Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  The leader took a moment to mull over Alhena’s words. He conversed with a second man standing beside the taller one. The second man nodded and disappeared behind the wall.

  The leader pointed his sword at them. “This had better not be a trick!” He directed his gaze to someone unseen in the heights. “Drain the well!”

  A gurgling noise rose from behind Alhena and Rook. The water in the well bubbled and dropped away.

  “Descend the interior of the well,” the leader ordered. “Heed my words. Any treachery will be met with instant death.”

  With the archers still poised above them, Rook followed Alhena’s lead over the lip of the well and climbed down a set of rusted iron rungs embedded in the well’s interior wall.

  Darkness filled the well as they descended to a shallow puddle at its bottom. The smell of damp stone mixed with the odour of their wet clothing was suffocating in the close confines of the well’s interior.

  A small portion of the well’s wall swung outward, flooding them with light.

  Rook squinted in the brightness, nearly stumbling through the gap.

  An unarmed man beckoned them to step forward into the room. Behind him, four marksmen trained their crossbows on the well.

  Rook stepped uncertainly into the room and turned to assist Alhena who held his free hand before his eyes.

  The room was small in comparison to the cavern above, but it was large enough to hold fifty men. Benches and open chests brimmed with a wide variety of bristling weaponry around the room’s perimeter. Shields of all sizes and design were piled in two corners. A large, stone table dominated the centre of the granite floor, bearing scrolls stacked in a wooden crib. The edge of the crib held down a large, aged map. Dusty tomes littered the table’s surface. Several thick candles, burnt to varying heights, illuminated the room with flickering light. Apart from the well shaft traversing the height of the room, there was only one way into the chamber.

  The spokesman from the cavern burst into the room. Eyeing Rook’s bow and Alhena’s staff, he motioned for the crossbowmen to stand down.

  One of the tallest men Rook had ever laid eyes upon, followed the leader into the room—the giant’s hammered brass cuirass reflecting the flickering torch light. Rook thought of his deceased friend, Helvius Pyxis. He doubted even Helvius matched this man’s height.

  The leader introduced himself. “I am Johnnes Holmann, captain of the Splendoor Catacombs’ guard.”

  Rook and Alhena shook his hand.

  “This is Guardell Caulder, my second in command.” Captain Holmann nodded at a short man with broad shoulders and powerful forearms. They accepted his handshake.

  “And this,” Captain Holmann stepped back to introduce the goliath of a man, “is Pollard Banebridge.”

  Rook extended his hand, but Pollard merely stared back at him. In the uncomfortable moment that ensued, Rook couldn’t help but notice the massive weapon the man held casually at his side. The hilt alone was longer than Rook’s forearm, but it was the fact that the unique weapon consisted of two, full-length, broadsword blades, joined at the hilt that made him take notice.

  The captain interrupted his admiration of Pollard’s sword. “So. Is that the famous bow of Rook Bowman?”

  Pollard folded his massive arms and raised his bushy red eyebrows.

  When Rook didn’t respond right away, the captain persisted, “From the exploits I’ve heard tell of Rook Bowman and his band of vigilantes, I was expecting a fiercer looking sort than you.”

  A mocking guffaw escaped Pollard.

  “From what I know,” the captain continued, “Rook Bowman would never have been taken as easily as we took you this day.”

  Pollard nodded.

  “I don’t believe you are who you claim to be…”

  Great, Rook thought.

  “…but that’s not for me to judge.”

  Rook couldn’t help staring at Pollard’s mocking grimace. Making a conscious effort, he locked eyes with the captain. “It’s been…” His voice dropped to a whisper, “a long time.”

  He snatched a glance at Pollard, despite his attempts not to. Pollard seemed like he wanted to smash him.

  “I’ve only recently returned to Zephyr. It’s been many years since the Group of Five fell. As to how easily we were taken…”

  The rattling of arrows jostling about in quivers interrupted him, announcing the arrival of two female archers clad in the same slate coloured, loose fitting clothing the rest of the men and women wore.

  The shorter archer brushed aside a stray wisp of auburn hair from her freckled face. “The cavern is clear, sir.”

  “Excellent, Sadyra. We’ll be sailing to the Birth shortly.”

  “Understood.” Sadyra bowed slightly in deference, her storm-grey eyes taking in the two captives. “We’ll head topside and ready the boat.”

  Captain Holmann nodded and the two female archers left without a sound.

  The captain said to Rook, “May I see your bow?”

  Rook frowned, taking a step back. One look at Pollard drove home the fact that he really didn’t have much choice in the matter. Reluctantly, he handed it over.

  Holding the bow up to the torchlight, the captain studied the intricate runes running the length of the well-used bow. It wasn’t long enough to be a longbow, yet it was longer than any of the bows his own archers employed.

  “A magnificent bow. I’ll give you that.” The captain gripped it in his left hand and tested the draw. “I don’t believe I’ve seen its equal.”

  Eyeing the bow from top to bottom, the captain frowned. “Legend states that only Silurian Mintaka’s blade lost its enchantment at the Battle of Lugubrius. If I recall, every member of the Group of Five carried a magically imbued weapon. I see no golden hue about this bow.”

  Rook sighed. They were wasting time, yet nothing he could say would allay the captain’s suspicions. “It’s a long story,” he said, his voice barely perceptible.

  “Aye. Seems like all your stories are. And tall, perhaps, hmm?”

  The captain handed the bow to Guardell. He gestured for Alhena to hand over his staff.

  “And you claim to be a messenger from the Chamber?”

  Alhena nodded and handed his staff to Pollard.

  “I wasn’t aware the Chamber employed wizards,” the captain said, folding his arms across his chest, and gazing into Alhena’s colourless eyes. “Seems to me the religious values of the Wise Council contravene those of magic users. I assure you, I have all the time in the world to hear what you have to say,” his gaze flicked to Rook and then back, “in case your explanation is a long one.”

  Alhena shrugged and held his palms up.

  Everyone standing close to Alhena flinched.

  Alhena let his hands fall and sighed. “I assure you, Captain Holmann, I am not a wizard. I use that staff as a walking stick. Nothing more.”

  The captain gave Alhena a hard stare, not appearing to believe him, but he turned his gaze back to Rook. “Enlighten me. How is such power lost?”

  Rook resigned himself. If the captain wanted to hear the story, he was going to hear it from the beginning. He started with the events following the Battle of Lugubrius. Of how he had left the king’s court in search of his missing wife, Melody. Of how the trail he followed had led him to the border of the Forbidden Swamp where he was ambushed, beaten, and left for dead—if not for the intervention of a band of swamp denizens. They took his broken body back to a place known as Deneabola, a mystical swamp many leagues into the harsh marshland. For months, the creatures tended his wounds and nursed him back to health. While in their care he learned their strange language, but his need to find Melody eventually saw him bid them farewell.

  Back in the Mid Savannah, he lost the trail he had been following and with it, all traces of his wife’s disappearance.

  Roaming the wilderness in ever widening circles, despair settled in. Late one night, he stumbled upon an encampment of miscreants who had captured nine swamp cr
eatures. Four of the creatures were already roasting over a cookfire while the other five had been bound by twine and hung alive from a tree limb in preparation for upcoming meals.

  Rook integrated his way into the marauders’ company, claiming he wished to join their band. A demonstration of his magical bow had won them over, their leader voicing many great things they were going to be able to accomplish with his gift. That same night, he set fire to the camp, wreaked havoc amongst the marauders and freed the remaining creatures.

  During their flight back to the Forbidden Swamp, he took an arrow in his right hip and another through his left forearm. Crossing into the marshlands, creatures from the swamp rose up, and with the help of an old friend, fell upon the band and destroyed them.

  For the second time in less than a year, the swamp creatures nursed him back to health. While he recuperated, a deranged Silurian Mintaka remained with him on the banks of Saros’ Swamp.

  When he was fit enough to travel, he followed Silurian on a whirlwind foray into the Wilds, searching for those responsible for murdering Silurian’s family.

  Rook refused to elaborate on what happened within the Wilds, other than to say that he had given up his bow’s power in a desperate move to save his best friend’s life.

  Scanning those nearest him, he could tell they didn’t believe a word he said. He couldn’t blame them—he hadn’t actually explained what had happened to his bow’s power. Undaunted, he informed the Splendoor Catacombs Guard about the recent events involving Helleden’s firestorm.

  Captain Holmann and the rest of those gathered around listened with rapt attention, their faces aghast at the revelation of the Forbidden Swamp’s destruction.

  He related his subsequent flight toward Gritian, meeting up with Alhena, and their harried escape from the Kraidic warband.

  “And that, captain, is how we came to be hopelessly lost within your catacombs. Now, if you don’t mind, we must be on our way.”

  “I see.” Captain Holmann nodded, his mind clearly elsewhere. “I see.” He motioned Guardell and Pollard to follow him out of earshot to confer.

  Captain Holmann returned and declared, “Most of your story cannot be confirmed…”

  Rook’s eyes narrowed.

  “…nor denied. The historians lost touch with Rook Bowman, you, if we are to believe your wild tale, soon after Lugubrius. I hear the conviction in your voice, but I have neither the knowledge nor the authority to take you at your word. In my opinion, your story is nothing short of bizarre.” He nodded toward Rook’s bow, now in Pollard’s hand. “Your bow alone should distinguish you as the leader of the Group of Five, but without its power…” He shrugged.

  The captain’s gaze acknowledged Alhena’s presence. “As for you. You claim to be not just a messenger, but the senior messenger to Zephyr’s illustrious wise council. At your age, I think your place would be beside the chambermaster, not running about the land. I cannot help but suspect there’s more to you than you admit.”

  “Fool yourself not, young captain,” Alhena shot back, lifting his chin. “The only restraint accompanying age lies within the soul of the individual. I assure you, my heart beats as strong as any person here. It has been my experience that the will driving the person determines their ability, not the misguided perception of the ignorant. As to my magical ability?” He shrugged.

  Guardell chimed in, “There’s nothing left for us to do here. I say we parade them before the Songsbirthian council. The elders will ferret out their true intent.”

  “Aye. Songsbirth it is.” Captain Holmann motioned for Rook and Alhena to step past him into the hallway, but Alhena didn’t move.

  “Do Faustus and Allyx still sit on the council?” Alhena asked.

  Captain Holmann narrowed his eyes. “Aye, they do.”

  “And Master Pul? Does he still kick?”

  Captain Holmann raised his eyebrows at Guardell. “Aye, he does.”

  Alhena stepped into the passageway. “Then lead on, good captain. It will be good to see the old codger again.”

  Rook caught up to Alhena and tugged at his sleeve, leaning close to his ear as they walked. “We don’t have time for this.”

  Alhena winked. “I do not believe we have a choice.”

  Mid-morning sunshine crested the tips of the eastern Muse, a welcome relief to the two captives shivering within their damp clothing. A clear sky stretched across the lofty mountains all around them. Two snow covered peaks stood silent vigil directly in their wake, one on either side of Splendoor Falls.

  Accompanying Alhena and Rook in the bow of a large skiff were Captain Holmann and Guardell Caulder. Amidships, two female archers pulled at the oars, while Pollard’s bulk dominated the stern. A cool breeze swept down from the heights at their back, aiding the boat’s journey toward the northeastern edge of the gently rolling lake.

  Approaching the small hamlet of Songsbirth, nestled at the base of a cliff, Rook admired the harmony the builders had created with the flowing designs of the stone and wooden buildings fronting the sliver of shoreline.

  As the boat scraped the shore, Pollard jumped knee-deep into the water and pulled the heavy boat halfway onto a stony beach. Rook and Alhena followed Guardell and the captain over the gunwales and crunched across the gravel beach.

  Rook looked around in wonder as they made their way into the heart of the sleepy village of Songsbirth. They passed eclectic buildings painted in a kaleidoscope of colour, their faces dotted with countless bird’s nests. The singsong of avian wildlife drew their attention upward to hidden aeries in the cliffs high overhead.

  They were led through an iron studded door set into the face of the cliff, following Captain Holmann into a well-lit passageway beyond. Pollard had caught up to them in the streets and entered behind them, ducking, even though the arched ceiling comfortably cleared the top of his head.

  The short corridor housed several doors on either wall. Arriving at the last door on the left, the captain knocked and slid inside, leaving the others in the cool passageway. Before long, the door swung inward again. A stooped, grey-haired, wisp of a man greeted them with a toothless grin as he shuffled into the corridor with the assistance of a gnarled walking stick.

  Leaning forward and squinting his eyes, the shaky man eyed Rook and then Alhena. He gave Alhena’s smiling face a long stare. “Alhena? Alhena Sirrus? May the gods be blessed.” He threw open his gangly arms to embrace Alhena.

  Alhena returned the hug, a huge smile on his dirty face.

  The older man released Alhena and held him at arm’s length. “What in tarnation brings you all the way from Gritian unannounced?”

  “Easy Pul, you old codger. You are going to give yourself a stroke,” Alhena laughed.

  “Bah, me? If I only live to be half your age, eh?” Master Pul cackled. “Come, come. You look a mess. Let’s get you and Rook Bowman cleaned up.” Stooped over his cane he squinted at Rook. “Rook Bowman eh? The gods favour us once again.”

  Captain Holmann exited the room, respectfully sliding past the two older men, and stood beside Guardell.

  “Well I’ll be.” He spoke to Pollard, indicating Alhena and Rook with a tip of his head. “They’re fine. Fetch Alhena’s staff and make sure Larina sees to Rook’s bow.”

  Pollard nodded and walked away as Master Pul ushered Alhena and Rook through the doorway into his private chambers.

  Alhena and Rook spent the next four days recuperating from their long ordeal. Rook had been adamant that they couldn’t afford to waste any more time, but Master Pul had insisted.

  Alhena had smiled the following morning when Rook shuffled up to him like an old man, his body aching miserably from head to toe. He admitted to Alhena that perhaps Master Pul was correct in his assessment that a few days rest would go a long way to expediting their journey in the long run.

  Alhena walked beside Rook as they followed Master Pul through the cobbled streets, the fourth night since being rescued from the catacombs.

  Master Pul le
d them into the Songsbirthian Chamber hall, set deep beneath the mountain. The hall, more an elaborate cave than a proper room, was already full of curious people when they entered—most of them looking older than Alhena. A stone table dominated the hall’s far end, every seat occupied except three chairs at the head of the table.

  Without any pomp, Master Pul introduced his esteemed guests and bid them to relate their story.

  Alhena informed the council about his quest to find Silurian Mintaka, pausing to let the audience digest the revelation that the Liberator of Zephyr had not only been found, but was alive and well. At least he had been when they were separated.

  When Rook spoke, the chamber became deadly silent. Shock registered on everyone’s face. Horrified by the news of the Innerworld’s demise. He expressed his view that something must be thwarting Helleden’s use of the power because Zephyr still stood. Whatever hampered the sorcerer, Rook stressed it was only a matter of time before Helleden overcame it. They needed to act swiftly.

  Master Pul absorbed it all. After listening to the suppositions of the council go around in circles, he grasped the edge of the table and shakily pulled himself to his feet. All discussion ceased.

  “The cause of Helleden’s bane requires a more informed deliberation than we can give it. Sir Rook’s revelation concerning the Forbidden Swamp, and the fact that good King Malcolm’s forces are unable to drive Helleden from his stronghold in the Altirius Mountains, tells me that our kingdom’s theurgists and apprentice conjurers are not sufficient to curb this threat.”

  Alhena remembered Master Pul during Helleden’s campaign twenty-three years ago. The man had been old even then.

  “Sir Rook has informed me of his plan to travel to Madrigail Bay where he hopes to be reunited with Sir Silurian.”

  Another aged man rose to take the floor. “Surely, King Malcolm will be better served if they attend Castle Svelte and consult with His Majesty before travelling all the way to Madrigail Bay.”

  Many fists pounded the table, the council erupting into a new round of debate.

  Master Pul let the discussion run its course before asserting his position. “I hear the wisdom of the council, but as Master of this Chamber, and someone who has been involved with defeating Helleden in the past, I exercise my right to overrule. Sir Rook has an intimate history with Helleden. If he deems it’s in Zephyr’s best interest for him to journey to Madrigail Bay, who are we to gainsay the leader of the Group of Five? This council will honour his decision and offer any assistance he requires.”