Soldiers of Legend

  SOLDIERS OF LEGEND

  _____________________________________

  AIELUND SAGA : Book 4

  STEPHEN L. NOWLAND

  Smashwords edition

  Copyright 2013-2019 Stephen Louis Nowland

  2019 Final Edition

  Map Illustration by Cornelia Yoder

  http://www.corneliayoder.com

  The Author asserts the moral right to be

  identified as the author of this work.

  Prelude

  Fairloch may have been a city obsessed with appearances during the day, but at night, a portion of the population kicked off their boots and lived it up. One such establishment in the docklands was the Singing Siren, the favoured drinking hole for some of the less reputable types in the city, an old building with lots of “character” that appeared as though it could collapse at any moment. None of its patrons cared though, for to them, it was a home away from home.

  It was particularly busy that evening as the first signs of spring started to appear, and plenty of people needed only the flimsiest of excuses to have a drink or five. The noise within the dingy tavern was a dull roar in the background to one of its patrons, a mixture of drunken revelry and the occasional fight between rowdy thugs who were too drunk to remember what they were fighting about. Regardless, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves save for one man, who drank for entirely different reasons.

  Sitting at the bar was Pacian Savidge, his blond hair cropped and the faint trace of beard stubble along his jaw. He huddled down in his dark longcoat, clutching onto an ale mug with both hands, almost oblivious to the commotion around him. The common room, lit by dim lanterns and warm fireplaces was starting to spin and his sight was blurry, yet for all the ale he'd drank that evening, it still wasn't quite enough to dull the pain.

  Pacian quaffed the rest of his mug of cheap ale and slammed it down on the bar in front of him, accidentally knocking a glass onto the floor where it smashed into a hundred pieces. He peered down at the sodden mess with mild interest, and then looked at the huge, outraged man who's drink had been spilled. His dark hairline was receding and he appeared to be trying to make up for it by growing the biggest beard he could, which appeared not unlike a small shrubbery attached to his face.

  “You better replace that you little bastard, or I'll put your face through the wall,” the oaf growled at Pacian, standing to bring his impressive mix of muscle and fat into full view. It was a move designed to intimidate, and for most people it would have worked. Pacian's expression darkened as he glared at the man, a look that said 'I've killed before and I'll do it again right now if I have to.'

  “The thing about drinking in a place like this,” Pacian slurred as he watched the oaf without blinking, “is you don't really know who you're going to run into.” He opened one side of his longcoat to reveal four large knives strapped to belts around his torso. The big man's eyes locked onto the gleaming blades and knew he'd made a mistake. He swallowed hard and took an involuntary step backwards.

  “Never mind,” he muttered, suddenly making a break for it by disappearing into the crowd. Pacian closed his coat before anyone else noticed his personal arsenal and, forgetting the encounter almost immediately, lifted his mug only to recall that it was empty.

  “Another,” he muttered at the bartender, a tough-looking tattooed woman with dark hair tied back in a tail, who eyed her dangerous-looking customer warily. She seemed to hesitate for a moment before pouring more ale into the empty mug. Pacian watched until it was full, trying to keep his mind still until he could drown memories lying just below the surface with another round of ale. It didn't work. The faces of those he'd killed boiled up from his subconscious, almost as if they'd come to life and were standing before him to cast judgment.

  Pacian gasped and quickly gulped down his drink, continuing until his nerves finally settled down again. He wiped away foam with the back of his hand and belched, then grasped the counter before him to steady himself.

  “You right there, mate?” the bartender named Cait asked in a voice made husky from long years of yelling over the crowd noise. Although she was concerned, Pacian noticed her hand didn't stray far from the handle of a hefty club behind the counter.

  “Doing fine, Cait,” he slurred in response, suddenly finding the woman captivating in a rough sort of way. “Fought some monsters, both living and dead recently. They both smelled pretty bad, mind you, sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. Then I spent a week at the Isle of the Dead, the last place I wanted to go. Have you heard of that place? Bloody awful. Bones and rotting flesh up to my knees. I wouldn't have bothered but Nellise insisted on sanctifying the wretched place. I couldn't let her go by herself. She's too good for this world, you know what I mean?”

  “Well, at least you've got someone you care about,” the bartender offered mildly. “I hope she feels the same way about you.”

  “More, much more,” Pacian slurred, though his tone was far less enthusiastic than his words. “I know things she doesn't. Secrets, bloody horrible secrets I can never tell. But it's nice to have a warm bed to go home to... if I can face her.”

  “Can't help you there, friend,” Cait said with a shrug. “Maybe you should–”

  “But then she had to bring the body of her hero from the Isle as well,” Pacian went on before Cait could finish. “She couldn't leave that behind, oh no. The whole place is a graveyard and she couldn't just leave him be. I think they had a bit of a thing for each other,” he added in a conspiratorial voice. “Poncy git, even in death.”

  “Wait, did you have something to do with that ruckus at the castle a few weeks back?” she asked curiously.

  “Yeah, now they were some bad people,” Pacian answered, sloshing his mug around with abandon. “Proper bastards with connections high-up, so you know they weren't going to see any jail time. But don't worry, I took care of it. They're all dead now.”

  “So, this is you celebrating?” Cait remarked as she absently mopped up spilled ale from Pacian's mug with a cloth. “I'd hate to see you on a bad day.”

  “I've had some bad days,” Pacian muttered to himself, nursing his mug with both hands, much to the relief of the bartender. “So did some of my mates. Gone now, all gone and it's my fault.” He went silent for a moment as he struggled to contain his feelings of guilt, then buried them under another flood of ale.

  “I lost my hubby in the war recently,” Cait confided in a measured voice, the first time in weeks of drinking at this tavern that she'd spoken to Pacian about her personal life. “He was a tough bastard and a bit rough on me at times, but I was a wreck for a week when I got the message that he was dead. Still, life goes on, you know? It gets easier over time, but they'll always be with you.” At this, Pacian clutched his head and moaned, seeing again the faces of those who died by his hand. Their accusing eyes stared at him, wracking him with guilt and shame, two feelings foreign to Pacian prior to the last month.

  “Alright, I think you've had enough for the night, hero,” Cait advised, taking the mug away and standing there with her hands on her hips, in no mood for any backtalk. “You're in a bit of a state, so go sleep it off. But pay me first, or we're going to have a problem.”

  “I'm fine, it's fine,” Pacian rasped as he got control of himself, then tossed a small pouch of coins onto the counter, a pile of silver worth ten times what he'd drunk that night. “Keep the change.”

  “Mate, you can drink here anytime you like,” Cait responded in surprise after she snatched up the pouch and checked its weight. “You have yourself a good night.”

  Pacian mumbled something unintelligible while he tried to get off the bar stool without toppling over. Eventually, his feet seemed able to support his weight and he c
arefully weaved his way through the throng towards the door. It was late in the season with spring just around the corner, but it was still a shock to his senses when Pacian stepped from the warmth of the tavern into the bitter conditions outside.

  The freezing wind whipped his longcoat about as he stood there, swaying slightly as he tried to figure out which way to go. Around here somewhere was the stable where his horse was waiting for hom, but it would take a couple of hours to reach the property bequeathed to Nellise outside of the city. Though he yearned to fall asleep under her blankets, Pacian was in no condition to ride there tonight.

  He opted to get a room at a nearby inn, but the one across the road from the Singing Siren was a dingy place Pacian wouldn't go near even when he was this drunk. He recalled something better a few blocks away so he started heading in that direction, carefully placing one foot in front of the other as he staggered along the snow-covered streets of Fairloch.

  A thought occurred to him less than a minute later, and after pausing for a moment to consider this thought, he realised that yes, he did indeed need to throw up. Pacian turned a corner into an alleyway and purged most of the ale he'd downed in the last hour. Afterward, he was feeling a little better and as he was wiping his mouth, he felt something smash into the side of his head, shoving him against the alley wall before he fell to the ground.

  He shook his head to try and clear it, but failed to see the kick coming to his stomach. He doubled over and coughed, struggling for breath, yet fully aware his assailant was standing right next to him. Pacian felt someone grab his hair and pull his face up and peered up at three men standing over him.

  “Yeah that's the one,” said a familiar deep voice, the man from the tavern who he'd threatened after spilling his drink. Apparently it was payback time, and judging by the company he was keeping, the thug was part of a larger gang. There wasn't much light to see by, but his two friends were almost as big as he was, dressed in thick clothing to keep the winter chill at bay with the lint of metal suggesting each of them was armed.

  “You're in the wrong part of town, mate,” the bearded thug said, coming in closer to look Pacian right in the eye. “Nobody threatens us, least of all some scrawny drunk carrying too many knives. In fact, they looked pretty dangerous, so we'll just take 'em off you before you hurt yourself.”

  “Yeah, that's our job,” one of the others laughed. The lead man reached for the knives under Pacian's coat while he writhed around in the snow, still trying to recover from the surprise assault. At least, that's how it appeared to them. As soon as the thug's hand grasped the hilt of a knife, Pacian dropped the act, rolled over and drew his shining vythiric dagger in the same motion.

  Pacian then rolled back and stabbed down hard, driving the tip through the thug's foot. He howled in agony, which went up an octave when Pacian kicked upward into the man's groin. While he stumbled to one side, Pacian flipped back onto his feet on one quick motion and lashed out with his weapon, sinking his deadly blade into the second thug's chest.

  Blood gushed out, staining the snow as the man fell backwards in disbelief, which the third man drew his own weapon and slashed it back and forth at Pacian who had the reflexes of a cat who'd had too much to drink. It wasn't pretty, but he managed to avoid the blade twice before he met it with his own, slashing the thug's arm and forcing him to drop the weapon.

  All three men were screaming in pain now, and Pacian survival instincts were fully in play. He lunged forward and shoved the third man to the ground, riding him down while stabbing him repeatedly in the chest. Pacian then rolled off his dying prey, then threw his weapon at the second man to make sure he wasn't going anywhere either. The weapon struck true, sending the man sprawling into the snow which was rapidly turned red.

  With the fight all but over with, Pacian wobbled unsteadily over to the fallen man to retrieve his weapon, then turned to the bearded thug who started this whole thing. The man was struggling to stand on his injured foot, and clutched one hand protectively over his gentleman's area. He stared at Pacian in fear as the blond man slowly moved towards him.

  “How?” the thug asked as Pacian brandished his dagger.

  “How what?” Pacian slurred curiously, before figuring out what he was referring to. He reached down and lifted his tunic and shirt, to reveal leather armour protecting his upper body.

  “I felt a bit of that kick, so it wasn't all an act,” Pacian confided. “Wasn't enough to put me down properly though. Here, let me show you how it's done.” With that, he drove his dagger into the man's gut, and then pulled it out and finished him off with a slash across his neck, sending blood spraying into the snow with his comrades. Pacian stood amidst the scene of carnage admiring his work, then looked at the dagger in his hand.

  “Look what you did,” he slurred to the weapon. “All of this, plus you stabbed a friend to death too? You're a treacherous backstabbing bastard, that's what. Nellise is too good for you. I'm gonna name you something, 'cause a betrayer like you needs a name. Yeah... that'll do.” With that, he sheathed the weapon and arranged one of the bodies to lie upon the other so it looked like they fought each other to death.

  Then he started climbing up the side of the alleyway, using its rough bricks to grasp hold of. This way, there would be no sign of anyone leaving the scene and would throw the authorities into confusion as to who was responsible.

  As he climbed, he noticed that the chorus of the dead piling up in his mind just got a little bigger, and with it, he felt his soul shrivel a little more.

  Prologue

  Spring had finally arrived in Fairloch. Citizens of all parts of society celebrated the turning of the seasons with a festival held in the market district of the great city. The sound of the bustling streets could be heard throughout Fairloch, reminding those mired in more important tasks of what they were missing.

  One such individual was the recently knighted Sir Aiden Wainwright, seated at a desk late one night, high up in the tower of the University of the Arcane. The sun had set hours earlier, and only now were the festivities winding down for the night. There would be plenty of hard work for the citizens in the coming days as many of them returned to the land to plant the next season of crops, but for now, they took the time to enjoy themselves.

  Aiden looked wistfully out the window as another cheer went up, silently cursing the work that kept him away from such a pleasant diversion. For the past month, he and other select members of the faculty had worked tirelessly, searching for something they might have missed. So far, they had found no incantation or artifact that would be of use against the mysterious construct known as the Ironlord.

  To make matters worse, they had very little information to go on regarding its strengths and weaknesses, for civilisations that had encountered the thing were invariably destroyed. Only Aiden’s personal account, derived from the strange dreams communicated to him over and over again, gave them some idea of its capabilities. This information had been imparted via his link with the ancient dragon Salinder, the entity who had originally trapped the Ironlord on another plane of existence.

  Aiden absently touched the crystalline sphere on the desk before him, silently wondering how his otherworldly contact was faring. Salinder was slowly dying, using his last reserves of strength to contain the Ironlord and buy them time. That time was slowly running out and they may only have weeks remaining.

  Initially a font of knowledge, Salinder had been in communication with Aiden several times after the events in the castle led to the arrest of the man behind a massive conspiracy against the crown. The messages came less frequently as the weeks wore on, until they stopped completely. It had been six days since he had last been in contact with the dragon, and Aiden grew more anxious as the silence continued.

  Setting down his quill, he rubbed his eyes as fatigue blurred the words on the page. Part of him knew it was a pointless exercise, yet Dean Foster had insisted they go over all of the available information once more. Aiden’s report would show no new
findings, leaving them exactly where they had started, minus several weeks of time. He still had dozens of pages to leaf through before he could call it a night, but couldn’t resist the urge to close his eyes for a few moments.

  When he opened them, the room around him had vanished and Aiden found himself sitting above a rough, rocky surface amidst a violet mist surging and swirling around him. He felt disembodied, as if he did not really have substance, but it was a pleasant feeling drifting in the cloud for a time.

  A clap of thunder echoed across the landscape, and a flash of energy lit up the pocket of reality for a brief instant. The ground underneath shook briefly and Aiden knew there was something wrong. The surging mists began to part, revealing the enormous form of the dragon Salinder, nestled upon the ground in this otherworldly place.

  Time had not been kind to the once magnificent creature, whose slack golden scales glimmered with only a hint of their former lustre. His wings had decayed to the point that he would never be able to fly again, and his eyes were cloudy, indicating he might not even be able to see with them any longer. In his recent communications, Aiden had witnessed the vain creature in all his glory, thanks to the enhanced dream-state of this method of communication. But here, now, he was laid bare in his true form.

  Behind the immense bulk rose the gates of an ancient fortress, at the edge of the island amidst the Aether. Thick metal chains glowing with heat wrapped across the front of the gate, which relentlessly shuddered every few moments from some immense force. The nature of this force was known to Aiden, and a sudden fear gripped his heart as it dawned on him what was happening.

  To his left, a shimmering visage of an armoured man materialised. Although translucent and ghost-like, it was not difficult to discern details of his appearance. His swept-back hair and short beard adorned more than one portrait in Fairloch’s castle, and Aiden recognised him immediately as King Seamus Roebec, Criosa’s father and sovereign ruler of Aielund.