The Dragon Soul (Vagrant Souls Book 2) Read online

  The Dragon Soul

  Vagrant Souls Book 2

  Samuel E. Green

  Valor Forge Press

  Contents

  Mailing List

  Blurb

  Map

  1. Alfric

  2. Alfric

  3. Bradir

  4. Fryda

  5. Alfric

  6. Bradir

  7. Alfric

  8. Jaruman

  9. Alfric

  10. Fryda

  11. Alfric

  12. Fryda

  13. Jaruman

  14. Edoma

  15. Alfric

  16. Fryda

  17. Jaruman

  18. Alfric

  19. Fryda

  20. Edoma

  21. Alfric

  22. Jaruman

  23. Fryda

  24. Alfric

  25. Jaruman

  26. Alfric

  27. Bradir

  28. Fryda

  29. Alfric

  30. Jaruman

  31. Fryda

  32. Jaruman

  33. Alfric

  34. Fryda

  35. Alfric

  36. Fryda

  37. Alfric

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Samuel E. Green

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover art by Alberto Besi

  Cover design by www.designbookcover.pt

  Edited by Courtney Umphress

  Map design by Novelarium.com

  Version 0.97

  Created with Vellum

  Mum and Dad,

  Thanks for believing

  Mailing List

  Sign up for Samuel E. Green's mailing list to receive a FREE ebook of Fall of Mundos as soon as it releases in late May 2017.

  SamuelEGreen.com/mailing-list

  You’ll receive emails with writing news, discounts, and access to exclusive promotions.

  Fall of Mundos tells the early history of Edoma (a main character from The Shattered Orb) when she was a mage apprentice in Mundos.

  Blurb

  An enchanted relic thought lost for centuries is discovered. Only a dragon-riding priestess and a skinwalker can stop it from falling into the wrong hands.

  With wards of protection, Fryda flees Indham in search of Alfric. The only problem is that he is a skinwalker capable of tearing her limb from limb. And outside the safety of Indham's walls, she's just one woman against a tide of skinwalkers.

  Following a dangerous path, Fryda travel west, to a treasure-filled dragon hold, the forest stronghold of the realm's most powerful sorcerer, and a mountain city where a deadly witch queen awaits.

  Through it all, the mysterious relic known as the dragon soul draws Fryda and Alfric closer together. But finding each other could mean an ancient conquerer's return to power. And that would signal the enslavement not only of their world, but all those beyond it.

  If you love the fast-paced style of Brent Weeks, and the secret histories hidden in Brandon Sanderson's Mistborn, you'll love The Dragon Soul.

  Map

  Visit www.samuelegreen.com/worldmap/ to view the map in full detail.

  1

  Alfric

  Blood lingered in Alfric's mouth. The thirst for more urged him onward. Leather armor peeled before serrated claws, and human blood matted dark fur. Mortal cries for mercy were sweet melodies to his ears. Burning houses added a chaotic flicker to golden eyes while pale moonlight flashed against razor teeth.

  This night was a repeat of the last seven. The wraith took hold, and Alfric turned into a monster. Any attempt to gain control was futile. The wraith was too powerful, the dark taint of its presence all-encompassing.

  The other men-made-skinwalkers added to the symphony of carnage as they tore limbs and snarled in satisfaction. Sword or scythe, axe or spear, no weapon could end their onslaught. The bags strapped to their chests were the only evidence that these skinwalkers had once been men.

  The villagers barricaded themselves within a two-storied tavern. Wooden planks barred the two windows on the ground level. The window on the second level was open, as though those inside thought the skinwalkers would be unable to get there.

  An aged warrior burst from behind the tavern. He yelled a battle cry that ended swiftly, a skinwalker slashing him with its talons. Three more men followed. One came for Alfric, a spear poised to fly from his hand. Alfric leaped, springing into the air as the warrior released the weapon. His thighs, powerful after the change, carried him above, and he landed on his feet behind the warrior.

  Before the warrior could brandish his sword, Alfric gripped the man by the head. Claws punctured hard scalp, index and middle fingers plunging into soft eyes. Terrified screaming sent waves of pleasure over Alfric, culminating in a rapturous ecstasy as he sank his fangs into an engorged neck. Blood gushed from the wound, splashing his snout. Fulfilled desire made his vision blur. No matter how hard he sucked, the thirst was unquenched.

  Alfric’s lupine mouth lurched open and cackled to the stars. Throwing the lifeless husk aside, he turned toward the tavern.

  Arrows shot out from slits in the barricaded windows. Alfric rocked back as one pounded into his chest. With a growl, he tore the mere annoyance from his flesh.

  His gaze settled on the upstairs window where a teenage boy aimed a crossbow. Trembling fingers struggled to keep the weapon steady. Alfric leaped ten feet to land on the rooftop. He stormed across the thatch and dived through the window. The boy didn't even scream. The rest of the pack members followed, and scoured the upstairs rooms. They were an unstoppable surge of fangs and talons.

  On the ground floor, twenty warriors waited, gnarled hands strangling axe handles. Balding scalps and gray beards marked them as veterans, but there was too much white to their eyes. Terror had seized their hearts.

  As Alfric plowed into them, he ignored the blades that sliced open his body. Every gash enlivened the wraith, bringing him closer to his prey.

  The clamor deadened after a mere minute.

  Face sticky with blood and gore, Alfric tossed a shriveled corpse aside. It bounced on the floorboards and landed next to a stone pillar. What little remained of its blood drifted from beneath it, reaching toward the pillar until crimson met ancient stone. For a moment, wards along the stone illuminated and vanished.

  While the other skinwalkers were consuming the dead warriors, movement on the other side of the room drew Alfric's attention. He stalked toward a stack of wine barrels. A bar maiden, clad in a simple dress and a white apron untouched by the bloodshed, cowered between two barrels. Red streaks tinged her blonde hair—and Alfric's heart broke.

  She looked so much like Fryda.

  Blood pumped rapidly through the bulging vein in her neck. Alfric's forked tongue flashed over salivating lips. Within the mind-trap, Alfric screamed soundlessly, exerting every ounce of will against the wraith's control.

  How many times had he looked on like this while the wraith had murdered someone? But what could Alfric do to stop it? The irascible desire for blood was as much his own as it was the wraith's. The sheer helplessness of the situation harkened back to the time he'd been attacked by the wolves. Yet there would be no dragon to save him today, and there was no escaping the coming carnage.

  He thrashed, imagining himself outside of the monster, anything to avoid the impending murder of this poor woman.

  Then Alfric was elsewhere.

  Below, in
swirling circles of smoke, the skinwalker and the bar maiden were frozen in time. The skinwalker's gray-blue lips were peeled back in a snarl of pleasure. The bar maiden gaped and held out a frail hand, as though she might ward off the wraith with it.

  An aura of darkness twisted within the skinwalker's body—the wraith. Alfric reached toward them with ephemeral hands. As he did so, his vision jolted, the room shimmering in and out of existence. The skinwalker below growled, and the bar maiden screamed. Alfric stepped back. The room solidified again, and the noise of the skinwalker and the bar maiden ceased. Again, they were frozen.

  An overwhelming sense of relief almost sent Alfric into a fit of gleeful laughter. At this moment, he was released from the wraith's presence. He could no longer hear its whispers or feel its evil taint pressing down on him. Not only that, but the hunger for flesh and the thirst for blood was completely absent. In this strange place, he was free.

  What was this place?

  A strange dullness clouded Alfric’s senses as he crept around the room's perimeter. He shuffled onward, realizing that in this realm everything was grey and lifeless, until he came to a door. It bore no handle, and its surface was slick like polished steel. No seams ran along its edges, nor were there any hinges to indicate the direction it would open.

  He extended his hand to touch the door, but instead of feeling the coolness of metal, his fingers plunged into it like it was a pool of water. Immediately, a frigid sensation rippled from his fingertips to his toes, and the door sucked him through.

  A sound like a bursting bubble popped in his ears, and he crashed to the floor. Steadily standing, he found himself in another room. Constellations peppered the domed ceiling. Though he'd seen no such stars in Aernheim's night sky, they felt strangely familiar.

  At once, everything was different and familiar, as though he'd been here before. Surely he would have remembered such a place?

  Winged beasts locked within iron cages occupied some of the wooden shelves lining the walls. Dozens of crystal orbs sat on the highest shelves. Most were empty. A handful shone brightly, leaving sunspots in Alfric's eyes, whereas others pulsed slowly like ancient hearts that would soon cease to beat.

  One particular item glowed with an emerald light, striking because it was the only source of true color in this unusual realm. The light came from a silver scepter etched with runes. Cradled at the top of the scepter was a fine-tipped emerald. A wingless golden dragon danced beneath its many-faced surface.

  The dragon peered up at Alfric, and its scales shifted colors. Alfric stumbled backward, surprised that this creature seemed to be truly alive within the emerald, and not merely a trick of the light.

  A distant howling sounded, and a thunderous booming shook the walls, causing an icy tingle to run down his back.

  Without thinking, Alfric reached for the scepter. As soon as his fingers grasped the runes along the silver handle, he was transported back to the tavern.

  The other skinwalkers crouched behind him, busy siphoning the last of the warriors' blood. The bar maiden still cowered before him. In a moment, the wraith would consume her until she was nothing more than a husk.

  Alfric cried out, frustrated that he'd returned to this hell. The noise burst from the skinwalker's lips, strange in its humanity. The other skinwalkers stared at Alfric for a moment, appraising him. They returned to their feeding, more concerned with filling their bellies than the peculiar sound their skinwalker companion had made.

  Inside Alfric's mind, confusion accompanied an oddly muffled sound from the wraith. It sounded almost like a whimper.

  Alfric's hand stretched out, a clawed finger catching a tear before it fell from the bar maiden's chin. He gasped. To his surprise, and that of the bar maiden, the skinwalker's bloodied maw opened and let out a gasping sound.

  Somehow, Alfric was in control. An enraged roar from the wraith reverberated inside his head. He willed the wraith to stop. And then there was silence.

  The wraith was silent.

  The bar maiden's eyes widened as Alfric grabbed the closest drained corpse and tossed it in front of the barrels. He hoped it would be enough to hide her scent from the other skinwalkers.

  From behind him came harsh barking, signaling the end of the night's slaughter.

  As one, the pack left the tavern. Alfric was the last to leave, and he breathed a sigh as he crossed the threshold. He watched the skinwalkers howl and race each other down the muddy road.

  Free at last.

  When he attempted to go west, in the opposite direction of the pack, his muscles seized. A tightness gripped his chest and made him unable to breath. He jerked his head behind him and saw it—the beacon. A pillar of light burned in the east. The skinwalkers ended every night by chasing this same beacon, compelled for some unknown reason to pursue it.

  Alfric tried yet again to move against the beacon’s compulsion, but was met with that same tightness. Unable to do otherwise, he pursued the other pack members east, leaving a landscape of carnage behind as the sun rose in Aernheim.

  2

  Alfric

  Every morning, Alfric awoke with the hope that he lived in a nightmare. He pictured rolling over and seeing dawn's light through the windows of Idmaer's Spire. It would be brisk, and Fryda would be nudging him. "You must get ready," she would say. "Warriors aren't tardy."

  Alfric smiled, keeping his eyes shut to enjoy the reverie for as long as he could, which wasn't very long. Sunlight squeezed through the oak branches above. Through the dense forest came the chatter of the other pack members. Alfric was always the last to wake.

  At least one thing he could be thankful for was that his nightmares of being burned alive, those he'd endured since he was a boy, had vanished. All because he now lived a new nightmare every night.

  Except last night had been different. Somehow, touching the silver scepter had returned him to his body. He had saved the bar maiden because of that.

  Or had he? What if his mind had conjured the event? He'd been adamant his whole life that a dragon had saved him from the wolf pack, and yet now, he wondered if even that were true.

  Misery could make a person believe almost anything. He'd seen the insane men inside The Flaming Monkey drinking ale while they spouted the most ridiculous lies. They'd been warriors, barely old enough to wield a sword, fighting against Lamworth before the treaties. Whatever violence they'd committed—and what they'd been subjected to—had changed them.

  Violence had changed Alfric, too. Only a week, and he felt so far from the young man he'd been in Indham.

  He tapped his side. The bag was still there. Every one of the pack members had taken to wearing satchels or bags before the turn. Unlike their clothes, the bags stayed in one piece until the next morning. They slung them over their shoulders, the straps providing ample room for the growth of their bodies. Even through the bloodshed, the bags survived.

  Alfric's bag was the same one Fryda had given him before he'd left Indham. Though it was empty save for a few scant morsels of bread, it was the only thing he still owned from his home. The dragon pendant was forever lost. It had provided him with a sense of comfort ever since the dragon had given it to him. Though he missed its presence dearly, he was grateful for Fryda's bag.

  He stroked the scratched and tarnished bronze buckle. He had watched while the wraith had controlled his body and attacked Fryda. Were it not for the instincts of that white horse, he might have killed her. Instead, the horse had trampled him underfoot. The wraith's hold had grown stronger since then, so he hated to think what might have happened had he met her later in the change.

  He supposed that he was foolish for not expecting her to follow. Fryda had been irate when he'd left the town, but she was the most headstrong woman he knew, and she loved him. He hadn't truly known that until that night when he'd almost slashed her to pieces. Her horse had broken enough bones so that he couldn't pursue her, but what might have he had done were it not for that? Sure, the wraith had been controlling him, but
that didn't make the thought any less sickening.

  A breeze carried the smell of fresh blood. The tantalizing smell of a fresh kill roused Alfric, even as he fought against it. His stomach groaned as he wandered through the thicket to where Gos and Velmit sat around a campfire. No meat hung above the fire—its singular purpose was to provide warmth. Both men chewed raw flesh from bones. Alfric didn't want to think about what—or more precisely, who—they were eating.

  "Take a seat," Gos said, holding out his arm and tossing Alfric a cloak and breeches.

  Alfric pulled the breeches over his legs. They were tight, but at least they covered his nakedness. He wrapped the cloak around his shoulders. The noonday sun burned above, the first clear day in the ten since Aern's orb was shattered. Even under its heat, Alfric shivered. Without feeding, he had no relief from the unearthly chill.

  He found himself licking his lips as he watched the two men feed. Both wore cloaks to match his own, threadbare and faded to gray. They'd likely stolen them from whomever Velmit had murdered after waking. Gos didn't kill during the day, but he did feed. Any other day Alfric would have sat naked, refusing to take the cloak, but today was particularly cold.

  "You still won't eat?" Velmit sneered, his mouth stained with blood. "One of these days, you're going to starve. Skinwalker or not."

  "He's got principles," Gos said, tossing the bone into the fire and licking his fingers. "Better than can be said for either of us."

  "He's delaying the inevitable." Velmit glared at Alfric. "You think you're better than us?"

  "I think I'm human. And you two are too." Alfric paused when Velmit scoffed, but continued anyway. "At night, the wraiths take hold, and we don't have a choice. The rabids—they're skinwalkers night and day. But we're different. The Guardians have granted us our humanity every dawn. There's a reason for that. I don't want to waste their providence."