Soria's Blood: The Saga of Soria Book One

By D.L. Brownson

From the North rides the brutal and menacing knight known as Ulric. His true past and intentions are unknown save the thinly veiled fact that they both involve violence and blood. In his wake many things follow, of which, death and destruction are near the fore.

Demonic deals long in the making begin to bear fruit in a world w

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dylan Brownson
• Release date: Apr 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649908841

D.L. Brownson

D.L. Brownson was born in Arizona to a growing miner's family. He spent most of his childhood in the dark town of Fairbanks, Alaska, which could be where he acquired his talent for equally dark storytelling. Since graduating high school in a small town in rural Idaho, he has served in the United States Marine Corps which was followed by several years of working construction and writing on the side mixed in with another enlistment in the Idaho National Guard. He currently resides at his base of operations in Pocatello, Idaho where he plots his next move. In an ever-changing life of travel and chaos, one thing has remained constant through his life, his love of a good book! His influences are a mixture of J.R.R. Tolkien, George R. R. Martin, William King, David Gemmell, C. L. Warner, Gav Thorpe, R.A. Salvatore, Richard Lee Byers, and many others. Follow his Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/D.L.Brownson/

Book preview

ACT I: THE WHO AND THE WHY

A

wareness dragged him reluctantly back from eternity. Was his fading memory of the heat he had felt scorching him in a form of punishment? Or could it have warmed a weary soul as a heartfelt embrace from a parent? Or could it have possibly been from a cleansing flame purifying him? Had he been in Heaven or Hell? The thought was snatched from his mind before it even finished forming. Other important questions needed immediate answers.

Where was he? Who was he? Was he a nobleman or peasant? Either of them was always equal in Death’s eyes when one was a breath away. As his struggling mind began to awaken, the lost man desperately tried to remember-something, anything. There was nothing, nothing but a soul twisting and an all-consuming despair that ravaged his mind. With all this information he lacked and the horrible feeling he felt in his gut, he knew before he opened his eyes that he was in a foul place—somewhere terrible where the light had hidden itself away.

Taking a shuddering breath, the breath of a swimmer who had dived almost too deep, the man sampled the air. He could practically taste the copper tang of spent blood in the dank damp air. That’s when the pain began to scream through him. Something horrible had ravaged the man’s body along with his mind—some vile event that should have laid him down into Death’s icy embrace but had not. The pain he felt began to increase as if it were a beast trying to pull him back into unconsciousness. He rebelled and fought back with the stubborn savagery that was his nature though he did not know how he knew that. Somehow he knew that to fall into unconsciousness again would ensure that Death would reap him this time.

An emotion began to form in his mind. The emotion formed itself into anger. Anger begat hate, hate begat rage which in turn begat fury. With such fuel driving him he forced his body to respond. Forcing his eyes to do their duty with this fuel, he managed to open one. The other would not respond.

Opening the orb, for what could possibly have been the first time for all he knew he could only see darkness that was all but absolute. Was he blind? Something within him said no, that was not his condition. So he drew his focus and thoughts inwards once again and focused on the stimuli from senses he did have. His leg felt hot and wet. It felt as if he had been cut severely. His skull screamed for his attention as well, as it also produced a wet hot feeling along with the pain. It felt as if someone had tried to skin his skull but had failed. It seemed as though he had been mauled by something hungry. He blocked those feelings out and focused harder on his surroundings.

The overpowering smell of blood hadn’t changed but he could now detect other scents in the air. Excrement; it was subtle but undeniably present, and considering the circumstances it could have possibly been his. Again the inner voice said no to this-the foreign chemical scent of displaced organs and the scent of human despair. These things hung in the air like a heavy mist to his sense of smell. These were the smells of things that a man could never get used to and could never forget. How he knew that he still did not know.

A faint glow creeped under what could only have been an iron reinforced door. So he must be in a cell he thought. He was a prisoner then. How long he had been here or for what reason he did not know. The light began to mesmerize the dying man. He savored its very existence like a fine wine.

A noise drew his attention across the cell. His gaze fell upon a wretched sight. In one corner was a small Ursus bear. In life it looked to have been malnourished. However now it was most definitely dead. Its eyes had been gouged out of its skull and its windpipe had been ripped through its mouth. Its corpse carried many scars crisscrossing its ragged hide. Some other wounds were fresh and looked to have been made by claws.

If these horrendous wounds hadn’t killed the beast then the fact that its guts had been spilled and were in the process of being devoured by a lion could also have been its cause of death. Oddly the lion had its meal in between the man and itself as if the added distance would protect it. Strangely it seemed that it feared the mortal that was slowly bleeding to death. Whatever it feared, it had the right to be afraid of something. It too was missing an eye. It dangled from its left cheek near where its lip should have been. It looked like the bear and it had fought over this new meal of sweet pork when the meal had decided to intervene. Its hind legs and neck were mangled with fang and claw marks. It appears the bear had put up a fight. However, only a man could have committed the damage to its face.

The glow under the door continued to brighten, forcing the man’s eye to water. Voices accompanied the light. He began to hear snatches of the conversation with words like, Special prisoner, How the mighty can fall, and Lion shit. The different voices all seemed to relish pain. Few types of men talked like that.

He knew that if these men found him alive then more torture would be in his near future if he survived long enough. He didn’t know why he was locked in this large cell, who he was, or what he had done that was so terrible as to require such extreme punishment. What he did know was that he didn’t want any more. As his mind turned to escape, his eyes turned to the bear’s empty stomach cavity that was just large enough for a man to crawl inside…

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Outside in the dark, a man lay half-buried in a pile of garbage just beyond the walls of a smoldering castle. His battered form was so similar to the first man’s that they had to be twins. He lifted his eyes to look through the sparse corpse of trees at the castle that used to belong to his family.

The darkest of night had fallen and even the moon hid its face from the looting and pillaging that was being carried on inside those very walls. The darkness, however complete, could not blot out the light of burning buildings nor muffle the screams. The old order had been cast down from within and the new one was determined to rise through blood and fire.

The man’s shallow breath no longer misted the night’s air; his chest no longer struggled to rise and fall, blood no longer flowed from the dagger wound in his back or the horizontal slash across his blood-smeared throat.

Darkness began to concentrate on his battered and broken shell. Light grew from within his corpse pushing back the black ink pooling around him in the absence of day, though none were around to witness this. The light began to pull itself from the man’s mortal coil and then rose slowly towards the heavens. But something happened as it gained height over the lichen-covered walls; the sight of the destruction gave it pause. The darkness still crept along behind it coiling and pooling, waiting, trying to take possession of such a mighty soul.

The rising light stopped, mixing in with the glow of the raging infernos consuming the castle, and watched the flames dance and the victors pillage. Slowly the white light of purity turned darker, changing with its desire to stay and finish what others had started. It couldn’t let go. As it struggled to stay it turned darker and darker. Finally it turned blacker than the darkness seeking to envelope it. Anger poured out of it causing the nearby stunted pines to shed their needles in shock. Slowly this new darkness sank back into the earth as the evil surrounding it embraced it as if it was a new friend. It had claimed this soul which was powerful enough to tip the balance between the good in the world and the evil.

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Alone he rode through the rain. What little dared to touch him sizzled and evaporated into puffs of steam as if from some hellish internal heat. Not a sound emitted from his beveled head. In full plate armor, the knight rode without even a scrap of flesh showing its existence from underneath the dull black steel that was this creature’s plate. The different plates that composed his armor slid over and through joints and seams without as much as a whisper of movement. Truly it had been crafted and fitted by a master.

Attached to his legs were two twin short swords. One glowed an evil blue and, despite the heat and humidity of a false summer, it clearly had a layer of frost coating it. The other glowed dully even in the gloom of the heavily overcast sky. The color of the glow was unmistakable to those who had seen its like before; its color was that of blood.

High aback a midnight black steed this knight rode. Tall and bred for battle, this beast of burden took after its master and walked confidently down the desolate hill along the trail leading into town. The knight somehow portrayed an aura of dread from within his armor which proudly mimicked the muscles that rippled beneath.

As he entered the tiny ramshackle village, the locals began to clear what could laughably be called streets, disappearing into the supposed safety of their hovels. None dared to peek outside through their doors at the killer who rode with blunt directness and efficiency through their lives. After all, if this man became offended how could they possibly hope to stop him when he wore armor like that?

He rode directly to the only tavern in the town and dismounted with a metallic thud. In this dismount, there were no extra movements, nor any wasted energy. It all spoke of a man who valued economy of movement. Dipping his winged helm so as not to catch it on the poorly finished door frame, he entered the gloomy interior. As the door shut, the peasants, grown men, and women alike, breathed a sigh of relief and continued to pray for their deliverance.

As the knight entered into the light of the common room a quiet settled like a heavy fog that none dared to disturb. It saturated the place down to the earthen floor. The troubling newcomer marched to a table furthest from the entrance and the warmth of the hearth and took his seat on the crude wooden bench.

A boisterous blacksmith in the corner said to his tablemates, If I had the coin and steel I could duplicate that level of work. The knight’s helm swiveled to the burly man’s direction and the man fell silent. His friends shook their heads at his drunken stupidity before glancing to another corner of the tavern, where a trio of men was busy picking a fight with a shifty-eyed villain seated fidgeting on a stool. In front of the man was a table with cards strewn about and a pile of coins in his corner.

Things were not going well, Trog thought, as the three men he had taken for easy marks decided he had cheated at cards and were heading towards violence. The fact that he had cheated at the game didn’t mean that getting a thrashing was an equivalent punishment to the crime—at least not in Trog’s eyes.

Tell me how an unlucky pile of horse apples such as yourself wins five hands in a row? Explain that to me, Trog. The man who had introduced himself as Jacks didn’t appear to be calm even though his tone was neutral.

No, Trog thought, this was not going well at all. Gentlemen, I am sure that my luck will turn eventually if you would care to play another hand we might be able to settle this?

The second belligerent loser whose name happened to be Danner clapped his meaty hands on Trog’s wrists from behind, restraining him for what was next. The third man, whose name Trog for some reason could not recall, primed a fist back and fired into Trog’s face, smashing into the slim card shark’s eye socket. Danner released Trog, who began to fall to the floor and would have hit the hard packed earthen floor but Danner jerked him back to his feet. With no way to defend himself from the other two men, all the poor wandering peasant could do was accept the beating that was steaming his way. The other two men hammered punches into his ribs and face until he blacked out from the pain. When they had finished, Danner dropped the groaning piece of meat to the floor and didn’t even bother to eject the man from the tavern.

The three men returned to their table and started dividing up Trog’s winnings. Danner complained to the other two, You two should buy my next two drinks. I didn’t even get to hit the clever little bastard before he passed out.

The third man replied, Nah Danner, you barely broke a sweat holding him there like that. Gotta earn your keep and all.

Danner grunted irritably back and snarled, To hells with you then. He raised his hand and ordered another drink. Before the tavern wench could even take his coin, there was a sound of metal hitting wood. It repeated itself from the lone knight’s table. The single tavern wench hurried over to his table quickly, forgetting about the barroom bullies in favor of a more highly born patron. She asked him what he wanted. The knight just responded by producing a silver coin and placed it on the table, not saying a word. She took the high payment and scurried away, returning quickly bearing a bottle of wine and a cup, which she deposited in front of the ominous figure.

The greedy eyes of the tavern bullies turned towards his direction as they swaggered over. Say, you wouldn’t happen to be interested in buying us a round or three, would you sir? Even two rounds a piece for all of us would be far cheaper than your one, Danner grinned, showing crooked teeth. He received only silence.

It’s very unfriendly to ignore us, sir. We were just being friendly, but it looks like you have no manners. Like that one over there, Jacks pointed a finger at Trog. He then spread his hands after another long moment of silence and asked, Should we teach him a lesson in hospitality lads? Before they could answer yes or no, their supposed prey struck.

With a sickening crunch Jacks’ teeth exploded outwards from his mouth as the knight smashed a heavy gauntlet into his jaw. Jacks fell with no thought of getting up soon. The two men left standing spread out with caution. Neither wanted a taste of the knight’s murderous right hook. They dispersed to the left and right of him, hoping he would be distracted by the other man. The knight stood his ground. One second he was still as a statue and the next he again exploded into motion. He moved with a speed beyond belief as he bulled into Danner.

His heavy metal fists clubbed the stout, corn-fed man into the ground. The third man, however, wasn’t going to stand for it and retrieved a chair which he smashed into the knight’s winged helm. He would have had better luck trying to knock out a troll. The knight’s helm didn’t even move as a hollow bell-like sound filled the room. Slowly turning from the now unconscious Danner, the knight faced the last degenerate standing. A look of stupid apology and shame spread across the man’s face. The knight just advanced. At the sight of this, the bully’s courage evaporated and he bolted for the door. But before he could reach it a chair flew through the air and smashed into his upper back with a sickening crunch.

Trog groaned as he picked himself up off the floor. As his foggy-eyed gaze cleared, he watched the tavern empty itself but for the innkeeper, tavern wench, himself and the mysterious stranger. The sight of three unconscious men was a welcome surprise. He wasn’t one to question small mercies so he wasted little time in pick-pocketing the three senseless bullies. When he had finished he cautiously approached the knight who had retaken his seat and was busy staring down at his untouched drink.

Are you here alone, Milord? At the sound of the poorly spoken acknowledgment of his status, the knight balled his gauntleted fists. At the sign of this threatening display, Trog shrank back a pace.

It’s just that you seem to be here looking for someone. And seeing that you are not from around here and there is no one else new to town… Well you see also I should be leaving as well… He eyed the three broken men lying unconscious in various forms of their own fluid. The knight didn’t answer; he just stared down at his drink.

Well, I guess what I am trying to say is that if you need a traveling companion I could be that man. At least for a while… I can make a pretty good breakfast! Also when these men wake up they are going to want to hurt someone for the beating you dished out. Trog wrung his hands. His fear of the knight grew as the man just sat there, back straight and motionless. He practically dripped menace.

Finally, a hoarse rasping voice emerged from the knight’s helm. If you travel with me you work for me. Gods, the man’s voice sounded like a burned victim who had breathed in the flames!

Trog bobbed his head eagerly. Knight’s paid well, usually. Certainly Milord!

Call me ‘Milord’ again and I’ll cut your tongue out. It’s ‘My Lord’ and you will call me Sire. I am no Lord… yet. The knight’s voice grew very cold.

Yes, Sire. By what name are you called?

At this the man paused. My name? The knight said softly to himself sounding slightly confused. All menace and chill that permeated his voice had gone now. If Trog didn’t know any better he would have sworn the knight sounded hurt and lost, vulnerable. His helm turned further downwards towards his drink. What happened to this man that could be so terrible as to make him struggle to remember his own name?

I have a name, I have a name… It’s… well… It was heartbreaking to watch as such a noble being crumbled to something so simple, the tone of his voice was tearing Trog’s heart to shreds. Again, it was that hurt tone; what was wrong with him?

Then with fury and aggression, he looked up at Trog and said, My name? Is that what you ask? I am known as Ulric! Chapter Master of the Dark Templars! The slayer of the orc warboss, Iron Fist the Mighty! Who are you to question me? He slammed his open palm onto the table and removed it. Halfway pressed into the wooden table was a gold coin.

That is your wage. I pay well and I expect you to earn it! Be here at sunrise tomorrow. Do not make me come collect you, boy. With a snarl he got up and left the tavern, disappearing into the night. With a smile, Trog pulled out his newly acquired dagger, which looked eerily similar to the one Jacks had. Testing the edge with his thumb, he began to pry more than a farmer’s yearly pay from the table. He would come to regret his acceptance of this contract.

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That night Trog had a horrible nightmare that had him squirming in his threadbare blanket. The dream was of two desperate men’s struggle for survival. Two twin brothers stood side by side in the throne room that was their ancestral seat of power, king and champion respectively. Both were identical and easily and often mistaken for the other. Most days they wore easy grins underneath short beards, however today their pale gray eyes were tight with fear—not for themselves but fear for something far more precious, the future. The future stood behind them in the form of a heavily pregnant woman carrying another small toddler in her arms. Judging by the juddering oak doors leading into their holdout, that future was in danger of being snuffed out, root and stem. Both men had failed to recognize the threat building a power base in their midst. Now because of that failure they would not be the only ones to pay the Piper.

Standing behind the two noblest of twins stood a weasel of a man bearing only a small dagger. This well-tailored man had a fearful look in his dark eyes but somehow it was different from the tall twin swordsmen guarding the door. Their collective escape tunnel dug centuries ago and laughed at for its obvious signs of paranoia was now blocked, leaving their destinies forever intertwined. There was nowhere to run.

Knowing that every second the two men held the treasonous curs at bay was another that that toddler and woman drew breath, the men prepared to sell their lives dearly. It was no longer with hope in their hearts that the brothers looked to the future. Now their minds were turned to the process of spilling as much treasonous blood as to make them pay dearly to end this dynasty.

The heavy oaken door rocked hard against its bracing, splintering the oak beam laid across its middle. It would break soon, and the killing that worked its way through the keep would begin again in the throne room. The third man in the room began to creep forward with the look of deadly intent in his eyes. With a final