Soul Forge Saga Box Set

by Richard Stephens

  Everybody went with her except Vice Chambermaster Solomon Io.

  Abraham frowned. “Yes, Solomon?”

  “I don’t need to see the Chamber.”

  Abraham’s eyes hardened. “I need you to accompany them. The king’s men may have questions that only you can answer.”

  The vice chambermaster appeared nervous. His eyes found Malcolm’s for a brief moment. The man seemed to shiver. Or was he shaking his head?

  “Solomon.” High Bishop Uzziah’s stern voice interrupted whatever the vice chambermaster had been up to.

  Solomon swallowed, took one last look at Malcolm and cast his eyes to the ground as he trailed after the others.

  Malcolm’s gaze followed the curious man down the corridor. He didn’t notice the high bishop nod to Jibrael. The Enervator trailed after the vice chambermaster.

  “Now, what were we talking about?” Abraham smiled at the aging king. Before Malcolm had a chance to respond, Abraham said, “Right, the joys of power. Come, Your Highness, we shall achieve a more complete comprehension of what must be done once our corporeal needs are tended.” He put his arm around Malcolm’s shoulder and steered the king along the left tunnel toward the Chamber council’s private quarters.

  The king looked over his shoulder. The tunnel was empty save for themselves. “Where are we going?”

  “Hmm?” Abraham asked, distracted. “Oh, my chambers. I think it best we speak alone. I have a rather delicate issue I wish to discuss. One that shouldn’t be aired in public. Is that alright, Your Highness?”

  The atmosphere in the complex felt—Malcolm frowned, not knowing exactly how it felt. Strange? The tunnels were so quiet. Perhaps he was being paranoid, but something about their reception didn’t sit well with him.

  It struck him as odd that the new Enervator had led so many troops that far away from Gritian to meet them. What would have precipitated them to set up at the crossroads to the Forbidden Pass? It was almost as if they were there to prevent anyone from using the less travelled road.

  Unsure how else to respond without sounding mistrustful, Malcolm flashed Abraham a fake smile. “Sure, I guess.”

  Abraham returned a smile of his own. “Of course it is. Then we’ll meet with the Chamber and decide the best course of action going forward, hmm?” Abraham stopped at an iron strapped door barring their progress and pushed down on its brass lever. He swung the heavy door inward, motioning for the king to enter the short hallway beyond.

  King Malcolm had been down this tunnel on several occasions in his lifetime. He mused at the absence of the guards that were normally posted outside the iron strapped door. They passed twelve doors facing each other and stopped at the tunnel’s end, confronted by a bronze strapped door inlaid with intricate scrollwork. He watched Abraham touch several nondescript spots around the doorframe. A soft ‘snick’ sounded and the door swung inward without a sound.

  A welcome blast of warm air hit them from inside the chambermaster’s private rooms. An unfamiliar scent filled the interior, different than what a fire would give off; pungent and abrasive. A wispy haze floated above an ivory-topped table between the leather couch and a chair fit for a king—the High Bishop’s seat.

  The thick door closed of its own volition, coming to rest amidst a chorus of latches falling into place.

  “Come my liege. Have a seat,” Abraham said.

  Malcolm turned his back to the chambermaster. “Did that door just lock itself?”

  Abraham bowed his head. “Aye, but not to worry. It does that by design to bar,” he paused, his colourless lips forming a tight smile, “let’s say, undesirables.”

  What an odd thing to say. Malcolm had known Abraham Uzziah for as long as he could remember. He recalled being taught his letters by Abraham, who had then been a young acolyte of the cloth at Castle Svelte. Malcolm had been a hopeless daydreamer, and Abraham, the simple cleric, had had his hands full trying to keep his attention focused on his lessons. Over the years, and certainly after Silurian came to live at the castle, Malcolm had formed a close bond with the budding priest. Not once during their relationship as teacher and student, and later as friends, had he ever felt anything but trust and respect toward the aspiring man.

  Being as deep as they were within the Chamber of the Wise living quarters, Malcolm had trouble thinking who could be so bad as to entice the bishop to lock them out?

  The king gazed at Abraham, not liking what he saw in the man’s eyes. A deep chill filled him.

  A shadow detached itself from the back wall. From what Malcolm could discern, the face hidden within the cowl didn’t appear entirely human.

  He cast a concerned look at Abraham, expecting to see the bishop as alarmed as he. Instead, the High Bishop of Zephyr gave the hooded creature a nod.

  As fast as Malcolm pulled his sword free of its sheath, the creature proved quicker. It grasped him by the neck and thrust him against the locked door, squeezing so hard that its curved claws punctured the skin around his windpipe, threatening to crush his throat. Zephyr’s sword of state slipped from his hand and clattered on the floor.

  Unable to breathe, the king’s blue eyes flicked unbelievingly to Abraham. Why would he do this?

  The chambermaster’s sinister glare bore into him. “Tell me everything you know about the Wizard of the North.”

  Even if King Malcolm knew what the high bishop was talking about, he couldn’t answer. He shook his head, indicating his ignorance.

  Abraham’s scowl didn’t bode well. “I’m not talking about the new Wizard of the North. He is of little concern and being dealt with.”

  Malcolm’s eyes grew wide.

  “Yes. You know who I mean. The real Wizard of the North.”

  The room became fuzzy. Malcolm’s pupils began to roll up into his head.

  Abraham persisted, “I have reason to believe Phazarus is still alive. I also have reason to believe, that as king of Zephyr, you know who that person is.”

  Malcolm’s eyes flicked open again, fear evident in their dying haze.

  Abraham nodded. “Aye, my liege. At the risk of your life, which I might add is of no consequence in the grand scheme of things, my colleague here shall take the steps necessary to exorcize your secret.”

  Malcolm’s body fell limp in the creature’s grasp.

  Brokk

  Grimward Island was as quiet as a tomb as the first rays of sunshine broke through the trees lining the ridge.

  Silurian and Melody built up the fire to ward off the damp chill that had settled over the island.

  The Grimward had left them the day before, claiming it needed time to gather itself before it even considered honouring whatever boon they sought from it.

  “Do you think it’ll come back?” Silurian poked at the fire with a long stick, sending orange sparks and ash into the air.

  Melody sat beside him on the ground, her robes tucked beneath her. She’d been afraid she might lose a few toes, but thankfully, her feet didn’t appear to have suffered any long-term effects from their prolonged exposure in the ice boot. She nodded as best she could as she worried out the tangles in her long hair with a comb wrought of bone.

  “What the hell is he, anyway? I’ve never seen anything like that before. I know you said he was a spirit of a long-dead wizard, but when I think of spirits,” he shrugged, trying to think about what he actually thought of spirits. “I guess I figured a spirit would be like…I don’t know…ghostlike. Without substance.”

  Melody stopped in mid tug, a pained look on her face as she held a knot of hair at bay. “A ghost? You’ve seen a ghost before?”

  “Well, no. Not exactly.” Silurian jabbed at a log, rolling it over in the flames to expose its glowing underside. Smoke wafted into his face, causing him to lean back. “The Soul was probably the closest thing I’ve seen to what I might consider…ethereal.”

  “Ethereal, huh? Big word.” Melody grunted, pulling a knot of shredded strands free of her comb and tossing them into the flames.

/>   Silurian shoved her on the shoulder. “I’ll give you a big word.” He shoved her harder, almost tipping her over.

  Catching herself, Melody chuckled and began working at another impossible tangle.

  “Do you think it will help us, this spirit?”

  “I don’t see why not. I’m the current Wizard of the North, so we are kind of like family.”

  Silurian raised his eyebrows. “Aye, the resemblance is uncanny.”

  Melody shoved him back with all her strength, sending him sprawling to the ground laughing.

  Silurian lay on the ground, happier than he had been in a long time, despite what loomed ahead of them. Being with his sister had reawakened his zest for life—the redeeming quality so many people had once told him he possessed in abundance. His ability to see the good in any situation, no matter how dire, had been his biggest strength.

  He rolled to a sitting position and took the time to enjoy watching Melody fight with the comb’s progress through her golden hair.

  It must be a wizard thing, he thought. She was only two years younger than himself, yet the telltale signs of passing years hadn’t appeared to have affected her—her face wrinkle-free, her hair still maintaining its lustrous, blonde sheen. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear Melody’s twenty-year disappearance had been the result of her winking out of time and popping back into existence a few weeks ago.

  A cold breeze fanned the flames, sending white ash flying from the ring of stones. Melody and Silurian looked around. It wasn’t until they looked straight up that they noticed the skeletal torso descending from above. They jumped to their feet and backed away.

  “Finally, you show me the respect I am due,” it rasped, settling down beside the campfire.

  Melody dropped the comb in her bag and tucked it away. She grabbed her staff. Its runes came to life immediately. “Tell us, Mr. Carmichael. Have you decided to help us or aren’t you as great as you claim.”

  “How do you know that name?”

  “You told us yourself when you mentioned the name of Silurian’s sword.”

  “So I did. No matter. If you truly are the Wizard of the North, I suppose you would know that anyway.” The spirit rose into the air and hovered. “Why have you come to me for help? People are supposed to come to you.”

  “I wish it were that simple.” Comprehension crossed her face as she remembered Phazarus’ teachings. “Thunor Carmichael.”

  The Grimward’s eyes flared. “I have not heard that name spoken for centuries. I had almost forgotten it, and yet, you call me by my birth name. Mase Storms End taught her daughter well.”

  “It was actually Phazarus. My mother never taught me anything to do with her past.”

  “She sheltered you. Fortunate that Phazarus found you when he did.”

  “Found me?” Melody asked, incredulous. “Marble Eyes abducted me. He stole my life.”

  “Saved it, more like.”

  Melody frowned. “Saved it? How?”

  The Grimward remained silent for a while. When it spoke again, its voice sounded almost grudgingly. “Expanding on the Kraidic Empire’s annihilation of all magic users, Helleden came into possession of the Serpent’s Eye, an ancient artifact designed to locate anyone possessing the ability to do what most people could not. The sorcerer coveted the ring for the sole purpose of eliminating the family line that had caused him immeasurable grief over centuries past.”

  The spectre appeared to nod its skull. “Aye, the line of Thoril Storms End. Your mother’s uncle. There were few alive back then that knew of Mase Storms End’s existence. Obviously, Thoril took great pains to hide the fact. Even fewer expected the trace of magic to filter down through her, but somehow Helleden discovered the truth of the matter and dispatched a murder squad to find and eradicate her and her family. The minions blundered by not following up on whether Mase had children. I don’t know how you two were overlooked, but as such, Helleden’s minions never finished the job.”

  The spectre’s eye flames dimmed. “After leaving your parents’ residence, the murderous band went north to deal with the Wizard of the North. While on their way through Spectre Wood, they were waylaid by a band of Kraidic Warriors, and the Serpent’s Eye became part of Emperor Krakus’ collection of exotic trinkets.”

  The Grimward floated closer to her, its ghastly face inches from her own. “When Silurian appeared upon the Plains of Lugubrius and dispatched Helleden’s corporeal body, the sorcerer was alerted to the fact that his minions had failed him. That a direct descendant of Mase Storms End still lived. As long as one remained, he knew he wasn’t safe. After Lugubrius, he would have surely found out about you as well if you had remained in the public eye. If not for Phazarus, Helleden would have murdered you long ago. When he discovers you’re alive, he’ll come for you.”

  “If that’s true, what about Silurian? Like you said, Helleden became aware that our mother had at least one child when Silurian banished him twenty years ago. If we’re so important, why didn’t he pursue him?”

  Silurian stared at his feet and mumbled. “The Soul had other plans for me.”

  Melody nodded and looked away, a hint of fear in her vacant stare.

  Silurian’s skin paled. A cold tingle twitched his cheeks. That explained why his family had been murdered all those years ago. To eradicate the Storms End lineage. Phazarus had alluded to this very scenario. He swallowed at the ramifications of the Grimward’s words. Perhaps Melody should have listened to the old wizard when he cautioned her not to leave Dragon’s Tooth. The vision of the old grotto exploding outward flashed through his mind—there was no going back now. By leaving Dragon’s Tooth together, they had effectively given Helleden the opportunity to eradicate the last traces of Mase Storms End’s heritage. If the sorcerer were to become aware of their movements, they were both in grave danger.

  His sister faced the Grimward, her expression dead serious. “That’s why we need your help. Silurian’s sword has lost its enchantment. The blade alone isn’t enough to rid the realm of Helleden.”

  The Grimward backed away, but its eyes flamed brighter, a mocking tone escaping its unmoving jaw. “And what good did the sword do the last time? How many times must we banish Helleden’s spirit? He simply regroups and comes back, time and time again. Stronger with each subsequent coming. If what you say about Saros has come to pass, Helleden is already too strong to be affected by Carmichael’s Blade.”

  Melody threw her arms up. “Then what do you suggest? Just give in? Give up without a fight? How does that make sense? If there’s the slightest chance we can make a difference, we must seize it, even if it only provides us a temporary reprieve. Perhaps in the ensuing peace we may discover a proper way to deal with him once and for all.”

  The Grimward’s eyes flared and then dropped to small sparks. “You are not listening. Your attempts will prove futile. I cannot condone the Wizard of the North to throw his life away needlessly. Once you’re gone, there will be no other. Our heritage must not die.”

  “I’m a she!” Melody declared, glaring at the spirit. “And I refuse to cower in some mountain hideaway while the rest of the world dies around me.”

  “Then you condemn our order to extinction,” the Grimward said softly. “Go now. I will play no further part.” The Grimward began to turn and drift away.

  Melody stepped forward, grabbing the front of the spectre’s rags. It attempted to pull free, but she wouldn’t let go. She screamed at the skeletal creature, “What use is there for a Wizard of the North if nobody is left alive?”

  The Grimward’s eyes flared. An invisible force whipped Melody’s robes into a frenzy. The Grimward pulled free of her grasp, leaving her clenching a handful of tattered cloth, and drifted away.

  Silurian called after it. “Begone, useless spirit. Go back to the rock you cower behind but do so with the knowledge that the death of your second son might be on your hands.”

  The Grimward’s flight slowed. It disappeared behind a tree trunk and e
merged on its opposite side, its fiery eyes staring at Silurian. It floated up to him, its presence causing the runes on Silurian’s sword to shine brightly.

  Silurian braced himself.

  “Brokk is alive?” Its harsh voice was barely audible.

  “Brokk? I don’t know anyone by that name. I’m speaking about Wendglow. I found him in—”

  “The Under Realm,” the Grimward finished for him.

  Silurian nodded. “Aye, the Under Realm. Leading a force of resistance fighters. Their efforts proved invaluable in my battle with the Soul.”

  “The Soul…” the spirit intoned with reverence.

  “Is dead. At least that’s what I believe. Helleden played a big part in that, if you can believe it?”

  The Grimward nodded. “It is not surprising, no. Where is Brokk?”

  Silurian gave the spirit his best contemplative look. “Wendglow? That, I don’t know.”

  “But he is alive, yes?”

  “I don’t actually know that either, to be honest.”

  “But you just said I would be responsible for his death.”

  “I said might.” Silurian saw the spark of hope leave the spectre’s eyes. “We have seen a vision showing the ship I sailed on to the Under Realm, back in Madrigail Bay. Wendglow might be with them.”

  “You are mistaken. No one has ever returned from there.”

  The Grimward began to turn away, but Silurian’s next words held him fast. “Saros did.”

  The Grimward froze. Slowly it turned back.

  “And so did I,” Silurian said as a matter of obvious fact. “If Wendglow, or Brokk as you call him, made it back, I might be the only chance we have of preventing the inevitable, but I can’t do so without the power of my sword.”

  The Grimward said nothing for a while. Silurian and Melody respected its peace. When it spoke, a sense of doubt permeated its tone. “Your sword already possesses an inherent magic. Look how it glows. It deflected my attack. What else do you expect of it? At the end of the day, it is only a length of hammered steel.”