Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  Just before mayhem ensued within the suffocating tunnel, Alhena detected a faint glow ahead. Rounding a tight bend, he stopped crawling and closed his eyes to shield them against the intensity of a bright light directly ahead.

  Sadyra, following closely behind, nudged his feet, prompting him into motion. Her muted voice reached him, “Come on, old man. Get that bag of bones moving.”

  Alhena smiled. He hardly knew her but he sensed the petite archer was full of spirit.

  The tunnel opened into a small cavern, allowing him to stand, despite the protests of his aching back. He attempted to stretch out the kinks but Sadyra and the rest of the company emerged behind him, pushing their way into the hollow.

  He found an open spot and stood still, mesmerized by the unnatural lighting that seemed to soothe his anxiety. Glittering sapphires, rubies, diamonds, and other priceless gems embedded into the ceiling rock cast brilliant beams of multi-coloured light into the subterranean cavern. The sandy rock surface they had interminably crawled upon had turned into veined, white marble.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling they were in trouble. He searched out Thorr, but before he had a chance to relate his suspicions, a sweet aroma wafted into the cavern, and his worries drifted away.

  All around him, ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ filled the tightly packed grotto, as the quest took in the dazzling spectacle.

  Silurian forced his way through the crowd toward him, his dazed expression cleft by a rare smile.

  Alhena smiled back. The entire company smiled. Absently, he noted, the Voil did not.

  Menthliot smacked his ape-like hand against its human counterpart with delight, his hypnotic voice grabbing Alhena’s attention. “Welcome to our domain. You are now guests of the Voil.” He broke into a hideous laugh.

  The quest laughed with him.

  Menthliot turned his back to the quest and threw his hands over his head, his voluminous sleeves hanging off his arms. He waggled his fingers. “Come. Together we revel in the realm of our founder, Carmichael Voil. Know the sensation you are experiencing is but a hint of the euphoria that awaits you. You are free of the witch.”

  Distant alarm bells reverberated through Alhena’s mind, but he couldn’t concentrate long enough to vocalize his concern.

  The mystic Voil bounded through an opening at the far end of the cavern.

  Alhena was certain the opening hadn’t been there a moment ago.

  A maniacal laugh followed Menthliot into the tunnel.

  Alhena’s body no longer retained its aches and pains. The soothing atmosphere of the lights and smell soothed him. Deep inside, a little voice cried out for attention, warning him that the euphoria he experienced was similar to that of the portal. Before he latched onto the significance, the voice slipped away.

  Prodded by those behind him, he was jostled into the queueing lineup, joyously following in the wake of Menthliot’s laughter.

  Rook trudged along in a stupor. What had just happened? Silurian had wanted to kill Thetis with no other provocation than the words uttered by a creature he had never met before. The next thing Rook knew, he had fired an arrow at Silurian and now, here they were, stumbling along the banks of the Marrow Wash in absolute darkness, at the mercy of the Sentinel and whatever hell spawn roamed the night.

  He clutched Thetis’ elbow for dear life. She had no trouble navigating the darkness. As they walked, she averred that the Voil were the evil ones, and he should fear for the company’s safety, not his own. He shook his head. Nothing made sense anymore.

  Regardless of her assurances, Rook couldn’t help thinking about the beast that had destroyed Seafarer. He shivered.

  Thetis squeezed his hand, but it gave him little solace.

  He placed his arm around her waist, pondering what kind of demonic creature could actually live within the Marrow Wash’s acidic waters. Perhaps it watched them now. He stepped away from the unseen river, pulling Thetis with him.

  She steered him around outcroppings of rock and through sudden depressions, with tugs and pulls upon his arm.

  At one point, he withdrew his saber in a futile effort to alleviate his mounting fear. A fat lot of good a sword would do him. He couldn’t see the nose on his face. He slid the sword back into its scabbard, admiring Thetis’ bravery, trying hard to believe in her steadfast assurances that they would be okay. What choice did he have?

  Their progress proved slow, due to his blindness. Even with Thetis leading the way, he stumbled a lot. If anyone, or indeed anything, followed them, they would be easy prey.

  He almost laughed out loud when he caught himself glancing at the Marrow Wash for the hundredth time, half expecting the Sentinel to rise out of its milky depths. How could he expect to see anything in the absolute darkness?

  The sound of exotic bugs, unique birds and small wildlife had fallen silent when the darkness descended. Other than his heavy breathing and the soft scuffs of their suede boots, the only sounds disturbing the night came from the Marrow Wash as it burbled and slopped its way by. The noise of the river set his nerves on end. Every slap of the flowing ooze made him jump.

  Silurian stood within the cavern, enthralled by the lights and smell, but he didn’t jump into the fray departing the cavern. Something about Menthliot’s words had unsettled him. The Voil elder claimed Carmichael Voil was their founder. Carmichael was ironically the name of the lost shrine where his sword had rested. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

  He wandered after the company in a daze as the men and women of the quest skipped and sang ahead of him. He grinned despite the nagging feeling that this was wrong. He tried to concentrate, to push aside the fog, but the hypnotic lights and sweet aroma massaged the knot of doubt from his mind.

  He wasn’t aware of much else, but he sensed his adrenaline mounting. The thought of enduring another episode like he had just experienced with Rook and Thetis unnerved him. As his mind drifted, a kernel of rational thought implored him to listen—the Voil were responsible for what was happening to them. The sensations wafting over him were just like those he had experienced at the portal.

  The revelation gave his mind something to grasp. If he were to succumb to the Voil charm, they were all lost.

  A lone Voil skipped along beside him, nodding to itself. Silurian had no idea where this Voil had come from. He hadn’t seen it before.

  Entering the tunnel in a daze, he forced himself to focus on the relics hung along the walls. Helms, shields, swords—all too large to have been wielded by any of the misshapen race. Between the pieces of silver armour, great tapestries hung, depicting colourful scenes of the Voil, usually within the confines of a tunnel or cavernous chamber, performing deeds, that at a glance, appeared heroic. The crystallized ceiling continued into the tunnel, refracting a kaleidoscope of colours upon the dirty, marble floor.

  Side passages branched off at regular intervals on the right. Within each of the corridors stood one or two armed Voil watching them pass.

  Silurian lost sight of the quest. Their singing voices diminished as they distanced themselves from him.

  The Voil walking with Silurian made no effort to catch up.

  A sudden, bone chilling sensation crept up Silurian’s spine. The Sentinel.

  The mischievous creature bound along beside him with nary a care in the world.

  Silurian’s mind grasped at the fleeting kernel of sanity and tugged on it for all he was worth, pulling his mind out of the haze and breaking the spell.

  The strange, greyish creature stopped. Its yellow eyes turned on him. Its lips parted, revealing jagged, brown teeth.

  Bile rose in Silurian’s throat. He sensed the tendrils of the hypnotic environment attempting to reclaim him. He pushed the advances aside, his mind alive to the quest’s peril, both inside and outside of the sand cliffs.

  His right hand grasped the hilt of his ironically named, Sacred Sword Voil.

  The Voil backed away, a serrated knife appearing in its hand. It made a sudden lunge at him before spinning
around to flee, but it wasn’t quick enough to escape the path of Silurian sword. Its head thudded upon the marble floor, rolling away from its body—moments before the bedazzling lights went out.

  The Evil Within

  Silurian stood alone in the dark, afraid. Mildew and rot had replaced the sweet aroma.

  He swung his blade around, probing the darkness to deter the unseen creatures he sensed sneaking up on him.

  He detected movement ahead. Someone whispered nearby. He stabbed the darkness and jarred his sword off a stone wall. There had been many side passages but he couldn’t see them now.

  His fear mounted. Sightless, and lacking the ancient charm of the Sacred Sword Voil, he was struck by how vulnerable he really was.

  A soft scuffling sounded close to him. He hacked wildly about the darkness, never once striking what his instinct told him lurked just beyond his reach.

  Common sense urged him to retreat—screamed at him to run, but where could he go? His friends were up ahead, caught unaware in the enchantment and lost within the Under Realm.

  Heightened by terror, his adrenaline surged, thickening his neck and pounding at his temples. He forced himself forward, deathly afraid of what the sensation gathering deep inside him meant. He’d felt it before. The day he had returned home to the gruesome discovery of his family. He had managed to fetter it then, but there had been no one around to unleash it upon.

  His mind reeled. The quest was in jeopardy. Tricked and lied to by creatures bearing the same name as his sword.

  His control slipped. A radiant heat emanated from the pommel of his sword. Perhaps the relic retained some of latent power. He clung to that hope.

  The sword became too hot to hang on to, but he refused to let it go. Imperceptible at first, a pale blue glow limned the runes of the Sacred Sword Voil, clearly visible in the absolute darkness. Just like it had when it possessed Saros’ enchantment.

  He spun about, listening for the telltale whistle of air that denoted a blade cutting toward him. He envisioned claws shooting out of the darkness, ripping at the exposed flesh of his neck.

  His sword pulsed brighter, illuminating the blood-stained floor, the metal so hot that its heat radiated upon his face, but his hands remained unaffected.

  Laughter sounded behind him, taunting him from beyond the edge of the sword’s light.

  He spun around and the voices receded, but new voices sounded just beyond the fringes of darkness. He twirled, fast as a cat. The new voices receded just as quickly, replaced by the original ones, behind him again.

  Ignoring whatever crept up on him, he leapt forward. Small, blue flames writhed along his sword’s edges, coalescing momentarily at its tip before leaping from the blade into the darkness beyond.

  He was just as surprised as the unfortunate creature that had gotten caught in the conflagration. Tapestries burst into flames, illuminating the tunnel beyond. The fleeing backsides of screeching Voil ran away from the charred victim writhing on the ground.

  He paused, examining the devastation his sword had inflicted upon the pitiful creature as it cried out in agony and fell still. Spurred by his shipmate’s imminent peril, he ran after the retreating Voil.

  He came to an intersection and contemplated giving chase to those who had fled that way up the left tunnel, but he detected a malign presence directly ahead. He hadn’t sensed an evil this profoundly since the day he had faced Helleden Misenthorpe upon the bloody plains of Lugubrius.

  He took a deep breath and his fear fell away. He had agreed to join Alhena for the sole purpose of putting an end to Helleden’s tyranny. If the cliffs fell this day, so be it. He started up the passageway, blue flames dripping from his sword and fizzling upon the marble floor behind him.

  As soon as he entered the next tunnel, he was accosted by wave after wave of foul smells—death and rot so pervasive he wondered whether he ran through the underside of a graveyard.

  A passage branched off to his right, then three more to his left. Passing these, he slowed his jog to a hurried walk. In this labyrinth of tunnels, he was beginning to doubt which way he should go.

  Another passage shot off to his right. He stopped and pointed his sword into its dark interior. His fine neck hair stood on end. The creature he sought waited for him at the end of this shaft.

  The tunnel was no different from the one he left behind. Masterfully rendered tapestries adorned the walls, hung between countless pieces of metal armour, dimly lit in the blue aura cast by his sword.

  He walked, endeavouring to perceive where the malign presence emanated from. The floor sloped downward toward the cliff face.

  Doubt crept into his mind. It was his fault for allowing the Voil to mislead them. They were in the Under Realm. How could he be so naïve?

  Dispatched by Saros himself, Thetis had led them through the portal, as safely as one could expect given the nature of the transition, and guided them to the shores of the Under Realm. Who else could have achieved that? Had someone else suggested such a journey feasible, he’d have thought them crazy.

  Her relationship with Rook had given him grief, but reflecting back over the last several weeks, perhaps he was the cause of his own despair. Who was he to deny other people their happiness?

  One unfounded allegation by a creature he had never met before had triggered a calamity. By his own hand, a grave injustice had been bestowed upon Thetis and his old friend, Rook.

  It dawned on him who lurked in the shadows. Menthliot.

  His pace increased. The Voil elder had manipulated him, accomplishing what Seafarer had warned them not to let happen. He and Rook were separated.

  The vileness emanating from the Voil elder grew stronger. The Sacred Sword Voil pulsed and blue flames leapt into the darkness, igniting the wall hangings and scorching the tarnished armour.

  His actions beside the Marrow Wash weighed on him. What had possessed him to turn on Thetis? The answer to that question had become obvious. Menthliot had coerced him into leading the quest into a trap. By siding with the Voil elder, he had thrown away their chance of reaching the power source capable of destroying Helleden.

  A fist-sized ball of blue-white fire coalesced along the top edge of his sword and leaped toward his unseen adversary. He slowed his pace. The creature was close.

  Menthliot? The Sentinel? Were they one and the same? Perhaps the Voil wizard had killed Seafarer and the sailors. It made sense. Leaving a powerful sorcerer like Menthliot behind in his stead, freed Helleden to venture into the world to pursue whatever hellish intent he desired.

  A jagged bolt of energy sizzled through the darkness, impacting the wall on his left. It detonated with a thunderous crack.

  The concussion threw Silurian against the opposite wall. His sword flew out of his hands and buried itself almost hilt-deep in the marble floor—the sword’s luminescence extinguished upon impact. The light in the tunnel dimmed considerably, lit only by the flames consuming the wall hangings.

  Stunned, Silurian struggled to gather himself. The hair-raising sound of a second bolt singeing the air got him moving—the energy bolt blowing a small hole in the floor where he had stood. The concussion tossed him into the wall across from his imbedded blade. Rock fragments exploded outward—a shard of marble tore into his left cheek.

  He didn’t have much time. Ignoring the searing pain in his cheek, he grabbed the imbedded sword with one hand and pulled.

  Nothing happened.

  He grasped the hilt with both hands, braced his feet and gave a mighty tug. The pommel slipped through his sweaty hands, sending him staggering across the tunnel to knock against a smoldering wall-hanging.

  The air crackled again.

  He pushed away from the wall as the bolt impacted the tapestry. Chunks of granite erupted into the passageway.

  Staggering to remain on his feet, he grasped his sword’s handle.

  From down the hall, an evil laugh reached him as another crackling ball of energy flew toward him.

  If he were to
die, his companions were doomed. His temples pounded. Gathering his resolve, he sensed his adrenaline surging. The sword hilt warmed in his grasp as he pulled on it for all he was worth. The rock around the sword exploded in a shower of debris that blew back at him.

  The crackling energy bolt missed him by a whisper, but as it struck the wall beyond, he was thrown to the ground.

  Dazed, he rose to his feet and stumbled toward the Voil wizard. Before he got any closer, the darkness was pushed aside by a storm of crackling energy. Bolt after sizzling bolt seared toward him.

  In the tunnel’s close confines, he had nowhere to go.

  He intercepted the first bolt above the hilt of the Sacred Sword Voil, the impact knocking him backward a few steps, but otherwise it didn’t affect him. The energy exploded into a series of arcs, fizzling out as they hit the ground, ceiling, and walls around him.

  With renewed confidence, he intercepted the second volley and then the third, each one causing him to stagger momentarily. Moving forward, small blue flames dripped from the tip of his blade.

  The hypnotic ceiling lighting blazed to life, blinding him. He looked up for just a moment, but the distraction proved long enough. Three fierce blasts smote his wavering sword and threw him to the ground.

  He sat as fast as his stunned body allowed, but he couldn’t get to his feet. He intercepted four more energy bolts, the last one driving him onto his back.

  Flash after crackling flash smote the tunnel all around him, pelting him with rock and marble debris. Fighting through the pain, he rolled onto his side and scrambled to his feet but was immediately blown backward as an energy bolt tore up a slab of marble and dropped it on his legs. Try as he might, he couldn’t pull himself free.

  Menthliot let out a hideous laugh and the barrage ceased.

  Silurian focused on channeling whatever power his sword possessed into keeping the slab of rock from crushing his legs. He shielded his eyes against a bright flash, but the ensuing scream had him staring straight at the wizard.