Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  The taller one shrugged. “It is mighty, but…” He gazed at his smaller companion, who nodded. “It was nearly beaten yesterday.” The squeaky creature’s gaze settled on the ground before him—his dejected whisper barely heard, “Alas, it prevailed. We live in fear. Always fear.”

  The smaller creature patted his companion on the shoulder, his eyes darting around the wall of people. “You must come. Aye, come. Danger will arise from the Wash ere the day turns cinder. Yes, black. Darkness is the harbinger of death when the Sentinel is nigh. He cannot be seen in the dark. Nor heard. Forsooth, only one creature has lain eyes upon the Sentinel after light’s demise. He lies buried by your own hands. We thought he was the warrior of legend sent to deliver us from our fate. Come, make haste.”

  The creature’s companion smacked him in the shoulder, frowning.

  “What? They cannot remain here. No. The Sentinel will come. They will be taken. More souls to feed the forge. No. They must follow. Into our home.”

  “What will Menthliot say?” the taller creature asked.

  “Yes! We will let Menthliot decide,” the squat creature said, turning his attention back to Thorr and Alhena. “Come. You must follow.”

  Alhena wasn’t sure what to make of the invitation. They didn’t know anything about these creatures. Who knew what treachery they were capable of? “I do not know. Master Rook? Silurian?”

  Rook appeared uncomfortable about making a decision.

  Silurian saved him. “We are honoured by your invitation. If there are free people living in this so-called hell, we should band together.”

  Alhena thought he saw Thetis tense.

  The taller cave dweller saw it too and went stiff, his head snapping in Thetis’ direction. He squinted and waved a finger at her. “She cannot enter. She is evil.”

  Unconsciously, to a person, the company stepped away from her.

  Standing on the far side of the circle, Silurian started toward her, remembering Seafarer’s last words. ‘I came to warn you…You are in grave danger…Do not…trust…th…’ The Sacred Sword Voil slid from its scabbard.

  Thetis’ eyes narrowed. She whispered something into Rook’s ear, prompting the bowman to step in front of her. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, notched it, and aimed. The arrow pointed at Silurian.

  Silurian stopped a dozen paces away, his sword gripped in both hands, holding the hilt at waist level.

  “Sil, this is madness,” Rook pleaded. His draw arm shook with the effort of keeping the bowstring taut. “Think about what you’re doing. Thetis is on our side.”

  Nobody moved.

  A voice cried out from the cliffs. “Kill it!”

  From ledges hidden along the cliff face, dozens of the little cave denizens emerged, watching the bizarre scene unfolding below.

  Years of pent up rage impelled Silurian forward, imploring release. His angst wasn’t directed solely at the blonde-haired woman, however. His supposed friend had confronted him like this on another occasion, long ago.

  A primal urge threatened to consume him. He struggled to contain the dark emotions clawing their way to the surface of his mind. If it came to blows, Rook would be the first to die.

  Alhena stepped toward Silurian, his staff held out, pleading for calm.

  Silurian flicked a look at the messenger, withering the old man where he stood. “Don’t,” he said, sickened by his inner demon that fought for release. If he had to go through Alhena, so be it.

  Another emotion flitted about the periphery of his roiling thoughts. Compassion. For Alhena. And with that thought came a suffocating shame, but instead of quelling his rage, it stoked it further. He was done fighting the good fight. That path always led to needless death. Innocent people suffered because no one had the wherewithal to stand up and exorcise the foul deed that needed to be done.

  Ignoring Alhena, he focused on Thetis. She was the source of his unease. Another pang of doubt questioned his motives where Thetis was concerned. A niggling feeling screamed at him that this didn’t make sense, but it was overridden by his lust for vengeance.

  His conscience beseeched him to disengage—something was amiss. An underlying deception hung in the air, but he couldn’t tell where it originated from. He had known it for a while. Long before entering the Under Realm. The little creature’s insinuation had simply rung true, unlocking a hidden door within his convoluted mind. He sensed truth in the creature’s words but he didn’t know where the truth lay.

  The hiss of a projectile split the air.

  A blow dart struck Thetis in the left shoulder. She emitted a high-pitched screech and jerked back a step. She pulled the dart free, staggered, and dropped to the ground.

  Thetis cried out and Rook released his arrow. The missile flew unerringly at Silurian’s heart.

  Faster than thought, Silurian sidestepped. His sword took the arrow in flight, cleaving it in two; the shattered halves brushed harmlessly by him.

  Nobody else moved.

  Rook shot Silurian a dire look and dropped to his knees to attend to Thetis.

  The spell of rage broken, Silurian lowered his sword, still glowering at Rook—his body visibly shaking.

  Nashon rushed to Thetis’ aid, his sudden movement snapped everyone else from their mesmerized state.

  Nashon relieved Thetis’ hand of the crude dart and sniffed its pointed end. He questioned the shorter creature. “What is the substance on the dart? Is it lethal?”

  The small creature stared back at him saying nothing.

  Silurian sheathed his sword. Without looking at anyone, he exited the circle and stood a few paces behind the captain.

  Thorr ordered the company back to their fires to finish their meals and then spoke to the taller creature. “Go. Find the one you call Menthliot. Your friend will remain with us until you return.”

  Darkness hadn’t fallen yet when an emissary from the wall came forward with several other odd creatures.

  Silurian watched them approach. Thorr, Pollard, Sadyra, Ithnan, Ithaman and Olmar met the contingent before they reached the camp.

  The creatures stopped, their beady eyes flitting everywhere at once. The oldest looking creature stepped forward, sporting wisps of manic grey hair and nary a tooth.

  “Are you in charge here?” The captain extended a hand.

  The wizened creature ignored the proffered greeting, his yellow eyes crazed. When he spoke, he did so with animated hands, “I am Menthliot. We haven’t much time. Blackness is near. The Sentinel will find you. Gather your people. Leave your stuff if you must and follow. We offer you a haven from the beast. Come. Come.” The creature motioned for everyone to follow him to the cliffs.

  Thorr searched out Thetis, sitting beside Rook and Nashon Oakes. “What of the lady over there?”

  Menthliot’s beady eyes grew big. He gazed at Thorr as if he were a lunatic. “Demons are not permitted. Now come.”

  Rook stormed over and stepped in front of Thorr. He towered over the strange, little creature. “The lady you call evil is a valued member of our quest. This demon you refer to has guided us to this hell you call home. What evil has she done?”

  Menthliot scowled. He turned his head and spat. When he looked back, his wrinkled mien broke into a diabolical grin. “She has led you to your death.”

  Sentenced to Death

  “Demon. That’s what she is. Evil.” Menthliot gestured wildly. “We deny her entrance. There is foulness about her.” He hopped about, arms flailing. “You seek a power equally foul in the company of a devil. You stumble about our world, fortunate not to have encountered the Sentinel. It will find you. When it does, your quest will come to an abrupt end, that is certain. You seek to harness the same foulness the Stygian Lord employs to mutate us into what you now behold. We offer sanctuary, and yet, you ask us to sanction evil within our home.” He spat into the sand at his feet.

  Without waiting for a response, Menthliot’s voice dropped to a low growl. “You lack the enlightenment we have achieved en
during this living hell. You’re blind to the evil amongst you. This I grant but heed our warning. Terminate the demon before she leads you to ruin.”

  He folded his scaly arms across his bony chest and looked away in disgust. His head snapped back just as quick. “The darkness is almost upon us. Decide quickly. If you remain out here when it falls, we will pray for you, for that will be the only hope you will have left.”

  Menthliot walked back toward the cliffs with his entourage in tow.

  The Marrow Wash seeped past, inches from Silurian’s feet. He studied its bizarre flow. It had a consistency more like lava than water. The repulsive stench stung his senses whenever the flow sputtered and gurgled as gas bubbles rose to its surface and popped.

  He struggled to quieten his hammering heart. It felt like he had drawn upon a dormant energy deep within himself and channeled it through his sword. A sensation similar to that of Saros’ enchantment.

  He held his ancient blade in one hand and ran his fingers along its runes. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear a warmth emanated from the strange characters.

  Avarick stood a few paces behind him, warding his back. He offered the Enervator a weak smile.

  Watching the river ooze by, he shivered as the adrenaline seeped from his body, leaving him oddly cold. Dizziness threatened to topple him into the flesh dissolving water, so he lowered himself to sit on the bank and placed his sword across his lap.

  A high-pitched voice sounded behind him, approaching quickly. “Master. Master.”

  Several cave dwellers struggled to push past Avarick. Avarick grabbed the hilt of his black sword but Silurian stayed him with a nod that it was okay.

  Menthliot stood over him with several other of the strange creatures circling around. Eight furry faces in all stared at him with grave concern.

  Beyond the creatures, Pollard bounded over to help Avarick deal with them should the need arise.

  Menthliot knelt before Silurian, his big eyes searching Silurian’s. The closeness of the vile looking creature made Silurian lean back, but the cliff dweller leaned over him.

  Menthliot tilted his head, slowly one way and then another. He reached out his hands—one hand resembling that of an ape.

  Unable to lean back any farther, Silurian cringed as Menthliot traced the scars on his temple left behind by the wolf attack over two months ago. Menthliot’s fingers slithered down to caress his cheek in a soothing, circular motion.

  Avarick and Pollard moved to intervene but Silurian held up a hand to stay them. Whatever the creature was doing, it served to ease his tension.

  Menthliot broke contact and for a few moments afterward, Silurian didn’t have a care in the world. The whirling emotions concerning his confrontation with Rook and Thetis seeped back into his thoughts, but Menthliot’s voice soothed them away.

  “You are the warrior we have waited for.”

  The cave dweller pushed aside a stray wisp of silver hair from his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder to his peers. “Allow me to present to you, my Voil brethren, the warrior our songs revel. Ward him well, for he is your salvation.”

  Voil brethren? Silurian tightened his grip on the hilt of the Sacred Sword Voil. Why were these creatures named after his sword?

  The other seven creatures bent in to converse with their leader in a squeaky, foreign tongue. Finally, Menthliot nodded. “Aye, our future draws nigh. This I sense.”

  Silurian got to his feet and loomed over the group of elders. “What are you talking about? I’m here to avenge my family. No more, no less. I aim to kill Helleden Misenthorpe.”

  The cave dwellers shrunk down and shivered.

  All except Menthliot. “Yes, you can end the Stygian Lord.”

  Silurian sheathed his sword. “Look, we need you to direct us to the Soul Forge.”

  The creatures shuddered.

  Menthliot gave Silurian a sympathetic look. “Allow me to relate the crux of our legend.”

  Not waiting for permission, Menthliot broke into song.

  “From ancestry unknown,

  a new race has grown.

  We are Voil by design,

  tools of the malign.

  Minions cast in hell,

  waring the Sentinel.

  Hiding beneath the stone,

  inept, we grant thee home.

  Cower though we may,

  we await the coming day.

  A warrior shall travel down our path,

  and deliver his unhindered wrath.

  Thus, the prophets do proclaim,

  we may yet outlive this shame.

  O warrior, pray, slay the Sentinel,

  and grant us leave of our living hell.

  Menthliot finished, gazing intently into Silurian’s eyes. “You alone have been granted the grace to end the Stygian Lord.”

  You alone. You! Alone! The words reverberated through Silurian’s mind. He tried to focus on Menthliot but couldn’t calm his thoughts. He looked beyond the odd creature, to the base tent erected for Thorr, searching for something to quell the confusion addling him. The tent quivered. Ithnan ducked out through the large door flap and held it open for Nashon, Ithaman, Sadyra, Rook and Thetis as they stepped into the daylight.

  Other than Rook and Thetis, the group exiting the tent walked toward him, their concern evident.

  Nashon, pipe in hand, pulled Menthliot aside and had a few words with the creature, before he asked Silurian, “How fare you?”

  Silurian shrugged. How was he supposed to feel? He had just been moments from killing his best friend.

  “You have us worried.” Nashon puffed upon his pipe before adding, “Menthliot claims he can see deep into a person’s psyche. He fears you suffer from overexertion. I agree. It’s too early for you to undertake a journey of this sort after what you went through at the portal.”

  Menthliot claims? They had just met the creature. Overexertion? Everybody suffered from exhaustion.

  “Menthliot says you summoned a dormant ability within you…a kind of magic.”

  Silurian scoffed at the idea. “Pfft.”

  Menthliot nodded and moved off to join the others of his clan. Reaching a group of cave dwellers milling about the outskirts of the camp, he turned and said, “Assemble your people. Darkness is nigh. Join us in our stone sanctuary. Only there will you be safe.”

  Thorr nodded and Pollard’s booming voice gave the order to break camp.

  Silurian remained where he was, staring at the wind-swept sandstone beneath his feet, unable to grasp the significance of the Voil. By the time he lifted his head to take in the activity going on around him, the tents had been taken down and stowed, the fires put out, and the quest milled about awaiting direction.

  Close by, Alhena appeared paler than usual. The concern in his voice made Silurian focus on his words.

  “What of Thetis and Rook?”

  Thorr walked toward Alhena. He raised his eyebrows. “They have fled upriver. Toward Soul Forge. They felt it better this way. Their fate is in their own hands, let it not be ours.”

  A cold chill gripped Silurian.

  Alhena frowned. “And what about this Sentinel thing lurking about? If it is as bad as we fear, they are doomed. Do we forget the fate of Seafarer and the scouts this quickly? If Silurian or Rook perish, so will the quest. We will be seeking sanctuary in vain.”

  “Thetis assured us she’ll not allow the Sentinel to harm Rook,” Thorr said. “And, Menthliot promised his people will ward their progress from secret entrances along the cliff walls. If Rook’s life is imperiled, Menthliot assures me they’ll offer him safety. Of Thetis, who’s to say? For some reason they fear her.”

  Alhena leaned on his staff, “They may not have time to intervene.”

  “Fear not, my friend. Pollard and Olmar are preparing to go after them.”

  Alhena shot Thorr an incredulous look.

  Thorr shrugged. “They’re too big to fit in the tunnels. Blindsight has also agreed to accompany them, ensuring they have eyes a
t night, and Longsight has offered to be their eyes during the day. They will go after Rook and Thetis to keep them safe.”

  The four men in question were just finishing adjusting their gear before setting off up the Marrow Wash.

  Alhena turned away, shaking his head. He watched the brave men as they started out. “We have sentenced them to death.”

  Mesmerized

  Menthliot led the members of the quest toward the base of the cliff, around the huge boulder where Longsight had originally restrained the first two Voil.

  Everyone was surprised when the Voil elder disappeared. One moment he chatted with another of his ilk, the next instant he disappeared. Closer examination revealed a hidden cleft, its mouth so narrow and low that even the Voil had to duck to enter.

  The quest dropped to their hands and knees and crawled into the dark tunnel.

  It didn’t take long in the tight confines of the dark passage for second thoughts to bombard Alhena. He could hear the anxiety of the quest members on either side of him—fore and aft. Claustrophobia had his nerves on end, the feeling more intense than when he and Rook had stumbled through the tunnels of the Splendoor Falls catacombs.

  He couldn’t get Silurian’s confrontation with Thetis from his mind. Although there was definitely something off with the woman, it seemed a big mistake to abandon her now—especially if that meant Rook as well. What reason did she have to lead them astray?

  What made the standoff more incredible, was the fact that nobody knew anything about the Voil. And yet, here they were, spread out on their hands and knees, totally vulnerable. If the tunnel was a trap, they were all dead. An eerie thought permeated his better judgment. Perhaps the Voil were the Sentinel.

  He tried to shake the thought from his mind. There was little to do about it now. Inexorably he pulled himself along, his mind muddled with delusional thoughts. Would he ever be able to stand erect again? Were they going to crawl all the way to the Soul Forge?

  The scariest part was, there was really no way back. The constrictive tunnel forced them to travel one behind the other. As individuals contemplated their fears, the procession spread out.