The Way of the Soul Read online

  The Way of the Soul

  Book 6 of The Malja Chronicles

  Stuart Jaffe

  For All of You

  Who Have Read and Enjoyed Malja

  This series would never have lasted this long without you.

  Chapter 1

  Malja

  Malja slid Viper off her back and held the crescent-shaped blade low. She did not stop walking through the gray, dead woods but slowed her pace in order to pay closer attention to those that watched her. Three, maybe four of them. Noisy but determined. Either some kind of pack animals or some careless, stupid people.

  A white-gray mist hung in the cold air, limiting her visibility. She hoped that this also limited her enemy’s visibility, but most likely, her enemy had evolved and adapted on this desolate world. She was merely an unwelcome visitor.

  It had been a full year of playing the unwelcome visitor on world after world, always just missing her target — Harskill. Ever since he had attacked Carsite, an admirable country weakened by a war Harskill had created, Malja pursued any trace of him she could find. Mostly that consisted of using Tommy and the Artisoll to locate the magic signature left by Harskill’s do-kha, the black semi-living suit all Gate wore. It gave them power, enhanced their strength, and healed them when injured. It also was the only connection Malja had with her own kind.

  Malja shook her head. She had to stay focused. Being Gate or finding Harskill or magic signatures — it all meant nothing if she failed to survive the coming moments. Whatever had been following her had grown bolder. She could hear the snapping branches on either side as the enemy closed in.

  With an exuberant cheer, Fawbry rushed up from further ahead. “Hey, Malja! I found something.”

  “Fawbry! Get down!”

  In two seconds, her dear friend reacted. The first second, his face shifted from frustrated confusion to wide-eyed understanding. The next second, he dropped to the ground with the speed and agility of a person who had performed such a maneuver many times before — which, of course, he had.

  Three creatures dropped from the trees. Two landed behind her. One in front. They had gray hides, blending well with their surroundings, and smooth, windswept faces. Two forearms, heavily muscled and disproportionately long, knuckled the ground, while it made an amusing waddle motion when it tried to walk on its stubby legs. Like fanged monsters carved from stone, these things looked thick and strong but somewhat useless.

  But Malja wouldn’t let their appearance lull her into inaction. They certainly planned to harm her and had the belief they could succeed. So, Malja bolted forward. She heard the surprised grunts from the creatures and saw their hesitation. They had expected her to run for safety. They had to rethink their attack now.

  The one in front of her reacted first — perhaps because it stood directly in her line. It crouched before springing into a full-on charge. Using its hands to propel forward, it soared across the ground with grace and skill.

  As they neared, Malja dove ahead and tucked into a forward roll. The creature salivated as it dropped its arms, baring claws that had been hidden in its hide and coming in low enough to catch Malja as she tumbled. But when Malja came out of her roll, she did not strike nor stand nor race ahead — all of which would have resulted in being skewered by the creature’s sharp claws. Instead, Malja sprang upward, leaping high into the air.

  The creature watched as she soared overhead. It barely reacted when she swiped with Viper, nicking it in the shoulder. As she landed, she planted her feet firmly and pivoted to the left.

  She readied for another attack, but now all three of her enemy were on the same side of her. Much easier to deal with.

  Snorting and grumbling, the creatures moved toward her. One had a patch of dirty gray hair. Another bore a scar along its chest. They looked like twisted versions of people, and Malja wondered if they had once been people who may have suffered from some catastrophic use of magic. That type of thing had destroyed her homeworld, mutating many of the survivors and creating a nightmare out of each day.

  Lowering her fighting stance, she readied Viper for another strike. The creature at the front saw her shift in position and lowered itself in response. It knew how to fight — at least, on some level.

  Displaying its sharp teeth, it barked at her. A rich, deep sound.

  Then its head rocked to the side. All three creatures turned to their right. Fawbry, standing off in the distance, had pegged it with a stone. He had no hope of causing serious injury, but Malja understood that had never been his intention. He simply provided enough distraction so that she could attack with ease.

  And she did.

  With steady, controlled motions, she stepped forward and sliced off the head of the nearest creature with the inner-blade. The movement brought her body around. Not enough time to swing Viper back again. So she popped the next creature in the forehead with Viper’s hilt. The third creature had enough time to move in close — exactly what Malja wanted. She kneed it in the gut and cut its body with two fast swipes of her blade. Then she swung backwards, dispatching the third creature with Viper’s sharpened outer-edge.

  Fawbry came forward. “Fantastic. You never stop amazing me.”

  Malja pulled out a cloth and wiped Viper clean. Her hands shook a little, and she tightened her grip to hide the motion. Just the adrenaline, she thought, but that excuse had worn thin. This wasn’t the first time.

  For months, she had noticed little tremors in her hands. That wasn’t all, though. Her muscles felt sore much of the time, and her body seemed to take longer to recover from injury. Worst of all, she often woke in the middle of the night with an urgent need to relieve her bladder.

  Something inside her was failing.

  As she finished cleaning Viper, Fawbry dug into his satchel and produced a dark red apple. Malja’s favorite. He offered it to her.

  With a slight grin, she bit into the fruit. “You know better than to come running at me making all kinds of noise. Those things could have killed you.”

  “If I worried about all the things that could kill me when I hang around you, I’d never step outside again. At least, not when you’re around.”

  Taking another bite, she gestured deeper into the woods. “So what’s out there that got you so excited?”

  “Another creature. I think it’s what we’ve been looking for.”

  “We beat Harskill here?”

  “No. He was definitely here before us, but well, you’ll see.”

  Fawbry headed out and Malja followed. The dead trees stretched skyward like skinless fingers, each one threatening to close in at any moment. On the ground, Malja saw no evidence of fallen leaves. Perhaps this world lacked an Autumn. Perhaps it always looked this way.

  Fawbry bore deep lines of worry on his face, and she wanted to ease his mind, to let him know that this time was different. This wasn’t like her obsession to kill her fathers, Jarik and Calib. She would not let her desire, her need, to find Harskill ravage her and leave her as empty and gray as this forest. She wanted to say all of that, but she had to remain focused — what if there were more creatures watching them?

  “Over here,” Fawbry said, ushering her onward.

  They came upon a large expanse that had been dug deep into the ground. It appeared that someone had been running an organized mining effort here long ago. The wide open pit had numerous ledges with wood stairs and a few ladders providing access deeper in the ground.

  Two ledges down, Fawbry indicated a single wooden post standing upright in the ground. It looked like a message post. Malja had seen such things before on several worlds — a thick post that people could nail messages on for all to see. Except on this message post, Malja did not find a paper with important information. On
this message post, she found a short creature tied tight with heavy rope.

  Colored green and tan, it had hard skin like a form-fitted shell — four arms, four legs, and a tiny head with a row of black, beady eyes. As they approached, the creature snapped its bald head upward and stared at Fawbry. Not only its head, Malja realized, but the creature lacked hair everywhere. If not for its size — about half Fawbry’s height — Malja would have considered the thing to be an insect.

  Then it spoke.

  “Help. Please. I get down. Please. Help get down.” Its voice grated Malja’s ears with a high-pitched, gravel that sounded oddly like two voices speaking at once.

  “When I found him, I was going to cut him down,” Fawbry said, “but then I thought you should see him first.”

  It watched how Fawbry spoke to Malja and then focused on her. With a jerk of its head, it widened most of its eyes. “You Gate.”

  Malja exchanged a concerned look with Fawbry. “What makes you say that?”

  “Do-kha.”

  Stepping closer, Malja pulled at her clothing. “You’ve seen this before?”

  The creature’s head bobbed up and down. “Seen it, yes. Make it. Make it. That’s me.”

  “You make do-khas?”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Please. I get down. Please.”

  Malja gestured to Fawbry. “Cut it down.”

  Fawbry complied and the creature dropped down. With spry movements, it scurried before Malja and bowed. Despite its hard-shelled skin, its body made an unsettling sloshing noise like meat and organs dumping into a drainage ditch.

  “Thank you. Thank you. You save me. Thank you.”

  Malja looked away. “Who are you? What are you? Where are you from? You said you make do-khas. How? And how’d you get here? Who tied you up?”

  The creature frowned and its eyes glazed over. Fawbry snickered. He stepped forward, placing a calming hand on Malja’s shoulder.

  “You’re confusing him. This little thing reminds me of the griffles back in Corlin,” he said. “If you recall, I led them quite efficiently.”

  “You conned them. And you only succeeded until I came along.”

  “Regardless of how you see it, the fact remains that I have had plenty of experience dealing with little minds.”

  Malja bit back a laugh. Instead, she stepped away and waved him on. “Good luck.”

  Fawbry offered a sarcastic bow and then squatted so that the creature didn’t have to look upward at him. “My name’s Fawbry. What’s your name?”

  The creature’s row of eyes closed up, leaving only the front four open and staring at Fawbry. “Plang.”

  “Hello, Plang. I’m glad we could help you out.”

  “Me happy too.”

  “We’ve never seen a creature like you. Do you have a name for your kind?”

  Plang’s eyes glazed over again.

  Fawbry pointed to a tree. “Tree.” He pointed to a rock. “Rock.” He pointed to himself. “Man.”

  Plang pointed to itself. “Groyle.”

  “Groyle, huh? That’s a nice sounding word.”

  In a harsh whisper, Malja said, “Ask it who tied it up?”

  Plang eyed Malja warily. “Gate brought me. Gate tied me.”

  Before Malja could demand another question, Fawbry scooted to the side to block the groyle’s view. “Don’t worry about that Gate. They’re not all the same. This one I’m with, she’s nice. Sometimes.”

  “Yes, yes. Some Gate nice. Most Gate mean. Groyle know to be nice.”

  “Where are the other groyles?”

  “Yes, yes. All live at home. Work together. Make the do-khas.”

  Malja stepped forward and Plang cowered back. “Ask it about that. Where do they make do-khas? How? It doesn’t look like it’s from this world, not colored green against all this gray, so where’s it from?”

  Fawbry waved her back. “You’re scaring him.” He smiled at Plang. “Sorry. My friend is happy to know you make do-khas.”

  “I make do-khas good,” Plang said. “I the best.”

  “I bet you are. In fact, we’d really like to see where you make these do-khas. It must be a special place.”

  “Very special.”

  “Is it nearby?”

  Plang pointed at Malja with a shaking finger. “She take us.”

  “You want Malja to take us there.”

  “No. Her. Do-kha.”

  Fawbry looked up and down Malja. “I think your do-kha is female.”

  Malja crossed her arms. “Just get a clear image of the place from that thing. I’ll try to open a portal to get us there.”

  “No, no,” Plang said. “Do-kha do it.” Plang lowered its head as it approached Malja. Only this time, Malja thought the groyle’s behavior related to her do-kha, not her. “Please. Take me home.”

  It reached out with one finger and brushed Malja’s thigh. Her do-kha tightened on her skin, and Malja could feel energy surging through it. A loud crack filled the air along with a sharp burnt odor. Behind them, a portal opened upon a lush, green swampland.

  Plang clapped its hands and jumped around. “Home. Home. Let’s go.” It hugged Malja’s leg, but she knew this had nothing to do with appreciation or thanks. The groyle had to know well that it would be incinerated if it attempted to walk through a portal without being in close proximity to a do-kha. After all, this thing had apparently made do-khas.

  “Come on,” Malja said to Fawbry. He knew the routine. Standing behind her, he put his arms around her waist. This way she could be ready if anything waited for them on the other side. It wasn’t ideal, but it worked.

  They stepped through the portal.

  Chapter 2

  Reon

  Reon was late for lunch. Again. Her mother would be upset when she finally showed and would have no sympathy for her excuses, but it wasn’t her fault.

  She had left her apartment at Gull University with plenty of time. But the foot traffic clogged the walkways, and some rude guy swiped the car she had called, causing her to waste another ten minutes waiting for a new car. Self-driving autocars could not be forced into speeding, so once inside, she had no choice but to wait.

  Soft jazz played from the autocar’s inner-speakers — not calming enough to ease Reon’s nerves. She dug through her large, cluttered bag searching for a breath mint. Her mother always complained Reon’s breath lacked the freshness to attract a husband. And that was so important, of course. That was everything. Reon rolled her eyes to the empty autocar.

  Tapping her wristband, she called her mother at the restaurant. “Hi, Mom. Somebody took my car, so I had to call another. I’ll be there very shortly.”

  Her mother’s stern image appeared on her wrist. “No problem, dear. I don’t feel awkward waiting alone in a crowded restaurant. I’m used to it.” She leaned in closer and wrinkled her brow. “Is your skin pink?”

  “No, Mom. The battery on my wristband must be going.”

  “Good. Because nobody is going to want to be with a woman who has pink skin. I know you like all those fads, but Gull University isn’t about fads. It’s about education. It’s about finding yourself a quality mate.”

  “Yes, Mom. I’ll be there shortly.” Reon tapped off the call. She looked over her pink skin, and with a cleansing breath, changed it to a flesh tone.

  As her pigment shifted, she had to admit that she acquired the chameleon implants because her some of her friends had done so as well. She thought it was cool. More importantly, she thought it might be useful, someday, whenever her Lord returned.

  She had been seven when he first appeared. He called himself Harskill, but she could only think of him as Lord or Lord Harskill.

  Lying in bed, crowded by stuffed animals, she had closed her eyes for no more than five minutes when a bright flash startled her. She bolted upright in bed as the air in her room cracked open, and out stepped a handsome man dressed in black.

  Her parents always had been religious — stalwart followers of Dulmul, the one t
rue god. Though there were numerous religions in the world, none commanded as many followers as the Dulmulim. Sunday prayers, Wednesday cleansing, Friday prayers, Holy Days, and Morning Rites — Reon knew them all. So, when a god stepped into her bedroom, she had the sense to drop to her knees and bow her head to the floor.

  She had never seen a god before, but at seven years old, she believed what her parents had taught her. Gods were real, proved by the magic in the air with which the scientists of the world could create all of their wonders.

  “I praise thee, Dulmul,” she said, her little heart racing.

  In his deep, savory voice, the Lord Harskill said, “I am not Dulmul. I am real. Dulmul is nothing but a fiction.”

  “But Dulmul is the one, true god.”

  “Really? Have you ever seen him?”

  “No.”

  “But you see me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I ask you, who is more real?”

  Reon thought it over with her seven-year-old tongue poking out the side of her mouth. “You are certainly really before me. But not seeing someone doesn’t necessarily mean they aren’t there.”

  Lord Harskill laughed. “You’re a smart girl. So listen to me now — I am Harskill. And unless your Dulmul shows up and stops me, I am now the only true Lord of this world.”

  Reon’s skin reddened at the memory, and she had to concentrate before it returned to a normal flesh tone. The autocar pulled up at the restaurant — Joyous Garden — and Reon took one final, cleansing breath before stepping out.

  As the restaurant’s hostess guided Reon through the winding maze of tables toward her mother, her stomach grumbled at the intoxicating aroma of expertly prepared food. While she loathed these monthly lunches with her mother, at least she got a free meal — one far more costly than she could afford on her own.

  The main dining floor felt more like an arboretum. Cavernous glass ceilings allowed sunlight to trickle through foliage made of live trees desperately attempting to grow out of captivity. Three enormous chandeliers hung to provide light in the evenings. Reon knew the wealthy loved these kinds of places, found them peaceful yet intimidating, but for her, the whole thing seemed forced.