Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  Soul Forge by Richard H. Stephens

  https://www.richardhstephens.com/

  © 2018 Richard H. Stephens

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: richardhstephens1@gmail.com

  Cover Art by Marco Pennacchietti

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-775-1036-8-4

  Acknowledgements and brief history

  Soul Forge has been in the works for over 36 years. The story came to me one fall evening in 1982 while sitting at home and listening to music. Run to the Hills, by Iron Maiden, came on and a switch tripped inside my head. I quickly jerry-rigged my old Underwood 88 typewriter, with long elastics attached to the leg of my bed to advance the broken carriage, and began my journey with Silurian Mintaka.

  Soul Forge was originally titled, The River Styx. I loved that title until it dawned on me that the story has nothing to do with Greek mythology. The title went from, The Evil Within, to Saint Carmichael’s Blade, to Where Have All Our Heroes Gone, but I was never happy with any of those. At the beginning of 2017, I had an epiphany. Soul Forge is about Silurian’s journey through life. Faced with many hardships at an early age, he was one of those people who somehow managed to see the good in everyone, despite what they said or did to him. He was pure of heart and possessed a courageous, giving soul. The day eventually came when everything life threw at him, broke his spirit and plunged his soul into a darkness so deep that even his closest friend walked away.

  Soul Forge is the story of Silurian’s quest to forge his lost soul anew, despite the evil forces attempting to keep him on a path to destruction.

  As with any great work of the imagination, there are certain elements beyond the control of the author, but are vital to the satisfactory completion of their vision. Soul Forge would never have left the ground without the incredible support of my beta readers, Joshua Stephens, Paul Stephens, science fiction author Louise Spilsbury, and Christopher Smith. Also, my amazing artist, Marco Pennacchietti, and my godsend editor, Michelle Dunbar, who maliciously beat me into submission in an effort to improve the way Soul Forge is written. Finally, I want to acknowledge my loving wife, Caroline Davidson, who has logged more hours on this project than you or I will ever know. Putting up with myself and my story, she truly has the patience of a saint.

  Soul Forge is dedicated to Paul, Joshua, and Rebecca. Thank you for keeping me young while the years pass me by.

  Soul

  Forge

  When the shadow stabs,

  the life-giving sun,

  forth shall he ride,

  leaving nothing but ruin.

  Freedom will be denied,

  to those who fall,

  within his shadow,

  death dealt to all.

  Upon naive waves,

  he unfurls his sail.

  Fear ye who live,

  for only he shall prevail.

  We live now only to await,

  our life blood courses nigh.

  The Stygian Lord comes again,

  blighting the land, razing the sky.

  Only one hope remains,

  for those foolish enough to pursue.

  Onto the Under Realm,

  into hell, but never through.

  Venture forth to unknown power,

  a cradle of evil disgorge.

  A quest of unspeakable terror,

  at journey’s end, Soul Forge.

  For those who search,

  death shall follow.

  For those who persist,

  shall be riven hollow.

  As does the Innerworld,

  also does hell.

  A drinker of souls,

  'ware the Sentinel.

  Contents

  Foreward

  Wizard

  To Find a Legend

  The Foreboding

  Bishop's Gambit

  To Live Again

  Return to Fear

  Redfire Path

  Redfire’s Fury

  The Portent

  God is Dead

  Into Hell but Never Through

  Farriers

  Gritian

  The Chamber Be Damned

  The Chamber of the Wise

  The Wiser Path

  Damn the Chamber

  Kraidics!

  Companion Lost

  Strange Irony

  Sacred Sword Voil

  Flight

  Hammer Fall

  Leap of Faith

  Death of a Friend

  The Edge of the World

  Chamber of Chaos

  Splendoor Catacombs

  Treacher’s Gorge

  Songsbirth

  Up the Spine

  The Mighty Madrigail

  Mourning Lynx to Madrigail Bay

  Wharf’s Retreat

  Resurrection

  Soul Forge

  Gerrymander

  Be Wary

  The Portal

  Hell’s Stew

  Debacle Lurch

  ‘Ware the Sentinel!

  Myth?

  Harbinger

  Misshapen

  Sentenced to Death

  Mesmerized

  The Evil Within

  Pursued

  Forbidden

  The Sword of Saint Carmichael

  Legend Found

  Yarstaff

  The Gods Must Surely Be Crazy

  Betrayal

  The Soul

  Until We Meet Again

  Wizard of the North

  Foreward

  “I must see the Stygian Lord,” a naked red demon panted, scrabbling along a steep, rock strewn trail—its clawed feet seeking purchase upon the unsure terrain. Pebbles cascaded over the brink of the ledge, plummeting thousands of feet to the violent froth of a river below. The unkempt path spiraled upward around the edge of a mountain peak, terminating at a cave’s mouth near the summit.

  The demon rounded the last bend in the trail and commanded the two large sentries warding the cave’s threshold, “Quickly, let me pass.”

  The guards resembled the smaller demon, but much larger, with sinewy arms thicker than the lesser demon’s chest—the horns sprouting from their temples more defined. Clawed hands clasped tridents twice as big as the one the little creature dragged along. Neither guard took an interest in the insignificant beast.

  “Step aside, I say.” The eager demon attempted to run past the sentries—its reckless flight brought to an unceremonious halt as the guards crossed their tridents, barring its passage. It may as well have run into a granite wall.

  Before it knew what had happened, the small demon hurtled through the air, landing in a crumpled heap close to the trail’s edge.

  Gasping for air, it gained its feet and searched for its errant trident.

  The guards stood at ease once again, their pole-arms resting at their sides.

  “You must let me pass. I carry important news for our Lord. The queen still lives. I saw…” Its words caught in its throat as the mountain shook.

  When the tremor subsided, the demon stuttered, “I-I mean, we were supposed to prevent the queen from locating the lost sword, m-my Lord, but before we slew her, w-we were beset by swamp creatures…”

  The mountain heaved.

  All three demons scrambled to avoid being pummeled by falling debris shaken loose from above.

  Swallowing a lump in its throat, the little demon whined, “They were too much for us. My minions fought b-bravely. We b-battled until the last of us was slain. Except myself, of course. Someone had to deliver the news. The queen and her men have slipped into the Mid Savannah. I came straight here to report our failure to obtain the b-blade the b-bishop s
ought.”

  The demon dropped to its knees, prostrating itself, begging for mercy—hopeful that its effort to deliver the news had convinced the Stygian Lord to invite it into the cave as a reward.

  Another tremor shook the mountain.

  Terror filled the lesser demon’s eyes. A scream of agony escaped its lips. Ever so slowly, it melted, dissolving into a viscous red puddle that trickled down the gravel path and slowly absorbed into the soil underneath.

  Soul

  Forge

  Wizard

  The Hog’s Head Inn, quieter than most nights due to the storm, still had its share of excitement. The two men huddled together at the bar weren’t the only ones talking about the mysterious hooded figure occupying a table in the corner shadows of the tavern.

  The barkeep approached the two men. He leaned in and motioned with his chin. “That guy asked me if I know anything about someone living in these parts. Someone who years ago fought for the king. Someone special, he said. Who do you suppose that could be?”

  The larger patron grumbled, “We all fought for the king.”

  The smaller patron stole a quick glimpse into the shadows. “Surely it can’t be anyone from this cesspool. Nordic Town is about as far away from special as a person can get. Nothing exciting ever happens here. Where did he say he’s from?”

  The bartender tried his best to appear inconspicuous. He leaned in closer. “He didn’t. Just asked if I knew any middle-aged warriors living around here.”

  The large man snorted. “We’re all warriors when it suits the king.”

  “You’re lucky he didn’t turn you into a toad,” his companion declared to the barkeep.

  The barkeep gave the short man an odd look. “Aye, but the way he said it made it seem as if the man he’s looking for is different…I don’t know. I do know I’ll be happier when he’s gone.” He stepped away to tend to another customer.

  The larger patron hazarded a glance at the stranger and elbowed his buddy. “Aye laddie, he does have the look of a wizard.”

  Lightning flashed. The building shook with the ensuing thunderclap. Both men gulped.

  The barkeep rejoined them. “Hey. Do you think he’s looking for that guy living off the old Gulch Trail?”

  The two men considered the question. The smaller man nodded. “Aye, perhaps. What’s a wizard want with him, though? That guy hasn’t left his cabin in years. He’s probably dead by now.”

  The larger patron rubbed his chin. “This reminds me of when our beloved Quarrnaine died, may the gods bless her soul. Remember? The king’s men came in search of Silurian Mintaka, up by the Gulch.”

  The two patrons spat on the ground at the mention of the name.

  “Hey,” the bartender said, spitting himself, “isn’t that the same place you and the boys went to lynch that crazy, son of a—"

  A chair scraped the floor, grabbing the attention of the few patrons inside the Hog’s Head Inn.

  The mysterious man in question stood beside his table. He reached into the folds of a black-hooded cloak and plunked a few coins down. Without a word, he grabbed a wooden staff leaning against the wall.

  All eyes followed the white-bearded man as he shuffled toward the exit. A rapid succession of forked lightning silhouetted his frame when he opened the door, blinding those within the dimly lit room. By the time their eyes recovered, he was gone.

  Before anyone had a chance to catch their breath, another hooded figure rose from the opposite corner of the tavern. Where he had come from, nobody knew. The hunched figure slipped across the floor like a wraith and followed the wizard into the night.

  To Find a Legend

  A quarter day's walk north of Nordic Town, smoke wisped from the lone chimney of a ramshackle cabin. A small window above the front door gave evidence of a second floor.

  The lone occupant slouched within the embrace of his favourite chair, staring blindly into the fathomless depths of a sputtering fire. He swallowed the last contents of a glass decanter sitting upon his knee. Today, like every other day, he drank himself into a stupor to numb his mental anguish—only to dread the fear that unconsciousness would bring. He shuddered. The memory of discovering his family murdered, refused to leave him even now. His eyes became heavy…

  The sound of shattering glass made him jump. Springing to his feet, he grasped for the sword that no longer hung about his waist. He steadied himself upon the cold fire mantle. He must have dozed off.

  He fixed an icy stare upon the front door. Taking a step toward it, a stabbing pain shot through his foot. He staggered against the mantle and cupped his injured foot in both hands—blood dripping to the dirty floorboards. He cringed at the large shard of glass embedded in the meaty part of his heel. The sound of breaking glass had been his decanter hitting the floor.

  He had had the dream again. The nightmare of his homecoming, twenty-three years ago. Ghoulish images flitted about his mind. From the great feast hall at Castle Svelte with wine overflowing, the vision always transformed into a pool of blood at his feet as he clutched his wife's headless body in his quivering arms.

  Shaking the image from his head, he sat down and gingerly dabbed at the gash with the hem of his grubby tunic. He scrunched up his face and extracted the shard.

  The tears dripping from his unshaven chin had nothing to do with the stupidity of impaling his foot. The hut was so quiet and empty. So ever lonely. The ache in his heart, unbearable.

  Holding blood-covered hands over his face, he attempted to squeeze the mental anguish from his head. The more he pressed, the ghastlier his visions became. His wife's severed head lying beside the fireplace, her face disfigured by a broken vase. His three-year-old daughter dangling from a meat hook driven through her thigh, embedded into her bedroom ceiling.

  The panic from that day still crept along his skin twenty-three years later. From the horror of slipping and falling in the blood splattered hut to his frantic search for his sons.

  He had found his eldest son behind the hut, staked to a tree by two crossbow bolts—one fired through each eye. He never did discover the whereabouts of his four-year-old, which in hindsight was worse, as his tortured mind envisioned unspeakable images of what the butchers might have done with him.

  What gnawed at him most, beyond the horror and the pain, was the senselessness of it all. While he was off saving the kingdom, someone had taken away his reason to live.

  His hands released their excruciating hold upon his face and bashed the arms of the chair. He punched at the air with violent speed. When his arms tired, he slouched into his chair and wept.

  These fits of rage had stayed with him for over two decades. His inability to control them was the primary reason he shunned visitors—fearing an episode might seize him at any time. He constantly battled against the lingering insanity gnawing at the edge of his mind.

  His lust for revenge, and his loathing of those who had done nothing to prevent his family’s murder, weighed heavily upon him. He had sacrificed everything to deliver the realm of Zephyr from the clutches of a diabolical sorcerer, only to be left with nothing.

  As the sun ceded its light beyond the woods, he wrapped his foot in a dirty rag and made his way to bed. Toward the ever-present darkness that came with sleep.

  Restless nights drew into dreary days since the day he had sliced his foot. Days into forlorn weeks. Despite his poor ministrations and filthy hygiene, his foot healed, but his mind continued to fester.

  During one of his less disturbed days, a knock startled him from a rare, restful nap. Springing upright within his chair, he stared at the door, not knowing what to do.

  The rap repeated.

  It had been a long time since the last brat child from Nordic Town had come to harass him.

  The knock sounded again. Harder.

  Fear froze him. He didn’t want contact with the outside world, and yet, deep down, he yearned for another's company.

  He recalled a similar occurrence a few years back when the king’s
men had come searching for him. They would’ve found him too, had he not fled out the rear door to lie amongst the thickets beyond his backyard. They had broken into his house and ransacked it before moving on. The same men he had fought beside while someone else had taken his family.

  Time passed without another knock. He unclenched his fists and sank into his chair, daring to hope the caller had lost interest and moved on.

  A shadow passed before his front window and stopped. Years of neglected dirt encrusted upon the glass prevented him from seeing the intruder. Thankfully, it also prevented them from seeing him.

  The silhouette leaned against the window with cupped hands.

  He slipped from his chair and pinned himself flat against the wall between the window and door, his heart hammering.

  The shadow straightened itself, offering a sleeve to the pane. The old window rattled under the pressure and shattered. A curse sounded from outside as shards of glass crashed inward.

  His resolve to remain unseen snapped. Stepping over the debris, he launched himself at the door, unlatched the restraining bolt, and threw it open, prepared to attack. The white bearded visage staring back at him gave him pause.

  A man much older than himself, stood waist deep in the wild grass surrounding his dilapidated hut. A black cloak hung upon the old man’s slouched shoulders, covering flamboyant white robes beneath.

  Eyes devoid of colour scrutinized him from either side of a slightly upturned nose. A breeze toyed with the visitor’s long, white hair as he leaned upon a staff almost as tall as himself.

  The man in the hut quelled his urge to lunge at the old man's throat, to choke the life from him. Instead, he greeted him with an icy stare.

  The old man cleared his throat, a strong voice betraying his fragile appearance. “I humbly beg your pardon, kind sir. I appear to have broken your window.” He hefted the staff to point at the damaged window. “I am Alhena Sirrus. I have urgent business with the Chamber of the Wise and cannot afford delay.”