Soulstone (Eligium Series Book 4) Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Other Books by this Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A Note from Jake

  SOULSTONE

  Book 4 of the Eligium Series

  Jake Allen Coleman

  Copyright © 2018 Mark Coleman

  All rights reserved. This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the copyright owner and publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

  ALSO BY JAKE ALLEN COLEMAN

  The Eligium Series

  Sunstone

  Moonstone

  Dragonstone

  Soulstone

  Heartstone (2018)

  Science Fiction

  Founder’s Day (TBD)

  If you want to be notified about future releases, or would just like to keep in touch, I welcome you to subscribe to my email list by clicking HERE.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Zefran settled back against an ancient oak outside the fading glow of the campfire, far enough from the light of the flames to ensure they would not destroy his night vision. To hear Bartok tell it, this would be their last night before reaching the tree-line. He did not relish breaking out of the relative shelter of the trees, and the resulting exposure to the biting winds of the winter storms. Bartok grew up in these mountains and, according to him, they should reach Hallvard within a matter of days.

  Zefran hoped Bartok was right. For all of his experience on the campaign with the Order of Gabirel he had no wish to spend a night longer than necessary sleeping out of doors. Krystelle Mora’s insistence on taking shelter with a group of homesteaders a few days prior told him she shared his sentiment as shown. Bartok did not seem to mind the journey. Nothing phased the man. Jerrod, the last member of their party, was a mystery, he talked little and appeared as content in the mud during a rainstorm as he did sitting beside a warm fire at an inn.

  Too much of a professional to look towards the camp to see how his compatriots fared, Zefran kept his focus outward toward where any threat would appear. The only danger he could see would be freezing before his watch was over, preventing him from reaching the relative comfort of his blankets.

  With a keen eye on the sparse forest, he wished for more moon to give illumination. He gave himself another half hour before it would be time to walk around, keeping the blood flowing and his senses sharp. Settling in, he sighted the height of the Barrow constellation above the trees to use as a marker to gauge the passage of time.

  It seemed the Barrow had not budged when something itched for his attention. The forest felt wrong. It had grown preternaturally still and nausea welled in his throat. Drawing his sword, Zefran prepared for whatever might come.

  Ready as he was, the attack surprised him. A small horde of men and boys dressed in plain farm clothes and carrying simple tools emerged from the darkness charging toward the encampment. Before he opened his mouth to shout the alarm, they began screaming. It sounded like the demons of hell were descending upon them, and his fellow travelers scrambled to their feet in a moment, ready to meet the onslaught.

  Crazed, the attackers smashed into the line of warriors. It was all they could do to defend themselves from being pummeled. Zefran joined the battle from the rear, pulling a boy off Bartok before he could plunge a hand trowel into the man’s face. The boy was no more than eight and Zefran had no desire to kill him. Cocking him on the head with the butt of his sword, Zefran tossed him aside. Turning away, he locked up with an old farmer beating at him with a hoe.

  These were no soldiers, just insane farmers screaming at them in fury. Zefran did not have time to wonder why the attack, he kept punching and hitting and trying to stay alive. These simple folk were no match for the four warriors.

  Zefran took stock of the scene. There were fewer than he had first thought. One farmer, the old man, several teens and the boy. Panting hard he inventoried his own condition. Other than a few scratches he was unscathed, he concluded. “Is everyone ok?” he breathed.

  Wide-eyed, Jerrod nodded.

  Krystelle knelt down next to the farmer, placing her hand on his neck. “He’s alive. I don’t think we killed any of them, thank goodness.”

  “Thank goodness?” Bartok swore, “They tried to kill us. I wasn’t trying to hold back, just keep ‘em from killing me. Where did this scum come from anyway?”

  Krystelle looked up at him, “Do you not recognize them?” Bartok shook his head in the negative. “These are the homesteaders we encountered two days ago. They gave us a hot meal and a place to sleep.”

  Zefran inspected the boy he had thrown to the side, “You are right Krystelle Mora. This boy, he sat by me at dinner that night. He had a kind manner.”

  “This is the third attack since we left the Dazhberg,” said Krystelle. “Remember that man in Aldmoor? We thought him drunk. Then, the serving lass in that little inn went crazy and tried to claw Jerrod’s eyes. Each time we brushed it off. Once or twice would be coincidence. Three times? I do not trust it. Something very strange is going on, and it is causing people to go crazy.”

  Zefran agreed with her, “But what?”

  Shaking her head, Krystelle rose and started back to their horses. “I do not know, but I have no intention of staying around here to ask them. We ride on tonight.”

  Hours later, snow and sleet pummeled the mountainside and from the look of the sky, it would not let up anytime soon. It was half past mid-day, yet it seemed more like dusk. Wind bit into exposed flesh and frost accumulated in every crevice. “We must find shelter!” Krystelle could barely make out Bartek’s shout overtop the howling wind. “We have been traveling without rest since the attack last night.

  “Yes, but we must be near the entrance by now!” Her own response was practically lost to the elements. “Keep going!”

  “I can not even see the road through this muck! This will be the death of us if we don’t get off this mountainside.” Her other two escorts nodded their hearty agreement. Zefran doubly so. His beard was ice-encrusted, giving him the appearance of a rock sculpture rather than a man.

  He had good reason to be wary after his near-miss earlier that day. The blizzard had just begun to fall and he had become snow-blind momentarily, forcing his horse off the edge of the narrow trail. Realizing in the nick of time, Zefran had thrown himself from the saddle. His unfortunate mount had plunge off the craggy cliff to its death. That delay had cost the four of them precious time in finding their destination before the storm made the way impassible.

  “Just a bit further on!” encouraged Krystelle. "If we do not find the doorway soon, we will take shelter as we can.”

  Rounding a bend, the trail led them into a crevice in the cliff face. Passing between the pillars of rock on either side brought much needed shelter fr
om the biting wind. Breathing a sigh of relief, they pressed forward into the narrow passageway. Coming around one last blind corner, the road ended at a sheer block of black, glassy stone extending a score of feet above them and plunging into the ground.

  “Well this is a pickle.” Zefran’s voice matched his appearance, icy and rocky. “We must’ve missed the entrance in all that blow.”

  “Aye,” said Bartek. “At least we’re out of the cursed wind. I say we set up camp right here where there’s a bit of shelter until the storm blows itself out.”

  Krystelle did not like that plan. “We have only enough food and water for another two days. It would be better to rest here for a brief spell to warm ourselves and then find the entrance to Hallvard. Who knows how long this storm will last. It could be all winter!”

  “No, this is an early snow,” said Bartek. “I grew up in these mountains remember. It will blow itself out overnight and we can be on our way, rested in the morn.”

  Zefran’s craggy voice called out, “Teoma ordered us to see you to Hallvard. Safety is here, out of that blizzard.” Jerrod, the fourth member of their band nodded his agreement. He never said much and even a blizzard did not disturb his reticence.

  “Three against one,” said Krystelle. “It seems this is an argument I am not going to win. But if this storm continues, I want us to scout the trail first thing in the morning. Even if we have to tie ourselves together to do it.”

  “Agreed,” Bartok dismounted and pulled supplies off their pack mule to build a shelter with Zefran while Jerrod set to caring for the stock. Krystelle busied herself scavenging for twigs and dead grasses from between the rocks, hoping to find enough to get a small blaze going. The four of them had been traveling long enough to know the routine with minimum discussion, and were ingrained with the discipline befitting the Order of Gabirel.

  Krystelle resorted to using the rest of their meager supply of wood brought up from the foothills with them when they passed beyond the tree line into the high mountains. She reasoned that it was better to survive this one night in relative comfort than try to stretch out their supply. If they could not find the entrance to Hallvard soon they would either die on this mountain or be forced to make their way back down, failing in their mission.

  Before long their shelter stood anchored to the rock face and the four of them sat huddled around a merry fire, warming their frozen fingers and toes. Jerrod pulled out his pots and gathered a bit of snow into one. Throwing in dried meat and a handful of herbs he positioned it over the flames. Warm broth would do them well.

  Krystelle drew the second watch and climbed into the shelter along with Zefran and Jerrod, leaving Bartok to stand vigil over their little fire. She was sure even her mother would have been scandalized to learn she was sharing a tent with these two men. To Krystelle, these were her comrades in arms. Besides, Zefran would have slit either of the other men’s throats if he thought they had designs on her. For all they were near to the same age, he thought of her as a much younger sister, and had since their early training together.

  To Krystelle it felt she barely closed her eyes when Bartok shook her awake. Her bones ached from the freeze. It felt good to move, even if she would spend the next several hours away from her warm blankets. “Your watch” Bartok whispered so as not to awaken the others. Disentangling herself, she crawled out of the shelter, leaving Bartok to take her place.

  Looking around she saw Bartok had been right concerning the storm. Far above, it had blown itself out and the first stars peeked out from behind the clouds. Wrapping her cloak about her body, she checked to be sure her sword was loose in its scabbard and settled in for what was to be a long, boring watch.

  First order of business was to check the fire. First and last. Bartok would have stoked the small blaze before coming to rouse her. They could not afford to have the fire extinguish itself in the night and leave them scrambling to relight it in the darkness. Satisfied, she moved a few steps into the dark night to prevent herself from becoming night-blind from the flickering light.

  She did not trust herself to settle in on one of the rock outcroppings. It was too cold and she too tired. Instead, she forced herself to move back and forth through the fissure leading to their encampment. On a normal watch she would circle the camp from a short distance, impossible along the narrow canyon. This would have to do.

  Before long her mind wandered with the monotony of the dead end trail. Their most likely visitor was a sabre-cat or other beast, but the fire would dissuade those predators. Unless they were starving. She wondered how Cenric fared. When she left the Dazhberg, the boy had still not regained consciousness, and it was not clear whether he would be a prisoner or a sick guest when he woke. If he ever did.

  Kidnapped by Sterling Lex, Cenric colluded with him to anoint the sorcerer as Arch-mage. That put the Wizards of Uriasz in a tenuous position. Their inherent loyalty was to the office of the Arch-mage as one sworn to protect the land and endowed with authority over the residual magic left in the world. Remnants left after the Ban, instituted through the alliance of Uriasz, Gabirel, and others following the devastation of the Dragon Wars.

  Their mutual friend Sebastian had defeated Cenric. How she was not certain. Cenric commanded one of the five Eligium. Stones formed at the time of the Ban to serve as wells of power to contain the magical forces of the world. The Eligius Muliach, or Dragonstone, should have enabled Cenric to defeat Sebastian’s untrained ability with ease. Now the Dragonstone sat once again at the heart of the Dazhberg in the Aodhan Bret, along with its two sisters: the Sunstone and Moonstone. She did not like to think about the location of the final two stones, and whether Sterling Lex had already claimed them. That Lex gained possession of the Dragonstone in the first place and the fact it sat in the Aodhan Bret rather than in Hallvard where it belonged were two big reasons she and her three companions made this trek.

  Once again reaching the outermost point on her patrol, Krystelle paused. Her hand drifted towards her sword hilt as she peered into the darkness. Cocking her head to the side, she strained for any hint of sound over the keening wind. There was nothing, yet in her gut she knew something was amiss.

  Turning back to rouse the others she pulled up short. A stocky man, shorter than she by several hands, blocked the pathway. In the starlight, he appeared to be made of stone and rock. His beard twisted down to his studded breastplate in an interlace of braids that reminded her of a pumice stone. Deep set eyes blazed with an inner fire and she did not doubt he saw her much better than the reverse.

  She did not know how he had gotten behind her in this narrow passage, but she was aware there would be more of his kind poised to cut her down if this did not go well. She was equally sure that her companions were likewise surrounded.

  “Hail, and well met,” she said to the figure.

  “Well met? We’ll jus see ‘bout ‘at,” he grumbled with a voice forged of distant thunder. “Declare yerself and why ye trespass ‘ere.” He gripped a wicked looking axe and ran one hand along the shaft, his point clear that a wrong answer would see that axe put to use.

  She chose the old form for her response, “On my honor, I am Krystelle, daughter of Dimitri Mora seeking the Sons of the Mountain. I was a friend of Einhim, Seneschal of the Dazhberg and will drink again with him in the Great Sleep if the Lords are willing. I am a Sword-master of Gabirel and named Envoy to Hallvard."

  His face was a stone, and she held her breath hoping this was who she thought. Those eyes blazed one last time before he inclined his head for her to follow and turned back toward the camp. There was no grace to his movements, yet he made no sound. Krystelle felt a touch better he had caught her unawares.

  Reaching their fire, she found her companions on their knees and under guard. At the sight of her, Zefran breathed a heavy sigh and his body relaxed as best he could with the blade of an axe at his throat. Past them, a door opened outward from the obsidian rock face. The craftsmanship was so exquisite that they had not spotted
the faint seam of the opening when they stopped at the wall earlier that day.

  Her escort motioned to the contingent guarding Zefran, Bartok, and Jerrod. Wordlessly, they pulled the three men to their feet, slipping those axes into loops at their belts. Just before passing through the threshold, her escort turned back. “Ye are known Krystelle Mora, friend of Einhim. You are expected. I am Asegeirr, the Door-warden. Be you welcome to Hallvard.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Once the party passed into the tunnel, Asegeirr turned to pull a set of levers. With barely a whisper, the obsidian door slid back into place, leaving the group in pitch darkness. One of the escort grabbed Krystelle’s arm to lead her down the tunnel. From the noises and curses around her she surmised that the companions were on the receiving end of similar treatment.

  Dwarves were not renowned for their hospitality and, from her experience thus far, Krystelle deemed their reputation well-earned. The message behind a hidden door and a tunnel requiring one to trust guards as an escort was that strangers were not welcome here.

  Making their way through the corridor, she sensed that they passed several junctions. Which direction they choose was a mystery to her. The darkness confused her sense of direction and she doubted her ability to escape this warren even with a torch to light her path. She had been told to expect a less than warm welcome, and things were meeting her expectations perfectly.

  They walked without encountering any other denizens of the enclave until she realized that she could just make out the form of the dwarf providing her an escort, and a vague impression of the others in their party. Somewhere along the way their livestock had been taken off in a different direction. Either her eyes were adjusting to the darkness or there was a source of light ahead.

  It turned out to be the latter. Coming around a corner, they emerged into an open, narrow chamber that was half-natural, half-constructed. A phosphorescent ore streaking through the long, natural wall to her right gave off enough illumination to cast the room in an unsettling green glow. A seam separating packed earth from cut stone ran along a few feet from the natural wall. The left wall was more regular in appearance as if it had been excavated.