Soul Forge Saga Box Set

by Richard Stephens

  When the forest darkened with evening shadow, Alhena located a small clearing off the path, edged by a babbling brook.

  Silurian limped in after him and dropped his shoulder pack.

  “We should gather wood,” Alhena suggested, but his suffering companion simply unrolled his bedding, and slid beneath it. The half-day’s journey had exacted its toll.

  Reflecting on the state he had found Silurian in, Alhena was amazed Silurian had made it this far. He might yet prove himself someone to be reckoned with if he hadn’t just curled up to die.

  Settling against a large rock, Alhena mulled over the events of the last few days as a slight drizzle fell, forcing him into his bedroll for the night.

  Silurian stirred violently twice during the night, waking suddenly with a yelp and harsh breathing, scaring Alhena half to death.

  In the morning, Alhena built a fire to dry out his damp cloak and provide them with a hot breakfast. Stirring the contents of a shallow pot, he watched Silurian yawn awake. He bowed his head in deference to the warrior. “Good morning to you, Sir Silurian.”

  Silurian grunted. “Don’t bob your head at me. I’m no king.”

  “Forgive me, Sire. Should my formalities offend you, I shall cease them forthwith.”

  They ate a hot meal of cooked elderberries, crushed in a paste and chased it down with a mug of an exotic root juice, all of which Alhena provided.

  Silurian took one sip of the root juice, gave the cup a look of disgust, and tossed the contents into the fire, choosing instead, a bottle of homemade liquor he pulled from his pack.

  Alhena glared at him. His rations were proportioned to get him back to Gritian. On horseback.

  Silurian never lifted his glare from the wooden bowl, grumbling from time to time at the meagre fare.

  Before Alhena had cleaned the dishes and packed his bedroll, Silurian left the clearing without him. Alhena threw his pack over a shoulder and hurried after the impetuous man.

  The day promised easy travelling. By mid-morning the forest gave way to an expanse of golden grass that stretched north toward a chain of mountains rising purplish-black across the horizon. The Undying Wall.

  Alhena paused to stare vacantly at the grassland to the west. His throat constricted and a tear threatened to escape his left eye.

  Silurian gave him a curious look.

  Swallowing hard, he snapped out of his momentary melancholy. Without a word, he strode into the grassland trench that marked Redfire’s passing.

  The joyous cacophony of birdsong in the forest gave way to the annoying drone of biting insects. Clouds of gnats were drawn to their faces while grasshoppers and crickets scattered into the heather at their approach.

  As the day drew on, Alhena struggled to keep walking through the insufferable, mid-afternoon heat. Being exposed upon the grassland provided them little reprieve from the scorching sun. He pushed on, however, because the Chamber had demanded his speedy return.

  He was reluctant to look back lest he discover that Silurian had collapsed, but the cadenced scuff of the man’s leather boots, and the occasional slosh of liquid as Silurian consumed his liquor, provided proof of his continued existence.

  “There aren’t any bloody rivers near this forsaken path,” Silurian commented during the afternoon. “No wonder there’s no bloody trees.” He took a long look at an empty liquor bottle clutched in his hands and pitched it into the tall grasses. The bottle thudded to the ground and rustled briefly before the sound of it breaking announced its final resting place. He pulled the stopper from his waterskin and swallowed deeply. “You picked a fine time to lose your mount.”

  Alhena shot him a pained look and called a halt to their slow march.

  Neither man spoke while they ate. Alhena drank sparingly from his waterskin, while Silurian quaffed the contents of another liquor bottle.

  Alhena shook his head. That’s all the realm needs. An out of shape, middle-aged sot who hasn’t seen battle in years. Using his staff to assist him, he stood. “We should put a few more leagues behind us before nightfall.”

  He left Silurian staring at the bottle between his knees.

  Trudging along behind Alhena, Silurian thought about all the predatory animals that might be lurking about, hidden within the tall grass. Boars, wildcats, snakes, and worse. He scanned the undulating wall, searching for telltale signs of movement. Besides palm-sized dragonflies flitting about, and the ever-present cloud of gnats, nothing moved.

  He clenched and unclenched the leather hilt of his old practice blade. Other than the tall stick Alhena carried, the messenger appeared to possess no other weapon. Fat lot of good he was going to be in a fight. Unless he was a wizard.

  In the waning sunlight, Alhena led them off the path. Picking a spot, he trampled a clearing to use for the night.

  Supper consisted of dried bread and salted meat, that again, Alhena provided.

  Silurian drank himself into a stupor and passed-out beneath his bedroll.

  The next morning dawned warmer than the last. Alhena ate a cold breakfast of nuts and fruits while Silurian drank half a bottle of spirits. Alhena offered to share his meagre fare, but Silurian merely snarled at him.

  Disgusted with the way he continually treated Alhena, but too proud to apologize, Silurian kept his eyes on the ground at his feet while Alhena stowed his gear and waded through the tall grass to rejoin the path.

  It was some time before he joined Alhena patiently waiting for him down the trail.

  They plodded along in silence until the sun rose above the wall of grass, heralding another day of intense heat.

  Sweat fell steadily from Silurian’s face, due in no small part to his alcohol consumption. His mind felt bleary and his leg muscles screamed. The fact that the Undying Wall didn’t seem any closer today did little to alleviate his weary soul.

  At one point, he said, “Hey, messenger.”

  Alhena stopped.

  “What makes you so brave?”

  Alhena frowned, jabbed his staff into the baked earth and started forward again. “I do not know. I am not, really. Why do you ask?”

  Silurian matched his pace. “Evil things flourish during times of trouble. Wars draw out the scum. Cutthroats, thieves, and their ilk. They crawl out from beneath the rocks. Roadways are unsafe.”

  Alhena offered no response.

  “Why did the Gritian council send a defenseless old man like you? Why not an armed escort? If the need is dire, why just send you?” He stared at the staff. “Unless you are a wizard.”

  Alhena stopped. His milky eyes stared back. Silurian couldn’t tell what emotion was behind them.

  Alhena shrugged out of his rucksack and placed it between them. Unlashing the sack’s leather thongs, he reached into the bulky bag and withdrew two bundles wrapped in rags. Within the rags rested two sets of four, five-inch steel spikes, each set anchored to a leather strap.

  Silurian’s eyebrows knitted. “What in hell’s name are those?”

  Alhena lashed the spikes to his hands. Eight deadly shanks extended from his knuckles. “I call them knucklettes.”

  “Knucklettes?”

  “Aye. A weapon I discovered north of the Kraidic Empire.

  “North of the Kraidic Empire? There’s nothing but snow up there.”

  “True, but the people that live in the harsh climate have found ways to adapt.”

  Silurian wasn’t impressed.

  “You see, I am not as helpless as you think.” Alhena flexed his hands before slipping out of the knucklettes and repacking them. Slinging the pack over his shoulder, he continued walking.

  “Humph,” Silurian managed. A fat lot of good they were going to be in a sword fight, he thought, but he wished Alhena had kept them on. If they were attacked, he would spend more time defending the old fool while he donned his weapons, than he did nullifying the threat.

  The afternoon drew on. Mountainous clouds sailed lazily across the sky, casting them in appreciated shadow for brief periods of ti
me.

  Silurian’s sword hand twitched. His ever-searching eyes darted all around.

  “Do you think we are in danger, Sire? Out here?” Alhena asked, his gaze directed at Silurian’s hand.

  Silurian grunted. “I’m always prepared. It keeps me alive.”

  Alhena faced him squarely with those damned, haunting eyes. “Hmm. Surely, I have outlived my welcome in this world, but still, here I am. Yet, I am not on end—”

  “I’m not on end, damn it. If you wish to remain of this world, you’d be better served wearing your weapons. Or do you just plan on swinging that stick around?”

  Alhena didn’t dignify the question with an answer. Instead, he said, “My stomach tells me it is time to eat.”

  After a brief stop they set off into the sunset; the Undying Wall, awash in evening sunshine, still a full walking day away.

  As the sun lost its grip upon the land, Alhena trampled down another camp away from Redfire Path. They ate sparingly, both men cognizant of the fact that their diminishing supplies wouldn’t see them all the way to Gritian.

  The next day dawned hotter than the last. The looming wall of mountains, iron grey in the morning sunlight, appeared closer this morning than they had last night. Fluffy, white clouds cast drifting shadows across the lofty heights.

  Alhena stopped to strap on his knucklettes as they closed on the small foothills at the base of the Undying Wall.

  Silurian unsheathed his sword. “What is it?”

  “Simmer yourself, Sire,” Alhena laughed.

  Silurian spun about, searching for things unseen.

  “We are a few hours from the pass. There has been much unrest within the mountains of late. I exercise caution, is all.”

  Silurian harrumphed. He lowered his blade and stormed ahead. “It’s about time you took our safety seriously.”

  Alhena started after him. “You needn’t worry about me.”

  Silurian grunted, “See to it that you live long enough to get me back to Gritian.”

  Alhena caught up to him. “I have outlasted many worthy adversaries by surrounding myself with company such as yourself. I believe I shall reach Gritian once more before I expire.”

  Silurian didn’t know what to say to that. He stopped and sheathed his sword. Shrugging out of his rucksack, he dropped it to the ground and rummaged through the worn leather bag. Locating what he sought, he withdrew a bundle of oily rags and caringly pulled aside the blackened cloth. Buried within the beggarly rags rested an exquisitely crafted dagger. Tiny gems were inset along gilded ribbons adorning the blade.

  Alhena gaped as Silurian nonchalantly flipped the gleaming dagger through the air, catching the ivory handle unerringly in his left hand.

  With no regard for the priceless relic, Silurian threw the dagger to the ground near his feet. The knife easily sliced into the hard earth, coming to a quivering rest halfway up its blade.

  Alhena winced. “Isn’t that...?”

  “Soulbiter.” Silurian rummaged deeper into the folded rags and withdrew a magnificently tooled sheath matching the dagger’s blade. He extracted Soulbiter from the ground, grit audibly grating along its length, and wiped it upon his thigh; his filthy pants barely registered the stain. Thrusting the dagger into its sheath, he jammed it into his belt, and walked off with a grunt. “It isn’t of much use, other than shaving.”

  Redfire Path ascended into the foothills, rising out from the grassy trench toward the forbidding granite grandeur looming before them. The Undying wall rose straight up from the sparse foothills, its lofty crags drifting in and out of view behind skulking clouds.

  As the approach into the mountain pass came into view, the jagged peaks were obstructed by the mountain’s bulk. The foothills terminated at the entrance to the pass; a trenchlike passage that split opposing cliff faces.

  Alhena stopped before entering the trench’s murky shadows. “We sleep here tonight. We should spend as little time in there as possible.”

  Silurian walked a couple of steps into the gloom, examining the trail. Remembering his youth and the many run-ins with a particular troll, he didn’t relish the prospect of entering the lower trench at night. He rejoined Alhena in the fading sunlight.

  Skirting a house-sized boulder on the eastern side of the path, they made camp.

  Silurian dropped his bedroll to the ground and plopped himself on top of it. He retrieved an unfinished bottle from his pack, pulled the cork with his teeth, and spat it on the ground. Swallowing several mouthfuls, he uncharacteristically held the bottle out for Alhena.

  Alhena had scrounged enough fuel to keep a fire burning. “No thank you, Sir. I don’t hold liquor well. Perhaps when we reach the Undying Pools.”

  Alhena prepared the fire and waited until it burned of its own accord before unrolling his bedroll close to the meagre flames. It wasn’t long before he dropped off to sleep.

  Silurian studied his travelling companion in the flickering light as he set to work sharpening Soulbiter with a well-used whetstone. He wondered how old Alhena actually was? Much older than himself, certainly, and he was pushing forty-five. Or was it forty-six? He shook his head. Who really cared?

  A sudden shiver tingled his skin. What would the Chamber think of him? From what Alhena had said, it might be better if he didn’t return to active duty. What if the king discovered he had blatantly avoided his attempts to locate him four years ago? He didn’t think he could face King Malcolm.

  He winced. Perhaps he should slip into the night and return to the false security offered by his fireplace.

  Clouds rolled in, obscuring the stars. He dropped his millstone into his pack and wrapped himself in his bedroll to ward off the chill.

  The clouds thickened as the night slipped by. An empty bottle lay beside him. Fumbling through his sparse provisions he pulled out his second last bottle. He considered conserving his dwindling supply, but in the end, he unstopped the bottle with his teeth and took a healthy swig, smiling as it bit his pallet and warmed his throat.

  Looking about, the dark mass of the mountains gave him pause. The hidden heights seemed to be reaching down to smother him.

  A breeze kicked up. The sputtering fire threw ghastly shadows upon the rock face beside him.

  He unsheathed Soulbiter and slipped from his bedroll. Walking around the small perimeter of light given off by the struggling campfire, he perceived an evil presence stalking him from just beyond the fire’s glow. The firelight dimmed, sputtering for life—the suddenness of it made him jump.

  He crouched and looked around but saw nothing. Calming his breathing, he located the bundle of sticks Alhena had scavenged and tossed the whole pile onto the embers. The fire flared to life, giving audience to the mischievous shadows dancing upon the wall.

  Alhena sat bolt upright.

  Silurian’s heart caught in his throat. “By the gods!” he swore. “I nearly threw my dagger at you.”

  Alhena squinted, peering beyond the fire’s light. “What’s the matter? Did you hear something?”

  “No,” Silurian snapped. Embarrassed with his outburst, he raised the bottle to his lips.

  Alhena knuckled sleep from his eyes. “Do you fear something?”

  “No! I don’t fear anything, you milky-eyed fool.” He sucked back a mouthful of homemade brew and spouted it into the fire. The flames jumped wildly. “Go back to sleep.”

  Alhena scowled. “Were I not duty bound to the Chamber, I would take exception to your harsh words.”

  Silurian’s pulse quickened. Spitting on the ground, he resisted the impulse to round the fire and throttle the old man. “You threatening me?” He located Alhena’s staff, unattended by his side, and watched for a tell-tale movement from his fingertips.

  Alhena held his deadly stare for a tense moment. Without another word, he crawled beneath his bedroll and turned away.

  A long time passed before Silurian’s breathing settled. Alhena’s snores meant he was alone again amongst the flickering shadows. He had to hand it
to Alhena, the old man had spunk.

  He placed the unfinished liquor bottle back in his leather sack, pulling the drawstring tight with trembling hands. An unpleasant wave of desire to release his pent-up anger gripped him. He wrapped his arms tightly around his body and rocked back and forth.

  He had feared this would happen. He struggled to quell the urge to kill the only friend he had in the world—if he could call the strange, old man a friend. He forced himself to think of something else, but his thoughts didn’t drift far from his primal yearning. He grimaced at the prospect of facing an insolent member of the public. How was he going to handle the impending reception of the Gritian council?

  The fire sputtered and hissed. A light drizzle fell. He adjusted the bottom blanket of his bedroll and pulled the top blanket over his face, but sleep wouldn’t come.

  Alhena had prepared every fire. Cooked every meal. More times than not he had used his own supplies, without ever a grumble, because he, Silurian Mintaka, former king’s champion, legendary Group of Five member, was too self-important to help out.

  He peeked his head out from beneath his thin leather blanket. He had to squint in the increasing drizzle to locate Alhena across the glow of the dying fire.

  The old man tossed and turned but didn’t waken.

  With a heavy sigh, Silurian climbed out from under his waterproof blanket, and carried it around the fire pit. With more care than he thought himself capable of, he removed Alhena’s damp blanket and replaced it with his own.

  Returning to his wet bedroll, he climbed under his ground cover blanket and struggled to find a comfortable position upon the cold rock. After a while, he gave up. Lying on his back, staring into the underside of his wet blanket, he promised himself to never let pride overshadow his judgment again. A promise he had no ability keep.

  Redfire’s Fury

  Raindrops clung to the scrub grass—a million sparkling diamonds surrounding their soggy campsite. Grey clouds meandered slowly northeastward, disappearing beyond the heights as the early morning sun broke free of the snowcapped peaks in the east.