The Tornado of Souls

By Matthew N. Howard

Every generation, the Margrave rises to destroy the Gabralans. Every generation, the kingdoms of men beat him back—but always at a terrible cost.

Jalin, son of the Duke of Clarnis, sets out for war against the Margrave and his demon troops wearing a mysterious amulet that his dead mother left him—a gift that no one can see but him.

In the heat of battle, Jalin grasps the amulet and wishes to be somewhere—anywhere—else. To his shock, he is ripped from his body to wake up as a stranger, in an alternate Gabralan history. There is no war here, but the danger is no less real.

Each time he uses the amulet, Jalin wakes further from the family and history he knows. He does terrible things in order to survive, trying to find his way through a constantly changing landscape. Haunted by the consequences of his actions, trapped by a magic he cannot control, Jalin must find a way to defeat the Margrave before the enemy destroys everything he loves.
Full of cunning plots and unexpected allies, The Tornado of Souls is a captivating debut novel of love, treachery, and courage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew N. Howard
• Release date: Nov 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9780990866015

Matthew N. Howard

Matthew N. Howard is a fantasy author living in Northern Virginia with his wife and the awesome monkeys. As his author's "photo" implies, writing is a positive outlet for his more negative side - and an extremely small way to pay tribute to the authors that have influenced him over the years - from Tolkien, Herbert, Kurtz, and Brooks to Jordan and Martin more recently. He hopes his favorite author would not mind the borrowing of his works' most famous surname for this purpose. For "life is short, but the days are long - not while the evil days come not."

Book preview

Prologue

The castle guards had just changed shifts when the baroness slipped through the darkened hallway toward the west tower. Her husband had summoned her to his bedchamber, tonight of all nights, when the full moon reached its peak. Occasionally she enjoyed the challenge—convincing his mind that he was ravishing her in his enormous bed, when she actually was sitting in a chair across the room, writing in her journal. Sometimes her mind would wander, or perhaps her anger would surge, and he would scream from the illusion of being penetrated by a large quill pen. Her penalty for failing the self-imposed challenge was to give him an actual kiss on the lips—but only after he was asleep again. Tonight she failed twice, yet she was still proud that the guards outside only heard what they expected to hear.

The baroness finally reached the west tower and stepped onto the spiral staircase that led to her third floor refuge. She happened to notice the faint trail she was leaving in the dust. With a frown, she willed the dust from the ancient painting beside her to cover the footsteps. She was not sure how long she would be secluded above, and a disturbance could be catastrophic.

However, it was not a painting—how could she have forgotten? A mirror, twice her height, still streaked with leftover dust, framed with some unknown heraldry. Bronze griffons and lions chasing each other—she could not remember which extinct noble house had decided on such foolishness. Perhaps in her own land, such a thing had never happened.

The mirror revealed a woman wearing a coal-black robe, with hints of white underneath. Something flickered from her neck—a riot of color trapped in metal. Her long brown hair, now flecked with dust. Piercing blue eyes suggested many more years than her smooth, light brown skin ever could. Her reflection seemed to incline its head up the stairs, and she nodded and started the ascent.

She had learned the history of the tower, a necessity given the work she conducted here. It had once housed monks of some remote order, a minor auxiliary of the priesthood that had been eliminated so long ago. Small, unadorned wooden doors circled the spiral stone staircase. Almost everything the priests owned had been destroyed, down to the hay in their stables—one day she was determined to find out how this entire tower had been saved.

The baroness reached the appropriate door, undid the protection spell, and slid back the heavy bolt. Pushing the door open, she swept through the room, lighting five tall, white candles. Then she locked the door again, and reset the spell.

The chamber was small, with only two narrow windows. The walls were roughly-hewn gray stone, with just enough room for her small, oaken worktable and a few shelves, filled with bottles. She murmured a short prayer for the soul of the monk who had lived here. Josephus had kept a diary that she intended to read someday, once her life returned to simplicity.

The baroness arranged the objects—a wooden sphere no bigger than a small plum and a tiny loop of gold—on her worktable, on top of a white cloth. She shed her black robe, leaving only her snow-white shift and her necklace of all colors and none. Its tiny metal beads gleamed in the candlelight, and the sphere seemed to shine, as well.

She concentrated on the sphere, mentally grasping it, turning it, understanding it, and it rose in the air. When it reached eye level, she visualized the amulet as it should be, and the sphere began to change, as though an invisible force was shaving away its sides. Now the middle of the sphere was a perfect cube, with a bowl-shaped quarter-sphere on the top and bottom. She began drawing sigils in the air, and they were inscribed on the cube’s four outside surfaces.

For a moment, the night sky was as bright as full daylight, the light reflecting from each glass container on the shelves like a score of small mirrors. In the middle of drawing the last sigil, she paused. Was it an omen? She had witnessed too many strange things in her life to ignore any portents now. However, the full moon was reaching its peak, so she took a deep breath, murmured a fervent prayer to her patron, and finished the final glyph.

She took the golden wire loop from the table and carefully drove it into the top of the amulet. She took a silver knife from a shelf and made a small incision in her right palm, then grasped the amulet with her bleeding hand. The amulet glowed bright white, and she infused it with power, setting the primary enchantment and the necessary protections.

She was not alone now. Hundreds, perhaps thousands or hundreds of thousands, of women, crowded around her. Their spirits flowed through the room, making her skin tingle. Each seemed to contribute to the amulet's power. She was stealing just a bit of their essence—how much more of herself would be lost? Some of them were looking at her, perhaps knew what she was doing, and their gazes ranged from intense interest to deep sadness. Some were angry with her—or perhaps with themselves, that she had succeeded where they had failed.

Once the enchantment was set, she crashed to the floor, still holding the amulet. The other women disappeared, if they had ever truly been present, to their own lives. Although it no longer glowed, the amulet had reddened slightly.

The door creaked open, illuminating two pairs of ice-blue eyes in the dark stairwell. Two women stepped forward, carefully not touching any part of the room except the floor. Both looked young, but their eyes revealed which was the elder. Each wore a plain black robe, and was barefoot. They knelt over the unconscious woman and stared at the newborn amulet in her outstretched hand.

Did you know we’d have to sacrifice her like this? the younger woman said. Is this how—

You knew what she was doing, the older woman said. So did she. I may have encouraged her, but the initiative was hers alone. And she hasn’t been sacrificed. She simply had the honor of making the first move in a long game. Even setting some of the rules in the process, she murmured, looking at the reddish tint to the amulet. Time will tell whether that was for good or ill.

The younger woman stood up and turned away from her daughter’s unmoving body. Then she turned and snapped, You have it all planned out, you and the others! And we must play our roles.

The older woman laughed mirthlessly as they walked back up the steps to the turret, with each tread their bodies becoming more intangible. No one can track all of the infinite realms, niece. But some do require our attention, our guidance. And what’s this talk of ‘you and the others'? she added as they reached the top and vanished into the cold night air. After tonight, you are one of us.

Chapter One

1

The knocking on the door barely registered as the young man flipped the pages of a book, sitting cross-legged in a worn leather armchair. Unsteady towers of books and papers surrounded him, and his reading was illuminated by a single candle. He wore a simple blue tunic and gray breeches, and his blonde hair fell to his collar, tousled and tangled. A hunting knife hung from a belt, as pristine as it had been when he received it three years ago.

Jalin, get your head out of those books and come to dinner!

Jalin looked up and saw Amitha, the housekeeper, striding past him, shaking her head in frustration. She only came up to his shoulders, and had almost pointed ears and a pale complexion compared to the light brown skin he and most Gabralans shared. Amitha’s long brown hair hung straight down her back, and she wore a shapeless black dress with a bright blue belt.

As he returned to his book, an onslaught of dust attacked him from behind, and he turned to look at Amitha and the heavy blue and gold curtains she had opened. He blinked as dust settled in his sky-blue eyes. Still raining?

Amitha frowned, brushing dust from her hair and shoulders. You’d know if you ever left this filthy room. Now are you coming to dinner?

Will father be there?

Come along and find out! She wiped the remaining dust from her shoulders and strode out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Jalin sighed and closed the history of the Mordanian secession. He stepped towards the window and looked out on the wet spring day. The winter thaw had come late this year, accompanied by unusually heavy rains. This had delayed his father’s annual address to his people, and the duke had retreated to his quarters. Every day’s delay spread the rumors that the Shadow Mage was reborn, even controlling the weather with her demon magic.

Instead of heading to the dining room, Jalin walked down the back stairs to the kitchen, and began wandering through the narrow aisles. He stopped in front of the massive stone fireplace that dominated the room and idly sampled from the ten pots hanging there. The smell of baked bread drew him up the stone stairs to the second story ledge that circled the kitchen. A few servants muttered, Good day, young master while they sliced and stirred.

Amitha stepped in front of him. You know you’re not allowed in the kitchen, Jalin.

That was eight years ago!

Even a nine year old should have known to keep hunting dogs out of the kitchen. We were picking dog hair out of meals for months. When you are the duke, you may return.

Please, Amitha, I’m tired of eating alone.

She simply looked at him, but a cold chill ran down his body. Very well, Jalin, perhaps you are old enough. I suppose I was not paying attention.

***

The spring thaw came seven days later, and Jalin was deep in the castle’s depths. Nine generations had lived in this building—it was older than the duchy. Some had left their mark, on the building and on the duchy, a few had left more of a bloody stain, but almost all had been forgotten. Except down here in the nearly abandoned sub-levels, where their paintings and statuary remained. Jalin had spent the last two years alternately reading the family’s history and matching their exploits, or lack of such, with the faces in the depths.

Carrying a torch, Jalin walked through a tunnel carved into the rock. Dusty boxes and bags were piled randomly. The occasional rat scampered by, otherwise the place was deathly quiet.

Hello, boy.

Jalin spun around to find Amitha peering at him in the damp gloom.

Amitha, what are you doing here?

I wanted to see what keeps bringing you to this dusty place. Moldy paintings and broken statues. Even the library would be better.

It’s all connected, Amitha. I’ve read accounts of the hero of the Laramo siege by three different scribes—but to see him here—he was my great-great-grandfather. It’s important to me.

Did he prepare for that siege by reading what his own ancestors had done?

As Jalin started to reply, Amitha raised her hand. I didn’t come down here to chastise you, Jalin. I suppose I’ve gotten accustomed to it—who’d tell you to go outdoors, if not me?

Father.

War and commerce is all that concerns him—but a boy should learn more than that. At least, that’s what your mother thought.

Jalin’s skin turned cold. He had not thought about his mother since winter. After five years, his memories of her were somewhat hazy, but the sting of her disappearance remained.

She wanted more for you.

I don’t want to talk about it. The last Margrave had been defeated over twenty years ago, but a false one had appeared six years ago, and his mother had been caught in an early skirmish while traveling. Since then he had studied everything the castle library contained on the Margrave wars of the last thousand years. The true Margrave had re-appeared in Romini, across the River to the north, nearly a year ago and was still gathering its forces.

Amitha turned and headed down another hallway, towards a small door covered with symbols. That one’s locked, Jalin called behind her.

I know this castle better than you, boy. Her back was turned to Jalin, facing the door, and he could hear a soft creak as the door opened and closed, a moment later. Amitha walked back towards him, with a wooden box in her hand.

Come with me, Jalin. I need to talk to you in my room.

Wait—what else was in there? Jalin walked down the hallway, to find the door locked again.

This is what we need to discuss, Amitha said, halfway to herself.

He followed her upstairs to her room, passing through the sub cellars, the main floor, and on to the second floor without seeing anyone. Her room was immaculate as ever. A four-poster bed with purple velvet curtains dominated the room, with an enormous armoire and a bookshelf covered with small portraits in opposite corners.

Amitha gestured for Jalin to sit on the floor, and she sat on the bed, the wooden box on her lap. It was inlaid with silver and tiny emeralds. I need to tell you something about your mother. We first met on her wedding day. Beautiful woman, Lady Allaice was, and very kind. But when you were five, she fell ill.

Yes, father told me she almost died.

It's true. Amitha stood up and walked over to a shelf in the corner. She picked up a small silver frame with two portraits and brought it over to him. One from when you were four, the other done when you were… oh, nine or ten. You probably don't remember her very well from before the illness.

Jalin stared at the portraits and wondered. In both pictures, Lady Allaice was smiling radiantly, but in the first she looked happy, while in the second her blue eyes glittered with cruel amusement, the way a predator might smile at trapped prey. I… no, not really.

Amitha took the frame back. She had some kind of brain sickness, Jalin, and was never the same afterwards. When she recovered, I had to explain even simple things like names and dates. But she loved you, Jalin—she always loved you. After her illness, I think she loved you even more. She would hardly let you out of her sight, every moment you were awake. Even while you slept, she would watch you.

Amitha stopped and walked to the windows, returning the frame to its place on the shelf in the corner. She closed the drapes, leaving most of the room in shadows, and returned to the bed, eyes downcast. Jalin, it's hard to know what things should be left in the past. Your mother came to me the night she left, five years ago. She wouldn't tell me where she was going, or why, but she knew there was some danger. She asked me to give you this when I thought you were old enough. It's… well, here it is.

She handed him the box. It was intricately carved with runes and sigils. He opened it and found a spherical wooden amulet on a leather cord, lying on reddish-gold velvet. The wood was medium brown, but tinged with red. The middle of the sphere had been carved into a cube that turned independently from the top and bottom. Jalin picked it up and noticed that three faces of the cube had strange symbols carved into them. The fourth side was heavily scarred and unreadable.

As he looked at it more closely, from the corner of his eye Jalin saw Amitha’s right hand closing around some unseen object, turning, and pushing it away from her. A ward against evil, some believed.

This was my mother's?

She told me that it contained great power, and that it could be used, in dire need, to change your entire life. I don't know that honest people should own such things, but I must honor her request. There are—were—few duchesses like her.

Jalin put the amulet around his neck. As he did so, Amitha leapt to her feet in terror. Goddess defend us!

Amitha, what is it? What's wrong?

The amulet's disappeared!

Jalin looked down at his chest and saw the amulet hanging there. It's right here.

Amitha sat back down, her face blank. After a moment, she seemed to regain her composure. Jalin, I know your mother wanted you to have this, but please be careful. She stood and brushed a strand of his hair back with her fingers. Your father is looking for you. Go down the back stairs to the kitchens. Good luck, boy.

Jalin had never summoned the nerve to ask Amitha how she knew what was going on in other parts of the castle. He thanked her and scurried out the door. As she began straightening the room, a soft voice came from the dark corner. Thank you, Amitha. Startled, she walked over to the corner, but all she found was an empty picture frame.

***

The next day, most of the adult population of Clarnis was either at the duke's speech or represented there. Over two hundred farmers, merchants, and earls and their families sat crowded together on long wooden benches, facing the stage erected against the castle's southern wall. Children ran and yelled in the thick, wet grass, watched closely by blue-liveried castle guards. The castle servants offered ice-cold water and steaming hot pastries to all who asked. When the duke strolled towards the stage, a shout rose among the people. Jalin sat in the back of the crowd, mostly unnoticed except for the occasional polite nod.

The duke walked up the wooden steps to the stage, his shoulder-length blonde hair dancing in the light wind. He wore a dark blue cloak with hints of gold over the simple white tunic and black breeches—the unadorned look most Ashabad nobles favored compared to the cluttered look of their counterparts in other parts of the continent. Good people, thank you for coming. Before I speak of the outside world, we must first offer our prayers to the Goddess that this year will bring another bountiful harvest.

After a moment of silence he continued. I wish the news was better. Many of you have heard that the new Margrave threatens Samsara, our good neighbor across the River. We must prepare for the worst. We must prepare for war. Some of you remember the last war, but you've all heard stories about how the last Margrave treated his conquered territory. We cannot allow that to happen—we will not allow that to happen!—to our families, our land. Taking up arms is our declaration to the accursed Margrave that our land is not ripe for plunder, that deadly thorns still defend the fruit of these hills!

The duke waited for the cheers to fade. I’ll be speaking with the earls shortly. It’s been over twenty years since the last Margrave was defeated. The soldiers from that war are getting older, and another generation must step forward. He sighed. The swords and shields that once valiantly defended this land now lie rusting in barns. But we shall take them up, and be ready to defend our land once again. My hopes and prayers go with you all.

The duke acknowledged the applause with a slight bow and then walked away. The pages began seeking out the earls, requesting their presence in the trophy room, and Jalin slipped away to join them.

***

Eight of the nine Clarnis earls were assembled in the trophy room, their various house colors entwined with Clarnis blue. Animal heads mutely watched from the walls. Sir Lawan, earl of Delnar, dominated the conversation as usual, shaking his goblet when he wanted to make a point. Jalin was lounging on one of the fur-draped chairs. The ninth house, Crayl, was represented by the earl’s eldest son, an enormously fat man in his mid-forties sitting quietly in the corner. Behind him was the ducal banner—the green griffon of Ashabad, with golden eyes, on a blue background, instead of the royal black-eyed griffon on a golden background.

The duke was the last to arrive, by custom, and took his seat by the fire, furiously rubbing his temples. Gentlemen, I know you’ve lands to keep, so I'll make this brief. I want one able-bodied man, aged sixteen to twenty-eight, for each thousand acres you have. Fully equipped. Plus ten horses from each of you. That'll give me about five hundred men, more or less, plus ninety horses. Each of you has a grown son or nephew who can lead a squad or more. Don't expect to see much of them this year. Questions?

A flurry of glances between the eight earls commenced. Finally Sir Lawan spoke. My lord? What are the other houses doing?

The duke scowled as he rose and filled a goblet with cider. Everything and nothing. Turendal and Hedarch are still squabbling over the Ironwood forest while they fight the Hor'Kalic States together. Culin knows the king will require him to defend Strahlm. Avelin is with us, and we'll train together near our border. He, at least, can tell how far it is across the River from Samsara to here. The other three, who knows? Some men seem to forget the stories they learned at their father’s knee. It’s been more than a hundred years since the Margrave came south of the River, so they think it’s someone else’s problem now.

The earl of Halan, a shaggy bear of a man, drained his goblet. What of the free companies? Black Martyn and the others?

The duke stared coldly at his vassal. We’re not using that scum. They would only swarm towards our gold, pillaging everything in sight.

But… it’s customary! They will fight for our enemies if we…

The duke’s eyes were narrow and cold. We’re not paying that filth!

My lord? the earl of Staura whispered. He was tall and thick, with only wisps of blonde hair remaining. What of the Shadow Mage?

The duke scowled as seven of the earls touched their right fists to their chests to ward off the evil name. What of it? I’m a warrior, or have been forced to become one, anyway. I believe in what I can see, what I can face with my own steel. I can see the Margrave’s forces gathering in Romini, and heading for Samsara. The Shadow Mage is a myth. We’ve just had a string of bad weather, that’s all.

The duke swallowed some cider. I’m going to ride to Avelin soon to discuss our next moves. We’ll request some of the royal troops. The king signed the blasted treaty with Samsara, not us, so by the Goddess he had better come through. When you return home, send your stewards and the young men going into battle here.

The earls finished their drinks and left, boasting of their houses’ contributions in the last Margrave war. The earl of Rendin lagged behind. A tall, stout man, he had squired in the last war and still bore a massive scar on his neck. At home, he always wore a gaily-patterned yellow scarf around his neck, but when visiting his duke, the earl left the scarf behind. Jalin’s grandfather had created an earldom for House Rendin during the last war.

My lord? A word?

One moment. Sir Valon! the duke called to the fat man in the corner. Is your father ill?

Sir Valon had tried to slink away, but turned and bowed to his duke. I came to represent House Crayl, my lord. My father doesn’t travel much anymore.

I understand. Tell your father I plan to save him the trouble—I will come to him. Later this spring.

Sir Valon’s face turned bright red. You… you intend to come to Castle Crayl?

Crayl is a part of my land I have not visited in far too long.

Of course, my lord. We will welcome your presence. He bowed stiffly, his pudgy flesh rippling, and left.

Sir Marno turned to the earl of Rendin. Yes, Rendin, what is it?

Perhaps you were unaware that my eldest son was taken by the Goddess last winter, my lord, but—

I was aware, Rendin, and I apologize that I was only able to visit the mourning room briefly. A fine young man, your son Cathel.

Excuse me, my lord, you… visited the mourning room?

Just briefly, the duke said quietly, giving Jalin a piercing look. I didn’t wish to intrude upon your grief, so I paid my respects and left. The room was fit to mourn a king, and rightfully so.

He would’ve been a strong earl. I’m honored that you were able to pay your respects. But I’m not here to complain. My other sons are too young to be campaigning. I’d like to join you myself, my lord, if you can use a tired old man.

The duke laughed, shaking Jalin out of his own weariness. He had not heard that warm sound in a long time. Rendin, I wish I had a hundred tired old men like you! But can your lands—

My wife is capable of managing the land, and her brother is able to command the local men should it come to that.

Very well. I’ll expect you and your steward in eleven days.

Thank you, my lord. We’ll drive this upstart Margrave into the Blood Marshes! The earl bowed, and then stepped closer to the duke. Jalin could barely hear his words. The earl of Crayl does travel, you know. In a carriage fit for the king.

Sir Marno nodded. The man is testing me. Should be an interesting visit. Thank you, Rendin.

The earl bowed again and left Jalin and his father alone. Draining his goblet, the duke said, Always remember the small gestures, the shows of respect. That’s why I prepare that cursed speech every year, when none of the other Ashabad dukes do. It’s a courtesy to our people. It reinforces their fealty, even when times are hard, and costs me nothing. Soon we will need their loyalty more than ever. The duke’s face grew stern. And why weren’t you beside me for the speech?

I wanted to see how the people reacted to your words, and that couldn’t be done from the stage.

The duke snorted. How they reacted? They were afraid of the return of war, but pleased that I was preparing our defense! You could’ve watched through a spyglass and learned that!

Jalin stood up and began to pace. With your pardon, father, I think they’re more afraid than you know. Their role is to clap and sound relieved, but they were scared. I think many, or even most, had hoped you would say it was all a bad dream.

The duke stood, rubbing his temples, and began pacing across the worn