Soulbreaker by Terry C. Simpson

right, accompanied by the even breathing of a practiced runner. Something much bigger loped farther ahead, hidden by deep shadows.
    His heart thudded against his ribs, but he refused to allow fear to overcome him. Instead, he focused on what lay ahead.
    By the use of sintu he dodged branches before they could whip his arms and legs, ducked those too high, and leaped over roots that would trip him. He and the forest were one, its dappled shadows a friend. He made certain to maintain his sintu to keep out any attempts to bend his mind. The trees and creatures in the Treskelin were known for such skills. He’d seen more than one beast walk into a tangle of thorns or become ensnared within vines. A fawn had once trotted over to Snow, mesmerized, laid on the ground, and not even offered so much as a kick when the derin bit into its throat.
    Something massive, furred, snarling, and all claws and fangs bounded from his periphery. The beast leaped.
    Winslow’s heart stopped, but his reaction was instinctive. He directed tern to the area, solidifying his sintu . The creature slammed into it. Winslow didn’t slow to see the effect; he kept on running full tilt.
    He lost track of time and the number of attacks he survived. A few were head-sized stones or arrows and spears that he deflected with his augmented nimbus. Inevitably, his speed and strength ebbed.
    Breathing hard, sweat pouring down his face, heart a beating drum, he drew on the second of the outer cycles, koren . His heart rate slowed and a sense of invigoration swept through him. However, the next stone that flew from the forest’s confines passed through his sintu . He dodged, barely avoiding the rock.
    Winslow could feel the soul draining from his vital points. If this clearing was much longer in its appearance he would fall to whatever enemies and beasts pursued him. As the thought crossed his mind a light appeared a few hundred feet ahead, brighter than the other patches allowed in by the dense canopy. With an extra surge he headed for it, goaded by a sense that he had almost completed this part of the test.
    Eyes narrowing as he drew closer, Winslow thought to slow, but was spurred on by his pursuers. He burst into a clearing and almost fell, his body in shock as he went from humidity that left his clothes soaked and sticking to his skin, into air so frigid his legs buckled. Stumbling in knee-deep snow, he wheezed, immediately hugging himself. His hold on sintu fled, and he fell head first into the powdery fluff.
    Somehow, he managed to scramble forward. Turning onto his back he clawed at his empty weapon sheath. Eyes darting from side to side, he scanned the woods for his pursuers. He saw nothing but shadows and trees. Low growls and padded footsteps abounded, but no man or beast stalked after him.
    With relief came the cold, biting into him. He forced his mind to work. Warmth. I need warmth.
    A large tree occupied the middle of clearing. This one wasn’t ash; it was oak, the trunk perhaps a hundred feet across. Hoarfrost crowned its leafless branches.
    He pushed himself to his feet and trudged to it. A swirling wind kicked up, making him wish for a hooded cloak. Thick flakes pelted him, encrusting his hair and eyelids.
    Picking a spot downwind, he cleared snow from the area near the trunk, scooping with fingers that fought against his efforts to stretch them out. He stuck his hands under his armpits and proceeded to sweep away the rest of snow with his feet. When he finished he sank down against the trunk, hands and feet long having lost all feeling.
    His soul was dismally low. One chance remained for him to build the shelter.
    Shuddering, he pictured a dog kennel with a finger-sized opening for air. Drawing in a deep breath he opened his vital points as wide as he could manage. Soul gushed forth. He fed it to sintu, and then hardened it with tern , shaping it into the image of the dome he held in his mind. He pushed the sides away from his body. Flakes drifted