Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  A cool northerly wind whipped the hem of Avarick’s forest green surcoat about his legs. The coat of arms emblazoned upon his cloak was barely recognizable beneath the layers of dirt and other unspeakable filth he had picked up since locating Silurian and the others. He mounted his destrier and prodded the beast into action, following Silurian beneath the thinning tree cover.

  Back on Redfire Path, they urged their mounts to a gallop, heading into the lofty reaches of the Undying Wall, the grey heights lost in brooding storm clouds.

  They rode through the afternoon at a more sustainable pace for the horses, thankful the clouds had decided to hoard their moisture. The path continued its course south, rising ever higher toward the saddle of Mountain Pool Pass.

  They stopped beside a racing watercourse that plunged from an unknown height and disappeared into a black fissure on the edge of the trail.

  Avarick sat upon an outcropping of rock commanding a good view of the way they had come. Surveying the roadway snaking its way northward, he said, “Doesn’t seem like they followed us. Clavius’ men would have caught us by now if they had.”

  Silurian placed a wooden bowl of water before his horse and joined the Enervator, aware of how vulnerable he was standing here alone with the Chamber’s assassin. If Avarick wished to follow through with the threat he had issued a few days before, Silurian couldn’t think of a better place to do it.

  He didn’t know what to think where the Enervator was concerned. The man obviously wasn’t ready to follow through with his threat. Avarick had all the opportunity he needed when they had stopped for a quick sleep, and yet, he hadn’t made a move. Something must be holding him back. Even so, Silurian gave him a wide berth on the outcropping and followed his gaze. To the north, the land below was lost in the approaching front.

  Studying the terrain, he sensed Avarick watching him. Things would be much simpler if he could be rid of the Enervator’s company.

  “So, what now?” Avarick asked.

  Silurian shrugged. “I have to get to Madrigail Bay.”

  “Right.” Avarick spat over the lip of the promontory. “Gonna be tough getting there if we continue this way.”

  Keeping a watchful eye on his travelling companion, Silurian sat on a log near the edge of the outcropping and listlessly chewed at a bruised apple. If he remembered correctly, the entrance to the goat path that would take him along the treacherous heights of the Undying Wall should be close. Hopefully they hadn’t passed it. The path, if still passable after all these years, might take longer than travelling all the way to the Nordic Wood, but it was preferable to travelling through the Gulch. Besides, he didn’t want to go anywhere near his old home.

  “I’m considering Treacher’s Gorge.”

  Whatever Avarick had been doing, he stopped and shot Silurian an incredulous look. “The Gorge? You are as mad as they say.”

  Silurian didn’t know who they were. Nor did he care. “You’d prefer the Gulch?”

  “Over the Gorge? In a heartbeat. At least I’d have a say on how I died.”

  Silurian gave him a wry smile.

  “It’s been over five years since I last crossed Treacher’s Gorge,” Avarick said. “It was sketchy then. The gods only know whether the bridge still stands. We might travel all that way for nothing. If the bridge isn’t there, there’s no other way around.”

  “Who said anything about we?”

  Avarick glared at him.

  “There’s nothing holding you with me anymore.” Silurian looked the Enervator directly in the eyes. “Is there?”

  Avarick held his gaze for a moment, before looking north again. “No.”

  Silurian stared hard at Avarick, contemplating his words. Should he chance the goat path with the hope of saving a few days, but risk mishap, especially where the horses were concerned, only to have to turn back should the Gorge prove impassable? To be forced to travel the Nordic Byway anyway?

  He raised his eyebrows—he could always travel south to Ember Breath and take the Ocean Way, but that would cost him another week. Ember Breath was the safest way left to him but urgency predicated he take a more dangerous, direct route.

  Standing up and stashing his apple core into a pocket, a habit he had learned as an orphan, Silurian walked off the outcropping.

  Readying his horse, he watched from the corner of his eye as Avarick attended to his own mount. That was one thing the Enervator took great pains at doing—seeing to the welfare of his horse. He had to admire the man for that.

  He sighed. It wouldn’t hurt to have a riding companion, especially if he were to encounter trouble along the way. The Enervator’s sword would prove a welcome ally in that case. Unless, of course, his riding companion was the trouble.

  “I’m going to Treacher’s Gorge. You can accompany me or not.”

  Avarick stiffened. Without meeting Silurian’s questioning stare, he muttered, “May as well. I got nothing left here.”

  The rain held off until they stepped onto the goat path and then assaulted them mercilessly for the remainder of that first day away from Redfire Path.

  It took them four days to reach Treacher’s Gorge, a deep divide between four abutting mountains where the Spine intersected the Undying Wall. The crumbling ledge they traversed curved around the latter’s windswept peak, circling its southwest face until it dropped into a fourteen-thousand-foot gorge.

  If not for the existence of the bridge, Silurian would have believed they were the only people ever to have witnessed the sight, so desolate was the region. He had stood upon this brink twice before, but the sheer depth of the yawning abyss still rendered him breathless. Never had he travelled this way with a horse. No one in their right mind would ever contemplate doing so, and yet, here he was.

  Before them, a rickety wood and rope bridge stretched clear across to the centre of the breach between four jagged peaks. The death-defying structure was bisected by a platform at its midpoint. From where they stood, the bridge had originally split off into three other directions, radiating out from the platform, but the left span had since collapsed. A large section of the broken bridge swirled about below the platform.

  The bridge deck consisted of oak planks supported by thick ropes. A thick hawser, suspended a few feet above the decking, traced the bridge’s length on either side, providing unstable handrails. The entrance to the derelict span lay between two sickly trees perched on the brink of the abyss, the left tree, nothing more than a broken stump. The ropes supporting the bridge were anchored around these tree trunks. The handrail hawsers looped from the trees, through iron eyelets atop thick iron posts, driven into the bedrock.

  A strong wind buffeted the bridge, its separate spans undulating toward the central platform—the picket bridge decks swinging wildly back and forth. Frayed ropes held the entire structure together, creaking in the wind with the promise of failure.

  How anyone had built the bridge was a mystery. It traversed a thousand feet of open air to the centre, and again that far to the three facing peaks.

  Silurian and Avarick fought for all they were worth to keep their mounts from stepping away from the precipice. Any slip upon the crumbling ledge would surely prove fatal.

  Silurian had no idea how he was going to coax his mount onto the derelict structure. Nor did he know how he was going to convince himself.

  Avarick slid from his saddle, keeping a firm hold on his horse. Maintaining control of his frightened animal, he grabbed Silurian’s reins.

  “Well?” Silurian dismounted, the bitter wind whipping his unkempt hair. “Who’s first?”

  “A gentleman like myself must respectfully defer!” Avarick gestured with a slight bow and an outstretched hand. “I insist! After you!”

  Silurian swallowed. He scanned Avarick from head to toe. “You weigh less!”

  Avarick raised his eyebrows, studying what remained of the bridge. “If it bears itself, will it not bear us?”

  Silurian didn’t acknowledge the remark. He couldn’t wre
st his eyes from the broken section of bridge swirling about beneath the central platform. How it hadn’t dragged the rest of the decrepit structure down with it, he had no idea.

  “Perhaps try it by yourself first, without the horse?” Avarick suggested.

  “Cross it twice? And you think I’m mad?”

  Silurian struggled to keep his horse from pulling away from the brink. It had been his idea to come this way. He was the one who needed to reach Madrigail Bay. The Enervator was likely only along to keep an eye on him—to rein him in should he decide to abandon the kingdom again.

  Seeing no other way around it, Silurian studied his shying horse. They couldn’t leave the animals up here on their own. He undid the lashing securing the flap on his saddlebag and pulled out a small blanket. The wind attempted to snatch it from his grasp. With difficulty, he cinched it over his horse’s face, effectively blinding it, all the while patting its neck and speaking softly to soothe the animal.

  Taking a deep breath, he tugged on the reins. The horse balked at first, but finally it stepped forward.

  Silurian tapped the first plank with an outstretched foot. The bridge’s motion beneath his probing boot did little to reassure him of the sanity of his decision to come this way. Nor did the grisly sight of the broken stump securing half of this section of the bridge.

  Grabbing the thrumming hawser handrail with his free hand, he closed his eyes and stepped out over the chasm. Amazed the planks actually supported him, he opened his eyes. Seeing the gorge yawning below, he froze.

  “Don’t look down!” Avarick’s voice sounded above the wind.

  “Thanks,” Silurian grunted. Gathering his courage, he took another small step and stopped again to breathe. This was going to take a while and he still had to coax his horse onto the swaying bridge.

  A light sleet lashed at them, dampening the bridge deck.

  Wide eyed, Avarick couldn’t find his breath. He expected at any moment to bear witness to the death of Zephyr’s supposed saviour. To watch helplessly as their hope plunged thousands upon thousands of feet to an unmarked grave. He should have taken the initiative himself.

  Seeing Silurian struggle with his mount, the man’s demise didn’t seem far off. At least that would save him the trouble of killing Silurian when this business was done.

  Silurian’s mount balked as the bridge moved beneath its hooves, but once on the bridge, two remarkable things happened in quick succession. The bridge, with the considerable amount of extra weight added to it, instead of sagging further into the abyss, became tauter. The second was the reaction of Silurian’s horse. The frightened beast had only one thought in mind—get off the shaking surface as quickly as possible. It began stepping so quickly that Silurian struggled to keep far enough ahead of it to prevent from being trod upon. Should the horse overtake him on the narrow span, or misstep sideways, they were both lost.

  Avarick was amazed. Silurian was actually doing it. Against all that made sense, the man had reached the junction and yet, the bridge still held.

  He almost screeched when Silurian slipped on the slick boards of the central platform and fell to his knees.

  Throwing his arms out, Silurian grabbed the far hand rope and pulled himself upright, and then they were off again, man and horse, swaying toward the northern peak.

  Before long, far too soon for Avarick’s liking, it was his turn to cross. Silurian and his horse waited safely on the far side of Treacher’s Gorge.

  Avarick almost turned back. Almost. For some reason, he had developed a strange affinity for the wretch awaiting him on the far side of the fourteen-thousand-foot chasm. Was he developing feelings for the man he had so recently condemned? Perhaps Zephyr had hope after all. Perhaps, but the only way to find out for sure was to see the journey through and that meant crossing the bridge. If he lost the legendary man now, he might never find him again.

  Wiping the sleet from his cheeks, he followed Silurian’s example and hooded his horse. With a heavy swallow, he stepped out over the yawning abyss—the cataract at its base lost in the mist far below.

  As the tiny figures of the Enervator and his horse entered the far end of the rickety span, Silurian examined the fraying ropes that secured the bridge. His eyes flicked to the sheath upon his belt holding his fancy dagger. It would be too easy.

  Songsbirth

  Sleep never came. Lost in the darkness of the cavern, Rook and Alhena lay shivering in the silence of their subterranean tomb. An occasional plip-plop of dripping water sounded from deeper within. Despite his weariness, Rook decided to locate the water source.

  Alhena joined him as he advanced slowly through the stygian pitch, crawling upon hands and knees lest they hit a rock wall or topple into an unseen crevice. By sound alone, they closed in on the source of the sporadic drip.

  Rook reached out in the darkness and touched Alhena’s robes, assuring himself they were still close together. “There must be a pool of water up ahead.”

  Bits of loose scree covered the floor, digging into their palms and knees. Before long, the floor deteriorated into a slimy, damp softness beneath their fingertips.

  “We are getting closer,” Alhena commented. “The cavern probably fills during a storm.”

  Rook nodded. A natural reaction. Realizing Alhena had no way of seeing him, he grunted, “Probably.”

  They started forward again. The floor sloped away at a sharper angle, but before it became unmanageable, it levelled off.

  The plip-plop sounded close. The slime covered floor soaked through his breeches. Rook could only imagine what a sopping mess Alhena’s robes were.

  Creeping forward, he was surprised when the floor abutted a wall. When the next drop fell, the noise came from directly above.

  Groping blindly overhead, Rook attempted to get a sense of the slimy wall beneath its slippery coating. He couldn’t be certain, but it felt as if the wall was constructed of cut stone. Rising to his toes, he located what seemed to be a recess in the rock face overhead. Further inspection told him it was indeed a ledge that curved away to either side of where he stood.

  “There’s a ledge up here.” His voice sounded hollow in the darkness. Struggling to maintain his footing in the muck, he searched for a handhold. “Here, give me a boost.”

  Alhena located Rook’s foot. Cupping his hands, he helped Rook scramble up the wall.

  Upon the ledge, Rook cautiously rose to his feet, careful to hold his hands above him to avoid whacking his head. Unable to feel anything higher, he dropped back to a crouch, suddenly conscious of the fact that he had no idea where the edges of the shelf were.

  The next drip sounded directly beside him, but before he had time to investigate, the dripping became a trickle, splashing him in the face.

  The trickle turned into a deluge, the sudden gush of water threatened to wash him off the ledge.

  “What did you do?” Alhena’s voice sounded above the noise of the rushing water. “I am drowning down here!”

  Rook had no idea what had just happened. In the all-encompassing darkness he couldn’t see the nose on his face. He dropped to his stomach, extending his arms over the edge of the wall as a steady flow of water spilled over him. “Grab my hands!”

  Alhena held his staff over his head for Rook to grab. With a great deal of effort, he pulled Alhena up.

  A dozen torches flared to life above them, driving away the darkness. At the same time, the cavern rumbled and a large section of wall opened up, admitting armed men and women who immediately spread out to either side with torches in hand.

  Rook squinted, looking up to see that the torrent of water cascaded through a fissure in the ceiling. It plunged into the mouth of a large stone well, erected in the centre of the cylindrical dais he and Alhena lay upon—the well overflowing into a lakebed below.

  Alhena reached for his pack but Rook stayed his hand, pointing with his eyes to archers kneeling on wooden platforms that encircled the many stalactites hanging from the cavern’s roof.


  One of the archers issued a command and the fissure closed in upon itself with a grating tremor, curtailing the flow of water.

  A man standing in the breach in the wall stepped forward. “What business do you have here?”

  Rook couldn’t distinguish the man’s uniform from such a distance in the flickering torchlight. He certainly wasn’t a Kraidic warrior. Grasping the lip of the well, he pulled himself to his feet.

  “It is okay. They will be the Splendoor Catacombs Guard.” Alhena said, joining him.

  Together they put their hands in the air. The sound of bowstrings drawing taut was disconcerting. Everyone in the cavern ducked.

  “Lower your staff!” The man at the breach ordered.

  Alhena lowered his staff slowly, and said, “We come in peace. We seek only to leave this mountain labyrinth and continue our journey to Madrigail Bay.”

  The apparent leader held a hand up to stay the archers. “Madrigail Bay? You’ve chosen a strange route to get there.”

  “Indeed. It is a long story.”

  The leader crossed his arms.

  Alhena cleared his throat. “We ascended the Muse far to the south. Running from men intent on killing us. They forced us into the lake.” He swallowed, glancing up to the archers in the heights. “We made our way to the brink of Splendoor Falls and have been attempting to reach the mainland ever since.”

  The leader glanced at a large man towering over him and declared, “I’m not believing you. Enlighten me, where have you come from?”

  “We are on a quest to find Silurian Mintaka.”

  The leader and the large man looked at each other.

  Alhena improvised, “We have been dispatched by the Gritian Council.”

  “The Chamber? Who are you, then?”

  “Alhena Sirrus, senior messenger to the Chamber of the Wise.” He pointed to Rook. “My esteemed colleague here is none other than Rook Bowman. The leader of the Group of Five.”

  An excited murmur sounded throughout the cavern.