Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  Alhena found Silurian sitting against an elm tree with his knees hugged to his chest, staring blankly at the sunset. A small brook burbled gaily a few feet farther into the wooded area.

  Although Silurian didn’t acknowledge his approach, Alhena sensed that Silurian was aware of everything going on around him. He had probably known of his approach long before Alhena had spoken with the sentry.

  Rounding the tree, Alhena pulled his robes past his knees, and sat against the opposite side of the trunk.

  They sat like that, saying nothing for a while. A cool breeze wafted over the hilly terrain, ruffling their hair. The sun’s inevitable departure had them clutching their cloaks tighter as stars twinkled overhead.

  Alhena absently toyed with his long, thin beard, and polished his walking staff with the edge of his cloak. He nearly leapt out of his robes when Silurian’s voice broke the stillness of the night.

  “I thank you for your company. I’m afraid I’m not much for small talk,” Silurian said turning his head to face Alhena.

  “I would never have guessed that,” Alhena responded.

  Silurian tilted his head and almost smiled.

  “There is something I should tell you before the Chamber meeting.”

  Silurian raised his eyebrows.

  “There are suspicions of something strange occurring within the council. A chamberman asked me to warn you.”

  “Warn me? Of what?”

  Alhena shrugged. “He did not say.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep my head up.”

  “For your thanks, there is no need. You are troubled, that I can see. I probably should not have said anything. Anyway, we can remain here as long as you wish, the Chamber be damned.”

  Silurian blinked.

  Alhena looked away, abashed.

  Silurian let his head thud against the trunk and smiled.

  “Alhena Sirrus,” an authoritative voice bellowed.

  Alhena blinked his eyes open. A robed man sat high above him, his face cast in shadow.

  Silurian stirred beside him.

  Alhena knew the voice well. Abraham had come searching for them. By his tone, he wasn’t happy.

  “Is Silurian with you? Why aren’t you at the Chamber meeting?”

  Several horses thundered up the path to join the lone rider. Two Gritian militiamen dismounted and approached the tree with swords drawn.

  Silurian got to his feet and reached down to assist Alhena.

  Vice Chambermaster Solomon Io dismounted, a bejewelled scimitar in hand. He walked between the two militiamen, his eyes constantly searching the shadows.

  Alhena was about to respond, but Silurian stepped forward. “The fault is mine, Your Eminence. Alhena tried to persuade me to come back with him, but I insisted we relax beneath this fine tree while I contemplate my future.”

  Abraham gazed at Alhena. “Is this true, senior messenger?”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Silurian asked.

  Abraham stuttered, but before he gathered himself, Silurian pulled Alhena by the wrist. “Come on. Let’s get this mummer’s farce over with, shall we?” He rolled his eyes. “We mustn’t keep the Chamber waiting.”

  Alhena glanced over his shoulder, offering Abraham a shrug as he stumbled down the path, pulled along in Silurian’s grasp.

  The Chamber of the Wise

  “Vice Chambermaster Io!” a tall knight, resplendent in burnished plate, proclaimed in a commanding voice as he pulled open one of two finely tooled, oak doors leading into the great Chamber hall. “Sir Silurian Mintaka, and Alhena Sirrus, senior messenger to the Chamber, entering.”

  As the three men crossed the threshold, Silurian marvelled at the number of people crammed into the cavernous hall. The faces staring back at him didn’t appear thankful that he had returned.

  Majestic, cylindrical, grey marble pillars, wider than a man’s arm span, and set upon massive rectangular bases of white marble, lined the lengthy expanse of the high vaulted chamber on either side of a great aisle. Spaced evenly, the columns supported a natural rock ceiling, barely visible in the shadows of thousands of flickering rush lights placed throughout the hall.

  Keeping his eyes on the polished floor, Silurian followed Vice Chambermaster Io down the central aisle toward an immense rock platform spanning the width of the cavern’s far end. He passed row upon row of densely packed wooden benches, sensing every eye in the hall upon him. He snatched a quick peek. Some of the faces were twisted in disgust, while others appeared curious.

  He averted his gaze to examine the four-tiered platform carved out of the living stone. Each level rose three feet higher than the one below it—the top two tiers, lined by a continuous, stone bench spanning the breadth of the cavern, were full of militiamen.

  The second tier, narrower than those above, housed ten high backed chairs, allocated for the Wise Council.

  Four thronelike chairs adorned the central stage on the main level, their backs to the audience.

  Reaching the base of a short flight of exquisitely carved steps fronting the platform, Solomon held up a hand. “Wait here.”

  The vice chambermaster mounted the stairs with dignified grace and strode across the stage to take his place in the throne closest to the stairs.

  If Silurian hadn’t felt vulnerable before, he certainly did now. The noise in the chamber increased. The undertones of conversations he overheard weren’t encouraging. He fought the urge to turn around and face the verbal daggers people slung his way.

  “Vice Chambermistress Arzachel Gruss. High Warlord Clavius Archimedes. His Eminence, High Bishop Chambermaster Abraham Uzziah now entering,” The Chamber steward announced, his deep voice rising above the clamour.

  The hall thundered as everyone got to their feet. Conversation dropped to a hushed whisper as the dignitaries strolled down the aisle. Reaching the stage, the chambermaster was the only one to acknowledge Silurian’s presence.

  Abraham sat down next to Solomon, while the high warlord took his place in the other central seat. Vice Chambermistress Arzachel Gruss took her place on the far right.

  The Chamber steward closed the large entrance door, locked it, and placed a huge golden key into the folds of his green tunic. With a regimented cadence, he strode crisply along the aisle, his boots clicking rhythmically. He mounted the dais, and ceremoniously strode to stand before the high warlord.

  “The Chamber is secure, sir,” the herald announced, loud enough to include the congregation. He withdrew the golden key and placed it into the high warlord’s upturned palm. He snapped a quick salute, turned smartly, and marched over to sit on a wooden stool on the far side of the steps.

  Silurian jumped when Alhena grabbed his wrist. “Deep breath, my friend. We’ll get through this together.”

  Leaving Silurian alone at the base of the stage, Alhena mounted the steps and turned to face the crowd. With a loud voice, he commanded, “Be seated!”

  The hall rumbled momentarily as everyone sat.

  “By the grace of King Malcolm Alexander Svelte, The Learned, the Chamber of the Wise is now in session.” He walked across the stage and took up a place behind Abraham’s throne, facing away from the crowd with his hands clasped behind the small of his back.

  The high warlord leaned over to whisper something to Abraham.

  The chambermaster nodded several times.

  Silurian recalled Alhena’s account of Queen Quarrnaine’s demise. He had gotten the impression that Clavius and Abraham didn’t think highly of each other. Seeing the two of them together now, one might be convinced otherwise.

  Abraham got to his feet.

  The crowd rose as one, out of deference to the high bishop.

  Abraham took his time to adjust the way his robes fell, before he turned and motioned for the crowd to sit. He walked to the top of the steps, his voice booming, “First, I must apologize for our late start. Our guest of honour was delayed.”

  A murmur of discord rippled across the audience, but Abraham’s s
tern look thwarted any outburst.

  “Before we start, let me introduce to you the man we have gathered for.” Abraham extended an open hand in Silurian’s direction. “Silurian Mintaka, former king’s champion and Liberator of Zephyr. Some may know of his past deeds.”

  Disgruntled words whispered throughout the hall. ‘Coward’ and ‘Queen Killer’ but a few of the more poignant ones.

  “Some of us elders recall Zephyr’s darkest days when Silurian fought alongside King Peter, may God preserve His Grace.”

  Silurian fidgeted.

  The slurs continued from the crowd, “Where have you been, coward?” “Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage?” “Whoreson.” “You’ll get your comeuppance.”

  The chambermaster droned on, but his words were lost on Silurian. The barbs from the crowd spiraled his thoughts into the dark recesses of his mind.

  “I cannot tell you how it gladdens my heart to behold the face of a dear friend I thought never to see again.”

  Abraham gave Silurian a smile. “Get thyself up here. You need never be subservient to any, but the king.”

  Silurian swallowed his misgivings. If what Abraham claimed was true, then why had he been left at the base of the stairs? He mounted the steps and accepted the chambermaster’s outstretched hand. Abraham used his eyes to tell Silurian to turn and face the scowling crowd.

  “Just before noon today, the Chamber was informed of Silurian’s arrival, and our joyous hearts have yet to simmer. It grieves me to say that one of our first conversations ended in argument. I apologize for letting that happen.”

  Silurian pursed his lips, unable to look at anyone in the audience.

  “We had discussed the need for a foray into the Mid Savannah, and the question regarding the size of the delegation I felt needed to accompany Silurian arose. Thus, our quarrel.”

  Silurian knew how the Chamber operated. If the chambermaster decreed something be done, it was done.

  “After hearing from myself, and Silurian, I proclaim the council’s decision final. For my part, I shall remain neutral.”

  Silurian’s head snapped sideways. What was Abraham up to?

  “I trust no one assembled tonight disputes this?” Abraham spread his arms and scanned the audience. No one spoke.

  Of course not, Silurian thought. Few people in Gritian, or in all the kingdom for that matter, were brave enough to openly defy the High Bishop of Zephyr.

  “Excellent,” Abraham went on, “in the unlikely event of a standoff, High Warlord Clavius Archimedes shall make the final decision.”

  Silurian knew where the high warlord stood. He was probably the one lobbying for the armed escort in the first place.

  Silurian squinted, trying to decipher what was different about Abraham. When they had last seen each other, Abraham had been a newly appointed bishop in Castle Svelte’s clergy. Now, as the Prelate of Zephyr and chambermaster of the Chamber of the Wise, his decisions were the king’s law. Sure, he looked much older, but that wasn’t what niggled at Silurian. There was something else—subtle, but sinister. For the life of him, he couldn’t put a name to his unease.

  He stood in the middle of the platform, scrutinized by the people who had made their feelings about him clear, while Abraham droned on about how important his reemergence was to Zephyr’s welfare. About the Chamber’s duty to provide him with protection. About how incensed the king would be if he were to follow his own agenda.

  An elbow poked him in the ribs. Abraham had stopped speaking and commanded his attention.

  “This is your opportunity to speak before the Chamber,” the chambermaster said. Lowering his voice, he asked, “Are you alright?”

  Silurian stared at the wizened face, searching for the man he thought he knew. Swallowing hard, his voice squeaked at first, “I understand,” he cleared his throat. “I understand His Eminence’s position. Were I in his place, I might advocate the same course of action.” He forced himself to look into the crowd. “Chambermaster Uzziah believes I should undertake the quest under the watchful eye of the high warlord’s men. I disagree. Dragging a sizable host across the Mid Savannah wasteland is not a great idea.”

  Several chambermen coughed. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

  Silurian ignored them. “My need for haste is paramount. A large host will slow me down. If the rumours concerning the Forbidden Swamp are true, the size of the host will be irrelevant. It will only serve to attract unwanted attention.”

  He wanted to add what Seafarer had told him about travelling to Madrigail Bay, not Castle Svelte—to meet up with Saros’ disciple and rejoin Rook, who in most circles today, had already passed into legend. But he didn’t. Forefront in his mind was Abraham’s sarcastic recital to Alhena in the mess hall. Oh great. This crocodile thing gets its commands from the lord of the frogs. Well, isn’t that just swell?

  He took a long breath. “The only way to move quickly, without drawing attention, is to travel lightly. I beseech the Chamber, don’t jeopardize my mission with a perfunctory guard.”

  Silurian studied the chambermen’s faces. They didn’t appear impressed. “If it makes a difference, I request the presence of one other person.”

  All present in the Chamber leaned forward in anticipation.

  Alhena lowered his face into his hands, shaking his head.

  Abraham folded his arms, a knowing smirk upturning his lips.

  “I ask that Alhena Sirrus accompany me.”

  Incredulous guffaws sounded across the stage while the crowd exploded in outrage.

  Instead of quelling the uprising, Abraham let it run its course. With calculated patience, he gazed about, then nodded to the Chamber steward.

  The steward’s voice outstripped the clamour in the hall and the crowd ceased its chatter.

  Solomon Io and Arzachel Gruss got to their feet and ascended another fancy stairway up to the second tier to converse with the Chamber body.

  Silurian glanced at Alhena. The senior messenger’s face was grim.

  Solomon Io returned to the main stage, holding his hands out to silence small pockets of hushed conversation in the crowd. “Let the record show that the Chamber is unanimous. Silurian Mintaka’s quest to the Mid Savannah, and then unto Castle Svelte, shall be undertaken with the full support of High Warlord Archimedes’ men. Thus, it has been decreed, thus it shall be done.”

  The Wiser Path

  Rook had no idea how long he lay unconscious, utterly exhausted from his superhuman flight. After busting through the dome of terror he had never stopped to look back.

  He stirred at the bottom of a small bluff, a full day after his body had shut down. The clump of sod he sat upon was covered in the same black soot staining his clothes. He pulled his filthy tunic tight to ward off the damp morning chill and squinted into the sunlight. Upon the eastern horizon, black smoke billowed skyward in large pockets. Even from where he sat, the smell of burnt wood, and worse, turned his nose.

  Memories of his flight overwhelmed him. He envisioned the placid waters of Saros’ Swamp and the eerie silence before the chaos had taken over. He reeled as a nauseating wave of damning guilt gripped him. He had abandoned the Innerworld and now Saros was gone.

  Nothing stirred other than a swirling breeze. It seemed as if every creature living near the Mid Savannah border with the Innerworld had fled the region.

  Without thinking, he ran toward the devastation. Toward the place Seafarer and Saros had risked their lives to deliver him from.

  He needed to see it for himself. Needed to know if anything had survived.

  The ground cover blackened the closer he got. Withered plant life dotted the landscape, marring the ground with blotches of foul blackness. The only visible signs of life were carrion birds circling over what had been the Innerworld.

  His pace slackened. Nearing the destruction zone, his mind tried to reconcile what it took in. Shriveled grass crunched underfoot. Any hope of finding something alive faded with each bleak step. The border of
the Innerworld, where the edge of the dome had met with the land, was evidenced by a black smudge of barren earth, as if drawn by the hand of a giant.

  He crossed over the threshold and stopped, ankle deep in black ash. Withered carcasses of blackened trees, plants, and the remains of a few of the larger inhabitants lay twisted in death.

  He sank to his knees, tears smearing his soot covered face, and grieved all that was lost. It wasn’t until the sun had travelled deep into the western sky that he dragged his listless body out of the ashes and slumped away from the only life he knew.

  He made it as far as the scar left by the dome before he dropped to the scorched earth in a fetal position and shivered profusely—his mind numb.

  During a long, sleepless night, he struggled to pull himself together. There was nothing left for him here. Seafarer’s words fought to take root in his fleeting sanity, echoing hollowly around his shattered mind. Saros has dispatched his disciple, Thetis, to rendezvous with you and Silurian at Madrigail Bay.

  What choice did he have? He wanted nothing more than to find Helleden and kill him, but he wasn’t equal to the task. With Silurian by his side, though, they might stand a chance. Provided his friend didn’t kill everyone else around him first.

  A faint hope took root, deep down, buried beneath his grief. Everything had always seemed better when Silurian was involved—well, almost always.

  Rook forced himself to smile, the first time in days. Just a small one, but it went a long way to lift his spirits enough to carry on. Whenever the two of them had fought together, no matter the odds, they always managed to come out on top. Whenever all seemed lost, Silurian had a knack of finding a way to win. Unfortunately, at the end of their time together, Silurian’s methods had deteriorated to something less than scrupulous.

  A tear trickled down his cheek. He smudged it away with his tunic sleeve, smearing the black filth coating his face. Hunger gnawed at him. For the first time since fleeing Saros’ Swamp, he opened his rucksack. Inside, he discovered a bunch of vegetables Seafarer had packed for him. Choking a few down, he shrugged into his pack and set out with a heavy heart. Refusing to look back, he trudged into the Mid Savannah.