Soul Forge Saga Box Set

by Richard Stephens

  He had no sooner shrugged off his pack and laid his bow and quiver aside when the small hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He could still hear the occasional ruckus coming from the Kraidic encampment, but he sensed someone, or something, approaching his shelter from the opposite direction.

  He froze and listened. Other than the sound of the breeze through the trees shaking loose water droplets that pattered on the sodden ground, nothing stirred. He hadn’t slept for two days. Perhaps his bleary mind was imagining things. It had been a long day.

  A soft footfall sounded atop the ledge he sheltered beneath.

  He almost yelled out in fright. He was relieved to be beneath the cover of the crag, but he had no way of telling if whatever stood above him was aware of his presence. He moved to the edge of his concealment and slowly leaned out, risking a peek at the ridge fifteen feet above.

  The half-moon’s light filtered eerily throughout the treed hills. At first, only the silhouettes of trees, bushes and a large rock met his gaze. He was about to lean out farther when another footfall sounded upon the crag of rock jutting out directly overhead.

  He saw the outline of a person with long flowing hair, stooped upon the edge. A woman? Out here in the dark?

  Whoever it was, they appeared to be looking eastward toward the Kraidic encampment. The silhouette didn’t appear anything like the bulky Kraidic Warriors. He squinted, not believing what the poor light revealed. The shadow’s arms ended in long, claw-like fingers.

  Rook ducked beneath the ledge and scrabbled for his bow and quiver. He cursed himself as the arrows rattled together.

  He hazarded a look up to determine if the creature had heard him. Sure enough, it was crouched low. It looked straight at him, its crazed eyes catching the moonlight.

  Rook loosed a hastily strung arrow. The missile’s flight nicked the side of the rock face and ricocheted harmlessly into the night.

  The creature pulled back from the brink, out of sight.

  Rook cursed his rotten luck. Now what? He cowered deeper into the shadows as a strong voice broke the still of the night, “Please, I mean you no harm.”

  Sure you don’t, Rook thought. Out here, in the middle of nowhere at night, with a Kraidic warband camped nearby. He strung another arrow. Keeping his back against the rock he wondered which side the creature would come at him.

  “I am but a lone traveller, on my way to Gritian.”

  Sure you are. Rook searched the shadows to his left, then to his right. It was likely trying to get him to drop his guard.

  He felt trapped. If he bolted, he risked being pounced upon. If he didn’t, he risked being pinned underneath the ledge. Not knowing what to do, he said, “Show yourself. What kind of creature are you?”

  The scrape of metal on rock announced the creature’s movements as it scrambled down the side of the rock face.

  “I am human, I assure you. Perhaps not as alive as I would like, but…” The voice trailed off.

  It sounded human.

  “How do you explain your hands?”

  The sound of metal scraping metal made Rook flinch.

  “You mean my knucklettes? They are weapons I wear on my hands.”

  Rook frowned. “Knucklettes? Never heard of them.”

  “Not many people have. They come from a land far away.”

  Rook regripped his bow. “What are you doing in Zephyr then?”

  “In Zephyr? I live here. Fear not, for I am Alhena Sirrus, senior messenger to the Chamber of the Wise. I am on my way to the Mid Savannah, to uh, bear witness to the unfortunate demise of the Forbidden Swamp.”

  Rook swallowed. So, the Chamber already knew about the firestorm. That was good news if the creature could be trusted.

  Other than the gentle gusts playing in the trees, silence settled over the forest. He almost squeaked when an old man slid down the bank on his right and faced him, arms held high—a pair of spiked weapons in one hand and a tall staff in the other.

  Rook brought his bow to bear. Oh, great. A wizard.

  “I mean you no harm,” Alhena pleaded. “I was travelling with others when we were caught in that awful storm. I got separated.” He shivered. “I lost my horse and most of my provisions.”

  It had been many years since Rook had actually had contact with real people. The old man appeared harmless enough but relying on appearances was a sure way to end up dead. He had encountered many crafty magic users in his time.

  “Who are the people you travel with? Where are they now? How come they aren’t looking for you?”

  Alhena shrugged. “I do not rightly know.”

  Rook frowned at the evasive answer and the strange way the man spoke every word. If not for his bizarre eyes, Rook might have lowered his guard—they seemed like they had rolled up into his head. He kept an eye on the man’s hands. If they started to make strange movements, he wouldn’t hesitate to bury an arrow into the old man’s chest.

  “A representative of the Chamber travelling to the Innerworld and you don’t know with whom you travel? I find that hard to believe.”

  “And who might you be, my archer friend?”

  “You haven’t answered my question yet?”

  “Aye, but I have given you my name. Surely, I deserve to know with whom I speak.”

  Rook studied the man’s staff, looking for a sign that it was anything but a stick. “Fair enough. I am Rook Bowman…” He stopped.

  The old man’s mouth dropped open. He staggered backward, his foot finding nothing but air.

  Rook scrambled forward to catch the old man before he tumbled into the ravine.

  Sacred Sword Voil

  Avarick paced his horse a few yards behind Silurian and Bregens, not caring to join in any conversation, not that there was any to be had.

  They rode beneath a clear evening sky, their mounts slopping through wet grassland. They had searched all afternoon for Alhena but were unable to find any trace of him. It had taken a long time to get to the base of the rockslide. They had dug through the debris with little success. The broken tree lay half buried beneath chunks of stone bigger than the three of them could ever hope to move.

  Silurian rode with his head hung low. He had lost his only friend in the world. A friend he hadn’t deserved—a friendship he hadn’t earned. The kindly old man had stuck by him even after Silurian had threatened to kill him. He had mocked him, laughed at him, yelled at him, and Alhena barely said anything to the contrary. Alhena had truly been a once in a lifetime find and Silurian had led him to his death.

  Every so often he caught himself looking over his shoulder, hoping to see a grey bearded wizard following them. Each time he was greeted by Avarick’s uninviting scowl.

  The evening stretched on until it proved too dangerous to keep riding. Avarick suggested they stop for the night. Silurian agreed.

  Tethering his mount to a small maple, Silurian rummaged through his saddlebags and withdrew a bottle of wine he had taken from his room in Gritian. He worried the cork free with the tip of Soulbiter and sat against the far side of the maple.

  Draining the bottle, he fell, exhausted, onto his left shoulder, fast asleep.

  By mid-morning, the sun burned brightly in a clear sky. Silurian sat upon his mount atop a high ridge. Far below, the sun sparkled upon the glassy surface of the Calder as it turned sharply westward, making its way toward Redfire Path.

  With a final glance over his shoulder, more to espy the imminent pursuit than to catch sight of Alhena anymore, Silurian heeled his horse eastward.

  The Gritian Hills grudgingly gave way to the Mid Savannah; a brown grassed, barren landscape that supported few trees and even less water—the land of the legendary Shrine of Saint Carmichael.

  Silurian was apprehensive about what he might find when he reached the shrine. After the tale Alhena had spun about Quarrnaine’s ill-fated quest, he was skeptical he would find anything at all.

  The following day, with the sun losing its grip on the land, Silurian altered their c
ourse, due south. Bregens glanced at Avarick who merely shrugged.

  The land they travelled through seemed to wither the farther east they went. Soon, telltale signs of the firestorm that had ravaged the region four years ago became apparent. The larger trees dotting the landscape were little more than charred skeletons. They were getting close.

  Shadows lengthened into twilight as a dark mound rose up in the distance through a haze of ground fog. Silurian knew at once they had reached their destination. The unnatural rock formation was comprised of large, broken sections of stone wall. Walls that had once supported the granite roof of the Shrine of Saint Carmichael.

  Trotting his horse closer, Silurian studied the remnants of the large statue that had once stood over the shrine’s entrance. The monument and doorway were blasted beyond recognition. A pair of large granite boots straddled the remains of a small flight of stairs that led into the shrine. All around, blackened clumps of broken trees stood ghastly vigil about the ruined chapel. The surreal sight sent shivers up his spine. Zephyr’s queen had died here.

  A cool breeze stirred the grasses around the shattered walls, swirling the ethereal mist that clung to the rubble within. It was as if those who had died here wanted to make their presence known.

  Silurian tethered his horse to the remains of a charred tree trunk near the entrance and reverently approached the ruins. He had been here twice before. Once, as a squire on patrol with Prince Malcolm, they had stumbled upon it during one of the region’s notorious snowstorms and taken refuge within its hallowed walls. The second time was with the Group of Five, just days before the ill-fated Battle of Lugubrius.

  There had been a powerful presence within the chapel all those years ago, but Silurian couldn’t sense it anymore.

  “Hey Queen Killer, over here,” Avarick Thwart’s petulant voice cut through his reverie. The Enervator had picked his way over the rubble on the opposite end of the devastated building. He was several paces inside the back wall and bent over, pulling up weeds. “I think I’ve found it!” The man’s enthusiasm made him sound twenty-five years younger.

  Silurian walked around the shrine’s perimeter, carefully making his way through the vegetation growing rampant amongst the ruins. Stopping beside the Chamber’s whip, he followed Avarick’s outstretched arms.

  The Enervator pulled with all his might on what appeared to be the pommel of a great sword. Sweat formed on his reddening brow, but try as he might, he couldn’t wiggle the sword free. He stood and stretched his lower back, examining the marble slab lying upon the stubborn blade. “It won’t budge. The stone’s crushing it. It’ll be worthless.”

  “Let me try.”

  Avarick shot him an incredulous look. “I just told you, I can’t budge it. It’s stuck.” With a sigh, he stepped aside.

  Silurian moved into the gap between the thick growth and the edge of what appeared to be a broken statue. Grimy and weathered as it was, there was no mistaking the rusty pommel of his infamous sword. He reached down, only able to properly grab it with his right hand, but as his fingers wrapped around the cracked leather encasing the hilt, he smiled. This was his sword.

  Avarick sized up a large, charred limb, buried in the long grass, wondering if they could generate enough leverage with it to move the slab.

  He spun around at the sound of metal scraping on stone as the mystical blade slid effortlessly from its marble sheath and rang joyously in the evening air. He gaped at the sight of the Queen-Killer hoisting the venerable weapon high above his head in triumph.

  He shook his head. If the sword possessed any of its ancient enchantment, Silurian was going to be hard to deal with when the time came for him to mete out his justice.

  Bregens, tending the horses at the far end of the ruins, stopped what he was doing and followed Avarick’s gaze.

  The legendary Sacred Sword Voil glinted brilliantly in the last vestiges of daylight. Elaborate scrollwork surrounded ten magnificently crafted runes etched along its length; five on each side.

  Flight

  Alhena couldn’t believe his good fortune. Zephyr had lamented the disappearance of their last two heroes for over two decades, and here he sat, recently separated from one, only to find the other.

  Beside him, hidden within a shallow depression upon a ledge, Rook Bowman slept. They had spoken at great length before Rook had given in to his need for rest.

  Alhena’s bruised and battered body kept him awake. He wasn’t sure if he had broken a rib or two on his left side. When the lightning struck the edge of the embankment and spilled him and his horse over the edge, everything had happened in quick succession. He vaguely remembered a sizzling light that split a tree beside where he had been riding. The rapid events of the fall itself were a blur. He had been trapped in his stirrups and his horse had fallen on its side as they slid amongst the grinding debris. The next thing he knew, his horse had somehow sprung free of the slide just before they hit the ground below and had bolted away, taking him with it. It wasn’t until a short while later when his horse stumbled and dropped to its knees that he became aware of the fatal wound it had incurred in the fall—a thick sliver of the blasted tree had driven itself deep into the animal’s chest.

  He winced at the recollection and mulled over what Rook had said about his own harrowing flight from the chaos unleashed on the Innerworld. Perhaps even more concerning was the news about the roving band of Kraidic warriors. If the Kraidic empire had joined with Helleden Misenthorpe, as Rook suggested, Zephyr’s fate was already sealed.

  A cold feeling of despair washed over him. High Warlord Clavius Archimedes had taken the Gritian militia in search of Silurian. They would be deep in the Mid Savannah by now. Gritian was unprotected.

  Alhena woke Rook before sunrise. “Sire Bowman. We need to be free of here. We must warn the Chamber.”

  Rook rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He didn’t disagree. He had thought the same thing. “Aye, you’re right, though we’ll be hard pressed to get ahead of them.”

  After a hurried breakfast, they descended into the ravine and made their way over the next two ridgelines as stealthily as possible, hoping to confirm the warband’s direction of travel, before setting off ahead of them.

  Creeping to the top of a hillock overlooking the breaking camp, Alhena gaped. He pulled back from the rim and tugged on Rook’s tunic for him to follow.

  “Not good. Not good at all.”

  “No, it’s not. Those guys are huge. That’s why I use a bow,” Rook mumbled, backing down the hill a little before he stood. “Come on. If we’re lucky we can pass them before they start moving.”

  They had only taken a few steps at the bottom of the ravine when an arrow zipped by their heads. The missile disappeared into a thick layer of brush beside them.

  Rook pushed Alhena behind the nearest tree. He grasped the trunk and poked his head out. A Kraidic archer looked right at him, aiming. Rook ducked back as bark exploded into splinters where his head had just been, the arrow ricocheting harmlessly into the foliage beyond.

  The archer hollered to his unseen brethren.

  It wouldn’t be long before the hill teemed with Kraidic warriors.

  Rook gave Alhena a worried glance. The old man stared wide-eyed back at him. They had but a few moments before all was lost. With the archer pinning them down, they were stuck. They couldn’t risk running into the open, but neither could they remain where they were.

  Rook took a couple of steadying breaths. He reached behind his shoulder and withdrew three arrows. Selecting the one he thought would fly truest, he notched it, and was about to peer around the tree when Alhena jumped into the open and then back again. The sound of an arrow’s flight crackled through the undergrowth below them.

  Rook smiled and nodded. The archer would have to reload.

  He stepped calmly out from behind the tree, hopeful there was only one archer. He drew his bow string taught, sighted the warrior atop the hill, allowed for gravity and the sporadic breeze, and let fly.
>
  The arrow took the Kraidic archer below his collarbone, burying itself deep. The man’s strung arrow flew harmlessly into the air.

  Rook lowered his bow and grabbed the two arrows on the ground. “Run!”

  He started past the tree, intending on running south toward Gritian, but before he took a dozen steps he stopped short.

  Alhena almost ran over him.

  Two large men scrambled down the embankment ahead of them, shouting in their native tongue.

  Rook grabbed Alhena’s robes and tugged him back. In the short time it took them to pass the tree they had hidden behind, several Kraidic warriors had crested the top of the hill.

  Rook and Alhena scrambled away, running so fast they barely kept from tripping over the thick undergrowth.

  The ravine ascended toward a spot less than a half a league away, where the opposite embankments converged. Nearing the apex, they were disheartened to hear an angry voice shout after them from the opposite hilltop. Taking his eyes off the ground in front of him, Rook stumbled over a rock.

  The large man kept pace. As they reached the crest of the slope, the warrior angled in on them, whooping and hollering.

  Rook and Alhena veered left, across the path of the men chasing them along the western embankment, still a score of paces behind.

  Rook cursed at how fast these men ran. He was equally amazed at how Alhena, easily twenty years his senior, ran faster, especially in those robes.

  They slowly outpaced the pursuit but weren’t able to shake it.

  They fled slightly northward, but steadily west. Cresting a prominent escarpment, the broad expanse of the Calder River appeared far below, glistening in the morning sun and disappearing into the southern hills.

  Rook contemplated running southward along the river bank, maybe losing the pursuit in the bush, but he had no idea how many Kraidic warriors gave chase. He didn’t care to be pinned against the river if the Kraidic warriors had spread out.