Soul Stealer: Legacy of the Blade Read online

  Soul Stealer

  Legacy of the Blade

  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.
r />   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.

  With gusto.

  I threw back the sheet, swung my knobby, dirt-smeared knees around and over the edge of the mattress, and my feet squelched in the cool, welcome ooze waiting beneath the bed.

  While my mind screamed welcome encouragement such as STAY IN BED, FOOL! and YOU IDIOT, DON’T GET UP! I yawned, fighting back fear and the urge to faint, then put on my overcoat, patting my chest to make sure that Lucius, my pet rock, was in his pocket, and stood.

  I wasn’t brave.

  Just stupid.

  A concussive blast of force threw me back onto my bed—knocking the air from my lungs as I fell with all the grace of a drunken Ogre—and it promptly collapsed, having been meted its fair share of injustice and travails.

  “Narblung!” I swore.

  Mostly for my own benefit.

  Certainly not for the bed’s.

  Trying again, I stood up once more. This time the mud squelching between my toes was not so welcome.

  That was when I noticed the door had been blown off its hinges.

  Or hinge, as the case may be.

  Sighing, I put on my boots and stepped over the door fragments lying on the floor by the threshold. If only it had been held together by mushrooms and vines like the rest of the house, it might have survived the blast.

  Peering cautiously outward through the black gap in my wall, I could not see anything untoward, or more untoward than normal, and heard nothing amiss.

  Whatever was out there making a commotion was now silent.

  That was scarier than the tumult itself.

  “Lucius, I may need you.”

  My pet rock responded with ready disregard—unmoving and unmoved by my plea.

  Gazing closer, I let my vision expand into the night, my soul’s eye filling in the details my mundane eyes could not.

  Shadows danced and wavered all around me, the evening alive with the luminous outlines of trees, the incandescent lights of grasses and shrubs, and the opalescent sparks of insects and small animals, all set against the lurid glare of my cultivated poisonous mushrooms.

  In the distance, over the edge of the hill on which Balde perched like an unwholesome wart, magic danced and shimmered, drawn toward something or someone with Power.

  I didn’t want to go over there.

  Really.

  But I had to.

  I was a moth drawn to flames of eldritch light.

  Empyrean Guard

  Why exactly was I doing this?

  What could I hope to achieve?

  Whatever had made that noise, whatever had caused the explosion that had thrown me to my bed, would break me quicker than I had snapped my rotten bed frame.

  Balde was abuzz behind me, lights coming on, doors slamming, people yelling commands and questions. If I delayed but a minute or two more, the town guard would be out through the gates to investigate, leaving me out of the whole affair. At least I’d be left out if they decided circumstances looked safe enough to sally forth from behind their gates in all their putative might and glory.

  As sorry as Balde was, and it wasn’t much better than my hovel, as an ancient outpost of the realm it was warded by powerful spells to keep the likes of extradimensional invaders and associated miscreants out and away from its fine abodes.

  In that case, given the force of the outburst, I might indeed be the only one willing to respond.

  Shaking my head, I trudged across the hill full of trepidation, as carefully as I could through the slurping muck, avoiding the gnarled roots of trees too stubborn to give in to the relentless precipitation. As I struggled ahead, I noted that the shadowy essences around me did not recoil, vanish, or waver as they might have in the presence of some awful demonic denizen of the Deep.

  The night shimmered around me darkly, untouched by my fears, concerns, and worries. There was little to be done besides moving forward, despite my anxieties.

  Ahead, over the hill, power surged and danced, constellations on the horizon, dreams of auroras past clashing with powers yet to be.

  Maybe things would be okay for once…

  Who was I kidding?

  Whenever I was involved, events quickly progressed from awful to abysmal…or worse.

  Time to get this over with.

  Keeping low in the grass, hunched down trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible, I slunk over the crest of the hill trying my best to determine the cause of the commotion.

  There was, as yet, no sign or indication of response from Balde, the town guard safely nestled within their walls and unwilling to come out; perhaps heady with exhilaration and hung over on the joys of bucolic village life, they were reluctant to venture out into the glories of the local neighborhood. As inspired as the populace was, their initiative did not give them sufficient impetus to leave the welcome safety of their dank, ill-kempt thresholds. Not given the luxury of the town’s defensive walls, or much in the way of walls in general given the state of my home, I had little choice but to remain outside.

  When I peeked over the hill’s crest, my eyes w
idened as I absorbed the events that had taken place on the far side of the slope. There, cast down in the muck, yet untouched by the mud and dirt of the storm just past, lay a man wreathed in Heaven's glory.

  Pure shimmering light wavered about him while a glowing celestial blade rested several hands’ breadths to his side on the ground. As I watched, the light about the man slowly but noticeably faded, dwindling inexorably into the darkness.

  Blood pooled thickly about the man’s armored form.

  Given my extensive medical experience and expertise, I knew that was not a good sign.

  From my vantage, the knight appeared to be of middle age, with relatively fair skin, his hair graying, framing a face careworn and wrinkled, a man exposed to harsh weather and long days in the sun. Many travails and concerns had etched his skin in an intricate tapestry.

  Looking pointedly both left and right, I saw no direct indication of fell powers that might have cast down such a mighty hero. No dark essences crouched or coiled, gathered or pooled, in preparation to strike in any place I could see or feel. There were no demonic corpses, footprints, or implements of depravity that I could sense even when I strained to the limits of my ability. Glancing back to the man to assess his status, I noted that the aureate glow around him had continued to fade, his luminous exterior Sigil Armor evaporating in a shimmering haze as he weakened.

  In a sane world, I would have called out for help.

  Since I lived on Uërth after the Fall, I held my tongue lest my good deed bring a pack of ravenous demons skulking in the night down upon me in a rending, tearing, soul-devouring vortex.

  Feeling safe for the moment, or as safe as I could in a place where a man this mighty could be laid low, I rushed forward to the knight’s side, forgoing what little common sense ever was unfortunate enough to claim my wretched self as home. My feet squelching in the mud as I slogged forward, I was ready to be of some assistance if I could, although there was, in truth, little I knew that could be done to aid him without access to higher magics. As I neared the warrior’s body, the full significance of what I saw and the gravity of the man’s injuries became more apparent. The knight was, it seemed, only weakly holding on to life by force of tremendous will, and that will was waning rapidly.