Soul Forge Saga Box Set

by Richard Stephens

  The sound of hurried footfalls reached them from down the curved, narrower tunnel, prompting Rook to lead Pollard and Yarstaff up the main tunnel toward the Chamber of the Wise. The tunnel curved to the right and the intersection fell out of sight behind them.

  Ahead, the tunnel terminated at a set of unguarded, finely tooled, oak doors.

  Rook stopped at the entrance to the Chamber of the Wise and held up a hand to stop Pollard from throwing the doors open. Rook tested the right door. Other than being heavy, he was able to pull it toward himself. He took a tentative look inside.

  No one stood guard on the inside either. Strange. He was under the impression the Chamber was guarded constantly, day and night.

  Movement from a multi-levelled stage at the Chamber’s far end grabbed his attention, visible in the light cast by hundreds of flickering rush lights spaced throughout the vast cavern. Several red robed people milled about upon the first tier, along with men and women clad in green militia livery. Rook couldn’t make out the king’s golden locks, but he was sure that was Captain Pik’s vermilion surcoat visible behind a wall of burly pikemen.

  One of the pikemen stepped sideways, revealing the grey-haired horse trainer, Pantyr Korn. It was tough to tell from this distance, but neither of the king’s men looked happy. They appeared to be in restraints.

  Rook closed the door without a sound. “I don’t like the look of this. I can’t see Malcolm, but his captain and the horse trainer are in there, and they look to be in trouble.”

  Pollard gritted his teeth, stepping back and forth on the spot.

  “Easy, big fellow. Have you ever been in the Chamber of the Wise before?”

  Pollard shook his head.

  “Okay. The Chamber is huge. A wide aisle connects these doors to a stage at the far end. When I say far end, I mean, far,” Rook informed them. “The council members are in there as well as countless militiamen. If they have ranged weapons, we’ll never make it to the other end, you hear me?”

  Pollard nodded, his eyes dark. Rook knew it would take a perfect shot to stop Pollard, but he also knew, if they were to survive the bizarre events occurring in Gritian, Pollard’s fighting skills would be critical.

  “We will enter the Chamber like nothing is wrong. We don’t know for certain if what’s happening outside has anything to do with these people. They may be oblivious to the uprising. Put your weapons away so we don’t spook them.”

  Pollard glowered, but Yarstaff nodded his oversized head and sheathed his sword.

  Rook’s stern look prompted Pollard to do likewise.

  “Alright, here we go. Nice and easy.” Rook casually pulled the door open. As big and heavy as it was, the door swung on hidden hinges without a sound. It wasn’t until they were partway down the aisle that a militiaman pointed in their direction and everybody on the stage turned as one to watch their advance.

  “Rook, get out of here! It’s a trap!” Captain Pik tried to push his way between two of the pikemen, but was thrown backward into the stone wall. A third pikeman punched the captain between the eyes with a metal grieved fist. Pik’s body slid to the ground.

  Pollard’s sword was in his hand almost as fast as Rook had nocked an arrow.

  Yarstaff followed suit, his large eyes searching the rows of seating on either side of the aisle.

  Retreating back down the entrance tunnel wasn’t an option. Not without the king. Scanning the mass of people upon the stage, Rook still didn’t see Malcolm. Nor could he see Chambermaster Uzziah. A cold feeling filled him. King Malcolm wasn’t here. They had taken him to the chambermaster’s quarters.

  The Enervator, Jibrael Fox, barked an order from the centre of the platform, and a dozen militiamen descended the steps and stormed down the aisle toward them, weapons in hand. None of them bore a ranged weapon. With his own bow, and Pollard’s presence, they stood a chance. His thoughts turned to the group who were being held up by the vice chambermaster, just as the double doors behind them flew open.

  Four men with crossbows slipped inside the cavern. Two stepped right while the other two stepped left, allowing those behind them access to the Chamber. The crossbowmen dropped to a knee and brought their weapons to bear.

  Jibrael Fox hurried to the top of the steps. “Seize them! They come for the king!”

  The Enervator descended the steps and strode quickly down the aisle, his sword not drawn. Jibrael obviously relied on his men to do the dirty work for him.

  “Drop your weapons or my men will cut you down,” Jibrael ordered, stopping a fair distance away, mindful of Rook’s bow. “Do it. Now!”

  They were grossly outmanned. With the arrival of the marksmen, Rook saw no way to fight their way free. He put one hand up in resignation and bent over to place his bow on the ground. “Do as he says, Pollard. Don’t do anything rash. We’ll find another way.”

  Yarstaff placed his sword on the ground.

  Pollard wasn’t as forthcoming. He spat at the Enervator, his deep voice growling. “You’re a tough man, hiding behind the militia. You’re no Enervator. Avarick would’ve cut your heart out and fed it to you.”

  “Pollard, let it go,” Rook urged his friend as two guards snatched up his bow and quiver and roughhoused his arms behind his back to slap his wrists in irons, before relieving him of his sword belt. “Now’s not the time for this. You’re no good to the king dead.”

  Pollard glared at the men creeping up the aisle from the doorway. They stopped and tensed.

  “Pollard!” Rook hissed.

  An audible sigh escaped those closest as Pollard threw his massive weapon to the ground.

  Even though the Songsbirthian was unarmed, it took an emphatic bellow from Jibrael before anyone garnered the courage to apprehend him. When the first two men took hold of Pollard’s forearms and attempted to slap an undersized set of manacles around his thick wrists, Pollard resisted, throwing one man to the ground. Four more guards moved in to hold him, but Pollard thrashed about, his weight too much for them to manipulate with any degree of success.

  Jibrael Fox approached the struggling group and withdrew a long dagger. “Hold him, I’ll settle the big dummy down.”

  “Pollard, stop fighting!” Rook pleaded. “The king needs you!”

  Pollard mashed the face of the man in front of him with his forehead, before grudgingly submitting and letting the swarm of guardsmen take him to the floor. He thrashed around on the ground, not making it easy for those attempting to apply restraints.

  When the guards finally bound his hands behind his back and applied a heavy set of shackles to his ankles, everyone got back to their feet except for the largest man who kept a knee firmly planted between Pollard’s shoulder blades, while two others knelt upon his calves.

  Jibrael walked up to Pollard and kicked him hard in the ribs, striking the wound Pollard had received in the Under Realm.

  Pollard grunted and gritted his teeth. He nearly threw the man off his back. Spit flew from lips. “Just you wait, maggot. I’m going to squash you.”

  Jibrael laughed. “That would be a neat trick considering your position. I’ve had my fill of big galoots like you lately.” The Enervator stomped on the back of Pollard’s head, smashing his face against the floor. He quickly stepped away again, as Pollard roared and threw the man restraining his shoulders.

  The two men on his legs barely held him on the ground long enough for others to jump in and weigh him down again.

  “Ya, walk away, coward! Takes a big man to let others do his dirty work!” Pollard ranted, trying to turn his head to follow Jibrael walking away from him. Blood streamed from his lips.

  Jibrael spoke to one of his men as he walked past him. “Get them up on the platform. If that piece of shit gives you any more trouble, slit his throat.”

  Rook tried to shrug off the two men grabbing him by the elbows and shoulders as they shoved him toward the stage. Ahead of him, a single guard hurried Yarstaff along. Rook wanted to see what they were doing to Pollard, but his esc
orts reefed on his arms and thrust him forward.

  He stumbled on the stairs at the end of the aisle, but his guards never missed a step. They dragged him up the short flight, bashing his shins off the unforgiving steps.

  Once on the stage, he was ushered beyond the wall of pikemen and unceremoniously launched toward the back wall. Pantyr Korn did his best to soften the blow as Rook hit the stone facing with his right shoulder, stumbling over Captain Pik’s body.

  Rook dropped painfully to his knees, unable to break his fall. Captain Pik didn’t look good. He studied the captain’s chest, hoping to see evidence that he was still breathing.

  A large pikeman stepped up to Rook and dragged him back to his feet. “Leave him,” the guard ordered as he pinned Rook against the wall, and stepped back into line.

  A group of flustered guards struggled to drag Pollard up the steps. Rook had to admire him. As stupid as his actions might yet prove to be, Pollard’s stubbornness had instilled fear in the eyes of more than a few of the guards.

  It took six seasoned men to muscle Pollard onto the stage, their efforts denoted by grunts and heavy breathing. Sweat streamed from their faces and darkened their green jerkins.

  The wall of pikemen gave Pollard a wide berth as the guards finally impelled him against the back wall. As Pollard was pushed beyond the pikemen, someone stuck out a boot to trip him.

  Pollard fell heavily to the stage floor. He rolled onto his side and spat at the pikeman nearest him, daring him to approach.

  Rook looked around. Where was Yarstaff?

  The Chamber doors opened and a deep voice sounded, drawing everyone’s attention. “Give us a hand down here. King Malcolm needs assistance.” Chambermaster Uzziah stood between the double doors. At his feet lay a motionless body clothed in vermilion—long locks of golden hair spread out upon the ground.

  A shadow slipped wraith-like through the doors and disappeared amongst the darker places clinging to the cavern walls. Rook tried to follow it, but as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone again. Perhaps he imagined it.

  It was hard to register the absurdity of what was going on. The shock and hurt couldn’t be any worse than if someone kicked him in the stomach. He glanced around in disbelief. This was the vaunted Chamber of the Wise. A place of lore. A bastion of safety.

  Four militiamen hurried down the aisle. They reverently picked up the king’s limp body, each man taking an appendage, and hoisted Malcolm into the air as they made their way to the stage.

  Abraham pulled the doors shut. Withdrawing a golden key from within the folds of his robes, he sealed the doors behind him before following the king’s body.

  Rook looked to the four highbacked chairs set off to his left. He counted the red robes. Eleven chambermen and women mingled around thronelike seats, some of their faces seemed more anxious than others. The entire council was present. All except Vice Chambermaster Solomon. He hoped the man’s death had been quick.

  As the king was paraded past the line of pikemen, it appeared the monarch hadn’t suffered any physical trauma, but the way his head lolled to the side clearly showed that he was, at the very least, unconscious.

  Pollard struggled to gain his feet, the movement disconcerting the militiamen closest to him. They readjusted their stance and readied their polearms.

  Rook hoped Pollard had enough sense to restrain himself.

  The guards laid the king to rest on the cold, stone floor at the feet of the chambermen. As the group of red-robed figures parted to allow the king amongst them, Rook caught a glimpse of Yarstaff lying on the ground beside Malcolm. What had they done to him?

  Rook cast a quick glance at Pollard, thankful the Songsbirthian hadn’t seen Yarstaff. If Pollard were to lay eyes on the orange furred Voil, he would go berserk.

  Abraham sauntered across the stage, past the line of pikemen. His eyes met Rook’s, and he stopped for a moment of silent deliberation. The white-bearded visage seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but instead, he gave Rook a subtle nod and joined the rest of the council.

  The chambermaster’s voice thundered throughout the cavern. “Those gathered this day are here to bear witness. King Malcolm has brought death upon himself by conniving with Helleden Misenthorpe. Let it be known, the monarch of Zephyr has brought the entire might of the sorcerer’s minion horde, and the Kraidic Empire down upon Zephyr’s bastion of knowledge.”

  The bewildered faces of several chambermen eased with the explanation of the king’s devilry. The faces of the militiamen nearest Rook turned sour as they looked upon their traitorous monarch.

  “Aye, now everyone present knows what we, the Chamber, have been preaching since the firestorm sacked our land. King Malcolm champions Helleden’s cause.”

  Angry mutterings sounded across the stage.

  Rook, exchanged a bewildered look with Pollard and Pantyr. His mind felt like it was filling with wool. How could the chambermaster utter such deception?

  “That’s not true!” Pantyr shouted.

  Several pikemen cast Pantyr a scathing look. A guard sporting an old facial scar came at him, but Pollard stepped in between. Fettered hand and foot, Pollard’s presence still deterred the guard from taking further action.

  Rook sensed his big friend was about to go off. Thankfully, he hadn’t noticed Yarstaff yet.

  Abraham’s voice deescalated the tension. “Barong, show yourself!”

  Everyone looked toward the locked doorway at the far end of the hall, but the one called Barong appeared above the main stage, watching them from the second tier.

  Barong hid beneath a floppy black cowl. Whatever lay beneath the hood didn’t seem human. Even from where he stood, Rook thought he could feel the evil wafting off the creature.

  The chambermen and women backed away, making their way around the four chairs to distance themselves from whatever it was that looked down on them. All except Chambermaster Uzziah and Vice Chambermistress Arzachel Gruss.

  The motionless bodies of the king and Yarstaff lay exposed directly below the creature as it lifted its gangly limbs and bent low, extending curved talons toward the prone bodies.

  Pollard’s roar diverted everyone’s attention.

  Rook flinched. Pollard had caught sight of Yarstaff.

  The pikemen closest to the prisoners were ill prepared to deal with the enraged giant charging into their midst, fettered and all.

  Jibrael spun from his position beside the nearest chair and pointed at Pollard. “Kill him, you fools!”

  The closest guards prepared to swing their polearms, the action made cumbersome in the close proximity of their peers. Before they affected a proper swing, Pantyr Korn charged into the nearest man and sent him sprawling into the second.

  Pollard continued unabated toward the Enervator.

  Jibrael drew his sword, bracing himself.

  Rook had to give Jibrael credit. He doubted many men would have calmly waited on Pollard’s approach, restrained or not.

  A thunderous concussion from the far end of the cavern made Rook jump.

  Pollard stopped his advance, as did the dozen pikemen on his heels.

  Before anyone had time to do anything but look that way, the noise sounded again. The thick, double doors exploded inward—hardwood splintering into hundreds of jagged pieces.

  Twice the size of a normal man, standing upon heavily muscled grey legs and elongated feet that were tipped by three talons each to match those of its front paws, the Sentinel ducked through the doorway and rose up to its full height. Narrow red eyes surveyed the vast Chamber cavern, locking on Barong.

  Barong’s voice hissed from the shadows of his cloak. “Ah, the Sentinel. It’s time to kill a king.”

  Rook swallowed and unconsciously stepped backward as the Sentinel stormed up the aisle. One moment it stood at the far end of the Chamber, and in the next it appeared within the empty rows of wooden audience benches, its weight crushing the seats below its massive feet. It blinked out and appeared a few rows closer and
then winked out again. It didn’t take it long to mount the stage near the group of terrified chambermen and pad its way over to the motionless forms of King Malcolm and Yarstaff.

  The Gritian militia backed away, their attention riveted on Helleden’s demons, and left Pollard and Jibrael alone. Barong dropped down to the first stage with a familiar looking staff in its hands. If Rook didn’t know any better he would have sworn Barong was in possession of Alhena’s walking stick. But why?

  Barong’s head jerked around to stare at the blasted Chamber doorway. “The wizard!” it hissed and leaped past the Sentinel into the first row of seats. It sidestepped into the main aisle and quickly disappeared beyond the shattered entryway.

  The Sentinel watched Barong leave the Chamber and then, without warning, impaled the king’s chest with its six long claws and hoisted his convulsing body into the air.

  Malcolm’s deep blue eyes opened wide, laced with exquisite agony.

  Rook couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t believe what he saw. It couldn’t be real.

  On the far side of the Sentinel, Chambermaster Uzziah grabbed at the beast’s arm, shouting at the creature to finish off Yarstaff before he awoke.

  The Sentinel snarled its displeasure. It withdrew one paw from the king’s torn chest and sent High Bishop Uzziah sprawling into the cringing huddle of terrified chambermen.

  Pollard roared louder.

  Pantyr Korn cried out.

  The militiamen stood dazed.

  Pollard dropped into a crouch and stepped back over his bound hands so that they were now before him. He sidestepped Jibrael’s frantic swing, wrapped the short length of his manacle chains around the Enervator’s neck, and twisted in one fluid motion. “I warned you, maggot.”

  Jibrael’s feet left the ground. His sword dropped from his hands and his necks bones snapped.

  Several militiamen ran at him. They were intercepted by Pantyr and Rook who drove their shoulders into the lead runners and knocked two off the stage into the first row of benches.

  Three guards recovered their stride. Ignoring Rook and Pantyr, they closed in on Pollard but didn’t attack as Jibrael hung suspended in his grasp.