Legacy of the Blade: The Complete Trilogy Read online

  Legacy of the Blade

  The Complete Trilogy

  Joseph J. Bailey

  Legacy of the Blade Book 1: Soul Stealer

  Less than Worthless

  A Man’s Hovel is Not His Castle

  The Fall of Heaven’s Gate

  Stupid Is as Stupid Does

  Empyrean Guard

  Life from Death

  And Now the Cavalry

  The True Beginning of My Travails

  Djen’toth

  From Here to There

  Eye-to-Eye with Justice

  Sword in the Loam

  And Now We Wait

  A Shadow This Way Comes

  On Waking

  Up in Smoke

  Home Sweet Heap

  Leave-Taking

  Of Storms and Ruin

  The True Measure of a Knight

  South and East

  To Not Dance with a Demon

  What Now?

  The Road Ahead

  Spells Uncast

  Higher Ground

  How We Got Here

  I Find Myself Here Because?

  Waylaid

  Headache

  Theuron

  Walking

  Again?

  Hunger without End

  Return

  Clarity

  Whither My Weapon?

  Dreams to Come

  Reality After Dreams

  To Call and Hope for an Answer

  Reunited

  To Begin Again

  A Conversation

  A Change of Scenery

  Something New

  A Man and His Blade

  A Gift Regiven

  A Chance Encounter

  Heaven’s Edge

  To Not Be

  Eyes Open

  All Not So Good Things Must Come to an End

  Disappointment

  Hills and Dells

  The Peaks and Valleys Within

  Il’alen

  Light Rider

  To Fair Kerraboer

  The Plains of D’rith Sinae

  The Dust Beneath My Boots

  The Light of My Life

  The Unlight of My Life

  Kerraboer

  Second Impressions

  A Battle Waged and Lost

  On the Front

  Into the Night

  A Shadow in Light

  Into the Maelstrom

  A Receding Tide

  Thirst

  Destiny’s Arc

  Chaos Gate

  Chaos’s End

  A New Ending

  Epilogue

  Legacy of the Blade Book 2: Wild Mage

  Prologue

  Stone in Need of Water

  Not Hard-Headed Enough

  The Fall and the Aftermath

  My Master

  Nightmares and Screamscapes

  A Rest Disturbed

  Grim Acceptance

  Wera’dun

  A Rock with a Name

  Companion

  Happenstance

  In the Beginning, the Word

  A Return

  Past the Valley

  Elemental Nature

  A Rolling Stone Gathers No Dross

  Times Past

  Fall

  Aftermath

  What Next?

  Guraem

  Uërth

  Freedom

  Studies

  On the March

  Dust and Debris

  Earth Storms and Thunder Quakes

  Adventure

  Djen’lum

  El’amin

  A Look Inward

  Eyes of the El’Amin

  No Choice but to Leave

  The Fire That Burns

  Luistaer

  Cooling

  A Trip Deferred

  Over the Hill

  Vestiges of the Past

  A Fading Sun

  Leave-Taking

  A Nightmare Revisited

  Wakening

  Departure

  A Flock of Stone

  On a Prominence

  Breakfast

  On the Mount

  Water Made Stone

  What Next?

  From Here to Somewhere

  Almost Home

  On the Trail Again

  An Idea

  A Return

  Observance

  A New Day, A New Resolve

  Practice Makes Imperfect

  Pride Goeth Before the Tangle

  A Nightmare Reborn

  And Then There Was Another

  Over the Mountain and Through the Hell

  The Lost Valley

  Unexpected Is as Unexpected Does

  Surprises Come in Big Packages

  Partial Protection

  On a Wing and a Slayer

  When Wards Collide

  A Final Encounter

  A Purpose

  Partnership

  Epilogue

  Legacy of the Blade Book 3: Stone Singer

  Stone in Need of Word and Deed

  Choosing

  A Conversation

  A Decision Made

  Visitors

  In a Glance

  A Choice Chosen

  An Unwelcome Arrival

  Another World

  A Reconnection

  A Voice of Old

  Starry Night

  One Mountain Is Much Unlike Another

  The Beginnings of a Plan

  A Lone Voice

  And There Be Demons

  A Brief Tune

  And So It Begins

  A Place Unlike Any Other

  Dust on the Horizon

  Wakening

  A Living Sea

  A Corresponding Note

  Green Waves

  A Visitor

  Welcome

  Guraem to Wera’Dun

  After

  Acceptance

  Advice

  A New World

  Noema’jin

  A Remembrance

  A Word from an Old Friend

  In Perspective

  Dragon’s Teeth Dulled

  A Remembrance of Things Past

  Unhallowed Hollow

  What Was Not

  So Close but Yet So Far

  Missing

  Speculation

  Something Worse

  Looking In

  Stone in Chaos

  Aftermath

  Noema’dar

  In Sight

  Homecoming

  Valley Home

  Sword in the Sun

  Well Met

  Reconnection

  A New Journey Begun

  Companions

  The Road Ahead

  Over the Ridge and Through the Dell

  Eruption

  Guidance

  Purposes

  A Look Back

  Toward the Border

  Knights’ Fall

  A Fire That Burns

  A Lone Obstacle Not Alone

  Juel’dathra

  Renewal’s Beginning

  Epilogue

  Help Spread the Word!

  Glossary of Terms

  About the Author

  Synopsis

  Copyright Information

  Legacy of the Blade Book 1: Soul Stealer

  Soul Stealer

  Legacy of the Blade Book 1

  Joseph J. Bailey

  Author’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction.

  If your life resembles the places and characters in this book in any way, immediately stop reading and do something about it.

  Please.

  To those who
follow their dreams…wherever they may lead.

  Less than Worthless

  I was never worth anything until I killed a man.

  That may sound harsh but, in fact, those words are far too kind.

  Before my first kill, I was less than worthless—lacking in character, poor in spirit, short on imagination, as brave as a startled squirrel, as sharp as a squashed turnip, and as intelligent as a stump…and those were some of my more favorable qualities.

  I was an embittered, thieving, mindless coward.

  On my better days, I was a bumbling imbecile more likely to harm myself than get the better of anyone else.

  At least until I killed a member of the Empyrean Guard.

  Then everything changed.

  I didn’t mean to kill someone. In fact, the only person I could harm intentionally was probably myself. Even then, I was such a doddering idiot that I wouldn’t be able to manage it unless it happened accidentally through the natural expression of my ill luck.

  But I get ahead of myself…

  A Man’s Hovel is Not His Castle

  Rain hammered down relentlessly.

  I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, much less the fine abodes of my village. That, at least, was a blessing.

  Unfortunately for the rain, it had been fated to land on the most worthless pile of dung this side of Uërth. Even more unfortunate for the rain, it had no hope of cleaning the stinking pile of refuse that was my home.

  Perhaps, if the rain was capable of such a thing, it could at least aspire to one day cleansing the blight that was my home from itself.

  There are those who tell me they welcome the rain, that its smell is akin to an ambrosia, a heady mixture of cleanliness and the bounteousness of life, stirring fond remembrances of days past and opportunities yet to come.

  Those people have never visited Balde.

  The rains are magical; I will give them that. Working their arcana on the village’s odeur, the showers transmogrify the welcoming boutique of offal and effluent into a spine-tingling miasma encompassing fetid decay, noxious rot, and vile alchemical waste.

  When they’re gone, nothing’s clean, least of all the rain itself.

  My hovel with its sunken roof lurched at the village’s periphery, not exactly in visible motion but certainly giving that dizzying sensation, one of a thankless few fortunate enough to be excluded from the village proper, hunkered outside the leaning fortifications intended to protect the worthies within.

  Luckily for those huddled inside the ancient walls, the Front was far away from Balde, and most of the dangers of demonic incursion were only spoken of in whispered undertones and stolen glances.

  Even luckier for me, I wouldn’t need to rely on those walls because, chances were, the citizens on the other side wouldn’t let me in even if I begged.

  Why my neighbors had never burned my shack down is one of life’s greater mysteries. Perhaps the relentless rains dampened the villagers’ initiative. Perchance these unceasing, woeful deluges prevented the sparks needed to return my hut to the sodden, unwelcoming earth. Mayhap the thick layers of mud reinforcing the sagging straw roof would not catch under even the hottest torch.

  Equally baffling, why the villagers had never attempted to raze my hovel provided another insoluble riddle the likes of which would have kept me up at night wracked with worry had I cared one jot for my home or its meager cast-off contents. Maybe the thick layers of earth and refuse shoring up its walls served to buttress the village’s fortifications and no one wished to risk a collapse of the outer walls. Perchance my home was of such awful mien and lugubrious aura that the villagers thought it served an indispensible role as a deterrent for any rampaging monsters or marauding bandits. Conceivably, the denizens of Balde had tacitly decided that my croft would serve as a sacrificial first offering for any demons, sidhe, or other supernatural interlopers should they ever decide to attempt suicide by contaminating themselves on my fellow residents. Mayhap they were afraid to risk poisoning from the blanket of magical mushrooms growing like a pox all over the surface of the hut. There is a chance they did not wish to further pollute the local environs with the refuse from my shanty. Alternatively, no one wished to befoul their psychic essences by besmirching their magics upon the taint of my fair dwelling.

  Whatever the reason, my house stubbornly withstood the tests of time and reason.

  Most probably because time wanted nothing to do with it.

  And reason had long abandoned it.

  I could say that I welcomed getting back home after trekking through the rain and muck, but I would be lying.

  My shack wasn’t much drier than the rain outside. Two broken windows stared malevolently at me as I approached, their recriminating glare a reminder of my role in their inevitable decay. The front door refused to fall off the one remaining hinge that held it loosely in place. Rotted horizontal planks formed approximations of four walls that generally supported the saggy, muddy roof. Most of the gaps between planks were filled with mud…or they were almost filled, anyway. Sadly, the bulk of the dabs had washed away before the dirt could dry and properly harden to seal the walls. I think the roof managed to stay together largely thanks to the intractable mat of basilisk’s bane vines creeping through the thatch and clay.

  I actually imagine the poisonous vines were among the happiest residents in my home. The climbers were certainly happier than the poor starving rats who persisted with the Abyss’s own depthless tenacity to eke out a living inside.

  The only competition the vines had for deepest appreciation of my decrepit hovel were the lethal eldritch mushrooms growing in a thick carpet upon the roof and along the exterior walls. Not only did the mushrooms provide a robust defensive perimeter, they also offered valuable sustenance, were excellent for the constitution, and grew back faster than they could be eaten…once you developed an immunity to their toxins.

  The fungus also glowed, which saved me quite a bit of effort, cost, and risk in keeping my home lit.

  I carefully opened the front door lest I pull it off its rusty hinge and let the rain drip down from my soaked hair to join the pooling water on the sodden floor. A small, ill-kempt bed still stood, thankfully, on failing posts propped up with assorted irregular stones. The bed took up most of the room inside. A small firepit with a pot and a washbasin crowded the rest of the adjoining space.

  Through long years of neglect, I had learned that I did not have to fear burning the place down. The mud, wet, moss, and mildew inside formed an impregnable protective barrier against even the most formidable sparks and embers.

  Although it was presently empty, I did have a small storage box stashed beneath the bed on the off chance I could actually manage to acquire something worth keeping. Given the fruits of my roughly two decades of life, I would hazard that signs pointed to it being unlikely that it would ever be filled.

  The chest also served as a backup support should one, or several, of the bed’s legs fail.

  This, then, was the extent of my earthly riches, the inheritance my parents had left me when they discovered the good sense to run off some years ago, well before I had the wherewithal to go after them.

  Not that I would have.

  On the plus side, the rent was cheap and the landlord was not at all demanding.

  Being a homeowner had its perks.

  There just weren’t that many for me.

  Given the riches entrusted to my care and the enormous responsibilities involved in their upkeep, most of my time was spent idly whiling the days away.

  This veritable font of industriousness only ingratiated me to my fellow denizens of Balde, among whom I was looked upon with almost universal disdain, disregard, and an air of general embarrassment.

  If I were daft, I would perhaps be regarded as the village idiot. Not being entirely without reason or sense, I was merely esteemed worthless.

  Being worthless was one of my greater charms.

  The Fall of Heaven’s Gate

 
; With the fall of the Empyrean Gate and the routing of the Uërthly Host, the legions of Chaos finally believed they had achieved permanent access to the mortal realm.

  On the day of Heaven’s defeat, seraphic blades fell from the firmament, Paradise’s tears made solid, each Angel’s Sword marking the death of one of Uërth’s chosen defenders.

  The blades were wieldable only by the purest of heart, and there were those on Uërth who still believed humanity’s deliverance would come from above.

  But what good ever came from the edge of a sword?

  Their path to Uërth clear, the legions of Chaos began their assault upon the realms of Man. Overmatched and outnumbered, humanity was decimated at every turn while the world was despoiled and recast around it.

  Despite the crushing defeats meted out and the annihilation of human forces at every turn, the hordes of Chaos were shocked by the resilience and tenacity of Man, the mortals’ stubborn refusal to yield ground and allow demonic ascension.

  Though these meager humans’ paltry lives were suspended tenuously between the Empyrean and the Abyssal, very much unlike their righteous heavenly allies, the Lords of Chaos were quite surprised to find that they refused to fight fair.

  Or yield.

  Stupid Is as Stupid Does

  I jumped up, heart hammering in my chest like the Abyss’s own thunder, my ill-patched, fraying blanket falling away from my bony shoulders in apparent relief at being rid of my filthy touch.

  The echoes of an otherworldly, bloodcurdling roar yet lingered distressingly amongst the village walls, startling me from dreams of bounteous mushroom harvests in forests free of rain and muck.

  What in the name of the Light would sound so horrific?

  I did not want to find out.

  If my thudding heart were any indication, I was about to become something’s supper.

  Something vile.

  And probably uglier than my unwashed armpit.

  As unwholesome as I was, whatever was out there would have to be even more desperate than I to consider adding me to the menu.

  Stranger things had happened.

  I was, for instance, a master mushroom harvester living in a hovel covered in enough poisonous fungi to kill several armies many times over.

  And I ate those same mushrooms for dinner.