A Soul for Tsing Read online

  Dedication

  For David

  Who will always be my big brother

  A Soul for Tsing

  Chris A. Jackson

  Epub edition

  eISBN: 978-1939837011

  10.12.15

  A weapon forged for an emperor. A paladin’s soul. A girl trying to save her mother, by any means possible.

  These things have nothing in common except in the city of Tsing, where life and death are as simple as the edge of a knife, or as complex as imperial politics.

  To maintain his tenuous hold on the hearts of the people, Emperor Tynean Tsing III needed a symbol of his just reign, his impartial judgment, and his swift hand against opposition. What better symbol than a weapon forged by a great blademage and imbued with the soul of a paladin, a weapon made for his hand alone?

  The perfect weapon...

  But is any weapon perfect? Is any man’s soul flawless? What happens when the tiniest defect goes unnoticed? What happens when an emperor’s life—and an empire’s fate—are held hostage by a Weapon of Power gone mad?

  One girl holds the fate of the empire in her unknowing hands. Katie—a fugitive hardened by a life of cruel lessons—doesn’t want to be found. But someone must find her and tell her the truth, and somehow convince her that it is in her best interest to save the world she has grown to despise.

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright 2006 Chris A. Jackson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, except for brief quotations in printed reviews—without prior permission from the author.

  Cover Image Copyright 2006 Jaxbooks

  Find more books by Chris A. Jackson at jaxbooks.com

  Want to get an email about my next book release?

  Sign up here: http://eepurl.com/xnrUL

  CHAPTER I

  Spellfire roared.

  Waves of searing heat blasted into the cavern as if from a dragon’s maw. But it was the yawning mouth of a great forge, not a great beast, that gave the illusion of a fiery hell. Stout workers cast lurid shadows as they scurried about, working machinery and laying out long lengths of massive chain. The dwarves shaded their eyes against the forge’s unnatural glare, squinting into the gloom where the chains trailed into darkness. As one, they heaved, and a squeal of grinding wheels louder than any king’s fanfare heralded a long-awaited arrival.

  Like a long-dormant beast leaving its lair, a huge shape was dragged from the shadows. Two angular obelisks of dark stone set onto a wheeled base towered fully five times the height of the dwarven laborers. The great black slabs arched toward one another, within a finger’s breadth of touching at the apex of that arc. Runes of power, etched into the burnished stone surfaces, glowed faintly in the glare of the forge. Beneath the arch of the ebony pillars, an oddly shaped chunk of grey ceramic floated in the grip of invisible fingers of magic. Slowly, the apparatus ground forward, halting only a few paces from the forge’s searing mouth.

  Wedges were hammered into place to block the iron-shod wheels. More dwarves swarmed about, securing this and preparing that, but carefully avoiding contact with the looming dark structure. Their worried glances flickered toward the floating piece of ceramic, an intricate block of kiln-fired clay that had taken weeks to manufacture. Their work was about to be put to use, but if something were to go awry and the intricate mold were damaged, the entire forging would be set back months. The leader of the dwarven workers inspected the apparatus carefully, then nodded toward a shadowed alcove; everything was ready.

  Mystic syllables rushed from the alcove, and the dwarves shied away from the roaring mouth of the forge. A shimmering cylinder of magical force emerged from the roaring inferno of the forge. The incandescent shape floated to the floor, its swirling surface the color of burnished white marble. A glowing radiance of molten metal shone through the translucent cauldron of energy, a yellow-white light that added a ghostly cast to the glaring forge fire.

  As the cauldron descended, an aged dwarf approached bearing a pair of long tongs. He wore a slitted visor and thickly woven garments soaked in icy water. Steam rose in torrents as he came within a few steps of the cauldron to carefully pour the contents of two small crucibles into the swirling mass of molten alloy. A sprinkle of iron filings and the light flared, then subsided. A measured amount of mercury caused a similar display until the spell of mixing could distribute the final component throughout the molten medium.

  The dwarf’s sodden garments blackened and smoked as he backed away, and the cauldron raised once again and moved to the ebony pillars. The vessel approached the sculpted ceramic mold and tilted, its searing contents plunging into the painstakingly prepared interior to take the shape of its destiny. Glowing molten metal spat and spattered, burning tiny holes in the floor, and sending dwarves scampering out of harm’s way. As the level of the molten alloy reached the lip of the mold, the great cauldron tilted back and returned to the furnace. The doors to the forge swung ponderously closed, slamming shut with the resonant thrum of a tomb being sealed.

  Harsh words flowed out from the shadows once again, and white fingers of chilling frost hissed from the pillars to the mold, cooling it to precisely the point where the newly formed alloy would solidify. A howl akin to that of a forlorn banshee shrieked across the chamber as the molten metal contracted into its final shape.

  Silence fell like a shroud, a faint ticking of cooling metal the only sound after the cacophony of creation.

  As the heat of the chamber dwindled to humanly tolerable levels, the Master moved from his protective alcove. Sweat drenched his bare torso, rivulets tricking along the cords of muscle that belied his age. He was old, much older than the scant flecks of white in his ebony hair and beard implied. His dark features, broad cheekbones and subtly slanted eyes marked him as an easterner, but that was no matter; the forge, any forge, was his true home. The faint smile that tugged at the corners of his immaculate goatee lent a boyish quality to his smooth features, but the hands that wielded the magic of a blademage showed his true age to a greater degree. He raised one such hand now, dark and scarred with burns and wrinkles, and presented the callused palm like a shield toward the mold as he approached.

  The dwarven workers moved away, knowing what was to come and wanting no part of what might result if all did not proceed as planned. The Master paused a few steps in front of the arched supports, gauging the chances of his own survival should the new alloy prove dangerously unstable. But such were the risks he must endure if the latest creation of his century-long career was to be his greatest, and worthy of the hand of an emperor. He drew a long, deep breath, and spoke a single word of power.

  Immediately, a rune burst into being upon the mold’s surface and flared white—but only for a heartbeat—before the entire block of ceramic shattered into a thousand glowing shards. Shrapnel clattered to the floor, chipping and gouging the chamber’s architecture, but none touched the Master. Even the dwarves took little heed of the damage, as all eyes locked on the culmination of a year’s efforts.

  A great double-bitted axe head hung suspended by the force of the pillars, still hot enough to melt iron but already harder than the finest tempered steel. The dwarven foreman once again moved forward, climbing upon the supporting structure to peer closely at the clicking, cooling work of art. The blade was nearly two feet across from edge to knife-sharp edge, and half again as high. The thick center portion glowed dull red, the color of drying blood. The edges were cooler and pearl-grey, but still hot enough to curl and singe the dwarf’s bushy eyebrows.

  “‘Tis stable, Master!” the foreman judged wit
h a gap-toothed smile.

  The blademage moved closer, once again extending his gnarled and scarred hand and muttering a few words. His palm glowed with a white, pure light. The thinnest of smiles graced his lips for a moment before he finally spoke.

  “So it would seem, Glipsil... so it would seem.” Though the smile had vanished, his eyes shone with a fire of exultation to rival that of the mage-fired forges. “See that it cools uniformly. I will inform His Majesty and return when it is time to begin the sharpening.”

  “Very well, Master!” the dwarf agreed, snapping orders to his workers as the blademage turned to depart. Chains rattled and wheels squealed in protest, but the noise was now accompaniment to the deep thrumming music of dwarven song.

  In a third floor room of one of the less reputable inns lining the wharves, a man slept noisily. Exhausted and intoxicated from spending more than half his seaman’s wage in his first night ashore in two cycles of the moon, he failed to notice as the slim wisp of a girl sharing his bed edged deftly from his slack embrace.

  Katie moved with painful care, fear and loathing steeling her nerves as much as determination. Inch by tedious inch, she moved the burly, hairy, smelly arm of her most recent client and slipped out from between the dubiously clean sheets. As her bare feet touched the rough floorboards, the lump of sweat, hair and soiled linen beside her snorted and stirred. She froze instinctively, lest her movement wake him fully, but he was more than a little drunk and quickly resumed his snoring.

  Her breath eased out and she continued her snail’s pace escape, shifting her weight out of the lumpy bed and onto her feet. She had taken careful note of the four creaky floorboards, and carefully avoided them as she moved to the dresser. In a moment she had cleaned herself with the washcloth and the lukewarm water in the basin. Her client snorted again, but the snoring returned quickly, earning only a scathing glance and a muttered curse from Katie.

  “Filthy pig!” she hissed beneath her breath, quelling a bout of nausea as she unwillingly remembered the last hour of being pawed and bruised by his rough hands. She purged the memory from her mind with a sheer force of will, careful not to make a sound as she struggled into her dress and laced the bodice loosely.

  The man’s bulging belt pouch lay where he had flung it onto the dresser, and drew her attention her like a magnet. Katie glanced at her snoring client and eased the knotted drawstrings loose. She had already been paid of course—money up front was one of her strictest rules—but he had promised her a bonus, hadn’t he? Besides she had a much better use for his money than buying ale and the favors of women such as herself.

  Her fingers dipped deftly into the pouch, lifting out a few additional coins and slipping them into a hidden pocket in her dress. She replaced the still half-full pouch and retrieved her shoes from beside the dresser, but as she turned to leave, her mind summed up the items she needed to purchase at the apothecary and found her funds lacking. With a silent sigh, Katie decided that she had earned one more coin and turned back to the dresser.

  She reached once again for the pouch, but the creak of the floor behind her sounded like a warning klaxon in her head. Katie turned in time to glimpse the fist that smashed into her cheekbone. Her vision exploded into a swimming sea of stars as the floor came up and slapped her just as hard.

  “Rotten whore!” the burly man spat, glaring as he reached down for her. His thick fingers curled around the loose lacings of her dress, and he lifted her easily.

  “Rob me will ye?” he growled, cocking his hand back for another blow as her vision swam in a blur.

  “Gods, I’m glad you’re stupid,” Katie muttered as her head cleared just before his fist descended. She snapped a foot into his still nude and quite exposed groin with all the force she could muster, relishing the meaty “THOCK” of her hard instep against much softer and more vulnerable tissues.

  The man’s eyes bulged impossibly and his grip turned to water. Katie struck the floor before he crumpled to his knees, rolled out of the way and spun to her feet. Using her momentum as she had been taught, she planted a solid spinning back kick squarely onto the man’s jaw. The sodden sailor sprawled like a pole-axed steer, landing with a solid thump. She stepped past his prostrate form, massaging her battered face tenderly and enjoying the gasps of pain as her former client clutched his battered manhood.

  “You just earned me another bonus, pig!” she informed him, reaching for his belt and drawing his own dirk to cut the pouch free. “And let me tell you something else,” she continued as she tucked the pouch away then dumped the water from the wash basin onto his face to get his attention. “If you ever touch me again, I’ll use this instead of my foot!” She brandished the blade in front of his face for emphasis. “Understand?”

  At his weak nod she smiled, “Good!” She took three steps to the window and jerked it open, turning back to grin murderously. “And don’t think I can’t!”

  She flipped the dirk in her hand and threw in one fluid motion. The blade plunged an inch deep into the hardwood floor only a hand’s breadth from his clutched fingers. Katie smiled once again and levered herself out the window, vanishing into the sultry night.

  CHAPTER II

  Ancient pages rustled beneath Emperor Tynean Tsing III’s fingers. The familiar and comforting scents of leather, parchment, and well-aged brandy filled his senses as the phrases of a long-dead poet filled his mind. The lines of tension that creased his brow smoothed with the soothing surroundings of his sitting room, one of the few places where he felt at ease and at home. Crowded bookshelves lined the walls. There were books of wars long past and of wars that might be fought in the future, books of etiquette and the customs of a hundred cultures, books of the history of the Empire of Tsing, and books that were mere stories of fancy. Emperor Tynean liked his books. Sometimes he would read or browse the titles, or simply sit by the fire and enjoy being surrounded by a collection of literature that none other in his empire could rival. If the truth be told, Emperor Tynean enjoyed the company of his books far more than that of most people. And since ascending the throne seven years before, politics and bureaucracy had largely kept him from his books, the only true friends he had ever known.

  Oh, he had advisers aplenty and servants to bend to his every whim. There were so many courtiers that he often lost track of who was having an illicit affair with whom. He had consorts and trainers and footmen and even the occasional concubine, but all those were just the trappings of royalty. In his whole life, Tynean had never had someone with whom he could simply talk.

  His father, Tynean Tsing II, had by all accounts been a less-than-compassionate ruler. By Tynean III’s account, the man had been even less of a father: cold, distant and unmindful of the lonely life of his sheltered son. Tynean had found it hard to mourn the man’s untimely passing—murdered by the hand of an assassin, some said. The incident had also propelled him into the position of Emperor at what he considered the much-too-tender age of thirty-six, an injustice for which he had never forgiven his father. Ill-prepared for the morass of duties and obligations, fully a year passed before he realized that he could change the rules that he had come to loathe.

  Heads rolled quite literally when several powerful government officials opposed his radical changes with an uprising among the noble classes. The ridiculous rebellion was quashed without mercy, and with little sweat since the entire knighthood, constabulary, army, navy and palace guard had remained faithful. Consequently, the power of the remaining nobility was sharply curtailed and the royal magistrates, formerly the sole judiciary body for the commoners, were reduced to mere tax collectors. He assigned the duties of judging civil cases to his retired paladins, thereby instituting a new, fairer, and less brutal form of justice. Everyone answered directly to Tynean Tsing III; those who did not like it quickly found themselves unemployed, exiled or far, far worse.

  Several adjoining kingdoms took this brief internal power struggle as a sign of weakness. One particularly ruthless neighbor learned that it m
ost certainly was not. The war was exceedingly short and very bloody, ending with the neighboring kingdom ravaged and Tynean III annexing the lands for his own. In less than two years of war, Tynean III had put the aggressor to death and found himself the deliverer of an entire nation of oppressed people.

  Word spread like wildfire of his merciful hand and swift but fair justice. His rousing speeches won the hearts of not only his new peasantry, but the military and merchant guild of the annexed kingdom as well. His law was simple: the strong would no longer prey upon the weak. Those who did would have a very short conversation with a guillotine. This irritated a good number of very rich and influential people, but Tynean III would not bend to their veiled threats and, within another year, peace reigned throughout the empire.

  Fortunately, Tynean III was not stupid; he knew full well that if his predecessor could be assassinated by a disgruntled and angry peasantry, he could also be eliminated by a vengeful aristocracy. Not a few attempts had been made on his life, and several had even come close to succeeding. He needed protection, and since he could trust absolutely no one to be incorruptible, he would have to trust himself. Of course, as the heir to the throne, he had received training with the best martial artists and weapons masters the empire could produce. Strangely, or perhaps as part of his own youthful rebellion, Tynean had always favored the battle axe over the more common and courtly rapier, saber or long sword. True, the axe could be unwieldy if handled poorly, but with a finely balanced and keenly wrought weapon in his experienced hands, he could disarm and dismember most moderately good swordsmen. As Emperor, Tynean needed a truly exquisite weapon, not only with which to defend himself, but as a symbol of his swift and indisputable justice.

  But all this was far from Tynean’s thoughts as he mentally strolled through the literary landscape, until a discrete tap at the door interrupted his enjoyment. Sighing aloud and cursing silently, he nodded to the guard standing by the door.