Shadows of the Soul

Chapter 1

The song of the dying drew him. That rattling dirge of air escaping a dead man’s lungs, the siren song of a soul ripped asunder. It always sang to Doric. When it grew loud enough, he noticed.

Doric clasped his hands behind his back as he studied the ground before him. It was quiet now, save for the sighing of the wind as it scooped handfuls of dust and scattered them haphazardly amid the dry grass. The song had fallen to nothing more than a distant whisper.

But the mystery remained. Despite the dark—it was always dark this far out on the rim—he could make out a small copse of trees not too far to the south. Pretty trees, and just dense enough to provide a little cover.

They’d been heading that way, Doric decided, as the continued studying the remnants of the battle. Maybe they’d sought a desperate last stand under the scant protection of the thin branches, or maybe they’d hoped to make a fighting retreat deeper into the grasslands. Maybe they’d even had an ambush planned. He shrugged, his heavy armor creaking over broad shoulders. Maybe they’d just wanted to die beneath something green. Hard to say. The Sorish were a strange lot.

Whatever they'd been up to, though, it hadn't panned out.

Corpses littered the wilted grass like rotting fruit beneath a tree. Scaled iron and boiled leather marked the Talen dead as clear as any sigil–and the others, well, who else would they be? The Sorish fallen wore little in the way of armor, but their tribal tattoos were a telltale sign, not to mention the number of Talen corpses surrounding every man--cornering a Sori was a good way to die.

The familiar scent, part charnel house, part open latrine, greeted him like an old friend as he waded through the ranks of the dead. He did some quick figuring. Six hundred Talens, give or take. Maybe a third as many Sorish. Three to one odds, and not even enough Talens left over to clear away the dead. Doric brushed a hand through his long grey hair, considering. The Sorish were fierce fighters, but not that fierce. Something strange had happened here.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and lifted his head. Three men were approaching from the little copse of trees. A glance told him all he needed to know--the ragtag collection of odds and ends they wore in place of armor, the bulging sacks on their backs. He recognized their sort easy enough. Some flew, some crawled, some walked upright and looked like men, but they were all the same. Scavengers.

Doric turned and spat, then clasped his hands behind his back and waited.

As they got closer the man in the middle--no doubt he’d be the spokesman, if they even intended to speak--caught his attention. Or more precisely, the man’s choice of footwear caught his attention. Leather wrapped in hide wrapped in leather, with a little room for the toes to poke out. Cindoran sandals. Not so uncommon, once upon a time. Hell, they’d been downright popular. In Cindor. Back when Cindor still existed, a century gone. Now, what in the pale blue light of hell was a Sorish castoff doing with his toes wiggling out of a pair of Cindoran sandals?

“We’ve got claim on the spoils, old man. Piss off.”

Well. Seemed it would be talk after all. Doric broke away from staring at the man’s shoes and had a look at his face. Pockmarked. Crooked nosed. Add to that a healthy dose of good old natural ugly, and all things considered, the sandals had been more appealing.

“You the victor, then?”

The man brushed his hand over the hilt of his sword. “Far as you’re concerned.”

Doric nodded, then shrugged. “I’ll be on my way, then.” He turned and started the long trek toward the trees. He’d been heading for them anyways.