The Soul Throne Chronicles - Book 1: Darkmind Awakened

by Chris Martineau



  Special thanks to:

  Sharon Lynne Martineau - for Tenji

  Raymond Martineau – for Bulwark

  Winnie McCord – for Longknife

  Christina Cassidy – for Skadi

  Rob Martin – for Leon

  Patricia Emmons – For Ynallyh

  Warren Lee Domenick – For Zorak of the North Wind

  And the late E. Gary Gygax – for over 30 years, and two generations, of hours with family and friends that we will remember and treasure all our lives.

 

  The Soul Throne Chronicles

  Book I

  Darkmind Awakened

  Chapter 1

  Excerpt from:

  The Tome of the Draconic Slumber

  I am Brother Syrin, one of the last of an ancient order called the Brotherhood of Sleep. It was our task to protect the living from the dark hunger of the Toal – spirits of the bearers of Suchara. When the Dark Sword was destroyed, the Toal were released to their final rest, and our order was disbanded. As far as I know, I am the last.

  But now there is another shadow rising. An unforeseen darkness. As I drank the final draught of slumber, and for the last time, wandered the infinite beauty of the astral plane, I beheld the great Throne of Souls, and upon it sat Asmodeus, Lord of shadow and flame. His black trident dripped with the poison of deception, and his horned visage was triumphant but troubled as his followers basked in a languid orgy of venom and fire at his feet. I heard them whispering of the slumbering Bahamut, and their fear of his awakening.

  His counselors, 3 ashen black Tanari warned that should the 6 Figurines of Wondrous power ever be returned to their temple seats, that the great Platinum Dragon would awaken and re-claim the Soul Throne.

  The Lord Asmodeus commissioned his Tanari to ally with the death god Nerull and his followers and wrest the figurines from their temples, cast down the mighty temple guardians, and bestow the six figurines unto the most powerful guardians on the Prime Material Plane. For many generations now, the figurines have passed from bearer to bearer, and much good and evil have been wrought by their bearers with the figurine’s powers, and their guardians guard them jealously

  But now the dragons no longer roam the skies, and in their absence a dark power rises to challenge Asmodeus. The children of death, and their father Nerull – last of Suchara’s generals, now seek control of the Throne and with it, dominion over the celestial dragons that guard the gates of the outer planes.

  Both covet the power of the throne, and their distrust of each other is equaled only by their fear the return of the figurines to their temple Altars. The re-awakening of the Platinum Dragon would mean the return of a just power that even their combined might could not withstand.

  Like the Brotherhood of Sleep, the Temple Guardians were scorned, scattered and have all fallen and vanished at the hands of the Asmodeus, Nerull and their minions. The last, Brother Castius stood alone against a legion of Nerull’s acolytes and fell at the hands of lesser men. I fear now that there are none now who remain.

  Solias gazed thoughtfully east out of the tall, deep set window of thick pained glass, at the river far below. It sparkled like a ribbon of blue silver beyond the battlements of the grey stone courtyard. The early morning winter sun danced like diamonds and fire on the deep turquoise waters. It filtered pale gold through the deep green boughs of the forest on the far shore. The cup of herbal tea was warm and refreshingly fragrant in her hands. A small fire crackled brightly in the hearth of elegantly scrolled white marble, veined with silver, beside the window. From her vantage point in the highest spire of the Silver Rose Citadel, she could hear the shouts and ringing metal as her warrior priests and paladins drilled and trained in the garden courtyards below her. Near her desk of heavy wood and marble, a suit of angelic crafted mithrill plate armor. inlaid with moon opal wings, reflected the fire; but seemed to burn with its own inner glow.

  The winter had been unusually harsh, and the spring long in coming. It was nearly planting season, but chunks of thin ice still clung to the stony shore of the river and patches of snow still rested in the shaded parts of the gardens, and the grasses outside the high mammoth walls. Her mind swirled with thoughts of managing low cellar stores, pleas for aid and healing from the lands about, and the whispers of discontent from her advisors when (despite their counsel) she ordered the lowering of taxes on the local villages to aid them through the winter. A soft knock on the door interrupted her reverie.

  “Enter,” she called quietly.

  The heavy, iron reinforced oaken door to her bedchamber swung open softly on well oiled hinges. Jalal, a broad shouldered salt and pepper haired priest in well polished but battle worn steel armor, stepped inside with a courteous bow. A look of concern and distaste darkened his wise, tattooed face.

  “Yes?” She inquired.

  “Your grace,” he met her gaze. “There is an… emissary in the diplomatic parlor.”

  “You don’t like him?” She smiled reassuringly. Jalal was an old and trusted friend. She felt disquieted by the air of doubt and trepidation in the mighty warrior priest. Jalal had faced down countless foes and brought them low with his mighty hammer and the fierce holy fires of Heroneis.

  “Her,” he apologized. “She is here under diplomatic heraldry,” he continued quickly. “And she observed all the proper courtesies. But even so…”

  “Another?” Solias arched an eyebrow. “That’s two women emissaries in as many days,” she mused thoughtfully. Jalal nodded in agreement. A half smile emerged beneath his thick black mustache.

  “This one isn’t as tall,” he noted.

  “Jalal,” Solias laid a comforting hand on his armored shoulder. “I trust your judgment. What do I need to know?”

  “She’[s a Deathknight,” he answered. “And she bears the symbol of Nerull.”

  Solias’ voice hardened with surprise and concern. “How did she make it passed the gate guards? Who let such a creature into the citadel proper?”

  “We don’t know,” he admitted. “She just… appeared there. She has done no harm, but she is rather insistent on seeing you. And she is well,” he paused, searching for words, “rather compelling.”

  “Very well,” the high priestess breathed with a decisive nod. “I shall attend to her momentarily. Did she give a name?”

  “She did,” Jalal told her. “She calls herself, Maelstrom.”

  The wide stairway and elegantly carved banister of silver veined white marble, swept majestically down from the citadel spire into the grand entry foyer. Solias strode quickly beneath the towering, crenulated pillars of masterfully worked stone that rose gracefully from the polished flagstone floors to the domed ceiling high above. Pale sunlight shone down from tall glass windows in bright, unbroken beams. It sparkled off the splashing fountains and glowed in the lush geometrically arranged gardens of roses and flowering trees filling the grand foyer.

  Waiting in a comfortable antechamber, furnished in polished wooden and leather furniture, absently admiring the woven silk tapestries decorating the walls - was a forbidding figure. She stood nearly six feet tall. Her raven hair tumbled over a demonically forged suit of heavy, but intricately articulated, form fitting hellforged plate mail.

  She was a coldly beautiful woman with pale skin and radiant cobalt eyes. Deadly, razor sharp spikes covered her armor and gauntlets. A massive, viciously curved great sword was strapped across her back. Emblazoned in moon opal filigree on her breast plate, and woven into her flowing black silk cloak, was the fanged skull visage of Nerull – God of Death.


  “Good morning, your grace,” Maelstrom greeted her politely. She bowed with sincere respect. “I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

  “Welcome to the Silver Rose Citadel,” Solias returned with equal formality. “What is your business here?”

  Maelstrom smiled. “Thank you for not asking how I got in.”

  “Would you have told me if I had?” Solias inquired carefully.

  “No.”

  “Then if you come in peace,” Solias told her. “Abide in safety and take comfort here while you visit.”

  “I come to offer terms of truce,” Maelstrom told her.

  “I didn’t realize we were at war,” Solias returned soberly. The high priestess unconsciously found comfort fumbling behind her back with the plain iron band about the middle finger of her right hand. Upon command, the ring would instantly transform into a great two handed battle hammer, brimming with the holy energies of her war god patron. The Fist of Heroneis was an artifact of fearsome might. Solias found its presence reassuring in the company of a being which had (apparently) simply walked passed her guards, and through one of the mightiest and most well defended, and powerfully warded fortresses in all the flaness.

  “We are not. Nor do I wish to be,” Maelstrom replied carefully. Solias found the Deathknight’s sincere politeness oddly disquieting. Deathknights were renowned for their wanton cruelty and capriciousness as much as for their deadly might. But there was an air of politeness about Maelstrom, that the high priestess had not expected.

  “I come at the behest of my master, Lord Kyshon.”

  Solias inhaled deeply. Kyshon was known to her. Kyshon was once on the council of the Society of the Seven. The society was the ruling body of the all the mages of the flaness. It consisted of a council of two black robed conjurers (summoners and necromancers), two grey robed Thaumaturgists (academics, seers, researchers and advisers) two white robed evokers (shapers of mana and elemental energies). The council was overseen by one High Magistrate, currently an ancient grey elf of legendary power called Zorak of the North Wind. Kyshon had been advanced to the rank of Senior Black Robe after his predecessor; Naraxis defected. Unbeknownst to the other council members, Kyshon (in a bid to increase his power) secretly made a pact with the Death God Nerull. In exchange for his immortal soul, Kyshon became the thrall of the Death God. Kyshon consummated the pact by murdering the Junior White Robe of the council, Rylinn Fairystorm. The blood pact for his soul sealed, Kyshon was granted the ability to wield powerful divine magic in addition to his considerable abilities with the arcane arts. When Zorak and the Society learned of his treason, they banished Kyshon. But even with Zorak’s might they were unable to vanquish him. Kyshon disappeared from sight years ago. Many assumed he had left the world altogether, and descended to the lower planes to sit at the side of is Patron, Nerull.

  “You keep dangerous alliances,” Solias told her.

  “I am a Death Knight,” Maelstrom countered frankly. “But Lord Kyshon is a creature of,” she hesitated, “uncommon temperance.”

  Solias raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “He seeks power, yes,” the Deathknight continued. “But he seeks a power balanced by alliance and mutual gain.”

  “You will forgive me my skepticism,” Solias shifted uncomfortably.

  “It is warranted,” the Deathknight agreed. “But not necessary. Lord Kyshon has allied with the Lord and forces of your counterparts at of the Blackthorn Citadel. They have, by merely acknowledging his sovereignty, and agreeing to his tribute, remained intact. Their beliefs and worship remain unchanged, and they are now both enriched and strengthened under his banner. He now offers you the same. Only acknowledge his sovereignty. Keep your banners, but fly them beside his and you shall continue just as you are now… Uninterrupted.”

  Solias exchanged a short but troubled glance with Jalal.

  “And if we don’t?” Jalal wanted to know.

  “Please, your grace,” Maelstrom requested with polite candor. “This citadel and your order have been a beacon of hope and strength for centuries. I implore you not to take that course. The world would be a better place if you and your followers could continue as you are. All my master asks is a chalice of water from your well, a bowl of earth from your cemetery, and that you fly his banner atop your spire beside yours. Just swear to make the strength of your forces available to him should he call upon you.”

  Solias met the Death knight’s gaze evenly, and remained silent.

  “I see,” Maelstrom acquiesced, disappointedly. “I am grateful for your candor and honored by your hospitality. You have until nightfall should you change your mind.” The Deathknight bowed ceremoniously.

  Then she was gone.

  As the high priestess turned to her most trusted advisor, they heard the great silver warning bells of the citadel watchtowers began to toll along the walls outside - rich, clear and deep, after centuries of silence.

  Solias and Jalal exchanged glances then sprinted for the narrow staircase at the rear of the grand foyer. Circling in tight spirals, the smooth steps rose precipitously upward. They finally emerged out of a carved stone archway onto the wide battlemented roof of the northern archer’s tower. The breathtaking view of the rolling wooded hills, grassy fields and winding silver river fell away in every direction from the base of the tall promontory of rock upon which the citadel rested. The massive portcullis thundered shut. The draw bridge spanning the great ravine in front of the south gate, rose up to meet and reinforce the closing titanic gates of steel and stone. Solias and Jalal caught their breaths.

  The warrior priests and guardian crusaders of the citadel were legendary for their divine power, courage and skill. They numbered nearly a thousand shields.

  But surrounding the base of the plateau on every side, obscured in an ocean of grey mist, were tens of thousands of black armored warriors, colossal siege engines, black tents, and camp fires. They had appeared suddenly, without warning. Never in her memory, could the High Priestess recall a more vast or overwhelming army.

  “Where did they come from?” Solias demanded from the lookout – a young chestnut haired cavalier in polished chain mail and a white tunic bearing the symbol of the rose, who wore a great longbow across his back.

  “From nowhere, your grace,” he explained hurriedly. The mist filled the valley over the course of mere minutes and then they were there. Like, like…”

  “Like hell spat them out,” Jalal finished.

  “Yes, sir,” The lookout nodded.

  “Your grace?” Jalal turned toward the high priestess. “What is you will?”

  “Well,” Solias surveyed the vast armada below them. “She gave us till nightfall, did she not?”

  “That she did,” Jalal nodded.

  Solias mused slowly, “Let us give our descendents something to sing about for a thousand years, and Heroneis reason to welcome us to his table at the great feast.”

  Jalal smiled. His booted heels came together with a clank of polished steel, and his shoulders straightened as his gauntleted fist struck his chest in salute. “I’ll prepare your armor.”

  “No,” she smiled. “You rally the reliquary guardian and the captains. I’ll meet you above the gate shortly. How long will it take to load the trebuchets with the hellfire?”

  “Within the hour,” He reassured her.

  “Do better,” She instructed. He nodded, and departed.

  Solias closed her eyes. She whispered a sacred mantra, and the tower rooftop suddenly became the interior of her bed chamber. She walked to the wooden mannequin in the corner and began removing her armor. Piece by piece, she quickly strapped it to her body. The angelic metal was weightless. She moved in it as freely as if she wore her most comfortable riding tunic and leggings.

  As she pulled the polished winged great helm over her head, she whispered the name of her patron and the ring on her finger was now a great iron and silver battle hammer, forged of indes
tructible alien beauty and ferocity by the angelic smith Archeon. It bristled with divine energy, and vibrated with power and anticipation of righteous battle to come.

  There was a soft rapping noise on the window glass. Perched on the window sill outside was a large, snowy white owl with piercing sapphire eyes. Solias smiled, and opened the window, greeting the owl. “Shantari, my old friend.” The owl tilted its head and hooted softly in reply.

  “I have an errand for you.” The high priestess removed a thick, worn leather pouch from beneath her polished breast plate. The owl hooted once more.

  “Take this to Urseus in Eru Tovar. You remember him?” The owl trilled musically in recognition of the name. Her taloned feet scratched on the stone as she hopped inside. Solias fastened the pouch securely to the owl’s great taloned leg. The owl hooted once more, then silently took wing north west into the gloaming winter sky. Solias smiled. “Farewell my old friends.”

  Then, with a whispered word, Solias was standing on the battlemented catwalk above the southern gate, overlooking the gorge in front of the raised drawbridge and the gate towers on the far side.

  “I’ll never get used to you doing that,” Jalal remarked. He was usually able, for the most part, to conceal his start at Solias’ sudden appearances.

  “When we are done here,” Solias told him with a smile, “I shall teach you how to do it yourself.”

  Jalal returned her smile fondly. “I’m going to hold you to that, your grace.”

  The black armored Deathknight rode up to the far edge of the ravine between the gate towers on the opposite side of the gorge, atop a great ebony scaled chimera. The creature stood over 8’ off the ground at the shoulder. The great beast was armored in of thick, polished black steel. It reared to a stop, clawing at the rich, stony earth beneath its taloned feet. The fanged jaws of its three heads; a bull, a serpent, and a crocodile, dripped with venom and their eyes glowed balefully with red corpselight.

  “Solias of Heroneis,” Maelstrom’s voice thundered like a ocean storm against the cliffs. “My Lord Kyshon comes seeking alliance. As a token of friendship - he asks only a chalice of water and a bowl of earth. Then when his banner waves beside yours beneath the moon – we will leave here in friendship. No blood need be spilled here today.”

  Solias stepped forward, her silver booted feet leaving the ground. She rose into the air as wings of burning pearl and silver formed behind her, filling the mist and shadow of the gathering dusk with a blinding holy light. The obsidian mount beneath the deathknight averted its gazes. The armada of Kyshon faltered backward momentarily, shielding their eyes.

  “Hear me well, creature of the dark,” the voice of the high priestess filled the chasm beyond her gates like a freezing blizzard. “There is no alliance here for your lord and master. The only thing awaiting you here is justice and defeat.” She leveled the burnished head of her angelic battle hammer. A scintillating bolt of white and silver plasma arced forth. It spanned the chasm in an instant, and slammed full force into the chest of the armored monstrosity beneath Maelstrom’s saddle. The blast set the gigantic creature sprawling backward. It screamed in agony as the holy light ripped through its demonic bulk. Spewing seared blood and venom from all its jaws; the chimera collapsed in an agonized spasm, seizing violently, and then lay still. The red corpselight faded and disappeared from its eyes. The armada of Kyshon roared in fear and fury as Maelstrom rose with sinister elegance from the wreckage of her mount.

  “So be it,” the deathknight sighed.

  With a wave of her hand, a bridge of dark stone erupted from the chasm beneath her feet. It snaked its way across the divide like a great flat stone serpent, crawling toward the gate. The dark armada charged forward across the bridge, even before it reached the gates on the other side.

  “Are they fools?” Jalal demanded as the hundreds of black armored warriors surged forward slowly across the bridge toward the securely closed gates of the citadel. Solias shook her head negatively. A slow smile of respect and determination played across her lips, as she saw the group of black robed necromantic mages form a summoning circle around their deathknight General.

  “Ready the hellfire,” Solias advised softly.

  “Ready the hellfire!” Shouted Jalal.

  The arcane chanting of the necromancers rose up on the wind. A blast of bluish flame erupted at the head of the charging army. The flames receded almost instantly as the conjured bridge met the gate side of the ravine. In their place, stood a titanic elemental of stone. The ground shuddered as its massive legs struck the conjured earthen bridge. The elemental’s mammoth, jagged fists struck the gates like colossal battering rams. The walls of the citadel shook. The gates shuddered and began to crack and splinter but held.

  “Artillerymen!” Shouted Jalal. “Target the bridge at the far end of the ravine!” The walls trembled again, this time with the sound of splitting stone and the groan of iron.

  “Release!” shouted the citadel steward. A dozen, huge flaming orbs hurtled across the chasm, flung with expert precision from the pendulous arms of the great trebuchets mounted atop the citadel’s gate and wall towers. They smashed spectacularly among the screaming, dying hordes on the far side of the ravine. They burned fiercely, with no sign of subsiding, and blocked the entrance to the far side of the bridge.

  The titan’s stone fists met the gates again, splintering wood, splitting stone, and rending iron. The high priestess took to wing, arcing down from the battlemented walls. She streaked down like a comet, blazing with iridescent light. The fist of Heroneis before her, she lanced into great stone elemental. The battle hammer struck like lightning. The elemental shuddered violently as shards of stone flew in every direction. Despite its injury, the colossus ignored the assault and continued pummeling the failing gates.

  “Fight me, demon!” Solias commanded. Her wings held her aloft as she slammed her angelic weapon repeatedly into the mindless juggernaut. Chunks of stone splintered and flew from its towering frame.

  The gates finally caved in, just as the high priestess gave a final roar of fury and her strike sent what remained of the torn elemental plummeting into the mists of the ravine. The tumbling remains of the gate disappeared just behind it, lost in the deepening.

  Solias rose into the air above the sorcerous bridge, shining like a great opal moon. Maelstrom strode confidently and unharmed through the raging hellfire. An icy blizzard swirled about the deathknight. It radiated outward like an ever widening tornado of frost and howling wind, beating back and finally quenching the hellfire that burned among the seared and charred corpses of her black armored Shadowblade minions.

  “Ward the gate!” Shouted Jalal. “Archers, target the far end of the bridge!” The black armored Shadowblades marched forward across the bridge with the deathknight at their forefront. A brigade of citadel spearmen, followed closely by greatsword wielding warriors. All were clad in shining polished armor and girded in blue and white with the silver and red rose crest of the citadel. They poured out from the fallen gates onto the bridge to meet the horde.

  Leading the charge was the Reliquary Guardian, the citadel’s most dangerous and highly trained warrior. Her deep scarlet cloak swirled about her ebony and gold plate armor. A tall spear of burnished silver, coursing with arcane fire, swirled deftly before her. She strode forward defiantly and without hesitation toward the deathknight. Her spear joined with the massive, brutal greatsword in a blinding dance of sparks, colliding energies, and ringing metal.

  The two forces blended together, clashing like the headwaters of two great rivers meeting one another in a stony delta. A rushing torrent of ringing metal, defiant shouts and agonized screams filled the valley. The gate guard held its ground as wave upon wave of Shadowblade raiders forced their way onto the bridge, only to be repelled and sent plummeting into the chasm. The reliquary guardian, battered and exhausted lost none of her footing as she warded off the lethal blows of
Maelstrom’s massive blade.

  The warriors of the citadel and their reliquary guardian were periodically bathed in the luminous glow emanating from their winged high priestess above them. Their wounds healed, and they grew refreshed each time the light touched them. But the hordes of Kyshon were vast, and even the high priestess’s might was not infinite. Her bursts of healing light began to shine less and less. Then, one by one, her warriors faltered and began to fall into the chasm.

  Jalal’s great long bow sang until its arrows were spent, and the supply of deadly feathered shafts being fetched for him was exhausted. Dozens fell to his deadly aim, and thousands to his battalion of wall archers. Her divine energy nearly spent, the high priestess began her descent to join her warriors on the bridge when she heard Jalal’s warning cry.

  “The courtyard!”

  With a mighty rush of her armor’s angelic wings, she soared into the air, and gazed into the stately garden courtyards of her citadel. Standing alone beneath the moon, surrounded by a massacre of fallen citadel guardsmen, a tall skeletal figure in darkly luminous hellforged plate armor and a cloak that flowed like living shadow. He leaned on a tall, twisted staff of alien black metal topped with a fanged skull.

  Scores of arrows, spears and javelins rained down on him from the walls on all sides. But none of them ever found their mark. The figure raised his hand and clenched his fist. Jalal fell to his knees with a cry. He clutched futilely at his chest, coughing gouts of blood.

  A voice filled the moonlit courtyard, and everything seemed to go dark and still. “Give me my tribute and I shall leave you in peace.”

  A furious light filled the high priestess’s eyes. She streaked down toward the dark abomination. The Fist of Heroneis shone before her. The hammer struck the ground as she did. A deep deafening clap of thunder filled the courtyard and the ground shuddered. A radiant wave of divine power swept outward from the hammer strike. It engulfed the wraithlike figure of Kyshon, sending him reeling backward. He lost his footing and stumbled. A massive white bolt of scintillating holy power struck his staggered form. An agonized, hissing scream tore from his lips. As he struggled to his feet, Solias was upon him, smashing her massive battle hammer into his chest throwing him backward off of his feet again. He collided with a great marble statue. Kyshon was barely able to bring up his staff in time to deflect the hammer blow coming down upon his head. But despite it not connecting, a blast of holy force from the hammer’s core seared through the necromancer lord and he howled in rage and agony.

  A bolt of black radiance lanced forth from Kyshon’s fist and blasted the high priestess. She shuddered as an icy, life stealing cold racked her body and brought her to her knees. Kyshon rose to his feet and brought his staff to bear. A sickening blue corpselight flared in the crystal eyes of the skull atop it. A wave of black light arced through the courtyard engulfing the high priestess. It froze her to the marrow, sickening her heart, and draining the strength from her limbs. As she stumbled, a crackling blast of holy energy shot forth from her outstretched hand. It struck her dark adversary, tearing his feet out from under him. His staff clattered to the ground as his form crumpled and lay still. A howling shriek of rage and pain from Kyshon’s Deathknight General ripped through the night air like a crack of thunder.

  The black armored horde began to falter and fall back – confused and uncertain. The red cloaked guardian of the reliquary pressed forward with renewed vigor. Solias looked up to the wall at the fallen form Jalal, the citadel steward. He seemed lost and small in the moonlight and shadow. Solias staggered to her feet. Racked with exhaustion and pain, she made her way toward the stone stairs in the high walls leading up to the battlements above the gate.

  It was, after decades of friendship, time to bid her friend farewell; until they met again at the great feast.

  The pain in her heart seemed overwhelming. She crossed the courtyard but her legs grew steadily weaker beneath her. She realized suddenly that not only was she moving the wrong way, (away from stairs and backward across the courtyard) but that before her she saw her own body crumple to the ground. She was being drawn away from herself, as though in a nightmare.

  She turned to see the shadowy figure of Kyshon standing before her as her spirit was drawn into a radiant chunk of uncut amethyst held in Kyshon’s outstretched hand. It burned with disconcerting lavender fire. The jewel grew larger as her disembodied spirit flew helplessly toward it. The terrifying, arcane incantation of her adversary filled her ears. Then, the crystalline lattice of her soul’s prison became infinite. Her last thought was of a snowy white owl flying away into the gloaming of a winter sunset, a worn leather pouch tied to its leg, and the sound of her father’s voice singing her favorite lullaby, to comfort her when she woke from a nightmare.

  She remembered no more.