Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  “Yes, I guess, but knowing what people are capable of, I cannot blame them.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Heh-heh, that is something you will learn.”

  “You said there were two reasons.”

  “Aye. The second one, as far as Zephyr is concerned, is more important. The Forbidden Swamp acts as a buffer between Zephyr and the Wilds.”

  Silurian still sat upon his mount. He drank from his waterskin and listened.

  “A buffer? For what?” Bregens asked.

  Alhena drew a long breath. “Let us just say, there are things that inhabit the Wilds that are better off left there.”

  “Things? Like what? People?”

  Silurian pulled up on his reins, directing his horse away from the stream. His harsh voice startled them. “You talk too much, kid. Give it a rest. Mount up and let’s be off.”

  They rode deep into the Gritian Hills—a tactic that was unlikely to throw off the warlord’s bloodhounds for long, but it might buy them the time they needed to rest for the night. None of them had slept much since the previous morning at the Farrier homestead.

  It was Alhena who finally called their flight to a halt, well into the night. “The horses need rest. We are lucky they have lasted this long. It will not do to drive them into the ground.”

  Locating a deep hollow to set up for the night, it took a great deal of coaxing to lead their mounts into it. Lost in the shadows at the bottom of the depression lay a stagnant pool of water—green and smelling of rot.

  Choking down a cold meal, Silurian disappeared back up the steep embankment to assume first watch. A cool wind greeted him as he crested the top. The first signs of a storm rolled in from the west.

  Alhena and Bregens huddled beneath rough wool blankets Bregens had secured from the militia stores in the barn. Trying to find a spot level enough to lie on wasn’t easy.

  Alhena sensed Bregens facing him, wide awake. “How fair you, young Bregens?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t rightly know how to express my feelings to one as experienced in the ways of fighting men as you are.”

  Alhena frowned but allowed Bregens to continue.

  “I’m afraid of the punishment awaiting me should Clavius catch us.”

  Alhena nodded. “Aye, Clavius will not be pleased. I am sure his anger will fall upon myself and Silurian, however. You are not to blame.”

  “You can’t say that. I gave you the horses. We’re in this together and that’s what really troubles me.”

  “How so?”

  “Sir Silurian. He despises me. He hasn’t spoken a word all day except to tell me to shut up. I shouldn’t have come.”

  “Do not say that. You could not remain behind. Like you say, Archimedes would have flogged you for allowing us to depart without his protection. He might have handed you over to his dog, the Enervator. I pity anyone suffering that fate.”

  Bregens gulped. “I guess, but I’m the reason Sir Silurian is uneasy.”

  “I am not sure I follow you.”

  Bregens elaborated, “Silurian’s not happy I’m here. He probably thinks I’m useless in a fight.”

  Silence fell over the bottom of the hollow. Alhena sensed Bregens had more to say so he bided his time listening to cricket chatter and the throaty croaks of frogs inhabiting the stagnant water.

  “I might be young, but I can handle myself. I just think he’d be happier come morning if I were gone far away from here.”

  “Tsk. Do not talk like that. I have travelled many leagues with Sire Mintaka. Believe me when I say he is not a social beast at the best of times.”

  “There’s more to it than that. Not speaking often is one thing, but not saying anything all day except to chew me out, is quite another.”

  Alhena had only known Silurian for a short while, but he had gotten to know the man better than anyone else had for the last two decades. “Sir Silurian is a troubled man. The weight of Zephyr rests upon his shoulders and I do not think he believes he is up to the task the kingdom expects. Your presence is a variable he had not planned for.”

  “Exactly. He feels responsible for me.”

  Alhena raised his eyebrows. The kid was right.

  “I hope I get to prove my worthiness to Sir Silurian. He needn’t worry. I can handle a sword.”

  Alhena grimaced at Bregens’ bravado. He hadn’t yet learned that one should be careful what they wished for. “Fret not. He will come around. Believe me, you will know when he accepts you. When that day comes, he will angrily warn you to stop calling him Sir. Only then will he consider you a friend.”

  Morning came quickly, grey and cold, laden with a light rain. Bregens had taken last watch. When the day had brightened enough to see by, he slipped down the slick grass into the depression to wake Silurian and Alhena, but they were already up—sleep impossible in the chilly drizzle.

  Silurian led his mount up the steep banks, pulling hard on the reins, mindful of the footing to reduce the risk of his horse slipping. Bregens and Alhena struggled in single file behind him. Cresting the rim of the hole, he was ill prepared for the sight awaiting them.

  A tall knight astride a large, black stallion watched them lead their horses out of the hollow—his face hidden beneath a dull grey, flat topped helm.

  The knight and his mount were draped in forest green surcoats. Emblazoned upon a field of yellow sat twelve high backed chairs surrounding a golden eye in the middle.

  Silurian’s heart sank, recognizing the Chamber of the Wise coat-of-arms. He looked around, expecting to be surrounded by the warlord’s men, but the knight appeared to be alone.

  No one had heard him approach, not even Silurian. For all they knew, the knight had lain in wait for them all night.

  The man pulled off his helm and placed it on his saddle horn, a smug smile parting his black goatee. A two-handed crossbow, loaded with a barbed quarrel, sat casually upon his lap.

  Silurian noted the golden knot of office on the man’s shoulder. The badge of the Enervator. The Chamber’s whip.

  Alhena jumped, while Bregens noticeably paled.

  Before either one of them had time to fully appreciate the ramifications of the knight’s presence, a metallic hiss announced Silurian’s sword escaping the shoulder baldric he preferred to carry it in while riding.

  The knight pointed the crossbow at him. “Ah, the Queen Killer. How quaint. Tempt me, I beg you.”

  Alhena stepped between them, motioning for Silurian to lower his sword. “Come now, Thwart, even you wouldn’t dare loose that bolt on Silurian Mintaka.”

  Thwart’s eyes darted toward Bregens.

  Alhena frowned. “Really, Avarick? Harm a young militia man? He’s barely older than a boy. We forced him to come against his will.”

  The Enervator regarded Alhena with contempt. Suddenly his foot shot out, clipping Alhena on the shoulder. Alhena’s staff flew from his hands as he tumbled to the ground.

  Silurian advanced upon the knight.

  “Halt, Queen Killer. Make no mistake. I will kill you.”

  Silurian winced at the unfair honourific that had been bestowed upon him by an ungrateful people—he had heard it spoken often enough by the cowards who had attended the Chamber meeting. He debated his options as he faced the business end of the barbed quarrel pointed between his eyes.

  If he had been twenty years younger, the impertinent Enervator would already be dead. He stepped back a pace, never taking his eyes from the crossbow.

  “Who is this horse’s arse?” Silurian asked, frustrated at his inability to deal with him.

  Bregens answered in a wavering voice. “The Enervator of Gritian.” He attempted to look the man in the face but when Avarick glanced his way, he dropped his gaze to the ground, muttering, “A very powerful and deadly man.”

  Silurian already knew that. He studied the Enervator, taking his measure, searching for a weakness to exploit. He knew all about Enervators. The hand that meted out the Chamber’s justice. Hired as
sassins, really. Silurian had been out of the public eye for a long time, but there was something familiar about this one.

  Stepping back to stand beside Alhena, Silurian recalled the name Alhena had mentioned. Avarick. He had heard that name before. A long time ago.

  Avarick addressed Bregens, “Yes, Bregens Farrier. When old man Archimedes said you deserted your post, I wasn’t surprised.”

  Bregens scowled.

  “I can smell cowards like you a league away.”

  Bregens withdrew his sword and started toward the horseman. Alhena grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back.

  “I shan’t hesitate to dispatch a deserter. As far as old man Archimedes is concerned, your life is already forfeited. I can hardly wait until he hands you over to me,” Avarick said raising his eyebrows twice in quick succession.

  Alhena stepped in front of the boy, his staff back in hand. “You’ll have to go through me.”

  The Enervator snorted. “Your frail corpse will do little to impede my quarrel. You’re nothing but an old man who carries useless bits of paper around. You’ve no more standing than the coward.”

  Silurian nodded to himself, gaining the perspective he needed to deal with the insolent man. He walked confidently up to the Enervator, who instantly trained the crossbow on him.

  “Halt, Queen Killer.”

  Ignoring the threat, Silurian slapped the man’s leather boot from its stirrup and yanked him from his saddle. The quarrel fell harmlessly away as Avarick threw his arms out to break his fall.

  Silurian stood over him. “But you won’t harm me. I’m needed.”

  The Enervator glared at him. He scrambled to his knees. Locating the errant bolt, he reloaded the crossbow upon an upraised knee.

  “If you so much as lay a hand on either one of them again, make no mistake, I will kill you,” Silurian snarled.

  Avarick spat his disgust and lowered the crossbow. He got to his feet and squared to face him. Less than a whisker separated their faces.

  “No, Queen Killer, you make no mistake. When this business is over, you are mine.”

  Alhena’s voice cut the tension, “Quiver your quarrel and begone, Thwart. You hold no jurisdiction here.”

  “You forget your station old man. My office has no bounds.” The man sneered, gathering his reins and adjusting his saddle.

  Thwart? The name triggered something in Silurian’s distant memory. Alhena had called him Avarick. Avarick Thwart. Could he be the same man?

  The Enervator appeared about the same age. Now that he thought more about it, the man bore the same heraldic symbols that he had worn back then. Suddenly, Silurian recalled the conversation he had overheard in the king’s box all those years ago between the then, Prince Malcolm, and his younger brother, Prince Nicholas. ‘Headstrong, that one,’ had been Malcolm’s words. It made sense.

  “The Royal Tournament,” Silurian said.

  Avarick didn’t pay him any attention. He put his left boot into the near stirrup.

  “Twenty-seven years ago. In, Millsford, I believe. Yes, Millsford.”

  Leather creaked and tack jingled as Avarick mounted. Adjusting his posture and finding the other stirrup, he ignored Silurian’s odd ramblings.

  “I believe the tournament was supposed to have been held in Ember Breath that year, but for some reason I can’t recall, it was moved. A flood or a storm or something?”

  Avarick snarled, “What are you on about?”

  Silurian sheathed his sword behind his back, walked toward his own horse and checked the cinch. Adjusting his pack, he made sure his gear was securely bound to the saddle. Satisfied, he walked his mount closer to Avarick. “That’s where I’ve seen you before.”

  “So.”

  “You were headstrong even then. A hotshot, if I recall King Malcolm’s sentiments correctly. Of course, Malcolm was just a prince then.”

  The Enervator’s brows drew together in a scowl. “Watch yourself, Queen Killer.”

  “You were one of the favourites to win the tournament, but you drew the local entrant—a farm boy, no less.” He paused to look pointedly at Bregens. “And you were beaten. Soundly,” Silurian finished, offering the Enervator a smug smile of his own.

  Avarick Thwart glared at him for a long while, recollection evident in his eyes. Silurian could tell that that particular tournament still held a raw edge in the Enervator’s mind, even after all these years.

  “Bah! The kid got lucky.” He pulled hard on his horse’s bit, stopping the mount from grazing at Silurian’s feet.

  “Lucky?” Silurian laughed. “That farm boy was Javen Milford.”

  The Enervator shrugged.

  “He went on to become a member of the Group of Five.”

  Avarick yawned. He turned to Alhena. “Don’t think I’m leaving you, old man. My job is to bring traitors to justice.” He turned back and spat, nearly hitting Silurian. “As for you, Queen Killer, mark my words. When this is over, when the king no longer needs you, I shall deliver unto you my own justice.”

  Thunder sounded in the distance. A bad storm was rolling in.

  Lightning lashed the landscape as four drenched horsemen rode northward over the rolling Gritian Hills in silent misery. It rained steadily all morning, growing heavier as the day wore on. At one point their path was blocked by the wide course of the Calder River. The swollen river ran swift, sweeping storm debris northward where it eventually crossed Redfire Path on its way around the Muse to join the mighty Madrigail River at Millsford. It took them a long time to find a section shallow enough for the horses to cross. When they did, they had to dismount and lead them.

  By mid-afternoon, Silurian second guessed his sense of direction. Their course took them up the side of a high embankment—the ground between the rise and the river, an impassable marshland.

  Cresting the top of the lofty berm, they carried on, wary of an ominous drop-off to their right.

  All heads turned skyward despite the drenching rainfall as the sky darkened further. Horizontally flying rain stung their eyes in the face of the wind. Complete concentration was required to maintain control of the terrified horses and keep them moving forward.

  Jagged bolts of lightning zigzagged every which way. Thunder detonated and shook the ground, causing the frightened animals to rear up on their hind legs. The poor visibility made it hard for them to stick together. They needed to find a place to shelter, but exposed high upon the berm, there was no place to hide.

  They approached a lone elm bent incredibly by the wind; rooted precariously to the eastern face of the hill. Silurian coaxed his roan past the whip like tree, followed loosely by Bregens, Avarick and Alhena.

  The sky lit up with a blinding flash. The hair on Silurian’s body stood on end as lightning arced to the tree he had just passed—an electric zap filling the air. His horse tried to throw him.

  By the time he reasserted a measure of control over his mount, the elm tree had disappeared—dropping over a hundred feet into the gloom below. He struggled to coerce his mount toward the smoking remnants. He glanced to the east and shivered. Was this how the Forbidden Swamp had been destroyed?

  Bregens and Avarick were off their horses, fighting hard to keep them in check.

  Silurian pulled up short of the impact area—his mount refusing to get any closer. The lightning strike had not only taken the tree over the edge, but a large section of the cliff side as well.

  His blood ran cold.

  Of Alhena, there was no sign.

  Strange Irony

  Rook wasn’t sure how the sentry hadn’t spotted him when the Kraidic war band broke camp. Perhaps the impending storm blowing in from the west triggered the oversight.

  When the last of the warriors disappeared over the next rise, he had trouble moving. He remained stock still, buried beneath the bottom boughs of the lofty pine and afraid to breathe, for the entire night. Cramped muscles, an aching back, and scratched skin had him feeling like he’d been punched repeatedly by a cactus.
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  He followed the Kraidic warriors southward, a course paralleling Redfire Path somewhere to the west. Thunder rolled in and before long the first droplets of rain rang off their armour.

  Rook trailed their progress from a ridge line, staying well back, checking and rechecking that no one followed him. It wasn’t long before the storm kicked into full force. Torrential rain and buffeting winds assaulted everyone travelling the Gritian Hills.

  Tailing the enemy force, Rook pondered their destination. If they had travelled this far south of Castle Svelte, their intended target must be Gritian and the Chamber of the Wise. He debated the merits of trying to get ahead of them and warn the Gritian militia, against the cost of losing track of them in case he was wrong.

  Wherever they were headed, they were a well-disciplined troop, maintaining tight formations as they ran even with the geographical and environmental issues they were forced to deal with in the untamed Gritian Hills.

  The band never stopped to eat the whole day. When a cold wind blew in and the overcast sky opened up, Rook estimated it to be mid-afternoon.

  Forked lightning flashed continuously, followed by booming thunder that rumbled in from every direction. He lost sight of the band more than once in the incessant deluge and had to scramble to find them again—their forced march barely slowed by of the storm.

  A jagged lightning bolt struck a high embankment to the southwest—the ensuing thunderclap rocked the land. From that point on, the storm receded to the east. After another hour, the wind moved on, taking the cold rain with it.

  At first Rook had thought the storm’s cessation was a good thing but the Kraidic warriors picked up their pace. He had to practically run to keep from losing them. It was impressive how fast the heavily armoured, pack and weapon laden men were able to move, especially after slogging through the severe weather. If Gritian was their target, the Chamber was in serious peril.

  When night fell, the skies cleared. The Kraidic warriors pitched camp at the bottom of a deep ravine. Rook figured they wouldn’t move again until dawn so he backtracked a safe distance away and located a relatively dry spot tucked beneath a rocky overhang, two gullies west of the band’s position.