Soul of the Sword

By Kenneth McDonald

Dalevan Wolvren leads an interesting life. He gave up the power and wealth of a noble title to serve as the mercenary leader of one of the north’s most famed free companies, Dale’s Wolves. Having just completed the capture of a notorious bandit chief from a nigh-impenetrable mountain stronghold, Lord Wolf decides it’s time for a rest for him and his men. But a clash with his sponsor ends badly and soon the hunters find themselves the hunted. The Wolves must find a way to escape the wrath of one of the most powerful lords of the north while at the same time trying to solve the mystery of a deadly magical weapon that can turn allies into enemies. “Soul of the Sword” is a prequel to the 2011 novel “Wizard’s Shield.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth McDonald
• Release date: Jan 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311941961

Kenneth McDonald

I am a retired education consultant who worked for state government in the area of curriculum. I have also taught American and world history at a number of colleges and universities in California, Georgia, and South Carolina. I started writing fiction in graduate school and never stopped. In 2010 I self-published the novella "The Labyrinth," which has had over 100,000 downloads. Since then, I have published more than fifty fantasy and science fiction books on Smashwords. My doctorate is in European history, and I live with my wife in northern California.

Book preview

Soul of the Sword

A Prequel to Wizard’s Shield

Kenneth McDonald

[e-mail]

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 by Kenneth McDonald

Cover Credit: The cover image is adapted from the painting The Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone by Thomas Moran (1872). The image is in the public domain.

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Works by Kenneth McDonald

Wizard’s Shield

Soul of the Sword

The Ogre at the Crossroads

Powerless

The Colors of Fate

Black Shadows Gather

Green Hearts Weep

Red Vengeance Rising

Faded Yellow Dreams

Blazing White Stars

Shiny Golden Schemes

The Mages of Sacreth

The Labyrinth

Of Spells and Demons

Grimm’s War

Grimm’s Loss

Grimm’s Love

The Godswar Trilogy

Paths of the Chosen

Choice of the Fallen

Fall of Creation

Daran’s Journey

Heart of a Hero

Soul of a Coward

Will of a Warrior

Courage of a Champion

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Chapter 1

The mountaintop fortress of Kyrat Khre had been originally established as an outpost of the Empire, though that polity had already been well into its final arc of decline by the time that the first sandaled legionary stood upon its battlements. After the Empire’s tumultuous collapse the place became a monastery. It remained so for several hundred years, but that too proved to be just another time of transition. After the fall of the Nyrene sect the fortress became the host for a series of bandit kings and frontier warlords, men who dreamed of establishing a new Empire. But for the most part those would-be emperors were just petty brigands, preying upon the trade that was stirring between the resurgent plains cities while dodging both the small local armies and the tribesmen who considered themselves the true masters of the hill country, the Kaumroon.

It was a chaotic time, but the cities won in the end. The warlords were eventually left behind, to be replaced by a new generation of rulers who brought some semblance of order to the land. The Kaumroon remained in their hills, avoiding the temptations of urban civilization, while the wild beasts and strange monsters that had long haunted the region were hunted down and slaughtered. In the flat lands to the east of the Firestones and Kyrat Khre a Duchy was established, centered around the old trading city of Nal Vedaris. For almost fifty years the ancient citadel stood empty, a forgotten relic of a more troubled time. The first Duke established a treaty of peace with the Kaumroon, and there were no other neighbors to the west who justified a presence in the fortress, so there was nothing for it to guard. By the time of the third Duke, Andren Navares, few residents of Nal Vedaris even remembered that the place existed.

Keladen Navares, the uncle of that third Duke, thought back over that history as he stood within the Kyrat Khre. He ran a hand over smooth stones that had been cut almost four hundred years ago. The room looked like it had been cleaned hastily, though Keladen could see the dirt gathered in the corners. He had not made many additions, just a folding camp chair and table in the middle of the room and a cot and small washbasin over in the corner. The place still smelled musty and neglected, even though his men had been there for almost a month.

He walked over to the balcony, itself little more than a bare ledge accessed by a slash in the stone wall. A jutting overhang sheltered it from above; Keladen knew that thirty feet higher his men kept watch from the fortress’s upper battlement. Not that there was much need to watch, not from this direction. Beyond the balcony was a sheer drop of over a hundred feet, over a cliff that was nearly as smooth and featureless as the stone blocks in the room where he stood. The only viable route of approach was to the south, where a difficult trail switchbacked up the bluff where the Kyrat Khre was perched. No enemy had ever made it to the citadel’s gates in the face of opposition, for there were at least a dozen places where an approaching enemy would have had to stand utterly exposed against fire from the waiting walls above.

Keladen slid through the narrow gap and stepped almost to the edge of the ledge. The gusts of what the Kaumroon called the Kat’a’ree, the Angry Wind, grabbed at his cloak. It blew almost constantly in the hills, driving grit and dust everywhere. When he’d first entered the room that would become his headquarters it had been piled in mounds almost a hand’s span high in places.

From the edge of the balcony there was nothing but that sheer drop. Keladen kept his distance. He was not afraid of heights, but the winds could do strange things here. He stood there a step from the dangerous brink and looked down at the siege camps below.

They were set a good distance back from the base of the cliff, far enough to be out of the range of the arbalests his men had erected atop the battlements. But close enough that the occupants of the citadel could see them. There were two camps, though they were close enough together for that fact to not be immediately apparent. But Keladen knew enough about the military life to be able to see the difference at once. The nearer camp was smaller, just a handful of tents staked down aggressively against the omnipresent wind. The far camp was more disordered, though it easily held at least fifty men, a considerable force and more than double the number that Keladen himself commanded. His eyes traveled to the flag that flew from the standard in the middle of that camp and he scowled.

It was the smaller camp that was the real danger, he knew.

A loud rap on the door in the room behind him drew his attention back around. He quickly went back inside. He knew it unnerved his men to see him standing out on the unprotected ledge like that.

He crossed the room to the table. The maps there, weighed down with heavy stones, offered their usual conundrums. He shook his head and shifted a leather folio to conceal their grim message. Enter, he said.

The door opened and a number of his men entered. Keladen nodded in salute to Paulus, his second, but his eyes widened in surprise when he saw who accompanied them.

The man looked rather the worse for wear. He was dressed only in a sodden set of breeches and a rather ragged tunic. He was soaked through, and continued to trail water on the bare stone as the guards escorted him in. His wrists were manacled together.

Keladen’s surprise graduated to astonishment when the soaked man looked up, and he saw who the prisoner was.

Hello, Kel, the man said.

Dalevan, Keladen said. But… how…

How’d I get in here, when I was supposed to be leading that lot down there, you mean? the man asked. He was maybe a decade younger than Keladen, still in the vitality of his life rather than approaching the end of it. The body under his tattered clothes was fit and lean, a soldier’s body. There was a scar that ran along the side of his neck under the sagging lip of the tunic, and another that crossed the line of his jaw, marring the otherwise close-trimmed beard. That was another thing that set him apart; all of Keladen’s men were clean-shaven.

We caught him trying to slip in through the cisterns, Paulus said. He had four soldiers with him, the two holding the prisoner and two more who stood back as if afraid he would try to break free at any moment. Keladen understood the sentiment, given the reputation of the man in front of him.

I thought that the water caves were impassible, Keladen said.

Damn near were, Dalevan said. I’d not recommend the swim.

Lord Wolf himself, Keladen said, as if still not fully believing what he was seeing. Wait… the others?

He was alone, Paulus said. We made a thorough search.

Keladen blinked at that. One of the men holding Dalevan said, Mebbe ey thought ey could take out the whole garrison on ‘is own. Not so tough as the stories say after all, eh, Lord Wolf? He gave the prisoner a good shake, and Keladen saw how the man grimaced. Apparently his trip through the fortress’s water supply hadn’t been uneventful. He didn’t bear any obvious wounds.

That’s enough, Damon, Paulus said. The soldier subsided, though he looked unhappy. Keladen could understand his resentment. Like the others, Damon had stayed with him out of loyalty, but he hadn’t signed on to become a hunted rebel. Discipline was already under siege, but he wouldn’t let it fall apart here.

Instead he gestured toward the single chair. The Wolf looked at him in surprise, then sat down with a nod of relief. The men who had been holding him quickly stepped up to flank him, while the other two loomed in the background.

We have a chance, now, Paulus said. With him in hand, we can negotiate…

I wouldn’t get too excited, Dalevan said. He reached up with his manacled hands and lifted the folio, glancing at the maps underneath. Keladen had to crush the urge to slap his hands away; it wasn’t like there was anything there that he wouldn’t know already. Andry’s captain down there is a real by-the-book kind of guy. Sort of reminds me of you, actually, Kel. Back before you raised your flag in rebellion.

Keladen shook his head. You don’t understand, Dalevan, he said. You’ve been gone a long time. A lot has changed.

I know you always felt that Andren was too young to take over when your brother died. That you’d have made a better Duke.

It’s not about me, Keladen said. It’s not about ambition, that’s not what this is about.

Dalevan picked up one of the stones weighing down the maps, and Damon started to shift forward before Keladen waved him back. Your men attacked two merchant caravans and stole the winter stores from the village of Whitewater.

I did what I had to do to survive, Keladen shot back. Revolt was forced upon me. I didn’t set out to become a revolutionary.

Dalevan toyed with the stone, sliding it across the topmost map. Innocent people died in those raids, he said. Others had their livelihood destroyed. Those are not the actions of a revolutionary, but those of a bandit.

Keladen shook his head, some of his frustration bleeding through into his expression. I thought, of all people, you might understand.

What I understand is that you made some mistakes, and things got out of control. Dalevan put down the rock, and leaned forward earnestly. But now it’s time to end this, Kel.

You’d think you was the one in irons, m’lord, ‘stead of him, Damon said incredulously.

You have to listen to me, Keladen said, but before he could continue or Dalevan could reply one of the rear guards interrupted. Could we hurry this the fuck along? he asked. This is taking an enormous amount of effort to maintain.

Dalevan looked annoyed, but Keladen turned in surprise. He knew the soldier’s face, of course, knew every man under his command well, but the voice had been different, unfamiliar. He stared at him for a moment in confusion, before his eyes dropped to the floor at his feet.

There was a puddle of water slowly spreading there, despite the fact that his clothes were dry.

Comprehension struck, but even as he reached for his sword, even as he opened his mouth to shout an order, one of the other guards reached out and grabbed the hilt of the sword resting on Damon’s hip. The soldier barely had a chance to register surprise before the other man yanked the short blade clear of its scabbard and then immediately thrust it back into his body.

Paulus reacted quickly, his own sword darting out as he lunged at Damon’s attacker, but before he could strike Dalevan shot up out of his chair and slammed his manacled wrists into his face. Paulus stumbled back, stunned by the blow. His sword fell and the Wolf caught it before it could land, the manacles dropping from his wrists.

As Keladen watched, the outlines of the two traitorous guards wavered, transforming both of them into strangers. The one who had spoken was replaced by a man at the upper end of middle age, his thinning hair and forked beard generously salted with gray hairs. He wore a long tunic that was as soaked and abused as Dalevan’s, but carried no weapon. He needed none, Keladen knew, for he recognized this man as well.

The other one, that one that had stabbed Damon, wore only a set of leather leggings. If Dalevan showed a few scars this man was a veritable landscape of them. They showed clearly on his dark skin, as the flesh was stretched taut over ridges of corded muscle.

Keladen’s remaining guard was apparently what he appeared to be, for he lunged at the intruder even as Damon crumpled to the floor. The scarred man turned into the stroke, and his face didn’t even show a grimace as the soldier’s sword tore a long but shallow gash across his side. He drove a meaty fist into the joint where the guard’s neck met his right shoulder. The soldier’s entire arm went limp, and as he sagged the scarred man picked up him and literally threw him across the room. He landed atop Keladen’s cot, crashing with it to the floor in a noisy mess.

Keladen had already moved to intervene, but the table was in the way. Before he could get around it, though, Dalevan stepped in front of him, Paulus’s sword in his hand.

Give it up, Kel, the Wolf said. It’s over.

About time, the older man said. He appeared unconcerned with the violence that had briefly surrounded him, and he bent over to right Keladen’s fallen chair before settling into it.

Ah, Tarnas? Dalevan said. He nodded past the old man.

Eh? Tarnas asked.

Paulus lunged forward, his dagger in his hand. The old man didn’t appear concerned as the officer came at his back; he merely raised a hand and snapped his fingers loudly. Paulus stiffened and collapsed as though he’d taken a knockout punch to the jaw.

Now, can we finish this business? the wizard asked.

Dalevan turned back to Keladen, but the rebel commander hadn’t wasted the distraction; he was already running for the door. The scarred man lunged toward him, but Keladen swept his sword toward his exposed face, forcing him to dodge back. But before he could get to the door it opened again and another soldier appeared. He blinked in surprise to find Keladen in front of him. This one was a lean man, and short, so much of both that his soldier’s tunic seemed draped over him like a shroud. Even without that Keladen would have noticed that something was off; not only did he not recognize the man, but his hair was wet. What was most odd was that he was missing the last two fingers from each of his hands.

Oh, thought you’d have this wrapped up by now, the newcomer said. He had a heavy coil of rope slung across his chest. He had a knife stuck through his belt, but he didn’t bother to reach for it; instead he just stepped back and pulled the door shut again after him.

Guards! Keladen yelled, knowing it was in vain. Most of his men were up on the battlements or warding the gate, watching the expected routes of attack. The citadel’s interior was a warren of tunnels surrounded by dense rock; it would be a miracle if those above heard him yelling.

They won’t get here in time, Dalevan said. He and his scarred companion had moved to block Keladen. You should surrender before this requires any more bloodshed.

I was dead the moment you came here, Keladen said. He lunged again, slicing his sword around in a broad arc. Dalevan moved to parry, but again the attack was a feint; the old soldier was already moving again, retreating toward the other side of the room. Tarnas was in the way, but he made no move to intervene; the old man appeared to have fallen asleep in the chair.

Kanu, flank! Dalevan said. The scarred man moved to obey, circling around the slumbering mage and the table, but it was clear that his wound was having an effect. Blood had already fallen in a sheet from the gash in his side, staining the front of his leggings, but while it was slowing him he still didn’t let anything show on his face.

Dalevan moved to engage Keladen, and the two met in a series of rapid parries. It was clear that both men were expert swordsmen, but neither could gain a decisive advantage in that first exchange. Keladen continued to give ground, and