Soul Forge Saga Box Set

by Richard Stephens

  In all of Zephyr, the bay city, especially the south shore, was only outshone by Carillon, the kingdom’s capital at Castle Svelte.

  The S’gull’s captain piloted the craft north of the estuary and berthed her against a reserved pier, amongst a tangle of busy docks.

  The company disembarked onto the weathered dock and pulled their sodden overcoats tight to ward off the drizzle.

  Rook said to Alhena, “You probably know this place better than I. Where do we start?”

  Alhena cinched his sack to his back. “I was wondering the same thing. Perhaps the baron has news of Silurian’s arrival.”

  A hunchbacked, ragged man materialized from behind a stack of old crates, his face mostly hidden beneath a cowl. He appeared harmless enough as he hobbled up to Alhena. “May I be of assistance, m’lord?”

  Alhena regarded the sodden creature with pity. “Thank you, but I am sure we are fine.”

  The creature ambled over to stand in front of Rook. He made a movement to grab the sack sitting at Rook’s feet.

  Rook snatched up the bag before the beggar had a chance. “Be gone. We don’t need your help.”

  The grizzled man glared at Rook, his wart-covered face, bent nose and angular chin gave Rook the shivers.

  “Ach, you comed in from the Songsbirth, eh?”

  “Mm,” Rook grunted, clearly annoyed.

  “What did ya say yer name be?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Without another word, the beggar nodded and shuffled away, cackling to himself. He disappeared amongst a collection of broken ships pulled up onto the shore.

  Rook and Alhena waited for Pollard and Sadyra, before setting off through the warehouse district on their way to the baron’s estate which was nestled all the way across the bay.

  A few leagues distant, Avarick led Silurian down the last trace of mountain track into the lower southwest end of Madrigail Bay. Rain splattered noisily upon the muddied trail as the horses clopped through the mire. Smog clung to the air above the cityscape. The pungent aroma of burning wood, coal, and dung permeated their nostrils.

  Approaching the southern gatehouse, they came up against a twelve-foot-high wall of spiked tree trunks lashed together and were briefly detained from entering the cobblestoned streets until the guards realized Avarick Thwart, the Enervator of Gritian, stood before them.

  Walking along the main road toward the docks, Silurian was riddled with mixed emotions. There weren’t many people out and about due to the poor weather, but he studied everyone they passed. Upon reaching the main cross street fronting the bay, he shook his head. He couldn’t expect to just bump into Rook in a city of this size.

  They strolled along the waterfront, the houses and specialty shops giving way to large mercantile warehouses and dockage facilities. Between gaps in the buildings on their left, the piers crawled with activity as crews bustled about like ants, loading and unloading cargo. The aroma from cook fires along the quay had their stomachs rumbling for a decent meal.

  Avarick led them to a tavern nestled against the water between two rundown warehouses. They dismounted and tethered their horses beside several others along a rail and walked beneath a weathered sign dripping with rain: Wharf’s Retreat.

  The tavern doors swung inward with an annoying peal, announcing their entrance. All eyes inside the dingy bar fell upon them momentarily before swinging away with disinterest. Acrid smoke hung in the air, overpowered by the waft of strong mead. It was stifling hot inside compared to the chill outside but the biggest attack on their senses came from the raucous din of bawdy patrons. All the tables were full to overflowing. Drunken sailors and dock hands exchanged tales of adventure or bet upon games of chance: cards, rocks, bones, and others Silurian had never seen before.

  Huge thugs stood at random places throughout the tavern, muscled arms crossed over beefy chests, observing the patron’s comings and goings.

  Silurian unconsciously clenched and unclenched his sword hand as they pushed between tables and through rowdy groups gathered around in tight clutches. A few no-nonsense women sat amongst the men, carrying on as badly as, if not worse than, their male counterparts. The only other women present were the scantily clad barmaids, and the even scantier clad women plying their trade.

  Avarick smiled when Silurian muttered, “Nice place.”

  The Enervator approached the massive, oak bar running the length of the back wall. All the bar stools were occupied by at least one person, with more people standing in between. He stopped behind a surly brute hunched over a tankard of ale.

  While Avarick attempted to catch the bartender’s eye, Silurian scanned the crowd, not relishing the thought of being recognized.

  He cringed when Avarick spun slowly about, garnering the attention of everyone in the tavern. “This here is Silurian Mintaka.”

  Ensuring everyone knew exactly to whom he referred, Avarick added, “Aye, the very man who stared Helleden in the eye and slew him!”

  All eyes fell on Silurian.

  Silurian felt two inches tall. He wanted to crawl under the battered woodwork of the bar and disappear. He glared at Avarick. What was he thinking?

  The group of people sitting and standing near the surly man at the bar eyed Avarick and Silurian skeptically, but when Avarick shrugged out of his rain-soaked cloak, revealing the golden knot of rope upon his left shoulder, whispers of ‘Enervator,’ and ‘Gritian,’ and ‘assassin’ sounded around the bar area. The men in front of Avarick vacated their stool, slipping respectfully around the two newcomers and disappeared into the crowd.

  Avarick gestured to the first stool with open palms.

  Silurian wanted to leave Wharf’s Retreat but he accepted the proffered seat, hoping that by doing so, Avarick might cease making a scene.

  On the next stool, a curious patron stared at them. One look from the Enervator sent him scurrying into the crowd.

  Avarick addressed the barkeep, who was, without a doubt, one of the largest men in the building. “Two barleys, and two platters of whatever slop you’re cooking.”

  The bald-headed bartender regarded them with hard eyes spaced wide on either side of an oft-broken nose. His gruff words, spoken through thick, bare lips that clenched a well-worked toothpick, surprised Silurian. “And who’s to pay this time, Thwart? Last time you came through here I was shut for more’n a week.” He crossed forearms bigger than Silurian’s thighs over his chest, glaring disdain at Avarick, obviously caring little for his rank.

  Avarick offered him a disarming smile. “Come now, Keepy, don’t be like that. I know the Chamber looked after you.”

  Avarick glanced at Silurian. “Keepy here can lift a horse with one arm while he shakes your hand with the other.”

  The barkeep glowered. When he stepped forward to lean against the bar, the saloon became deathly still. He stared hard at the arrogant Enervator.

  Silurian prepared himself for the worst, but to his credit, Avarick calmly returned the barkeep’s stare.

  “Ack!” Keepy spat the tattered toothpick to the floor. Producing a dirty rag from a worn apron string around his waist, he wiped his hands. Without another word, he dispensed two bowls of the best tasting stew either man had eaten in quite a while.

  The noise in the Wharf’s Retreat rose again, but not to its previous level.

  Although Silurian was famished and the food delicious, he struggled to eat it—conscious of the gawking people talking behind cupped hands.

  Avarick, on the other hand, was well into his second bowl when the faint verse of a song Silurian hadn’t heard in years sounded behind them. His neck hairs stood on end. The deep voice wasn’t professional, but it held the tune of the ballad well enough.

  “Again, he masters the beasts,

  Wrought from the fires of hell underneath.

  Decade intervals mark his passing,

  sailing forth, wave after wave,

  minion hordes, our death they crave.

  Oh, where have all our heroes gone?�
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  Silurian nearly choked on a spoonful of broth.

  “Our warriors armed, their swords a-gleamin’,

  valiant their efforts, but his might’s unseemin’.

  Maimed warriors, home never coming,

  battled afore ‘n suffered great harm,

  e’er stronger, n’ swifter at arm.

  Oh, where have all our heroes gone?”

  Avarick pushed his bowl aside, wiping his mouth on the cuff of his tunic. He whirled about on his stool, searching for the man behind the voice.

  With every line the man sang, the more the people joined in the long-forgotten verse—a song written shortly after the Group of Five had been shattered upon the plains of Lugubrius.

  “Sadly bereft, our legendary arms,

  the Group of Five have faded to yarns.

  Decades pass, nigh upon two.

  We hold faint hope, for what has been,

  he came again and took our Queen.

  Oh, where have all our heroes gone?”

  Silurian dropped his spoon into the bowl, its contents sloshing onto the bar. He hadn’t heard the verse sung that way before. The previous verses were well-known, sung in the dark, dank places he had frequented during a period in his life best left forgotten. His shoulders tensed. Goosebumps prickled his skin.

  Hauntingly, the entire bar joined in.

  “The Altirians are slain, their squaws molested,

  children tortured by beasts detested.

  As Altirians pass into legend,

  Zephyr’s peril comes again, we pray, oh please.

  Hordes rain down, borne upon a malignant breeze.

  Oh, where have all our heroes gone?”

  Silurian swallowed hard and turned slowly on his stool. All eyes were upon him. He forced himself to look at the people, abashed by the raw emotions reflected there. In some faces he found hope. In others, pain. For the most part, he saw only loathing.

  The tavern became deathly still. An uncomfortable silence gripped the room. Just when he thought the tension was about to erupt, the original singer picked up the verse again, this time by himself,

  “Zephyr falls upon bloodied knees,

  oaken strength breaks on minion breeze.

  Oh, what have ye done?

  Rumours have surfaced, two still do thrive.

  Forth arise the wayward, two of five.

  Oh, from where have our heroes come?”

  Detested swordsman and bowman deserted,

  forsaking the people—magic departed.

  Oh, what have ye done?

  Zephyr succumbs to the minion horde,

  our fate now sealed by the Stygian Lord.

  Oh, what have our heroes done?”

  The singer’s last note dissipated eerily over the crowd.

  Silurian swallowed harder.

  Avarick’s eyes darted about, the earlier smugness no longer prevalent on his face.

  The place was a powder keg. Silurian’s presence, the spark.

  Off to the side where the mysterious singer’s voice had originated, a fully armed and armoured man, big as the barkeep but lacking an ounce of fat, parted the crowd. A shallow, two-horned helm sat askew upon his black mane—the helmet more of a decoration than a means of protection. Judging by the size of the bushy bearded hulk, he required little protecting.

  The man walked up to Avarick, and before the Enervator knew what happened, he flew from his bar stool into the crowd. The look of surprise on his face as he crashed atop a table full of half drank flagons and wooden bowls of stew was one to be reminisced upon a future date, but at the moment, they needed to escape the ensuing riot.

  Avarick took the table over with him, disappearing amongst the angered mob. The golden knot on the Enervator’s shoulder no longer held weight with this crowd.

  Wooden chairs scraped across hardwood planks, followed closely by fists crunching faces as the tavern exploded into mayhem. Many patrons didn’t know why they fought but were more than happy to oblige.

  The hinges of the saloon’s swinging doors squealed, announcing the untimely exit of one of Wharf’s Retreat’s customers—unceremoniously launched into the muddy street by the taverns hired thugs, but there was little the burly men could do to thwart the full-scale melee.

  Silurian went for his weapon.

  The brute was faster. One huge meat hook clamped Silurian’s right wrist before he unsheathed the Sacred Sword Voil from its baldric. Another hand clamped around his throat.

  “Hold!” The pandemonium paused at Keepy’s urgent plea. He reached over the bar quicker than anyone would believe, and grabbed the brute’s wrists, preventing him from tossing Silurian as well. “I’ll not have their blood shed in here!”

  Avarick’s head poked up from behind the upturned table, shrugging off the many hands clutching him.

  Silurian gave Keepy a thankful look.

  “Finish this outside,” Keepy growled.

  Silurian did a double take.

  Before the large man holding Silurian hoisted him from his stool, however, a flailing body flew out of the crowd and sailed past them, clearing the bar with plenty of room to spare. Barely missing the disheartened barkeep, the human missile slammed into the liquor shelves upon the back wall. Glass shattered and wood splintered as the man smashed more than himself before he fell out of sight beneath the subsequent avalanche of debris.

  Keepy winced as the entire place erupted anew. He shook his head, stepped back over the inert man, and muttered, “Every time that damned Enervator comes a-calling.”

  The saloon doors swung outward, another man flew into the evening air, but before they swung back again, a shadow fell across the waning rays of daylight filtering through the entranceway.

  The chaos came to a bizarre halt. All eyes, at least those not beaten shut, fixated upon the beast blocking the only public exit in Wharf’s Retreat.

  The biggest man Silurian had ever seen, stood hunched in the doorway, brandishing a colossal weapon. It seemed to be the day of big men.

  When the monster of a man cleared the threshold, straightening to his full height, his head brushed the cobwebs decorating the log ceiling.

  Sliding quickly through the doors and sidling up on either side of the mountainous brute were a middle-aged man garbed in green suede, bearing an intricately carved bow, and a striking female archer with a polished dark wood bow in hand. As the three newcomers advanced toward the bar, a figure cloaked in black, and bearing a staff, slipped into the tavern behind them.

  The man with the bow pointed at Silurian and the behemoth made his way through the gawking throng. Everyone in his path scrambled to get out of his way.

  “Unhand him,” the newcomer growled at the brute who still clutched Silurian. “Now!”

  The two archers notched arrows, scanning the crowd with bows partially drawn. For all the toughness in the bar, not a soul stirred.

  The large sailor gave the newcomer a once over, taking measure of the golden plated giant. His eyes narrowed as he took note of the archers warding the crowd.

  After what seemed an interminable amount of time to Silurian, the sailor relinquished his iron grip and sneered at the newcomer—his eyes never leaving the gleaming, double broadsword blades suspended in the air between them. He touched the large hilt of his own great sword but thought better of it when his opponent’s corded forearms flexed in anticipation. With a glare full of promised malice, the sailor sidestepped around the newcomer, snarling, “I’ll see you again.”

  The newcomer’s eyes narrowed. “I look forward to it.”

  Without a backward glance, the sailor swaggered out of Wharf’s Retreat, lumbering between the two archers who stepped sideways to avoid being trampled.

  Silurian barely noticed his rescuer—his attention solely upon the male archer. Was it really him? After all these years?

  His breathing quickened—the vision before him surreal. One of the few men he had ever respected stood looking back at him. Someone who, up until a few w
eeks ago, he never thought to see again. The former leader of the Group of Five. His best friend once upon a time. A man he would have willingly died for. Rook Bowman.

  A faint smile upturned the corners of his usually somber mouth. He stopped within reaching distance of his friend, unable to do anything but stare—unsure what to do next. He sensed his friend’s apprehension. No doubt, well-deserved.

  Close by, Avarick freed himself from the men pinning him. He had dispatched two of them when the colossus had entered ahead of Rook. He still gripped the third man. A rivulet of blood leaked from the Enervator’s left nostril.

  Visible in the way the bar patrons straightened themselves, the crowd had overcome its initial fear of the huge newcomer and his companions.

  The newcomer stepped past Avarick on his way back to the exit, his double-bladed weapon held threateningly before him—each blade longer than a short man was tall. He paused beside Avarick, long enough to say under his breath, “If you are with Silurian, I’m thinking we should make our exit.”

  Avarick nodded once. He pulled the man he held toward him with his left hand and laid him out cold with his right. The man’s limp body fell into the brooding throng.

  Avarick shook the pain out of his fist as pandemonium exploded throughout the tavern. If the newcomer with the double sword hadn’t hurled a few large tables at the enraged mob, Silurian didn’t think they would have made it out alive.

  As they scrambled up the street, another patron flew from Wharf’s Retreat, his crashing body taking one of the swinging doors with him.

  A few of the braver, or drunker, men gave Silurian’s group chase, but their numbers thinned the farther they pursued. It wasn’t long before their numbers dwindled and the chase lost its bravado.

  Resurrection

  “We’ve lost them,” Avarick said as they rounded a corner between two dilapidated warehouses fronting the shoreline. He peered around the building’s corner, down the mist shrouded, cobblestoned street. “They must’ve given up. I’ll sneak back and grab our horses.”