Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  The hall became uncomfortably quiet as the wise men and women digested Master Pul’s decree. Before long, the Chamber discussions resorted to revelling old tales of chivalry and derring-do.

  As the evening wore on, Rook leaned close to Master Pul’s ear, requesting permission to leave.

  Master Pul offered him a warm, knowing smile, and nodded his consent.

  Alhena, so engrossed in a discussion with the two men nearest him, never saw him leave.

  Exiting the cliffs, a cool breeze accosted Rook, tussling his unkempt hair. He strolled through the quiet town, acknowledging whomever he passed. The locals, well of aware of his presence by now, greeted him warmly, even if they did cast him a furtive glance after he passed. The sun had dropped behind the western peaks, bathing the town in lengthening shadows.

  At one point, he crossed paths with the Father Cloth of Songsbirth. He stopped to chat with him for a short while before the Father blessed him and continued on his way. As darkness settled over the mountain hamlet, Rook made his way along the gravel beach.

  A person sat atop a large rock, beside the skiff that had brought them across the lake. A small fire burned before one of the Splendoor Catacombs Guard—the taller brunette female that had propelled the skiff. His bow lay in her hands.

  She didn’t look up at his approach, but he sensed she had been aware of his presence long before he was of hers. He stopped across the crackling flames, appreciating the warmth, his stomach strangely aflutter.

  She gazed up at him with large, brown eyes, and smiled. “I hope you don’t mind, Sir Rook. I’ve been tasked with warding your belongings.”

  “Aye, so I’ve been told,” Rook said trying to think of something clever to add. Anything. For some reason the words wouldn’t come. His eyes flicked to his quiver sitting beside the rock. It was full of newly fletched arrows.

  She took off her suede cap, shaking out long, thick, brown hair. “I hear we’re leaving tomorrow.”

  Rook needed to sit down. He had been watching her for the last couple of days but hadn’t been able to work up the nerve to engage her in conversation.

  “I’m sorry if I overstep my authority, but I just had to admire your bow. The workmanship is exquisite.” She trailed off, looking sheepishly at the rocks at her feet.

  “No,” Rook squeaked. His cheeks flushed. Controlling his voice, he continued, “No. It’s alright. In fact, I, uh, am glad you’re taking care of it, um, for me. Thank you, uh…” For the life of him he didn’t remember if anyone had mentioned her name. If they had, there was no way he was going to remember it now.

  She saved him. “Larina.”

  “Larina. A pretty name.” He felt foolish.

  She gazed into his eyes.

  He thought for sure his knees would give out.

  The moonlight reflected off the lake, basking her in a halo. A touch of colour flushed her freckled cheeks.

  Rook, embarrassed beyond belief, couldn’t keep from gawking at her pretty face. He tried to break his stare, but instead, he just stood there like an oaf. In a desperate attempt to avert the awkward silence, he blurted out, “Will, uh, I-I mean, would you care for a drink?”

  Wow. It had been so long since he had spoken to a woman this way. He felt like he was butchering the whole affair miserably.

  She moved over to allow him to sit beside her, smiling shyly.

  He all but fell into the fire.

  Up the Spine

  Shivers tingled up Silurian’s spine, rousing him from an unusually sound sleep. Eyes wide, he tried to locate whatever had woken him. Eerie. The only word to explain the feeling gripping him.

  Silurian and Avarick had set up camp high in the crags of the Spine, two days south of Madrigail Bay. A three-quarter moon hung far out over the Niad Ocean, basking the mountain in a soft glow. Long, ghostly shadows stretched about their makeshift campsite. They had ridden hard along Niad’s Course, over a week since crossing Treacher’s Gorge, following a circuitous mountain trail northward, traversing the shoulder of one mountain after another, paralleling the impassable Niad Ocean shoreline far below.

  Silurian wasn’t happy about how long it had taken them to travel the mountain trail, but he was content that they had made the best time possible considering the terrain.

  He propped himself up on his right elbow and scanned the darkness, his woollen blanket tumbling from his shoulder. Something was out there, watching. Something close. The goose flesh prickling his skin had little to do with the cold breeze buffeting the lofty heights.

  Low lying fog obscured most of the mountainside. Their horses were tethered to a stand of pines off to his right, next to a babbling rill that glimmered through the mist in the silvery light of the moon.

  He studied the animals, wondering if something they had done had caused him to waken. The visible vapour escaping their muzzles in regular intervals told him they hadn’t sensed anything out of place.

  He questioned his anxiety. The fact that he travelled alone with an assassin who had openly professed his desire to kill him, might give him cause to worry, but he knew that wasn’t it. The Enervator, other than being gruff, had actually been cordial with him so far. Who was he to gainsay anyone for being gruff?

  A sudden loud snore on his left proved Avarick didn’t share his unease. Silurian studied the man for a time. What were his motives?

  He scanned Niad’s Course. The path passed below their camp and disappeared into the shadows and mist in both directions.

  Trolls? He didn’t think so. Trolls weren’t as prevalent along this section of the Spine. At least they weren’t the last time he had travelled this way. They preferred the northern climes, specifically the Altirius Mountains.

  He shook his head.

  He often felt this way after a disturbing dream, but he hadn’t had one for some time. Since the day after he and Alhena had met with Seafarer at the Mountain Pools. That seemed like such a long time ago. What had it been? Over four weeks? He’d lost track. He took another slow look around before settling under the scant warmth of his blanket. Lying on his back with his hands cupped behind his head, it took him a long time to drift off again.

  Silurian’s eyes snapped open. Something was out there. And it was close. Something watched their camp. More specifically, it watched him.

  Wide, luminescent green eyes stared down at him from the darkness directly above.

  He stared back. There weren’t many times in his life that he’d been truly afraid, but he was spooked now. He hadn’t felt this way since the days he and Melody lived on the slopes of Mount Cinder, far to the north, chased from cave to cave by a troll they had affectionately referred to as Hairy.

  He needed to gain his feet and prepare to face whatever lay behind those eyes, but to his horror, he froze. A cold sweat washed over him. He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them again.

  He wasn’t imagining it. The eyes shone brightly in the moonlight.

  He garnered the nerve to turn his head sideways. Avarick slept soundly, oblivious to the imminent threat. He should wake him.

  A guttural growl brought his attention back to the set of eyes floating in the black nothingness. The creature must be peering at him from the ledge high above their campsite.

  The descending moon drifted behind a cloud. The clearing darkened and the glowing eyes disappeared.

  Silurian jumped to his feet and stumbled sideways, his feet entangled in his bedroll.

  “Thwart!” Kicking his feet back and forth in a panic, he found his voice, “Get up, man!” He kicked the sheets into the night and scrambled sideways, searching for those damned eyes.

  “What the…” The Enervator stirred. “Silurian?”

  “Shhh!” Silurian hissed. “Something’s up there. On the ledge.” He backed away from the ridge, stumbling blindly over a small rock, onto the path. He caught his balance but when the horses gave a sudden start, he nearly backed over the cliff on the far side of the trail.

  “What are you doing?”
Avarick’s disembodied voice called to him.

  Before Silurian could answer, the growl sounded beside his left leg. He froze and looked into a pair of haunting, green eyes. At his feet, a mountain cat hunkered down, poised to strike.

  His breath caught in his throat. His weapons lay by the discarded bedroll, lost in the darkness. They may as well have been on the other side of the mountain.

  The horses whinnied and stamped, straining against their ropes.

  As the waning moonlight faded toward the darkest part of night, deep growls rose up around the camp. The horses pulled at their leads trying to break free.

  Silurian thought he saw Avarick backing away from two huge forms lumbering out of the shadows.

  Movement near the horses caught his attention. Two of his childhood nightmares loped toward him—two pairs of yellow eyes refracting the dim moonlight.

  He grimaced. So much for his theory about the scarcity of trolls this far south. He contemplated his chances of retrieving his weapons. Even if he was fast enough to elude the trolls’ advance, surely the cat would be on him before he took his first step.

  The cat emitted a low growl and hunkered down.

  Silurian braced himself for the worst. If he was quick enough to dodge out of its way, the cat might leap over the edge of the cliff. He admonished himself. He was panicking.

  He flinched as the cat took two powerful strides and lunged into the air, taking the nearest troll in the throat and forcing it to the ground.

  He bolted for his bedroll. On hands and knees, he located his discarded blanket, but not his sword.

  Off to the side, Avarick battled two enormous trolls in the poor light.

  Silurian didn’t have much time. The third troll, the one not engaged by the mountain cat, loped after him. He slapped at the ground in a frenzy as a shadow fell over him.

  The troll emitted a ferocious howl, lifting its hairy arms out wide.

  Silurian’s left hand made contact with a familiar object. Jumping to his feet, he spun to face the threat, his left hand discarding an empty sheath behind him. His sword swung out wide, opening a long gash across the troll’s matted chest—a high-pitched scream escaped its lips.

  In his heightened state of awareness, fueled by raging adrenaline, Silurian was acutely aware of everything around him.

  The trolls closing on Avarick had lost their focus for only a moment, but that was all it took for Avarick to gut the nearest beast. Before the second troll had time to react, its severed head bounced with a hollow thud off a small boulder and careened down the sloping edge of the encampment and across the path to where it disappeared over the brink of a three-thousand-foot cliff.

  The horses pulled violently upon their ropes, whinnying louder than before.

  Barely visible from where Silurian stood panting, the last troll had gained the upper hand on the cat, but what the cat gave away in size it made up for with speed and agility. Unfortunately for the cat, a troll’s thick hide made it difficult to maim.

  The cat shrieked, snapping, twisting, and clawing faster than Silurian’s eyes were able to follow as the troll fell on it, craning its neck to tear the cat’s throat out.

  Silurian’s blade took the beast below its rib cage, its razor-sharp edge scraping up the beast’s spine and exiting its neck. He shoved at its heavy corpse with the bottom of his boot and promptly slipped on the blood left behind by its gory wound.

  His foot slid out from underneath him so fast he didn’t have time to catch himself. His head bounced off the rocky ground with a crack—a white light flashed inside his head.

  Stunned, blackness began to narrow his vision. The shimmering moon set upon the distant horizon, slipping out from behind a storm cloud, its light dimming as his consciousness dwindled.

  A low growl sounded above his face. Luminescent green eyes stared down at him.

  The Mighty Madrigail

  Madrigail Lake rolled softly in the early morning breeze, the slight chop breaking upon the gravel shore fronting Songsbirth. Grey clouds roiled overhead as Alhena approached the stern of the large rowboat they had arrived in a few days before. He lugged two heavily laden, burlap sacks, supplies given to him by the council of elders. He felt groggy after the copious amount of spirits he had imbibed the night before in the company of his old friends. Bemoaning his foolish decision to partake in the spirits, he silently cursed the prospect of rain as his wispy hair whipped about his face.

  The beach bustled with fishermen and warriors preparing for the day. Before Alhena reached the boat, the sound of gravel crunching beneath rapidly moving feet announced the arrival of the massive Songsbirthian guardsman.

  Pollard’s deep voice sounded with respect, a nice change from the haughtiness he had exhibited when they first met, “Let me take those for you, Senior Messenger.” Without waiting for a response, Pollard relieved him of his burden, hoisting the bulging sacks like they were empty, and placing them into the skiff.

  “My thanks, Pollard…?”

  “Banebridge. Pollard Banebridge, son of Thoril of Stormsend.”

  “Banebridge, that is right. My memory is not what it used to be.” Alhena cupped his chin in thought. “Stormsend, eh? Thoril, the Kraidic Crusher?”

  “Heh.” The large man’s smile was scary. “That would be my grandfather.”

  “Right, right…” Alhena rubbed at his bearded chin, and then, as if he needed something to say while he mulled over long lost memories, he asked, “How tall are you? You must be well over seven feet.”

  “Eight-foot three.”

  “Eight-foot three, eh? Yes,” Alhena said absently. Opening his eyes wide, he took in Pollard’s stature, as if seeing him for the first time. The hand cupping his chin shot out as he snapped his fingers. “Your family is from Stormsend!”

  Pollard nodded.

  “Your grandsire is Thoril, the Kraidic Crusher…”

  Pollard raised his eyebrows.

  “And your father is Thoril! Named after your grandfather,” Alhena said with conviction.

  “Aye.”

  “Thoril of Stormsend…He is an elder.”

  “Master of Stormsend, actually.”

  “Right, right…right.” Alhena ran his tongue over the front of his teeth. “Your father is missing the last two fingers on his left hand.”

  “How do you—?”

  “He lost them defending the old king, Peter Malcolm Svelte, at the Battle of Lugubrius.”

  “That’s right. You knew him?”

  “Knew him? Knew him? Of course, I knew him. He and I trained in the King’s Guard together.”

  Pollard shook his head. “You were in the King’s Guard?”

  “Hmm? Me? No. Well, not exactly,” Alhena said, trying to remember where he was going with his thought. “Oh yes, your father. Poor man. He never recovered from the guilt of not being able to save the king, did he?”

  Pollard bowed his head. “No, he hasn’t. He still feels responsible to this day.”

  “Bah!” Alhena wagged his finger, his white eyes intense. “Do not believe that. Your father was a great warrior. Is still, I bet. If they only knew how many demons he cut down before our position was overrun. Shy of slaying the entire minion horde, there was nothing your father could have done to alter that fateful day. I should know.”

  Alhena’s voice dropped to a reverent hush. “I was the king’s personal aide. I was with him when he fell. Your father…” Alhena’s eyes moistened, “…saved me that day. He stood bravely over His Grace’s body, dealing death to any who got near. Slaying beast after demonic beast with such fury that we survived to witness the Group of Five ride in and change the tide of battle.” As an afterthought, he mumbled, “If only they had gotten there sooner.”

  Pollard gave him a sympathetic grin and patted him on the shoulder. “I thank you for that, messenger Alhena.” He turned quietly and walked back toward the gathering town elders standing upon the edge of the shelf rock fronting the gravel beach.

  Alhena hea
ved a heavy sigh. Watching Pollard crunch away from him, his attention was drawn to the far side of the boat. Two figures sat beside each other on a rock only big enough for one. Rook sat with his back to him, engrossed in a conversation with one of the female archers—Lena, or something like that.

  Captain Holmann of the Splendoor Catacombs guard, and Guardell Caulder, interrupted Alhena’s observation of the two archers, as they stepped free of the elders, each carrying a small crate of supplies.

  Pollard put his fingers to his lips and whistled.

  Larina gave Rook a quick peck on the cheek and jumped into action. She rushed over to relieve the captain of his burden and lugged it to one of the larger boats anchored nearby, waist deep, in the choppy water.

  Alhena noted the other female archer, Sadyra—he thought he had heard her called that in passing—with the auburn hair, also helping load supplies for the return leg.

  Sure enough, the rain held…until they were halfway across the lake. The skies opened up in a blinding deluge of icy darts, lashing their faces and soaking them through, even with tarpaulins clutched tightly about them.

  The usual hour-long trip across the mountain lake took them over two. By the time the noise of Splendoor Falls reached them above the raging storm, those not paddling were sore from bailing.

  Larina and Sadyra paddled wide of the enormous pull of the falls and butted the craft against the same shelf Alhena and Rook had used to pull themselves out of the lake a few days ago.

  Larina had pled to accompany the quest to Madrigail Bay, but the council of elders had only appointed Sadyra and Pollard. Standing forlornly on the ledge, shivering in her wet suede uniform, she gave Rook a sad wave as he followed the others through the stone hatch and into the depths of the Splendoor Catacombs.