Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  Silurian heard Avarick speak, but the words didn’t register. He struggled to catch his breath. Not from running away from those intent on killing him, but because of the sight standing next to him. Seeing Rook again in Wharf’s Retreat, after all these years, had been a wondrous event, but it was the man clutching the staff that took his breath away. Alhena Sirrus stood alive and well, bent over next to a massive man in a brass cuirass and a female archer clad in wet grey suede. He had never met those two, but he recognized the female’s outfit as befitting someone employed by the Songsbirthian Guard.

  He didn’t know who to look at first. Rook, a friend who had put his life on the line many times to save his own sorry hide, or Alhena, a man he had just come to know, but one who in all respects, had reached through his self-loathing and resurrected his soul.

  Sadyra broke the strange tension. “Well, are you guys gonna just stare at each other like a couple of dullards or are you going to hug and get this over with?” She glanced up at Pollard and rolled her eyes.

  “Aye,” Pollard chimed in, “it’s not like we have anything pressing to get to. Like getting a roof over our heads and a meal in our bellies.”

  Silurian looked between Alhena and Rook, absolutely at a loss. His heart felt like it was going to explode. He gritted his teeth, but there was nothing he could do to stem the tears that broke loose and dripped from his cheeks. He rubbed at his throat, not certain if it was the grasp the brute in Wharf’s Retreat had had on him, or the emotions flooding through him, that threatened to cut off his airway.

  He had lost much of his will to carry on, especially after losing Bregens and the subsequent way the Chamber had treated him. He was beginning to question the point of it all. Seeing Rook and Alhena fortified his resolve. There were people left in his world that deserved preserving. Helleden hadn’t taken everything from him. Now that Rook and Alhena stood in front of him, catching their breath in the darkness and rain, he still had something left to fight for.

  Alhena nodded at Rook and stepped toward Silurian with open arms. Rook emulated the wise old messenger. Time seemed to stand still as the three men shared a group hug, unabashedly letting their emotions run wild.

  Standing restlessly upon the deserted street, between two disgustingly smelling buildings, Avarick sighed. He absently studied the fingers on his battered hands. The rain picked up, soaking them all through. “Well, I don’t know about the rest of you,” he said to no one in particular, “but unless I grow gills sometime soon, I’m thinking there’s a good chance I might drown.”

  Soul Forge

  “Olmar,” a bandy-legged, giant seaman replied when asked his name. He thumbed his chest proudly. “And that there ship, y’ can just make out anchored astern of yer S’gull, way out in d’ bay, is me own ship. Gerrymander, we calls ‘er.” He scratched his unkempt red-grey beard with one hand and pointed across the bay with his other. “I’s told yer needing a,” he winked at them conspiratorially, “special transport across the Niad.”

  The early morning hours had dawned clear and cool, promising a pleasant day in Madrigail Bay—nary a wisp of cloud marred the sky.

  Avarick and Pollard had been sent out together, the day after the bar brawl, to roam the streets and inquire about the one known as Thetis. They had scoured the southern shore without success, and now walked near the piers along the northern shoreline. Other than the curious stares they received, nothing particularly exciting had happened during their trek until now.

  Avarick sized up the giant sailor, comparing him to his newfound friend, Pollard, and not discreetly so. Just when Avarick thought he’d never meet another man taller than his companion, along comes this unusual individual. He wondered whether Olmar’s bowed legs were a result of his ample stomach.

  Olmar stood with slumped shoulders, probably due to his massive girth. Were he to stand straight, he would certainly eclipse Pollard in height.

  Avarick mused about how big people were in the bay area. No wonder they sailed in such large boats.

  Beside him, Pollard straightened his posture, giving Olmar a once over, clearly put out by the man’s presence.

  Avarick’s brow came together at the man’s words, however, annoyed at the presumption. “That’s news only we should be knowing. Who told you this...uh, captain?”

  Olmar laughed. “Cap’n? Nay, not I. I steers the ol’ gal, is all.” He scratched his beard. “Ain’t exactly sure who she were that told me, t’ be honest wit’ ya...”

  “She?”

  “Aye, most ‘suredly.” He raised his eyebrows twice in quick succession. “Some perty waif, an’ that’s sure. Come a-callin’ our ship last night, she did. Said me Gerrymander’s the only vessel suitin’ yer needs.” His chest puffed out.

  Pollard gave Avarick a, ‘what the heck is this crazy man talking about?’ look.

  Avarick shrugged. Though irked at Olmar’s knowledge of their quest, Avarick was enjoying the undeclared rivalry Pollard exhibited toward the tall sailor.

  Pollard straightened his spine and pulled his shoulders back, stretching his neck higher.

  Avarick half expected to see him rise to his toes. “This lady. She spoke with you? Out there? She told you we were looking for a sea going vessel, did she?”

  Olmar looked at him as if he were daft. He returned Avarick’s question with a blank face, blinking repeatedly. “I ‘as just be tellin’ ya that, ain’t I?”

  “She didn’t happen to have auburn hair and carry a bow, did she?”

  Olmar laughed, “Nay. T’was blonder than yon snow-capped peak.”

  Avarick glanced at Pollard. Blowing out a breath, he said, “Okay. Sure. We’ll keep that in mind...Elmer?”

  Pollard snickered.

  “Olmar’s me name.” He tipped his battered leather, sailor’s cap. “I shall inform me cap’n we’ve ‘ad words. We await yer bidding.” With that, the bowlegged mountain waddled away.

  Pollard raised his heavy eyebrows at Avarick as the strange man shuffled off. It took a long while before the busy wharf side crowd swallowed his bulk.

  “Right,” Avarick drawled. “Come on then, not so big guy, I’m thinking I’m parched.”

  Pollard glared at his receding backside.

  The sun rose above the break between the mountains leading into the Madrigail valley. Avarick and Pollard walked along the docks with renewed purpose—Wharf’s Retreat visible in the distance.

  When Pollard’s frame dimmed the light in the tavern, the dreary eyed barkeep spun around angrily and stormed over to head them off. “I’ll no have the likes of you in here again, wrecking me place and busting up me clientele!”

  Avarick pushed past Pollard.

  A large vein on Keepy’s temple pulsed profusely. “Oh no. Oh no, no! Not you again, Thwart.” He stopped and turned to a skinny teenaged boy sweeping up debris in the poorly lit room. “Boy, fetch the Watch.”

  The dirty faced boy gave him a dumb stare.

  “Now!”

  The boy’s eyes grew twice their size. His worn broom fell with a clatter as he hurried through the remaining swinging door.

  Avarick threw his hands up. “Easy, Keepy.” Surveying the damage from the previous day, he tried to mollify the angry proprietor, “You know the Chamber always looks after you.”

  The large man stepped toward the Enervator, bumping him back a step and pointing a thick arm toward the door. “Out!” He grabbed Avarick by the shoulder and turned him about. “I don’t care a horse shit about the Chamber. I want you out, and I want you out now!”

  Pollard stepped between the two, the large barkeep visibly surprised by how easily he was knocked aside by the giant man. He wasn’t used to being pushed around.

  Pollard gave Keepy a no-nonsense look. “We’re in need of a place to organize our business, and your fine establishment here,” he said, beholding the gutted venue, “is the ideal location for us to accomplish this.”

  “Over my—”

  “Hear me out, Mr....?”

&nbs
p; Keepy just glared.

  “Keepy, then. All we require from you, Keepy, is privacy, food, and drink, and a place to stay.”

  Avarick stepped to the side, grinning smugly at the bartender.

  Keepy tried to interject but Pollard raised his voice.

  “For which, of course, you shall be handsomely compensated.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “Ah, ah, ah.” Pollard wagged a warning finger at him. “You shall assist us nonetheless, by the baron’s decree.” Pollard produced a thin scroll from a pouch attached to the broad leather belt cinched about his waist. He handed it to the speechless barkeep.

  Keepy stared at the embossed, white wax seal of the baron of Madrigail Bay. He turned the scroll around in his thick fingers before inhaling deeply and shattering the seal. Unraveling the writ, his face reddened further. He glared at Pollard, mad enough to spit. He shook his head and stomped away in disgust.

  Pollard gave the grinning Enervator a stern look and called after Keepy, “Let us know where to start cleaning up.”

  Keepy took a few more steps before stopping at the end of the bar.

  The smirk slid from Avarick’s face.

  Keepy turned to face them.

  “While we wait, we will clean and repair the damage.”

  Avarick’s face reddened.

  Keepy strolled behind the bar, a smug grin on his face.

  Wharf’s Retreat remained closed to the public while Pollard and his entourage cleared, cleaned, repaired, and replaced much of the bar furniture and the structure itself. When they had finished, the bar was a brighter and cheerier place than it had been before the brawl.

  Keepy stood with his back to the newly hung, swinging doors with arms crossed, surveying his establishment with pride. He had lost two days’ business, but he could hardly complain. The free restorations were mostly completed by the adept giant and his female cohort, Sadyra, along with the assistance of Avarick Thwart, the disgruntled Enervator of Gritian.

  Alhena holed himself up during the daylight hours in the baron’s residence going over the ancient tomes that Baron Lychman kept squirreled away in his private library. He returned each day to Wharf’s retreat to eat supper and to the rooms above the saloon to sleep.

  With more than a little convincing, Avarick and Pollard, with the financial backing of Baron Lychman, had persuaded Keepy to give them exclusive use of the several small guest rooms above the tavern for as long as they remained in Madrigail Bay. The baron had offered them a place at his manor, but they wanted to remain available in case Saros’ disciple showed up during the night.

  Rook and Silurian spent the days wandering the streets and alleyways of Madrigail Bay searching for the one called Thetis. They visited every bar and mercantile in the bay area, questioning the locals as to whether anyone had inquired about them, and left instructions that they could be found at Wharf’s Retreat. So far, nobody had heard of Thetis.

  More importantly, Rook and Silurian spent the time catching up on each other’s lives. They should have enjoyed their time together more than they did, but the dark years searching for Melody, and those responsible for the slaughter of Silurian’s family, had placed a serious damper on their relationship.

  Wandering about Madrigail Bay, uncertain of where their course lay, did little to alleviate their unspoken animosity.

  They were discussing whether Thetis may have become lost, or worse, when someone called out from a dark alleyway.

  Silurian stopped to peer into the shadows.

  A haggard old woman sat amongst a pile of rubbish, her filthy hands palm up. Another figure, half buried in the refuse, lay unmoving behind an old wooden crate.

  “Pleas-s-s-e good s-s-sir. Anything to help an old lady make it through another day?” She lisped with her one good tooth.

  Rook followed Silurian’s gaze, a look of revulsion on his face. The alley reeked of vomit, urine and other human waste. He backed away a step. “Come on Sil, let’s go.”

  Disgusted as he was, Silurian couldn’t bring himself to leave. He knew what it was like to starve. He and Melody were once beggars themselves, eking out an existence in a town far seedier than Madrigail Bay. He knew about despair. About how cruel it was to watch the more affluent strut around with full bellies and a hearth to go home to, while he had nothing.

  He opened the money pouch lashed to his belt and emptied its meagre contents into his palm.

  He could tell Rook didn’t want anything to do with it. “Come on. Surely, she needs the coin more than us. What happened to the caring Rook Bowman of days gone by?”

  Rolling his eyes, Rook withdrew a few coins given him by the Songsbirthian council and handed it to him.

  Silurian took a deep breath and held it. He stepped into the alleyway and knelt low enough to place the coins into the scabbed hands of the one-toothed hag. Forcing a smile for her benefit, he straightened up and began to walk away.

  Clutching the coins to her bosom, the hag gave him a lopsided grin and cackled, “One good turn, son, begets another. Get yourself to the Retreat. Grans will see to you.”

  Silurian had no idea what she was on about. He turned to peer back into the gloom. Goosebumps prickled his skin. The motionless figure still lay amongst the garbage. Of the hag, there was no sign.

  That afternoon, with the newly constructed Wharf’s Retreat bustling with business, Silurian and Rook made their way to the back corner of the murky saloon where Sadyra, Avarick, Alhena, and Pollard settled into their second tankard of mead.

  Pollard stood long enough to allow them access to the back bench—ensuring that he and Avarick were the first line of defense should trouble arise.

  They no sooner sat down when trouble arose.

  An enchanting woman strutted through the newly hung saloon doors. The noise level in the bar dropped considerably, all eyes followed the woman as she sauntered toward the freshly polished bar. The men gathered about the nearby tables whistled and offered her a litany of crude remarks.

  To her credit, she merely smiled at those nearest her, obviously used to such treatment.

  Perhaps the presence of Keepy’s thugs held the hounds at bay. Perhaps it was the men’s fear of offending the blonde-haired lady and turning her attention away from them, but no one made a move to slow her advance.

  She gazed into Keepy’s softening eyes and with the twitch of a delicate finger, motioned for him to bend his ear close.

  Pollard, like every other warm-blooded male in the bar, raised his eyebrows as the stunning lady put her full lips close to Keepy’s ear.

  Pollard was shocked when the smile on Keepy’s face became a scowl. Keepy searched the crowd and pointed directly at Avarick, clearly not pleased at directing her attention their way. His frown softened as she kissed his cheek before she bounced back into the crowd.

  Pollard studied her approach with more than curiosity. They hadn’t ordered entertainment. He admired how well her rose coloured, soft skinned shirt and leggings clung to her womanly attributes. He raised a tankard of ale to his lips, taking a deep swallow. He nearly choked on it when a man stood up and approached her from another table.

  The mysterious woman sauntered through the crowd, ignoring the leers and jeers she received, but as the sailor jumped in front of her and went to grab her, she physically threw him out of her path.

  The man, bigger than either Silurian or Rook, hit the table nearest him hard. The patrons gathered around the table hoisted their drinking vessels high into the air to avoid them being spilled.

  The entire tavern howled.

  Spurned, the sailor angrily caught himself on the table’s edge. His lust filled eyes became slits. He pulled himself upright, and lurched after her, shouting incoherently and grabbing at her shoulder before Keepy’s nearest thug had time to react.

  The woman appeared oblivious to the threat. His eyes widened when she spun around, grasped him by the shoulders, and slammed her knee into his crotch.

  Everyone in Wharf’
s Retreat roared.

  The incredulous man bent over in pain only long enough for the woman to lay him out cold with a vicious downward elbow to the back of the neck. If he wasn’t unconscious before he fell, his head bouncing off the hardwood floor made sure of it.

  Anyone else with similar ideas returned their eyes to their ale.

  Stopping in front of the group from Songsbirth, the woman assessed everyone at the table. She raised her eyebrows briefly at Sadyra, before demanding in a honey sweet voice, “Who among you claims to be the Lord of the Innerworld?”

  All eyes turned to Rook.

  Rook glanced at Silurian, and then at Pollard. With a shrug he said, “That would be me. Who wants to know?”

  She scrutinized Rook, her eyes examining his bow and quiver sitting next to him. Ignoring his question, she said, “Aye. Saros has spoken of you.”

  Her eyes lingered a moment longer on Rook’s bow before Pollard reiterated Rook’s question, “You heard the man. Who’re you?”

  Her piercing eyes narrowed. “Depends on who’s asking?”

  “Pollard Banebridge, third in command of the Songsbirthian Guard, entrusted with the protection of Sir Rook Bowman,” he declared proudly.

  She appeared weaponless. She certainly couldn’t hide much within her tightly fitting attire. Her legs disappeared into knee-high, black leather boots. If she carried a blade, it would be hidden there.

  He gripped the huge two-handed hilt of his double-bladed broadsword, each blade sheathed within a separate scabbard.

  The movement wasn’t lost on the woman.

  He rose to his full eight-foot three height.

  Everyone tensed.

  Instead of flinching, the woman stepped back, allowing herself to observe him without straining her neck.

  “That’s some blade you carry. I bet few men around here are strong enough to lift it, let alone wield it.”

  Pollard watched her closely. She’d have to go through him to reach the table.

  Alhena spoke up, “May I ask, young Miss, why you seek the Lord of the Innerworld? He obviously has no idea whom you are.”