Soul Forge Saga Box Set

by Richard Stephens

  Olmar grunted from somewhere nearby, the big man settling into his own bedroll.

  Larina had insisted they post a watch and volunteered to take the first shift. She walked around the campfire to where Olmar lay and muttered something to him before moving on.

  Just as dreams sifted into Alhena’s mind, he was startled awake by a high-pitched shriek and a commotion from where Sadyra had settled down across the fire. A chill shot through him. He located his staff and scrambled from beneath his bedroll.

  A deep, rumbling laugh rose close by, followed by a higher pitched chortle farther away. Confused, Alhena followed Olmar’s pointing finger across the fire.

  Sadyra had extricated herself from her bedroll and jumped about, scratching furiously at her abdomen and nether regions, screeching in obvious discomfort.

  Plunking herself down long enough to rip off her boots, she sprang to her feet again and began removing her outer garments as fast as possible, hopping about and cursing in a shrill voice. She paused long enough to glare murder at Larina who stood half hidden behind a tree, bent over laughing.

  “Just you wait, bitch. Just you wait.”

  Larina laughed even harder. Struggling to compose herself, she spit out, “Ah, I’ve missed you too, dearest Sadie,” and walked howling into the darkness to commence her watch.

  Olmar’s deep voice filled the night with unbridled laughter as Sadyra stripped off the rest of her clothing. “Now we’ll see ‘ow cold the night air is, eh lassie?”

  Alhena, realizing Sadyra was pulling off her shift in a frenzied effort to get at whatever ailed her, looked away and observed Olmar enjoying the spectacle. He gave the sailor a puzzled look.

  “Larina filled her bedroll with fire ants!” Olmar exclaimed, falling to his side and roaring loud enough to be heard all the way back to Songsbirth.

  “What was that all about, last night?” Alhena asked the following morning, eating his breakfast beside a rekindled fire.

  Larina, sitting next to Sadyra on a large rock, looked at her friend and pushed her on the shoulder, almost knocking Sadyra to the leaf-covered ground. “Just having fun with me mate.”

  Alhena frowned.

  “I saw a hill of ants yesterday, so I collected a few—”

  “A few?” Sadyra shoved Larina right off the rock, causing her bowl of gruel to fly into the air.

  Olmar snorted a mouthful of breakfast back into his bowl.

  Alhena shook his head. “Women.”

  “This is the closest we get to Torpid Marsh,” Alhena commented, four and a half days out of Songsbirth as the Olde Gritian Road left the charred grassland below the Muse behind. The devastation evident in the fields was no different from anything they had experienced since Madrigail Bay, but as the day drew to a close, Alhena began thinking the farms appeared less ruined than the terrain they had recently travelled through.

  He dashed that glimmer of hope as soon as it surfaced. How many times had he believed things were getting better, only to have his euphoria crushed by the death and destruction that awaited around the next bend? The exception, of course, was Songsbirth, but there was a good explanation for its survival. The hamlet lay snuggled within the upper reaches of the Muse. So high, in fact, that the layers of clouds normally blanketing the mainland hovered at a lower elevation than the quaint community.

  Sadyra and Larina walked several paces ahead, their eyes continuously scanning westward toward the fringes of the Torpid Marsh, bows clutched casually at their sides.

  Olmar loped along behind him, his warhammer in hand. Last night he had informed them he had never travelled this far south before. At one point he suggested they check out the fabled marshland to see what all the fuss was about. The withering looks he received from Sadyra and Larina put a quick end to that idea.

  “Riders!” Sadyra suddenly called out. She slipped off the roadway, dropping to a knee, an arrow already in her left hand.

  Larina matched her on the opposite side of the road, hunching down behind a small bush.

  Olmar and Alhena followed their lead, dropping out of sight behind a large tree.

  Alhena couldn’t help but smile. If they had seen the riders, how could the riders not have seen them—or more particularly, Olmar?

  As the riders drew near they slowed their charge and drew their swords. When they were within arrow shot, Larina and Sadyra stepped out from their concealment, arrows nocked.

  Sadyra lowered her bow and looked back. “Relax. They bear the Gritian Militia insignia.”

  There were six horsemen in all. Upon reaching the two archers the lead rider dismounted and shook hands with them.

  Alhena spotted the knot of gold rope on the man’s left shoulder denoting him as the Enervator of Gritian—the Chamber’s whip. He thought it strange that they had already replaced Avarick, especially since they had no idea whether he was coming back or not.

  Olmar stepped out from behind a tree and the militiamen gripped their swords tighter.

  Larina said something to the Enervator. Sadyra laughed and turned to point at Olmar. “Aye, meet Midge.”

  The militiaman nodded toward Olmar, the Enervator’s green eyes wary of the warhammer in Olmar’s hands.

  “And that bag o’ bones is Alhena Sirrus. We seek audience with the preacher,” Sadyra said, her choice of words causing the militiaman noticeable discomfort. “We must hurry, lest Alhena expire before we reach the Chamber.”

  Alhena shook his head slightly, the action becoming a habit in the presence of the two archers.

  At the mention of Alhena, the militiamen tensed.

  The man on the ground strode up to Alhena, studying his clothing. His eyes stopped on Alhena’s staff for more than a cursory glance. “Senior Messenger Sirrus?” He looked to his companions. The nearest man on horseback nodded, his expression grave.

  “There is a writ of apprehension out for you,” the Enervator said, flicking a lock of black hair from his eyes. He looked to the archers, and then uneasily at Olmar. “I’m afraid you’ll have to accompany us back to Gritian. High Warlord Uzziah is searching for you.”

  Three more militiamen slid from their horses and moved to surround Alhena.

  Alhena frowned. High Warlord Uzziah? Surely the man misspoke. “I apologize. You are?”

  “Jibrael Fox. Enervator of the Chamber of the Wise.”

  Olmar growled and Alhena knew why. That had been Avarick’s title.

  “My friends call me Jib. You may call me Enervator,” Jibrael said, his tone serious.

  The three militiamen made a move to grab Alhena, but stepped back and raised their swords as Olmar inserted his great girth between them, warhammer at the ready. “Anyone layin’ ‘ands on me friend will be getting’ their brains bashed, an’ that’s for sure.”

  The two men still on horseback sidestepped their mounts to either side of Olmar.

  At once, Sadyra and Larina trained their arrows on the horsemen. If it came to blows, the four men on the ground would be hard pressed to bring Olmar down.

  The Enervator held up his hands. “Easy now. Let’s not make this worse than it is. We’re doing our duty. As senior messenger to the Chamber, you are well versed in protocol.”

  Alhena’s opaque eyes never left the Enervator. “It’s okay. I had assumed as much before I agreed to return here. Once I speak with Chambermaster Uzziah, everything will be fine.”

  “’tis all well ‘n good, Master Alhena, buts they ain’t t’ be takin’ ye in fetters,” Olmar declared, his corded forearms ready for action.

  Alhena offered the Enervator a slight smile and raised his eyebrows. He left it up to the Chamber whip to decide how the rest of this played out. Alhena knew only too well that Olmar meant what he said, nor did he doubt the sailor capable of carrying out the threat.

  The Enervator appeared to be gauging the possible outcome of the situation should he decide to take issue with Olmar’s declaration. “Very well. Since you were the senior messenger to the Chamber, I’ll allow you to
come along without restraints, but I will require you to ride with us. Your friends may follow along as they see fit.”

  Olmar snarled, “We all goes together like, or ye lot can stay here lickin’ yer wounds. I’s tellin’ ye right now, Master Alhena disnae go alone.”

  The Enervator appeared on the verge of saying something he might regret. With great restraint written across his purpled face, he muttered through gritted teeth, “And just how do we transport someone as big as you?”

  The sentries manning the northern guard post at the top of the Gritian basin were shocked to see the strange procession riding down Redfire Path. Following the Enervator, four horses trotted along bearing two riders each: a militiaman and someone resembling a wizard, the next two carrying a militiaman and a female archer, and then a horse carrying two militiamen together—the rear man not looking too happy about having to ride behind his companion. However, what made the whole procession totally bizarre was the last horse. The poor beast struggled beneath a man so large that it seemed no bigger than a colt.

  The sentries stepped out to inspect the group, but a withering look from the Enervator had them scrambling to get out of the way.

  As he passed, Jibrael mouthed to one of the guards, motioning to the back of the procession with his eyes, “Get help.”

  Jibrael rode to the Chamber’s entrance shed and dismounted. He invited the others to do the same and follow him past two posted guards, and into the entrance tunnel.

  Alhena kept pace with the Enervator as they entered the cooler confines of the passageway beyond. “I am sorry, Enervator Jibrael, but I think I misheard you back there. I thought you mentioned High Warlord Uzziah.”

  Jibrael stared at Alhena as if he were daft. “What of it?”

  “Surely, you mean High Warlord Archimedes. Uzziah is the high bishop.”

  “Archimedes is dead,” Jibrael grunted. “He died chasing you and that wretch Mintaka. Hey—”

  Olmar clutched the Enervator’s neck in his massive hands and lifted him off the ground. “What did ye say, little man?”

  Even if Jibrael wanted to respond, Olmar’s strangling hold prevented him from doing so. The Enervator struggled to pull the hands from his neck but lacked the strength.

  “Olmar, no!” Alhena pleaded.

  Sadyra and Larina each hung off one of Olmar’s arms, trying to extricate the struggling Enervator. Judging by the look on the man’s face, it wouldn’t be much longer before Jibrael’s throat was crushed beyond repair.

  “Olmar, you lunkhead,” Larina screamed at him. “Let him go. You’re going to be the death of us all.”

  Grudgingly, Olmar lowered the nearly unconscious man to the ground.

  Jibrael fell against the tunnel wall, clutching his throat and gasping for breath.

  Alhena looked from Olmar to the Enervator and back again. “Do you know who this man is? Apologize now, before it’s too late.”

  Olmar crossed his arms across his chest, glaring at Jibrael. “Ye watch ‘ow ye speak of Silurian, else ye’ll be getting’ more o’ the same.”

  Footsteps rushed in from outside—a group of armoured men bristling with weapons.

  Olmar reached for his warhammer but stopped. He barely fit in the tunnel as it was. Effectively wielding his weapon would prove problematic in the close quarters.

  The guardsmen stared at the Enervator leaning against the wall. Before they could do more than gape, a second group of people came down the tunnel from the opposite direction. At the head of the second group strode an older man clad in flowing red robes cinched about his slim waist with a woollen belt.

  “What goes on here?” The white-bearded leader demanded, his intense blue eyes surveying the scene. “Alhena Sirrus?”

  “High Bishop Uzziah,” Alhena said, lowering his eyes in supplication. “I have returned to Gritian with news of great import.”

  “Why isn’t this man in restraints?” the high bishop demanded.

  Olmar made a half-hearted move toward the wrinkled primate of Zephyr, but Sadyra and Larina held him back.

  “Think, lunkhead,” Sadyra growled up at him. “That’s High Bishop Uzziah. You want us all to burn in hell?”

  Jibrael twisted his head and swallowed, his voice raspy. “Your Eminence, it is by my decree Alhena has been brought into the Chamber thus. He claims to carry news regarding Silurian Mintaka.”

  “Indeed.” The high bishop nodded. He turned to a pikeman. “Escort him to the Chamber. I’ll be along shortly.”

  “Aye, High Warlord Uzziah.” One of the armed men snapped a salute and barked orders for the chambermaster’s instructions to be carried out.

  Jibrael brushed himself off. He took a moment to glare up at Olmar—his look promising the big sailor he hadn’t heard the last of this.

  “And what of the others, High Warlord Uzziah?” Jibrael asked.

  Abraham gave Jibrael a stern look. “Bring them along. They’ll face the same fate, pending the outcome.”

  Jibrael offered the newcomers a knowing smirk and scrambled after the warlord’s receding red robes.

  City of Despair

  Yarstaff was filled with wonder as he followed in Pollard and Rook’s wake. The muscular Voil craned his neck this way and that, taking in the foreign sights. Though the majority of the landscape was covered in black ash and littered with destruction, after living within the prison-like confines of his former cliffside home along the Marrow Wash, everything about Zephyr held a magical charm in his eyes.

  He never dreamt of seeing a settlement the size of Madrigail Bay. Witnessing the grandeur of the Spine as a backdrop to the port city had been a jaw-dropping experience. Travelling the vast expanse of Zephyr’s interior farmlands, burnt beyond redemption as they were, did little to dampen his exhilaration. The kingdom was an expansive land containing unlimited wonders along its forever changing contours. Mountains five times higher than any he knew in the Under Realm, and great rivers running clear and unspoiled throughout the plains they journeyed across were but two of the wondrous sights he witnessed, and he’d only been in Zephyr for less than two weeks. Perhaps the most incredible spectacle of all, was the sky. A ball of yellow brilliance tracked across the heavens during the day, basking their skin with warmth, only to be replaced by a white, crescent-shaped thing Pollard had called a moon. The countless pinpricks of lights illuminating the night sky left him mesmerized.

  Yarstaff smiled, remembering the astonished looks on Pollard and Rook’s face when he screeched at the sight of something they referred to as a shooting star. He thought someone was stealing one of the miracles painted upon the sky.

  Two days ago, they had entered a blackened tundra Rook referred to as the Plains of Lugubrius. Apparently, the King of Zephyr’s castle lay at the end of the road they trod.

  Pollard set a fast pace, and Yarstaff found himself scurrying to keep up. Looking at Pollard, he couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to mess with him. Even if the person knew magic, it would take a mighty wallop to slow Pollard’s advance. He felt empathy for him. For such a big brute, Pollard had shown he was a man of great passion. The devastation affected him deeply.

  Yarstaff scrambled to Pollard’s side, careful not to get trampled underfoot. “So, Mr. Pollard, how much longer until we reach this Castle Sw…sf…sv…?”

  Pollard looked down at him, his eyebrows knitted in consternation. “Svelte?”

  “Yes, Swelt.” Yarstaff frowned as the strange word crossed his tongue.

  Pollard didn’t correct him.

  Rook glanced over from Pollard’s far side. “Unless I’m mistaken, we should be able to see the castle’s soaring spires anytime now.”

  Yarstaff almost squeaked with excitement, recalling Rook’s description of the kingdom’s largest city. Carillon, sprawled about Castle Svelte, was a sight like no other.

  Rook smiled at Pollard’s glum face. “I imagine you’ll see it long before us. You have a much better vantage point up there.”

  Pollard grunted, casting
a scowl at the green-clad bowman. “I believe the castle will come into view once we top yonder hill.”

  West Castle Road rose slowly toward a pronounced crest upon the vast plains. Yarstaff found himself jogging to keep up with Pollard’s increased pace.

  Sure enough, breasting the gradual hilltop, a distant spire separated itself from the relatively flat landscape.

  “And there it is,” Pollard said, a hint of excitement lightening his sour expression.

  Yarstaff jumped up and down, straining his neck, but saw nothing. “Where? I can’t see. Where is Castle Swelt?”

  Pollard grabbed him beneath the armpits and hoisted him high into the air, putting his head ten feet above the ground.

  Squinting, Yarstaff thought he noticed a slender darkness on the horizon. “Ooh, I see it. I see it. Wow.” He cocked his head sideways; the enthusiasm left his voice. “Is that all?”

  Pollard lowered him to the ground. “What do you mean, is that all?”

  Yarstaff shrugged, trying to think of a way to say what he thought without offending him. “I don’t know. I thought it would be bigger, yes?”

  “Hah!” Pollard exclaimed. “What you see is but the castle’s tallest tower. Castle Svelte is still a long way off. That tower is known as the Wizard’s Spike. It stands three times taller than the next highest spire.”

  Rook nodded. “Aye, Pollard speaks true. The Wizard’s Spike is something to behold. Gives me the shivers just thinking about it. And that’s just the tower. Wait until you see the castle proper. I have seen many great keeps, but Castle Svelte is grander than them all. Probably greater than Kraken Castle, eh Pollard?”

  Pollard’s faced turned sour. “Never seen it. If I had, it wouldn’t be standing no more.”

  Yarstaff had no idea what they were talking about, but their description of the castle piqued his excitement into a barely restrained frenzy. After more than four hundred years cooped up in the cliffs along the Marrow Wash, getting a chance to visit a place as grand as a king’s castle was almost too much to take. Without waiting for his travelling companions, he started off toward the spire.