Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  Clavius glared at Abraham, his breathing laboured. “I say, go find the hallowed sword of yon, good bishop. Better yet, search out Mintaka and have him lead you to it. But do it alone. This conjecture is nonsense. Utter and complete drivel.”

  Abraham put down his goblet. “Your Majesty, if you will be so kind as to let me finish, I assure you, I am not wasting this council's precious time.”

  Quarrnaine gave the high warlord a stern look. “Very well, Your Grace. Your counsel has been invaluable in the past. You deserve our undivided attention now.”

  She rose regally to her feet. “Further outbursts from the floor will not be tolerated.” She smote the table with her scepter. “You may proceed, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you, my queen,” Abraham said softly, his next words strong and sure. “Only a member of royal lineage, be it by birthright or religious rite, may deliver the Sacred Sword Voil to its proper resting place. Silurian Mintaka falls into the latter category. In answer to my friend, I dispatched troops weeks ago to search for him.

  “My senior messenger arrived last night from Gritian. If Silurian is still alive, he cannot be found.” Sipping from his goblet, he eyed Clavius over the cup's brim and said, “The sword must be sheathed upon the altar of Saint Carmichael, within its original scabbard. The script warns us that a certain condition governs this action.”

  “Oh, here we go,” Clavius muttered.

  The queen cast the warlord an ominous glance.

  “Once the sword has been sheathed, its power shall be spent. The Sacred Sword Voil is one of the last remaining relics of the long-ago, Age of Saints. Should we elect to use it now, we shall be forever more left to our own devices.”

  Clavius rose to his feet. “Well I guess that settles it then!”

  The queen jumped to her feet. “Clavius!”

  The entire chamber erupted into pandemonium.

  Queen Quarrnaine glanced over her shoulder only once. The morning’s war council had been a tumultuous one, but in the end, she agreed with the high bishop. Something had to be done. Her small entourage of knights, accompanied by their squires, led her away from the highest house in Zephyr—her home for the past twenty-seven years.

  Ranging south of their position, unseen by the company, six fleet scouts warded their flank. Trailing the queen’s procession, four horse drawn wagons creaked along, laden with supplies and several spare mounts.

  An acute pang of loss turned her stomach with a foreboding that she might never lay eyes on the castle again. Its massive girth. Its graceful spires. The aura of strength emanating lifelike from its lofty heights and crenellated ramparts. To Quarrnaine, the reality of her home seemed to be fading into myth—as surreal as the fable High Bishop Abraham Uzziah had her chasing. Her heart lingered with the throng of well-wishers surrounding them. Her people. They parted just enough to allow her procession passage, many extending hands, attempting to touch her as she went by. She fought unsuccessfully to prevent the tears from rolling down her cheeks.

  As she rode amongst her well-wishers, she second-guessed her decision to leave them behind. Her husband fought for his life along the Madrigail River, as did her sons in the northwest reaches of the Spine. Castle Svelte prepared for the siege surely coming, and yet, she fled eastward in search of some fantastical talisman.

  She stiffened in the saddle, wiping away the tears. She had no time for self-doubt. She had to be strong. The kingdom crumbled around them. It was time she took matters into her own hands.

  Turning her attention forward, the forest rose before them. The company tromped down the road leading around Castle Svelte’s southern ramparts, following the shoreline of Ring Lake.

  Against the vehement protests of High Warlord Clavius Archimedes, she had decided to exercise the high bishop's gambit.

  Eight grueling days of hard riding netted her small band of knights the coveted Sacred Sword Voil, exactly where High Bishop Abraham claimed it rested. On the banks of Saros’ Swamp, inside a small shrine, swaddled within a bundle of well-oiled cloth.

  There was no doubt in Abraham's mind that the sword was the mythical weapon they sought. He recalled the intricately etched blade that had hung from Silurian Mintaka’s waist during the great victory feast after the Battle of Lugubrius. Ten exquisitely etched runes; five on either side of the gleaming blade.

  Four days after recovering the sword, Abraham led the envoy in double file across the gently rolling hills of the Mid Savannah. Outcroppings of exposed rock and small stands of low trees dotted the nondescript terrain.

  To Abraham’s right rode his personal military commander, the Warlord of Gritian. They brought the company to a halt many times, realigning their course via landmarks, and setting off again. Though the terrain proved easier to traverse than the sodden swampland, progress was slow.

  Immediately behind Abraham and his commander rode the queen and her personal aide, the king’s champion, Jarr-nash Sylvan Jordic. Jarr-nash had been hurt recently defending the king and had been sent back to Castle Svelte. He had been about to rejoin the king’s forces, but after the tumultuous chamber meeting, the only way High Warlord Clavius would even consider allowing Queen Quarrnaine to accompany Abraham was if Jarr-nash went along as her personal protector.

  Pushing their steeds to near collapse, the company charged across the Mid-Savanna, dust billowing in their wake. They had rested twice, but briefly, since breaking camp in the wee hours of dawn. Riding four abreast, with scouts on the flanks, they followed Abraham’s lead.

  Near sunset, a white bearded man, Alhena Sirrus, urged his mount to the front of the column. Slowing to keep alongside Abraham, he said, “Pardon my breaking rank, Your Grace, but I must confer with you.”

  Thunder sounded in the distance.

  Abraham stared into Alhena’s queer, white eyes. “Granted. What weighs you?”

  “Perhaps it is nothing, Your Grace,” Alhena said, raising a hand to rub at his bearded lower lip. “But I sense something foul afoot. The sky’s usual brilliance has left it. More so than the sun’s setting justifies. Nor is there evidence of wildlife about.”

  The lead riders knit their brows in unison, scanning the countryside.

  The warlord spoke, “I see nothing amiss. With all the commotion of our passing, I’d be surprised if we encountered any wildlife at all. Consider your concerns noted. Return to your file.”

  The lead riders smiled at the warlord’s next words. “The sweltering heat has affected your eyes, my aged friend.”

  “Aye, my Lord. Indeed, my eyes are not what they used to be, but I speak not only of the absence of animals, but also of the carrion birds that have dogged us since we left the Forbidden Swamp.”

  Abraham spoke up, “Alhena. Need I have someone escort you?”

  When Alhena’s pace didn’t drop off, the warlord snorted. “You’re a worthy messenger, there is no doubt, but I am thinking age has taken—”

  His words caught in his throat.

  A shadow fell across the landscape—black wisps of unnatural cloud coalesced upon the horizon.

  The quest ground to a halt.

  Abraham groped for the crucifix about his neck. “What in God's name?”

  The countryside darkened again—swirling black mist thickened overhead.

  The warlord ordered the company into a gallop. The pikemen and wagon train quickly dropped behind.

  The sky continued to darken. Large blots of black mist swirled together, transforming overhead into an ebony ceiling. The sun had all but disappeared, offering no more than an eerie glow. A strong wind blew up, throwing dirt and small debris into their faces, forcing them to hunker down in their saddles.

  As the last vestiges of sunlight faded, the blackened sky burst into a blood red glow. Alhena looked up to see a massive, crimson fireball hurtling earthward.

  Terrified horses threw riders to the ground and bolted away. The few who were able to control their frantic mounts, spurred them away from the fireball’s path—the crackling power o
f the plummeting ball of flames drowned out the roar of the wind. All sense of rank and order were abandoned.

  “Keep moving!” the warlord shouted.

  Another blinding flash illuminated the countryside as a second fireball coalesced overhead.

  The first fiery globe detonated before it hit the ground, shaking the land and exploding into thousands of fist-sized globules of burning rain that pelted the hapless riders.

  Men and women fell writhing to the ground, consumed by the deadly fire. The baggage train took the brunt of the blast, turning the wagons into instant funeral pyres.

  Jarr-nash plucked Quarrnaine from her faltering stallion, and set her before him, hefting a great shield over their heads.

  Another flash illuminated the pitch at the same time the second fireball burst into a shower of flames. Screams of agony and terror echoed above the fiery roar.

  The countryside lit up. Another fireball formed. In the bright glare, a large outcropping of rock appeared on Jarr-nash’s left. He uttered a silent prayer and summoned a thunderous shout from the depth of his being, “This way!”

  The skies opened up. Sheets of rain slashed across the countryside, soaking them instantly. When the next blinding flash flooded the landscape, Jarr-nash saw what appeared to be a large statue standing guard over a stone building. The statue stood with arms folded and its legs straddling a set of wooden doors nestled between its feet. One of the doors flapped wildly in the wind.

  Trees flared up like great torches, providing an eerie light to ride by. Another flash illuminated the countryside.

  Abraham rode his horse dangerously close to Jarr-nash, his mount fighting to retain its footing in the slick mire of grass and mud. “The shrine! The shrine!”

  Jarr-nash nodded. The remote building could be none other than the lost shrine of Saint Carmichael.

  The ground heaved. A scream sounded to Jarr-nash’s right as a knight toppled from his saddle engulfed in flames. The knight’s horse bolted away into the darkness.

  Jarr-nash ducked. A fireball hurtled by and impacted the midsection of the statue they headed toward. The ensuing concussion obliterated the statue and threw the remaining horses to the ground, pelting them with shards of blasted rock.

  Jarr-nash’s horse went down hard. He clutched his queen tightly, but the impact proved too much for him to hang on. She slid into a large chunk of blasted statue and bounced into the path of their sliding horse. One of its flailing hooves clipped her head.

  Jarr-nash arrested his slide and ran to her, ignoring the patches of fire spreading from the base of the destroyed entranceway. He fell to his knees, shocked by the blood washing over Quarrnaine’s beautiful face.

  The sky brightened. A new fireball formed.

  Ensuring the Sacred Sword Voil remained strapped across his back, he scooped the queen into his arms, and attempted to stand. Quarrnaine’s unwieldy weight, combined with the slippery mire underfoot, made the simple feat impossible.

  He fell forward, spinning his body to avoid landing on her, and hit the ground hard. Quarrnaine’s weight crushed the breath from him. Gasping for air, he tried to get up. He needed to release his queen but couldn’t bring himself to do so.

  He panicked. The burning wall of grasses advanced upon him—hungry flames driven by the wind, only an arm span away. The intense heat and black smoke, suffocated him.

  A pair of hands grasped him by the armpits and helped him to his feet as another flash illuminated the chaos. Sparing a quick glance over his shoulder, he almost fell again at the sight of Alhena’s unusual eyes.

  He forced his way through the encroaching wall of flames, not daring to see whether the old man followed them. The queen’s life was paramount.

  Again, he slipped and fell. The raging fires nipped at his heels, but he refused to release his burden. He’d no sooner hit the ground when Alhena’s hands lifted him back to his feet.

  He slipped and stumbled the rest of the way to the shrine, somehow managing not to fall again, and stopped at the top of a stone stairwell. The chipped steps descending into the earth were blocked by statue debris.

  Left with no choice, he laid the queen amongst the rubble. With Alhena’s help he began digging.

  From out of nowhere, Abraham, two knights, and the Gritian warlord joined them.

  One of the knights uncovered the splintered remains of a door, but they still couldn’t find any sign of the entrance proper.

  A thunderous detonation rocked the land. The pile of debris they stood amongst lurched and collapsed upon itself, taking everyone down with it. To Jarr-nash’s relief they had tumbled into the relative calm of the shrine’s interior—the spot from which they had fallen, engulfed in fire.

  They lay in disarray within a small chapel. The flames crackling from above cast an ethereal light upon a larger than life statue matching the one that had stood guard over the entrance. Jarr-nash’s eyes focused on the empty scabbard hanging from the statue’s waist.

  He pushed aside the crumbled rock that had fallen on him and went to his queen. She lay half buried in debris but her even chest falls reassured him she was alive.

  He freed her from the rubble and with Alhena’s help, stood up with Quarrnaine clutched in his arms—silt and small debris sifted from her limp body to the floor.

  He traversed the nave and mounted the altar steps. Kneeling before the sacred presence, he gently laid Quarrnaine upon the dusty altar.

  Behind him, the bishop prostrated upon the top step, mumbling incoherently to the altar piece. The warlord remained amongst the pews, halfway between the cleric and the two knights who had remained at the entrance.

  Alhena stood at the base of the chancel steps, glancing anxiously from warlord, to bishop, to the statue.

  Jarr-nash shook the queen's shoulders. “We are here, my lady. We found the shrine. We need you to wake.”

  She didn’t stir.

  A crimson flash illuminated the shrine, causing all but the queen to turn and gasp. Framed by the flaming doorway, one of the knights shouted, “It’s coming right at us!”

  Jarr-nash's eyes grew wide, his attempts to awaken the queen more animated.

  The knights shrunk away from the doorway, yelling for him to hurry.

  Jarr-nash reached over his shoulder. With a euphoric ‘swish’ the blade slid from its sheath. He jumped to his feet, facing the serene altarpiece staring back at him.

  The light in the chapel increased, a harbinger of the fireball’s approach.

  Jarr-nash raised the Sacred Sword Voil, positioning its gleaming tip at the small slit atop the marble scabbard.

  Bishop Uzziah's cry diverted his attention. “No, you fool! You'll destroy the blade!” He appeared to be having an apoplectic fit.

  Jarr-nash stared dumbly at the bishop, unsure what to do.

  A frantic movement near the chapel’s entrance caught his eye. The knights were bent over, covering their heads with their arms. The unnerving whine of their approaching doom rose to a deafening roar.

  Jarr-nash hesitated for only a moment longer before doing the only thing he knew to save his queen. With a loud clang, he drove the blade home. The sword’s hilt shuddered to a halt atop the dusty scabbard at the same moment the fiery globe impacted the shrine’s entrance.

  Jarr-nash’s last images were of the knights disappearing in a wave of flame as it swept through the chamber on the heels of a powerful concussion.

  The sound of grating rock sounded above the din as the granite roof collapsed into the bowels of the blasted shrine.

  Dust motes danced amid the moonbeams filtering into the desecrated shrine of Saint Carmichael. The only sound wafting across the destruction, other than the occasional popping from the dying fires outside, were of pulverized mortar sifting its way down the remnants of the shrine’s walls.

  At the base of the altar's dais, beneath a layer of black soot and splintered rock, High Bishop Abraham Uzziah stirred. A feeble cough escaped his throat. He lay upon his back. A heavy weight p
inned his left arm but he was thankful to be alive.

  In the shrine’s relative darkness, he whispered a solemn prayer to his good fortune as the dreadful events of earlier in the day washed over him.

  Ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder, he pulled his injured arm from beneath the small roof slab lying upon it. He sat up and looked around, his bloodied arm hanging uselessly at his side.

  He flinched as a piece of broken rock fell somewhere in the darkness behind him. When the chapel became tomblike again, he heard the faint breathing of someone buried next to him.

  With his good arm, he searched through the rubble until he discovered a leg. The moon’s position in the early morning sky blanketed the shrine floor in shadow, preventing him from seeing who it belonged to. Reaching into his vestment, he fished out his tinder box. From another pocket he withdrew a scroll. Hoping the parchment wasn't too important, he set it aflame.

  As his eyes adjusted to the new light, he discovered the leg belonged to his personal messenger, Alhena Sirrus. The archivist with the strange white eyes. The deacon who had discovered Saint Carmichael’s scroll.

  Abraham shook him a couple of times to no avail. He would have to be content with the soft exhalations escaping the old man’s lips.

  The queen!

  Doing his best to ignore the pain in his shoulder, he struggled to his feet and made his way over the rubble, mounting the steps to where the statue of Saint Carmichael had stood. The scant light from his makeshift torch revealed the toppled statue’s feet. Large pieces of its broken legs led back toward the steps.

  Directing the rapidly diminishing flames to follow the broken statue, he abruptly stopped his progress. Near the base of the steps, two motionless figures lay crushed beneath the statue’s torso. He picked his way through the rock fragments, dreading what he already knew to be true.