Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  “I’m thinking he knows more than he lets on,” she crossed her arms beneath her small breasts.

  Everyone turned back on Rook.

  Rook ignored them. “How do you know Saros?”

  “I’m here at his request.” She paused to let that wash over the group. “And Silurian Mintaka? It’s believed he’s also on his way. Has he arrived?”

  She scanned each face, disregarding Sadyra and Alhena. Her gaze fell on Avarick. “You must be the one they call, Helleden’s Bane?”

  Avarick glared. “Pfft. Hardly.”

  Her eyes followed Avarick’s outstretched finger and met Silurian’s stare. Disappointment reflected in her eyes, but a furtive smile creased her face, if only for a moment. “I thought you’d be more...uh...formidable.”

  Avarick rose, his chair scraping the floorboards. “State your business, woman, and be gone.”

  Rook squeezed out of his own seat and wiggled past Pollard.

  Pollard attempted to block his progress.

  “It’s okay, big guy.”

  Pollard wasn’t happy. She had a clear shot at the bowman should she prove false.

  “Thetis, I presume,” Rook said matter-of-factly.

  She offered the table a cunning smile. Before them stood Saros’ disciple. The person sent to assist Rook and Silurian on their journey. It took Pollard a moment to comprehend the fact that all this time it was a woman they had been searching for.

  They remained in Wharf’s Retreat for the remainder of the day, even allowing Thetis to sit, albeit with Pollard on one side of her and Avarick on the other.

  The group shared their separate accounts of the journeys that had brought them to this point.

  When it was her turn, Thetis provided vague details about where she came from and how she arrived in the bay area. She had been travelling the Wilds, east of the Innerworld, when Saros issued an urgent summons for her to attend Madrigail Bay in search of the last two members of the Group of Five.

  Many tankards of ale later did little to loosen her tongue, but when her tone adopted a more serious timbre, the group gave her their undivided attention.

  “We cannot afford delay. With Saros’ demise, it may already be too late to save Zephyr. The longer we tarry, the more entrenched the Stygian Lord’s army becomes. I have it on good authority that King Malcolm’s forces are withdrawing back to Castle Svelte to make their final stand. It’s only a matter of time before Helleden unleashes another firestorm upon the land.”

  Stygian Lord? Stygian Lord? Silurian mulled over the name. Where had he heard it before? She obviously referred to Helleden Misenthorpe.

  Alhena’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Seafarer claimed you are not powerful enough to stand before Helleden.”

  Thetis shook her head, “No, I am not. Thus, we need Mintaka and Bowman to step up.”

  “I fail to see how Rook and Silurian can stand against Helleden without enchanted weapons. If, as you claim, the king’s forces are withdrawing, they will have little chance to get close to the sorcerer. If you are indeed a disciple of Saros, you must be more powerful than the entire group seated here.”

  Avarick and Pollard shot the old man a dirty look.

  “Aye, you speak wisely, Alhena. I possess a power none of you comprehend, but it isn’t what’s required against the Stygian Lord.”

  Everyone spoke at once.

  She offered an upraised hand. “Only by redeeming the lost magic the Group of Five once possessed shall we have any hope of defeating him.”

  “Silurian slew him years ago, or so we thought. Queen Quarrnaine banished him again, four years ago,” Rook cut in emphatically. “In the end, even Saros wasn’t strong enough to stop him.” His voice dropped off, “Our power came from Saros, and now he’s dead.”

  Thetis nodded. “Saros’ magic proved insufficient to repel the Stygian Lord this time...” She paused, likely out of respect to the fallen lord.

  “Before he died, he entrusted me with the location of the source of his power.”

  Everyone started muttering again, but when Thetis spoke, they became quiet. “Years ago, Saros deemed five people capable of wielding this power safely. Alas, three are long dead, leaving...” She indicated Rook and Silurian with a nod.

  “I must warn you. Saros said the endeavour he proposes may actually serve to expedite your demise.”

  Pollard and Avarick stiffened.

  “Saros instructed me to deliver you across the breadth of the Niad Ocean to a portal…Well, not really across, but, um, under...”

  Seafarer said something similar at the Undying Mountain Pools, but the relevance had been lost upon Silurian.

  “...unto the Under Realm.”

  Silurian stared at her like her hair was on fire as the reality of her suggested destination registered. He had thought Seafarer had been exaggerating about where they needed to travel to. Everyone knew the Under Realm only existed in fables and religious idiom. It was a term used to instil fear in small children, nothing more. One didn’t travel to a myth.

  “Oh, it gets better, I assure you. If we survive the transition,” she breathed deeply, “and make landfall in the Under Realm, we are to head straight for,” she paused, drawing her captive audience in even further, “Soul Forge.”

  Gerrymander

  Midnight found the strange group from Wharf’s Retreat standing on the end of a rickety jetty. The moon glinted off the bay as it drifted amongst wispy blotches of cloud. Gentle waves slapped against the pier supports beneath them, every so often spraying their legs through gaps in the decking. A thick mist settled across the entire bay area, bringing with it a permeating dampness. Driftwood bobbed about within patches of flotsam, drifting first one way and then back again, inexorably making its way toward the river gate bridge to join the endless eddies that milled about the mouth of the mighty Madrigail River. Hawsers from nearby vessels creaked in eternal protest, the noise more profound now that the majority of the port had retired for the night.

  Six burlap sacks stuffed with supplies lay slumped before the group. To a person, they fretted over the destination of their upcoming voyage. Soul Forge was a place visited in nightmares—a mystical realm found in legends or ancient tomes. No one had believed it to be an actual place.

  Avarick and Pollard’s bizarre encounter with the bandy-legged character had proven prophetic as they huddled in the chill night air awaiting the arrival of a skiff to ferry them to the tall ship anchored in the deeper waters of the harbour—the Gerrymander.

  The group fell silent at the sound of oars breaking water. Shortly, a large rowboat materialized out of the mist. A solitary figure sat amidships, far too big for the craft, pulling for all he was worth.

  The sketchy boat bumped against a wooden ladder leading up to the pier deck. The same man who had contacted Avarick and Pollard a few days ago beamed up at them, his face dripping with sweat.

  “Ahoy, lads ‘n lassies.” Olmar tipped his ragged sailor’s cap. “Hand yer stuff t’ ol’ Olmar and we shall be on our way, right?”

  Avarick creased his brow, giving Pollard a wry smile. There was barely enough room in the boat for Olmar’s bulk. There had to be another boat coming. He squinted into the night, only to be greeted by the mist.

  Pollard shrugged and lowered the two biggest sacks to the helmsman of the Gerrymander.

  Olmar took each bag in turn with little effort and placed them into the stern of his wide craft.

  As the last of the baggage was stowed, Avarick craned his neck over the edge of the pier. “We’ll wait ‘til you get back.”

  Olmar laughed, “Nay, man, yer to accompany me now. Tide’s a-pullin’. Make haste, unless yer hankerin’ t’ swim?”

  Everybody squeezed themselves precariously within the barely afloat vessel. Sadyra, Avarick and Pollard sat high atop the pile of burlap sacks trying their best not to fall off the back of the boat.

  Olmar lent his considerable back to the oars to propel the craft into the fog, his great bul
k rubbing against those stuffed around him.

  After what seemed an interminable amount of time in the overloaded skiff, the cloud cover broke. Moonlight cut through the mist before them, illuminating the hulk of a tall ship.

  “Ahoy!” Olmar called into the night, rowing the craft alongside Gerrymander’s bulk.

  Answering cries reached them from the deck of the ocean-going vessel. A thick rope ladder dropped over the port rail and splashed into the bay.

  The ship, bedecked with three tall masts and a sizable aftermast, rested with her sailcloth wrapped in thick furls upon great, upper and lower yard arms. The intricate rigging bustled with rough men and tough women scurrying about the taut shrouds like spiders on a web. Large iron block and tackle sets creaked under the strain as the great sheets began to unfurl. Wooden shuttles scooted about the myriad of lines, criss-crossing between spars, sheets, yard arms, and back again. Gerrymander prepared to set sail.

  Gaining the lantern-lit deck, the small company took in the intricacies and scope of the vessel.

  Their attention was drawn aft, to a well-dressed man descending a wide staircase that led down from the quarter deck. Clad in a silken red blouse, cinched tight at the wrists, and piped with golden thread, the man’s cream-coloured doubloons snapped about his thighs in the cool wind. It was obvious this was the captain of the fine vessel beneath their feet. A pair of gangly sailors followed in the captain’s wake.

  Stopping before the assembled group, the captain introduced himself, “Welcome aboard Gerrymander. I’m Captain Thorr Sandborne.” His square cut, tanned visage, weathered about the eyes, measured each and every person standing before him. The wind ruffled his well kempt, black hair, greying about the temples. “I understand we are to undertake a perilous journey to regions unknown. I’ve been told it’ll prove to be a long journey so I suggest that from this point forward we dispense with formality. These fine men, Ithnan and Ithaman,” he gestured to the lanky, young men flanking him, “shall see you below decks and get you settled. The hour is early, but by the time the sun crests the mountains, I aim to be well underway.”

  The captain dipped his chin, spun on well-polished boots, and walked smartly away, disappearing up the stairs.

  Gaining the quarterdeck, Silurian squinted into the rising sun where the mountainous Zephyr coastline should have been. Instead, all he saw was water stretching to every horizon. Gerrymander was indeed as fast as the helmsman had boasted.

  The mighty aftsail fluttered and snapped, straining at the spar above the afterdeck as it harnessed the prevailing northwest wind.

  Silurian considered his steps in an effort to remain balanced as the ship bobbed momentarily atop a tall swell before falling smoothly into a deep trench in the heavy seas. Every so often, remnants of ocean spray drifted far enough back to make itself felt. Goosebumps riddled his uncovered skin—it was much cooler above deck.

  A short, steep flight of open faced wooden steps brought him onto the smaller afterdeck, the highest, rearmost deck on the ship. The smiling visage of bandy-legged Olmar greeted him. Standing behind a spoked wheel, his massive hands gently urged the oak helm to and fro, piloting Gerrymander across the swells. He wondered whether Olmar ever slept.

  Standing beside Olmar, behind a dark wood map table, the captain engaged Pollard and Avarick in an animated conversation.

  “Ah, Sire Mintaka, welcome,” Captain Thorr offered. “We were just discussing our destination. Or, more specifically, our roles when we get there.”

  Silurian nodded in greeting.

  Gerrymander crested a higher than usual wave and hurtled into its adjoining trough. All present braced themselves for the inevitable jolt when the bow cut into the next riser—all except Olmar, whose peculiar stance made him seem part of the ship. Lurching into the next wave, a wall of spray shot over the rails.

  Olmar’s cheery voice squeaked above the noise of the billowing sails, “A touch of nausea, Sire?” He laughed.

  Silurian nodded slightly and addressed the captain. “I assume Thetis has consulted with you?”

  “Aye, she has. We travel slightly northwest. She went over the charts with Olmar last night before heaving anchor.”

  “And you know of this, uh, portal?”

  “Never heard of it. Our charts take us hundreds of leagues west of Zephyr. What’s after that, only the sea gods know.”

  Silurian mulled that over. “Has Thetis been there, herself?”

  “She didn’t say. She assured me she can guide us to the transition area, whatever that means.”

  “Doesn’t that concern you? Not knowing where you’re going? Not knowing what your ship might face?”

  “Aye, bothers the salt outta me, but what am I to do? You’re unusual cargo. I daren’t go against the edicts of the Chamber.”

  Silurian thought that ironic. That was exactly how he came to be on board. Defying the Chamber. Alhena had convinced Baron Lychman that the Chamber of the Wise had condoned their expedition and the baron had issued an edict to that effect.

  Two figures appeared above deck, aft of the mainmast. One sported a green tunic, the other a mane of blonde hair. They initially started aft, but turned and made their way toward the bow, disappearing beyond the mess hall that sat amidships between the central masts.

  Silurian felt a twinge of jealously. He and Rook had been together for almost a week now, but it was apparent to both of them that a large rift still separated them. Too many things were left unsaid about the years following the Battle of Lugubrius. It shocked him to realize how raw the wounds remained. Perhaps his demons were determined to follow him to his grave. If he didn’t reconcile the gulf between himself and Rook, that prospect might not be too far off.

  After three days of steady sailing, the winds diminished to nary a breeze. The great sheets hung listless upon their yardarms—the nauseating swells of the heavy seas an unpleasant memory to those not used to sailing.

  With the ship becalmed, Pollard, Avarick, Rook and Silurian were called upon to take shifts manning the oars alongside the crew. The captain refrained from asking Alhena or the women of the quest to help propel the ship, but the messenger and Sadyra did their part. Thetis did not.

  Gerrymander boasted twenty oars, properly manned by two oarsmen each. It was unusual for such a big ship to contain oar banks, but Gerrymander had been uniquely constructed to accommodate the oar deck, providing her with added agility should she need it.

  Though not all the oar banks were utilized, experienced rowers took up positions fore and aft, while Silurian and Alhena manned one of the middle banks on the port side of the ship.

  Across a wide, dingy aisle, Pollard and Avarick sat together, the top of Pollard’s head threatening to scrape the exposed timber ceiling in the close confines. Sadyra pulled alongside a weathered sailor none of them had met before. Of Rook, there was no sign.

  They were well into their rotation when Rook ventured into the long rowing chamber to replace Sadyra’s partner, relieving the man to perform some other pressing duty.

  “Welcome,” Sadyra offered.

  Rook struggled to match the cadence set by the coxswain sitting at the head of the oar chamber. “Sadyra.” He took in the other members of the quest. “I appear to be a wee bit late.”

  Nobody said anything. They were busy sweating, doing their best to maintain the monotonous sweep of their long oars; each rower mindlessly concentrating on the coxswain’s droning voice. Pull. Push down. Push forward. Lift. Pull. Over and over as the members of the quest tried to ignore the blisters forming on their palms.

  Rook’s voice broke through their drudgery, “She’s quite a woman, that Thetis. I can’t believe how much she has taught me about the wider world. Especially about the Wilds.”

  Nobody paid him any attention.

  “The Chamber would do well to sit down with her when we return. With the Forbidden Swamp gone, the creatures from the Wilds will surely find their way to Zephyr.”

  A prickly anxiety niggled at
Silurian. Memories assaulted him from his dark years. He was thankful when Rook stopped talking about the Wilds.

  “Aye, quite a woman indeed,” Rook directed his voice at Silurian. “Reminds me of Melody.”

  Silurian went cold.

  “Her looks, her personality, even her sense of humour. She’s, different than most women…”

  Why don’t you just shut up, Silurian caught himself thinking, and then felt angry with himself.

  “…loves to travel to different realms, experience diverse cultures. Does she not remind you of your sister, Sil? I mean, really remind you?”

  Silurian grunted.

  “I knew it! If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they were sisters. It’s uncanny how similar she is.” His exuberant voice dropped into melancholy, “By the gods, I miss her so.”

  Silurian sighed.

  Alhena noted Silurian’s miserable expression. It didn’t take much for the old messenger to read between the lines. He was pretty sure Silurian didn’t think too highly of this Thetis woman. He hardly knew her, but through no fault of her own, she stood between Silurian and Rook.

  Pulling back on the end of the oar, and pushing down and outward again, Alhena recalled the look of wonder on Silurian’s face when he had first learned he might be reunited with his long-lost friend. The same day Alhena had first noticed a spark of life return to Silurian’s eyes. The meeting with Seafarer had breathed life into Silurian and put a skip in his beleaguered step. The mention of Rook had quite simply given Silurian the will to live again.

  Even though Rook was congenial with his old friend, there was an obvious, underlying issue paralyzing their relationship. Whatever had transpired between them refused to allow them to move on.

  As the days wore on, Rook spent more and more time with Thetis. He no longer shared a berth with Silurian at night—preferring to retire in Thetis’ cabin at the end of the day.

  With a sigh, Alhena wiped the sweat from the tip of his nose and pulled on his oar.