Soul Forge Saga Box Set

by Richard Stephens

  Karvus was so incensed, he sputtered, “And just how do you expect me to find this Wizard of the North?”

  “My finest tracker will be at your disposal.” Helleden gave him the briefest of smiles. “The Sentinel will be waiting for you.”

  Larina

  Larina listened to the groaning outside of her cell door. She had heard a great ruckus earlier from farther down the corridor, the reverberations so violent she could only imagine Olmar was at the root of them.

  She placed her ear to her food slot and listened to a gruff voice berating a prisoner. The voice sounded like the burly guard, Tarl. A good, swift boot to the groin would see that boor doubled over.

  “Come on old man, wake up. You’re lucky I didn’t throw ya down the steps. I’ll be buggered if ya think I’m draggin’ ya all the way back to yer cell.”

  Old man? Alhena? Why wasn’t he walking? What had they done to him?

  “Alhena?” Larina called out, and kicked at the food slot.

  “Keep it up missy, an’ ol’ Tarl’ll give you somethin’ t’ kick about.” The guard hoofed her door.

  Larina jerked back in surprise, but she stood up and hammered the unforgiving metal door with the palms of her hands. “Ya? Come try it! Come on!” She screamed her frustration. “You ain’t so tough hiding on the other side of the door!”

  The entire cellblock shook as something huge rattled a door farther down the corridor.

  “Friggin’ hell, old man,” Tarl’s voice sounded more distant. “I hates this job when the moon is full. For a skinny thing, you weigh a lot.”

  Another high-pitched shriek sounded close by.

  Larina fell to the ground and pressed her face against the food slot again. “Sadyra?”

  The hammering down the corridor went on for some time. Even after Larina heard Tarl’s booted feet pass by her door again and ascend the curving staircase, the constant pounding continued. It was a wonder that whoever was responsible hadn’t broken their hands and feet by now. She smiled. There could only be one person that numb headed.

  When the pounding subsided, Larina called out again, ‘Sadyra?”

  “Larina. I’m here.” Sadyra’s faint voice reached her ear.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I think so. Where are we?”

  Larina recalled the fight in the Chamber. By the time the guards had it under control, Olmar and Sadyra had been knocked unconscious. Several guardsmen nursed varying injuries sustained in their attempt to subdue Olmar, Sadyra and herself. They had been stripped to relieve them of their possessions, bound and either led, or dragged away from the Chamber, along the public corridor, past the busy mess halls, and down the lengthy stone steps to the dungeon below. Larina had been tossed into the first cell on the right. As to where everyone else ended up, she had no idea.

  She had called out everyone’s name until her voice was hoarse, but no one had answered. She had given up hope that the others were anywhere nearby until a little while ago—when the entire cellblock had echoed under the constant pounding of what could only be an enraged prisoner. The revelation had filled her with hope. Only the Lunkhead could cause such a disturbance, but when the banging had stopped she wasn’t able to communicate with him. His cell must be quite a way down the corridor.

  “We’re in the Gritian dungeon. I think they just brought Alhena back from somewhere.”

  “Olmar?” Sadyra’s voice asked. “Yes, it’s me, Sadie.”

  It sounded like Sadyra was talking to Olmar, but Larina only heard Sadyra’s side of the conversation.

  “Yes. Larina’s here too…Alhena? Yes, Larina says they brought him back from somewhere.”

  Larina jammed her face against the slot. “Tell Olmar I think they hurt Pops.”

  “Larina thinks they hurt him.”

  Larina cringed as the cellblock erupted in thunderous noise. When the pounding finally subsided, she said, “Tell the big dummy to save his strength.”

  “Stop banging, Midge. You’re going to cause a cave in.”

  Larina smiled. Lunkhead. Midge. The poor man. Olmar, the big, cuddly bear wasn’t the smartest man in the world, but in the short time she had known him, he seemed down to earth and genuine. She found it ironic that the two biggest men she knew, Olmar and Pollard, were also two of the kindest people she had ever met, but get on their bad side—watch out. They had the ferocity of a cornered badger and the strength of a mountain troll. And yet, she and Sadyra took great pleasure in teasing the heck out of them.

  The cellblock became quiet after that. At one point, the sound of many sets of booted feet came down the long stairwell and passed her cell. She listened at the door, but other than the distant sound of angry voices, she couldn’t make out anything they said. The corridor reverberated with loud bangs, and then shortly afterward, the group stormed past her cell and clumped back up the steps.

  Sadyra informed her that they had warned Olmar to stop acting up, but when it came down to it, their threats fell on deaf ears. Olmar had pounded on the door and challenged them to make him stop.

  Larina sat back against the cool rock wall beside her cell door with a contented smile. Good old Olmar. If he ever found his way free, there would be hell to pay. As she sat there, the waistline of her breeks dug into her bony hip. Her grin grew wider. Perhaps there was a way to facilitate that scenario.

  She waited until the day’s pungent gruel was shoved through her food slot. Feeding time had come to mark the end of the day. So far, it had also signalled that any surprise cell inspection wasn’t likely to happen until after they went around with the water. She had kept track of the guard’s activities for what she believed was the last three days—time was hard to discern when one was buried beneath the earth. Though the guard’s movements were never like clockwork, they maintained a steady routine. Every once in a while, for no apparent reason, a couple of guards would unlock the door and wave their torches about, blinding her. Twice they had pinned her to the ground and searched her, not caring where they groped. The first time she thought they meant to do something more, but so far, they had released her after satisfying themselves she wasn’t hiding anything. If Tarl, or whoever was on duty, proved true to form, they would return in a little while to dole out the scant water ration. It seemed like they performed that chore alone. She needed to be ready.

  Pulling off her breeks, she used her teeth to tear at the waist hem. A few years ago, an old woman in Songsbirth had shown her a way to keep the utility belt she wore around her waist from pulling at the top of her pants. They had sewn in two thin bands of steel that ran above each hip; thin enough to be pliable but strong enough to keep her hidden throwing knives from destroying the waistline or accidentally cutting her.

  She cursed the tailor who had fashioned her clothes. The woman’s stitches were well done. Biting and spitting as fast as possible, over and over again, she gnawed a hole large enough to worry the steel shank from one of the hips. She pulled her breeks back on, laced them tight, and faced the door. She hadn’t much time.

  Boots sounded on the steps and proceeded past her cell. She waited until she couldn’t hear their scrape any longer and smiled as she went to work on the lock. Many people had suspected her and Pollard of having relations because the two of them would disappear for hours on end while patrolling the Splendoor Falls catacombs. She shook her head. Pollard? Really? In reality, he had treated her as the peer she was, joking and carrying on like she was a sister. Because of her voracious appetite to learn new skills, he had taken it upon himself to teach her how to track, hunt, use a blade, and, as luck would have it, to pass through locked doors. One of the things the giant hadn’t taught her was how to use a bow. She almost laughed at the thought. His archery skills were so bad, she once told him he’d be better off running up to his target and beating it with the bow.

  The sound of a scraping food slot door sounded in the distance. The guard was getting closer. He always worked backward down the cellblock.

  Sweat beade
d on her forehead. The heavy lock twisted the thin shank. She bent it in half and stomped on it, flattening it enough to fit back into the keyhole. If she couldn’t manage to spring the lock soon, there was a good chance a surprise cell check would find her with it. She couldn’t allow that to happen. The guards would search her clothing and body with more attention than they had before.

  She wasn’t modest by any stretch of the imagination, but being stripped on the floor of the Chamber, in front of all those guards, and whoever else had been on the dais, had been humiliating. Someone was going to atone for that.

  The scrape of the guard’s boots came to stop on the other side of her door.

  Larina’s fingers sensed the pull on the lock mechanism. With a gentle, but persistent twist, the inner workings resisted her pick enough to bend the shank in her grasp, but she kept the pressure on. It was now or never.

  She heard the clasp that held the food slot closed, release.

  The lock turned with a snick at the same time the food slot squealed open.

  Larina pried the edge of the heavy door with one hand while pulling back on the jammed shank with her other. The cell door swung inward.

  She was greeted by the startled face of a guard kneeling before her.

  The young man rose to his feet. "Hey!"

  That was the only word he managed to say. Larina's boot caught him under the chin, accelerating his attempt to stand.

  His teethed gnashed together as the kick lifted him off the ground. His body was limp before it hit the cell door across the tunnel.

  She searched him, panicking. He didn't have any keys.

  A gruff voice sounded at the top of the long stairwell. "Jer? What's going on down there?"

  Larina stood up. Her blood ran cold. She stared at the dark passage of steps, unable to see beyond the bend in the rise.

  Someone descended the stairs.

  Lake of the Lost

  Silurian shivered in the early morning light. A thin wisp of smoke rose from the ring of stones beside him, burnt turkey bones still visible within the grey ash. Melody must have sensed him stirring because she opened her eyes and sat up, bits of dried leaves tangled in the loose strands of her blonde hair, and clinging to her cloak.

  “How’d you sleep?”

  Melody stretched and yawned. “Not well. You?”

  “Same,” he said as he grabbed the remaining sticks beside him and went about tending the fire.

  By the time Melody had returned from relieving herself, he had a meagre fire burning. “We should have saved some of that turkey for this morning.”

  She adjusted her robes and plunked herself down on the log she had sat on last night. “A pigeon has more meat than that sad turkey,” she muttered, her bleary gaze vacant.

  The look on his sister’s face troubled him. He had been pleasantly surprised when they were first reunited. Melody was no longer the frightened little girl from Mount Cinder. She had grown up and matured far beyond her years. Living and training with Phazarus had instilled confidence and independence in her, but looking at her now, it was as if they were scrambling about Cliff Face, trying to avoid the evil that had haunted them all those years ago.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Huh,” she answered, her thoughts elsewhere. “Oh, nothing.”

  Silurian recalled their conversation the night before. “Come on, I know you better than that. It’s the Grimward, isn’t it?”

  “No,” she said. “Well, maybe.”

  He walked over and sat beside her, shoving her over with his hips so he could sit without falling off the edge of the broken log. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “We don’t need to visit this spirit. Let’s just keep going. I’m thinking we have a long way to go yet to get back to Zephyr.”

  “What about your sword?”

  He shrugged. “What about it? It’s just a piece of metal.”

  “But you need it enchanted if you’re to face Helleden again. You can’t confront the sorcerer with the sword the way it is.”

  “Bah,” Silurian said and stood up to pace around the poor excuse of a fire. “I’ll figure something out. I always have, haven’t I?”

  Melody grimaced and dropped her gaze to the sputtering flames. She stared into the dancing fire and chanted a verse of incoherent words.

  Silurian walked back to where she sat, following her gaze into the struggling campfire. At first, he saw nothing, but when her chanting stopped he thought he saw something take form within the flames. He shook his head, and refocused. Sure enough, there it was. It looked to be a seaside abutting a line of snow-capped mountains. The vision panned in closer, zeroing in on the end of a long inlet. Everything around the edge of the water appeared grey and black.

  He frowned. It looked to be the remnants of a burnt-out city lining a large bay. Madrigail? It can’t be. There’s nothing left. The cold creeping up his spine had nothing to do with the weather.

  Melody had told him about Zephyr’s widespread devastation, but he never imagined it was that bad. The only thing recognizable was the twisted Rivergate Bridge, and even it looked on the verge of collapse.

  A fierce pop disturbed the fire and the vision faded, but before it winked out altogether, Silurian’s eyes were drawn to the middle of the harbour. Dozens of oddly shaped boats floated about a much larger, four-masted ship. The closer he looked at a certain object, the closer it magically came into view. Gerrymander’s deck grew in size. The shapes of individual sailors began to make themselves discernible, working alongside what appeared to be odd-looking children. He leaned forward, trying to put a name to one of the faces, and nearly tipped into the fire as the vision faded. He caught himself and blinked a few times.

  He sat down beside his sister, a stunned look on his face.

  She offered him a grim smile and nodded. Her voice sounded as if from a dream. “Now you understand what I told you. Zephyr, as we know it, is gone.”

  The vision left a sickening hole in his stomach. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. As bad as the vision had been, his mind couldn’t shake the sight of the boat in the harbour. He gave Melody a crazed look, the beginnings of a smile upturning his lips. “Was that a current vision?”

  “Ya, why?”

  “Did you see the boat?” His head nodded as if answering his own question.

  “Out in the middle of the bay? There were a bunch of boats.”

  Silurian grabbed her by the shoulders, a maniacal look in his eyes. “The biggest boat. That was Gerrymander. I would bet my life on it.”

  Her furrowed brows told him she didn’t comprehend the significance.

  “Remember? I told you. I sailed to the Under Realm on that boat.”

  Melody’s eyes grew wide. If not for Silurian’s iron grip, she would have toppled backward off the log.

  He nodded vigorously. “They found their way back. The quest survived.” His enthusiasm petered off. Just because the Gerrymander had returned, it didn’t mean everyone from the quest had returned with it. His memory of the landing party was a grim one. The quest had been seriously picked apart by those awful birds Wendglow had aptly referred to as Terrors. Pollard had stood near the river’s edge with Sadyra, fighting a losing battle against an endless demon horde that swarmed across the Dead Plains.

  “Rook?”

  Melody’s incredulous whisper cut through his thoughts. He swallowed, but nodded back, his eyes tearing up. His throat constricted so tight, all he could do was nod, and squeak out, “Maybe.”

  Melody’s shoulders shook. Tears rolled off her cheeks. She gave Silurian the most pitiful, heartbreaking, quivering smile of hope. “Rook.”

  He pulled her into his embrace and held her tight, unwilling to shatter her hope. The chances of anyone from the landing party surviving the battle upon the Dead Plains was practically zero, but he hadn’t the heart to tell her. He held her tightly and stared out across the gently rolling waters of the Lake of the Lost.

  They followed the tre
ed shoreline south, along a high ridge. Before the weak sun had crested overhead, Melody pointed to an island not far off the lake’s eastern shore. “Do you see that island? That is what people mistakenly call Grimward.”

  “You mean the island we’ve been able to see since we hit the lake?” Silurian asked, the mocking tone in his voice informing her that he would have to have been blind to not see the vast island sporting a decent sized hill on the shore facing them.

  Melody shot him a look and slapped his shoulder. “No, silly boy. The one tucked against the shoreline. You can just make it out, between the trees.”

  Silurian squinted. “Of course, I see it. I’ve been watching it for a while now.”

  Melody saw the playful smirk on his face. She rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that just swell. Zephyr depends on you to help deliver us from Helleden and you can’t even see an island. Fat lot of good you’re going to be.”

  Silurian laughed.

  The animal trail they followed split off to their right, descending the ridge toward the lake.

  Melody stopped and considered the side trail.

  Silurian waited a few steps ahead. “What’re you thinking?”

  She didn’t respond at first. Finally, she looked him straight in the eye. “Come on. We need to do this.”

  “Do what. Find that ghost who kills people? No thanks.”

  She swallowed. “I’ve been thinking. Ya, ya, I know, but listen to me. If we’re to have any chance of defeating Helleden, you need your sword enchanted. It’s the only way.”

  “No,” Silurian said, his tone unequivocal. “I lost you once to a Wizard of the North. I’ll be damned if I’ll lose you to his ghost. How do you expect me to defend you against something like that?”

  “We don’t know it’s a ghost.”

  “Come on, Mel, it’s close to what? Five hundred years old? What else could it be?” His words lost their luster at the end as he remembered Wendglow’s tale about Saros and Yarstaff. If the Voil elder could be trusted, the three of them were over four hundred and fifty years old themselves.