Two Merchants and a Thief: Branded Souls, #1

By R.A. Baker

In book one of Branded Souls: What happens when a land has no great warriors or wizards to save it from disaster? Who will answer the call?

A powerful ruling sorcerer known as the "Chaotic Prince" has set his sights on a city of mortals called Jhargus. He intends to conquer that land and crush its people with his magical might.

Two young merchants, Kelric and Laran, are like day and night. One - thoughtful and kind - the other brash and often cruel. When fate has them cross paths with a beautiful, yet mysterious thief, their lives are forever changed.

The thief leads them through a magical portal where the three are left, not only in another world, but with the palms of their hand covered with a strange, circular emblem. The symbols are etched into their skin ... like a brand. They soon find out the Eternal Brands grant those who possess them great power - binding its ancient magic to the very souls of their wielders. And so, two brother merchants, along with the thief, are all who stand between the Chaotic Prince and the future of Jhargus.

Before it's over, one merchant will fall in love, and the other will fall into darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Apollo House Press
• Release date: May 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201466343

Book preview

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales are entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Part One: The Quest

Prologue ~ Motris

Chapter One ~ Pursuit

Chapter Two ~ Chrosynthium

Chapter Three ~ Laran’s Bane

Chapter Four ~ First Blood

Part Two: The Search

Chapter Five ~ The Priestess

Chapter Six ~ Ral

Chapter Seven ~ The Ritual

Chapter Eight ~ The Inn

Chapter Nine ~ Dark Interlude

Part Three: The Battle

Chapter Ten ~ From Bad

Chapter Eleven ~ To Worse

Chapter Twelve ~ The Crypt of Lost Souls

Chapter Thirteen ~ The Battle

Chapter Fourteen ~ Aftermath

Dedication

To my fans and readers everywhere

Part One: The Quest

Prologue ~ Motris

D ance for me! the Chaotic Prince commanded the jester, who was dressed in a floppy hat with garments covered with colorful patches, and cloth shoes trimmed with tiny bells that jingled incessantly whenever she took a step.

The jester bowed, and complied with a jaunty jig—all the while juggling five overly ripe tomatoes.

They were in the war room, and Captain Tangor—dressed in full leather armor—waited patiently for the Prince to return to discussing battle plans with him. However, Prince Motris liked entertainment during war meetings, though such meetings seldom went well for the entertainers. If Tangor remembered correctly from previous meetings, most of them ended up rotting in the dungeon...or worse. As the spectacle went on, two stiff guards stood by the door, staring ahead, at nothing in particular.

The round table the Captain and Prince sat at was a massive sculpture, which surface was made from the shields of fallen enemy Captains and Generals, who were defeated on mundane lands conquered by Motris. The shields were layered and welded together, like a patchwork quilt of iron, bronze, and steel. As a result, the surface of the table—though aesthetically impressive—was smooth only in certain areas. This was important for scribes, who took great care to sit at the smooth sections of the table when summoned.

As always, the Prince wore hooded robes, enchanted to change colors at random. Tangor, a calculating man, first thought the colors were tied to the Prince’s mercurial moods, but he soon learned the robe would turn red or black or green regardless of whether he was pleased or furious. Due to his cowl, no one had ever seen the Prince’s face, and that made it impossible for Tangor to read the man. One minute, Tangor could be talking to a deliberate, tactical genius—and the next minute—a manic madman.

Make me laugh—sing for me! the Prince ordered, and the juggling, dancing jester began to look nervous, but broke into song. She must have understood that to drop a single tomato, or hit one unpleasant note would mean

imprisonment in the Prince’s notorious dungeon. No one quite knew what went on in the dungeon, for no one ever returned from there, except the dungeon keepers—and the Prince had made them all mute by having their tongues removed. The jester’s silly song rang throughout the war room:

A jig, a jig,

a jig is like a pig. Fast with a wiggle,

slippery in the middle...

As the jester sang on, Prince Motris turned his attention to Tangor. Are we ready to invade Jhargus, Tangor? he asked in a subdued calm voice—far different from the tone he used with the jester.

Yes, my Prince.

Good. I will give the order soon, but my spies tell me Queen Ti and King Bramen plan to send champions, armed with the Celestial Brands, to assassinate me.

I can arrange to double your guards, my Prince.

Now hop on one leg! Must I tell you everything? You try my patience with your unfunny act! the Prince yelled at the jester.

The jester’s eyes showed clear distress as she continued to sing, juggle, and hop on one leg—all with a false smile pasted on her face.

I have already doubled the guard, Motris said quietly, almost in a whisper. Tell me why I made you, Captain Tangor.

Tangor cleared his throat and carefully chose his words. Because I have sworn all loyalty to you, my Prince, and that my commitment to your cause has never wavered.

No, Prince Motris said softly. I made you Captain because the Captain before you failed me. The Prince’s voice rose dramatically, without warning, So I had the worthless fool tied to a tree, and let the vultures feast on his flesh while he still drew breath!

Tangor remained silent. He knew better than to speak when the Prince was like this. He forced his eyes away from Motris’s changing robes and looked down at the table where they sat.

Many seconds passed with no one saying anything,

other than the poor jester singing in the background; she was sounding out of breath:

What glee for flea,

who was found drinking tea? And would he share with me?

Well, he answered my plea, and said, off with thee!

Man, can’t you see? It’s my bloody tea!

Blood, blood, bloody tea!

I will not tolerate failure in those who serve me, the Prince went on, back to his calmer voice. I am the most powerful mage in Chrosynthium, and so, I have many enemies. Enemies who wish to destroy me. Motris paused, his cowl facing Tangor. Are you my enemy, Tangor?

The question had taken Tangor aback, but he knew his life depended on providing the right answer. The Prince seemed to enjoy making his subjects ill at ease—always testing them, searching for weakness...for fear. Never, my Prince! was his reply.

"Good. Then never ask me again about my personal guards, or offer to increase them. That is not your duty. It is

mine."

My apologizes, my Prince. Please forgive me. Another long pause.

Do you like the jester’s song? the Prince asked.

I...I was so intent on your words, my Prince, I neglected to hear hers.

Hmmm. I don’t think I like her singing or her performance at all.

At that moment, the jester, exhausted from non-stop juggling and hopping, dropped two tomatoes; they fell to the floor and burst open—splattering red juice by her feet. The jester caught her breath and stopped singing, but continued to hop and juggle the remaining tomatoes. Her eyes were bright with the forming of tears. A thousand pardons, my Prince! The fruit became slippery after a while. Please allow me to get new ones, and I shall sing new songs.

Yes, I want you to sing me a new song, Prince Motris declared and motioned for the guards to grab her. Take her to the dungeon, he ordered. She may ply her poor act from there.

The jester’s eyes grew wide as the two guards took her

by the arms and began to pull her from the room. The three tomatoes she juggled fell and joined the other two on the floor as splattered, red pulp. No! she screamed. Please, my Prince. I can make you laugh, just give me another chance! The guards pulled her with her jingling feet dragging the floor; she struggled wildly against their grip, to no avail. Her screams were still heard echoing down the hall after she was gone.

The Prince’s cowl nodded with approval. Now that was funny, he said. Slowly, a deep dark chuckle rose from Motris’s throat, and became louder and louder, until it crested into hysterical screeching.

Cold sweat crept down Tangor’s face, but he resisted the impulse to flee from the room. The insane laughter stopped, and the Prince turned to Tangor, and said, That is what happens to those who fail me. Failure is death. Do you understand?

Yes, Tangor answered. Failure is death.

Excellent, Motris said, his voice sounding pleased. With that, the two stood and left the room.

Chapter One ~ Pursuit

The city of Jhargus was one of great wealth and great poverty—both halves bond together by common cords of mutual need. The rich required the services of their lessers while the laboring classes and the poor took what compensation the wealthy offered to hold back the specter of hunger and death for yet another day. A precarious alliance it was, but it had served the city well enough over the years.

In this city, two brothers walked together along a squalid, mud-laden road, far from the clean avenues their feet were accustomed. The first brother was tall and thin, with dark hair and kind eyes. The other brother was bulkier, covered with reddish brown hair. He had a distrusting, piercing gaze, full of grim displeasure. The streets were crowded, filled with yelling vendors hoping to squeeze a coin or two from the milling masses as they passed. An old beggar with a hump in his back approached the pair, pleading, Please, kind sirs. Can you spare a wretch like myself a copper to feed me starving, lame daughter—too ill to beg for herself? Before the first brother could protest, the second

had already opened his purse, and presented the beggar with a single coin.

A copper would not even buy you a loaf of stale bread, the second brother explained gently. Here, take this gold so you both may eat together many good meals.

With wide eyes and a near toothless grin, the old beggar thanked the young man with a profuse display of bowing and backing away before abruptly turning and melting into the crowd.

The first brother studied the second brother briefly before letting out a cynical laugh. Kelric, you trusting fool. Do you truly believe that old cretin has a sickly daughter?

Kelric shrugged his narrow shoulders. He gave me no reason to suspect otherwise. Tell me, Laran, why do you insist on looking for the worst in everything?

Laran made a sweeping gesture with his hands. Perhaps because you have brought me to the worst part of town. This is the first and last time I’ll let you dupe me into walking these filthy, peasant infested streets.

It is refreshing to walk among common everyday people.

Laran sniffed, wrinkling his nose with disdain. It is an invitation to falling prey to beggars, cut- purses, and thugs. I find nothing refreshing about that. Little wonder father chose not to locate any of his shops around here—not that the locals could afford it if he did.

I thought it would be nice to explore something different.

Are not the pristine parks of Wrenchest a better place to explore? We are, after all, the sons of the wealthiest jewel merchant in Jhargus. We are nobility in money and power, if not in title.

You are a snob, Kelric quipped.

And you are a true virgin to the ways of this world, brother. Naïve enough to get us both killed one day.

Kelric feigned offense, saying, You have hurt me, and I await an apology.

Hummph! You will get an apology from my lips when you can tell me why they’ve started sheltering crippled, ill daughters in local pubs.

Kelric’s brown eyes followed Laran’s pointing finger, which aimed at the beggar—who just entered a seedy tavern,

aptly named the Sly Fox.

Kelric gaped in astonishment. He lied!

Laran shook his head. It is hard to believe you are the older by an hour, he said. For what good it has done, you might just as well had stayed in our mother’s womb a while longer and let me be the elder son. Father certainly would have approved.

Yes, he would, Kelric replied, the mirth suddenly gone from his heart. Though his words were veiled in a spirit of jest, Kelric knew his brother secretly wished to be the heir to their father’s inheritance. But by law, all worldly wealth would go to the elder son at the time of the father’s death. Even if one was the elder by just an hour. It mattered not that their father hated Kelric and loved Laran, nor did it matter that Kelric desired his father’s jewelry business even less than a farmer would desire a swarm of locusts upon his crops. It was a sad irony that both brothers were painfully aware.

Kelric’s reverie was abruptly broken by a faint rustle of movement—passing behind Laran—gone as quickly as it had come.

My purse! Laran yelled in furious disbelief, and pointed a stiff finger to a hooded figure making a quick departure. He filched my coin purse! Eager to pursue the thief, Laran turned to his reluctant brother. Well? he asked in a demanding tone. Will you not join me in bringing the scoundrel to justice?

Kelric hesitated. Perhaps, he began carefully, hoping to word his answer in a way that would not flare his brother’s volatile temper, "we should not follow. The money