Soul Forge Saga Box Set

by Richard Stephens

  Two red-skinned demons clad in furs—short horns curving from their temples—stood around the wraith, one of them holding Melody’s staff.

  “Yes, Dagan,” they said together and started forward but the wraith called them back. “No. You two remain here.”

  Silurian got unsteadily to his feet, the snow under him giving way ever so slowly, drawing him toward the brink, his attention switching to the six demons that had hauled him out of the shaft as they closed in on him.

  Silurian unsheathed his sword, almost losing his footing in the process.

  The demons were either well equipped to traverse the steep slope or didn’t fear slipping to a certain death. They were on him in moments.

  He scrambled away from the edge to intercept them, but for each uncertain step he took, he slid back half the distance he had gained.

  A trident jabbed at his stomach. He knocked it aside, the momentum of his parry causing him to slip and fall to a knee.

  “Watch!” Dagan called out.

  A movement behind the demons caught Silurian’s attention. A black-bearded man exploded into their midst, swinging his warhammer with lethal force.

  A demon’s head exploded beneath the devastating crunch as Tygra’s warhammer drove the creature into the demon beside it. The second demon lost its footing and screeched, its trident flying into the air. It grabbed at the body of its dead companion but couldn’t stop sliding in the loose snow. The demon and the corpse slid over the brink and out of sight.

  Karvus rose out of the shaft, his green eyes surveying the scene. He jumped to his feet, pulled his battle-axe over his shoulder and started up the slope.

  “Emperor Karvus,” Dagan growled. “You keep strange company.”

  “Release her,” Karvus declared, squaring to face the wraith.

  Dagan threw Melody to the ground and held out his free hand, accepting her staff from the claws of the demon next to him. The dark wood came to life, alight with glowing runes. He pointed at Silurian. “Kill Mintaka!”

  Silurian had no choice but to concentrate on the battle at hand as the four remaining demons forced him toward the brink, ignoring Tygra’s advance.

  The earth blood seeped from his sword into his body permeating his body and driving away the residual pain from his injured leg.

  He lashed out, parrying the long thrusts aimed at his head and legs. To his horror, no amount of magic prevented the snow from sliding out from beneath his feet. The brink loomed closer with each block. The demons didn’t have to get close to finish him—it was only a matter of time.

  Tygra had to act fast. Silurian was being herded off the edge of the mountain. If he didn’t intervene, the swordsman would be lost. Fearing the wizard’s retribution if he allowed that to happen, he attacked the demon line.

  The closest beast turned to stave off his attack.

  Tygra feigned an overhead chop, allowing gravity to pull at his hammer’s weight. He caught the weapon’s momentum with practiced precision near the ground and swung it beneath the next demon’s block—the warhammer smashing the demon’s knee, breaking its leg with a sickening crack, and taking its legs out from beneath it.

  Before the first demon could sidestep the falling body, Tygra’s recovery swing arced the hammerhead high overhead.

  The demon held its trident up with both hands, but the force of Tygra’s swing splintered the trident’s shaft, pulverizing the creature’s shoulder and pounding its body into a grotesque heap of mangled bones.

  Silurian wavered on the edge of the precipice. His rear boot found purchase beneath the snow, but the demons were relentless.

  Tygra roared and jumped at the nearest beast. It spun quicker than he thought possible, bringing its weapon to bear and diving in with a frenzied thrust.

  Tygra staggered sideways, almost teetering over the edge as the trident drove through his leather armour and into his midsection—pain exploding in his abdomen as the barbed tips shredded his innards.

  The demon on the other end of the trident screeched triumphantly.

  Tygra growled defiantly and spun.

  The demon fought to maintain its hold on the trident firmly embedded in Tygra’s stomach and slid in the icy snow—the creature’s weight pulling it toward the brink. By the time it realized its peril, it was too late for both of them.

  A section of snow coating the ledge broke free and crumbled over the cliff’s jagged lip.

  The demon released the trident and flailed its long limbs in great whirlwind strokes but couldn’t stop its slide. An ear-piercing screech rent the mountainside as it disappeared from sight.

  Eyes wide, realizing his fate, Tygra met Silurian’s astonished gaze. He swung out his hammer, its head hooking itself in the last demon’s furs and together they were airborne.

  Tygra watched his demise play out, almost as if his mind had detached itself from his body. The edge of the cliff fell farther and farther away. Snow cascaded after him, mimicking his descent, not getting any closer, but not getting any farther away. The awful screech of the flailing demon beside him grated at his ears.

  The last thing he saw on the receding ledge were the black locks of the man who protected the Wizard of the North—his ice-blue eyes watching him plummet to his death from the safety of the ledge.

  The Summoning Stone

  Stepping around the expanding pool of blood of the minion accompanying Surgat back from the Gulch, Helleden fought hard to control his wrath. It wouldn’t do to kill Surgat as well, though if truth be told, Surgat had disappointed him.

  The elite minion had returned empty handed. Not only did Surgat fail to kill Phazarus, he claimed to have no knowledge of where the wizard had gone. As far as Surgat could ascertain, the wizard had travelled with several companions into the Gulch and disappeared.

  “Perhaps the Aberrator got to them, m’lord.”

  Helleden glowered at the wraith kneeling dutifully on the flagstone floor, the slain demon’s blood congealing around Surgat’s dark cloak. Helleden resisted the urge to slit his throat as well—barely.

  Nothing was going according to plan. First, he had lost touch with the northern wizard, and perhaps more importantly, Silurian Mintaka, and now, Phazarus. His grand scheme threatened to crumble around him. After five hundred years of painstaking patience, he had come so close to realizing his dream. And to what end? That old wizard was going to undermine everything he had achieved.

  The King of Zephyr dead, the Kraidic Emperor dead, the Kraidic army at his disposal, the Zephyr army crushed, and the collapse of the mighty kingdom at hand and yet, his plans were falling apart. As long as the Wizards of the North and Silurian remained at large, he wasn’t assured victory. They could undermine everything he had worked toward. He needed to devise a better way to deal with the wizards.

  Surgat’s words sunk in. Helleden had dismissed them as rhetoric at first. If Phazarus had died, he would know of it. He had measures set in place within this chamber to alert him of the destruction of a major magic source. Other than the earth blood fount and the now destroyed Soul Forge, there wasn’t a greater source of magic than the Wizard of the North—not including himself, of course. He smiled at that. He had become the greatest living magic source…a frown replaced his rare smile. He forgot to include the black wyrm.

  “Bah. I’m stronger than the dragon,” he muttered and paced to the thick tome he’d been leafing through when Surgat and his lackey burst into the chamber.

  “M’lord?”

  Helleden ignored him and studied the ancient book. He had been studying the maps in the tome’s centre, researching possible landing places for Zephyr’s refugees. He carefully flipped through the crackling pages to a closeup of the Gulch region, running a long fingernail up the Oceanway from Ember Breath. He traced the fork leading into the Gulch. The path ran into a large body of water. Splenic Splash. He shook his greasy locks—what a stupid name.

  The roadway veered right, following Splenic Splash’s shoreline until it climbed out of the G
ulch and turned into the Nordic Wood Byway. The same path that led to Silurian Mintaka’s front door.

  The irony wasn’t lost on Helleden. He should have killed the troublemaker like he’d done with his pitiful family when he had the chance, but the Soul had forbidden it.

  A rueful smile played at the corners of his lips. If not for Silurian, the Soul would still be alive. It had proven fortuitous to keep the irksome swordsman alive.

  His blood pressure rose. Now that Silurian had served his purpose, it was time to be rid of him.

  He tapped his fingernail on Splenic Splash. What else did he know of the Gulch? He’d never set foot in the region. He never had a reason to. As long as the necromancer kept to his dark sanctuary, occasionally making off with the locals, Helleden couldn’t care less what the lunatic did. But now…He clenched his fist and pounded the centre of the book. The page containing the map ripped, stoking his anger further.

  Appalled he had damaged the ancient tome, Helleden winced. Smoothing out the crumpled sheet, his breath caught in his throat as his fingers rubbed across the words, ‘the Crypt,’ and the corresponding annotation written on the bottom corner of the map: ‘A spiritual passage. A viaduct of bile through The Spine.’

  He frowned and reread it several times. It sounded like an anatomical reference. He almost pushed it from his mind when the implication of the last two words struck him. The Spine. The note didn’t refer to a backbone—it denoted the chain of mountains along Zephyr’s western shore. The Gulch abutted The Spine.

  The significance struck him. Phazarus must’ve known about this passage. That’s where the wizard had gone. He was sure of it. But where did it lead?

  He flipped through the maps until he found one containing the area where The Spine met the Undying Wall. Sure enough, the Gulch lay nestled in its southwestern crook.

  On the far side of The Spine, the Ocean Way traversed the shoreline, climbing into The Spine south of the Gulch and continuing northward to Treacher’s Gorge.

  “Surgat, get over here.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” Surgat reached his side in an instant.

  “What do you know of this region?”

  It took Surgat a few moments to answer. “It’s the western mountains, m’lord. And that is the Gulch, there.” He pointed.

  “Have you heard of the Crypt?”

  Surgat frowned and shook his head. “No, m’lord.”

  “What of the trails in the mountains?”

  Surgat leaned in close. He extended a claw at a couple of routes. “This is the Ocean Way connecting the south to Madrigail Bay. This is the Nordic Wood Bypass that connects the Ocean Way, here, to Redfire Path. There is another path running along the northern peaks of the Undying Wall that leads to The Spine, here.”

  Helleden noted the paths converged. “So, all of the paths cross at this point, Treacher’s Gorge?”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “What’s so special about that spot?”

  “Treacher’s Gorge is a bridge connecting the four directions. The only way past this point through the mountains.”

  Helleden studied the indistinct trail markings. “Four directions? I only see north to south on the map.”

  “That’s because the east and west routes are little more than goat paths.”

  “And Phazarus might have taken one of these routes out of the Gulch?”

  Surgat’s heavy brows came together. He shook his head. “Not unless he backtracked down the Ocean Way. Even then it would be useless. The southern span of Treacher’s Gorge fell years ago. No one takes the Ocean Way anymore. The only way to cross the gorge is from above the Undying Wall, here, and then taking the northern span.”

  Helleden frowned. “What about the western span. Where does that go?”

  Surgat stared blankly at the map. “I don’t know, m’lord. It doesn’t connect to the Ocean Way that I know of.”

  Helleden walked back to the southern window and stared out. He rubbed his bottom lip as realization set in. He stormed back to the table and jabbed a fingernail through the brittle parchment, indicating the mountain west of the Gulch.

  “There! That’s where they went.”

  Surgat leaned in close.

  “An underground passageway leads out of the Gulch through a place known as the Crypt. Given everything we know, it’s the only thing that makes sense. That is where the western span leads to.”

  Visions of a surprise attack by Phazarus filled Helleden’s head. He smiled a devious grin.

  “Take as many demons as you see fit and lead them to Treacher’s Gorge. Have them scour the area. If Phazarus and his pathetic companions haven’t gotten there yet, have them wait on the eastern slope until Phazarus’ group crosses. Do not allow them to let the wizard slip back toward the Gulch. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, m’lord. I will take his staff myself.”

  “No, Surgat. I want you to get the minions to the mountain path so that they don’t get lost. Once they are on their way to Treacher’s Gorge, I want you back here. You and I have a date with destiny.”

  Surgat didn’t question the ominous statement. “Yes, m’lord.” Without another word, he slipped through the door and disappeared down the spiral stairwell of the Wizard’s Spike.

  Helleden stared after him for a few moments, his mind coming to terms with what he’d read in another tome. He walked over to the table nearest the brass bowl and reread the obscure text mentioning the location of what might provide him with the very weapon he needed to rid himself of the tiresome wizards. A creature more powerful than the Sentinel. One that hadn’t shown its head in these parts for over four centuries. According to the runic text, this creature could be called forth if one were well-versed in the magical arts and knew where to perform the ritual laid out in the book.

  Without Barong and the Sentinel, his ability to control his expansive army of Under Realm minions and Kraidic warriors had become a growing concern. The troops were spread across the land. Should Karvus Kraken survive and decide he no longer wished to remain under his command, the sorcerer’s minions would be forced into a fight they would have trouble winning.

  To add to Helleden’s troubles after the Chamber of the Wise debacle, he feared the power the northern wizard may have drawn from the earth blood fount. If the wizard joined Phazarus, he would require something special to eliminate them and assume his role as the rightful ruler of the Great Kingdom.

  He walked to the western window and gazed at the black ridge of mountains lining the distant horizon. Toward the fishing village of Fishmonger Bay and the Summoning Stone.

  He wasn’t certain of his ability to control what he had in mind, but if he was successful, the world would have no choice but to bow down to him.

  Far below, a great fire flickered in the castle bailey. His master crafters were feeding vast amounts of metal into the conflagration, mixing it with the special potions he had concocted to forge a magically enhanced rope.

  He nodded. If all went well, tomorrow would mark the beginning of the end for those meddlesome wizards.

  Battle of the Gorge

  Olmar couldn’t believe his hammering heart hadn’t burst. They were several days out of the Crypt and he was positive his pulse had only just settled down. There was no way anyone, not even Larina, could drag him back there again.

  Olmar glanced around the crackling campfire, high upon one of The Spine’s countless peaks. Rook sat in conversation with Alhena. The old wizard had informed them they now travelled along the mountainside housing the western span of Treacher’s Gorge, saying they wouldn’t reach the crossing before midday tomorrow.

  He located Pollard sitting cross-legged against the trunk of a lofty pine. Sadyra sat in his lap facing him, her hands stroking his reddish-brown beard; the two of them much more open with their relationship since winning free of the Crypt.

  He envied Pollard. His own relationship with Larina wasn’t as obvious. He blamed himself. He’d never been with a woman before—had ne
ver kissed a girl romantically. He never thought he was good enough to be loved like that. He was big and dumb and ugly. That’s what people told him over and over and that was how he saw himself.

  Up until that wonderful day Larina had kissed him and snuggled close after he opened up to the group about his abusive past. The only girl he ever loved before Larina had been Gerrymander.

  He smiled. He missed his first love. Swallowing a growing lump in his throat, his eyes welled up. She was in good hands, but they weren’t his hands.

  Larina entered the fire’s glow. She’d been off relieving herself and returned with wood for the fire. She gave him an odd look. “What’s the matter with you?”

  He sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Och, tis nothin’ lassie. I’s just be missin’ ‘er?”

  Larina tossed the branches on the pile they had built and put her hands on her hips, her voice dangerous. “Her?”

  He smiled sadly. “Me ship.”

  “Ah, that termite infested death trap.”

  She must’ve seen his face drop, as her own softened. She held his chubby cheeks between cold palms and looked him in the eye, her nose touching his. “The love of your life will be fine; don’t you worry your fool head off. When this is over, I look forward to getting seasick with you.”

  Dimples lifted his cheeks under her touch. “Och lassie. Ain’t never been sick in me life. Least, not by the sea.”

  “Well, you can hold me over the railing then. I’m not much for sailing but I’ll be damned if I’ll let that pile of driftwood have you all to herself.” She kissed his forehead and strode away.

  He blushed, worried everyone else saw Larina kiss him, and then felt foolish. No one paid him any attention. Rook and Alhena carried on like nothing had happened, and Sadyra and Pollard were busy doing whatever couples did. He blushed thinking about what they might be talking about.

  Larina had disappeared again. That was odd. Where’d she gotten to?

  An owl hooted somewhere behind his left shoulder. He thought nothing of it. He tried to keep his eyes on the fire but Sadyra’s giggling and Pollard’s throaty laugh kept him peeking at the two as they kissed and fondled each other.