Soul Forge Saga Box Set

by Richard Stephens

  Two guards bearing halberds split off the group, moving to either side of the aisle, flanking him to prevent him from slipping away between the benches.

  He reached the bottom of the stairs faster than he thought, the bottom step catching his heel and tripping him. He fell hard onto his backside. He stood again, hands out before him, his gaze darting from one man to another, wondering who would attack first.

  “Pollard!” Rook’s voice called out to him. The bowman stood amongst the first few rows of busted benches, the wooden seat rests around him nothing but shattered boards. Rook bent down and hefted a great battle-axe in his hands. The weight of the weapon strained Rook’s features as he lumbered awkwardly forward and heaved the axe into the air.

  The guard flanking Pollard on that side dipped back to avoid being hit.

  Pollard caught the axe handle in both hands. Before the guards had time to react, he snapped his feet wide against the corner of the stone step and chopped at the chain. Sparks flew as the heavy weapon bit through the rusted chain link and dug a chip out of the rock.

  Bringing the mighty weapon back in front of him, eyes wild, Pollard thundered his outrage.

  The flanking guard on the opposite side chopped his unwieldy halberd at Pollard’s head.

  Pollard flung out a hand, grabbing the halberd below its cutting edge and shoved it against the stage—his other hand drove the central haft of the axe head under the man’s chin with such force that the guard crashed in a heap between the first two rows of benches.

  Without missing a beat, he swung the battle-axe at the militiamen, intercepting two swords that dove in toward his exposed side. The guards bearing pikes stepped backward to jab at him.

  The guard who had ducked away from the axe when Rook threw it also backed off to give himself room to swing the nasty blade atop his halberd. Pollard didn’t have time to deal with him as the men in the aisle attacked.

  From the corner of his eye, the man with the halberd suddenly stood up straight, gasping. A sword tip ripped through the front of his green tunic—Rook clenched the man’s shoulder with one hand and drove a pilfered Gritian sword through his back.

  That was all the advantage Pollard needed. As the four remaining guards were momentarily distracted by their colleague’s demise, he spun in an increasing circle, the axe head splitting polearms and bone alike. Both lancers dropped to the ground in a futile effort to keep their entrails from spilling onto the floor.

  The two swordsmen stepped back, wanting nothing more to do with him. As one, they turned and ran.

  A deafening roar escaped the Sentinel. The creature had almost reached the Chamber exit, but it stopped and staggered backward, a shower of flames visible around it. As much as Pollard detested wizards, he appreciated the usefulness of one right now. He couldn’t fathom where a wizard had come from, but he was grateful the magic user seemed to be on his side.

  Rook struggled close by, pulling his sword free of the man’s ribs. As the blade scraped free, the bowman stepped over the dead guard and together they ran down the aisle.

  The guardsmen pursuing the Sentinel scattered into the bench aisles, avoiding the thrashing beast as it swatted at the flames clinging to its chest. Judging by its feral growl, it wasn’t used to getting hit.

  Abraham’s voice resounded throughout the cavern, ordering his men to take down the beast.

  Two of the braver guards ran up behind it, but the Sentinel spun on them, its foreclaws raking the nearest man’s face from his skull. The second guard drove a barbed halberd at its midsection—shock written on his face as the polearm sliced into thin air.

  The Sentinel reappeared behind him, wrapped a set of talons around his neck, and tore his throat out.

  The exit tunnel lit up again. A sizzling ball of fire ripped into the Chamber.

  The Sentinel winked out.

  A crossbow bolt whistled past Pollard’s head. He ducked after the fact, watching as the errant fireball detonated against the head of an unfortunate guardsman who had stepped into the aisle to take a swipe at the beast’s back.

  The Sentinel reappeared just to the side of where it had vanished. It rushed the shattered doorway, stooping low to get at…Alhena?

  Pollard blinked several times. Standing in the Sentinel’s path, Alhena raised his walking stick, the dark wood surrounded in a yellowish-brown hue. Beside him on one knee, Larina concentrated on loading a crossbow upon her thigh. Olmar stood behind Alhena while Sadyra took up a position on the opposite side of the doorway to Larina, her crossbow levelled at the beast.

  Alhena’s staff pulsed. A ball of flames writhed quickly along its length, coalescing at its tip. The old man’s lips parted, but Pollard couldn’t hear his voice over the guttural roar of the beast as it reached out and grabbed Alhena’s staff.

  Knocked askew, Alhena’s staff discharged the fireball, delivering a glancing blow off the side of the beast’s head. Two quarrels buried themselves in the creature’s ribs, knocking it backward.

  Olmar’s panicked voice rose above the din, “Pops!”

  The Sentinel roared louder than the sailor. It hoisted the offending wizard into the air and opened its fanged maw to snap at Alhena’s head.

  Alhena’s staff discharged a smaller blast that flew harmlessly into the air.

  Biting hard into its skull, Pollard brought his battle-axe down with every bit of strength he possessed, cleaving the Sentinel from crown to hip before the axe head came to a shuddering stop. The Sentinel collapsed to the ground in a gory heap, its weight too much for Pollard to bear. He dropped to his knees and worked at extricating Alhena from its clutches.

  Alhena’s blank, white eyes were open, but Pollard couldn’t tell where the old man was looking, if he was looking at all.

  “Pollard Banebridge. Am I glad to see you,” Alhena said through a stifled cough.

  Pollard sensed Alhena was in considerable pain, but with so many damned robes, he couldn’t tell if the Sentinel had done him any real damage to him or not.

  Abraham’s voice screamed from the stage, “Seize them! Don’t let them escape!”

  Rook stepped up to Pollard, his sword daring any of the encroaching militiamen to do as the high bishop commanded. “I hate to break up your reunion, but we have bigger issues to deal with,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

  The guardsmen outnumbered Rook and Pollard ten to one. The death of the Sentinel had bolstered their courage. They came together and surrounded Rook, Pollard and Alhena.

  Pollard ignored them. He lifted Alhena to his feet. “Can you stand?”

  Alhena swayed, leaning on his staff for support. “Aye, I will be fine, but first…” His staff flared to life as his white eyes observed the militia closing in on them. “I suggest you back off, good men of Gritian. I do not wish to harm you.”

  Olmar’s voice thundered into the cavern.

  Alhena smiled and stepped aside, as the crazed mountain of a man charged into the Chamber. “But I cannot speak for him.”

  Sadyra and Larina entered behind Olmar with their crossbows loaded.

  Pollard wriggled the battle-axe free of the Sentinel’s corpse and slapped the handle in his palm, rising to his full height. He spun around to face the guardsmen.

  Two dozen militiamen split up and dove amongst the empty audience benches to avoid the wrath of the two largest men in the cavern.

  The guards’ reaction turned High Bishop Uzziah’s face purple with rage. Standing at the top of the steps he shook his fist. “Seize them, damn it, or I’ll see you all in the dungeons!”

  A couple of men shuffled uncertainly but kept their distance.

  “Uzziah is mine.” Pollard strode toward the platform where Abraham breathed harsh, angry gasps—his white beard streaked with spittle.

  In Pollard’s eyes, Abraham was ultimately responsible for the king’s murder, and quite possibly, Yarstaff’s as well. The Voil lay unmoving on the stage beside the dead monarch. Pollard growled. “Prepare to die!”

  Olm
ar, Sadyra and Larina followed. The guards stumbled farther back into the benches, giving them a wide berth.

  The high bishop’s eyes widened at Pollard’s approach. He reached into his robes and produced a ceremonial dagger—a religious symbol, more ornate than practical—and held it out before him.

  Pollard threw the battle-axe away. The weapon crashed noisily to the aisle below. He reached out and clasped the bishop’s wrist, twisting his arm until he dropped the knife. He wrapped his other hand around Abraham’s throat and hoisted him into the air, bringing the cleric’s face a whisker away from his own.

  “Yarstaff had better be alive or I’ll crush you.” Pollard thrust the high bishop away.

  Abraham stumbled backward holding his throat. He fell over a dead guard.

  Rook mounted the steps and rushed to Captain Pik. Examining the captain, he shook his head. Pik was dead.

  Pollard snarled and strode across the stage, stopping momentarily beside Pantyr Korn’s lifeless body. He cast another glare at Abraham who had gotten back to his feet.

  Rook’s voice sounded behind Pollard. “Uzziah, order your men to clean this place up. Attend to the injured and get the dead out of here.”

  Pollard passed Jibrael’s corpse as he approached his little friend. His breath caught in his throat. Poor Yarstaff hadn’t deserved this. According to Wendglow, Yarstaff had lived for over four centuries in a state of living hell, serving his masters and saving countless lives from the Soul Forge. The misshapen creature had finally been given the chance to enjoy life under a sky complete with a sun, moon and stars, but the only thing he had experienced since stepping on Zephyr soil was animosity and prejudice. Many in society correlated his race’s appearance with the devastation wreaked upon Zephyr. Pollard’s blood boiled.

  Dropping to his knees, he found it difficult to ascertain whether Yarstaff still drew breath. His vision blurred with tears. Beside Yarstaff, King Malcolm’s mutilated body and blank stare confirmed the monarch’s fate.

  “Clean up this mess.” Abraham directed his men, no compassion evident in his voice.

  Pollard snapped. Jumping to his feet he located the first discarded weapon he could find. Hoisting a pointed polearm into the air before him, he strode toward the bishop.

  “Pollard, no!” Alhena called after him.

  Abraham gaped at the lance’s advancing tip. He put his hands out to clutch at it, but his strength was no match for Pollard.

  Pollard drove the lance into Abraham’s stomach, the point extending well beyond his back before Pollard hoisted him writhing into the air. “You deserve no more mercy than you gave King Malcolm. Or Pantyr. Or Pik. Or anyone else your demented mind has betrayed. Feel my justice.”

  “You big Lummox, put him down.” Sadyra’s voice reached through his rage. Her small hands felt cold on his bicep as she tugged at his arm. “That’s the high bishop, you big oaf.”

  “Come on Pollard,” Larina’s voice chimed in.

  Larina? Right. Where had she come from? Pollard’s thoughts whirled in his head as if in a dream. Wearily, he let go of the polearm and High Bishop Abraham Uzziah dropped to the stage in a heap of misery.

  Two guards rushed onto the stage and hovered over Abraham, unsure what to do with him.

  Rook glowered at the dying bishop. “Leave him. Save those that are worth saving. This one is not.” With that, he put an arm around Pollard’s back and together they went to see if there was anything they could do for the little Voil.

  Ghastly Death

  Silurian’s blood turned cold as he grasped the significance of the screech. The second serpent had entered the tunnel. He dreaded the repercussions of the serpent when it found its mate dead at the bottom of the pillar.

  Across the gap the stone arch had spanned, one of the Kraidic warriors reeled in the rope Silurian had thrown back at him.

  Melody issued instructions. “Find a place to tie it off and throw it back to him.” She spun on the other man—the one with the battle-axe—Keen he had called himself. “I told you to stay where you are. I won’t tell you again.”

  At least she finally seemed to be taking his warnings seriously about the Kraidic warriors.

  Another screech echoed up the tunnel, much closer this time.

  Silurian faced the lifeblood fount. Time was running out. Inhaling deeply to calm himself, he raised St. Carmichael’s Blade with two hands, point down. The blade’s gleaming surface turned blue in the mystic ambience of the well. It was eerily similar to the look the sword had while on the Dead Plains in the Under Realm, and within the cliffside home of the Voil when the deranged wizard Menthliot had attacked him. Those events felt like a lifetime ago.

  He turned his head sideways, squinting in the fount’s light. The runes etched into the side of the blade facing him were the ones Wendglow read as, only the worthy shall prevail. He swallowed. He didn’t feel worthy at the moment, isolated atop a pillar, deep within a serpent’s nest with no means of escape, while his sister stood on a crumbling ledge faced by two Kraidic warriors, and an angry serpent racing in to confront them.

  Another screech reverberated within the cavern sending chills down his spine. He struggled to focus. His hands shook. The blade’s tip rang rhythmically against the fluted stone bowl as his thoughts whirled. Melody was in danger. Even with an enchanted blade, he was helpless on this end of the broken bridge. He might as well be half a world away.

  St. Carmichael’s sword broke the surface of the substance bubbling within the fount. A shiver vibrated him to the core. Not from the approach of the wyrm, but from something bigger—something much deeper than a physical bond could generate. A distant shout sent spasms through his body. It hadn’t come from the environment around him. It sprang up from the depths of the earth, reaching out to him, beseeching his aid; lamenting the torment that Helleden had inflicted. The anguish so profound it cut off Silurian’s ability to breathe, but there was something else. A presence so foreign, and yet, so familiar. It reached up through the fount, fingering its way up the sword’s length—tracing the runes of St. Carmichael’s blade as it came to claim him.

  Silurian let go of the sword, lest he suffocate. The earth’s suffering was unbearable. His numb mind refused to allow him to regrip the sword even though he chanced losing it to the well. A maleficent yearning urged him to ignore the all-encompassing misery and sorrow. To embrace a fate not of his choosing—one that felt impossible to resist.

  St. Carmichael’s Blade slid slowly into the blueish liquid, immersing itself to the hilt. Blue light shone from the ends of its fancy quillons, blinding him further.

  He put a forearm over his eyes. As much as his brain screamed at him to look away—to break the captivating thrall he had fallen under—he found himself powerless to resist. His body swayed. He staggered a couple of steps in a stupor, his mind focused on the wellspring, oblivious to his surroundings.

  A high-pitched voice shrieked at him, seemingly a long way off. He knew that voice. It belonged to…to…he couldn’t quite place it. Whoever it was, they sounded in a panic. Think, Silurian, think. You know that person.

  He put a hand to his forehead and took a sideways step, wavering on the verge of losing his balance and then correcting himself and staggering back. Something was wrong. He knew it intrinsically, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

  From out of the haze, a demonic laughter chilled him to the bone. He knew at once the person responsible. He sensed Helleden’s malicious stain. Here, in the…the serpent’s nest!

  Helleden wasn’t the smiling type but hovering over the scrying bowl high atop the Wizard’s Spike, a self-righteous smirk lifted the corners of his thin lips. He had lost contact with Barong, but it mattered not. One more magical discharge from the northern wizard would provide him with enough power to complete his firestorm.

  Nor could he believe his good fortune. While concentrating on the battle developing somewhere in the midst of the Lake of the Lost, another source of magic had made itself known. A sou
rce so powerful that Helleden staggered as its presence flooded the ethereal pall enwrapping the tower chamber. It disrupted his concentration and nearly severed his mastery over his spell. The backlash created by a sudden release of the power he siphoned from the two wizards had the very real potential of running amok and smiting him instead. He shuddered. Had he lost hold of his tenuous tethers, the only thing that would be left marking the Wizard’s Spike would be a crater in the ground.

  From where he stood, this foreign magic source had at least as much potency as that wielded by the Soul itself. He realized immediately what he sensed. It was the fabled fount of earth blood. Thunor Carmichael was wise to have kept it hidden from him all these years. Perhaps a side trip north was in order.

  The scrying bowl rippled along its northeast edge. It was time to unleash the storm.

  Silurian’s knees buckled. It was happening again. Helleden’s presence meant one thing. The sorcerer was channeling the power required to conjure another of his hellish firestorms, and Silurian was providing the sorcerer the means with which to do so. Whether Silurian was unwitting or not made little difference to those who fell under the storm’s shadow.

  “Silurian!” A voice screamed at him, seemingly close, and yet, it was if the high-pitch reached out to him through a hazy dream. The pitch similar to a woman’s voice. A friend. His sister!

  His mind snapped out of the stupor that threatened to devour it. The chaos unfolding within the serpent’s cavern slammed into his consciousness. He teetered precariously on the lip of the wellspring platform. One misstep and he would plunge to a certain death atop the two serpents at the base of the pillar. Two serpents!

  A fireball sizzled into the pit of the chamber, hammering into the serpent that had stalked them on the lake.

  The outraged creature threw itself sideways, but the fireball exploded into its side, blasting it against the base of the pillar.

  The column shook under the force. Silurian flailed his arms helplessly, certain he was about to pitch over the edge. Catching his balance, he dropped to his knees and crawled away from the brink. He rose unsteadily to his feet and almost fell over again. Across the gap, the man named Keen charged at Melody whose eyes had rolled back into her head in her utter concentration to conjure a powerful spell—one she probably thought would be more effective than a simple fireball. He swallowed. He had seen the results of her bigger spells.