Soul Forge Saga Box Set

by Richard Stephens

  … “Yarstaff is unique amongst the Voil.” Wendglow had spoken in hushed tones, motioning with his chin to the peculiar, orange furred Voil bearing the right front, litter handle. “He is the only one of us that still has both of his human hands and feet. No other Voil has that.”

  Silurian scrutinized the tall creature loping along in front of him.

  Wendglow said with reverence in his voice, “He is special to us. The epitome of why we remain free of the Soul and its minions. If you look closely, Yarstaff is not like us. He successfully made it through the transformation process at Soul Forge. Beneath that orange fur, his skin is red. He was groomed to be a field commander in Helleden’s army. But…”

  So enrapt in what the Voil elder related, Silurian nearly tripped. The tunnel they followed had dropped over a shallow ledge. He caught himself on the side of the litter.

  Wendglow smiled and waited until he collected himself. “For some reason, Yarstaff’s mind wasn’t as affected as the usual victims of the forge. As time went by, the core of his real self, buried within the recesses of his simple mind, resurfaced. Unknown to his captors, he found his way back to independent thought, and realized that what happened at Soul Forge was wrong. So, he took steps to correct it.

  “Through his courage, many of us, unsuccessful in our transformation into minions of Helleden’s army, and slated to be cast into the Marrow Wash, were saved.”

  Silurian mulled over the elder’s words. “That means…”

  “Yes. Yarstaff is the eldest Voil. The first of us. He saved us and sheltered us. He used the power he gained at the forge to create the original wards of our cliff side home.”

  Silurian’s eyes widened, listening to Wendglow’s words.

  “There have been other, much more powerful mutants who have been rescued from imminent destruction in the Marrow Wash, Menthliot for one, but Yarstaff was the first. He rescued himself.”

  Silurian studied Yarstaff with a new respect. The litter bearer’s stooped back and slouched shoulders showed he wasn’t immune to fatigue.

  “No doubt you wonder why the founding father of the Voil is required to bear a litter.” Wendglow’s voice resonated with pride. “That is his choice. He wants no special treatment, nor the accolades he most certainly deserves. You see, I was his first rescue. He considers me more his child, than a rescued victim. For some reason known only to his simple mind, Yarstaff feels obliged to watch over me. He has done so now for over four hundred years. What better way to protect me than to be one of my litter bearers, hmm?”

  The Gods Must Surely Be Crazy

  When the call came early the next morning, Alhena had trouble shaking the stiffness from his aging body. Easing his pack onto his shoulders, he sighed. He wasn’t getting any younger. The last few months had taken their toll on everyone, but especially on the older members of the original quest, of which, Alhena had everyone beat by more years than they knew. If he survived this quest, he had only one more task ahead of him to ensure his life was complete. He adjusted his shoulder straps and formed up behind Avarick who busied himself behind Silurian.

  Pollard assumed a position directly in front of Silurian and boldly stated, “If anyone wants to get at you, they’ll need to go through me first.”

  Wendglow’s litter stood beside Silurian. The Voil leader appeared more robust than they had seen him before. He dropped from his cushioned platform to stand next to the man he professed to fear the most.

  Silurian grasped his proffered paw.

  Wendglow cleared his throat for all to hear his frail voice. “Today we embark upon the last leg of our journey. If all goes well, we will reach the river before nightfall.”

  Murmurs rippled through the cavern.

  “When we leave this cavern, you will once again be under our protective warding spell.”

  People shuffled their feet.

  Wendglow directed his next words at Silurian. “You will also need to be under its influence until we exit onto the Dead Plains. I cannot express this enough. Do. Not. Panic.”

  Thorr stood with Olmar in front of Pollard. “How do we know the Sentinel won’t be waiting for us at the tunnel’s end?”

  “Rest assured, Thorr Sandborne, we have sentries posted along the Marrow Wash day and night. We also have a few spotters hidden in the foothills of Iconoclast Spire.”

  Thorr raised his eyebrows, unconvinced.

  “We will egress from a point close to the forge. We have never used this exit before, other than to usher the odd rescued victim from the forge into our sanctuary.”

  “What about this Soul thing?” Avarick spoke up.

  “The Soul is an ethereal creature, unlike us.” Wendglow replied. “It resides far below the mountain, beside a bottomless lake. That is the location of the true Soul Forge. Subterranean lava vents fuel it. The Soul cannot survive elsewhere.” He turned to Silurian. “Unless…”

  Silurian fidgeted.

  Wendglow winked at him. “The magic of the river is a byproduct of Soul Forge. The farther away from Iconoclast Spire, the less danger there is in entering its waters.” He nodded. “We will try to get you as close to the source as possible.”

  An eerie chant rose within the cavern as members of Wendglow’s people began the hypnotic process of warding. A faint glow radiated from the exit tunnel—the passageway beyond pulsed softly.

  “Captain?” Wendglow turned his gaze to Thorr. “Are your people ready for the evil that awaits us?”

  Thorr squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “Aye, Master Wendglow. They will take the day.”

  As if on cue, Pollard unsheathed his mighty, twin-bladed broadsword, and held it high. “Onto the power! Into hell and out the other side!”

  The lead scouts disappeared down the steep slope of the exit tunnel, weapons drawn and Pollard’s battle cry upon their lips.

  The morning slipped by unnoticed—everyone’s mind under the Voil’s thrall. Most embraced the wondrous enchantment, opening themselves to the blissful peace it provided while Wendglow’s people kept them moving along at a brisk, sustainable pace.

  Silurian, however, found it difficult not to resist the charm. If the Voil meant them harm, now would be an opportune time. It took a considerable amount of convincing before Wendglow was able to place him under the warding spell.

  Past midday, the quest passed beyond the Soul Forge and were startled by a peculiar sensation of travelling through a shimmering wall. One instant they hadn’t a care in the world, and the next, the bright light of the outside world assaulted their vision through a narrow exit. It took a few moments for the reality of their situation to seep into their bedazzled minds.

  Longsight and Blindsight were the first members from the original quest to leave the safety of the tunnel. A sheer rock face shot skyward on their left. Straining their necks to look up, the lofty peak of Iconoclast Spire was hidden behind a large promontory, hundreds of feet up the face of the cliff. They were bumped ahead by Olmar and Thorr who stopped for a few seconds before they too were jostled forward by Pollard, Silurian, Alhena and Avarick. The sequence repeated itself many times over until the entire company made its way outside the hidden tunnel.

  They had travelled beneath the Marrow Wash and although its milky slag wasn’t visible from where they stood, vestiges of its putrid stench still managed to reach them.

  Silurian stepped away from the milling throng to survey the breathtaking vista that stretched out before them. Around the incredible bulk of Iconoclast Spire, a vast expanse of rolling hills fell away toward a ribbon of turquoise. The river. Between the company and their destination, fields of waist high, crimson reeds dominated the gently sloping river basin. Unlike the cliffs, there wasn’t a sign of sand anywhere.

  Silurian took in the scene with mixed emotions. He was finally here. The river lay within his reach. The trauma and hardship of his exhaustive journey from the Nordic Wood felt like a distant memory. He smiled, caring less if anyone saw him. Twenty-three long years mu
lling over what ifs and hungering for a vengeance he thought he would never realize. He now stood within striking distance of the first step toward turning his fantasy into a reality. Within walking distance of the power source that would help him rid the world of Helleden Misenthorpe.

  He knew it wasn’t going to be quite that easy. Life never was. The Soul stood in his way.

  He resisted the urge to run to the river and get it over with. Wendglow had advised him not to rush into the confrontation with the Soul.

  From where he stood, the task ahead appeared straight forward. Approach the river, immerse Saint Carmichael’s Blade, and let the sword soak up its old enchantment. Simple. But, if Wendglow’s warnings held any merit, the Soul had other things in mind for him.

  There were also the matters of the Sentinel and the Morphisis. He sighed. At least he was here.

  Boundless leagues of gently swaying reeds spread out below them upon the Dead Plains. What a strange name for a sight so wondrous.

  Pollard’s gentle nudge snapped him out of his musing. The lead Voil scouts had begun moving from behind a mass of tumbled boulders, and descended into the river valley, spreading out as they went.

  Pollard towered over him, resplendent in his brass cuirass—his eyes scanning everywhere at once. Silurian took comfort in the fact that anyone wanting to get at him would have to go through the beast of a man first.

  Already half a league away, the upper halves of Longsight and Blindsight bobbed about above the crimson reeds, scouting the quest’s landward flank, while Ithnan and Ithaman were barely visible along the base of the ominous bulk of Iconoclast Spire.

  Dark silhouettes of large, vulture-like birds turned great swooping circles overhead. Wendglow had called the birds, Terrors, and claimed they were a lot bigger than Olmar.

  Silurian wondered how the Voil were going to navigate through the high reeds, but then again, he thought, they would be hard to spot by the enemy, so perhaps their height worked to their advantage. Unfortunately, the presence of men like Pollard and Olmar would certainly negate the company’s stealth.

  Thetis and Rook sidled between Silurian and Avarick, and as a large group, the men, women and Voil started forward.

  The lead ranks set a good pace. Armoured Voil disappeared amongst the foliage, their progress leaving trenches of freshly downed reeds. It wouldn’t be hard to follow their trail. Silurian laughed to himself. So much for the Voil advantage.

  Wendglow’s litter trudged along behind Avarick and Sadyra, upon the shoulders of Yarstaff and three husky Voil while Alhena and Thorr kept pace with the litter on its far side.

  Silurian pondered the usefulness of the ragtag collection of warriors charging forward with the aim of providing him a chance at attempting the river. From aged men to seafaring women, from misshapen creatures of all shapes and sizes to washed up warriors. Everyone moved across an alien landscape on a fool’s errand to reclaim the lost enchantment upon his fabled blade. In his mind’s eye, he pictured High Bishop Uzziah rolling his eyes. The gods must surely be crazy.

  They were farther away from the river than it had first appeared from the promontory outside the tunnel. Their hurried pace ground to a slow trek. Pushing through the high reeds and traversing the soft loam beneath their feet proved an arduous task.

  More Terrors appeared in the sky overhead. According to Wendglow, they were the shock troops that usually preceded the Soul’s minion army. Thankfully, the massive birds had kept their distance thus far.

  Iconoclast Spire dominated the landscape to the left of the river, forcing them to drift farther into the Dead Plains to circumvent the rough terrain surrounding the mass of granite. The spire’s flat top was home to Helleden’s keep, complete with jagged black walls and gnarly towers spread around its perimeter. The Terrors flight seemed to originate from the direction of that ghastly fort. Others followed Silurian’s gaze as a collective shiver rippled through the masses.

  Reports filtered back that the forward scouts neared the river’s edge. The quest’s pace increased—a pall of nervous expectation fell over the company as it trudged over the sodden ground.

  It wasn’t lost on Silurian that their progress seemed far too easy to this point. He almost jumped out of his boots when Alhena touched his shoulder.

  “Wendglow fears the Sentinel lurks within the river. I think our best course may be for someone else to approach the river to draw its attention.”

  Silurian swallowed. Who would willingly volunteer for that duty?

  Wendglow’s litter came up beside them. Silurian couldn’t help himself staring at the gargoyle faces decorating the Voil elder’s staff. If he didn’t know better, he would think they were alive.

  Wendglow must have overheard Alhena. “Nay. The Soul would use that person as a conduit to channel its power. For as long as that person survived, which wouldn’t be long, the power they discharged would create havoc amongst our ranks. As it is, we’ll be lucky to fend off the Sentinel long enough to give Silurian the time he needs. The last thing we want is to defend against a rogue wizard. Nor must we forget the Morphisis.”

  Before anyone digested his words, Wendglow added, “Perhaps there is another way, hmm?”

  Betrayal

  Silurian stood atop a grassy knoll, a long stone’s throw from the river’s edge. Wendglow had informed him that the slow moving, brackish water of the mystic river slipped by the Dead Plains on its way to Debacle Lurch. Across the river, broken trees littered the river bank, fronting a row of jagged hills beyond. They were as close to the where the river flowed from beneath Iconoclast Spire as the rugged terrain permitted. Half a league upstream, Iconoclast Spire shot skyward—a formidable bastion of evil. How anyone got up there, short of flying, he had no idea.

  Beside him, Pollard stood defiant, his strong hands clutching his unique sword. Sadyra stood a few paces farther back, a dozen arrows sticking out of the ground around her, ready to be quickly utilized. Behind them, a small contingent of heavily armed sailors and Voil wizards awaited Silurian’s direction. Movement, a quarter of a league downriver, caught their attention.

  Crouched within the crimson reeds, the remainder of the quest, including Alhena, Rook and Thetis, watched as a hunched figure approached the river. Nashon Oakes, and others of his ilk, hunkered down a safe distance behind the second group, the healer’s presence an omen of what was likely to come. The entire quest held its collective breath, but the ancient Voil never hesitated.

  Wendglow hobbled to the water’s edge supported by his twisted, dark wood cane. He made an exaggerated show of raising the cane above the water’s surface before lowering its tip into the mystic river—the faces etched along the cane’s length squirmed in response to the river’s touch.

  As soon as the cane’s tip marred the water’s surface, a bone chilling howl sounded from the direction of Iconoclast Spire. A writhing black mass of hollering demons swarmed over the Iconoclast Spire’s foothills at an unbelievable pace while ear piercing screeches sounded overhead.

  The black Terrors no longer turned lazy circles overhead. They coalesced into ragged formations and dove at Rook’s group. Several Terrors broke away from the flock and winged toward Silurian’s smaller band of warriors upriver, their disjointed flapping making them appear like giant rags fluttering on the wind.

  “To the river!” Silurian ordered his troop into motion.

  Before Silurian’s group covered the short distance to the river, the first Terror dropped into their midst. Fourteen feet long, the bird’s black-haired body, all muscle and sinew, sported great, leathery wings that proved to be more agile than its clumsy flight let on.

  As the monstrosity swooped, its red eyes searched for someone to clutch within its rows of jagged teeth—foamy drool dripped from the corners of its elongated beak. Silurian ducked to avoid being raked by its meat rending talons.

  A second Terror dove into the wake of the first, deftly avoiding Pollard’s mighty swing. Silurian sidestepped its flight and brought his bl
ade whistling around with both hands. As erratic as the Terror’s flight was, it avoided the attack and twisted away toward the river.

  Silurian followed its flight over the water. It banked hard and came again. All around him, bow strings twanged.

  The Terror over the river dove at Silurian, its unpredictable flight bringing it in behind Pollard who concentrated on the flight of another. Silurian stepped behind the big man and swung a well-aimed cut, but before his sword connected, Sadyra’s arrow took the Terror in the shoulder and it veered out of harm’s way.

  Stumbling with the momentum of his miss, Silurian’s eyes never left the beast. He caught himself in time to see Pollard react—his mighty sword severing the creature’s left wing, sending the Terror careening into the human and Voil warriors behind him.

  The flailing bird knocked aside rows of fighters as it scrabbled to its feet. It charged at Pollard, dragging its damaged wing behind it.

  Before it could reach Pollard, a sword lashed out of the crowd and took its left leg. The bird fell to the ground, but Pollard still found himself hard pressed to avoid its snapping beak. Jumping sideways to avoid being bitten, he hacked at the creature’s neck. Blood spurted from the wound, temporarily blinding him.

  Pollard forced his eyes open and brought his twin blades up. Behind him, the screech of another bird sounded right on top of him, accompanied by the swish of a sword slicing air. Spinning around, a headless bird slammed into his shoulder and pinned him against the ground.

  Pollard rolled out from beneath the corpse and tried to stand, but fell back to his knees, half stunned.

  Silurian slid an arm under his armpit and helped him up, bracing himself to face another swooping beast. Blood dripped off his infamous blade.

  And then the sky went dark.

  Wendglow whirled about to witness the brooding mass clambering over the foothills and swarming into the river basin. He watched for but a moment before he realized that the contact of his cane with the river had caused the wood to begin smouldering—the enchanted cane of protection another of Saros’ great inventions. He withdrew it and discovered to his dismay that the intricate faces carved along its length had gone still.