Soul Forge Saga Box Set

by Richard Stephens

  He felt along the base of the door and discovered the metal door frame was embedded in the earth.

  He inspected one edge of the door, then the top, and down the far side. He couldn’t feel anything that called out to him as a potential weakness, nor had he really expected one.

  Teeth gnawing on metal grabbed his attention. The bowl!

  Olmar dropped to his hands and knees, the sudden change in posture making his head pound harder. Taking a couple of steadying breaths, he groped along the edge of the wall until he located the errant bowl. A squeak of protest greeted him, but it was too dark to see the critter responsible. “Bah, be gone ya little squeaker,” he said to it. Kneeling before the door, he used the bowl to dig at the hard-packed dirt.

  He didn’t know how long he scraped away at the ground, but more than once he heard a cell door squeal upon its hinges. He called out a few times, but no one responded.

  His metal bowl let out a tooth-shattering screech that made him cringe. He had struck a rock. With his tongue between his lips, he scraped around the edges of the shallow depression. Sweat dripped from his nose as he removed thin layers of dirt from the perimeter of the hole in an effort to expose the edges of the rock.

  Hunger gnawed at him while he worked. He rued his decision to feed the slop to the thankless vermin. If nothing else, the gruel might have helped ease his thirst.

  He must’ve dropped off at some point because the squeal of his door slot opening jarred him awake. Before he could focus, a small wooden bowl was pushed through, its outline highlighted by flickering torchlight on the other side of the door.

  He tried to call out but his mouth was so dry his voice came out as a hoarse grunt. “Wait.”

  If the person on the other side of the door heard him, they didn’t let on.

  The wooden bowl slid across the threshold and tipped into the shallow hole, spilling its contents. The slot screeched home and a click marked the activation of the locking mechanism.

  Olmar fumbled at the wooden bowl. It had contained water, but most of it coated the top of the rock he had been trying to worry free. He sipped at the little water left in the bowl, relishing its moisture. It had a strong metal taste, but he didn’t care. He lapped the bowl’s surface to get every last drop, though it was barely enough to wet his mouth. He cursed his luck.

  With nothing to do about his misfortune, Olmar patted the floor around him and located the metal bowl. He began digging again in earnest, hopeful the spilled water had softened up the dirt.

  A metal squeal sounded in the distance, longer and more pronounced than his food slot. Perhaps a cell door being opened.

  Olmar stopped digging and put his ear to the small trap door.

  “Out with ya, old man,” a gruff voice ordered.

  Alhena?

  “Come on now, Uzziah ain’t got all day.”

  The edges of Olmar’s food slot brightened. Someone walked by his cell. He crammed his face against the trap door. “Alhena! ‘Tis Olmar! Are ye okay? Pops!”

  “Olmar?” It was Pops’ voice.

  A loud smack reached Olmar’s ear.

  “Quiet, old man. Don’t you be responding,” the gruff voice commanded, “or I’ll knock you senseless.”

  The brightness around the food slot faded away.

  Olmar jumped to his feet and whacked his head off the low rock ceiling, staggering him, but the pain did nothing to quell his rage. He hammered on the door and bent low, throwing his weight against the steel barrier. The door rattled in its frame.

  “Hey, guard! Yer a dead man! Ye ‘ears me! Dead!”

  Olmar pounded the door for a long time, throwing his body into the unforgiving barrier, time after time, but the door refused to give.

  After a while, the pain in his head became too much to bear. He put his back against the door and slid to the ground, coming to rest on the immovable rock at the bottom of the shallow hole.

  Alhena flinched every time Olmar threw himself against the cell door, the impacts so loud he feared the sailor would bring the tunnel ceiling crashing down. The reverberations sounded like an enraged dragon attempting to bash its way out of a cage to protect its young. The only satisfaction Alhena received was the hint of fear behind the burly guard’s eyes every time Olmar’s door shook in protest.

  Alhena knew the dungeons well. He had been down here on several occasions in the past to translate for foreign prisoners the Chamber had detained over the years. This had been Avarick Thwart’s domain before Silurian had come into the picture. Alhena doubted the present Enervator could aspire to be as ruthless as Avarick had been. Never, in all his years, had Alhena been warier of one individual than he had been of Avarick—the vile sorcerer Helleden Misenthorpe excluded. Yet, in the end, the emotionless Enervator had become an integral part of the Under Realm quest. Were it not for Avarick’s heroic sacrifice, it was likely none of them would have returned.

  Reaching the top of a curving stairwell, their eyes were assaulted by the brightness of the well-lit tunnel that led to the main passageway. Two guards at the top of the steps parted to allow them passage. Jibrael awaited against the far wall.

  “I’ll take him from here,” the Enervator said, grabbing Alhena by the elbow.

  The burly guard tilted his head. “Sir?”

  “He’s an old man, Tarl. What’s he going to do? Die on me?” Jibrael asked, dismissing the guard’s concern. “Have a chat with that animal down there. We heard him all the way up here.”

  Tarl grunted, not looking happy at the prospect of returning to the dungeon level.

  Alhena wrested his elbow from the Enervator’s grasp and spun to face him. “What’s this all about?”

  The tunnel guards stepped forward, and Tarl stopped on the edge of the first step.

  Jibrael ignored them. He reclaimed his hold on Alhena’s arm and impelled him down the tunnel. “You do that again and I’ll break it.”

  Alhena glared at the Enervator, his breaths heavy, but he kept walking. He had little choice. Perhaps Avarick hadn’t been such a bad Enervator after all.

  They turned right at the main tunnel. Curiously, at the fork in the tunnel beyond the eating halls, Jibrael directed Alhena down a smaller passageway to the left, away from the Chamber of the Wise. Toward Abraham Uzziah’s personal chamber.

  The tunnel narrowed and veered right, terminating at an iron strapped, oak door protected by two guards. Seeing Jibrael, one of the guards pulled the door open without being asked.

  Sconces lined the short corridor beyond, illuminating beautifully rendered battle scenes and religious ceremonies carved into the granite walls. Making sure to secure the door, the Enervator led them past six opposing wooden doors set into either side of the tunnel, their frames a flowing extension of the long dead artisan’s masterpiece. They stopped at the end of the short passage before a bronze strapped door.

  Jibrael raised his hand to rap, but the thick door swung silently inward. High Bishop Abraham Uzziah, clad in the red robes of his office, gestured for them to enter with an outstretched hand, and promptly closed the door behind them.

  A modest fire flickered against the far wall. Abraham nodded to a plush, leather couch, and sat himself down on the opposite side of an ornate table inlaid with an ivory top.

  Glancing questioningly at the Enervator who remained rigid by the door, Alhena sank into the leather couch, refusing to be cowed by whatever the two men were up to. He would find out soon enough. Swallowing his resolve, he faced the chambermaster. A strong, aromatic incense wafted upon the air, turning up his nose.

  Abraham gave Jibrael a subtle nod and the Enervator took his leave.

  Alhena thought that odd, leaving him alone with the chambermaster.

  A shadow detached itself from the back corner of the room on the far side of the stone hearth. The dark figure from the Chamber. It shuffled toward him, its black cowl hiding its features. A small thurible swung from the end of a fine-linked chain wrapped about its folded hands—the vessel’s perfo
rated surface emitted small wisps of burning vapour. Long black claws tipped its fingers.

  Alhena gaped. The creature carried his staff within its grasp.

  All the King’s Horses

  Yarstaff followed behind Pollard’s massive bulk, comforted that the man considered him a friend.

  Rook and King Malcolm walked ahead of them as they picked their way over the shattered causeway across the moat and into the broken city of Carillon. A knot of King’s Guard fanned out around the royal procession, ensuring that the grimy-faced people lining the streets bore no visible weapons. Their job was made much more difficult because King Malcolm insisted that any who wished to speak with him directly be permitted to do so. Their progress through the vast city proved excruciatingly slow.

  The majority of the stone buildings were now nothing more than blasted carapaces, their interiors obliterated. Black scars on the ground were all that was left of many of the wooden structures that had once provided the backbone of the merchant community lining the main roadways.

  Several townspeople approached the king and took a knee, the hardship of the past weeks evident upon their downcast expressions. Yarstaff couldn’t hear what they spoke about as he and Pollard offered them space, but it wasn’t lost on him how Rook kept an ever-vigilant watch standing next to the king of Zephyr.

  The captain of the King’s Guard, Umber Pik, came bounding down the street toward them. He stopped and respectfully awaited King Malcolm’s attention, looking as if he was about to burst.

  King Malcolm finally nodded to the citizens he had been speaking to, nodded his head when they bowed low and walked away. He turned his attention to the captain. “Captain Pik.”

  “M’liege, I beg you follow me at once.”

  “What is it, captain?”

  “Good tidings, m’liege.”

  “Pray, do tell, Pik. It’s not like you to leave your king in the dark.”

  “Nay m’liege, but I’m thinking this is best seen first.”

  The royal entourage moved with increased speed through the devastation. To his credit, and Captain Pik’s consternation, King Malcolm stopped on a couple of occasions to converse with small groups of beleaguered citizens.

  As they approached the last bend in the roadway before the city’s north gate came into view, Yarstaff noted that the cobblestone route appeared much cleaner than that of the road behind them. The buildings around the immediate area hadn’t escaped the firestorm, but the usual pile of debris wasn’t as evident.

  The sound of a horse clopping along the cobbles piqued everyone’s attention. When the magnificent animal came into view Yarstaff was awestruck. He’d heard stories of these transport animals, but he had yet to see one. It was huge. The man on its back looked small in comparison.

  Pollard must have spotted his wonder. “Ah, of course, you’ve never seen a horse before, have you? Not even at Madrigail Bay?”

  Yarstaff shook his head, speechless.

  “With one of them between your legs, the leagues fly by during your travels. A good horse is worth its weight in gold.”

  “Gold?” Yarstaff frowned. “How do you compare a useless metal with such a beautiful animal? Zephyr’s customs are strange.”

  Pollard burst out laughing, but curtailed his mirth when Rook looked over at them questioningly.

  The rider dismounted and took a knee. “My king. News of your well-being brings gladness to my weary heart.”

  The king bid the grey-haired man rise. When he spoke, Yarstaff heard the wonder in Malcolm’s voice. “Captain Korn? Is it really you?”

  The horseman accepted the king’s hand and rose. “Retired captain now, Sire, though you honour me with your memory.”

  “Nonsense, Pantyr,” Malcolm said, calling the captain by his given name. “You are a hard man to forget. And Mrs. Korn?”

  Pantyr’s gaze fell.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Malcolm grabbed the old man by the wrists, causing Pantyr to look into his deep blue eyes. “I assure you, we will deal with those responsible for this.” His look encompassed their surroundings.

  “Nay, my king. Adessa died a few years back. I came to Carillon a couple of days ago. You’ve heard about Millsford?”

  Malcolm gave him a solemn look. “Aye, and I am grieved by the news.”

  Pantyr forced a sad smile and then extended a hand to Rook. “Rook Bowman. The people will be glad to see you.”

  Rook shook the proffered hand as Pantyr Korn handed the reins to a young man who appeared out of seemingly nowhere, and then clapped his hands together. “Anyway, Sire, come see what your noble citizens have been up to.”

  Yarstaff and Pollard fell in behind the king, Rook and Captain Pik, as Pantyr led them toward a long, newly erected building that backed onto the city wall on the far side of what was left of the northern gatehouse. Wagons loaded with hay were parked just beyond.

  “This must be your doing, Pantyr,” the king stated, nodding his approval.

  “The majority of the horses are from my stables near Millsford. The good people of Carillon have been instrumental in helping me rebuild suitable lodging for them.”

  Yarstaff took in the dirty faces of the city folk Pantyr indicated. Men and women in leather and chainmail armour stood about the open area fronting the gaping city gate. Many were busy picking up the endless debris scattered about, while other more official looking ones made a point of checking anyone entering the city.

  It wasn’t long before he and Pollard began drawing the attention of the city watch. A small pocket of curious guardsmen near the broken gate conversed amongst themselves, their attention focused on the two of them, but especially him. Word of his race’s presence in their kingdom had obviously not reached the north gate. As one, four dour males and two serious looking women broke away from the gate to confront them.

  Pollard stepped in front of Yarstaff. “Greetings.”

  A bald-headed, black-bearded man separated himself from the group, giving Pollard a serious once over. Yarstaff figured the man must surely be smart enough to realize that engaging Pollard in a confrontation would not end well.

  The man scratched at his thick beard and made eye contact with Yarstaff. He pointed with his chin as he spoke to Pollard. “What do you call that?”

  Pollard crossed his arms over his chest. “That, my ill-mannered friend, is Yarstaff. He is a Voil.”

  The bald man’s colleagues spread out, surrounding them.

  If their actions caused Pollard unease, he never let on.

  “Is that what you call it?” The leader spat on the ground. “I’m thinking we don’t care for it in Carillon. Or anywhere else in Zephyr, for that matter. Nor do we appreciate the fact that you want to protect it.”

  Pollard’s heavy brow knitted. He lowered his arms to his sides. “Is that so? I’ll tell you what I don’t like.” His gaze flicked to each man and woman. “I don’t like ungrateful folk who refuse to extend the hospitality of their king. In fact, it isn’t Yarstaff I’m protecting.”

  The man frowned.

  “I’m protecting you,” Pollard growled.

  As Pollard’s threat sunk in, the group tightened their circle.

  Pollard’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword but left it within its scabbard—the movement prompting the group to brandish their weapons.

  Yarstaff tensed. His sword suddenly in hand, he faced the woman and man nearest to him.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Rook called out, stepping away from the king and jogging back to intervene. He stopped at the edge of the armed group. “What’s going on here?”

  The leader stepped toward Rook, his sword lowered. “That man has brought a demon into our midst. You’d best be watching your back, mister.” The man eyed Rook’s black wood bow.

  Rook gave the man a condescending smile, his eyes taking in the rest of the group. “If you think you’re man enough to lock swords with Pollard, be my guest.” Rook laughed and turned to walk away.

  The leader glared at Rook,
but his words were obviously intended for Pollard. “Turn it over to us and we’ll be on our way.”

  Pollard answered the request by pulling his sword free of its double sheath.

  The bald-headed man backed away a couple of steps. The sword was longer than a halberd. He swallowed but refused to back down. Instead, he motioned for his companions to get ready.

  “Stand down!” the king’s voice commanded.

  Captain Pik stepped away from King Malcolm and strode with purpose toward them. “What’s the meaning of this, Sir Allan?”

  The bald leader glared at the captain. Yarstaff sensed the man’s struggle to keep the edge from his voice as he pointed his sword at him. “There’s a demon amongst us.”

  Pik stormed up to Sir Allan, clearly unhappy. “That, rock head, is no demon. He’s under the king’s protection.”

  “The king’s protection?” Sir Allan sputtered.

  “Aye, Sir Allan,” King Malcolm’s deep voice sounded as he approached. The gathering crowd parted to allow Malcolm passage.

  Pantyr Korn walked beside King Malcolm. “Allan, you fool. How dare you bare steel in the king’s presence?”

  Sir Allan sheathed his sword and dropped to a knee, his cohorts quickly following his lead.

  Malcolm, as usual, was the calming influence. “Arise Sir Allan. You’re merely doing your duty to protect your kingdom. I can only hope that all still alive share your spirit, but I’m afraid you’ve wronged in this instant. Before you is a man named Yarstaff. He, and many others like him, have come to us from a faraway land offering us much needed aid during our darkest hour. He may appear different than you or I but I assure you he shares our purpose. His people have lived under Helleden’s tyranny for over four hundred years.”

  Sir Allan and his cohorts looked stunned by that last statement.

  “This is a good time for me to utter my first royal decree since the castle fell.” King Malcolm walked over to place a hand on Yarstaff’s shoulder. “I command everyone here to bear witness and spread the word. The Voil have arrived on our shores and are pledged to the House of Svelte. They are assisting your peers in Madrigail Bay to rebuild. The Voil are not a part of Helleden’s army.”