Soul Dark: Chosen: Soul Dark, #1

By E. L. Reedy and A. M. Wade

War is coming between Lukas' Goddess and an ancient Demon Lord. But the death of his parents shakes his faith, and with the loss of his remaining family, it is shattered. Blinded by rage, Lukas turns away from his friends and trains under a deceptive, yet formidable master to hone his magic and prevent the demon's final objective--obliteration of all life on earth.

​​War begins!  A forged weapon, Lukas rejoins his friends and sets after the Demon King.  From a hidden crypt, where evil lies waiting, to the Iowa countryside, they battle to prevent the end of all they know. Lukas must overcome his doubts and allow the Light to work through him--to defeat both the foe of his Goddess and a new more familiar one.

​Soul Dark: Chosen is a coming of age tale in the modern-day world when a war between ancient deities and demons culminates in a winner-takes-all battle that could determine the fate of all mankind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. L. Reedy & A. M. Wade
• Release date: Jul 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393279273

E. L. Reedy

E. L. Reedy was born and raised in Iowa, where he devoured tomes of fantasy, sci-fi, and young adult novels as a child. In his free time, he is an avid gamer (D&D and Pathfinder). He has traveled the world as a soldier in the U.S. Army, and now lives in Iowa, where with his writing partner, he continues to pen works in the realms of Fantasy and Horror in the Young Adult Universe.​ A. M. Wade was born the only girl in a family with five boys, she readily escaped into fantasy, sci-fi, and other fiction novels. Having traveled through most of the US, she enjoys using scenery and characteristics of the different states in the story adventures she created for the little ones in her family. Now, she writes sci-fi, fantasy and horror with a lifelong co-conspirator.

Book preview

Act I

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Sunrise

"T he weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have the divine power to demolish strongholds."

2 Corinthians 10:4

The first hints of daylight came in shades of red and gold, crawling like a heatless fire from the eastern horizon. An almost hallowed light pierced the stained-glass windows depicting horrific scenes of murder and mayhem, high upon walls of marble and mortar that surrounded him on all sides. That welcoming warm light arrived with his first drawn breath of the morning, the first free blinking of his watering eyes, and the bone-deep aching of his body, marked and marred by his unfathomable age.

He did not move, however, no stretches or the uncomfortable popping of joints and bones. Instead, the ancient man only closed his life-weary eyes and settled back into an overstuffed chair. To move otherwise was to suffer too many pains to count, and he was far too worn to deal with any unnecessary agony.

As he rested motionless in a vast dwelling he did not recognize, his broken memories surfaced, first as brief flashes of colorful imagery with echoing bursts of muffled sounds. Those memories grew into bits and pieces of the recollections of his life which had fallen away over decades, centuries even. It was only when the Other, the Dark Oppressor, was absent that the old man returned to the confines of himself, to the reaches of his own consciousness. It was a new age; he could feel it with every drawn breath, every blink in the almost blinding light of morning. It very well may have been what broke his age-long sleep. He became aware then; great powers were afoot, and another Chosen walked the world. But whether the Chosen walked the path of light or shadow the old man could not yet say and it troubled him greatly.

One

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It was near midsummer , during the month of the Holly Moon, when the sun baked the world during the day and barely allowed it to cool at night, corn stalks stood over seven feet tall, the wheat tickled the waists of passers-through, and leaves of every tree, curled in warning at the end of a hot day. The sun had parched the landscape to a state not seen in many a year. Steam still rose from the topsoil, from shallow creeks and dwindling rivers, many low and almost dry. Something stirred in the high heavens, beneath the Eye of the Goddess, the golden harvest moon that sailed the velvet, jeweled sky—a darkness, nearly aware and filled with a supernatural hunger.

Oblivious to this, Lukas was a boy then who shared the back seat of his family’s sedan with his younger brother. Their parents claimed the front, their father driving, and their mother toying with the radio controls, where she found naught but static at every station—the turmoil above devoured every signal made by modern science.

Lukas’s eyes were closed tight. He breathed deeply, his every breath controlled as he prepared himself. He rubbed both temples, seeking relief from what he knew would come—a headache of the utmost intensity, and a vision that would tear through his mind and whisk him away to what the powers that be chose to reveal to a sixteen-year-old late bloomer with a slim build and the first downy growth above his upper lip. His arms and face were tanned and his body strong, but his mind was stronger; he had trained for years, learning the magics shared by his mother and grandmother. The visions often left him drained, aching, and most times confused as to their meaning.

The vision came upon him and as always when they struck, a profound darkness came first. It was deep and perpetual, neither cold, nor hot, only absent of light, color, and even thought—a vast gulf, an abyss—if not the Abyss. If his guess was right, it was only the beginning, the start of a dark prophecy. Though he realized as wave after wave of psychic energy flowed over him that instead of predicting the future, or searching the far reaches the world of the present, that this time, the raw powers of old, those unknown beings of light and shadow, the sources of his every vision, took him instead to somewhere unfamiliar in the distant past.

Overwhelming even his physical senses, which should have abandoned him the moment the omen took shape, he, your father, Lukas, son of Martin and Louise, grandson of Helen and Edward Reid, heir apparent of the eldest of the Druidic tribes from the ancient highlands of Ireland, suspected this would be the granddaddy of all revelations. Had he a need for a breath, he suspected he might have held it in suspense.

Even before the light of his impending dream splashed across his mind’s eye, there came the thundering of bass drums and countless rhythmic voices raised in a mysterious, hallowed chant. And though he was free of the confines of his body, the acrid smell of smoke somehow assailed his nonexistent nostrils, bringing with it the scents of burning wet wood, greenish foliage, and dry sage. Another scent, a smell behind the smells, sickened him, rotten flesh burned, though whether it was a man or a beast, he could not even begin to guess.

Sounds became more distinct; the beating drums thundered not a portent of war, but instead a dire warning, the voices; men, women, and even children, in a language Lukas did not recognize. They quickened in energy and urgency to such levels that back in the physical world, his ears ached so much that he thought they might burst. Then came a blessed silence, interrupted by bright flashes of white light—those broken by moments of pitch-black and screams between each blinding flare.

His half-trained psychic awareness—he was still an acolyte after all—crashed down in a strange land. It was a primitive North America where natives and strangers from a distant realm across the sea to the east gathered around something that eluded even the sight of his mysterious and powerful spirit guide. He noted the lack of war between the two distinctive groups. Instead they shared a tangible dripping fear that of which remained hidden from the faraway watcher. 

Beneath the roiling gray skies of a late August and a stormy morning, amongst painted and feathered warriors and settlers, he came to recognize the shamans of old, the medicine men—those that dwelt in the Americas for eons before the European invasion—and here and there the religious tattoos of Irish and Gaelic mystics whose own traditions followed similar paths of their hosts.

They were two armies gathered as one that day to face a still unknown foe. Lukas drifted unseen like a breeze among them, and in their shared looks, he saw only dread and bewilderment, flashing, fearful eyes that both sought and, yet feared a connection with others. The mystery that eluded even his mind’s empowered eye, terrified each of them to the last, though not against one another, they fought a war, such as it was, and they appeared to be losing.

Something ripped the youthful observer away, dragging him back forward through time for moments that stretched into an eternity until, at last, his focus returned to his throbbing physical form. A shiver failed to pass through him; his every muscle remained locked, rigid as stone, save his calloused hands and arms, and he realized he still lacked control over his own body.

His left hand throbbed, holding tight to a paper tablet, balancing it across his lap and his right cupped stiffly around a colored pencil, wielding it like a dagger, and it flew like mad over a half blank sheet as if controlled by another—a most gifted artist—possibly insane, but an artist extraordinaire.

IT WAS A LATE EVENING like any other he had known throughout his life, and it was the night that broke the initial link in a chain of events changing things for your family and for a portion of this world forever.

The sun strived to set early, behind a wall of climbing thunderheads belching distant bursts of lightning and roaring thunder in its damp, cool proceeding and following wakes. There was a birthing taking place, a new creation of Nature’s fury, soon to pummel and drown all in its path. Lukas himself was changing as his powers grew, and yet, he lacked any real discipline or focus—the very definition of youth.

A country boy at heart, your father lived in those times, as your small family does now, deep in the heartland of America. The failing light of a sailing moon struggled to pierce the growing storm veil, to paint the familiar rural Iowan farmlands in a silvery sheen that enveloped the cities and towns and forests and fields. It was a gathering of light and shadow caught up in their eternal struggle that seemed to dwarf the ongoing war between the calm and the storm soaring above. It was Nature herself. Both sides of the conflict were vast, and yet presumably equal, which held them locked together and looming over countless miles of Iowa countryside.

It mirrored the essence of life—twirling forces that would seem to rip all apart, but it was their existence in opposition keeping all in equilibrium, exciting and even scary at times, but a struggle of necessity that has continued since the first spark ignited the moment that set creation into motion.

During those days early of his life, storms still filled him with joy and excitement. They acted as distractions to the burdens of his family and their ancient druidic tribe—weights they had carried, secrets they had protected, for untold generations over many thousands of years—secret knowledge you, his sons, will one day come to protect.

He sought not Nature’s display that night, but after his harrowing experience, he let his thoughts drift across the narrowing miles of land toward the home of his grandparents—toward his grandmother in particular—she would understand and perhaps offer solace, an explanation to what he had just seen.

Two

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Though most of this tale took place thirteen years back, I still remember it like it was yesterday—that high summer during the druidic month of the Oak Moon. Under a thin layer of moonlit clouds, the first stirrings of a cooling breeze sighed through mighty oaks, walnuts, and cottonwoods to scatter debris through the long corridors of my memory. Despite having seen four-hundred years come and go, my fair skin still bore the softness of youth—clear of blemishes, scars, and lines of worry—but I am told that my blue eyes shone with the wisdom of my unintended antiquity.

Truth: they revealed more sorrow and heartache than anything else. If they were windows to my soul as many legends claim, they named me the master of loneliness. Patience dwelt within too, though a closer look might have revealed it only as hints of insanity—that which often plagues those who suffer extended periods of solitude.

Though I had been free from possession for nearly seventeen years, long had it been since I had thought of my true childhood; the names and faces of those bygone days blurred with time, even those of my mother and father, my siblings, if there were any, and anyone else I may have known in those days. I was born to a poor family of little note, and it is doubtful that any legal record of my origin or surname remains. Those of low means mattered little in the age of lords and serfs, plagues, and a hostility toward anything related to magic or knowledge gleaned outside the church.

That night, under the bright and lidless Eye of the Goddess, I sat, hands wrapped around my knees, in the heart of a grove protected by ancient druidic powers. Where and when I may not share, know only that there and in other such similar places I and my kind may find unhindered peace and sanctuary. Elders sat as I did, all of us gathered in a vast circle around a sacred fire, where sage, primrose, and other sacred herbs burned in radiant hues, their still luminous ash drifting on the breeze.

Though we had spoken on and off and I had watched the world turn and change every day and night since I had been set free, I lacked the heart to tell them that I had seen more years than all of them put together. I sensed their desire for knowledge, their eyes almost begged for some new wisdom, and yet they remained most quiet and respectful. I suspected it was the Goddess who prodded them into asking and warned them when and how far to push.

Two amongst them were youths, twins even, sons of the most recent Chosen. Though they had yet to awaken to their gifts, I sensed that they would one day wield more power than any dozen elders. I did not fear them, however, instead I think I loved them. For though they knew it not, it had been through the actions and sacrifices of their parents and namesakes that I was released from an impossible prison. After over four-hundred years as a hostage in my own body; their actions set me free.

They were handsome boys, almost beautiful. I guessed them somewhere between eleven and fourteen summers. They both wore tattoos on either forearm: on the right, a moon shimmering behind a vast tree and the left, flames wreathed about a silver blivet. Within each of the boys dwelt the Yin and the Yang, the light, and the darkness. But possibility also shone from within them—they could choose either, both, or neither of the paths that shone before them. They were still innocents, and I noted that night, not only protected by the Goddess but also that of their father, the most powerful druid I had ever encountered. Several earthbound spirits also hovered close and yet struggled to remain hidden from my sight — they failed.

The brothers studied me as I regarded them—no hurry, no fear, only a deep sense of curiosity—they were well raised, holding back questions, and waiting for me to speak. I could make the elders wait forever, but not the young boys who wielded so much possibility. I wondered what they already knew. What had they heard? Did they know my secret shame? Did they hate me for it? If so, they revealed nothing. I would share everything. I only hoped that one day their family might forgive my part in all that had taken place during the darkest of years, during that time known as the War of the Portal.

I indicated differing the ancient men and women who sat around us, hooded and cloaked. Like them, I said to the boys, you came here seeking to learn some forgotten magic or knowledge. Though I am sure much has changed over the centuries, I bear no such knowledge, no lost spells, only a wonder that matches yours. I met their eyes with soft looks, lacking judgment, but revealing instead only my sincerest welcoming. I would tell you, however, what all youths should know—how to find courage, the power of kinship that can be far greater than the bonds of blood, and the price that comes with dwelling amongst the gods, of light or shadow. I offered a disarming smile. If I may, I would ask of your parents a boon, but first I would share what your mother, father, and ghostly guardians have not.

I paused as they shared looks of surprise. I will reveal how your parents saved the world, how you came to be. I glanced toward their tattoos, and perhaps a word on the differing paths that lie ahead.

YOUR PARENTS, WHOSE journey, such as it was, began about four years before your birth and their relationship many years before that. Though trapped in a prison—perhaps the best way to describe it—I was very much aware of all that took place. I witnessed it through my captor’s eyes, seeing it through what were once my own that he had stolen from me during my youth in Western Europe long ago.

Your great-grandparents, Lukas’s grandparents, Grandma Helen and Grandpa Edward, as known by friends and family, the local farm kids, and all their neighbors for many miles around—lived in an aged white, two-story farmhouse that stood firm against a stiff breeze that rose in the night, as if creeping through and dashing beneath the creaking branches of the groves, to assail the structure made by human hands but carved by the love of many generations.

It was a small, personal fortress that had withstood both Nature’s calm and fury for well past a century—far longer than the scant sixteen years Lukas had frequented their home during both regular and at times, oddly timed familiar visits that in the Age of Technology and Science, defined their lives as they gathered to practice and share magics.

A soft light shone from within the same windows, through which the boy’s thoughts rode the arriving wind and danced with it among transparent lace curtains on its way into a beloved dwelling with old, but well cared for and refurbished furniture, hardwood floors, spotless and aglow with polish. A twentieth century décor of simplicity married the ancient doctrines of the Irish Celts and Christians with symbols and talismans of each displayed throughout the bright and clean home of the Reid family. Wooden, hand-carved triskelions shared the same walls with Catholic crucifixes; Druidic crimson candles and statuettes mingled with the white of Christianity. Two old churches met and intertwined in a world where such gatherings often brought clandestine or even open war.

There was also warmth within that abode of old that had nothing to do with the heat of high summer, and at times, when the boy who has long since grown into a man, remains quiet and alone, even all these years later, he can still reach back into the folds of his memory and feel it as if he were still there, basking within its soft glow. Even he did not realize how much he would miss those days, the familiar, and safe farm, the time with his friends and brother, and his grandparents, who have long since passed into the beyond. It saddens him beyond description he can never share such a place, make such a home for you, his beloved children.

In some slower moments, those occasional breaks in life, he also misses those days of his formative years, when he dealt not only with the normal trials and tribulations of being a teenager but also with the stress of learning to control the sometimes-dangerous druidic gifts shared by many in your extended family—or tribe as one might call it, a tribe scattered around the world by the passage of time and the needs of your gifts.

Lukas knew then and as he will one day teach you, that for all who wield magic, emotions lead to thoughts and those thoughts if left untrained can take form in your unawares and unleash mayhem around you; death and destruction would seem to spawn from nothingness. Servants of the Goddess would know the truth it, the cause of so much misery, and the guilt of such events would add to the quiet secret burdens they already bear upon their souls.

A second moon glittered gold, shining through sparse clouds that night, though not in the sky, but instead from beneath a tattoo covering the entirety of Grandma Helen’s right forearm—the same one that marked Lukas, Elliot, and their mother, since the moments of their individual births. It is a living talisman, a celestial mark upon them, a sign from the Goddess who graced them with Her light and favor.

Your great grandmother, Grandma Helen, was a soft-spoken lady of quiet, unmistakable power, who hid her milky-white, sightless eyes behind dark glasses. She sipped from a hot mug of her favorite tea—orange-pekoe with a