SoulWeaver Read online

  Contents

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  35

  Epilogue

  SoulWeaver

  Chronicles of the Eyes I

  C.J. Sorvik

  Copyright © 2019 C.J. Sorvik

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-578-54038-2

  DEDICATION

  For Gideon, the strongest kid I know. I am so proud of how you have handled the trials and hardships life has thrown your way. You are growing into an astounding and truly good man.

  I see the greatness within you!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To the ladies of my life:

  My wife, Lisa,

  Mother, Michele

  Sister, Hannah

  Thank you for your constant support, proofreads, and criticism. You kept me going when I was burning out.

  To my wonderful editor, Rachel Matuch, thank you for the countless hours of hard work you put into making my manuscript readable and ready to fill others' minds with adventure!

  1

  The night was cold. Not the harsh, biting cold of winter, but the damp chill of autumn that soaks through clothes and skin, burrowing into bones. The days were warm with a cool breeze, but the nights were becoming more difficult to bear.

  Weaver couldn’t sleep. Though he was wrapped in blankets and out of the wind, the cold still reached him. He had been up for hours and was glad he could now see the dim grey of dawn replacing the black of night. He needed to get up, start moving, warm his body. Stiffly, he unwound himself, grabbed his coffer, and began to make his way out into the new day. He exited through a hole, nothing more than part of a crawl space under the Lonely Nomad, a small inn by the southern gate of De’burr.

  Weaver hated it, but there was nowhere else to go. It kept him out of the wind and out of sight. Some of the heat from the wood stove leaked through the floorboards, keeping him slightly warmer than if he were on the street. He tried to be thankful, but winter was coming again. He had barely survived the last one . . . he didn’t know if he could make it through another. Bending over, he stretched out tired legs and heard his belly moan.

  He hadn’t eaten for two days and his stomach burned, slowly eating itself in desperation. Hopefully, he would get enough money today to buy something to eat—anything.

  Weaver straightened and looked about. No one knew of his living space, and it needed to stay that way. If the innkeeper found out, he would certainly receive a beating and be thrown back to the streets. He moved around the side of the building and peered out. No one was up yet, so he walked out and began to make his way to the market square.

  As he moved, he tried hard not to think about the hunger. He looked around at the brick buildings on either side. Most were two or three stories, but a few were four. They towered over his tiny form. The cobblestone road stretched on with intersections going this way and that, lined with street lamps that were running out of oil—nearly half had already burned out. The city was large . . . in fact, De’burr was the largest city in all Lothandenrel. There were all kinds of people living here, and many more who came to sell wares, food, or livestock in the market, which was why Weaver was heading there. It was his best chance at finding someone willing to give him a little money or something to eat.

  As he made the long walk, daylight began to flood the streets, leaving everything awash in golden rays. The sun lifted slowly higher into the sky, breaking past the towering buildings until he was able to step into its light. Warmth began to sink into him, and for the first time in what felt an eternity, he felt hope. Maybe, just maybe, today would be different . . . perhaps today would be good.

  As Weaver made the last turn into the Market, he saw a few merchants getting an early start on the setting up of their wares. But the massive pavilion was mostly empty. Weaver walked along the decorative stones, which spiraled into the design of a sun in the middle of the square. Tired from his walk, he made his way to a sun-bathed wall along the outside edge and sat. Head leaned back, he closed his eyes, feeling warmer and more comfortable than he had all week.

  When he reopened them, it was to noise and commotion all about him. He had drifted off, and the market was now open. People were everywhere, some laughing, some yelling, most bartering with merchants, and a few just standing about making conversation with old friends or new. With a grunt he got to his feet; time to begin his day’s work. Knees aching, he walked from one peddler to the next and then to town folk standing in the square, holding out his coffer and begging for whatever they had to spare. Most of his day was filled with men and women saying, “Sorry, I have nothing for you,” or, “Get out of here, kid,” or, “Leave or I’ll call the guards,” but by late afternoon Weaver had managed to scrape together just enough to buy one small loaf of bread from the local baker. The thought of finally having something to eat put a spring in his step as he made his way towards the bakery at the far end of the square. As he drew nearer, the lovely aroma of freshly baked bread and rolls filled his nostrils and made his mouth water. Through the storefront’s small windows, he could see fresh loaves of bread in every shape and size cooling.

  Weaver started toward the door, then stopped. Fear momentarily overpowered his need to eat. The Baker hated him—or really anyone who looked like they lived on the street. Weaver had learned early on not to ask for anything from the man, or to even try and take old bread from his trash. Only once had he tried, taking a stale, half-loaf he had found in the man’s garbage. The Baker had heard the rustling outside, came out, and given Weaver a horrible beating for “stealing” from him. Finally, hunger won out. Tipping his small cup over, he caught the few coins in hand, took a deep breath, and entered.

  The store was empty. The Baker had his back to Weaver, kneading some dough in front of his huge wooden oven. He was an enormous man, plump with large arms and a shining, bald head. Weaver approached the front and mustered all the courage he had. “Ex-excuse me, sir.”

  The Baker turned with a smile that immediately faded upon seeing the owner of the voice. “If you don’t have money, you had better get out of my shop!” he yelled, a small bit of spit flinging out from between meaty lips.

  “I-I do sir! I think I have enough for a-a small loaf of bread.” Weaver quickly lifted his hand and put the money on the counter. The man walked over and picked up the coins. He glanced down, then looked coldly back to Weaver, “This isn’t enough.”

  “But, I. . . I counted and—"

  “Well, you counted wrong!” the man shouted, a wry grin spreading across his face. “But I do have one thing you can buy.” He walked out of sight, then reappeared and laid a small, stale loaf of bread with a chunk torn out of it on the counter. “This,” he said, “is all you can afford.”

  Weaver wanted to tell the Baker he would rather have his money back, but didn’t dare. He took the bread with a quick “Thank you, sir,” and left the shop. Once outside, hunger took over. He didn’t care that the bread was stale. He needed to eat. He took his prize out of the square to find somewhere he could be alone to enjoy the meal. In an alleyway, he found some barrels with a couple of empty rucksacks folded over them. He hoisted himself up and raised the bread to take the first bite.

  “Hey Rat!” a nasally voice hollered from the entrance to the alley.

  Weaver’s heart sank. He looked over to see Teagon and his gang. The bully was the son of one of the more wealthy merchants in the southern quarter, and liked nothing better than to make his life a living nightmare. He was older, larger, and the reason why Weaver was always so cautious. Apparently, he hadn’t been careful enough today.

  “Teagon, please… I haven’t eaten in days! Please, just leave me alone.”

  The black-haired boy started moving towards him. “Not a chance, Rat! I’m hungry and that looks good!”

  Weaver jumped off the barrel and turned to run, but had forgotten he was in an alley with a dead end. There was nowhere to go. “Where do you think you’re going?” the bully laughed maliciously with a chorus of cackles from his cronies.

  “Please! Please, Teagon! It’s all I have!”

  “And now it’s mine!” The bully ran up to Weaver, grabbed him by the hair with one hand, and punched him hard in the gut with the other. Weaver let go of the bread and dropped to the ground, clutching his midsection. His body tried to retch in response to the blow, but with nothing inside him, he merely heaved. Weaver watched as the Bully picked up his loaf. “Stale bread!? That’s all you have for me? You really are a disgusting piece of filth, aren’t you? Here, let me make it better for you.”

  Weaver looked on as Teagon tossed the bread into a muddy puddle and ground it into the cobblestone with his foot. “There, now you’ll really enjoy it, Rat!”

  Weaver remained on the ground as boys left, laughing. He looked at what had been his first meal in days and—though he tried not to—began to cry. He wondered why this had to happen to him . . . always to him. What had he done
to deserve this fate? His stomach continued to growl and the hunger pains worsened, agitated by the blow to his belly. The few tears his body managed to produce soon stopped, his energy utterly spent. He had been wrong. This day wasn’t different. It wasn’t good. This day was just as bad as all the others. He lay on the ground and closed his eyes, unable to do anything else.

  When he awoke, it was dusk. The sun was setting, with nothing but a faint orange and pinkish hue left in the sky. His stomach still ached. Pushing himself up to sit, he lifted his tattered shirt so he could see his emaciated stomach. It was already bruising on the right side, just below his ribs. He leaned against the barrels. He felt weak . . . much weaker than earlier. He took a deep breath in and winced. Everything hurt. His body was giving up on him, he could feel it. There was only one thing to do if he wanted to survive. He struggled to his feet and, holding his stomach, began to make his way back to the market square.

  A fog was rolling in along with the night’s cold. Shadows from the street lamps stretched off into the gloom. Weaver could hear and sometimes see others moving along the street, but he was too exhausted to pay them much attention. He reached the square just as the last few merchants were leaving for the night. An eeriness sunk in as he crossed the huge pavilion alone in darkness. It felt like a graveyard, and whether that was from the absence of light, the fog or because he felt like he was already dead, he wasn’t completely sure. Finally, he reached his destination—the bakery.

  Through the window, he could see the Baker cleaning his wares by candlelight. Driven more by desperation than courage, Weaver willed himself to the side of the building, which was on an abandoned street. Next to the side door of the shop lay the Baker’s waste from the day. As quietly as he could manage, Weaver shuffled over to the pile and began to sort through the debris. Almost immediately he found a small sweet roll that must have been a day or two old. He shoved the entire pastry into his mouth. It was dry and hard . . . but he couldn’t remember having ever tasted anything so delicious. He swallowed almost without chewing. His stomach twisted slightly at first, but slowly came to life as the roll went down. He began to dig again.

  “You!”

  Weaver felt a powerful hand grasp him from behind by the neck and lift him into the air. Then, he was flying, only to collide with the cobblestone. Head spinning, ears ringing, he tried to focus; the shape of the Baker standing over him.

  “Stealing from me again, eh? The bread you bought wasn’t enough!?”

  “Sir, I wa—“ Weaver’s words were cut off as the massive boot of the baker came down on his neck.

  “I’m going to make good and sure you never steal from me again,” the Baker hissed.

  At first, Weaver gasped for air and struggled against the huge black foot upon his throat. Then he went limp, closed his eyes, and gave up. He hoped that in a few moments it would all be over. No more suffering, no more pain. Maybe it was time for him to be with his parents again.

  As the thought crossed his mind though, he was torn from it. A loud, guttural growl, the likes of which he had never heard, echoed in the street. Immediately, the Baker’s foot lifted. He coughed and sputtered as air rushed back to his lungs.

  The Baker shrieked. Lifting his head, Weaver could see that just ahead of them was a massive creature. Its eyes seemed to glow and its teeth were glimmering even through the gloom. The Baker started to run back to the shop’s side door, but stopped. A second beast stood in front of it, cutting the fat man off.

  Dogs, perhaps? Weaver couldn’t tell. The shape was right, but the size was off. Too large; their canine bodies were nearly the size of small horses, and the noise they made was too ferocious, too feral to be that of common stray mutts. The creature in the door began to move closer to the Baker—snarling, snapping razor sharp fangs, pushing him back towards Weaver and the first animal.

  Frozen, Weaver watched as the first stalked past him towards the Baker. They had him cornered. The Baker turned, pushing himself up against the wall of the shop so that he was facing both creatures; one on his left and one to the right. Panic was awash over his face. Weaver fully expected to see the man torn limb from limb.

  The beasts had now moved close enough to the shop’s light to be seen clearly. Wolves, Weaver thought. Gigantic, savage wolves. The one farthest from Weaver, which had been guarding the door to the shop, was white. He could now see it wore a leather harness of sorts. The other appeared golden, wore a quiver of arrows with a bow, and had a sword strapped to its back.

  This golden wolf suddenly rose up on hind legs, standing as a man . . . only far taller than any man Weaver had ever seen. Then, to his—and the Baker’s—surprise, it began to change. It happened so quickly that Weaver nearly missed it. It shrank slightly as its tail disappeared. Giant paws became human feet and hands. Thrashing fangs began to shrink, along with the nose, as the furry head of the wolf pulled back on itself until it became the head of a man. Weaver couldn’t tell if the creature that now stood before him was hairy like a wolf or if it was a man wearing fur clothing, but in the end he wasn’t sure it mattered. He looked to the other creature, expecting to see it to do the same, but it remained planted, growling ferociously.

  “Why are you attacking this boy?” the strange man asked, his voice deep and wild.

  “Wha-what are you?” The Baker asked, voice quivering.

  In one fluid movement the wolf-man drew the sword from his back and, with a flick of his wrist, had the edge pressed against the Baker’s neck. “Answer me quickly if you value your life.”

  “H-he,” the Baker began to sputter, “was s-stealing from me.”

  “From trash?”

  “Well it’s, well th-that is to say, it’s-it’s still my trash?” the Baker wavered.

  “I wonder. If I cut off your fingers—or perhaps your toes, or even your ears—would they still belong to you? Or once I’d removed them from you, would they be mine?” The strange man paused, “Answer me!” he demanded, voice more a roar than a shout.

  “Y-yours?” The Baker whimpered. Weaver could just make out the reflection of tears running down his face.

  “Correct,” the man said so quietly that Weaver could hardly hear him. “Now, I am very hungry, and I believe that you may have something inside of you shop you could part with in lieu of my taking a part of your . . . wretched body.”

  “I-I think I have ju-just the thing,” the baker wept..

  “Thing-s” the man corrected.

  “Yes! Yes! Things!”

  “Good. Let us go and collect them,” the man hissed as he removed the sword from the Baker’s neck and motioned towards the door. “Turro, take care of the boy.”

  The giant white wolf ceased its growling and walked towards Weaver. Up until that point, he had hoped that the strange wolf-man had forgotten his presence, or at the very least, might leave him be, but no such luck. Soon the massive white beast was standing over him, looking him in the eye. Paralyzed, Weaver just stared back before squeezing his eyes shut; he didn’t want to see the razor sharp fangs when they came for him. He shuddered as a wet, warm tongue swiped across his forehead and braced himself for the bite . . . but to his surprise, it didn’t come. Weaver opened his eyes. The wolf was still standing over him. It then occurred to him that it was not snarling or growling or doing anything he thought a wolf might normally do before it ate a small boy.

  Relief washed over his body, but so did the pain of hunger and the multiple blows. He couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything. All his strength was gone. He was too injured and too exhausted to move. He tried to stay awake, but felt his eyes begin to roll towards the back of his head as his consciousness faltered. Heavy footsteps rung in his ears and a strange man’s voice spoke, though he couldn’t make it out. Strong, gentle hands lifting him off the ground was all he remembered as his mind gave way to blackness.

  2

  Pain . . . Pain flooded Weaver’s body as he regained consciousness. He could feel every fiber of his being screaming; his head ached, his ribs creaked with each breath, his joints refused to move, and his stomach growled. He rolled to his side to find comfort, and was amazed at how easily he was able to do so. The realization began to dawn that he was not in his hole. He was on something soft . . . squishy. Weaver forced his eyes open, though focusing was difficult. Everything was blurry, white, with some blue.