The Soul Forge

by Andrew Lashway

  Benjamin. Benjamin Kimpchik. Thomas always used to joke that his name was a mouthful. Always took so long to say.

  He had never said the name again after the fire.

  It was just an accident. Everyone was having too much fun being in each other’s company that no one noticed the fire in the fireplace jump its confines and catch the letters on the mantelpiece on fire. That burned the curtains, the rug, the books… everything was soon burning.

  Thomas had heard the commotion, heard it from under his tree, and had come to the house, curious, scared. So scared. There were screams. Other people were scared. So very, very scared. Thomas saw the fire, he saw his parents, trapped behind the flame. Benjamin was there too, waving at something. Screaming at them to run. Run away.

  He was trying to save Ms. Anna.

  Thomas didn’t know what else to do. He saw Benjamin wave, he heard his parents shout at him to take the girl and run. That’s what he did. He grabbed her and pulled her from the fire, saving her as everyone and everything burned.

  He reflected that he had lost two homes that way. No wonder all he could use fire for was destruction. The Kimpchiks had taken him in, but he was not there son and they were not his parents, and they all knew it. They didn’t pretend otherwise. He was a good worker, their stable boy. And that was how it would stay.

  Poor Mrs. Lucinda. She couldn’t handle it, losing her oldest boy. Losing Benjamin. She retreated inside herself, lost to the world. Lost to Master Kimpchik. Lost to Ms. Anna. She had been such a nice woman too, always laughing and joking while she made clothes for everyone. That was her contribution to the farm, selling those clothes. They were so well made, as she put so much care into each and every stitch.

  His gaze cleared, finding the clouds. Could he just do that? Could he just lay there and watch the clouds pass by, ignorant of the dire straits the world was in?

  Wait, what? Now what was he on about?

  Friends.

  Of course. He had almost forgot about them, almost forgot about the people who had sacrificed so much fighting for freedom. He had forgotten about Zacharias and his matching drawl. He had forgotten Miranda and her risqué – yes, he knew that word too – character and her burning red hair. He had forgotten Gilkor and his constant smile, Moranda and his constant battle with himself, the Keeper… well, he wasn’t totally sure they were friends.

  He had forgotten Miranda.

  The clouds moved a little faster as he thought about her. He wasn’t even sure why. He just liked her. And honestly, he didn’t need to justify it, not even to himself.

  He had to get back to his friends. The clouds would have to wait for another day.

  Suddenly, Thomas was well aware that he wasn’t flying, he was falling. He was still airborne, and a cavernous drop opened up underneath him. If he didn’t react quickly, he was going to fall down the mountain and smash into a million pieces at the bottom.

  His mind had noticed something he hadn’t, and his hands shot out on instinct alone. They caught hold of the last edge of the cliff, just jutting out from the rest, and he held on as if he was glued. The rock jutted out like a spear’s edge, allowing Thomas to wrap his hands around each other. The effort taxed his muscles to the extreme, and the sudden shift in momentum and direction made his head feel like it was about to explode, but it could have been worse. At least he was alive.

  When his head finally cleared, he realized there was someone standing above him. The Necro-Caster, his face bleeding from multiple cuts and his nose going in two different directions, glared down at him with savage pleasure.

  The Necro-Caster raised his hands, his mouth twisted in a perverse smile.

  “Really?”

  It was the first thing Thomas could think of. His friends were alive, Thomas knew it, all he had to do was stall until they could recover. And to do that, he needed to keep the Necro-Caster’s attention fixed on him.

  All this passed through his mind in the space it took him to breathe and speak again.

  “I chased you up a mountain. We fought down there, we fought up here. And now you’re just going to sneak up on me and finish me off like this?”

  “Stop speaking.”

  “Of course,” Thomas replied, “because you know I’m right. You know what I’m saying is true. And you know that you are nothin’ more than a big ol’ coward.”

  The Necro-Caster’s fists clenched so tightly Thomas could hear the knuckles crack.

  “You will not stop me. It took me five hears to arrange that rockslide. Five years of tunneling to finally create enough to shift the rocks and break open my cage. What I’ve had to do, what I’ve been forced to do…”

  “That was yer own fault,” Thomas said without forgiveness, “we’re all responsible for the choices we make. You chose to defile the dead, now yer paying for it.”

  “I was onto something so much greater than your tiny little mind can imagine! I was making strides in magic that no one dared challenge before! I was – I AM – going to change history!”

  “Y’know,” Thomas grunted, the strain in his arms starting to be more than he could handle, “I’ve always wondered about that phrase. History is history. It already happened. How can you change what happened?”

  This jab was one too many, and Thomas knew it. He had known it when the words left his mouth. But his arms weren’t going to hold him any longer, and before he died he was going to get one last joke in.

  “I’ve had enough of this. Enough of you. Goodbye, insignificant child.”

  The Necro-Caster raised his arms, channeling the magic within him to smite Thomas. His hair stood on end as the lightning built, and he closed his eyes, his grip on the rock loosening in preparation.

  Then the sound of bone breaking reached his ears, and his eyes snapped open and a second wind gave him the strength to hold on for a moment longer.

  “Don’t call my friend insignificant.”

  Thomas smiled, relief flooding through his system even as a slight sense of revulsion joined it. A sword was jutting from the Necro-Caster’s chest, dripping in blood. The sword was then pulled free, and the Necro-Caster tumbled forward and off of the cliff. Thomas watched him fall, turning his head to see the body fall into the smoke below.

  A hand wrapped around his, lifting him from certain death and pulling him to a solid surface.

  “You alright, lad?” Gilkor said. His smile was hurt, but still there. Miranda was on all fours, heaving in air as if in fear of it being taken from her. Zach leaned on Thomas, who was able to support him only by borrowing Gilkor’s shoulder. Miranda eventually stood and joined them, and for a long moment the four of them simply stood without moving and enjoyed being alive.

  Eventually, the moment passed and the Maker’s forge was only feet away. It looked like a giant house, or maybe a house built for giants. Black stone stretched out, with gray marble making up the stairs and the doors. Feeling miniscule in comparison to the doors alone, Thomas moved forward and gently knocked on the door, his companions behind him.

  The door opened almost immediately.

  “Why, if isn’t Gilkor! And a band of humans! Why this is a merry bunch!”

  Thomas didn’t immediately recognize where the voice was coming from until he looked down and saw an even shorter dwarf than usual. He looked quite jolly, though, and his smile was rather infectious. The dwarf offered a hand, and Thomas took it and they shook. The dwarf was wrinkled and white haired, dressed in a pair of brown trousers and a green shirt with a blacksmith’s apron. For a single moment, Thomas wondered if every dwarf simply walked around wearing an apron.

  “So, what brings you to the Maker’s forge, Gilkor and friends? And through all the smoke no less. I am Bellon, at your service.”

  Thomas did his best not to laugh.

  “We wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t a matter of utmost importance,” Gilkor replied, stepping forward into the forge. The three humans followed him, confused but for the first time in a long while, not wrong-footed
. They entered into a grand hall that was certainly spacious, but mostly bare. There were only a few tables and chairs with mugs every few feet, either on the table of the floor.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The Dark Priest is back.”

  Gilkor’s words wiped the smile from Bellon’s face so fast it actually made Thomas sad.

  “But… he was defeated.”

  “Aye,” Gilkor replied, “but he had a pupil, it looks like. He calls himself the Priest now too, and he has an army of Inanis. He’s taken over Ludicra, Verdonti, even Andomer has burned… He’s taking over our world.”

  “Hm…” Bellon said, “then you need to claim soul-ore from the Silent Mountains. His method of defeat before can be used again. Bring us the soul-ore, and the Makers can forge you a weapon the same as they did for General Chromwell.”

  “But…” Thomas spoke up, moving forward, “we already have the General’s sword, sir.”

  He lifted the sheath, noting with a small smile that all of the pieces were actually still intact.

  “The only problem,” he continued, “was that it was smashed in a rockslide. It’s pieces now.”

  “What?” Zach whispered. Thomas shrugged in what he hoped constituted an apology. Not like there was a bunch of time to tell them.

  “That is unfortunate. With the sword, you could have defeated the Inanis in a day.”

  “I’m sorry? How?”

  “The blade was blessed with the iron will of General Chromwell. We had no idea what would happen, but the power of the blade could purify evil from a heart. A simple cut could have removed the infection from the people. I assume they are using that tactic again?”

  Again?

  “I um… yes sir.”

  “Much smaller scale last time. The Dark Priest simply used his own followers and turned them into something they were not. But now, with the whole of the three nations at his disposal… I’m not sure what there is to do.”

  “If we get more soul-ore, can you re-forge the blade?” Zach asked.

  “We can re-forge it right now, but it will not be the same. It will simply be a sword, though a blade made by the Makers is a good blade indeed.”

  “Most of its power was used up anyway by the General,” Thomas said, “so without more soul-ore we couldn’t have done anything. We can’t do anything.”

  Thomas found a chair and sat down, feeling his last hope deflate. They couldn’t go to the Silent Mountains and make it back with the soul-ore. The General had an army against a smaller force. Now Thomas had a smaller force against an army. There was nothing they could do. They had lost. Failed.

  It was over.

  “There is… one way,” Bellon said, but he looked ill at ease to say what it was.

  “What?” Thomas said immediately, “what is it?”

  “We could… make soul-ore.”

  “Make?” Thomas repeated, “how?”

  “With the advent of magic, there are ways of doing certain things, things that would appear impossible. People cast fire, create lightning, imbue their weapons with power. But magic is young, and the limit of what magic can do is not yet… defined. Normally, we dwarves don’t bother with it. But desperate times call for… insane ideas.”

  “So we can pour our souls into ore?” Thomas said slowly, “and make soul-ore?”

  “I am not saying we can. It’s never been attempted.”

  “Well, then I’m going to attempt it,” Thomas said.

  “I’m with you,” Zach said.

  “Me too,” Gilkor said, pumping his chest with his fist.

  “Can’t let you boys have all the fun,” Miranda said, flipping her hair with a wink.

  Bellon nodded, motioning for them to follow him. He led them into another room, which was far warmer and smelled like burning iron. Thomas’ jaw dropped, and Gilkor’s face swelled with obvious pride.

  The Makers forge was every bit as majestic as Thomas has been imagining. It was huge, with multiple anvils and even more Makers, with glowing weapons and armor that seemed more beautiful than they had any particular right to be. The Makers were hard at work, fashioning something. Four stood over a single large anvil, smacking whatever it was with a hammer in perfect cadence.

  Two more stood over another anvil, melting ore and pouring it into… Thomas wasn’t sure, he hadn’t gotten that far in his lessons. Without preamble on the other side, there was a loud splash as they threw something clear across the forge into a large pool of water, no doubt used to cool down the blazing hot weapons.

  “Amazing,” was all Thomas was capable of saying.

  “If a weapon can be made anywhere, it’s here,” Gilkor said.

  “Makers,” Bellon said, moving forward. As his voice rang out, all of the Makers present stopped and looked at him.

  “We have a very important job to do.”

  “What’s happened, Bellon?” one of the Makers asked, one with a deep scar over his right eye and a short black beard.

  “Much. But we do not have time. We need to make soul-ore.”

  “Make?” the same Maker repeated, “ore can’t be made, lad, especially ore like that.”

  “I know,” Bellon said, his confidence fading rapidly, “but we need… there’s…”

  “Pardon me, Makers,” Gilkor said, striding forward. His hands were held behind his back, because Thomas saw they were shaking.

  “Gilkor, yes?” a different Maker with goggles asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Gilkor replied. “The Dark Priest has returned, and the world is about to die. We must do something, and the only thing left to try is to make soul-ore. We can use any of the ore you have, iron or bronze or… but we need to change it. Is this possible?”

  “I’m sorry lad,” the black bearded dwarf said, “but it’s never been done before.”

  “But,” the goggled dwarf replied, “that doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”

  “True, true,” the black bearded dwarf replied with a growing smile. “I do love a challenge…”

  Thomas looked from one dwarf to another as the dozen or so Makers all glanced back and forth. Finally, there was a general nod of agreement, and Thomas felt a little bit of hope creep back into his chest.

  “Well then,” Bellon said when he finally found his voice, “let us begin at once. Thomas, the shards of General Chromwell’s sword.”

  “Shards?” the black bearded dwarf said, “what happened?”

  “A boulder fell on it, sir,” Thomas replied sheepishly as he gave the sheath and its contents to Bellon. But the dwarf only laughed.

  “Of course it did. It’s just one of those things. Well, give it here. If you manage to create the soul-ore we can remake it. Maybe even make it better, seeing as it already has soul-ore… who knows what’s going to happen?”

  Thomas wasn’t sure if he was excited or not – certainly not as excited as the Maker – but he was at least hopeful.

  “Are any of you magic-casters?” Bellon asked.

  “I am, sir,” Thomas said.

  “Good. That will make this much easier. Now, we are going to melt the shards down and some of a different ore. You, my boy, are going to concentrate. Call on whatever magic you can use, and change the ore. I’m sorry we don’t have a clue how, but you must find a way. Unlock the power within you.”

  Thomas nodded before turning to his friends. Then he smiled.

  “Yeah, I think I know where to start.”

  Chapter 17: The Soul Forge

  It didn’t take long to melt down the shards and the ore. Before Thomas was truly ready, he was standing over a boiling pot of molten metal without a clue as to what he should do. He stared at it, concentrating, but nothing visibly happened. He concentrated harder, but that led to a similar effect of absolutely nothing.

  “I did not come this far just to fail now,” Thomas muttered to himself, staring into the rolling heat. His hands started to shake with the effort of his concentration and beads of sweat ran down his cheeks. Sweat ran down
his palms, and he unconsciously rubbed it away.

  His hands caught fire, but he didn’t notice. He didn’t notice the flame run up his arm and ignite his shirt, and he didn’t notice that there was no pain. The fire wasn’t burning him. He just stared at the molten ore, willing it to be something it wasn’t, changing it with the force of his mind alone, inspiring it with only his fortitude to be something more.

  But it just wasn’t enough.

  “Do y’all believe in me?” Thomas asked without breaking his gaze. “Do you believe we can do this? Stop the Priest. Save the world. Save our friends. Do you believe?”

  “I told you, buddy,” Zach replied, “I’ve always wanted to go on an adventure. Fight monsters. Save people. Here’s our big chance.”

  Thomas nodded, and he felt… somehow connected with Zach. Like the other farm boy was giving him strength. It was a welcome feeling.

  “You helped me in that castle when anyone else would have run away,” Miranda said. “I think you’re probably an idiot, but I guess I believe in idiots. Especially cute ones.”

  “Hey now,” Zach said with a laugh. Thomas couldn’t help but smile with fondness. These people, his friends, had really grown on him, especially in such a short amount of time. Morando, the Healer, fighting off the horrors of the Magi War as he tried to reclaim his family. The Keeper, the old soldier of wars long since forgotten, training new recruits to fight the darkness.

  Cynthia, the barmaid who risked everything to see him free.

  The fire expanded down his back, forming symbols no one present recognized. Faces, glyphs, nonsense? There was no telling. They weaved around his arms and his chest, jagged lines like the roots of a tree.

  If Thomas even knew it existed, he could have told them it was tracking his veins. But he was unaware, his focus so completely consumed by the molten ore that needed to glow blue.

  He thought of Ms. Anna, Master Kimpchik and Mrs. Lucinda. Benjamin, lost to the fire that consumed his parents. Gods, how he missed them. Killed during the Magi War miles from any battle. His father wanted him to be an adventurer, to explore, to discover. He had forgotten. His mother wanted him to read, to explore with his mind. That he would never forget.