In the Lord's year 1303, a holy order of knights faces the brink of extinction. Their holy crusade falters as a fiendish monster from beyond the mist decimates their numbers. In desperation, the Knights Templar dispatch a unit to find an ancient relic hoping to tip the scales in the battle against the forces of darkness. Sir Marcus Le'heroux bravely leads the knights into the Hungarian wilderness, but when the weapon he finds buried in the Mátra Mountains turns out to be an awakened Soulstealer, he faces much more than he bargained for. Will the Order's new weapon prove to be more monster than man?
Embark on the thrilling origin story of the death eater Oxivius Soulforge from the Baku Trilogy. Before being shaped by the Witch of Endor into the master of necromantic arts, he walked the earth as Soulstealer.
November of Lord’s Year 1303
Fluffy white flakes of snow fell lazily from the gray canopy of storm clouds blanketing the mountainside. Marcus furled his white cloak’s collar in defiance of the lingering cold. His Andalusian neighed under him as he pulled up on the reins.
“The first fall of the season,” Lucious called, trotting up on his right. Marcus looked back at the column of knights, wrapped in white robes and trotting in formation, snaking and trailing back into the distance. Small plumes of smoke marked Eger, now just a speck at the base of the mountain, they had ridden hard to make it to the hamlet before the first snowfall, yet instead of respite Lucious spurred the Knights onward, deep into the Matra mountains in search of his fabled weapon.
“Beautiful, is it not?” Marcus answered, looking at the approaching templar. Under the white cloak lurked a powerful brute of a man. Skilled in combat and the mystical arts, Lucious de Montfort was like a force of nature. No man in the regiment dared question his authority, nor his virtue.
“Deadly.” Lucious raised his eyes to the clouds and glared as if the heavens themselves were an enemy to be conquered. “Winter is upon us.”
“We’ll find the clergy at Eger more than hospitable for the winter.” Marcus dared a glance back at the welcoming plumes of smoke rising from the settlement, and for a moment, the thought of leaning back before a glowing hearth brought a smile to his lips.
“We shall find the weapon and return to the front lines. Arwad Island is our last foothold in the Holy Land. We cannot afford to lose it.”
“The crusades are already lost, my friend.” Marcus shrugged with a sigh. “The order barely holds. Grand Master de Moley’s plan to retake Tortosa grows stagnate with each passing year. Mark my words Lucious, the mongols will not arrive to help push back the Mamluks, just as they failed to arrive last year and the year before that. Support for the crusades dwindles throughout Europe. Everyone realizes the end is near, everyone that is except Grand Master Jacques de Molay.”
“The mongols were never to be trusted, Marcus.” Lucious’ eyes scanned the mountainside as his hand drifted to the hilt of his mace warily. “That is why we need the weapon. It will turn the tide.”
“If… the Order can hold Arwad and the island of Ruad until the spring thaw.” Marcus countered, patting the black mane of his horse gently.
“We’ll not wait until the thaw.” Lucious answered grimly. “We shall retrieve the weapon and be off.”
“Madness.” Marcus shook his head before looking back at the line of knights trailing behind them. “More than half will die from the cold. Those that remain will be ravaged with frostbite and weary from the road. We’ll never make the voyage back to Ruad.”
“Surely your faith in your celestial magic and your God will see you through, Marcus.” Lucious sneered as he prodded his horse through the mountainside.
“You mean only for the awakened to survive the trip?” Marcus’ eyes grew wide at the revelation, drawing a stern gaze from Lucious.
“The faithful shall find the glory in the hereafter, knowing their sacrifice paved the way into the Holy Land.”
“This weapon you seek.” Marcus’ voice grew somber. “It is worth the lives of your men?”
“When the Order drove back the pagans, many treasures were retrieved from the Druid groves. Among such was a journal, written in the tree language, the Ogham. This journal is believed to be the final works of Fer Doirich, the Dark Druid. In his journal he speaks of a terrible weapon, a bringer of death, which was entombed in these very mountains by the pagan Goddess Morrigu. The raven queen of war, Marcus. Morrigu forbade any from unleashing the power hidden deep in the mountains for fear that the weapon would bring death to the world.”
“A weapon not to be trifled with.” Marcus nodded grimly. “If such a weapon exists, do we not endanger the world by wielding it?”
“You heed the warnings of Pagan gods, my old friend?” Lucious snickered.
“A weapon that inspires the fear of gods, pagan or not, is not something to be taken lightly, Lucious. We may turn the tide of the crusades, but at what cost?”
“At any cost necessary, old friend.” Lucious brought his mount to a stop, turning to him. Wisps of salt and pepper hair were visible under his templar robe, his unshaven face bore dozens of scars from his numerous battles. His brown eyes narrowed on him, as if daring him to challenge his decree. “We live and die in the service of the Order, in the service of God. Don’t forget that… old friend.”
“Of course.” Marcus nodded, pulling his cloak tightly about him to ward off the cold. He mulled over how far his celestial magic could be pushed. How many men could he warm through the winter march as the heavens assailed them with ice and snow? Images of hands and feet blackened and cracked by the cold filled his mind. How far indeed would they be willing to go? Lucious turned once more and spurred his horse on. He bellowed to the line of cold and hungry Knights, urging them on for the glory of God.
“Glory of God.” Marcus mouthed softly under his breath. “Or for the glory of Lucious de Montfort?”
Marcus let loose a yip and Apple, his black Andalusian with white spots, picked up her pace from a walk to a trot. The mountainside was a tangle of dense forest, crags and gullies, and winding paths which blended into a white and black landscape under the fresh falling snow. He could feel the bitter cold seeping into his limbs, an unusually potent chill in the air for late November, but the mountain was an unusual place. Whispers of ghuls, albino humans that dwelled deep in the earth, abounded among the residents of Eger. Stories of the pale-skinned cannibals stealing children in the night and devouring waylaid hunters filled the tavern’s common room.
He had been skeptical that the mountain was a nest of ghuls, but Lucious’ story of the weapon, the bringer of death, was beginning to cast doubts on his skepticism. Death had a way of drawing to it even more death. At least that was his estimation from the crusades. Where death went, more death seemed to follow. Spreading like a plague through the lands. In his three and a half decades of life, nearly a score of his years had been under the Order of the Knights Templar. He had seen war, famine, pestilence, and plenty of death in his servitude to the order. When he had entered the Order, Sir Thibaud Gaudin had only held the rank and title Commander of the Land of Jerusalem, where he waged war in the great crusades for the Holy Land. Marcus had lived, by the grace of his God, through numerous battles on the war front. He had seen the fall of Acre in the lord’s year 1291, the subsequent the fall of Cyprus, Beruit, and Tortosa. The victories of Alam al-Din Sanjar al-Shuja‘i al-Mansuri mounted, culminating in the destruction of the monasteries of Carmel.
The Templars were losing the war badly. Grand Master Gaudin passed in the lord’s year 1292, leaving the restoration of the Order in the hands of Sir Jacques de Molay, the twenty-third Grand Master of the order. Molay, finding dwindling support for the crusades in Europe, had put all his hopes and the future of the reformed Order of the Knights Templar on forging a Franco-Mongol alliance to turn the tides on the Mamluks and regain ground in the Holy Land. Molay sought the glory of his God. He had been answered tenfold in blood and death.
It wasn’t that Marcus was abandoning his faith; he keenly felt the presence of the one God. He could tap into the magic of the celestial planes and was nearly as fearsome in spell craft as he was with the longsword. Yet he questioned the mission, a mission he had known all his life. The more battles he saw, the longer he survived, the more he was convinced taming the Holy Land was a fool’s errand. A holy quest intended to keep the Order from meddling in the affairs of Kings and politics in the homeland.
“Hold! Marcus to the front.” Lucious’ booming voice broke his reverie. He looked to the path ahead, where a gully opened into the mouth of a cave. Lucious had already tethered his mount to a tree. Drawing his mace and shield, he waved with his shield arm, beckoning for Marcus to shift his gaze to the cavern of darkness ahead. “We have found a way into the belly of the beast, my friend.”
“Probably just a bear’s cave.” Marcus dropped from Apple and patted his mount’s neck comfortingly as he searched for a tree to tie the reins.
“Bears which could pass as Ghuls, gnawing on the bones of man.” Lucious urged, pointing to the mouth of the cave with his mace. “Where is your hunting spirit, my friend? Where is the pride of the order who vanquished the heathens by the dozens?”
“He is cold and tired from the road.” Marcus answered, drawing his longsword from its sheath on Apple’s back and grabbing his shield. “He longs for the warmth of the hearth and the taste of Eger’s finest wine. Yet his friend, Lucious, the bold conqueror of Ghuls, would have him rooting around in bear caves in search of buried treasure. Finding naught but the ache of winter in my bones and the rumble of hunger in my belly.”
“You whine like a wounded mule.” Lucious knocked his mace on his shield, drawing a hur-rah from the gathering knights and knight-errants. “Come, let us find the glory of battle this day, brother, and shake the sores of the saddle from our bones with the thrill of blood and blade.”
“Ah, a most virtuous call, my friend.” Marcus nodded to the cave and found himself flanked by Knights. Chain mail and shields clattered as the errants lit torches and scattered among the knights. Lucious took the lead with an errant Marcus recognized as Luke by his side, wielding a torch and sword.
They entered the cave and walked for what seemed like hours on end with smaller groups of Knights and errants splitting off to explore side passages. The main force dwindled to roughly a score of men led by Lucious. Marcus could feel the winds of death about them, could smell rot and decay on the stale air. This was no bear’s cave, as he had hoped. The caverns had been… maintained. There were signs, or rather lack of signs, of animals. No nests, bats, or other cave dwellers marked the caves. Likewise, the path was clear of stones and debris. It lacked the spontaneous clutter of nature.
“Lucious,” Marcus whispered hoarsely. “We should head back to the surface and return tomorrow with supplies for mapping this maze under the mountain.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Lucious stopped abruptly. “Can you not feel it? We are close.”
“I feel eyes in the darkness.” Luke clutched his sword tightly and shuffled back and forth, allowing his torch to illuminate the tunnels.
“Nonsense.” Lucious scoffed. “Too much of the gossip and ale from the tavern’s commons have weakened your knees, errant.”
“The boy is not wrong.” Marcus approached with his voice low so as not to appear to question Lucious in front of the men. “We are less than half the strength of the men who entered. We are ripe for ambush.”
“Afraid?” Lucious boasted, rapping his mace on his shield. The sound of metal on metal echoed through the tunnels. “My God stands with me; my faith is my shield.”
A blood-chilling scream answered him. It echoed down the tunnel, a horrid cry from a man in pain that begged for his comrade’s aid. A throaty cry that faded into a gurgle. Marcus looked at Lucious with wide eyes before turning his gaze back to whence they came. The one cry became a chorus of howls echoing through the massive tunnel system. The din of battle assaulted them from all sides. Ringing steel bouncing down the corridors from all directions.
“God help us all.” Marcus whispered under his breath as he stormed down the tunnel. Luke was quick on his heels, nervously darting left and right with his torch as if the shadows themselves were about to leap from the walls.
“The knights are more than a match for what dwells in these deeps.” Lucious called loudly, a bold yet futile attempt to calm the nerves of his men. Marcus emerged from the tunnel into a large underground cavern. At the center stood a monolith of worked stone that extended to the very ceiling of the cavern.
“That wasn’t made by a bear.” Marcus pointed his sword at the massive stone structure. Dull green glyphs ran up the sides, basking the cave in a fetid light. The hairs on his neck stood as if God himself were warning him to flee from this place.
“Nor by Ghul.” Lucious was at his side, striding forward with his mace and shield. He uttered an incantation in Latin and his mace burst into flames. “Knights, the tomb awaits. Glory to God.”
Marcus swallowed hard, and sword in hand, made the sign of the cross. He quickly prayed for his brethren, but doubted God’s ears could hear anything in such a dark and vile place. The stench of death and decay hung on the stale cavern air. It tasted foul, like his tongue had been dredged in sulfur, and he spat on the floor reflexively.
A howl came from the base of the obelisk, quickly joined by several more. The monsters were on them then. Pouring out from the various tunnels connecting to the cavern and charging up from the Obelisk.
“Ghuls!” Marcus called, beckoning his men to form ranks. The creatures scurried across the ground like naked, hairless apes. Their skin was a ghostly white, blotted and splotched with gore and filth. Worst of all were the eyes. Sunken and red, they were filled with malice. An evil unlike any he had seen before. Lucious charged ahead into a wave of scratching teeth and claws. His mace swept from right to left, shattering bone and rending skin like wet parchment. The beasts howled and broke around the knight like waves on a rocky shore.
“Stand your ground!” Lucious battered a Ghul with his shield, blowing the naked creature back a dozen lengths and sending it tumbling in a heap of ghuls. The celestial magic clung to Lucious like a warm yellow light emanating from his core to battle the greenish glow of the glyphs. The templars were quick to rally and as Marcus surveyed the cavern floor, ranks of albino skinned ghuls littered the rock around the score of knights. Claw and fang searched for weak points in the Knights’ chain mail but were met with the ferocious sting of sword and mace.
“Kill them. Kill them all.” Lucious bellowed with a hearty smile. His white templar cloak already slick with blood and gore, he cleared a path through the ghuls, dropping the head of his spiked mace on the cranium of a lunging monster. Brains and ichor exploded from the creature, splattering the knights and ghuls as its body collapsed in a heap. Lucious pressed on, swatting left and right with his flaming mace. His shield seemed to serve more as a battering ram than a defense as he plowed deep into the throng of monsters. Cries of anguish filled the cavern. Marcus heard a gurgle to his left and turned to see Luke covered by half a dozen ghuls. Rotting yellow nails dug into his skin around his face and neck. His sword arm pinned to the floor by two ghuls bent backward at the elbow in the wrong direction.
“Luke.” Marcus charged into the melee with a heavy thrust that drove into the base of a ghul’s neck just below the skull. His blade sheered straight through, appearing out the front of the ghastly creature’s mouth. He twisted hard, spinning his shield up to bat away arms as the rotation of his body ripped the sword clean out of the monster’s neck, nearly decapitating the beast. His shield made contact with the jaw of another and sent the monster hurdling to the stone floor. He completed his revolution and swiped his sword across again, sending digits and hands flying free from their bodies. The ghuls abandoned the easy meal that was Luke and charged at him. Yellow teeth barred as red hate-filled eyes narrowed on him, but Marcus was a Knight of the Order. No mere errant.
“Ignire!” the Latin spilled from his lips and a torrent of flame erupted before him, immolating three of the ghuls. Two more were caught in the fireball and turned to flee, covered in horrific burns. They scrambled on the floor like apes scratching on the rock as burned skin fell from their bones. He cut them down from behind like the monsters they were.
“Press them back!” Lucious called over the din of battle. Scores of ghuls lay dead or dying, with only a handful of knights and errants lost in the melee. Lucious gathered the survivors, ten in total, and advanced toward the monolith. Hacking, slashing, and rending the fleeing mob.
“Luke, hang on.” Marcus kneeled beside the errant. His skin already festered a deep red around the scratch marks that littered his face. The errant, lacking the mail of the knights, wore a leather jerkin under a stained white cloak. Ichor seeped from a wound on his side where a ghul had bitten deep into his flesh. Marcus saw the light fading in the young man’s eyes. He called on his celestial magic, feeling his connection to the heavenly realm at the center of his being. He focused the warm inner light on the fading knight-errant. “Melius corpus.”
Marcus dropped his sword as his hand gathered the celestial light. He cautiously laid his hand on the seeping wound and released the magic. A numbing sensation filled his hand and arm as the celestial energies were channeled into the young man.
“Marcus?” Luke’s head lolled to the side. His auburn locks were matted to his head by a mixture of sweat and blood. The torch he carried dimmed to an ember on the floor nearby, as the sounds of battle marched toward the base of the obelisk. Luke batted his brown eyes. A vacant and hollow expression filled with fear stared out into the darkness of the cavern. “Marcus, is that you?”
“Yes Luke,” Marcus’ cheeks glistened with tears as he reached for the lad’s face. He cupped his hand on his cheek, slowly turning his head until he was in view.
“You…” Luke coughed weakly before allowing a smile to cross his face. “Look like an angel.”
“I am going to save you, Luke.” Marcus smiled back as he drew once more on his celestial magic. “Melius corpus.”
Luke inhaled sharply as the magic washed over his face. Marcus felt Luke’s skin, smooth shaven and soft, mend under his touch. He grew keenly aware of the stillness of the cavern. They were alone in the dark. A sudden shift in the shadows caught his eye and Marcus pulled away from the fallen errant, grabbing for his abandoned blade and rising sword in hand.
“Who dares?” Marcus spat into the darkness. “Come filth and try to claim me for meal and I swear by all that is holy, it will be your last.”
The shadows shifted once more and for a second; he caught a glimpse of albino skin in the darkness. He bent low, never taking his eyes from the darkness as he dropped his shield and reached for the torch. Lifting the torch out before him, the dull embers barely illuminated the shadows, as if the light from the torch had waged a losing battle against the encroaching darkness. A hand. He caught sight of a hand on the rocks. Not the bulky hand of the monsters he had slain, but a smaller feminine hand with hooked yellow nails.
“A ghulah.” Marcus gasped absently, lowering his sword as he leaned forward toward the darkness, struggling to see the creature. She leapt forward as the tip of his sword grazed the stone floor. In a blur of white flesh, she was on him, her hands wrapped around his wrists. Red eyes flashed with malice behind a narrow, gaunt face. She was hairless and naked, save for the grime and filth that covered her body. Marcus lurched forward, driving his skull into the ghulah’s face. Bone cracked and she let loose a whimper as her knees buckled and she fell to the floor. Marcus raised his sword high, ready to finish the monster.
“Pla-.” she mouthed, her voice soft and timid. “Please.”
He stopped mid-swing. His blade hovered above the creature as she cowered, her arms defensively braced over her head for the impending doom. The monster had spoken.
“Hold and speak again, vile wench.” Marcus eyed the creature curiously.
“Please…” she looked up, her red eyes filled with fear as they examined the blade hovering inches above her head. She was bald as a baby, with small ears that were pointed at the end. Her body was lean, muscled, and covered in filth. Her feet were blistered from the rock floor and her toenails were a deep, festering yellow. She was hideous by all standards. A monster. Yet she spoke. Demonstrated signs of… intelligence. A trait he believed impossible for the ghuls.
“Why should I show mercy? You stalked my fellows. Killed my brethren. Why?” The sword hung threateningly over her head, demanding an answer.
She pointed a finger to the obelisk, the fortress of stone under the mountain lined with green glyphs. “Home.”
The word hit him in the gut like a hammer. Home? Could a foul creature such as this comprehend the meaning of the word, or had it simply learned to mimic its prey?
“Marcus.” Luke stirred, looking at the foul creature. “What is it? What abomination speaks our tongue?”
“A foul beast that devours the dead.” Marcus clenched his sword, weighing his next move carefully. “It doesn’t deserve to live.”
“Home.” she said again softly, pointing desperately to the obelisk. The sound of battle, of Lucious slaughtering the ghuls, echoed up from the center of the cavern.
“What is worth protecting, monster?” Marcus sneered, looking at the creature with disgust. “Do you understand that word? Do you tend a hearth? Cradle a child with love? Have a family? What do you know of home? You’re a beast, a pack of wild things that devour the weak. Nothing more.”
“Family.” The word hung in the stale cavern air as a look of sadness crossed her face. She looked at Marcus with plaintive eyes. “Home. Family.”
“Ah, she is naught but repeating your words.” Luke gasped, pulling himself to an upright position. He grunted as the pain of his broken arm washed over him.
“Farewell monster.” Marcus pulled his sword back once more, drawing a shriek from the female, but her shriek was met with a terror filled scream from within the obelisk. Marcus turned his head instinctively toward the sound.
“What in the nine hells was that?” Luke gasped as the horrified scream echoed from the obelisk once more.
“King of Ghul.” the female looked at the obelisk, eyes filled with hope. “Family.”