Soul Forge Saga Box Set

by Richard Stephens

  He worked away, placing Melody’s staff and bag beside her while he enlightened her about the appearance of the serpent. He upended her boots onto tall stakes that he drove into the ground near the campfire. When he was happy that he had collected plenty of wood to fuel the fire, he sat next to her—her damp, straggly hair brushing his face as she leaned into him, shivering.

  “Put my gloves on.” He smiled at how big they were on the end of her dainty arms.

  Darkness fell quickly in the northern climates. The patches of sky seen through gaps in the trees were shrouded in grey cloud. If it rained, they would never get her robes dry.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but a distant cry brought him awake. Small flames struggled to remain alive in their firepit, lapping at the glowing red embers smouldering at its centre. The eastern sky lightened.

  He tried to carefully lay his sister aside, but his movement woke her.

  “What is it?” she asked groggily.

  “Nothing. I’m just going to throw some more wood on the fire.” He looked up. The cloud cover appeared ominous.

  Even with the fire blazing again, they were chilled to the bone. He checked Melody’s clothing. The cloak, hot to the touch, felt dry enough. Her dark blue robes were still damp in several places, while her leather boots were hopelessly wet.

  “Here, put this over you.” He placed the cloak over her shoulders and readjusted her robes atop the brace of sticks he had hung them on.

  The cry that had woken him sounded closer. Mournful and forlorn.

  Melody’s wide eyes matched his own. She located her staff and dragged it across her lap. “What was that?”

  Silurian walked several steps into the trees and tried to see beyond the fire’s glow, but the heavy cloud cover reduced the visibility considerably. “I don’t know. An injured animal?”

  Melody’s eyes darted about. “It sounds human.”

  That’s what Silurian thought, but he didn’t want to alarm her. Shivering profusely, he pulled his sword free of its scabbard and made his way back to the fire.

  A hair-raising moan reached them, coming from the shoreline.

  Silurian swallowed. He plucked Melody’s boots from the stakes and placed them by her feet. Without taking his eyes off the ridge they had climbed earlier, he said, “Get dressed.”

  Melody didn’t have to be told twice. It took her several moments to force her feet into her boots and untangle the folds of her robes, but by the time Silurian looked back at her from the far side of the campfire, she had secured her magical bag and was shrugging into her cloak.

  She grabbed her staff and walked over to him. “Here.” She held out his tunic. “Give me your sword.”

  Silurian let her hang onto his sword while he slipped into his tunic, thankful for its heavy material.

  “Take your gloves, too.” She handed them to him. “I prefer my fingers free.”

  A distressed cry filled the night air, sounding like whatever, or whoever, was responsible for it, stood right in front of them.

  Silurian snatched his sword back as a shadow detached itself from the darkness and floated toward them, its feet, if it had any, clearly not touching the ground.

  As it came closer, the ghastly spectre appeared to be the top half of the skeletal remains of an adult sized person. It held bony arms before it as it came, its left hand clutching a dark wood staff. Glimpses of white bone appeared through the scraps of dirty material covering the rest of its frame. The only real colour the spectre possessed emanated from the depths of its eye sockets. A small orange flame flickered within each gaping hole.

  Silurian had experienced a lot during his time as a Group of Five member and the dark years following the group’s decline, but the apparition drifting toward them raised the fine hairs on his exposed skin. He stepped backward. It wasn’t until the spectre hovered directly in front of Melody that it dawned on him she hadn’t followed his lead.

  His little sister, not so little anymore, stood defiantly in the ghoul’s path. Her head was hidden beneath the hood of her cloak, her staff held firmly at her side—the ingrained celestial runes glowed softly orange.

  “You have entered a domain not permitted to mortals,” a raspy voice intoned, although Silurian was certain the levitating being’s jawbone never moved. An odd smell wafted from the wraith. Was it elderberry?

  “We seek the Grimward.” Melody’s voice sounded confident. “Our kingdom is dying and a magic we require has been lost to us. We believe the Grimward can help.”

  Silurian was impressed. She spoke to the spectre as if it was just another person.

  “Who dares request a boon from the mighty Grimward?” the raspy voice demanded. Its skull turned, seemingly studying Melody’s staff. “Only those foolish or ignorant would dare set foot on my island. Death is the answer I give you.”

  Silurian hurried to Melody’s side, his sword hilt warming in his hands. He only had time to tense his forearms in preparation. The sword’s ten mystical runes flared to life as an invisible force slammed into him and chucked him backward. He landed heavily, close to the dying campfire.

  My island? The words registered in Melody’s mind as she watched her brother’s body crumple beside the flames. Phazarus’ warning filled her. Only a wizard of pure heart could withstand an encounter with the island spirit. Silurian lay unmoving on the ground. “Grimward, stop! You’ll kill him.”

  The spectre cackled.

  To her relief, Silurian groaned and tried to roll onto his side—his movement cutting the spectre’s mirth short.

  The Grimward slipped past Melody to hover over her brother. “What trickery is this? Nobody survives my attack.”

  Melody ran to join them, straddling Silurian’s moaning form. Jabbing her staff against the Grimward’s breastbone she attempted to shove it away, but it wouldn’t budge. Straightening her shoulders, she declared, “I command you to stop this nonsense at once.”

  The spectre drifted against the outstretched staff, pushing her backward, past the campfire, toward the stone wall. If it didn’t stop, it would crush her against the bluff.

  She struggled to side-step out of its path, but couldn’t, and stumbled twice over loose scree before her body bumped against the rock face. She breathed a sigh of relief as the ancient wizard stopped its advance.

  “Nobody commands the Grimward. I will grind your bones to dust.”

  “Nobody except the Wizard of the North, you mean.” She drew back her cowl, her chin held high.

  The spectre retreated, its flaming eye sockets flicking back and forth and up and down. It laughed grimly. “Hah. You are nothing but a woman. Do not let my looks deceive you, I see far beyond the perceptions of mere mortals.”

  “Hah yourself, mister, ‘I don’t know it all.’ Look closer and see what I say to be true. Behold my staff. See it glow.” She thrust her staff forward and shrugged out of her cloak. “Observe my robes. I wouldn’t be surprised if these aren’t the same ones worn by you five hundred years ago.”

  The spectre hovered closer again, its skull tilting sideways. Finally, it backed off and rasped, “Anyone can make clothing like those. As for the staff…”

  Melody didn’t wait for it to find the words it sought. “If you are so perceptive and see that which we cannot, search my soul. Know that I am pure of heart. A woman chosen by Phazarus to carry on our legacy. If you’re as divine as you claim, you know that I, Melody Mintaka, daughter of Mase Storms End, am the true Wizard of the North.”

  The spectre’s eye flames grew, as if in wonder at the mention of Mase Storms End. Its fires diminished to mere pinpricks of light. “Mase Storms End? How do you know that name? Nobody knows that name except…”

  “Her daughter.”

  The spectre backed off, returning to Silurian, who sat up, on the verge of swooning.

  Melody rushed between them. “Leave him alone. He’s my brother.” She gave it a self-satisfied smirk. “Aye, Mase’s son.”

  The spectre’s
voice rattled with an uncertain air. “He is also a wizard?”

  Melody chuckled. “Hardly.”

  “Then he is of no importance. How does he still live? Only one true of heart can withstand my blast, and only a wizard at that.”

  Melody shrugged. “How would I know? You’re the all-powerful one. You tell me.”

  When the Grimward didn’t respond, she added, “If you’re looking for someone pure of heart, you won’t find anyone purer than Silurian.”

  “Nevertheless, he is no wizard. He should be dead.”

  Silurian located his sword lying beside him, half buried in leaves. He grasped the hilt and rose to his feet. Another concussive force blew into him, but this time the runes of St. Carmichael’s blade radiated an intense blue light and cut through the invisible wind.

  The Grimward’s eyes flared. “That sword! That’s Saros Carmichael’s sword.”

  “Not anymore. Saros is dead,” Silurian stated vehemently, stepping toward the Grimward. “The blade doesn’t appreciate your attitude. Perhaps you’d like to feel its bite.”

  The Grimward’s eyes flared but it floated backward across the dying fire, out of reach. “Saros is dead?”

  Silurian glanced at Melody. She shook her head, beseeching him to hold off.

  The Grimward’s face tilted sideways, its eye sockets barely visible.

  “Saros is dead?” It rasped again, its voice pathetic.

  “Aye. Killed by Helleden,” Silurian declared.

  The Grimward appeared to struggle to remain airborne and dropped to the dry leaf bed below.

  Melody rushed to stand between her brother and the downed spectre. The closer she got, the more the runes along her staff joined with the radiance of Silurian’s sword, illuminating the area around them in a spooky orangey-blue glow. “What is it, Grimward?”

  The woods became deathly still. The crackling fire and soft breeze rattling the tree bows the only sounds and movements upon the ridge.

  A pitiful wail escaped the spectre. It lifted its head, looking first at Melody and then at Silurian, “Saros was my son.”

  Torpid Marsh

  Sadyra followed Larina down the long flight of damp, flagstone steps. It took some time before the flickering torch illuminated the bottom of the descent. Her head ached from the blow it took in the Chamber. She ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek, wincing at the sting where the guard’s fist had cut her lips on her teeth.

  A rusted bucket at the foot of the steps contained several partially burned brands. The women grabbed a few and set off, each carrying a lit torch to guide their way—Larina leading and Sadyra following closely behind Olmar, trying to illuminate the immediate area around him.

  The tunnel floor twisted and turned around veins of granite, but ran straight for the most part, its floor a combination of musty dirt and broken rock. Whoever had built the passage hadn’t worried about aesthetics—the floor suddenly rose or dipped, while the low ceiling did likewise, but in different places. The two archers had little trouble navigating the meandering path, but Olmar constantly scraped his elbows and whacked his head. How he managed to navigate the tight confines at all, bent over and having to shuffle almost sideways while carrying Alhena in his arms, Sadyra had no idea. Midge was a beast. As a result, their progress was slower than they would have liked.

  They rested many times to afford Olmar a reprieve, and to listen for sounds of pursuit, although Sadyra and Larina, familiar with tunnels, both knew that with them being underground in such a tight space, it would be difficult to hear anything unless the cause was right on top of them. They would see the glow of an advancing torch long before they heard someone’s approach—as long as whatever pursued them had need of light.

  During one of these stops, Sadyra stared beyond the flames’ light, nibbling on a chunk of hardened bread. For some reason, her thoughts turned to Pollard. She wondered how the big lummox fared. It had been hard to leave him back at The Forke in the state he was in.

  Olmar’s pathetic voice brought her back to the present. “Pops. Come back to us. Tis me, Olmar. I’ll not let ye be ‘armed again.”

  Sadyra patted Olmar’s shoulder. “Come on, big guy. The sooner we get out of here the better.”

  They lost all sense of time beneath the earth. If it wasn’t for the food Solomon had provided, Sadyra doubted they would have had the strength to carry on as long as they did. On two separate occasions they came across a partial cave in, but apart from having to move aside some fallen debris, neither constriction held them back for long.

  Olmar suggested they would be better off returning to Gritian, but neither archer thought that a good idea, so on they went.

  They paused to sleep twice between long stretches of walking. Their food supply was almost spent when the tunnel floor began a subtle ascent—the walls and ceiling riddled with roots.

  Sadyra and Larina were forced to hack their way through a thick web of roots that hung intertwined, blocking their passage.

  Olmar struggled to follow with Alhena in his arms, doing his best to ensure the thicker roots didn’t come into contact with the messenger’s face.

  “Ach!” Olmar cried out, desperately trying to brush a spider off his shoulder on a knot of roots. He stumbled sideways and ran his fingers through his tangle of hair. He pulled his hat free and rubbed it over his head, all the while stepping into more tangled roots and spiderwebs.

  Sadyra stopped to observe the spectacle, cringing whenever Olmar’s actions came close to bashing Alhena’s flopping head against a wall.

  “Well looky here, Rina. Midge is afraid of spiders. Imagine that. Our tough sailor afraid of a little bug.”

  Olmar paused in the middle of his gyrations to glare at Sadyra’s bemused face. He gave her a dark look. “Them’s bitin’ bugs. Just get us out o’ here, lassie.” He pushed into her with Alhena, forcing her after Larina.

  Sadyra laughed. “Okay, okay. Just relax. You’re going to knock Gramps’ head off the wall.”

  Larina’s voice sounded from farther up the tunnel. “I think I see light.”

  Sadyra instantly thought of someone bearing a torch. She tensed. Unslinging the crossbow while fighting through the clutches of severed roots wouldn’t be easy.

  “Aye, it’s the moon. Come on, we’re almost out of here.” Larina’s muted voice barely reached them.

  Olmar was beside himself with panic.

  Sadyra tucked against the wall to prevent herself from being trampled by the charging giant as he crashed toward Larina’s voice.

  Following on his heels, Olmar’s frame was silhouetted by a more pervasive light than the torches offered.

  The tunnel ended behind a large bank of leafy sedges and tall rushes, upon a tuft of loamy ground. It was difficult to tell in the soft light, the moon partially obscured behind a pervasive fog that clung on top of the water’s surface, but it appeared they had come out in the middle of a reedy swamp. Brackish water surrounded the knoll housing the tunnel’s egress.

  Larina, Sadyra, and Olmar gazed about them with a mixture of relief and trepidation. They had escaped the claustrophobic tunnel, but at what cost. They stood somewhere within a region renowned for its dangerous creatures. Stunted effigies of rotting trees stuck out of the water at varying angles, vying for space amongst lofty cypresses.

  “Now what?” Larina asked, her voice seemingly detached, as if it floated across the fetid waters.

  Olmar gently placed Alhena at his feet and swatted at the insects crawling on his great frame, some imaginary, while others were newly acquired in the close air of Torpid Marsh. He turned a slow circle, taking in the eerie shadows of the nighttime landscape. “How do we get out of here?”

  Neither woman spoke for a while, absorbed in their own thoughts. Finally, Larina pointed behind Olmar. “That is the way we came, so it is east. We certainly shouldn’t risk going back that way. Torpid Marsh is surrounded by the Undying Wall to the south and The Spine along its western edge, so I guess that means w
e head north, which is perfect since Solomon told us to head that way anyway.”

  Sadyra and Olmar followed Larina’s gesticulating hand but said nothing.

  A loud slap sounded beside Sadyra. She jumped. Olmar grimaced at a large red smear and mangled gossamer wings cupped within his palm. The stain matched the one on his neck. “Och, the bugger got me good.”

  Sadyra leaned in for a closer look. “What is it?”

  Larina bent in as well and shrugged. “Beats me. Sure is ugly though. Look how big it is.” She reached up to touch the wound on Olmar’s neck. “Ouch, I bet that smarts.”

  Olmar’s pout shattered the tense pall that had fallen over them. Sadyra laughed, despite her concern for his hurt. Olmar stuck out his tongue and she laughed harder.

  Ignoring her, Olmar knelt beside Alhena to inspect the old man’s robes. If anything had found its way within the voluminous folds no one would be any the wiser. Olmar picked at bits of plant debris clinging to the messenger’s clothing. He nearly leaped into the swamp when Alhena’s strange white eyes snapped open.

  “What are you doing?”

  Olmar’s eyes misted over. “Pops? Ye’ve come back.” A huge grin split Olmar’s pudgy face. He looked from Larina to Sadyra, hovering over Alhena as well. “’E’s back. Girls, Pops is gonna be okay.”

  Sadyra teared up as well. More of a reaction to Olmar’s response, than for Alhena. The old messenger appeared to have overcome the worst of whatever malaise had affected him.

  Sadyra kissed Alhena on the forehead and said with a wide smile, “About time you decided to join us. I was worried that poor Midge was going to start breast feeding you soon.”

  Alhena frowned.

  “He’s sure got the teats for the job,” Larina chimed in.

  Olmar shot the women a hurt look.

  “Oh, come on Midge.” Sadyra tweaked Olmar’s chest. “You got more than me.”

  Olmar batted her hand away.

  Sadyra laughed and got up. She paced around the knoll with Larina at her side. The tunnel had led them to a tiny island in the middle of what seemed like an endless stretch of reed infested water. A strange place for anyone to flee to, but then again, it was likely a place that they wouldn’t be found.