Soul: Shadows of the Soul, #1

By William Thrash

Book 1 of 3

Dastardly Thieves, Demons, and a giant Devil Dog! Voices in his head and everyone else telling him he should conduct a hopeless search for a long-lost sword. 

Leaving home and a life he did not desire, Taren sets out to join the Provincial Army and fight in a civil war brought on by the Shadowmasters. Forget what everyone else wants him to do.

Beset early on by a wily criminal, Taren strives to recover his lost possessions. During the chase, he struggles with his own identity that he has yet to grasp. Facing consequences of seemingly innocent decisions, he realizes he is ultimately responsible for the direction of his life. Thrust into mortal danger and tragedy by his single-minded pursuit, he faces an unimagined evil that will shape him for years to come.

Krolassen Taren Morr will find the truth. He will find direction. In the end, he must find his soul.

SOUL will be followed by the books SWORD and SHADOW.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Thrash
• Release date: Feb 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781386634737

Book preview

Other Novels

by William Thrash

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MANSION – A Horror Novel

The Goblin Adventure – A Fantasy

Novellas

Winning Hands – A Western

The Dwarven Legacy – A Fantasy

The Melaki Chronicle – A Fantasy

DRAGON, RAMPANT – A Novel

The Melaki Chronicle Volume II – A Fantasy

Tuesdays – A Modern Horror

Duke Kord Becker – A Fantasy

Eliam Cross: Swords & Treachery – A Fantasy

Cover Photo by www.ShutterStock.com

SOUL is a work of fiction. Names, locations and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2015 - All Rights Reserved

For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul? Or what shall a man give in return for his soul?

~ Matthew 16:26

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CHAPTER 1

Ruin.

Taren’s life was ruined in an instant. So much promise was destroyed before he even managed to make it on his own.

The voices he heard weren’t any help, either. Voices were what other people called them. They also called them a problem or a sickness. He knew the voices as one voice. He had been taken to doctors, witches, and priests. No matter the treatment, the voices remained. Few wanted to trust him when they knew of his condition. However, there were exceptions. One such trusting man was Guards-Captain Ren Termono – a wizened old veteran of a few wars who took his duties seriously. Ren had judged Taren to be suitable for responsibility.

Newly commissioned to the civil guard in Varbenburg, Taren was only on his first day when doom struck.

Disaster was a familiar face; Chora, his former nanny, was there - amongst the crowd of people checking over foodstuffs for the evening meal later on.

Taren wore his rust-colored guard hauberk with pride. Despite his father’s protestations and the inner voice that occasionally assaulted him during the day, he had secured a future with the civil guard. Shunning a life of following in his father’s footsteps, he had signed on with the city to be a watchman. Law and order.

His grandfather had been strangely silent, offering no opinion, even if desired or not, when so many others had told Taren he should follow his father's profession.

Chora reached for a potato. Her hand was older than he remembered – he had not seen her in years. How long has it been, Chora?

The sounds of haggling and good-natured banter surrounded them. Even if they were separated by several paces, he could pick the old woman out of a crowd anywhere. Her caring features and the warmth of memory reminded him of comfort, love and guidance when his own mother was absent by death.

The voices he heard – or the one voice – were no help at all. He refused to speak to others of the voice, if it were one, and those who knew he heard something that they couldn’t approved of his silence. No one wanted to hear that he heard voices.

As if on cue, he felt the familiar tingle in his mind.

*You should listen to your grandfather.*

What? Taren often spoke out loud when responding to the voice. He redirected his response in thought. What are you going on about? Chora is there...

*She fulfilled her duty—*

She was my nanny. A mother when I had none. He watched Chora glance at him with the potato in hand.

The food-merchant, Crollo, was dealing with the chandler Sebren. He was unaware of Chora.

The old woman shared a look of pain and regret with Taren for a few seconds through the chaos of the crowd, before slipping the potato under her robe.

The move stunned Taren into a frozen state of thought. Had she fallen on such hard times that she needed to steal? He had not kept contact with her over the years. The woman was frail – moreso than he ever remembered. Was she starving? Destitute? Would the potato be her only meal for the day? Or for the week?

His eyes were locked with hers; it seemed as if hers were on the verge of tears. She turned, bitterness in her features, and hurried away from the stall. Within a second, she was lost in the press of people vying for their food purchases.

*And why did you not stop her?*

Annoyed at the voice, he thought, Shut up—

That was as far as Taren got.

A hand gripped his shoulder and spun him around.

Ren’s stubbled features and piercing eyes were even fiercer and steely than normal. Failure. The word was spat with disgust.

What? Taren was disoriented. Chora’s situation and the voice had him confused for the moment. Ren’s anger wasn’t helping.

Failure. And on the first day.

He looked around quickly, trying to make sense of his confusion. Crollo the merchant was looking at him. Sebren looked confused. Ren’s grip on Taren’s shoulder was strong. The captain's assistant was there, too. A few passersby looked curiously at the trio of guards. And there, through the crowd, stepped Chora.

Taren blinked.

She placed the potato back on the pile without looking at it. Her eyes were locked on his, full of sadness and regret. She pursed her lips and turned away.

I was being tested?

*Of course you were.*

Shut up—

Back to the hall with you. Ren pushed him. You’re not fit to wear the hauberk.

A crushing weight of shame and embarrassment made his knees weak. His eyes swelled with water as the enormity of the failure hit him. Wait, Captain Ren—

Silence. I was wrong to trust you. The gravelly voice had a weight that plugged Taren's protestations.

Off-balance and stumbling, Taren was propelled by timely pushes and shoves from Ren and the assistant with him, Lieutenant Drass.

Taren's thoughts flew wildly, trying to make sense of the sudden upset to his focus on being his own person. But—

You failed. Ren's two words were final.

*You should listen to your grandfather.*

Would you shut up?

*I have never steered you wrong.*

Taren laughed. You can't be serious.

Guard Captain Ren shoved him harder. This is no laughing matter.

Quashed in his incredulity over the voice in his head, Taren felt a deeper shame. I'm sorry, I—

Silence.

A familiar face appeared beside him. What's wrong? What has he done? It was Liv, his childhood friend and a young woman often pushed by those around him as a suitable future wife.

Go away, Liv.

Ren scowled. Guard's business, young lady. Be on with you.

She was pretty, with very pale skin and dark curls that were tied unsuccessfully back. Many ringlets would not be constrained. She ignored Taren's dismissal. Why are you—

The guards-captain frowned deeper. I said be on with you.

Taren flushed deeper in embarrassment. Though many thought he and Liv were destined to be married, he would have none of it. She was pretty enough and caring – going out of her way to talk to or help him – but he recalled an event he could not erase from his memories. Years before, when she was five, they had been playing in the dirt on the outskirts of town. A particularly fierce dog had come near and growled at them. He had been frightened, but Liv had been more frightened; she had wet herself. His lip curled at the memory. It was fifteen years ago, but he could still remember her tears, the tracks of her urine down her knees, and the smell. He wanted no part of such a weak and embarrassing woman. Go away, Liv.

She pursed her lips and fumed, her eyes angry, but concerned for him at the same time. She slowed her pace and fell behind.

Her attempt at intervention only deepened his shame.

What am I going to do? I cannot go back to my father.

*You should listen to your grandfather.*

Would you shut up? You're no help at all. My grandfather thinks I should go haring off after some myth.

*The Swords of Souls are no myth, young man.*

Taren rolled his eyes. But the last one known to exist has been lost for over two hundred years. It's probably at the bottom of a swamp and rusted to nothing by now. I will not join the hundreds of other idiots searching for something that doesn't exist.

*All of them still exist.*

Pure fantasy.

Ren growled at the door to the barracks as if willing it to open. Drass opened the door for them as if the growl had been meant for him. Ren had a way around others that offered little patience. In with you, and get that hauberk off.

Taren stepped into the small entry he had wanted to call home. A few aging decorations studded the walls with little flair or originality - tokens from skirmishes with bandits or bits of booty taken from someone who had committed a serious crime against the town. Prominent was a shield in the entry, its blue enamel faded and old. The yellow diagonal bar was also faded and the rampant lion in black was the only bold feature remaining. The shield had been taken from the warlord Drumos Rakken Sarraki, from the time before the merging of the two empires under the Shadowmasters of Strettin. The Shadowmasters helped the king maintain order between the two former enemies and the united empire had been better for it in the beginning.

Times had changed, including how those living in the empire had been named. On the Eastern side of the empire, from which Taren was born, families were named by first their lords and then their given names, followed by their family names. Taren's name was, in the Old Ways, Krolassen Taren Morr. In earlier times, it would have been shortened to Kro' Taren Morr. The usage persisted here and there as if the people rejected the naming conventions of the new empire. Everyone knew their names, if unused. Taren knew little of the lord named Krolassen, but his family had served under him four generations back. The Krolassen line had been destroyed during the battles leading to the merging, but the Morr family retained the Krolassen title, as did the few other families descended from that estate. Using the lord's title was sometimes considered a condescension.

Hearing his own title from Ren added to his shame.

Kro' Taren Morr, you are expelled from service to the town. The guards-captain waited while Lieutenant Drass helped Taren out of his swordbelt and hauberk.

Taren felt helpless. He did not want to go home and face his father. But... I'm good with a sword. His pleading melted off of Ren's stony glare. He was indeed good with a sword – with two at the same time, even. His grandfather had slowly taught him over the years. I can—

Ren's look did not change. You'll do nothing for the town. If you're good with swords, then go join the Provincial Army.

The army was taking recruits. War between the two former empires was threatening. The Shadowmasters seemed to have altered their efforts from keeping the two empires at peace to fomenting anxieties.

But—

Out. I do not care what you do. Go be a soldier. Go work for your father. He pointed at the door. But right now, you will get out of my sight.

Drass opened the door again and Taren was shoved abruptly out the door.

He blinked in the setting sun and tried to ignore the two guards outside the barracks. He knew they would know he had failed. He had left for his first day on patrol wearing the hauberk of the Varbenburg Guard. He had just been ejected from the barracks without it.

Tremors inside threatened to become more. He felt mortified. At twenty, he would not succumb to tears. He clamped his jaw shut and then saw Liv. She was there, under an awning, watching the barracks. She said nothing. Her arms were folded as if hugging herself and she was crying. Crying for him.

He tightened his jaw and went the other way.

*Why do you treat her so?*

I don't need her sympathy.

Taren Morr had nowhere to go. How was he going to face his father? How was he going to deal with the smugness? He did not want to follow in his father's footsteps, no matter what the cost. He had to get out and get away. His father had taken up the business from his grandfather when grandfather had become frail. The Morr family had served Varbenburg for generations. Lord Krolassen had hired Great-great-great somebody-Morr a long time ago to clean up the dung. The Morr family had become successful dung merchants, shoveling dung, hauling dung, and selling dung to the local farmers for fertilizer. But such a future was not for Taren. He would never again shovel dung for his father. He would have to leave or he would get stuck shoveling shit for the rest of his life. He went back home, determined.

CHAPTER 2

Taren approached the manor house with dread. The familiar sights and smells made him want to vomit. The pervasive smell from the penned heaps twisted in his nose. He hated it.

His father was in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He wore a look that said nothing. You coming back to work, then?

How does he know?

*He can see the long look on your face.*

What?

His father raised an eyebrow. Taren knew his father would be wondering if he was answering him or the voice in his head. I assume something didn't go well?

Taren scowled. Why do you have to be right? I will not be a dung farmer.

*You should listen to your grandfather.*

Well, maybe I will, he said angrily.

A concerned frown crossed over his father's face. Son—

I'm leaving. Tomorrow.

The older man did not respond right away, but his look was sad. He nodded. You going to say goodbye to your grandfather?

I will. He shouldered past his father and into the cool