Silurian brandished his sword. There could only be one outcome. He wanted to scream out, “Run,” but he had no power over the visions.
Rook fought fiercely, but he was no match for Silurian’s feints and offensive swings.
He forced Rook backward. A quick parry and a forward lunge had Rook scrambling unbalanced and falling over the lifeless body of Alcyonne.
Where did Alcyonne come from? None of this is making sense.
Unable to prevent the scene from unfolding, Silurian retreated further into his demented mind. This couldn’t be happening. Alcyonne was long dead and nobody had heard from Melody since the feast of Lugubrius.
The Soul was manipulating his memories in an effort to exploit the crack he had exposed in his mental armour. The Soul wanted a confrontation. Even knowing this, Silurian couldn’t escape the poignant effect the horrific scenes had on his psyche.
The creature wriggled another tentacle of thought through.
Silurian watched helplessly as Rook’s sword arm sprawled out wide to catch his fall and lost his grip on his blade as he tumbled over Alcyonne’s smiling corpse.
“I have waited many years for this day.” He heard himself say as he hefted Saint Carmichael’s blade above his head.
No! It’s not me! he yelled, but Rook couldn’t hear him.
Rook threw his arms over his face and cried out, “Why?”
His sword whistled downward with the killing stroke. “You shall betray me no more.”
“No!” Silurian roared, withdrawing from the seclusion of his mind. In one fluid motion, he was on his feet and glaring at the ghastly apparition towering above him. As he located his errant sword and moved in to attack, he felt a strange presence within the cavern. It stirred the ashes of a fond, childhood memory. A pleasant calm washed over him. Not everyone in his world had died. The heartwarming awareness gave him the strength to do what must be done.
The Soul had thought it was impervious to any attack Silurian could muster, but it fell back a step, in surprise.
At its feet, the pitiful creature had broken free of its hold and was summoning all of his unknown power to throw back at it. More power than the Soul had thought a mortal capable of. Bolstered by the river’s touch, no doubt.
The Soul hesitated. It hadn’t expected this to happen, but so be it. Silurian’s body was proving worthier than it had anticipated. Allowing Silurian to unleash whatever power he had at his command would augment Helleden’s raging firestorm.
The pitiful swordsman located his errant sword. Flames burst to life along its length. His ice-blue eyes were crazed as he closed the gap between them and swung his fiery blade. “Enough!”
The Soul recovered from its initial shock. Appreciating its peril, it commanded all of its ancient theurgy to deflect the ensuing confrontation, comfortable in the knowledge that no matter what reserve Silurian drew upon, it was more than strong enough to absorb the assault without any lasting repercussions. Never in its wildest dreams had the Soul thought this kind of response possible. It smiled. What a perfect host. In moments, it would be free.
Appreciating that the aftermath of the resulting attack would kill Silurian if he were to bring Iconoclast Spire crumbling down on top of them, the Soul prepared itself to seize control of Silurian’s body when that happened. Oh, how long it had waited.
As the ensuing blast erupted from Silurian’s sword, the Soul knew fear.
Another presence made itself felt in the cavern. It drew exclusively from the Soul’s immense power, preventing it from defending itself.
Helleden!
Enraged, the Soul fought to bring its defenses to bear but was unable to focus its energy.
High atop his mountain aerie, Helleden had waited for the Soul’s concentration to fully focus upon the pathetic creature opposing it. Helleden’s master hadn’t anticipated his stealthy tendrils slipping in to seize control of its power.
Timing his move to perfection, Helleden siphoned the Soul’s defensive magic, leaving the ethereal being vulnerable to the full might of Silurian’s discharge. At the same time, Helleden channeled the immense power into the vast firestorm he was unleashing upon the kingdom of Zephyr.
Silurian’s blast ignited the Soul’s bared power. The resulting catastrophic detonation blew the higher reaches of Iconoclast Spire hundreds of feet into the air, sending thousands of tons of shattered rock into the atmosphere.
Another presence made itself felt within Soul Forge—distant, yet powerful. As Iconoclast Spire collapsed upon itself, Helleden wondered where he had sensed this presence before.
Leagues downriver, the cataclysmic detonation of Iconoclast Spire levelled the battlefield. The Dead Plains lit up beneath a storm of burning debris.
The remnants of the minion horde scrambled away into the fiery darkness or flapped away.
The few quest members not rendered unconscious by the initial concussion witnessed the ensuing flurry of molten rock shooting skyward in a slow, agonizing arc. The killing detritus spread out like a mushroom cloud before beginning its lethal plunge while the bottom half of Iconoclast Spire collapsed upon itself.
Another concussion rocked the land, obliterating everything in a white flash.
Hidden from view, behind a sudden wall of mist, the river boiled.
Until We Meet Again
Bobbing gently beneath an azure sky, an odd assortment of sailing craft made their way east upon what everyone hoped to be the Niad Ocean. Gerrymander cut through the waves at the head of the armada, a little worse for wear than when she had disappeared weeks before.
Rook stood behind Olmar on the wheel deck, leaning on the aft rail, gazing out to sea. His vacant stare followed the trail of the ship’s wake to the horizon. Toward the portal—the gateway to the realm in which he had abandoned his best friend.
He kept reliving the final moments upon the Dead Plains when Iconoclast Spire erupted. He had believed the lives of the quest were at an end, and then the white flash. The next thing he knew, he was aboard Gerrymander. In fact, it appeared that every creature still alive—that had ever been captured by the portal—had been returned to the Niad Ocean in the vessels they had originally set sail in. Unfortunately for the Voil, most of their vessels had long since been destroyed or rendered useless, and they suddenly found themselves swimming for their lives in the frigid waters. Ironically, after finally being delivered from the Under Realm, many Voil were dragged to a watery grave by the heavy armour they had depended on to protect themselves.
Demons were also transported back through the portal but were quickly dispatched by Gerrymander’s crew or left to flounder on their own.
Rook shook his head. The entire journey had proven too bizarre to contemplate. He ruefully listened to the songs of joy emanating from the curious collection of Voil craft—the strange little creatures skipping and dancing upon open decks, delighted to bask in sunshine.
The absence of the Sentinel during the battle left Rook unsettled. Thetis, he grimaced and corrected himself, the Morphisis had said the Sentinel had been summoned to Zephyr by Helleden. Wonderful. Now they had two devils to deal with if they ever made it home.
His eyes misted, blurring the vista before him. He couldn’t accept that Silurian was gone. He was about to cry again when a giant hand slapped his shoulder.
“Come, my friend, they await your presence.”
Rook nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Pollard patted him on the back and respectfully left him alone to gather himself. He wiped his eyes on the cuffs of his filthy green tunic, took a deep breath, and strolled across the aft deck.
Olmar offered him a grim smile as he passed the helm. He gave the helmsman the faintest of nods. With a heavy heart, he joined the throng of people assembled amidships.
The silent gathering parted to allow him into their midst. He stopped beside Alhena and wrapped an arm about the old man’s waist.
Alhena put his arm about his back and squeezed.
Out on the ocean, the rag ta
g collection of Voil craft jockeyed to hold their position alongside Gerrymander’s bulk.
At a signal from the captain, Alhena composed himself and stepped to the starboard rail, clutching his staff. A soft breeze played in his wispy hair—his fine beard fluttered over his shoulder. His peculiar white eyes were rimmed in red, but his voice held steady, “Our fateful journey has come to an end. An end full of mixed emotions.” His words carried over the din of the lapping waves, flapping sheets, and creaking hawsers. “Many good men and women have fallen along the way. In their place, we have discovered new friends. The Voil. They, too, have suffered much grief while in support of our cause. Without their assistance, I dare say, none of us would be standing here today. Together we mourn.”
Alhena bowed his head. Struggling to maintain an even voice, he sniffed, and looked up, his vacant gaze staring beyond those gathered around him.
“Life is ever fraught with danger. We were entrusted with a quest. A quest that was not only implausible, but outright impossible. We did not deviate. We sailed into hell and came out the other side. Together, we defeated an ancient evil. Together, we survived, and together we shall continue the fight.”
The breeze picked up, ruffling his flowing black cloak and underlying, filthy, white robes. “We gather today to honour those we left behind. Seafarer, Menthliot, Avarick, Tara…” He went on reciting scores of names from a scroll he fought to keep from blowing out of his wrinkled hands—most of the names, Voil.
He paused as he arrived at the last name. His eyes welled up. Biting a trembling lower lip, he took a deep breath, his voice on the verge of cracking, “Take not away the sacrifice of those aforementioned. They kept us safe.”
He paused. Taking a shuddering breath, he continued, “At this time, I ask you to remember the man who led us into hell. He gave his life so that we might come through the other side. Take courage from his death. Grieve not for Silurian Mintaka. He gave his life to rid the world of an ancient evil and by doing so, he has provided us a way home.”
Sad rumblings sounded amongst the crowd. Uneasy feet shuffled about.
“We know not whether he ultimately achieved his goal. I am certain we will find out soon enough.”
Rook observed many heads shaking. If Helleden were still alive, Zephyr would be in a difficult spot as the one man capable of repelling the sorcerer was lost to them.
“Console yourselves with the knowledge that Silurian Mintaka, former king’s champion and member of the Group of Five, has finally found the peace he desperately sought. He now lies with those he so loved. Find comfort in the knowledge that his peace could not have been achieved without you.” Alhena’s voice broke. He couldn’t carry on.
Tears dripped freely from Rook’s chin. He wrapped an arm around the old man and pulled him close. With his other hand, he nodded to Pollard, manning the davit.
Pollard cranked the gears controlling the ropes that supported a ceremonial coffin. The crudely constructed box symbolized all those who had died in the Under Realm. The grinding metal and creaking ropes did little to mask the sobs heard across the water.
Rook guided Alhena to the starboard rail.
The casket bobbed momentarily upon the low seas and slid beneath the waves.
Staring at the spot where the coffin had disappeared, the old messenger whispered, “May you find the peace you have so dearly given us, Sire. Until we meet again.”
The End…
…of the beginning
Chapter 1 of, The Wizard of the North, book 2 in the Soul Forge Saga
Wizard of the North
A storm was imminent. It promised to be a bad one. It would rain hard, and with the rain would come death.
Within a grotto, high atop an active volcano, a wizard hunkered over a vision within the flames of a modest campfire, holding back long wisps of golden hair.
Something strange was occurring hundreds of leagues south of the cave. Something catastrophic. Tears dripped from the tip of the wizard’s nose. The omens foretold the return of a devastating power. A power that had annihilated the unspoiled tracts of the Innerworld a moon cycle earlier. The same power that had besieged Quarrnaine Svelte and her expedition four years before, but this time it was different. This time, the signs pointed to an absolute apocalypse—a total annihilation of Zephyr, and there was nothing the wizard could do to prevent it.
A cold wind swirled ash into the wizard’s face, burning small holes in the silken robes fluttering about the magic user’s slight frame.
Ignoring the acrid smoke, the wizard leaned closer to the flames, willing the vision to reveal a deeper understanding. Helleden Misenthorpe was at the root of this storm, of that there was little doubt, but there were other participants involved this time. One bigger than the malign sorcerer himself. If this magical storm of doom wasn’t strange enough, there was also something familiar about it. Something that shook the wizard to the core.
The flames burned with more intensity than they had a right to, given the meagre fuel they fed upon. They flared up to singe the wizard’s hair and abruptly went out.
The wizard quickly uttered an incantation to relight the fire, anxious to witness the unfolding storm, but the flames refused to come back. The wizard frowned and chanted again, paying attention to proper enunciation. Next to a divination invocation, a vision spell was the hardest one to enact correctly. The embers flickered with promise before fizzling out again, but the wizard had felt that familiar presence again. It was as if someone had mentally reached out, desperate for the wizard’s attention.
“No,” the wizard bemoaned the unresponsive ashes and made a frantic search of the dank interior. Passing over a pile of tattered tomes and brittle scrolls, the wizard found a grimy vial of green ichor—handling it with the utmost of respect. A little hesitant, but with no time to waste, the wizard thought, why not?
Pulling the cork stopper loose, the wizard shook the vial in an effort to hurry the gelatinous substance from the container. Excruciatingly slow, the ichor dripped once, and then a second time, sizzling as it oozed into the embers.
The wizard replaced the stopper and dropped the vial into a robe pocket. With both hands free, the wizard intoned the magical phrase of vision, pronouncing each word exactly as they had been learned.
At first, the smouldering fire hissed and sputtered, but as the wizard panicked anew, a small flame caught, quickly rearing to engulf the entire pit—threatening to climb out of its confines and onto the stone floor.
The extreme heat forced the wizard back against the cave wall. Concentrating like never before, the wizard drew from an unknown reserve, and the vision reformed within the leaping flames. The scene of a bloody battle waged in virtual darkness, except for the fires burning in the fields around a river and the sporadic bursts of what could only be magic, took shape, but this was not Zephyr.
It was difficult for the wizard to determine where the battle took place; certainly nowhere familiar. Immense birds of prey flitted in and out of the vision, swooping down upon hapless victims and then flying out of sight. Men, women, and small misshapen creatures battled for their lives along the banks of a wide river, against an insurmountable number of red demons wielding tridents and other malicious instruments of death.
The familiar sensation reached through the flames, taking the wizard’s breath away.
“Silurian?”
Unseen in the background of the image until now, a cylindrical mountain blazed to life. So intense was the illumination that the wizard cowered behind an upraised arm.
The wizard’s raging fire pulsed once in warning—the wizard oblivious to the omen.
The wizard locked onto the compelling pull from within the flames, desperately trying to make sense of what was happening.
The image of the blazing mountain exploded, erupting like a volcano. A visible concussion shot outward, the intensity of the blast obliterating the wizard’s vision.
A violent wind emanated from the centre of the fire pit, stoking the
wizard’s flames, a harbinger of the fiery maelstrom that suddenly engulfed the cave.
A little about me.
Born in Simcoe, Ontario, in 1965, I began writing circa 1974; a bored child looking for something to while away the long, summertime days. My penchant for reading The Hardy Boys led to an inspiration one sweltering summer afternoon when my best friend and I thought, ‘We could write one of those.’ And so, I did.
As my reading horizons broadened, so did my writing. Star Wars inspired me to write a 600-page novel about outer space that caught the attention of a special teacher who encouraged me to keep writing.
A trip to a local bookstore saw the proprietor introduce me to Stephen R. Donaldson and Terry Brooks. My writing life was forever changed.
At 17, I left high school to join the working world to support my first son. For the next twenty-two years I worked as a shipper at a local bakery. At the age of 36, I went back to high school to complete my education. After graduating with honours at the age of thirty-nine, I became a member of our local Police Service, and worked for 12 years in the provincial court system.
In early 2017, I retired from the Police Service to pursue my love of writing full-time. With the help and support of my lovely wife Caroline and our five children, I have now realized my boyhood dream.
Books by Richard H. Stephens
Travel down an ever-darkening path in,
Of Trolls and Evil Things
Two orphans battle to survive upon a perilous mountainside, evading the predators and prowlers preying on its slopes, and within its catacombs. When the dangers they face force them from their mountain home, they end up in the cutthroat streets of Cliff Face plying their hands as beggars to survive.
Soul Forge Page 38