Legacy of the Blade
The Complete Trilogy
Joseph J. Bailey
Legacy of the Blade Book 1: Soul Stealer
Less than Worthless
A Man’s Hovel is Not His Castle
The Fall of Heaven’s Gate
Stupid Is as Stupid Does
Empyrean Guard
Life from Death
And Now the Cavalry
The True Beginning of My Travails
Djen’toth
From Here to There
Eye-to-Eye with Justice
Sword in the Loam
And Now We Wait
A Shadow This Way Comes
On Waking
Up in Smoke
Home Sweet Heap
Leave-Taking
Of Storms and Ruin
The True Measure of a Knight
South and East
To Not Dance with a Demon
What Now?
The Road Ahead
Spells Uncast
Higher Ground
How We Got Here
I Find Myself Here Because?
Waylaid
Headache
Theuron
Walking
Again?
Hunger without End
Return
Clarity
Whither My Weapon?
Dreams to Come
Reality After Dreams
To Call and Hope for an Answer
Reunited
To Begin Again
A Conversation
A Change of Scenery
Something New
A Man and His Blade
A Gift Regiven
A Chance Encounter
Heaven’s Edge
To Not Be
Eyes Open
All Not So Good Things Must Come to an End
Disappointment
Hills and Dells
The Peaks and Valleys Within
Il’alen
Light Rider
To Fair Kerraboer
The Plains of D’rith Sinae
The Dust Beneath My Boots
The Light of My Life
The Unlight of My Life
Kerraboer
Second Impressions
A Battle Waged and Lost
On the Front
Into the Night
A Shadow in Light
Into the Maelstrom
A Receding Tide
Thirst
Destiny’s Arc
Chaos’s End
A New Ending
Epilogue
Legacy of the Blade Book 2: Wild Mage
Prologue
Stone in Need of Water
Not Hard-Headed Enough
The Fall and the Aftermath
My Master
Nightmares and Screamscapes
A Rest Disturbed
Grim Acceptance
Wera’dun
A Rock with a Name
Companion
Happenstance
In the Beginning, the Word
A Return
Past the Valley
Elemental Nature
A Rolling Stone Gathers No Dross
Times Past
Fall
Aftermath
What Next?
Guraem
Uërth
Freedom
Studies
On the March
Dust and Debris
Earth Storms and Thunder Quakes
Adventure
Djen’lum
El’amin
A Look Inward
Eyes of the El’Amin
No Choice but to Leave
The Fire That Burns
Luistaer
Cooling
A Trip Deferred
Over the Hill
Vestiges of the Past
A Fading Sun
Leave-Taking
A Nightmare Revisited
Wakening
Departure
A Flock of Stone
On a Prominence
Breakfast
On the Mount
Water Made Stone
What Next?
From Here to Somewhere
Almost Home
On the Trail Again
An Idea
A Return
Observance
A New Day, A New Resolve
Practice Makes Imperfect
Pride Goeth Before the Tangle
A Nightmare Reborn
And Then There Was Another
Over the Mountain and Through the Hell
The Lost Valley
Unexpected Is as Unexpected Does
Surprises Come in Big Packages
Partial Protection
On a Wing and a Slayer
When Wards Collide
A Final Encounter
A Purpose
Partnership
Epilogue
Legacy of the Blade Book 3: Stone Singer
Stone in Need of Word and Deed
Choosing
A Conversation
A Decision Made
Visitors
In a Glance
A Choice Chosen
An Unwelcome Arrival
Another World
A Reconnection
A Voice of Old
Starry Night
One Mountain Is Much Unlike Another
The Beginnings of a Plan
A Lone Voice
And There Be Demons
A Brief Tune
And So It Begins
A Place Unlike Any Other
Dust on the Horizon
Wakening
A Living Sea
A Corresponding Note
Green Waves
A Visitor
Welcome
Guraem to Wera’Dun
After
Acceptance
Advice
A New World
Noema’jin
A Remembrance
A Word from an Old Friend
In Perspective
Dragon’s Teeth Dulled
A Remembrance of Things Past
Unhallowed Hollow
What Was Not
So Close but Yet So Far
Missing
Speculation
Something Worse
Looking In
Stone in Chaos
Aftermath
Noema’dar
In Sight
Homecoming
Valley Home
Sword in the Sun
Well Met
Reconnection
A New Journey Begun
Companions
The Road Ahead
Over the Ridge and Through the Dell
Eruption
Guidance
Purposes
A Look Back
Toward the Border
Knights’ Fall
A Fire That Burns
A Lone Obstacle Not Alone
Juel’dathra
Renewal’s Beginning
Epilogue
Help Spread the Word!
Glossary of Terms
About the Author
Synopsis
Copyright Information
Legacy of the Blade Book 1: Soul Stealer
Legacy of the Blade Book 1
Joseph J. Bailey
Author’s Note:
This is a work of fiction.
If your life resembles the places and characters in this book in any way, immediately stop reading and do something about it.
Please.
To those who
follow their dreams…wherever they may lead.
Less than Worthless
I was never worth anything until I killed a man.
That may sound harsh but, in fact, those words are far too kind.
Before my first kill, I was less than worthless—lacking in character, poor in spirit, short on imagination, as brave as a startled squirrel, as sharp as a squashed turnip, and as intelligent as a stump…and those were some of my more favorable qualities.
I was an embittered, thieving, mindless coward.
On my better days, I was a bumbling imbecile more likely to harm myself than get the better of anyone else.
At least until I killed a member of the Empyrean Guard.
Then everything changed.
I didn’t mean to kill someone. In fact, the only person I could harm intentionally was probably myself. Even then, I was such a doddering idiot that I wouldn’t be able to manage it unless it happened accidentally through the natural expression of my ill luck.
But I get ahead of myself…
A Man’s Hovel is Not His Castle
Rain hammered down relentlessly.
I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, much less the fine abodes of my village. That, at least, was a blessing.
Unfortunately for the rain, it had been fated to land on the most worthless pile of dung this side of Uërth. Even more unfortunate for the rain, it had no hope of cleaning the stinking pile of refuse that was my home.
Perhaps, if the rain was capable of such a thing, it could at least aspire to one day cleansing the blight that was my home from itself.
There are those who tell me they welcome the rain, that its smell is akin to an ambrosia, a heady mixture of cleanliness and the bounteousness of life, stirring fond remembrances of days past and opportunities yet to come.
Those people have never visited Balde.
The rains are magical; I will give them that. Working their arcana on the village’s odeur, the showers transmogrify the welcoming boutique of offal and effluent into a spine-tingling miasma encompassing fetid decay, noxious rot, and vile alchemical waste.
When they’re gone, nothing’s clean, least of all the rain itself.
My hovel with its sunken roof lurched at the village’s periphery, not exactly in visible motion but certainly giving that dizzying sensation, one of a thankless few fortunate enough to be excluded from the village proper, hunkered outside the leaning fortifications intended to protect the worthies within.
Luckily for those huddled inside the ancient walls, the Front was far away from Balde, and most of the dangers of demonic incursion were only spoken of in whispered undertones and stolen glances.
Even luckier for me, I wouldn’t need to rely on those walls because, chances were, the citizens on the other side wouldn’t let me in even if I begged.
Why my neighbors had never burned my shack down is one of life’s greater mysteries. Perhaps the relentless rains dampened the villagers’ initiative. Perchance these unceasing, woeful deluges prevented the sparks needed to return my hut to the sodden, unwelcoming earth. Mayhap the thick layers of mud reinforcing the sagging straw roof would not catch under even the hottest torch.
Equally baffling, why the villagers had never attempted to raze my hovel provided another insoluble riddle the likes of which would have kept me up at night wracked with worry had I cared one jot for my home or its meager cast-off contents. Maybe the thick layers of earth and refuse shoring up its walls served to buttress the village’s fortifications and no one wished to risk a collapse of the outer walls. Perchance my home was of such awful mien and lugubrious aura that the villagers thought it served an indispensible role as a deterrent for any rampaging monsters or marauding bandits. Conceivably, the denizens of Balde had tacitly decided that my croft would serve as a sacrificial first offering for any demons, sidhe, or other supernatural interlopers should they ever decide to attempt suicide by contaminating themselves on my fellow residents. Mayhap they were afraid to risk poisoning from the blanket of magical mushrooms growing like a pox all over the surface of the hut. There is a chance they did not wish to further pollute the local environs with the refuse from my shanty. Alternatively, no one wished to befoul their psychic essences by besmirching their magics upon the taint of my fair dwelling.
Whatever the reason, my house stubbornly withstood the tests of time and reason.
Most probably because time wanted nothing to do with it.
And reason had long abandoned it.
I could say that I welcomed getting back home after trekking through the rain and muck, but I would be lying.
My shack wasn’t much drier than the rain outside. Two broken windows stared malevolently at me as I approached, their recriminating glare a reminder of my role in their inevitable decay. The front door refused to fall off the one remaining hinge that held it loosely in place. Rotted horizontal planks formed approximations of four walls that generally supported the saggy, muddy roof. Most of the gaps between planks were filled with mud…or they were almost filled, anyway. Sadly, the bulk of the dabs had washed away before the dirt could dry and properly harden to seal the walls. I think the roof managed to stay together largely thanks to the intractable mat of basilisk’s bane vines creeping through the thatch and clay.
I actually imagine the poisonous vines were among the happiest residents in my home. The climbers were certainly happier than the poor starving rats who persisted with the Abyss’s own depthless tenacity to eke out a living inside.
The only competition the vines had for deepest appreciation of my decrepit hovel were the lethal eldritch mushrooms growing in a thick carpet upon the roof and along the exterior walls. Not only did the mushrooms provide a robust defensive perimeter, they also offered valuable sustenance, were excellent for the constitution, and grew back faster than they could be eaten…once you developed an immunity to their toxins.
The fungus also glowed, which saved me quite a bit of effort, cost, and risk in keeping my home lit.
I carefully opened the front door lest I pull it off its rusty hinge and let the rain drip down from my soaked hair to join the pooling water on the sodden floor. A small, ill-kempt bed still stood, thankfully, on failing posts propped up with assorted irregular stones. The bed took up most of the room inside. A small firepit with a pot and a washbasin crowded the rest of the adjoining space.
Through long years of neglect, I had learned that I did not have to fear burning the place down. The mud, wet, moss, and mildew inside formed an impregnable protective barrier against even the most formidable sparks and embers.
Although it was presently empty, I did have a small storage box stashed beneath the bed on the off chance I could actually manage to acquire something worth keeping. Given the fruits of my roughly two decades of life, I would hazard that signs pointed to it being unlikely that it would ever be filled.
The chest also served as a backup support should one, or several, of the bed’s legs fail.
This, then, was the extent of my earthly riches, the inheritance my parents had left me when they discovered the good sense to run off some years ago, well before I had the wherewithal to go after them.
Not that I would have.
On the plus side, the rent was cheap and the landlord was not at all demanding.
Being a homeowner had its perks.
There just weren’t that many for me.
Given the riches entrusted to my care and the enormous responsibilities involved in their upkeep, most of my time was spent idly whiling the days away.
This veritable font of industriousness only ingratiated me to my fellow denizens of Balde, among whom I was looked upon with almost universal disdain, disregard, and an air of general embarrassment.
If I were daft, I would perhaps be regarded as the village idiot. Not being entirely without reason or sense, I was merely esteemed worthless.
Being worthless was one of my greater charms.
The Fall of Heaven’s Gate
; With the fall of the Empyrean Gate and the routing of the Uërthly Host, the legions of Chaos finally believed they had achieved permanent access to the mortal realm.
On the day of Heaven’s defeat, seraphic blades fell from the firmament, Paradise’s tears made solid, each Angel’s Sword marking the death of one of Uërth’s chosen defenders.
The blades were wieldable only by the purest of heart, and there were those on Uërth who still believed humanity’s deliverance would come from above.
But what good ever came from the edge of a sword?
Their path to Uërth clear, the legions of Chaos began their assault upon the realms of Man. Overmatched and outnumbered, humanity was decimated at every turn while the world was despoiled and recast around it.
Despite the crushing defeats meted out and the annihilation of human forces at every turn, the hordes of Chaos were shocked by the resilience and tenacity of Man, the mortals’ stubborn refusal to yield ground and allow demonic ascension.
Though these meager humans’ paltry lives were suspended tenuously between the Empyrean and the Abyssal, very much unlike their righteous heavenly allies, the Lords of Chaos were quite surprised to find that they refused to fight fair.
Or yield.
Stupid Is as Stupid Does
I jumped up, heart hammering in my chest like the Abyss’s own thunder, my ill-patched, fraying blanket falling away from my bony shoulders in apparent relief at being rid of my filthy touch.
The echoes of an otherworldly, bloodcurdling roar yet lingered distressingly amongst the village walls, startling me from dreams of bounteous mushroom harvests in forests free of rain and muck.
What in the name of the Light would sound so horrific?
I did not want to find out.
If my thudding heart were any indication, I was about to become something’s supper.
Something vile.
And probably uglier than my unwashed armpit.
As unwholesome as I was, whatever was out there would have to be even more desperate than I to consider adding me to the menu.
Stranger things had happened.
I was, for instance, a master mushroom harvester living in a hovel covered in enough poisonous fungi to kill several armies many times over.
And I ate those same mushrooms for dinner.