Soul Forge Saga Box Set

by Richard Stephens

  They jumped with a squeal, quickly wrapped themselves in whatever cloth they could find, and bolted through the tent flaps. A series of whistles sounded from outside.

  On the far side of the tent sat an enormous man. The grim look on the red beard’s face matched that of his father. Karvus absently stared at the colossal battle-axe set on the table before him. Several rings twinkled upon sausage-sized fingers as he stroked the heads of his two dybbuk hounds—feral dogs related to the Doberman family but thicker through the chest. Dybbuk hounds were bred to fend off the predatory beasts that preyed upon the tribes calling the Wilds their home. The hounds were devastating when they were employed as a first line of attack.

  Krakus stopped in front of his son. “Who does this sorcerer think he is? Telling Krakus the Kraken what he can and cannot do?”

  If Karvus thought the question was anything but rhetorical he didn’t let on.

  Krakus shook his head, not for the first time. “If he even begins to waggle his fingers in my presence, I’ll shove them up his arse.”

  The tent flaps parted, causing him to jump.

  Immediately the dogs were on their feet, heads low and fangs bared. Karvus issued a command and they settled down; their attention riveted upon the newcomer.

  A black-bearded Kraidic warrior stepped inside, carrying a large war-hammer—his girth no less than that of either man in the tent. Dropping to a knee, he rested the metal head of his weapon on a black throw rug at his feet, his eyes cast to the ground. “Helleden comes off the mountain, my emperor. He’ll be here shortly.”

  Krakus looked less than pleased. “How many are with him?”

  “His self is all, my emperor.”

  “He comes alone? Into my camp?”

  “Seems the way of it, my emperor.”

  Krakus turned away and started pacing again, the kneeling man’s presence forgotten.

  The man swallowed, daring to look up. His gaze fell on Karvus, who dismissed him with a nod.

  Karvus got to his feet to retrieve a flagon of wine from a central table laden with food and drink. Resuming his seat, he said, “This is the most upset I’ve seen you since the misfits calling themselves the Band of Five, or something stupid like that, forced you to withdraw our troops from Zephyr’s southern coast.”

  Krakus ignored him. “Who is this sorcerer anyway? Does he drink wine? Or eat? Anything?” He spun on Karvus. “Well?”

  Karvus shrugged, taking a big gulp from his goblet. Wiping his lips on his wrist he said, “I imagine he must. He’s not dead. Is he?”

  Krakus glowered. You could never be sure with sorcerers. Shaking his head, he muttered, “If he doesn’t mind himself, he’ll wish he were.”

  The raucous noise of Kraidic camp life fell away outside the pavilion. The silence thundered the implication. Helleden approached.

  The tent flaps pushed in again. The same man entered, taking a knee.

  “My emperor. The sorcerer stands outside.”

  The dogs jumped to their feet, snarling. This time Karvus let them pull at the heavy chains lashing them to an iron stake in the ground. Stretching the tightness from his neck, he stood with his mighty weapon in hand.

  “Bring him in, you fool,” Krakus demanded.

  “Yes, my emperor.”

  The warrior pulled aside a flap and issued orders to unseen men outside.

  Flanked by two Kraidic pikemen as big as Karvus, Helleden Misenthorpe strolled into the pavilion and stopped when the pikemen motioned for him to do so.

  Krakus straightened to his full height, taking in the gaunt sorcerer—the man’s slight body clad in black robes that were festooned with crimson runes. For someone with such a big reputation, the sallow-faced sorcerer wasn’t intimidating at all. It was all Krakus could do not to laugh. He looked at his son.

  Karvus didn’t seem amused.

  Krakus turned back to Helleden. “You’re a brave man to demand an audience with me.”

  Helleden raised an eyebrow.

  “Where’s your entourage?”

  Helleden shrugged.

  “Nobody demands anything of Krakus the Kraken,” Karvus fumed.

  Helleden dipped his head.

  Was the sorcerer being flippant?

  To the side, Karvus clenched and unclenched the haft of his battle-axe, shifting his weight from one foot to another. The dogs tugged at their leads.

  Krakus watched Helleden’s fingers, each digit adorned with multiple rings. Some of the inset stones appeared to burn of their own accord.

  “What is it you want? And be quick about it. I have important matters to attend.”

  Helleden intertwined his fingers at his waist.

  Krakus tensed.

  “I want you.” Helleden said, his voice deeper than one would expect from an average sized man.

  Krakus blinked. “Me?”

  “Your army, really. What you do with yourself is of no concern to me.”

  Krakus’ eyes narrowed. “If you think I’m holing up in this forsaken realm while your, your…” He searched for a more despicable term but came up short. “Your demons enjoy the southern spoils, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  Helleden’s stoic face tilted to one side. “I believe you are the one who is mistaken, emperor.”

  “What?” Krakus spat. “I ought to—”

  Helleden’s calm voice cut in, “Do as you’re bidden.”

  Karvus stepped toward the sorcerer, ready to split his head.

  The dogs, at least half Karvus’ size, strained and snapped their yellowed teeth, saliva spraying.

  Krakus swallowed. He knew what he ought to do. Nobody spoke to him like that. If it had been anybody else, they would’ve already found their head on a pike, but the sorcerer’s calm demeanour unsettled him.

  “Have you not always desired to rule Zephyr? I have given it to you.”

  Krakus trembled, but not with fear. “Given me what? A pile of rubble?”

  Helleden raised his thin eyebrows. “It is Zephyr. A mighty kingdom. Respected by most. Feared by the rest.”

  “Bah! Once mighty. You’ve seen to that. ‘Tis nothing but charred rock and ash now. I may as well go back to Kraidic.”

  Helleden nodded his head. “If that is your wish, but your army remains.”

  Karvus took a step toward the sorcerer, bringing him within reach of the insolent man.

  The pikemen standing just inside the tent flaps tensed. The dogs pulled on the stake so hard it began to shimmy free of the earth.

  Helleden looked Karvus in the eye, his hands slowly untwining.

  Nothing intimidated Karvus. His arm muscles flexed, ready to swing, but his father’s voice stopped him.

  “Karvus, no!”

  An uncomfortable silence settled over the tent.

  Helleden gave the son an empty smile and turned his attention back to the Emperor. “You have until I return to give me your decision.” Ignoring Karvus, he walked from the tent.

  The two pikemen went to block him, but a subtle shake of Krakus’ head stopped them.

  Helleden’s black robes fluttered about him as he passed through the flaps and disappeared into the night.

  Keepy’s Lament

  Madrigail Bay smouldered in the morning mist of the new day. The smell of charred wood and burnt grease lay heavy across the harbour.

  Captain Thorr had ordered Gerrymander to unweigh anchor in the middle of the bay to see out the night. The ragtag flotilla of Voil craft had pulled up around the ship’s bulk, tying themselves together. Thorr didn’t want anyone wandering the desolate city after dark. The stories the night watch relayed to him about the noises they had heard, and the shadows witnessed skulking the city overnight, reiterated that his decision had been a sound one.

  Pollard, glum-faced as ever since returning from the Under Realm, sat in the stern of the large skiff Olmar impelled toward the docks. With the two big men in the same boat, its gunwales threatened to take on water. Three more landing craft launched from the ship, a
nd accompanied them ashore, each of the vessels burdened with armed men and women.

  They approached the same dock Olmar had ferried the quest from all those weeks ago. Yarstaff, Longsight and Blindsight were already ashore, guarding their approach to the severely damaged jetty—an eerie silence muting the bay’s usual cacophony of sound.

  Rook grabbed a rung on the pier’s ladder and stood up, his bow slung over his left shoulder, his quiver and Avarick Thwart’s black crossbow slung over the other. He threw a rope up to Blindsight. “Anything alive up there?”

  Blindsight caught the rope and tied it off. “We haven’t seen anyone yet, but we’re definitely not alone. Something lives out there.”

  Pollard, first up the ladder, unsheathed his sword and walked along the unstable wharf, his footfalls raising puffs of black ash. He passed Yarstaff and Longsight tying off two more landing craft and stopped to watch what was left of the closest building’s skeletal structure for movement. With all the scattered debris swirling about the dock pilings and littered along the shoreline, Pollard assumed the building must have housed volatile substances.

  Alhena and Rook stepped up on either side of him. Pollard sensed, rather than heard, the auburn-haired Sadyra slip in behind. Without looking back, he knew the left-handed archer had her bow strung and an arrow loosely nocked.

  Alhena mouthed the obvious, “Helleden.”

  Rook nodded. He and Alhena were the only ones to have experienced the sorcerer’s firestorms.

  Olmar’s piercing whistle made them all jump. “Woo-wee. That’s sure’n to be a mess.”

  Everyone turned to glare at the bull-legged mammoth, but he never let on he noticed their sour looks. “No way a man be capable of all this,” he declared. “Sure’n to be a volcaner if’n I had ta guess the right of it.”

  Alhena grabbed Olmar’s elbow and spun him slowly about to take in the surrounding city. “Do you see any ash? Other than the soot left behind by a great fire. If a volcano were responsible, the whole city would be buried.”

  Olmar’s eyes widened. He hocked and spat at a hole in the deck boards. “Well doesn’t that chew ya?”

  The rest of the landing party formed up behind them, an even split of Voil and Gerrymander crew.

  The Voil inched past them and approached the gravelly shore, their peculiar faces lit up in awe. Although the city lay in ruin, the misshapen creatures had never seen anything like Madrigail Bay. The only life they had known was cowering within the sand cliffs paralleling the Marrow Wash.

  “Hey. Easy little guys.” Pollard stomped ahead with Yarstaff at his side and Sadyra right behind. “We don’t know what’s crawling about. Best let me go first.”

  The looks he received from the short creatures were not ones of appreciation. The Voil had lived a life of chaos, enduring creatures fiercer than anything the soft Zephyrites had ever dealt with.

  Olmar shuffled up to join their wary approach. “Aye, me toadies. We need strength ta ward our backsides. See that we ain’t come upon unawares.”

  Pollard offered the only man taller than himself a smirk. At least the midgets listened to the gapped-toothed, bow-legged giant.

  Olmar winked, eliciting a rare smile from Pollard.

  The group entered the remnants of an unstable warehouse, but saw little besides the burnt corpses of a few unfortunate souls who had been trapped within the building when it burned. Nothing of value remained.

  They left the warehouse and walked along the debris-strewn shoreline toward the River Gate Bridge, checking any building they could still enter as they passed. In each building they found similar scenes to that of the first. The only people they found were those of bodies burnt beyond recognition.

  Many of the larger buildings still smouldered, too hot for entry. They were forced to bypass them, turning up their noses at the greasy smoke wafting about, smelling of charred meat. It proved to be a long, grim morning.

  The sun rose high overhead, dispelling the mist hugging the harbour, but it did little to rid the bay of the black clouds wafting above the smouldering structures.

  They crossed the River Gate Bridge without much difficulty, the structure an iron-worked behemoth—twisted, and blasted, but somehow still standing. The great portcullis sat askew within its warped tracks, mostly submerged and acting as a dam. Its latticed surface caught everything the mighty Madrigail River threw at it as the river emptied into the harbour. Floating in the morass of detritus were countless dead fish, drowned animals and the grisly remains of people, their bloated bodies slowly being ground into a slurry amongst the swirling debris. The smell was reprehensible. Nobody dallied crossing the river gate span.

  Trudging along the southern shoreline, skirting ruined warehouses and twisted piers, they came upon the first person they had seen all day who hadn’t been incinerated. A large, bald-headed man stood out in the open, scavenging through the remains of what Pollard surmised had been the saloon, Wharf’s Retreat.

  “Isn’t this where—?” Rook began.

  “Aye.” Pollard’s rough voice answered.

  “And that looks like—”

  “Keepy.”

  The ample-stomached man known as Keepy watched their approach from the blasted ruins of his tavern, his pudgy face deranged and dripping with sweat. He plucked a nasty meat cleaver from the rubble and stood to face the strange group.

  Pollard lifted his hands in a placating manner. “Keepy. We mean you no harm. It’s me, Pollard, of the Songsbirthian Guard. We were through here a few—”

  Keepy waggled his weapon. “Thwart! I should’ve known.” He spread his arms, turning about, indicating the destruction. “Only you could bring such disaster. Look what ye’ve done. Stay away. I’ll not warn ye again.”

  Pollard winced, putting his hands up to placate the irate barkeep. “Keepy, hear me. Avarick is not with us anymore.”

  Keepy hocked and spat in disgust. “Good. But you are nae welcome either. If you’re here, he’s sure to follow. Don’t ye think ye’ve caused enough sorrow?” He dropped his arms to his sides, slumping. Was he weeping?

  Alhena detached himself from the group and picked his way through the charred debris. He put a consoling hand on Keepy’s thick forearm. “Avarick will bother you no more. He is dead.”

  It took a moment for Keepy to comprehend Alhena’s words. “Good,” he muttered, staring at the rubble at his feet. Remnants of a great oaken bar lay in splinters behind the barkeep. His shoulders trembled. “Gone. It’s all gone.”

  Alhena looked back at Pollard who began making his way through the destruction. The Songsbirthian raised his eyebrows.

  Alhena reached out and hugged Keepy, his arms barely enough to encompass half the man’s girth.

  When Keepy finally smeared his soot-covered face on his filthy apron, Pollard held out his arms, indicating the rubble. “I hope you don’t expect me to fix this.”

  Keepy looked like he wanted to throttle him, but snorted instead, a faint smile lifting the gloom from his face.

  Pollard placed an arm around the proprietor and steered him from the rubble.

  Out of the Ashes

  Silurian opened his eyes. His head felt like a mountain had fallen on it. He reeled with disjointed thoughts. Am I dreaming? Am I dead? Where am I?

  He felt weak. Like he hadn’t eaten in a long time. He lay beside a pile of rock debris within a small cave. Light seeped through a narrow space atop the rockslide blocking what he assumed must be the entrance to the grotto. He tried to sit up, but the simple act filled him with vertigo. How did I get here? The last thing I remember…

  No!

  He sat bolt upright, pebbles flying from his tattered clothing.

  The Soul!

  He looked rapidly in all directions, trying to take in everything at once.

  Where is it?

  His last memory slammed into him. He had stood defiantly before the creature known as the Soul, his life about to end, and then…what? Someone else had made their presence felt. Two oth
ers, actually. One sinister, and one startlingly familiar.

  He knew too well the sinister presence. Helleden had been in the Soul Forge with them. Maybe not physically, but his attendance was certainly perceived.

  The other presence, though. It felt like…it couldn’t be. Unless I’m dead.

  He remembered trying to resist the Soul’s desire of taking over his body. Helleden’s appearance had distracted the Soul, effectively allowing Silurian to seize the opportunity, and attack. The last thing he recalled was the cavern disappearing within a blinding white flash, and then…he was here.

  Where was here? The blasted grotto was too small to be the Soul Forge, and yet, it felt familiar.

  My sword?

  He located his scabbard, twisted beneath him. St. Carmichael’s Blade was gone.

  His thoughts turned to the quest. The last person he had seen was the giant, Pollard. Brave, valiant Pollard. A mountain of a man, standing fast upon the shore of the mystic river, singlehandedly holding off the demon attackers.

  And Rook. Although he hadn’t seen him at the end, he had heard his best friend encouraging him to be strong and the thump of Rook’s arrows eradicating one black terror after another.

  He was certain he no longer existed beneath Iconoclast Spire. He no longer sensed the Soul’s presence. Had he killed it? A horrible thought caught his breath. So awful he began to sweat. His eyes grew wide. Perhaps he had enabled the creature to free itself from the Under Realm? No, if that were true, the creature would be in possession of his body.

  Scrambling to his feet, he examined the blocked cave mouth and began tossing chunks of rock from the pile, careful to avoid the larger slabs as they dislodged and slid past him. The more debris he moved, the more outside air blew in, cold and biting.

  Pulling enough rock aside, he climbed the mound and poked his head through the opening. To his surprise, looking down, all he could see was the topside of what appeared to be a solid layer of grey cloud. Above him, however, the sun shone, filtered by multiple layers of wispy mist.