Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  Getting no response, Alhena persisted, “When no one answered, I hazarded a look inside. I search for a man who used to live in these parts. Within this very hut, unless I am mistaken.”

  Receiving nothing but an eerie glare, he continued, “You are not, by chance, Sir Silurian Mintaka?”

  The man in the hut wavered but shook his head. He stared hard at the white-bearded visage. There was something oddly familiar about the old man.

  “No? I didn't think so,” Alhena said. “How long have you lived here, if I may be so bold as to inquire?”

  The man on the step glared. “What are you? A wizard?”

  “Me?” Alhena laughed. “Oh no, but you are not the first to ask that.”

  “You look like a wizard. What’s with your eyes?”

  “Ah, my eyes. I was born this way. I see fine though, let me assure you. At least for my advanced years.”

  The man on the step grunted.

  Alhena shuffled his feet. “Do you recall the family’s name that lived here before you?”

  The man on the step said nothing.

  “Have you heard of the name Mintaka?”

  The man on the step didn't respond at first. After a moment, he shook his head.

  Alhena opened his mouth to speak but closed it again. He appeared to be undecided about something, but in the end, he stepped toward the broken gate. “Well, I shall leave you to your peace, then. It has been nice chatting with you. Again, I apologize about the window.” He paused, thinking. “I shall be glad to send a craftsman up from Nordic Town.”

  The man on the step said nothing.

  Alhena neared the gate. “The Chamber of the Wise shall pay for it, of course.”

  When the man on the step didn’t reply, Alhena added as he passed through the gate, “I will be on my way then.” He tried to close the broken gate, but its rusted hinges protested. He gave it up and turned down the path. “I guess it is high time I find Rook Bowman.”

  The man of the hut almost stumbled off the step. Against his better judgment he called out, “Hold!”

  Alhena stopped, concealing a smile.

  The hut’s occupant gave him a slight wave, his voice lacking enthusiasm as he disappeared into the hut. “Come.”

  Alhena reentered the yard and mounted the single, broken step. He stopped upon the threshold—the total disorder and filth inside gave him pause. He raised his eyebrows, took a last deep breath of fresh air, and stepped into the dimly lit interior.

  The hut’s occupant had seated himself before a crumbling fire mantle, paying no attention to him. The man retrieved a filthy decanter beside his chair and raised it to his lips, not bothering to offer Alhena any.

  Alhena walked over to stand before him. He placed his back against the soot covered mantle and clutched his staff tight. “As I said, I am Alhena Sirrus, senior messenger to the Chamber of the Wise. I am on an urgent mission to find this Silurian fellow, but I fear he cannot be found.”

  The man in the chair grunted, hefting the decanter to his lips.

  “Does the name Rook Bowman mean anything to you?”

  The man in the chair glanced up, the flask almost slipping from his grasp. His reply, however, was anything but enthusiastic. “I know the name. He fled Zephyr years ago.”

  Alhena nodded. “Aye. After the Battle of Lugubrius, Rook Bowman and Silurian Mintaka left together.” Alhena waggled his staff. “If you trust wizards, the king's magician conjured up a vision of Sir Rook residing alone, shrouded by a peculiar golden haze. The wizard has never determined where this place is.”

  The man of the hut leaned into his chair. “’Tis probably the light of the netherworld the fool sees.” His hands trembled. Lifting his jug, he swallowed deeply, before asking, “Why do you seek Rook Bowman anyway?”

  “Unfortunately, my good sir, that answer is for either of the men in question.”

  The man in the chair sneered. “Then spill your guts. You're looking at one.”

  The Foreboding

  The soot covered mantle prevented Alhena from stumbling backward. The audacity of the haggard man to claim to be one of the two men in question was preposterous. The alcohol surely befuddled his wits. He choked down the urge to laugh. “You jest?”

  A log rolled in the hearth, dispersing a shower of sparks, and cast the room in an orangey-golden hue.

  If not for the white knuckled hold on his staff, Alhena would have stumbled. “Rook Bowman? The king's wizard was right. You are alive. The golden light that has baffled the Chamber all these years, is but the light of your fireplace.”

  The man in the chair drained the decanter. Setting the empty vessel on the floor with a thud, he gave Alhena a cynical sneer, and shook his head.

  Alhena’s smile dropped, his eyes widening. “Silurian?”

  The man in the chair nodded, eyeing him over steepled fingers.

  Alhena’s eyes fell on an empty scabbard sprawled over the chair's arm, embossed with intricate carvings. He appreciated the worth of the dazzling gemstones embedded in its surface—as encrusted in dirt as they were, they would still fetch a king’s ransom.

  He recalled seeing a similar one resting behind the king's supper table during the great victory feast following the Battle of Lugubrius. It had belonged to the man on King Malcolm’s immediate right. The king’s champion. The realm’s favoured sword.

  He squinted, trying to envision the man claiming to be Silurian in a different light. This man appeared so frail. A husk of a man. As if his next breath might prove to be his last.

  According to the Chamber of the Wise and King Malcolm, the kingdom’s salvation lay at the tip of this man’s sword. Alhena wanted to laugh. Strap a rucksack over the man’s shoulders, weigh him down with a sword, and before he reached the front gate, he’d need saving himself. As far as the people of Zephyr were concerned, Silurian was believed dead. Perhaps it would be kinder if they were allowed to maintain that belief.

  “Tell me, old man. What news is so important that the Chamber risked someone as close to death as you to carry?” the man asked.

  “That is privy for Silurian or Rook. Convince me you are who you claim to be. Tell me about your family.”

  The man tensed.

  “Silurian Mintaka was married, with a son and a daughter. I see nothing here indicating their presence—”

  Murder exploded from the man’s eyes—pain evident behind his ice-blue stare. He thundered to his feet and faced Alhena, nose to nose, facial muscles twitching.

  Alhena tried to back away, but the mantle prevented him.

  Releasing a heavy sigh, the man disengaged and stepped to the broken window, careful to avoid the scattered shards, and gazed out.

  The room’s contents sharpened in Alhena’s heightened awareness. Years of cobwebs decorated the log walls. Candle stubs flickered, their drippings forming tiny stalagmites upon filthy tabletops.

  So enrapt in his assessment of the shabby hut, he practically leapt from his skin when the man whispered in a harsh voice, “I had a daughter and two sons. Now, get out.”

  Alhena's eyebrows lifted in surprise. Silurian Mintaka did indeed have two sons. The question had been a ploy to allow the man to betray himself.

  Yellowed oil paintings atop the mantle’s ledge caught Alhena’s eye. Ignoring the man’s demand to leave, he retrieved the middle picture. Years of accumulated grime all but obliterated its surface.

  He blew off the most recent buildup and gaped. In the picture, five people stood before a new log cabin—a small window above the door. A young man and woman each held a baby, while a boy, not much older than a year, hung onto the man’s breeches.

  He lifted his head and compared the man’s grizzled features with the person in the painting. Though much younger in the painting, Alhena couldn’t deny the picture matched the image of the man watching him now. Zephyr was doomed.

  Alhena closed his eyes. What was he going to tell Chambermaster Uzziah? That the man the kingdom placed so much hope upon stood drun
k across the room, demanding to be left alone? Perhaps he should just return to the Chamber and inform them that they would have to find someone else to champion their cause.

  Silurian glared at him, his ice-blue eyes flicking to the door.

  “I apologize if my query about your family has upset you. I needed to ensure you are who you say. I admit, finding you here like this after all these years, gives me some concern. I believed you dead. Perhaps after what I have to tell you, you may wish that were so.”

  Silurian grunted, his hands clenching and unclenching.

  Reaching into the folds of his robes, Alhena withdrew a tightly coiled scroll sealed in red wax, embossed with the chambermaster's sigil. “This writ is for your eyes only.”

  Silurian accepted the scroll and turned it over several times before he broke the seal. Unrolling its short length, he regarded it blankly and let it snap back upon itself. He tossed it to Alhena. “Read it.”

  Alhena flailed his hands out in surprise, almost dropping his staff as he caught the scroll in his arms. “The contents are for your eyes alone. A Chamber messenger is not privy to such a decree.”

  Silurian’s sneer turned ugly. “I care nothing of Chamber protocol. Read it.”

  “If you insist.” Unrolling the parchment, Alhena began to read.

  “Out loud.”

  “Oh.” Alhena cleared his throat. “Dated this twelfth day of Septomb, six hundred and forty, at the Chamber of the Wise, Gritian. Only the intended recipient may bear witness.”

  He stopped reading, but Silurian’s murderous glare gave him all the permission he needed.

  “By urgent request of his Excellency, King Malcolm Peter Svelte, we, the undersigned, respectfully command your immediate attendance at Castle Svelte or the Chamber in Gritian, whichever destination you deem most expedient. By the time this missive reaches you, Zephyr may already be lost. An invading host has entrenched itself deep within the Altirius Mountains, systematically assimilating the hill tribes under its shadow. Helleden Misenthorpe has returned.”

  Silurian sneered at the mention of the sorcerer’s name.

  “We trust you appreciate our peril. Our lives rest within your most competent hands.” Alhena glanced up. “It is signed, Archbishop Abraham Uzziah, Chambermaster of the Gritian Council, Primate of Zephyr, and endorsed by the remainder of the Chamber.”

  Silurian's indignant tone accosted him. “The scroll is wrong. Helleden Misenthorpe died upon the plains of Lugubrius. I slew him with my own sword.”

  “I feared this might cause you some distress. Return to Gritian with me and I shall answer your questions along the way.”

  He had to lean in to hear Silurian’s next words.

  “Surely that cannot be true.”

  Alhena swallowed. “You have not heard about the queen?”

  Silurian frowned. “Quarrnaine? What about her?”

  Alhena took a deep breath and extended an arm toward Silurian’s chair. “Come, seat yourself. What I have to say will come as a great shock.”

  Silurian’s gaze never left him as he unfolded his arms and returned to his chair. Taking a seat, he stared hard at Alhena’s staff.

  Bishop's Gambit

  Alhena took a moment to compose himself, drank from his waterskin, and related Queen Quarrnaine’s tale of four years ago…

  …Unshaven faces and bloodshot eyes sat around a well-littered table, deep beneath Castle Svelte’s main keep. The fiftieth morning since King Malcolm led his forces west, taking the battle to Helleden Misenthorpe’s minion army.

  Quarrnaine Svelte occupied the king’s ornate chair at the head of the table while pages toyed with the fireplace behind her, awaiting further duties. Four men-at-arms faced each other at the hall’s far end, warding a massive, double-doored entrance.

  Quarrnaine rapped her scepter upon the oaken table, bringing the ragtag assembly of nobles to order.

  She locked troubled eyes with the gruff man on her right, High Warlord Clavius Archimedes, an intense man of big stature. He offered her a grim smile.

  Quarrnaine averted her gaze to High Bishop Abraham Uzziah, sitting across from Clavius, and nodded for him to proceed.

  The bishop’s bloodshot eyes remained on her as he gained his feet and performed a perfunctory benediction over his breast.

  “Your Majesty.” He bowed his head. “May your reign be fruitful, your health fair, and your blessings plentiful.” He paused to reverently kiss the silver crucifix dangling from his neck. Letting it fall to his white vestment, he addressed the council, “My lords. My ladies. I hereby declare the Royal Council emergency session open, this ninth day of Octomb, six hundred and thirty-six.”

  Clavius gave him a scornful glare.

  Abraham removed his conical headdress and placed it upon the table between himself and Clavius. Picking up the golden goblet on the table before him, he studied the glum faces—everyone aware of the fact that the king’s forces were being well beaten in the west. Swallowing loudly, he put down the goblet and pulled a yellowed scroll from inside his vestment, brandishing it like a weapon. “A few months ago, my deacon uncovered a scroll from deep within the castle’s catacombs that I believe may interest this council. The scroll is written in an ancient text unknown to most, though remarkably, its contents speak of recent affairs.”

  He held out the scroll to the queen. “No offense intended your Majesty, but I do not believe the script will prove intelligible to you.”

  She studied the scribbling briefly, turning the scroll over in her hands, before returning it to his care. “No offense taken, Your Grace.” The trace of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I trust it is to you.”

  “Aye, ‘tis, my queen, though I admit, even I had to consult the chief archivist to fully appreciate its content. The scroll is dated the year of the tree, six hundred and nineteen. Two years after the Battle of Lugubrius. You probably wonder why a text written seventeen years ago is transcribed in ancient script?”

  Despondent faces looked back at him.

  “We don’t know. Nor can we fathom how the scroll found its way into the oldest section of the vault.”

  He allowed his audience time to mull that over.

  “The text begins with the Battle of Lugubrius. I shall spare you its retelling, but the latter passages delve into a powerful myth that has split the church factions for hundreds of years.

  “I trust you are familiar with the Sacred Sword Voil legend?” He studied the mixed reactions while taking a sip from his goblet. A few blank faces greeted him. “For the benefit of those who are not, I shall endeavour to briefly retell it.”

  Ignoring a grunt from across the table, he recited, “Legend has it, the Sacred Sword Voil was forged upon the fiery summit of the world's highest peak by the hands of Saint Carmichael. He had planned to use the sword against factions intent upon bringing down the church. Alas, while placing the finishing touches on the blade, he was ambushed, and brutally slain. Before he died, however, the legend infers that he imbued within the sword a part of himself. One of his disciples snuck into the raiding party’s camp that same night and escaped with the sword. This individual sailed to our shores, and with the aid of a cult commissioned in Saint Carmichael’s name, erected a shrine. The sword became the focus of the main altarpiece.”

  Across the table, Clavius fidgeted with the goblet before him. He heard the warlord utter under his breath, “Oh, come off it.”

  Abraham glanced briefly at the queen but was met with a stoic glance. He took a quick sip of his wine and continued, “The Sacred Sword Voil is reputed to have retained a measure of its magical property. The sword in question is the same sword wielded by Silurian Mintaka nineteen years ago...”

  Clavius rose to his feet, his dark-green surcoat unfolding around his legs. Heavy brows accentuated his contempt. “Forgive me, my queen. I am certain everyone assembled here grows tired of listening to our good bishop's folklore. He speaks of a sword whose magic is lost. I implore we stop wasting preciou
s time discussing hokey, religious myth. Must I point out, it is no myth battering at the king’s heels? Nor is it conjecture, while we sit here fantasizing, that the realm is being laid to waste. Within the next fortnight, this great bastion known as Castle Svelte, the essence of everything we hold dear, shall fall beneath the sorcerer’s shadow. I say we stop with this fairytale and get on with the business at hand.” The high warlord pounded the table with the side of a clenched fist, before easing his brawn into a protesting chair.

  Abraham received the harsh criticism with practiced composure.

  The queen merely raised her eyebrows.

  “Thank you, my queen.” Abraham turned to the council. “I’m well aware of good Clavius’ concern. Time is a commodity we can ill afford to waste. Thus, I implore the council to hear me out.

  “The scroll reveals much, much more. It recounts the story of Silurian Mintaka's personal crusade to find the resting place of the healing saint, Raphael. Silurian believed that by locating Raphael's tomb, he might invoke the saint's spirit. The scroll states Silurian found Saint Raphael’s resting place along the banks of Saros’ Swamp, somewhere deep within the Forbidden Swamp. In return for restoring the blade's magic, Saros bade Silurian leave the sword under his protection.

  “It’s further written that the magic imbued in the sword cannot be utilized until a royal member from the House of Svelte transports it back to its resting place upon the altar of the lost shrine of Saint Carmichael. The scroll states that by placing the sword within the statue’s sheath upon the altar, it will evoke an ancient magic that will restore balance to the sword—and thus, the kingdom.”

  Clavius spared no time getting to his feet. “Your Highness! We gain nothing listening to the prattle of religious hokum. How much time must we squander entertaining the fanatical whims of our spiritual friend? Even if there were credibility to the legend, we can ill afford the time pondering such an incredulous quest, let alone find the manpower needed to traverse the Forbidden Swamp in search of this fabled Saros’ Swamp. The enemy will be at our doorstep before a fortnight is past.” He hammered the table three times with a clenched fist, rattling goblets. “That. Is. Fact.”