Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  At his feet lay the lifeless bodies of his queen and the king’s champion. Pulling smaller pieces of statue and broken roof from them, he discovered Jarr-nash wrapped tightly around Quarrnaine—protecting her even in death.

  Tears welled in his eyes, streaking his dirty face. He reached out to touch their necks. His body shook with grief as his touch confirmed his fear.

  He dropped the remains of his makeshift torch amongst the rubble. The scroll unfolded, sputtered and went out. Darkness enveloped the ruins.

  As throes of despair wracked his body, he noted the serene stillness outside. The winds had subsided, the rain abated, and the thundering detonations of exploding fireballs were but a distant echo within his fragile mind. Pungent smoke of burning grass wafted upon a gentle breeze. A blanket of stars sparkled in silent spectacle around a three-quarter moon.

  He shivered. Goosebumps prickled his exposed skin. A cool breeze swept through the broken walls, swirling granite dust around the silent chapel.

  Unseen, crushed beneath the halves of the statue's broken head, two hands firmly clutched the hilt of a finely wrought blade. One hand slender and delicate.

  The Sacred Sword Voil pulsed softly within its unbroken sheath.

  To Live Again

  Alhena swallowed hard. The fire had fallen to a hungry glow during his lengthy recital of the events that had led to the queen’s death, entombing the hut in shadow—the heat insufficient to ward off the evening chill.

  Silurian uttered a barely audible groan. Bending over his knees, he covered his face with his hands, grieving the loss his seclusion had cost Zephyr and her people. The random pop of cooling embers was all that disturbed the silence.

  Silurian lifted his dirt smeared face from his hands. Darkness had fallen. At some point Alhena had stoked the fire.

  The few candle stubs around the room flickered and danced in the half-light, exuding a warm, cozy atmosphere, a direct contrast to the mood of the hut’s occupants.

  Alhena stood where he had for most of the afternoon, his colourless eyes radiating empathy.

  Silurian wanted to hug him. Cry into his shoulder. Experience the embrace of another human being, but his damaged pride wouldn’t allow it. Self-loathing overwhelmed him.

  The price the kingdom had paid four years ago, because he had hidden from the king’s men, made his anger boil. The iron grip of grief threatened to choke him but his mind kept returning to the fact that the people of Zephyr were not there for his family during their time of need. It was irrational—he knew it. Even so, the bitterness refused to leave.

  Not knowing how to deal with the strong emotions, his dark thoughts turned on Alhena. Who the hell did Alhena think he was? Silurian didn’t need pity. He craved only to understand the fairness of life.

  Deep down, he appreciated Alhena’s valour and the courage he had shown in relating the tragic events of Quarrnaine’s demise, and yet, Silurian wanted nothing more than to choke out of him for having the audacity to care.

  He dropped his head into his hands, fighting the urge. He forced himself to mumble, “Thank you. The story must be difficult for you to tell.”

  Alhena's eyes brightened. “Aye. It is not a tale I care to remember. With your leave, I shall find your pantry and fix us a long overdue meal.”

  Silurian’s throat tightened. All he could do was nod.

  After a scant meal, Alhena set his empty plate on the floor beside him.

  Silurian’s anger simmered, but he still felt it darkening the periphery of his mind. “What do you know of Rook Bowman?”

  “If you mean, where is he, I do not know. The last I heard is that he left Castle Svelte shortly after the Battle of Lugubrius in search of his wife, Melody, but I believe you already know that. Rumour has placed him in the Forbidden Swamp.”

  Silurian nodded. He had accompanied Rook as far east as Saros’ Swamp, following the trail of her abductors, before returning home. He had also travelled extensively afterward with Rook, looking for answers, but he kept those memories buried deep.

  “You have remained locked away within this hut for twenty years? I find that difficult to comprehend.”

  Silurian scowled. “I tried fitting back into the real world. More than once.” He searched for a way to explain his true feelings, but the proper words were beyond his grasp. Wiping his eyes with a dirty wrist, he stared at the floor. “It never worked out. Each attempt ended worse than the last. I did unspeakable things. Things better left unsaid. Trust me when I tell you I am better off here where I can’t hurt anyone.”

  With that admission, he withdrew into a trancelike state, no longer acknowledging Alhena’s presence. Although he dreaded the dreams sleep would bring, he preferred their company over trying to control his conflicting emotions about Alhena’s presence. In the uneasy silence, he drifted off.

  Alhena awoke to the ominous creak of wooden planks above his head. Silurian’s chair was empty.

  Gathering his cloak around him to ward off the morning chill, he stood, listening. The sound of footfalls creaked their way to the rear of the hut.

  In the full light of the new day, the cabin’s interior appeared much worse than it had yesterday evening. He spotted a rickety stairway along the back wall of the hut.

  Cresting the last step, he entered a dark hallway and stopped to listen. The roof continued to creak above him. At the hallway’s far end, the worn remnants of wooden rungs led up to a dark recess in the ceiling.

  He climbed the uncertain ladder into a poorly constructed shed. Dusty shelves, laden with small urns in various states of repair, cluttered the walls. Sunlight filtered through a door left ajar.

  Easing the door open he was shocked by the sight of a poorly tended garden vying for space amongst a thick growth of weeds upon the rooftop. Strange, he hadn’t noticed the garden from the ground.

  Movement from the roof’s far corner caught his attention. Silurian knelt, twisting tomatoes from their stalk, not paying any attention to him as he walked through the garden.

  “Wonderful day for travelling, eh?”

  Silurian grunted.

  Casting his gaze about the rooftop, Alhena admired the self-contained garden, as shabby as it was. He shook his head. The kingdom didn’t have time for home garden admiration. He needed Silurian’s answer, but he didn’t know how to coerce it from him. It should be simple. ‘Are you coming or not?’ But the issue was more complex than that. If Silurian refused, what then? Throw him over a shoulder?

  Seeing the man up close, he debated whether Silurian agreeing to accompany him was a good idea at all. By the looks of him, he required months of hard training with sword and horse if he were to become even a shade of his former self. The kingdom didn’t have that much time.

  There was also the man’s mental state to consider. Silurian was, without a doubt, unstable. Zephyr might be better served if Alhena were to inform the council that his search had come up empty. He shook his head. He couldn't do that. Or could he?

  He took a deep breath. “I see how you have kept yourself alive all these years.”

  Silurian didn't respond.

  Alhena cursed himself. Think, you old fool. Ask him and be done with it.

  Silurian rose to his feet, wiping his hands on his pants. “Tell me, old man. What use has the Chamber for me? Even your strange eyes can see I’m not the man I used to be.”

  “I am not privy to Chamber deliberations.”

  “Bah. Do you believe I can just pick up where I left off?” Silurian’s voice rose, “Look at me. I’m not worthy to wield a sword in the king's name. Hell, I probably couldn’t pick up a sword in my own name.”

  Alhena didn’t shy from his glare.

  “People died because of my inaction. Great people. How can the Chamber honestly think the king’s men will rally behind me after what happened to Quarrnaine?” Silurian’s eyes were red.

  Alhena surveyed the garden, trying to find something meaningful to say. Perhaps he should have waited before relating the
story of the bishop’s gambit.

  “It is not for me to say, though I think you have the way of it. The people will not take kindly to you. At first. Once they realize what happened to your family, they may think differently. All I know for sure is that Zephyr will not survive without some kind of divine intervention. It is the elders’ respected opinion that such intervention can only come from one of two people. You, or Sir Rook. I would be amiss not to tell you, and you did not hear this from me, but the council believes that if you and Sir Rook are found, even together, you may not be strong enough to defeat Helleden this time.”

  Sweat beaded upon Alhena’s brow despite the cool temperature. “So, I ask you, Sir Silurian Mintaka, former king's champion, and Group of Five member, will you accompany me to Gritian?”

  Silurian's lips curled with sarcasm. “You forgot Liberator of Zephyr.”

  “So I did, but the question still remains.”

  Silurian’s breathing quickened. He reached behind his ears with both hands, entangling his fingers within his long hair. “And how are we supposed to get to Gritian? Didn’t the Chamber bother to give you a horse?”

  Alhena flinched.

  “Well?”

  “I lost him.”

  “So, we have to walk? All the way to Gritian?”

  Alhena shrugged. “I just need your answer. Are you, or are you not, willing to accompany me back to the Chamber?”

  Silurian glared at him for a moment before the life faded from his eyes. His vacant gaze fell to the rooftop. “I cannot.”

  Although Alhena expected that answer, had actually hoped for it, hearing it felt like a slap to the face. Unable to keep the disgust from his voice, he said, “Then my usefulness here has expired. With your leave, I shall return to Gritian with your decision.”

  Silurian’ subtle shooing motion of his hands dismissed him.

  Alhena lingered for only a moment. He strode briskly across the earthen rooftop to the shed door. Pausing on the threshold, he glanced back. Silurian stood with slumped shoulders, his head lowered. Swallowing the words he wanted to throw at the sorry man, Alhena stepped into the shed and slammed the door.

  The clear blue sky above the ramshackle hut crackled with energy.

  Alhena stumbled. A faint trail of lightning careened erratically across the cloudless sky. He passed through the broken gate and stopped to look around. A strange sensation tingled in his mind, warning him that something wasn’t right. He debated going back to the hut but a stern voice brought him up short.

  “Messenger! Hold!” Above the cabin’s eave, Silurian waved his arms.

  Alhena frowned. Hold for what? He slowly turned in a circle trying to identify the source of his misgiving.

  Shortly, the front door burst open. Silurian emerged, toting a weathered leather rucksack and the pommel of an old sword protruding from the top of his fancy scabbard. He didn’t stop to close the door.

  Crouching low beside the southwest corner of Silurian’s hut, the black cloaked figure from the Hog’s Head Inn watched as the hut’s occupant scrambled through the broken picket gate to join the older man. The pair ambled up the faint trail toward Zephyr’s main road.

  Making sure no one was around, the hunched stranger scampered in their wake, darting from tree to tree, never losing sight of them.

  When the two men turned north along Redfire Path, the figure stopped, content. Searching around one last time, the figure stole across the main road and slipped down the lesser used, Nordic Wood Byway—heading west, toward the Gulch.

  Return to Fear

  Rook Bowman had come to the Forbidden Swamp long ago in search of his estranged wife, Melody. He had been allowed in because of who he was. He had been allowed to stay because of who he had become.

  Musty air and the smell of rot and death permeated the swampland, mixed in with the fragrant scents of blossoms festooning the region’s multitude of bogs, fens, swamps, quagmires, and little lakes—a perfect biosphere for the varied species calling the marshland home.

  Middle aged and battle weary, Rook had once been the leader of an infamous band of vigilantes the kingdom had affectionately called, the Group of Five. Before the Battle of Lugubrius had changed everything.

  Rook had chosen to live as a recluse out here in the wilds and his past deeds drifted into obscurity—forgotten by all but old men. In the Forbidden Swamp he had little need to maintain his fighting prowess with his fabled bow. The swamp creatures defended the borders, requiring little support from him. No one entered the swampland undetected. Known locally as the Innerworld, the Forbidden Swamp thrived in its symbiosis. No hunters. No prey.

  Over the years, Rook built two small structures on the shores of a small pond. One to live in, the other, a shrine to St. Raphael and a place to house his best friend’s priceless artifact, now gone. Taken by Queen Quarrnaine on her ill-fated quest a few years ago.

  A peculiar golden aura emanated from the water of the pond he referred to as Saros’ Swamp, illuminating the area and basking its shores in a warm, yellow glow.

  Deep beneath the placid surface dwelled a creature reportedly possessed of an ancient magic—Saros, the warder of the Innerworld.

  Rook stood in front of his hut staring at the placid water of Saros’ Swamp, anticipating a message from the creature. Indiscernibly at first, inches from his feet, the auburn glare dissipated, revealing a man-sized rectangle of black water.

  Thirteen red images coalesced upon the surface before him—thirteen simple ovals with dots of deeper crimson in their centres—thirteen eyes. Red meant death, but he couldn’t comprehend what the eyes represented. They swirled around the perimeter of the viewing area. The largest eye detached itself from the circle and drifted into the centre. The remaining twelve eyes circled around it several times before the entire image dispersed back into the flotsam from which it had been constructed.

  Saros had displayed this message before, but Rook struggled to determine its relevance. Communicating with Saros was never easy.

  He entered his mud and grass shack to lie down for a nap, but sleep refused to come. Something wasn’t right and the thirteen red eyes were at the heart of his unrest.

  He stared at the brown thatched roof. A peculiar sensation sent a wave of cold flooding through him. Did the symbols hail the return of Helleden Misenthorpe?

  He calmed his breathing. In an effort to get that thought from his mind, a memory of Silurian Mintaka jumped into his head. As usual, thoughts of Silurian started out happy, but always turned dark.

  Rook’s throat tightened. They had shared so much together, but in the end, they had lost so much more. Fighting back tears, he smiled. Did the crazy bugger still make that awful swill he called Dragonbane? An appropriate name for sure. Grimacing, he could almost taste that dreadful swill to this day and the way it hit like a warhammer.

  He let out a heavy sigh. What had driven Silurian to do the things he had done? Silurian had been the epitome of goodness. Through all the bad times they experienced before the Battle of Lugubrius, Silurian had always been the one to find the best in a dire situation. People often commented that the sunlight shone from his arse.

  The murder of Silurian’s family had played an instrumental part in his mind shift. How could it not? During the dark years that followed, something deeper had taken root in the beleaguered man. During their quest to locate Melody, he had lost sight of the virtues that had made him so great. Fueled by his need to make sense of his family’s murder and his sister’s disappearance, his mind had slid down a dark path and eventually lost its grip on reality altogether.

  Rook loved Silurian like a brother—perhaps even more so. Their falling out had torn him apart. The worst part of those years had come when Rook realized he was powerless to prevent Silurian’s demise.

  Oh, Silurian, what transformed you from the saint the world cherished, to the malevolent creature you became? We were fortunate to survive at all.

  Thunder sounded in the distance.

  Rook
swung his legs over the edge of his cot. He must’ve dropped off, but it didn’t feel like he had slept for long. Hobbling to the food cupboard, he stopped, sensing a foreign presence. He made his way to the doorway and gazed out at the perpetual mist.

  Nothing appeared untoward.

  A breeze toyed with his shoulder-length, black tresses. The presence grew stronger.

  He squinted through the golden haze suspended over the water, past St. Raphael’s small shrine, into the mist clinging to the scrub. Nothing moved.

  The air became deathly still. No sound reached his ears other than his heavy breathing. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Something wasn’t right.

  The pond’s golden hue faded and winked out. Gooseflesh prickled his skin.

  He wanted to retrieve the bow hanging inside his hut, but his feet refused to move. The unknown presence felt so malign it threatened to suffocate him. He could taste the vileness in the air.

  Helleden?

  He wasn’t prone to jumping to conclusions—fear wasn’t a frequent companion, but at this moment, in this place, with the strange sensation enveloping him, fear overwhelmed him.

  The sun disappeared behind ebony clouds.

  Redfire Path

  The first day of travel along Zephyr's main artery was done in uneasy silence. Redfire Path originated in the southern seaport of Ember Breath and ran the length of the kingdom, culminating at the gates of Cliff Face. The well-trodden roadway jutted around lofty oaks and majestic maples, traversing an occasional bluff as it undulated through the peaceful Nordic Wood.

  The path was wide enough for four men to walk abreast, but Silurian chose to remain a few steps behind Alhena, preferring to keep his own company.

  Alhena had tried to introduce conversation when they first set out, but received little response, so he tromped on, setting a slow enough pace for Silurian to keep up.