Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  There was that name again. The Soul. Silurian wanted to ask about who or what the Soul was but he didn’t want to lose the question he had poised on the tip of his tongue. “I’m confused. You said you made the blade.”

  “I said I engraved it. Saros forged it. He made many weapons in his time. He is a master weapon smith. Or was, I guess. He created it. It was his blade. I just made it unique.”

  Silurian grasped the ivory handled dagger in his belt, but let it go when Wendglow smiled.

  “Aye, that is his as well. He called it Soulbiter, or something silly like that.”

  Nodding at the name of the dagger, Silurian asked, “If what you say is true, how did the sword get the name, Sacred Sword Voil?”

  “That, my troubled friend, is a story best left for another time. Let’s just say it was named in our honour. A pledge if you will, that Saros would one day come back to discover what had happened to the rest of us.” The ancient’s ashen demeanour parted in a sad smile. “Alas, now he is dead.”

  An uncomfortable silence descended upon the hall.

  Rook broke the mood, reaching behind his back, but before he unslung his bow, Wendglow nodded.

  “I recognized your bow earlier. My brother is responsible for that also, and yes, I engraved it four centuries ago. Being wood, I’m surprised it has weathered so well. Have you been able to unlock the runes?”

  “Unlock the runes. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I didn’t think so. The bow was originally crafted for someone adept in runic magic. I don’t believe there were many people left still practicing the secret art even in my day, so it is not surprising. I’m afraid the secret to unlocking the runic magic is long lost.”

  Silurian thought about the other weapons wielded by the deceased members of the Group of Five. “Did you also shape three other special weapons. A warhammer, a scorpion flail, and a crossbow?”

  Wendglow stared through Silurian, contemplating his words. “Hmm? Possibly. Every weapon Saros made was special. He truly was a Master, but I’d never tell him that to his face. There isn’t a weapon known that Saros couldn’t fashion. I dare say, when he made a weapon, it was superior in every way.”

  “How did he imbue them all? Surely, he didn’t wield all five,” Rook asked.

  “Ah, there you err. He was quite adept with every weapon he created. It’s a strange coincidence that his favourite weapons were your bow and Silurian’s sword. Of the others, your friend Seafarer played a major part.”

  “Seafarer?” Rook and Silurian said together.

  “Aye. That is also a long story I’d rather not discuss right now. We digress from what is important. You said you hail from where?”

  “Zephyr,” Silurian said, confused. “We hail from a kingdom called Zephyr, and you’re right, if we don’t get back soon, everything your brother fought for will have been for naught.”

  “Zephyr, hmm? Can’t say the name sounds familiar,” Wendglow shook his head. “Let me fill you in on what we will face.”

  “We?” Silurian and Rook asked together.

  Wendglow looked from one to other. “Aye, we. You don’t think we are going to allow you to wander near the Forge without us? Your little company wouldn’t get three steps from the exit tunnel.” He paused to let that sink in.

  “Rest assured, the Sentinel knows why you’re here. He knows where you’re holed up, and he most certainly knows the terrain leading to the river. Nor is he alone. He commands a number of intermediate beasts.” Wendglow paused, as if considering his next words. “By intermediate, I mean creatures more intimidating than Voil. Creatures mutated by the Soul and kept here for defense.”

  “Don’t sell yourselves short,” Silurian mused. “You guys scared the life out of me.”

  A slight chuckle escaped the elder’s lips. “Be that as it may, the creatures your company will encounter will be scarier still. There’s also the matter of the Morphisis. No one has ever laid eyes on that demon and lived long enough to identify it. It rears its ugly presence whenever a river attempt is made. Where it comes from, we have no idea. Once the threat passes, it disappears again, not to be seen for decades on end.”

  Rook frowned. The Morphisis sounded worse than the Sentinel. “How do you know it will appear this time?”

  Wendglow looked at Rook as if he were an idiot. “Oh, it will appear. Pity to any who stand before it.”

  Rook swallowed.

  “More importantly, however, is what Silurian will encounter, should we survive the trek across the Dead Plains to the river.”

  The ancient leader directed his next words at Silurian. “When you immerse Saint Carmichael’s Blade into the river you will be drawn into the clutches of the Soul. When this happens, and it will happen fast, one of two things will occur. You will either go mad and lay waste to everyone around you, or something much worse will happen…”

  Worse than killing everyone around me? What could be worse than killing everyone around me? Silurian’s brows knit. Perhaps the ancient Voil was mad.

  “Do not doubt the Soul’s intent. It covets power. It feeds on it. We fear what it seeks to find in you.”

  Wendglow’s words felt like an accusation. “In me? What can it find in me?”

  “A partner.”

  Silurian sat back, flabbergasted. “A partner? For what? What is this Soul thing?”

  Wendglow nodded. “Forgive my presumption. Of course, you have never heard of the Soul before now. Let’s just say, the Soul is your real concern. It controls Helleden.”

  Silurian swallowed, his mind reeling. There was a creature more sinister than Helleden?

  Wendglow patted his forearm. “I will present to you the Soul as a trapped, ethereal being that seeks escape from the Under Realm. Our legend proclaims that when the Soul locates the person mentioned in our histories, it shall be set free.”

  Silurian fidgeted, expecting he already knew who the ‘person mentioned in our histories’ was. “That doesn’t make sense. If Helleden can come and go, why not the Soul?”

  “It cannot leave on its own for it lacks a corporeal entity. It requires a vessel strong enough to contain the power it exudes. That is quite a statement, considering Helleden, the Sentinel, and the Morphisis all answer to it, and yet, they are obviously not worthy of such a task. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Helleden’s responsibility is to search out further sources of power to feed the Soul’s insatiable hunger. It requires the power Helleden harnesses to keep its ethereal form alive.

  “That being said, my earlier misgivings still hold true. I believe you are that vessel. Our legend speaks of the coming of our redeemer. Someone strong enough to confront the Soul and put an end to our nightmare. Our fear is not how this shall transpire, but what that actually means, ‘put an end to our nightmare.’ Killing us would be a sure way of ending our suffering. Through his contact with you upon the banks of the Marrow Wash, Menthliot believed that our prophecy points to you. Thanks to Thetis, I see that now.” Wendglow’s voice dropped so that only Rook and Silurian heard him, “We need to find a way to keep you from killing us all.”

  Stunned, Silurian went cold. Realizing Wendglow was attempting to stand, he leaned forward and assisted the elder to step free of his chair before handing him off to the aides scurrying up beside them.

  As the ancient creature shuffled away, Silurian heard him mutter, “May the gods save us all.”

  Yarstaff

  Silurian stepped into line beside Alhena, down a wide passageway, three days and forty-one leagues after the meeting in the great Voil Hall. A disciplined company of the creatures hurried past on their way to the exit tunnel. The thunderous steps of the rest of the quest trailed after them, followed by hundreds of other padded footfalls.

  Though the tunnel was wide enough for four people to walk abreast, the bejewelled ceiling wasn’t high enough for the taller members of the quest to walk upright. Avarick, Pollard, Olmar, and many others from Gerrymander were forced to duck or
bend over double.

  The tunnel they traversed paralleled the Marrow Wash canyon, deep enough into the stone to prevent interference from the Sentinel.

  Perspiration shone upon Alhena’s brow, denoting the brisk pace the leaders set.

  “How fare you today, Sire?”

  Silurian shot his friend a stern glance at his insistence on using the honourific. If it had been anyone else he would’ve berated them on the spot.

  Unperturbed, Alhena indicated the continuous parade of tapestries and various pieces of armour and twisted weapons lining the walls. “All these weapons once belonged to the Voil…well, at least they belonged to who the Voil had been before they were mutated at Soul Forge.”

  Silurian said nothing, but after digesting Alhena’s words, he cast him a quizzical look.

  “Aye. That is what Wendglow told me. The Voil were once as we are now. Before they were captured. He claims that whenever an adventurer is captured they are taken to a place known as Iconoclast Spire. A great, mountainous tower straddling the mystic river we seek. Within the bowels of this black mountain burns the hearth known as Soul Forge. People are experimented upon, altered, and if they are unlucky enough to survive the mutilation, they become members of Helleden’s legions.”

  When Alhena fell silent, Silurian raised his eyebrows. He knew all this. Wendglow had inferred as much, and yet, a small part of him sounded an alarm. Perhaps that was what was happening. The Voil were herding them toward Soul Forge. If the Voil had assisted other travellers, how come they hadn’t seen any sign of them, other than the hanging armour?

  Alhena’s next words eerily drove that point home. “According to Wendglow, the armour and weapons hanging along the corridors are reclaimed pieces salvaged from the killing fields around the river. Aye, from the very place we are headed.”

  The large group of Voil and quest members passed many side tunnels branching to the left and a few to the right, but as the days rolled on, the side passages became less frequent.

  The Voil kept to themselves during the long march, except when the company halted for meal breaks, at which point they assisted the quest members with whatever needs they might have—directing them to privies, explaining certain tapestries, and providing Nashon with various healing salves and advice. Through it all, it was obvious the misshapen creatures remained wary of Thetis.

  Alhena was ready to collapse by the time the fourth day of their trek ended. A shout from ahead brought the company to a halt as it emptied into an immense cavern devoid of the unnatural ceiling lighting. Torches sparked to life around the perimeter walls.

  Coming up from behind, Wendglow announced, “We go no farther today. Tomorrow we pass beneath the Marrow Wash. We are beneath the upper forge now.”

  Everyone from the Gerrymander looked up.

  Alhena and Silurian stepped aside to allow the sweating litter bearers room to muscle the ancient Voil leader along.

  Wendglow nodded to them from his perch of shabby pillows. “In the morning we will place the company under our protective charms once again to prevent the Sentinel from detecting our advance.”

  Silurian tensed.

  “A necessary evil if we are to continue down this road.”

  Alhena pitched in to help clean up after a tasty meal of an unknown meat, and a blue, earthy vegetable nobody from the Gerrymander had seen before. When he finished, he sat beside Silurian. Pollard, Avarick and Sadyra hovered nearby.

  “I need to speak with you.” Torchlight cast eerie shadows on Alhena’s face. He glanced around, seeing who was within earshot. “It is about Thetis.”

  Silurian’s eyebrows shot up.

  “I do not know where to start, but since the first day we met her, I have had misgivings. I know, it sounds silly.”

  Silurian urged, “Go on.”

  Alhena leaned in close. “She claims to be Saros’ disciple, but if you actually think about it, she has yet to do anything to contribute to our cause.”

  “She led us to the portal,” Silurian offered. “Without her we might have sailed off the edge of the world. She directed us to this land and led us here. What more can she do?”

  “Yeah, yeah, that is all fine, but what did she do when we were threatened by the portal? She was nowhere to be seen. We lost some good men. We almost lost you.”

  Silurian shrugged. “She told us what to expect and how to protect ourselves. She practiced what she said.”

  Alhena nodded, acknowledging the explanation. “What about the disappearance of the sailors at Debacle Lurch? She did nothing to prevent that.”

  Silurian frowned. “I can’t believe I’m defending the woman, but what could she have done? She said she’s never been here before. I don’t know how she could’ve foreseen the outcome.”

  “True, but…does it not strike you as strange? I would think a disciple of Saros, capable of, um…I do not know, but I think she should be capable of doing something.”

  Silurian mulled over Alhena’s words. “You already know that I have felt the same mistrust toward her, pretty well from the outset of our meeting in Madrigail Bay. Even though we almost came to blows on the canyon floor, I have no proof of any wrongdoing on her part. She has led us to this point. Granted, not entirely safely, but she achieved what none other could have. Don’t forget, she was the one who was instrumental in convincing Wendglow and the Voil council to allow us to continue our quest.”

  Alhena nodded impatiently as he listened. As soon as Silurian finished, he said, “Do you not think it strange, that once ashore, she knew which direction to follow?” Out of character, his next words dripped with sarcasm, “For someone who claims she has never been here before?”

  “Aye, I guess.”

  Alhena pulled back and stewed. After a bit, he leaned in close again, speaking with even more determination. Pollard, Avarick and Sadyra hunched in to listen as well.

  “What about Menthliot? Who knows the evil of this realm better than the Voil?” He raised his hands to point to the pockets of Voil huddled about. “Look around. They still do not trust her.”

  Silurian had nothing to say to that.

  “Thetis and Rook were alone in the darkness, along the banks of the Marrow Wash, and what? Nothing? The Sentinel never sought them out. Why?”

  Silurian rolled his eyes. “Wendglow already went over this. The Sentinel was preoccupied with his occupation of Menthliot. They were lucky, I guess.”

  “Pfft!” Alhena clenched and unclenched his fists.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this worked up. You are normally as laid back as my old friend, Alcyonne. That’s saying something.”

  Alhena knew that Alcyonne was one of the deceased members of the Group of Five but beyond that, the reference meant little to him. Thetis was the one he was concerned about.

  Silurian shrugged. “I admit, there is something peculiar about her. Of that there can be no doubt. If she has ulterior motives, I have no idea what they may be.” He patted Alhena on the forearm. “Fear not, my friend. If she is up to mischief, it will become apparent soon enough and I will deal with it. For now, we must trust she is true.”

  Silurian stood and offered him a hand up. “Come. Something tells me the days ahead are going to be difficult.”

  Silurian made his way back to a remote part of the cavern and laid out his bedroll. Sleep was an ever-elusive beast in the realm of the Voil, but he lay on his back, propped his head upon the bulk of his pack and closed his eyes. His discussion with Alhena had unsettled him more than he would have thought.

  Pockets of soft murmuring slowly replaced the sound of eating. He awoke from a light slumber to the melodious voice of the tallest Voil he had yet encountered. One of Wendglow’s litter bearers, Yarstaff.

  Silurian yawned and rolled onto his side to watch the creature covered head to foot in short orange fur that stuck out in tufts from the edges of his drab clothing.

  Sporadic torchlight flickered throughout the chamber. The smell of burning pitch accompanie
d the acrid clouds of black smoke wafting up to the stalactite infested ceiling.

  Silurian had learned that every Voil possessed their own personal song, written and composed by themselves. Whenever the Voil gathered, they sang them to pass the evening hours away. The Gerrymander crew had come to look forward to this peaceful time, losing themselves in the lyrics and melody, forgetting their worries for a while.

  Silurian leaned back and let Yarstaff’s sweet voice wash over him.

  The orange furred Voil sang softly at first, but his voice grew quickly to fill the entire chamber,

  “Sapling sprouting, eyeing sun,

  guidance yearning, life begun.

  Worship warmth, commanding respect,

  images of a pleasant reflect.

  Innocent chase of life’s grandeur,

  making choices, oft to wonder.

  Searching the meaning,

  my gaieties weaning.

  Warmth shimmers, cries out in pain,

  ominous clouds settle, my future in vain.

  Pleasant images fade, losing their hold,

  the void of absence filling with cold.

  Harsh are they, those above,

  fate outstripping eternal love.

  Flounder do we, to live in vain,

  to yearn again, of warmth’s refrain.

  Alone and bending,

  wind never ending.

  Warmth omniscient,

  but nary present.

  This path, which is before me face,

  craving new warmth, oh please embrace.”

  Silurian’s eyes closed, recalling his conversation with Wendglow the previous morning, while the elder’s litter carriers marched him along…

  … “Yarstaff is unique amongst the Voil.” Wendglow had spoken in hushed tones, motioning with his chin to the peculiar, orange furred Voil bearing the right front, litter handle. “He is the only one of us that still has both of his human hands and feet. No other Voil has that.”