying it from Theda?”

“That would certainly . . . uncomplicate things for them.”

Didn’t seem Amral liked the taste of that in his mouth.

“Alright, let’s stick with the Theda theory for now. So he breaks in, makes off with your sister’s sword. Sells it. Then what?”

“Then he orchestrates a takeover, to add insult to injury. Or perhaps injury to insult. Whichever the case, the money and connections he’d make from selling the sword would give him enough leverage to topple us. But knowing Theda, he wouldn’t stop there. No, he’d want to embarrass us as thoroughly as possible. Retain us as functionaries, make us watch as generations of ​our hard work piled stros high for ​him​.”

“Well, it’s as good a lead as any.” I set the jewel-encrusted goblet down on the nearest shelf, then stood up. “Where do I find him?”

“He’s usually holed up in the old warehouse district, just north of the Shattered Sky. Do you know the place?”

Naturally. In all of Nys Eka, Theda had set up shop in Nevan’s neighborhood. Didn’t have to wonder why.

“Intimately.”

Part Three

Where the Dusk Span touches down on the western bank of the Ringil River, Nys Eka takes on a noticeable change. Old World ruins give way to buildings crafted by our own hands. At the foot of the Span, warehouses group together like the discarded shells of some long-forgotten brood of sea monsters—lingering remains from when travel along the Ringil served as the city’s chief trade route. When trade took to the seas, the aristo-merchant elite moved into the towering Old World bones of what’s now called Centralia, the heart of the city. Artists took their place west of the river and converted the warehouse district into a sprawling salon, inside and out. Every surface in the Gardens of Everlasting Splendor is splashed with bright colors, blanketed with murals, populated with sculptures, or otherwise adorned in every imaginable artistic expression its denizens can dream up.

Always one with an eye for opportunity, Nevan Raffie came in after the artists and secured a fruitful enterprise as the go-between for Nys Eka’s nobility and the more illicit services provided on the poorer side of the river. The aristo ruling class aren’t without the same unbecoming habits the rest of us possess. Nevan carved his empire by catering to those needs.

Theda, by situating himself next door to Nevan, told me two things: that there was most certainly some connection between the two, and that Theda was considerably more dangerous than Amral indicated.

I considered my options. Visiting Nevan at the Shattered Sky and having him set up a meeting would be the sensible thing to do, but it might also scare Theda into selling the sword sooner. I could slip in unseen and steal the sword, but it would just send Theda right back to Amral’s doorstep. I briefly entertained finding Ash, Ershanna, or even Yslev to help take the least subtle approach and raze the place, but that risked provoking Nevan and bringing a weight of trouble tumbling down on me I didn’t want.

In the end, I settled on speaking to Theda directly. Didn’t take much effort to determine which warehouse north of the Shattered Sky was his. A few artist-looking types high on hinas happily pointed me in the right direction. Wasn’t long before I was standing outside Theda’s operation, eying down by a bouncer clearly bored by his duties.

“What you want?” the muscle grumbled.

“To speak to Theda.”

“He expecting you?”

“That’s very unlikely.”

“Then get lost.”

I pressed thumb and forefinger into my eyes. Tried to rein in my frustration at the card I was about to play.

“Tell him the soulwalker’s here to see him.”

That earned me a familiar look—some mix of disbelief, awe, and amused dismissal. The bouncer banged on the door with the back of his heavy boots. When it cracked open, he exchanged a few whispered words with whoever was on the other side. Then the door swung shut again. The guard and I stood there, pointedly looking past one another.

When the door finally cracked back open, a hand beckoned me.

Inside, the warehouse was crowded with shipping containers someone had somehow managed to drag down from the rail yard, the space between them forming a labyrinth of corridors. The guard who waved me in led me through the narrow space without a word.

We eventually emerged in what remained of the warehouse proper, where man in his mid-fifties sat behind an incongruously ornate desk littered with parchment. He gestured to the battered wooden chair opposite his desk. I tried not to roll my eyes as I sat down.

“The soulwalker, huh? That’s a pretty good line. You’re a lot more . . . plain-looking than I expected.”

“I take it you’re Theda?”

“You take right. Me? Well, between the two of us, I’m the one who’s not a myth, so I’m left a little unsure. How do I know you’re not some drunk trying to hustle me?”

“You don’t. But I’m not about to summon godsfire out of the sky just to show off, so how ‘bout the benefit of the doubt?”

He chuckled.

“Alright. I’ll indulge you. What is it that brings the storied soulwalker before me?”

“A sword. I imagine you know the one I’m talking about. The owner would like it back.”

“Would he now?”

“Theda, whatever business rivalry you and that aristo trash got going is none of my concern. But a weapon fashioned from Amata remnants is not something I can let fall into the wrong hands.”

Theda leaned into his chair, grinning.

“And his are any better?”

“No. But I trust him to leave it hanging on a wall.”

“What story did that scumbag merchant sell you, soulwalker?”

“I prefer Kuran.”

“Kuran, then. I’ll ask again: What story did Amral sell you?”

“He seems pretty convinced you broke into his home and stole the sword, and that you’ll likely sell it and use the profits to buy out his family’s business. Which, as I said, I don’t give a damn about. I’m only here to make sure the sword doesn’t wind up sold to the Malrain. Or worse.”

Theda guffawed. “Amral Jeyn sold you ​lies,​ soulwalker—Kuran, sorry.”

He sifted through the pile of papers atop his desk, shuffling them left and right like a dealer in a gambling hall. Plucked one piece up and held it before his face for further scrutiny, then thrust it toward me. I snatched it from his grasp. Looked it over.

I’m not Amral’s competitor,” Theda continued. “I’m his ​banker—so to speak. I deal in ​debt.​ And Amral is in the hole for quite a bit. He ​gave me the sword, you see. Put it up as collateral to keep his family business afloat.”

And there at the bottom of the hastily scrawled agreement, a scratch-mark signature in Amral’s name.

Well, shit​.

Part Four

Should’ve seen this one coming, soulwalker​.

Swept up by Ash’s crusade against manatech, I’d let myself get sloppy. Should’ve given Amral a second look, but instead I let him point me toward the nearest magic artifact and chased after it like a grimbeak smelling blood.

Didn’t really matter, though. Still needed the sword.

“Look, Theda. Let’s not make this any messier than Amral’s already managed to. You know I can’t leave here without his sister’s weapon.”

“If you wish to clear Amral’s debt, I’ll happily hand the sword over to you.”

I looked at the paper.

“Fifty-thousand stros? The fuck’s Amral in so deep for?”

“Our mutual friend has, shall we say, expense tastes.

I sighed. Pressed thumb and forefinger into my eyes.

“Yeah, not happening.”

“Then I guess the sword stays.”

Theda lifted one hand palm up. I turned around to find four of his lackeys had surrounded me, three with hands resting on the hilts of the swords. The fourth had a crossbow leveled at my chest.

Theda laced his fingers together, pressed his hands to the back of his head, and leaned back in his chair.

“My associates will escort you out. Dubious claims to your reputation aside, I think you’ll find no one is faster than a crossbow bolt. Good day.”

I rose from the chair. Turned to face the four armed men. Brushed aside my coat, fingers twitching toward the sword at my side.

“I really doubt he’s paying any of you enough for this,” I said.

Slide of steel being freed from scabbards.

“Money’s pretty good to me,” the man nearest growled.

I kept my eyes on the bowman, hand moving toward my own sword. As soon as my palm grazed the pommel, he squeezed the trigger and loosed the bolt with a dull ​thwack.​ I reached within myself, grasping for the gossamer threads of energy that tethered me to all these lifetimes. Felt a sharp cold, like breaching the frozen surface of a pond and plunging your fist into frigid waters.

I pulled. The air shimmered around me, folding in itself. The arrow snapped in half mid-flight, then in half again. And again.

The broken pieces dropped to the dirt.

Panicked, the bowman started to crank the crossbow and load a fresh bolt. I freed my blade and charged. He looked up in time to see my sword sink into him, run through until the crossguard pressed against his chest like the hand of a spent lover. I watched his eyes widen with the unmistakable certainty of what I was. Then put a hand on his shoulder for leverage and pried my sword out of him. He dropped to his knees and collapsed forward.

I turned to face the remaining three men.

The nearest came at me with an overhead swing. I stepped aside and cut him down with a backhand stroke, sending a ribbon of blood splashing across the packed dirt of the warehouse floor, staining it black. I met the next attacker while he hacked wildly at my head. Brought my own blade up in an arc and severed his sword arm between elbow and wrist. His weapon fell to the earth, fingers still gripping the handle. He stared in disbelief at the bleeding stump where his hand once was. A low keening escaped his lips.

I stalked to the last of Theda’s underlings He looked from the bodies of his two fallen colleagues to the mutilated man, then over to me. Dropped his sword and ran, disappearing down the narrow space between the storage containers. Smart man.

That left only Theda. I saw him feverishly trying to unlatch a door at the back of the warehouse. I sighed, strode over to him, and slashed at his thighs. The blade bit through leather and flesh, leaving two long grooves across each leg. He dropped to the ground in a heap. Started babbling for mercy. I grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and hauled his face an inch short of mine.

“Where’s the sword?”

Part Five

I left Theda tending to his wounds. Wound my way through the shipping containers until I found one marked with the symbol he’d described. Hauled the armor-thick metal door open and stepped inside. Enclosed within was a pile of assorted trinkets Theda had no doubted amassed from debt collections over the years. I sifted through the mess of artwork, heirlooms, and antiques. Didn’t take long to find the sword. I gripped the handle and held it out.

For all its much-vaunted value and exotic making, it struck me as underwhelming. Seemed like any other sword, save the strange runic lines that branched out from some sort of blue filament embedded along the fuller. Something more for show than slaughter. Then again, if it’s one thing I’ve learned about magic artifacts, half the trick is selling the prestige.

I slung the sword over my shoulder and headed out.

***

One of Amral’s servants ushered me through the foyer into the over-decorated antechamber. I busied myself by trying to decipher the meaning of an abstract sculpture while the merchant made a show of making me wait. I was midway to comprehending what I was pretty sure represented the inexorable march of time and the inevitability of death when Amral finally made his entrance.

“The soulwalker returns.” He clasped his hands together. “Did you find the sword? Is that it?”

“You tell me.” I pointed the sword toward him.

“Yes. Yes! Wonderful! Oh, my sister can sleep soundly in the void now, knowing her cherished weapon is back where it belongs.”

He held his hands out expectantly. I rested the blade back on my shoulder. That earned a vexing look.

“The job is done, soulwalker—”

“Kuran.”

“Kuran. Yes. Please, return to me what is rightfully mine.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“You lied to me, Amral. Said the sword was stolen. Your friend Theda told a different story, though.”

“He is no friend of mine.”

“But he is a business associate, no? One you owe so much stros you put up the sword to pay off your debts.”

“The matter is . . . complicated.”

“If you say so.”

“That sword belongs to me, soulwalker.”

“It ​belonged to your sister. And while I never met the woman—insofar as I know—I suspect she’d rather it be kept in safer hands than yours.”

“You have no right!”

“Nope. But you have bigger concerns right now than two feet of killing steel, Amral.”

His face contorted in confusion and fear.

“What are you talking about?”

“Granted, Theda’s going to need some time to get back on his feet, but rest assured—once he does, he’ll come for you. I suggest you pack whatever’s most precious and be gone before then.”

“Theda’s still alive?”

“A little worse for wear, but otherwise yeah.”

“You didn’t kill him?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“But. You— You can’t abandon me to that animal! You have to protect me!”

“No. I don’t. Better not see you around.”

“Soulwalker, stop—”

“Kuran.”

“​Whatever!​ Please!”

Amral reached for my arm. I smashed the pommel of his sister’s sword into his nose and sent him sprawling. I kneeled down beside him. Locked eyes with him.

“Get packing, Amral.”

Reached inside his coat and fished out a small purse of stros. Pocketed it.

“For my troubles.”

I rose and left. Held the antechamber door open to as a servant rushed. Watched him try to stanch the stream of blood trailing down his master’s broken nose. I spared Amral one last look, then strode through the streets of Nys Eka, sword at my side.