Soul Forge Saga Box Set

by Richard Stephens

  “The city appears deserted. Judging by the tracks, I’d say they went west.”

  Melody didn’t like the thought of that. The last they’d seen, the Gerrymander and whatever remained of the quest lay in that direction—including, if she dared to hope, Rook.

  She pushed her personal feelings aside and concentrated on what they faced right now. If Helleden had been through here, where was King Malcolm?

  A grim thought crossed her mind. She pushed it aside. She had to remain positive. She didn’t want to consider the ramifications Malcolm’s death would have on Silurian.

  Peering through the blasted remains of the northern gatehouse, the Wizard’s Spike rose into the sky. The fact that the mystical tower remained unscathed did little to appease her.

  She slid off the horse as soon as it stopped. “West?”

  “Toward Madrigail Bay,” Silurian rationalized from the saddle. “Helleden must’ve realized the Under Realm quest landed there.”

  Melody took a large breath. Could it be true? Silurian had explained what Seafarer had said many months ago—Silurian and Rook were vital to defeating the sorcerer. If Helleden set out west instead of south toward Gritian, there might be a real possibility Rook had survived. She thought she might faint.

  Silurian hadn’t missed the effect the words had on her. She caught him watching her, a slight smile on his face.

  Karvus gathered his reins and remounted. “Helleden’s army is much bigger than the signs here show. Are there other gates?”

  “Several, but only four accommodate horses,” Silurian responded.

  “Take me to them.”

  Melody accepted Silurian’s help to remount and they led Karvus through the ruined city.

  “There’s been activity here lately but the city appears deserted,” Karvus observed.

  Melody and Silurian stared at the shattered walls surrounding the keep in the distance. Castle Svelte and the capital had been such a happy place. Melody’s safe haven right up to the battle of Lugubrius and the day Phazarus abducted her.

  “There. You can see the claw marks of Helleden’s minions.” Karvus stopped his horse and pointed. “And those tracks are from my troops.”

  Melody swallowed her unease. A patch of soot running along the base of a burnt-out building clearly showed the footprints of bare feet tipped with claws mixed with sets of boot prints. As much as she wanted to believe it wasn’t true, the thought of Karvus being aligned with Helleden made her shiver. Perhaps Silurian was right to worry.

  The wind whistled eerily through the shattered buildings, whirling ash in small eddies along the base of their walls. By the time they reached the western gatehouse, Melody felt chilled to the bone. It had little to do with the temperature.

  Karvus dismounted and tethered his mount to the broken barbican. Kneeling down, he glanced down West Castle Road and nodded. “A host went that way recently.”

  Karvus remounted and followed them to the southern gatehouse and onto the eastern barbican. Melody and Silurian joined him on the well-beaten roadway.

  “A considerable army left through these gates some time ago. Weather obscures their passing, but a trained eye can perceive the marks. I’m guessing the bulk of Helleden’s army…And mine.” Karvus sounded disgusted. “How long ago is hard to say.”

  Melody caught Silurian’s narrow gaze and whispered, “Gritian.”

  She wanted to charge down Redfire Path but couldn’t help but wonder which direction Helleden had gone. It wouldn’t do to chase the main army if the sorcerer had ventured elsewhere. The quickest way to stop the invasion was to sever the head of the serpent.

  Silurian remounted. “Let’s check what’s left of the castle.”

  Riding through the littered streets, they were forced to approach the castle proper through what remained of its main gate. They tethered the horses to a blackened hitching post close to the viaduct crossing the foul-smelling moat and picked their way over the hazardous walkway.

  A burnt-out pyre, littered with countless bones and skulls, sent chills up her spine. A pile of rubble lay between the southern gatehouse and its fallen northern twin.

  Silurian climbed the mound and stopped at the top, staring open-mouthed at the remains of Castle Svelte, clearly fighting back tears.

  Melody and Karvus joined him. The pristine bulk of the Wizard’s Spike shot skyward as if resurrected from the ashes of the keep. All around the foreboding tower lay massive chunks of shattered stone. She held a hand to her mouth, struggling to breathe. Three recently severed heads were stuck upon pikes driven in the ground by the tower’s door.

  Castle Svelte, the seat of the Ivory Throne—the symbol of everything good in the world, lay pulverized before them. If she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she’d never have believed it possible. A sinking feeling seeped into her. How could they go up against someone possessing this much power? She cared less about the tears flowing unabashedly down her face.

  Karvus placed a hand on her shoulder. “Fear not, wizard. Helleden will answer for this.”

  She glanced at him. The scar inflicted to his cheek by Silurian’s dagger was barely visible. Her healing skills were perhaps better than she gave herself credit for. That simple reassurance gave her the strength she needed to keep on going.

  Karvus offered her a grim smile and followed Silurian down the other side.

  The spiral staircase lining the inside wall of the Wizard’s Spike went on forever. They had passed a balcony a while ago and yet the steps continued upward.

  Karvus’ heavy boot falls echoed loudest behind him and the regular cadence of Melody’s staff plonked rhythmically in the unnerving atmosphere of the dark stairwell as she brought up the rear. The Wizard’s Spike was notorious for the wizards who had inhabited it for centuries, performing their arcane rituals.

  Reaching the upper chamber, Silurian pushed open the heavy wooden door, his sword drawn, half expecting Helleden Misenthorpe to be waiting for them. The rusty hinges squealed, causing him to flinch.

  A large puddle of blood stained the flagstone floor just inside the doorway, appearing freshly spent.

  Karvus knelt and touched the puddle. He wiped his fingers on a block of stone acting as the door jamb, separating the heavy wooden entranceway from the rest of the windowed chamber. He stood and grunted, “Less than a week old.”

  The octagonal room appeared the same as it always did; full of parchment littered tables of varying sizes with a brass scrying bowl positioned on top of a pedestal in its centre. The eight-sided bowl, its south to southwest vertex dented, corresponded to the floor-to-ceiling windows encompassing the perimeter.

  Great tomes lay opened around the room. Even though she was out of breath from climbing the long stairwell, Melody spared no time going to the closest book and running a delicate finger along the text.

  Silurian doubted she was even aware of him or Karvus after that. He had no way of knowing the amount of information available to her in the grotto on Dragon’s Tooth, but as the current Wizard of the North, he was sure the upper chamber of the Wizard’s Spike presented her with a treasure-trove of sacred knowledge.

  Karvus paced the perimeter of the chamber, gazing out at the land. He paused along the western face and stared.

  Silurian went from table to table, not knowing what he was looking at, his thoughts elsewhere. He had harboured the fantasy of finding King Malcolm alive and safe, locked in this chamber. The king’s absence was disquieting.

  He joined Karvus at the window. Several hundred feet above the ground, the widespread devastation appeared even worse. The castle ruins were so severe that anyone caught inside when it fell was surely dead. He hoped the king had the foresight to…that was it!

  Silurian strode to the open door and paused, staring at his sister’s hunched form perusing a book big enough to mount a horse from. “The catacombs! Malcolm would’ve taken refuge below the castle. I’m sure of it.”

  Melody looked up, puzzled. “Huh?”

 
; Karvus stepped away from the window. “Lead the way.”

  Silurian answered his sister, “You stay here and see what you can find out. That stuff means nothing to me.” He glanced at Karvus.

  The emperor shook his head.

  It took the better part of the afternoon, but Silurian and Karvus finally came across the tunnel burrowed beneath the collapsed northern tower.

  Silurian remembered this entrance to the catacombs well. It led down from the larder behind the servant’s kitchen—hidden beneath a flagstone that was no longer there. He located the brand basket tucked beneath the floor and pulled out two of the remaining three brands. He lit them, handed one to Karvus, and slowly descended the stairs spiralling into the darkness below. A scent of something burning turned up his nostrils but he didn’t think much of it. The entire kingdom had been razed.

  Stepping off the bottom stair, Silurian peered into the gloom. On the edge of the torches’ light, a stone bridge spanned a narrow gap in the rock—a crevice said to have no bottom. He’d always meant to check out the truth of that rumour when he lived here, but never did. He’d spent many days helping in the kitchen as punishment for trying to sneak up the Wizard’s Spike amongst other mischiefs. It was said that not even the king had permission to climb higher than the central balcony without the resident wizard’s consent. Malcolm told him that wasn’t true but it kept the mystique surrounding the tower alive.

  To his credit, Karvus remained respectfully still until Silurian finished listening—to nothing. The catacombs were as silent as a tomb. Fitting, since the Svelte family lineage could be traced back over six hundred years in the crypts below the chancery.

  Other than Rook and Melody, he couldn’t think of another person he loved more than the king. Malcolm wasn’t just his sworn liege—he had become the brother Silurian never had.

  He swallowed his unease, fighting to keep the lump in his throat at bay. He didn’t know what he’d do if Malcolm lay beneath the rubble. His legs were weak just pondering the notion.

  Shoring up his resolve, he knew better than to let the fear of the unknown overwhelm him. He was no use to anyone if he allowed his wild imagination to run rampant. He’d fought hard to put his dark years behind him these last few months. He didn’t have time to slip back into an all-consuming mental breakdown. Zephyr didn’t have time.

  He crossed the bridge without looking down and led Karvus into the small cavern beyond. There were signs of many people being down here recently. He tried not to get excited, but who else could it have been?

  “Your king?” Karvus asked.

  Silurian nodded. Karvus’ intelligence and straight forward attitude continued to impress him. If only he could bring himself to trust the man.

  Kraidics were deemed unlawful barbarians by pretty well everyone he had ever spoken with on the matter. He smiled inwardly, imagining what those people would think of him now, leading the Kraidic Emperor, of all people, beneath the holiest house in Zephyr—and this, with the Kraidic army fighting alongside Helleden’s minions.

  He located a side passage with the light of his sputtering torch and led Karvus into a smoothly hewn tunnel lined with unlit sconces. He absently lit every third or fourth sconce as he passed, fearing his torch might not last to see them back out again. The lengthy corridor smelled strongly of burnt wood, acrid in the tight confines even before the first sconce took flame. Odd. They were below the castle, surrounded by stone.

  Karvus took in everything but remained quiet.

  Rounding a bend, they beheld an iron-strapped door hanging askew on its hinges, its surface battered and sliced by heavy weapons.

  Silurian flinched at the sound of Karvus’ battle-axe sliding free of its keepers. The big man pushed by him to inspect the door. Grunting, he leaned into the room beyond, looking this way and that before staring at Silurian with a somber look. “The work of my men, if I’m not mistaken. They were looking for something.”

  Silurian frowned as it dawned on him what lay beyond the broken door—the Vaults of Lore!

  He unsheathed his own weapon. There wasn’t a soul down here except for himself and Karvus, but the violation to the Castle Svelte angered him. He kicked the door out of the way and rushed into the vast, low cavern he knew to be lined with shelves crammed with ancient scrolls and priceless tomes.

  His jaw dropped and his sword tip clanged to the dusty marble floor. Blackened pages, skeletons of burnt scrolls, and invaluable tomes lay charred all over the floor, knee deep in places, or shrivelled on granite shelves cut into the walls.

  Horrified, he searched through the damage. As he inspected shelf after shelf of scorched knowledge a peculiar feeling flitting at the edge of his mind. An essence of something inherently evil.

  He turned to face the Kraidic emperor looking like he’d just seen a ghost.

  He had felt this particular presence once before—the time he and Melody had walked through Wizard’s Gibbet.

  Melody reread the ancient passage written in runes. The brittle tome lay open on the table closest to the scrying bowl. She heard the tower door banging open far below. Silurian and Karvus must be coming back up. They would be a while. She couldn’t imagine climbing those stairs again.

  She smiled at a fond memory. Her and Silurian, accompanied by the rapscallion Prince Malcolm, climbing those stairs on a daily basis. Sometimes to daydream from the central balcony and sometimes to test the ward’s the grumpy old wizard had set to warn him of such an incursion. Life had been enjoyable back then. Before Helleden came.

  Her smile faded. She stared hard at the ancient text, trying to make sense out of what she read. According to Phazarus, she demonstrated an astonishing grasp of the runic language, far superior to anyone living, and yet, she struggled with several runes in this book.

  Someone had read this tome recently. The only person she believed possessed that ability would be Helleden. If only she could decipher the meaning of the runes in question. What was the sorcerer searching for?

  One series of runes in particular gave her trouble. She couldn’t recall seeing them before. She tried to fathom their meaning by the context of the sentence: Invoking the Summoning Stone, a dark magic shall emerge. Heed this warning most severely: know what hell you seek to unleash. If you prove unworthy to control the…you will be consumed. Control the…what? She knew the runic words for magic, spell, and every other set of symbols pertaining to magic.

  “The summoning stone?” she said aloud. “Summoning stone? What is he planning on summoning?”

  She fleetingly registered the fact she should hear the clunking of Karvus’ boots, but didn’t want to lose the idea forming on the edge of her thoughts. She was so close to grasping the significance of the word eluding her.

  She inhaled heavily and exhaled a long cleansing breath. “Think, Mel, think.”

  She read the next line again and suddenly the meaning became crystal clear. Her eyes widened with comprehension. Her breath caught in her chest. If Helleden was successful, Zephyr was doomed.

  The chamber door squeaked on its hinges. She turned to warn Silurian about her terrifying discovery. “Sil, you won’t believe what—”

  Her words ended in a scream.

  Descending into Darkness

  Alhena sat back to enjoy the warmth of the flames. A large animal cooked upon a spit, partially eaten. Olmar lay quiet beside the fire, finally able to sleep after the trauma inflicted on his body. Alhena’s healing spell, however painful the administration had been, certainly eased Olmar’s pain. It had been a long day.

  Rook’s death had hit Alhena harder than most, but his belief that the fate of Zephyr hinged on the bowman’s survival made his death much more profound. If their group had any thought of confronting Helleden, Rook’s death had curtailed that plan. The only way he foresaw them having even the remotest chance of success was with Melody’s help.

  He swallowed hard. How could he tell her of Rook’s death? The news would crush her. He shook the thought from his mind. H
e had more immediate concerns to deal with.

  Larina sat protectively beside Olmar, conversing quietly with Sadyra while Pollard paced around, unable to settle. Sensing Pollard blamed himself for Rook’s death, Alhena gathered whatever strength he had left and went to speak with him.

  How Pollard hung onto that colossal sword of his throughout the evening and into the night amazed Alhena. The weapon looked like it weighed half as much as Sadyra.

  Pollard glared at his approach but he knew the man’s angst wasn’t directed at him.

  “Come on, big guy, you need to eat. Sadyra got us a nice goat. It will do you good.”

  Pollard made to step around him, but Alhena placed his free hand on Pollard’s forearm and held on. The look he received would have curdled many people’s blood but Alhena wasn’t an ordinary person.

  Pollard’s glare made him appear as if he meant to eat Alhena but the wizard didn’t shy away. “You are little use to us hungry and weak.”

  Pollard’s upper lip lifted in a snarl.

  Alhena braced himself for an angry retort but Pollard simply pulled his arm from Alhena’s bony fingers and made his way to the fire. He threw his sword to the ground and sat heavily in the dirt.

  Sadyra and Larina looked at each other and then to Alhena. It was out of character for Pollard to treat his weapon so. He was a man of strong values; respect for his equipment foremost amongst them. There hadn’t been a night that Pollard didn’t tend to his sword and dagger or check the harnesses and straps and belts holding his gear in place. Oft times before settling in for the night he could be seen polishing the heavy brass cuirass he wore with such pride—the chest armour had been his father’s and his grandfather’s before that.

  Sadyra started toward Pollard but Alhena shook his head at her. Sadyra nodded and turned away.

  Alhena reached down to retrieve Pollard’s sword, almost pulling his back out in the process.