Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  Alhena turned his eyes to the fire.

  He thought of apologizing for his actions last night, but the words wouldn’t come. He dug through his satchel and withdrew two slightly bruised apples. Waiting until Alhena finished dispensing the steaming fare into wooden bowls, he shoved the larger apple at him.

  Alhena accepted the humble offering. “Thank you.”

  They ate their scant fare in silence.

  Alhena had cleared up the campsite and put the fire out by the time Silurian finished eating.

  Standing, Silurian noted that his feet seemed to be toughening up. His blisters didn’t hurt quite as bad this morning. Packing his bedroll, he realized Alhena had returned his blanket, brushed, dried, and folded just so.

  Alhena sat upon his own packed bedroll, waiting. “Thank you for the blanket.”

  Still embarrassed by his actions, Silurian simply nodded back.

  Entering the canyon proper, the walls on either side of Redfire Path rose perpendicular into the shadowy gloom—the air noticeably cooler within the confines of the trench as it climbed its way toward an unseen pass many leagues distant.

  The eerie corridor followed a due north course for most of the morning before veering northeast. After the bend, the walls dropped away to an almost scalable slant but by midafternoon the path reverted back into a trench as the walls narrowed—rising roughly two times Silurian’s height, before sloping away, out of sight.

  Silurian wanted to ask about the events that had shaped the world over the last two decades. Who notable had died? Who were the prominent nobles at court? How had Zephyr’s neighbouring kingdoms faired? He’d love to know more about his old friend, Abraham Uzziah, apparently now the high bishop and chambermaster. If he were to fight again, he wanted to meet up with the present high warlord and discover what the military leader was like to deal with. Had Jarr-nash succeeded him as king’s champion all those years ago, or were there others in between?

  Shame denied him these questions. The queen had died defending the realm in his absence, and the people of Zephyr blamed him. It was going to be tough facing these people again.

  They travelled carefree for most of the day, but when Silurian stopped and unsheathed his sword, Alhena jumped.

  “What is—” Alhena started to ask but Silurian raised his hand.

  Alhena dropped his rucksack to the canyon floor, tore it open and donned his knucklettes with practiced alacrity.

  A shower of loose earth cascaded over the trench’s western lip behind them.

  Silurian assumed a bladed battle stance, the action instinctive, as a huge wolf ran along the lip of the trench. Closing on them, it launched itself into the air. It had no sooner become airborne when another wolf appeared and took flight, followed by a third.

  Silurian met the first wolf head on, driving his sword deep between its ribs. The beast’s momentum toppled them to the canyon floor in a bloodied heap.

  Alhena had no time to consider Silurian’s struggle as the second wolf leapt his way. He swung his staff and ducked low, the wolf’s breath hot on the back of his neck as it passed overhead, snapping at him. Its trailing claws raked his back, driving him to the ground. Unable to stop its forward progress, the wolf slammed into the trench wall.

  Alhena regained his feet and prepared to face the wolf as it righted itself and came at him. With a feral growl, the shaggy beast leapt for his throat.

  Alhena swung his staff and threw himself to the ground.

  The wolf twisted, avoiding the swing, and rotated in the air. Its snapping jaws grazed his scalp, taking with it a patch of wispy grey hair. It landed heavily upon its side and sprang back to its feet.

  Alhena rolled to his back, unable to free his staff from beneath the folds of his robes.

  The wolf approached, nose low, lips pulled back, fangs bared, circling. Without warning, it pounced.

  A sword whistled inches from Alhena’s face, clunking off the wolf’s skull, taking a furry ear with its passing, and changing the course of its attack.

  With a yelp, it retreated out of reach of Silurian’s advance.

  Alhena rolled over and shakily got to his feet. The third wolf already lay dead several feet away from the first.

  Another round of pebbles cascaded into the trench. Alhena’s warning shout spun Silurian around as three more wolves ran along the western wall.

  The pack animals spilled over the edge, one after another. With a quick sidestep and an even faster stab, Silurian dispatched the lead runner.

  The other wolves landed gracefully before him, teeth bared, emitting angry snarls. Crazed eyes followed his bloody sword as he brandished it between the two. They closed in on him.

  Silurian backed away, closely watching their yellow eyes. His temples pounded with adrenaline as he fought to control his ragged breathing.

  Alhena shouted out a warning a moment too late as Silurian tripped over the corpse of the original wolf he had dispatched—the action spurring the remaining wolves to attack.

  From his back, Silurian slashed at the beast on his right, stopping it dead in its tracks, his sword lodging itself between the animal’s ribs. The weight of the wolf falling away twisted the blade from his sweaty grip.

  The second wolf landed heavily upon his chest, its claws rending his flesh as it snapped at his throat.

  Silurian reacted without thinking, grabbing the shaggy fur around its throat, trying desperately to keep its slavering jaws at bay—the animal’s fetid breath hot on his face. Its jaws snapped a hand’s span from his chin.

  A new weight drove down upon him, forcing what little breath he had left from his lungs. His fingers lost their grip on the thick fur. Turning his head, he expected the wolf to tear his throat out, but death never came.

  The wolf toppled from his chest with a high pitched, truncated yelp as Alhena drove his knucklettes into its neck and rode the wolf to the ground. The messenger rolled sideways and violently twisted his weapons.

  Struggling to catch his breath, Silurian got up and pulled his sword free of the wolf it had lodged itself in. Ignoring the painful claw marks to his chest and the blood running down his face, he directed his concern to Alhena’s blood covered head.

  Alhena wiped at the straggling hair clinging to the side of his face. He forced a smile through his obvious discomfort and leaned upon his staff for support.

  Silurian couldn’t help himself. “You’re one sorry looking wizard.”

  They spent the rest of daylight hours tending to each other’s hurts, cleansing them with the remains of Silurian’s second last bottle.

  The ensuing darkness masked the grizzly signs of battle staining the canyon floor. Silurian and Alhena sat uncomfortably upon the hard ground before a small fire. Making the best of their situation, they dined on wolf meat.

  The moon won free of the towering eastern summit, providing more light than their small fire. Alhena leaned back and sighed. “I fear my days as a messenger draw to a close. I am too old for this nonsense.”

  Silurian stopped caring for his sword to study him before returning his concentration to the blade. After a while he muttered without looking up, “Aye. Dark times are no place for the weak or aged.”

  Alhena shot him a dirty look.

  “Had I made this trip alone, the wolves would be dining on me tonight,” Silurian said, raising his head to stare Alhena in the eye. “You still have an adventure or two left in that worn body of yours.”

  They spent the next morning redressing their wounds and preparing wolf meat to take with them.

  Alhena stood up, wincing at the pain in his scalp. “If we want to reach the Mountain Pools by sunset, we had best get a move on.”

  Silurian yawned, shouldered his pack, and followed quietly in his wake.

  Alhena trod along quietly, bearing his hurts with dignity. If a man who hadn’t left his hut in twenty years continued the trek to Gritian without complaint, he wasn’t about to wallow in his own misery.

  A couple of hours into the
ir walk, he stopped to take a swig from his waterskin. “We will not reach Gritian before the full moon, as Chambermaster Uzziah requested. Too bad I lost the horses.”

  “Horses? You had more than one? How the hell do you lose horses?”

  Alhena snorted. “Of course I had more than one. You think I set out from Gritian with only one horse, expecting you to walk behind me? As a matter of fact, I had three. My own, one for you, and a pack horse.”

  He fell silent, the painful memory tightening his throat

  “And?”

  He kicked at a small stone, sending it skittering ahead. “I was set upon by villains.”

  “Where? In this pass?”

  Alhena kept his eyes focused on the ground. He silently admonished himself as his eyes watered. “Aye. I left Gritian a fortnight ago. I stopped during my second night on the road at the top of this pass.” He paused to steel himself. “During the night, I was awakened by Starbourne’s nickering. Starbourne was my horse. Named after the white, star-shaped blaze on his face.”

  Silurian nodded, his expression sympathetic.

  “Starbourne alerted me to the presence of the three nasty men who had snuck into my camp. They untethered the horses, and were about to set upon me unawares, but for Starbourne’s whicker. There was naught I could do to fend them off. Luckily, I was able to sidestep their advance and Starbourne spirited me away.

  “Sure enough, two of them gave chase through the night, but there was no way they were going to catch us as long as Starbourne drew breath. Our flight south, down the dark pass, was treacherous to say the least, but Starbourne never faltered.

  “They pursued us into the grasslands. I thought the best way to lose them would be in the grassy plain below the Wall, but they were relentless. By the time I finally lost them, poor Starbourne was blown.” Tears dripped off his cheeks.

  Silurian said nothing.

  “Blacker than the night, Starbourne. Magnificent animal. King worthy.” His voice cracked. “I put him down, out there upon the plains.” Choking back a sob, he turned and walked away.

  Silurian hurried after him.

  Alhena muttered, not caring whether Silurian heard him or not, “Going to miss the old bugger. He was the only family I had.”

  The day passed in silence, their injuries forced them to stop frequently. Prior to nightfall, the path ascended out of the trench’s shadowy clutches toward a plateau in the distance.

  A dull roar reached their ears above the gusting wind. The higher they tramped, the louder the roar became. Cresting the rim of a broad plateau, they were greeted by a fine mist.

  Alhena craned his neck, marvelling at the magnificent view. Water cascaded from heights unseen, plummeting into a series of interconnected pools that stretched away from the trail in either direction.

  The plateau was oval in shape, elongated north to south, and almost entirely submerged in water. Redfire Path offered the only way into and out of the pass. At the clearing’s centre, three dark pools rippled beneath a slender waterfall—shimmering mist whirled across moss-covered shelf rock at its base.

  Without hesitation they made a beeline to the base of the waterfall, the mist intensifying the closer they got, soaking them to the skin. When they couldn’t walk any further without stepping into the lethal deluge, they ducked into a hidden cleft behind the falls. Short of building a raft or swimming, the slick fissure was the only way across the plateau.

  Exiting the cleft on the far side, they followed a faint path angling up toward a ring of stones, built along a causeway bordering the northern edge of the main pool and a separate pond beyond.

  By the time they had the wolf meat cooking over an open fire, and their waterskins refilled, stars sparkled overhead. They had scrubbed the grime and gore from their skin and clothes and warmed themselves by the crackling fire. But for the flickering light the fire provided, and the few torches Alhena planted along the water’s edge, the basin was lost in darkness.

  Silurian uncorked his last bottle. He was about to take a swig but stopped himself and offered it to Alhena first.

  Alhena took a tentative swallow and coughed. “Whoa. That is strong enough to kill someone.” He shook his head, staring at the grimy bottle. “How do you drink that swill?” He took another pull, before handing it back.

  Silurian took a large swallow before examining it in the firelight. “Dragonbane? With much practice.”

  “Dragonbane, indeed. I am surprised it does not render you unconscious.”

  Silurian offered him a wry smile and took another long swallow. “Oh, trust me, it does.” Sometimes it’s the only way to cope.

  They finished their meal, took stock of their wounds, rekindled the fire to ward off the chill creeping down from the heights, and settled into a Dragonbane induced sleep.

  Silurian’s eyes opened suddenly. The moon shone bright between two towering crags as he slipped from his bedroll into the chilly night. The only noises in the pass came from the incessant cascade and an occasional pop from the dying fire.

  The torches lining the pond’s edge had gone out, but the moonlight was sufficient to navigate the rocky terrain. He felt the need to stretch his cramping muscles and clear his troubled mind.

  Passing beneath the waterfall, he walked around the water’s southern edge until he passed beyond the soaking mist, gooseflesh riddling his skin. He went as far as the terrain allowed and stopped to stare at the moon’s rippling reflection. What in the gods’ names was he doing here?

  A few mangy wolves had nearly killed him. Most people may have thought themselves fortunate to have fended them off but he wasn’t most people. Good luck wasn’t going to save the kingdom.

  Years ago, he had commanded a rare arcane ability, albeit through the enchantment of his sword, yet he clung to the belief that he possessed an ability of his own. When the lightning appeared over his hut several days ago, he fancied it was his doing, but during the skirmish with the wolves he had felt nothing.

  The campfire jumped back to life across the water. Alhena must’ve woken.

  He picked up a stone and pitched it into the water. The battle with the wolves certainly indicated that he was indeed merely a conduit of his old sword’s magic, not the source. If this were true, he was in trouble. Zephyr was in trouble. His prowess with a sword, however fine it had once been, was no match for Helleden Misenthorpe’s sorcery.

  Caught up in his contemplation, he barely heard Alhena cry out.

  The clang of Silurian’s scabbard as he rose and walked away, stirred Alhena awake. Groggily, he watched Silurian walk beyond the embers’ glow, past the dead torches along the shore—his footfalls fading into the distance toward the waterfall.

  Alhena wrapped his arms about himself, shivering, trying to ignore the pain of his pulsating scalp. Gritting his teeth, he climbed from the warmth of his bedroll to address the dwindling fire.

  The fire burning well once again, he walked to the edge of the pool, beside their camp. A recurrent thought dogged him, leaving him wondering whether dragging Silurian out of seclusion was the best idea. Sure, Silurian had accounted for himself against the wolf attack but he had still needed saving in the end.

  The water’s glass-like surface reflected the sparkling sky, commingling near the centre around a gently rippling, full moon. He fingered his tender scalp, grimacing at the rawness of the scabbing skin. Was that Silurian he could see way over on the far side of the falls?

  Memories of the Battle of Lugubrius assaulted him. He remembered standing beside his lifeless king—the ramparts of Castle Svelte unreachable in the distance—watching the horror of Zephyr’s fractured army being slaughtered around him. He had stood over dead King Peter with a knot of knights fighting ferociously to protect their slain sovereign’s corpse. When all had seemed lost, the Group of Five had come out of nowhere and changed the tide of battle. One fateful swing of Silurian’s blade had sent the minion horde scrambling for their lives.

  Empathy filled him. What in God’s good
world had reduced Silurian to such a wretched state? He grunted. Zephyr was going to have to come to grips with the fact that Silurian wasn’t the same man he had been twenty-three years ago.

  He turned away from the water’s edge but stopped short and looked over his shoulder. Of the three main pools, only the centre one, fed directly by the waterfall, churned and rippled with any significance, but the water’s edge nearest him bubbled and churned.

  He backed away, unable to wrest his eyes from the pond. The water parted to reveal a set of glowing, crimson eyes. The sight of the creature that pulled itself from the murky depths stopped him in his tracks. He tried to call out to Silurian but wasn’t certain he had.

  Before him, a massive reptile rose up from the pool, emerging in a wash of water to stand upon four muscular rear legs. It reached out to him with a short foreleg—its slimy body glistening in the moonlight, beneath a massive crocodile’s head that topped its ten-foot frame.

  Alhena stumbled backward through the campsite, trying to distance himself from the creature.

  The creature’s gravelly voice surprised him. “Where is the other one who travels with you?”

  “I-I don’t know…”

  The creature’s eyes shone brighter. With a sudden leap, it covered the distance separating them, landing heavily beside the fire.

  Alhena fell over his bedroll.

  “You lie,” it growled, and bent low over him.

  This creature wasn’t natural. Alhena’s instincts screamed at him to get away but his body refused to move.

  A shout sounded from the direction of the waterfall.

  The reptile rose to its full height, craning its neck.

  Silurian emerged from beneath the waterfall, charging toward them, sword drawn, struggling to maintain his footing upon the slippery stone.

  “Alhena…Don’t…Move.”