Soul Forge Saga Box Set

by Richard Stephens

  Adrenaline throbbed in his veins. The same phenomenon that had gripped him when Menthliot had gone berserk. A finger of blue flame eddied along the tip of his blade—the runes softly glowing. He felt better equipped to handle the sensation this time.

  Concentrating on honing the latent power, he trusted his protection to Pollard’s capable hands. The colossus slashed at the air above their heads, slicing another Terror before it hit them. The wounded bird splashed heavily into the river.

  Silurian winced, but no water hit him. Before he opened his eyes again, Pollard had stabbed at another Terror and missed. The bird’s large wings lifted it into the darkness but Sadyra stepped forward and felled it with an arrow to the neck.

  Flames coalesced along the length of Saint Carmichael’s Blade, illuminating the immediate riverbank in a light blue glow. Another woman’s scream provided the catalyst for the flames undulating along his sword, further pushing away the darkness.

  Given the extra light, Sadyra and the rest of the archers made quick work of the nearest Terrors just in time to turn and face hundreds of red demons bearing tridents and polearms that charged into their midst.

  Wendglow’s group fought their way toward them, their progress marked by flickering wizard light. They were too late.

  The flames along his sword dwindled. He could barely see Pollard. He had to immerse his sword now, but he hesitated. If he wasn’t up to the challenge, more people would die because of his actions.

  Faces bombarded his memories. So many lives lost over the years. Most he couldn’t place a name to. Menthliot came to mind. Helvius, Alcyonne, and Javen, all fleeting thoughts. Saros. Seafarer. King Peter. Thonk. Hairy. The wild ones. Queen Quarrnaine. Gerrymander’s crew. Bregens. Siaph and his children! Hundreds of people dead because of the choices he had made. Blurred faces, nameless to him, all shared the same thing: they had died because he hadn’t done what he had vowed to do all those years ago—vanquish Helleden Misenthorpe.

  A warning shout from downriver broke his reverie. It was the giant helmsman, Olmar. “’Ware the Morphisis! Thetis is the Morphisis. Rook is lost!”

  Silurian’s eyes snapped open. Rook is lost? Flames shot skyward from St Carmichael’s blade, almost incinerating Pollard.

  The sound of battle was deafening as the devilish beasts thrust into the line of defenders. Men, women, and Voil gave their lives to afford him the opportunity to do what must be done, and yet, he remained still.

  Pollard left his side to join in the fray as the company’s defensive lines collapsed around him.

  The thrum of bowstrings loosed, and the constant clicks of crossbows releasing, mixed with the clash of metal on metal. The missiles had no trouble finding targets in the thick ranks of demons. Even so, the archers had little effect on the unrelenting horde.

  Standing defiant, several paces away, Pollard nearly fell to the ground by the press of their own fighters being pushed back toward the river. He found his balance and ferociously fought back.

  Olmar joined the fray along the riverbank, leading a flanking attack into the demon horde, attempting to reach a dwindling pocket of surrounded sailors. He swung a massive warhammer, clearing a swath through the demon ranks

  Just when all seemed lost, a furious battle cry stopped the minions in their tracks. Thorr, with the aid of wizard light, led a large group of sailors into the back of the demon line.

  The red beasts’ advance slowed. Pollard rallied the troops around him into a cohesive unit. Following the battle crazed goliath, the small group of fighters pushed the creatures back, but the reprieve Thorr’s charge had given the quest was short lived.

  Silurian couldn’t take his eyes off Pollard. The Songsbirthian brute had just dispatched a nasty demon while another one charged at him, its massive trident aimed at his chest. Pollard intercepted the polearm between both blades and twisted his sword, snapping the trident in two. The disarmed demon never slowed its advance—it came at him with fangs bared. Pollard jockeyed for position in the limited space around him, avoiding the brunt of the creature’s impact. The demon’s outstretched claws scraped down his brass cuirass with a tooth rattling screech and tore Pollard’s left side open below the armour’s bottom edge, before Pollard’s backswing bit the demon in the small of its back, nearly cutting it in half.

  Silurian winced at Pollard’s wound, but the man seemed unaffected by the nasty gash. He brought his double blades up to confront his next victim.

  Silurian swallowed. They were running out of time. He turned to the river. The small flames licking at the edges of his sword illuminated the water at his feet. He didn’t like the image reflected back at him. Taking a deep breath, he immersed the tip of Saint Carmichael’s Blade in the river—the resulting steam enveloped him.

  The Soul’s touch was instantaneous. A malevolent presence entered him through the blade and tore into his mind. Icy tendrils of someone else’s thoughts wrapped about his brain and squeezed. He screamed a silent scream as his feet carried him into the river.

  Knee-deep in water, he fought to yank his sword free, hoping it would stop the pain in his head. With an agonizing pull, he wrenched his sword out of the river and held it above his head.

  An unbearable hurt squeezed the inside of his skull, demanding he lower his sword back into the river—the impulse so strong he feared he was losing his capacity to think on his own. The presence felt like a large parasite had burrowed into his brain, wriggling and biting, tightening its grip and probing deeper. It clawed its way into his subconsciousness, overcoming his feeble attempts to block it.

  Vaguely aware that he couldn’t prevent himself from wading deeper into the frigid waters, flames shot skyward from his sword.

  You cannot resist me, he thought, but it wasn’t his thought.

  You are not strong enough to vanquish my hold upon you.

  Losing control of his limbs, his sword plunged with a hiss into the river. He fleetingly thought of Wendglow’s fear as the Soul seized control of him.

  You are mine now. The words reverberated like a canyon echo.

  A maniacal laugh escaped his lips.

  A detached vision of the raging battle upon the shore distantly registered in his mind. All action on the battlefield had stopped momentarily to look at him. He stood shoulder deep in the river—his eerie facial features outlined by the glowing aura of his sword beneath the river’s surface.

  From somewhere deep within himself, he mounted a small measure of resistance. He raised his sword above his head and sent a geyser of blue flames crackling high over the river.

  The icy tendrils constricted further, threatening to snap the life from him. The fury of his geyser ebbed.

  You are strong. This pleases me.

  Silurian struggled to make sense of his addled thoughts. From somewhere in his mind, a nuance of inner strength sparked to life. The pillar of flames shot higher into the air. He wanted to scream, to force the Soul’s thoughts from his head, but the Soul tightened its hold and his thoughts skittered away.

  Laughter sounded upon the river again, emanating from his mouth.

  You don’t know it yet, but you are already mine. The more you resist, the stronger Helleden becomes. Fight harder, my pet, let us devastate Zephyr together.

  In spite of the Soul’s power over him, Silurian shouted, “No!” He surprised himself. Perhaps the Soul’s hold upon him wasn’t as strong as it believed.

  Come, my pet. My strength doesn’t weaken. You haven’t begun to appreciate my full power, but you shall feel it now!

  Silurian’s head tossed back and forth as wave after wave of excruciating pain bombarded him for what felt like an eternity.

  Rook’s voice called out to him, urging him to be strong. Letting him know he wasn’t alone.

  Although Silurian could no longer see past the grip of the Soul, he heard the thump of arrows guarding the sky above him, taking out one black Terror after another.

  Sensing a warmth he hadn’t known in a long time, a feeling h
e thought he had lost forever, he plunged his sword into the river. The water around him bubbled. When the ensuing steam faded, he was gone—pulled beneath the surface by whatever had invaded his mind.

  He thought his fingers would break as he tried to maintain his grip on Saint Carmichael’s Blade. He opened his mouth to scream at the stabbing pain in his head and his lungs filled with water. Swifter than a strong current he was being drawn upriver through the depths of the mysterious waters. He knew he should be drowning, but somewhere in the vortex of his whirling thoughts, he understood the Soul wouldn’t permit that.

  A prisoner locked within his own mind, he disentangled his last reserve to form a coherent thought of his own, I will never serve you. I will die first.

  Laughter bubbled from his water-filled mouth. That, I won’t allow. You will come to understand that the longer you resist, the more complete the destruction of Zephyr shall become.

  No! I will never help you.

  Ah, my pet. Still do you fail to comprehend. Helleden lays waste to Zephyr as we speak. Your continued resistance is facilitating the destruction. Helleden draws from the energy we expend battling each other. Our struggle amplifies his sorcery.

  Silurian fought to withdraw further—to back away from the intrusion and sink deep into his mind.

  If you think you don’t command power, you are sadly mistaken. If you didn’t, you would already be mine. Know, however, that should you stop resisting, even for a moment, I will have you. And if you don’t, Zephyr will be destroyed. The choice is yours. Remember the Innerworld? Or the queen?

  That last statement jarred him. He almost slipped. Mulling over the Soul’s words, Silurian searched his mind for a way to stop resisting. If what the Soul said was true, their struggle provided Helleden the strength he needed to destroy everything the quest had come to the Under Realm to protect. Zephyr.

  He thought again of Wendglow’s warning. If he stopped resisting, the Soul would gain mastery over him, thus justifying the Voil elder’s ultimate fear.

  He was trapped. If he resisted, Zephyr was doomed. If he gave in, the Soul would acquire his corporeal form and break free of its ethereal shackles. Silurian couldn’t even begin to fathom the ramifications of that eventuality. His thoughts whirled in confusion and despair. His grasp on sanity was slipping fast.

  Ah, my pet. You see the futility. Let it go. You can end the devastation. Together we will cleanse the world.

  Destroy it, you mean?

  Semantics. In the end you can be the means to Zephyr’s destruction, or you can concede the deed to me. Either way, the result is the same.

  Silurian’s ire rose. The madder he became, the harder he fought back. The more he struggled, the more the Soul entrenched itself within his head.

  Your resistance fuels Helleden’s power. The harder you resist, the greater Helleden’s destruction becomes. Only you can stop the suffering of your people. Let me in, and Helleden’s power dies. Surely, you do not wish to be the one responsible for your people’s annihilation. Succumb before there is nothing left of Zephyr to return to.

  The Soul withdrew its presence enough to allow Silurian room to think clearly. If what the Soul claimed were true, the people of Zephyr were being slaughtered—right now. More were about to die if he continued down this path. A small part of him tried to convince himself that the Soul lied to trick him into lowering his barriers—to achieve its mastery over him. For some reason, he knew that wasn’t the case. Reaching out, he sensed Helleden’s presence flitting about the periphery of their conflict.

  Even so, he couldn’t willingly surrender himself. To become the Soul’s doppelganger and free the beast wasn’t an option.

  Why me? Why not just occupy Helleden?

  An icy finger tickled his thoughts. The Stygian Lord is not strong enough to breach the barrier restraining me.

  Silurian sensed, rather than heard, a slight snicker. The transformation had already begun.

  Aye, my pet. You were always mightier than the Stygian Lord, you just didn’t know it.

  Silurian shuddered. Realizing there was no way out, he did the only thing that made sense to him. He withdrew his power and gave up his struggle. He allowed his body’s physical limitations to be overcome by the environment around him. He withdrew the essence of his power into the deepest recesses of his mind, exerting only enough resistance to thwart the Soul’s icy tendrils from finding him. He effectively shut down the vital processes keeping him alive. His mind became dormant. He began to drown.

  The Soul ripped through his tattered mind in a frantic attempt to locate him, panic clearly evident in its actions.

  If Silurian could have smiled, he would have. He drifted in a dreamlike trance, the little he comprehended felt surreal, as if everything was but a nightmare he wouldn’t wake from.

  It dawned on him, at the edge of his thoughts, that his body had been enveloped in an unusual blanket of warm air. Even though his mind remained locked away, he sensed his body convulsing. His lungs vacated the water within them. A sulfurous odour upturned his nostrils. His body had stopped travelling. It had reached its destination within the bowels of Iconoclast Spire, and he was still alive. That wasn’t good.

  From somewhere beyond where he cowered within his mind, a dull reverberation vibrated through his body. If the Soul were able to locate his essence, he feared he would be powerless to slip away again—especially within the heart of the Soul Forge.

  The Soul’s pale apparition shimmered ghostlike on the floor of an immense cavern, deep beneath Iconoclast Spire. At its feet, Silurian’s body twitched and gasped.

  In the cavern’s centre frothed a large, milky lake. Fed from overtop a great shelf of rock, viscous white liquid plummeted hundreds of feet to the lake below. The lake, in turn, spilled through a dark cleft at the cavern’s far end, feeding the Marrow Wash.

  Matted hair hung from the Soul’s head, long enough to reach its knees. The specter stood so tall that it nearly brushed the milky white stalactites hanging from the voluminous chamber’s roof. The only colour evident in its appearance came from its fiery orbs, sunk within an otherwise empty, fleshless skull.

  Its eyes flared, illuminating the crypt. How dare you deny me? It boomed loud enough to vibrate Silurian’s body.

  Not receiving a response, it bellowed, resonating so loud within Silurian’s mind it would have ruptured a normal man’s brain, Succumb to me!

  Silurian’s body shivered despite the heat. The Soul’s words reached him, finding their way into the mental fortress he had barricaded himself within. The thunderous drone shook his physical body. Fear seeped past his defenses.

  Obey me, mortal!

  The Soul was getting closer to prying him out.

  Surrender now or forever know my wrath! I know where you are.

  He wanted to reach out from behind his mental barrier and attempt to shut down his respiratory system or stop his heart, but he feared that if he ventured out for even a heartbeat, the Soul would claim him.

  Despite its boasts, the Soul hadn’t found him yet. He couldn’t be certain, but he clung to the belief that the Soul wasn’t any closer to finding him than it had been before. The Soul’s words weren’t lost on him, however. Sooner or later, it would find him.

  I have all the time in the world.

  He ignored the taunt. His corporeal body required sustenance to keep it alive. All he needed to do was refrain from allowing the Soul’s taunts to lure him out of his bastion until his body died of natural causes. Given his recent beating and lack of proper food, he predicted that wouldn’t take more than a few days.

  He needed to calm himself. Ignore the Soul and concentrate on other things. Visions flooded the simple thoughts left to him. He rode horseback, looking through detached eyes. His old black charger, Alcytwin, galloped at a phenomenal speed along Redfire Path. Ahead of him, a group of rough horsemen circled a frightened young man who stood defenseless in their midst, a scorpion flail wrapped tightly about his neck.

 
; Bregens?

  Silurian heeled Alcytwin, urging him into the circle.

  Bregens’ bruised and battered face beseeched his help.

  Silurian offered the leader a wicked smile, and suddenly the man’s warhammer appeared in his own hand. The circle of riders faded away.

  A sad voice parted Bregens’ lips, “Bregens is Silurian’s friend?”

  Silurian hefted the cudgel over his head. He wanted to recoil from the terror evident on Bregens’ face, but he was helpless to prevent himself from swinging the warhammer and crushing Bregens’ skull into a bloody pulp, splattering himself with the young man’s blood.

  No! Bregens, I didn’t do it.

  The Soul had found him. It had cracked his barrier. It wouldn’t be long before it hammered a wedge into the crack and exposed him entirely.

  In the blink of an eye, Silurian watched in horror as he fled along a smoky passageway. He didn’t recognize the place at first, but familiar voices called after him as he ran from the flames licking at his heels. Cries of terror begged him to save them. Pathetic screams of those who fell behind, caught in the flames, cried out his name. A throng of chambermen raced after him, pleading forgiveness. He laughed and ran harder, his glowing sword igniting the tunnel as he went.

  He slipped from the entrance shed and slammed home a bolt, locking everybody inside. They jammed their faces against the door’s barred window, pleading for death as the flames consumed them.

  Silurian’s mind cried out, that wasn’t me!

  The Soul watched on in delight as the pitiful creature writhed in torment at its feet. It laughed. You only have yourself to blame. You are responsible for their deaths. You have only begun to experience the terror your mind is capable of inflicting upon itself.

  Silurian strode into Nordic Town’s centre. His sister Melody was being held by a filthy man with a rusty sword. Rook was there as well, fighting off the advances of another swordsman.

  Silurian watched himself approach the filthy man. Without a word, the ruffian pushed Melody into his waiting embrace. Sobbing and babbling, she wrapped her arms about him.