Dreaming in the Dark: Soul Force Saga, #4

Prologue

The last rays of the sun tangled up with the thick evergreen limbs to cast a spiderweb of shadows across the trade road. Cormac took a deep breath of the cool, rich, late summer air then blew it out in a long sigh. The last of the day’s heat was past, thank heaven. One, possibly two more nights and he’d be back in the capital .

This patrol had seemed especially long to his aching bones. At least nothing had attacked him. Some of the younger guardsmen relished a brush with goblins or bandits, but after the madness six months ago, Cormac was glad for a little peace and quiet. Ordinary guardsmen like him were having to step up and fill in for the many warlords that died fighting the mad warlock’s demons. It was a bad situation, but the kingdom would pull through, it always did.

Cormac sighed again. Old age was catching up with him. Dena, his piebald mare, snorted as if agreeing with his unspoken thought.

He patted her neck. I don’t need any sarcastic comments from you. Your days as a filly are long past.

Another derisive snort brought a smile to Cormac’s face. He spent more time with Dena than he did his wife. Argued with her less too.

They rounded a corner and a hundred yards ahead the warm glow from the Inn Between’s windows shone across the road. Built from rough logs, the two-story inn resembled a noble’s hunting camp. Even from a distance the raucous laughter reached him. Cormac couldn’t wait for a hot meal, warm bed, and some human company.

Dena broke into a trot and Cormac let her go. She’d earned a night in the stables after carrying his creaky frame on a five-hundred-mile tour of the local trade routes.

A split-rail fence separated the inn’s yard from the road. He guided Dena through the open gate and toward the long stable. He didn’t even have a chance to dismount before a boy maybe ten years old and wearing a tan tabard with the inn’s livery came running out to hold Dena’s bridle.

Welcome to the Inn Between, Master Guardsman, the boy said, offering a quick bow. Mistress Maven is mulling wine tonight. Should be plenty left this early in the evening.

Cormac grunted and swung down from the saddle. He said a silent word of thanks when his legs didn’t buckle the moment his boots hit the ground. Heaven’s mercy, he was getting old. His battered saddlebags went over one shoulder and he adjusted his sword and cloak before digging out a penny for the stable boy.

Thank you, sir, the boy said as he snatched the coin out of the air.

Cormac grunted again and trudged toward the front door. Two steps up to the wraparound porch and he was through the door. Heat and noise washed over him, forcing out the evening chill. The common room was three-quarters filled with mostly merchants and guards. A pair of farmers in dirty overalls sat together at a corner table, a checkerboard between them.

Half a pig roasted over the fire and the savory scent of sizzling meat set his mouth watering. A single man with short hair and bronze skin wearing leather armor and carrying a broadsword sat alone at the bar. Not a guardsman unless he was out of uniform, more likely a mercenary between jobs.

Cormac grabbed a stool two down from him and set his bags on the floor at his feet. A moment later a big, dark-haired woman emerged from the kitchen door. Maven, the innkeeper, didn’t need a bouncer to keep the peace; she handled it herself, often with a rolling pin in one hand and a skillet in the other. Tonight, she had a platter laden with plates and mugs balanced in her right hand.

Maven spotted him, winked, and said, Be with you in a second.

He nodded and rubbed his tired eyes. Cormac had known Maven for years and always made an effort to visit her inn on his way to or from the capital. She returned with a single mug remaining on the tray which she set in front of the mercenary.

You look tired, Cormac. Maven leaned on the bar, giving him an eyeful of her massive cleavage.

Long trip. He dug around in his pocket and slapped down a ceramic disk marked with a crown on one side and a sword on the other. The kingdom provided the markers for soldiers on patrol to pay for their lodging and provisions. Maven would turn the disk in at tax time to get three gold royals off her bill, far more than a meal and one night’s lodging cost her.

Hungry? she asked.

Starving.

You stay right there. I’ll be back in a few minutes.

He nodded and Maven bustled back into the kitchen. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the mercenary watching him.

Cormac slid down a seat. I’ve known Maven forever. I’m Cormac. He thrust out his hand.

Balthazar. The man had a grip like iron. She’s very friendly, if a bit immodest.

That described Maven to a T though you seldom heard the phrase immodest around here.

You’re from the south. Looking for work?

Not at the moment. He took a pull from his mug. I escorted a caravan to the capital. A cousin of mine lives in the north and we agreed to meet here.

Why not meet in the city? Tons of taverns to choose from there.

My cousin doesn’t care for cities and he assured me this place had the best food in the area, in or out of the city. Judging by the wine he was correct.

The food is every bit as delicious as the wine.

Maven rushed past, carved off a hunk of pork, and set his dinner in front of him. Cormac dug into the juicy meat and put the mercenary out of his mind.

Cormac sat bolt upright in bed, straining in the complete darkness to figure out what woke him. A moment later a muffled scream sounded from downstairs .

He fumbled for his boots as a second and third scream rose only to be quickly cut off. What the hell was going on down there? He’d seen his share of combat, but never at an inn two days from the capital.

When he finally got his boots on the correct feet, he belted on his sword and drew it. His heart raced as he eased toward the door. The screams had ended and the inn had fallen unnaturally silent.

The door creaked and he winced at the noise. Hopefully, whoever was down there hadn’t noticed.

Cormac tiptoed out of his room and over to the railing overlooking the common room. Corpses littered the floor. His gaze was drawn to a woman in black and he shook his head when he recognized Maven. Whoever did this would pay.

He took a single step towards the staircase, blinked, and found an eight-foot-tall, blue-skinned ogre facing him, a white dragon mask covering his face.

Cormac barely had time to register the monster’s appearance before a sword made of what looked like solid ice came whistling for his chest.

He raised his own weapon in time to block, but the force of the blow sent him flying over the railing where he crashed atop one of the bodies.

His breath rushed out and Cormac went limp. The world grayed out for a moment. When he recovered, he heard Balthazar’s voice.

We’re agreed on the location?

There was never any question about whether the battle would take place on the Plains of Judgement, a deep, inhuman voice replied. We’ve held the contest there every millennium since this world was born.

Cormac twisted his head enough to see Balthazar and the ogre seated at an empty table together like old friends, their weapons leaning beside them.

That leaves only the timing, Balthazar said.

The ogre snorted. The battle will happen on one of the equinoxes, just as it always does. I allow you the honor of choosing.

Autumn then.

Inch by painful inch Cormac gathered himself. If he struck while they were distracted, maybe he could kill the ogre. One on one he’d stand some chance against Balthazar.

The ogre nodded and chuckled. I know your agents have already begun paving the way. But no matter. In six weeks I shall humiliate you once again.

Balthazar laughed. Keep dreaming. This time victory will be mine.

Cormac lunged, thrusting his sword at the ogre’s neck. The monster seemed to vanish the moment he got close.

Horrendous, burning pain filled Cormac’s stomach. He looked down and saw a foot of the ogre’s ice sword jutting from his gut.

The blade ripped back and he collapsed.

Staring at the ceiling, the life running out of him, Balthazar appeared in his vision. The mercenary’s eyes glowed with an orange light. If you had stayed still and silent, we might have forgotten about you.

Cormac couldn’t draw a breath to reply.

His consciousness flickered in and out.

The pact is made, the ogre said, facing Balthazar.

Made and accepted, the mercenary agreed.

Like lightning, the two warriors ran each other through. They collapsed on either side of Cormac, who had just enough life remaining to wonder what he’d stumbled into before his heart beat its last.

Chapter One

Damien St. Cloud made his way across the sun-drenched yard outside King’s Castle towards the training ground. Every day for he’d lost track of how many weeks, he’d been helping rebuild the capital. At last, the city was back to normal, more or less. That should’ve thrilled him, and in one sense it did since he didn’t need to do any more carpentry work, but mostly he was bored .

After a year of near constant battle, the months of quiet had dragged to the point of tedium. When his sister sent a note asking him to join her so she could show off the new technique she’d been working on, he flew out the castle door. Anything that broke the routine was welcome.

Damien waved to one of the wall guards as he made his way around to the dirt training ground on the far side of the castle. He might be bored, but everyone else seemed overjoyed by the end of the fighting. Maybe his brain didn’t work right. What kind of idiot yearned for battle?

You are your father’s son. Fredric was always keen to show his skills in battle even though he didn’t get as many opportunities as he preferred.

Lizzy’s warm, telepathic voice brought a smile to his face. He’d inherited the demon sword after his father’s murder last year, though he’d known her forever and couldn’t imagine his life without her. Damien loved the spirit bound to the blade more than most people considered prudent, but they didn’t know Lizzy. Along with his sister, she was one of the people that made life worthwhile.

I’m not sure Dad would have agreed with that, but I’m grateful for the sentiment. He adjusted Lizzy’s sheath so she sat more comfortably on his back.

Not that the strap rubbed his skin. Damien maintained a constant soul force barrier strong enough to stop a ballista bolt. It wasn’t really necessary in the capital, but he liked to stay in practice. Besides, if an assassin showed up, and it wouldn’t be the first time, he’d be ready.

When he arrived at the flat dirt patch, he found Jen hammering a training stake into the ground with her bare fist. Warlords used the slender rods to practice their sword skills. He wasn’t worried about his sister injuring herself. Jen’s powerful soul force allowed her to make her body stronger than a steel hammer.

She wore her slashed blue uniform, the openings revealing glimpses of pale skin underneath. The sword he made her was belted at her waist and a simple leather band held her blond hair back from her face. Small wonder she was known as the warrior goddess among the other warlords.

When she finished pounding the stake, it made six dotting the area. She turned to face him and smiled. Took you long enough. I finally perfected the move I’ve been working on.

The super-secret one you refuse to tell me about?

That’s the one.

Are you going to tell me about it now? he asked.

Better to show you. Don’t blink.

Jen put a hand on her sword.

All six stakes fell over, cut cleanly in half. He hadn’t seen her move. Damien studied his sister closer. Three-quarters of her core had been depleted in less than the blink of an eye.

She straightened up and grinned. What do you think? I call it god speed, even faster than lightning speed.

Impressive, though given how it drains your soul force, you’ll have to be careful when you use it. In a long fight, that trick might land you in trouble.

I know, believe me. I don’t even like using lightning speed unless absolutely necessary. I consider this more of a trump card. When I get stuck with no other options, I have god speed as a last resort.

Damien nodded. Having a trick or two in your back pocket was smart. How long did it take you to perfect?

I’ve been practicing for an hour a day over the last six weeks. You should have seen me the first time. I didn’t hold enough power back to reinforce my bones and my first move broke both ankles. Took ten minutes to get them healed.

Warlord healing never ceased to amaze Damien. As a sorcerer, he couldn’t heal himself which sometimes left him jealous of his sister’s skills. On the other hand, he had power enough to level a fair-sized town with a single blast, so there were pluses to being a sorcerer.

Where’s Imogen? Jen crouched and yanked the nearest shaft out of the ground.

Damien grimaced. He and Imogen had gone their separate ways when he blew up over her excessive clinging. Having her underfoot every second of every day got old, no matter how beautiful she was. Sometimes you needed a moment to yourself.

She asked the archmage for a new assignment. I shouldn’t have lost my temper, but the woman was driving me nuts. Hopefully she’ll be okay.

I thought she’d gotten more stable, Jen said.

Imogen had violent, sometimes suicidal tendencies and one of the reasons he agreed to partner up with her was to keep an eye out for her bad spells. She’s definitely better. I can’t do anything about it now anyway. Still, if she does something crazy…

If she does something crazy, it won’t be your fault. Jen had an armful of sticks now. You’re not responsible for everything, little brother.

Thanks, Jen. Damien conjured a soul force bubble around her sticks and crushed them down to a small ball then flicked his wrist, sending the ball soaring out over the city. He put enough power behind it to make sure it reached the Great Green, the massive forest that covered over half the kingdom.

A moment later he sensed the approaching energy of one of his master’s message spheres. The golden orb flew out onto the training field, stopped a few feet from Damien, and transformed into the words, Throne room, both of you.

Jen glanced at him. The archmage seldom summoned them together. What do you suppose this is about?

He didn’t have a clue but hoped it would be something interesting.

Chapter Two

The northern wind cut Sigurd Iceborn to the bone, even with a soul force shield surrounding him. In every direction, snow and ice spread out for as far as the eye could see. Not that he could see very far with the gale blowing in his face. Sig had lived in the northernmost lands of the kingdom his entire life, but nothing in those twenty years had prepared him for the Ice Queen’s realm .

Luckily for Sig, he didn’t need his eyes to find what he sought. The Ice Queen’s power was such that he sensed her location from five hundred miles away. The dragon’s overwhelming might screamed at him to run away as fast as possible.

He ignored the feeling and trudged on. It would have been far easier to fly to her lair, but Sig didn’t want to draw any more attention than necessary, or worse, run out of soul force and freeze to death. His plan was mad enough, he didn’t need to do anything to increase his chances of getting eaten the moment he arrived.

The bitter cold of the wind matched the bitterness filling Sig’s heart. When his father told him he planned to name his little sister — his pathetic, weakling of a little sister — heir to Iceborn Duchy he assumed it was a joke.

It quickly became apparent that Father was dead serious. He claimed Sig lacked the temperament to manage the duchy. Too much anger, he said. It would be better for everyone if Sig didn’t have to shoulder the burden of rule.

Only by the barest thread did Sig keep from killing his father on the spot. If Father hadn’t already registered the formal papers declaring Sig disowned, he might have struck him down and taken his chances. As it was, the act would’ve been meaningless. So Sig bowed his head and accepted his father’s pronouncement.

Until they were alone that night at least. He used sorcery to compel his father to reveal the true reason behind his decision. The answer nearly gagged Sig. Father had agreed to disown him in exchange for Damien’s promise not to kill him in their duel.

That his father had made such an important decision based on sentiment rather than cold logic made it even worse. And his lack of faith — even his father hadn’t believed he had a chance of defeating Damien. Sig had left in a fury, taking nothing but the clothes on his back. He wandered for weeks, trying to decide who he hated more, Damien or his father.

In the end, he decided Damien would feel his wrath first. The problem was, he lacked the power to even annoy the younger sorcerer. Hence his current visit to the far north. If Sig convinced the dragon to grant him a portion of her power, he’d have strength enough to crush Damien and regain his rightful place as future duke.

A walnut-sized piece of hail plinked off his shield. Sig hadn’t allowed himself to think too hard about how he’d convince the Ice Queen to grant his wish, especially given her apparent hatred of humans. If he’d thought too much, he might have lost the nerve to set out at all.

He was committed now. Either he’d convince the dragon or he’d die trying.

Sig continued on through the snow for another half hour before the first hint of movement caught his eye. One moment a vague shape appeared in the storm only to vanish a moment later. The dragon’s proximity made it impossible to sense anything else, but Sig had sufficient experience to know something was out there, taunting him before it moved in for the kill.

Whether animal or ogre, whatever hunted Sig wouldn’t find him easy prey. Maybe he wasn’t a match for Damien St. Cloud, but nothing wandering these wastes could threaten him, short of the dragon herself.

Yard after frozen yard he continued dead north. His unwelcome companion kept pace, appearing and disappearing at random. Twice Sig fired a blast of soul force at it but hit only snow. Ignoring it seemed to be the best course, at least until it made a decisive move. Meanwhile, every step brought him closer to his destination.

The first blow hit Sig with enough force to send him ten feet into the air. His attacker moved with such speed he saw nothing until it struck.

He landed hard and skidded across a patch of ice. His shield protected him from injury, but the strength of the impact drained a fair chunk from his core. Many more blows like that and he’d be nothing but a red smear in the snow.

Enough playing around. His opponent clearly couldn’t fly. Sig gathered his strength and hurtled toward the sky.

A shape appeared from above and struck his head. Sig crashed into the snow with enough force to gouge a three-foot-deep trench.

He groaned and tried to sit up.

His head had barely lifted off the snow when a pale-blue club came streaking in.

His shield shattered and his head snapped back, bouncing off the hard-packed snow.

The world spun and he knew no more.

Chapter Three

Sig flashed in and out of awareness. The stink of unwashed bodies too powerful for the cold to mask sickened him. His knees and hips ached. The wind continued to howl, and shivers convulsed his body .

When he’d lost consciousness, his personal shield – the only thing keeping him warm – vanished. His eyes fluttered open for a moment and he caught a glimpse of massive, blue-skinned bodies surrounding him. The ogres were dragging him somewhere.

He tried to concentrate, at least long enough to restore his shield, but his mind refused to obey. The blow he took must have damaged him worse than he first thought. These damn monsters were probably taking him back to whatever passed for a village in this wasteland to turn him into supper.

Cursing his weakness, Sig tried again to summon his power and again he failed.

Pathetic.

Damien never would have been captured like this. How could Sig even consider challenging him when some stupid brute ogres defeated him?

Time passed, and he flashed to awareness again. The wind had fallen silent at last. He forced his frozen eyelids open and stared up at an icy tunnel’s ceiling. Needle-sharp stalactites of ice waited for a chance to fall and skewer him. Where the hell was he? With the wind gone all he heard was the thump of his captors’ feet.

Sig tried to tap his core and this time the power flowed, sluggishly, but anything at this point was an improvement. Focusing with all his might, he reconstructed his shield and agitated the air trapped inside to warm it. Even that tiny bit of heat felt amazing, at least until his toes started to thaw. The pain from that forced him to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. If the ogres noticed he was awake, they might hit him again, and right now Sig was in no shape to fight.

They continued deeper into the tunnel. His captors passed several branches but kept to the main path. Slow and subtle, Sig increased the power to his shield, making it rigid around his shoulders to reduce the strain of being dragged.

With his mind clearing by the moment, he considered making a break for it. Now that he’d regained awareness he discovered he was nearly on top of the dragon. It appeared the ogres were taking him exactly where he wanted to go. For the moment he’d play dead and let them. Arriving as a prisoner wouldn’t make the best first impression, but it would get him an audience.

Ten minutes later they passed a row of masked ogres standing at the edge of the tunnel. They soon left the masked ogres behind and entered a huge vaulted cavern. The ceiling was so far above him Sig couldn’t see it in the dark. The ogres’ steps echoed as they moved deeper inside.

He grunted when they dropped him. His captors withdrew and soon he heard nothing but the beating of his heart.

Stand, human, said a voice of such power and depth it hurt his ears. Your act may fool my servants, but it doesn’t deceive me.

Sig swallowed and eased his way up, being careful to do nothing the dragon might interpret as a threat. When he reached his feet and looked up, he realized the stupidity of his concern. The Ice Queen towered over him, a creature of spikes and jagged edges. She shifted, and the entire cavern trembled. What arrogance had seized him to think he might do anything to threaten such a creature? No wonder the ogres withdrew. She clearly needed no protectors.

Eyes with vertical pupils as long as he was tall bore into Sig. It felt like the dragon was looking straight into his soul.

Why have you entered my domain? the Ice Queen asked.

Sig tried to answer and found he had no voice. He coughed and tried again. I wish to offer my services.

Why?

I need more power to defeat my enemy. I knew nowhere else to find it.

Her booming laugh drove him to his knees. I admire your honesty. How deeply you must hate this enemy if you’re willing to join my servants in the slaughter of your fellow humans.

His stomach twisted, and he nearly threw up. In truth, he only wanted to kill Damien and maybe his father. He held no ill will toward the soldiers of the kingdom.

Sig swallowed his bile and clambered back up. I had hoped to serve in another way. My enemy is a powerful sorcerer. By giving me the strength to kill him, it would help your force when next you move against the kingdom.

Ah, I see. You think I’ll give you the strength to satisfy your desires in the hope that it might serve me in some small way. Clearly, you’re as stupid as you are arrogant. There are no half measures. If I grant you power, you will serve me for the rest of your days in whatever way I desire. Perhaps I will allow you to kill this enemy you so despise. Or perhaps I won’t. That is for me to decide. Of course, I may simply snuff you out like the vermin you are and let my ice trolls feed on your corpse.

He winced. Clearly Sig had badly misjudged how the dragon would react to his offer. He tried to think of something he might add as a sweetener to change her mind, but standing in the presence of something so powerful, he couldn’t imagine anything a mortal like him had to offer.

You are in luck, little human. You have arrived just in time for the Millennial Choosing. A contest will be held to find one worthy to be my champion in the most important contest in the world. Your drive in coming this far has impressed me. I will give you a chance to prove yourself worthy of my blessing.

His heart leapt. Given the chance, surely he’d prove himself better than any grubby ogre.

Should you win the contest, I may allow you to kill this enemy of yours before you return to my side to serve me for the rest of your days.

If he accepted, there was no guarantee of getting what he wanted. Not that he held any illusions about what would happen if he refused. There was no duchy in his future unless he ruled it in the dragon’s name. And was that really so much worse than ruling in the king’s name?

What must I do?

The first contest begins tomorrow. Survive until morning and I’ll tell you more.

Chapter Four

P rofessor Dorius?

Damien didn’t recognize the wiry little man with the gray beard standing in front of the throne, but his sister obviously did. The stranger wore formal robes, but the boots sticking out from the red hem were scuffed and carried specks of mud. Whoever he was, he didn’t spend his days inside.

The scores of chairs filling the audience chamber were empty, the courtiers having left for lunch. Speaking of which, Damien could use a bite himself. The only people in the room were Uncle Andy, better known as King Andrew; Damien’s master, Archmage Lidia Thorn; and Professor Dorius.

Damien and Jen bowed to the king before Damien asked, Is everything all right, Master?

No, the archmage said. We have two problems, hence the reason I called you both. Jennifer, I believe you’ve met the professor. Damien, this is Professor Dorius, one of the leading scholars at King’s College. He’s been exploring the underground ruins for years now, but he’s run into a problem. Professor?

Yes, well, in my most recent delving I discovered something interesting: a door I can’t open. It clearly leads to something important, at least judging by the surrounding markings. I’ve searched for weeks for some way to move it, but if there’s a release, it’s beyond my ability to locate. My theory is that the makers of this door were sorcerers and it can only be opened by a sorcerer. Thus the reason for my visit to the capital.

Damien wasn’t sure he understood. You want me to go exploring?

The archmage smiled. I want you to help the professor, yes. I’ve watched you moping around. You need a change of location almost as badly as Imogen. You’re just not built for the quiet life, Damien. Too much of your father in you.

Wait, Jen said. "How do you know