Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  “Fear me not, Silurian Mintaka. Long have I awaited this day.” The haggard creature gazed at Silurian with watery, yellowed orbs that were barely distinguishable amongst the wizened folds of his cheeks. He offered a shaky paw. “I am Wendglow, leader of these beautiful peoples.”

  Long have I awaited this day? Speechless, Silurian watched the little creature extend his twisted digits in greeting. He reluctantly shook the proffered paw.

  Out of nowhere, two younger Voil scampered over to their location carrying a well-used, wooden armchair covered in layers of multi-coloured material. The aged creature gave his assistants a curt nod and sank into the chair’s folds.

  The diminutive aides scurried away.

  The ancient Voil took in all those around him. “For those of you who didn’t hear, I am Wendglow.” His voice, gravelly with age, carried well. “I am the accepted leader of the Voil. On behalf of my peoples I offer a heartfelt welcome to you, our guests from a far-off land.”

  Wendglow turned his attention to Silurian. “I apologize on behalf of my people for the deplorable greeting you received at the hands of one of our elders. Allow me to explain to you the events that led to things getting out of hand.”

  Silurian fidgeted under the scrutiny of the bizarre creature.

  Wendglow nodded to Thetis, sitting at the next table. Judging by the space the Voil gave her, they weren’t overly keen about her presence.

  “I also must ask the forgiveness of fair Thetis. Perhaps we have judged you prematurely, hmm? We left you to fend for yourself in the wilds of the Marrow Wash. Not many survive the river’s banks when the light is extinguished. Fortunate for you, the Sentinel’s attention lay elsewhere.”

  “Thank you, Master Wendglow. Without your timely intervention our quest would surely have been lost.” Thetis said, her sweet voice a mollifying charm.

  Wendglow’s thin lips offered her a faint smile—one that Silurian construed to be fake.

  Wendglow raised his voice, his eyes taking in the entire company from the Gerrymander. “I don’t know where to begin, so I shall start by saying that, yes, the ceiling lighting can, and did, place you under an enchantment. You likely experienced a sweet aroma as well. More theurgy.”

  A ripple of conversation broke out amongst the quest members. Pollard stood, crossing his arms. The muttering stopped.

  “You are right to be upset. Let me assure you, these measures are taken for your safety, and indeed, our own. When darkness falls, the Sentinel roams. The demon is too large to enter our tunnels, but he is able to control one’s mind from quite a distance.”

  More muttering sounded. Pollard’s scowl curtailed it.

  “The enchantments are in place to combat the Sentinel’s psionic ability. A type of mind control, if you will. Until you are deep into our cliffside home, you are susceptible to the Sentinel’s reach. Many Voil also possess a psionic ability, but nowhere near the strength of the Sentinel. Those Voil in question, though, are unaffected by the enchantments we put into place. Menthliot was one of those whose job it was to control the hypnotic effect.” Wendglow paused, letting his words sink in.

  “Unfortunately, Silurian somehow blocked the effects of our protective enchantment. More unfortunate, for Menthliot indeed, while trying to entice Silurian into the effects of the charm, his concentration lapsed, and the Sentinel entered his mind as well as a few others. Menthliot was powerless to resist. He became a conduit for the Sentinel. We tried…” Wendglow’s voice dropped off, his eyes glossy.

  After a few moments the Voil leader regained his composure. “We lost many good people last night in our futile attempts at wresting them from the Sentinel’s grasp.” He stared at Silurian. “We feared we had lost you.”

  Silurian was taken aback. Lost me? He had never met these creatures before yesterday. “If what you say is true, then why were we not warned about the hypnotic charm before you allowed us entry?”

  Wendglow nodded several times. “Many times before have we offered sanctuary to wayward travellers. On each occasion we held out a false hope that the voyagers were the ones mentioned in our legends. If they were able to survive the portal, it seemed plausible that they were also capable of harnessing the river’s power. On each occasion, we were sadly mistaken.”

  The Voil elder pursed his lips, considering his next words. “We sheltered them and showed them the way, but they were either killed by the river’s touch, or driven mad. The few who survived the river’s touch fell victim to its power. Each time, they went on to lay waste to everything around them, including our people. Learning from our mistakes, we developed a trial to challenge those wishing to attempt the river. The trial is designed to bring little harm to the candidates. Thus far, none have passed.”

  “Until now,” Thorr’s voice sounded from Thetis’ table. He nodded toward Silurian.

  Wendglow laughed. “Hah! He didn’t pass the test. He ruined it. Because of Silurian’s unforeseen response, Menthliot was forced to change the way he conducted the test and it cost him his life.”

  Silurian scowled. “Harmless testing? I almost died.”

  “That was the Sentinel. Let me explain. Our testing centres around the control we exert while the subject’s mind is under our enchantment. When you weren’t affected, we scrambled to keep you in check. It mattered little that we couldn’t conduct the test. We feared the Sentinel might assume control of your mind before we were able to get you into the deep safety of our home. Judging by your response, that would have been disastrous.”

  Alhena stood up beside Thorr. “So, Silurian beat your test.”

  Wendglow shook his head. “Silurian proved he is the last person we want attempting the river. If he were to succumb to its evil touch, he will end up killing us all. He is far too dangerous. We forbid it.”

  The Sword of Saint Carmichael

  Wendglow struggled to gain his feet. Every member of the quest stared, openmouthed.

  Thorr jumped to his feet and grabbed the frail creature by the arm to help him stand clear of the special chair. “Forbid it? What do you mean, forbid? Silurian must harness the river’s power, or everything we have endured has been for naught.”

  Wendglow glanced at the sea captain’s hands clutching his arm. “We forbid Silurian, or anyone else from your expedition for that matter, to approach the river. You have no idea what you are up against. It is much too dangerous. Now, if you’ll kindly release me.”

  Thorr let him go.

  The Voil leader waited for his handlers to remove his chair and followed them from the cavern.

  “Master Wendglow?” Thetis’ voice stopped him. “May I walk with you?”

  Wendglow half turned. He gave her a long once over before gazing into her indigo eyes. “If you must.”

  Thetis caught up to him in the passageway—half a dozen armed Voil forming up behind them, and then they were gone.

  The quest members glanced at Rook.

  The bowman shrugged.

  The bustle in the cavern had long since died off. A handful of Voil still lingered about, attending the quest member’s whims, but for the most part, the company from Gerrymander had the hall to themselves.

  Silurian’s eyes were closed. He rested his head within the crook of his arms upon the table. He sensed the movement of many creatures close by, and sat up, blinking.

  A group of armed Voil entered the cavern. He instinctively reached for the Sacred Sword Voil strapped over his back but let go of the hilt when Thetis and Wendglow entered on their heels. Thetis led the ancient creature by a frail arm.

  Wendglow’s chair was brought forth and placed beside Silurian. His mole covered face smiled at those around the table as he lowered himself slowly into the chair’s embrace.

  The Voil elder allowed Thetis the courtesy of finding a chair herself before he addressed the quest. “I have erred in my judgment, Sir Silurian Mintaka.”

  Silurian blinked.

  “Thetis has enlightened us about many of our misconceptions, espe
cially where she is concerned. I fear we almost cast away our only chance at leaving this realm through our misguided treatment of Saros’ disciple.”

  Silurian stole a glance across the table at Thetis—her smile barely perceptible.

  “The Elder Council agrees with poor Menthliot. He was certain you were the one, but the rest of the council disagreed, feeling it prudent to let matters lie. I cannot blame them. We have endured much despair at the hands of those who have come before. After speaking with fair Thetis, however, we, the Elder Council, decree that you, Silurian Mintaka, are indeed the warrior mentioned in our histories. Twice have you proven yourself capable. You overcame the Sentinel’s advances into our home.” Wendglow paused out of respect for Menthliot. “More importantly, I am told, you are personally responsible for banishing Helleden from your realm, many years ago.”

  Silurian’s cheeks reddened. He had no idea what Thetis had filled the Elder Council’s heads with. There were a lot more people responsible for defeating Helleden at the Battle of Lugubrius than just himself. He had merely been the one to thrust the sword. As it turned out, he hadn’t eliminated the threat at all, but if the Voil didn’t oppose their quest to the river, he cared less what they thought. “Thank you.”

  “Do not thank me yet. You underestimate what you are up against. Many souls have attempted to harness the river’s power. Only one has ever overcome its maddening effects. He now lies dead at the bottom of Deneabola.”

  Rook, sitting with the captain at the next table, got up and stood beside the wrinkled elder. “Deneabola? That is the ancient name given to Saros’ Swamp. How do you know that name?”

  Wendglow nodded to the bowman, holding up a scaly paw to brook further comment. “No one else has escaped the Under Realm without first being corrupted. Did you know that Helleden Misenthorpe was once an adventurer like yourself? Intent on harnessing the mystical properties of the river? Aye. So, too, were the Sentinel and the Morphisis. They found their way to the Under Realm a long time ago, separately mind you, but each with their own agenda. Helleden was the first and is still by far the worst—or the best, I guess, depending on whose side you’re on. Helleden is one of only four creatures known to have reversed the portal’s effect, allowing them access to the Upper Realm. For reasons of its own, the Soul itself is unable to accomplish this, and fortunate for all that it can’t. Yet.” Wendglow let his last word linger.

  Soul? Morphisis? Silurian’s frown matched many of those watching on.

  “Saros is the second and sadly we now know his fate. Of the third, the Morphisis, we have no idea where this creature is. It might be in this very room right now and we would be none the wiser.”

  Silurian glanced around at the people from the Gerrymander and the few Voil scattered about. Looking back at Wendglow, he asked, “What of the fourth?”

  Wendglow raised his unkempt, bushy eyebrows. “The Sentinel. But, we don’t think it can do so without Helleden’s assistance.”

  Silurian swallowed. He couldn’t imagine the havoc a creature like the Sentinel could unleash in Zephyr.

  Wendglow’s next words surprised him. “Let me see your sword.”

  Avarick and Pollard sat up straighter.

  Silurian eyes narrowed. ‘The Morphisis might be in this very room.’

  Wendglow chuckled. “You fear a man half your size? One barely able to stand?”

  Against his better judgment, Silurian reached behind his left shoulder to unsheathe the gleaming weapon. He looked at the sword and then at the ancient creature.

  Everyone in the room held their breath.

  Turning the razor-sharp blade around, he handed it hilt first to Wendglow, who accepted the Sacred Sword Voil with reverence.

  “Ah, it is as Thetis claimed. Saint Carmichael’s Blade. Saros’ Sword. I never thought I would see this cursed weapon again.”

  Silurian gaped. Saint Carmichael’s Blade? Saros’ Sword? Cursed weapon? How did this little creature know its history? It was centuries old. Crafted by Saint Carmichael himself. Saros, Lord of the Innerworld, had been its guardian for as long as the histories recalled. And yet, this Under Realm creature claimed to have laid eyes upon it.

  Wendglow muttered sarcastically to himself, “Some saint Saros was. Hee-hee.” His eyes misted over. “Aye, I’ll grant him that, now that he’s gone. A saint he was. Bless him.”

  The Voil elder traced the mystic runes with an outstretched claw, his touch causing the etched lines to radiate in a warm, blue glow.

  Silurian didn’t know whether to snatch the sword away or run. Instead, he leaned in closer.

  “Integrity. Honour. Courage. Hope. Faith,” Wendglow intoned, his face awash in the blue radiance.

  Wendglow turned the blade over and repeated his ministrations. “Only. The. Worthy. Shall. Prevail. Hmm. The Law of the Five.”

  Ten runes in total, etched into the two faces of the blade, glowed softly, casting those closest in soft blue light.

  Wendglow reverently handed the sword back. “Silurian Mintaka. I present to you Saint Carmichael’s Blade. You are the one the sword speaks to.”

  Silurian reclaimed the sword from Wendglow’s shaky grasp, having no idea what the crazed creature referred to. “You can read the runes?”

  “Of course I can. I engraved them.”

  Legend Found

  Had he not been penned in by the close proximity of those around him, Silurian might have fallen from his chair. “But how? This blade belonged to a deity in our realm.”

  “A deity now, is he? Hah! Aye, but I can see it clearly.” Wendglow chuckled. Shaking his head, he continued, “Before you became its rightful wielder, the sword belonged to Saros. Saros Carmichael to be precise. As to being a deity, who knows.” The wrinkled creature’s shoulders shuddered. “It certainly sounds like something he would dream up. He most assuredly thought himself a god.”

  “But…” Rook sputtered.

  Wendglow held up shaky hands. “But nothing. Saros was many things. Apparently, a saint in your realm. I do grudgingly admit, he was a warrior of great repute, of that there is no doubt, if you believed even half his stories...hmm? A philosopher too, or so he would have you believe. You might even say a decent healer. But a god? No. He was far from that. He was my brother.”

  Goosebumps flooded Silurian’s skin.

  The cavern became deathly still.

  Rook knelt between Wendglow and Silurian, gazing into the old creature’s eyes. “Your brother? How can that be? There’s no possible way you forged that sword? That would make you—”

  “Four hundred and fifty-three,” Wendglow grimaced. “Give or take a year or ten. I can’t keep track anymore.”

  Rook gaped and looked Silurian in the eyes. Silurian shrugged, as baffled as everyone else from the Gerrymander.

  “’Tis a convoluted story, for certain. Suffice it to say, the rigours Saros and myself have endured over the years have served to alter our body’s chemistry. Some may see a long life as a blessing. I might tell you different.”

  Rook stared straight into the creature’s watery eyes. “He never mentioned a brother.”

  “He didn’t know he had one…at least not one that lived.” Wendglow sighed. “Four centuries ago, yes four, Saros and I were part of a quest, similar to your own. Our leader came in search of the fabled power of the river with the intention of overthrowing our emperor. That would’ve been fine had Emperor Zarlothe deserved such a fate. Zarlothe…” Wendglow smiled at the memory. “If the emperor had a fault, it was his willingness to do the right thing.” He paused to consider his thoughts. “It’s a funny thing…I don’t remember any names other than the emperor’s and my brother’s…I have a hard time remembering the name of the empire we hailed from, ever since I was captured and taken to the Soul Forge. Anyway, our misguided war leader was bent upon exploiting the emperor’s weakness to his own ends, but he lacked the forces to overthrow Zarlothe. So, he embarked upon a wild course that led us to the portal. All on the whim of a crazed w
itch woman.”

  Silurian stole a glance at Thetis.

  “Let me assure you, the lucky ones died during the transition. The rest of us found the river. Although Saros and myself weren’t much better than the company we kept, we didn’t support our leader’s vision of assassinating the benevolent emperor. With the help of a few others, we staged a mutiny at the river. The ensuing battle with the witch woman and our former cutthroat companions was brutal. It’s a good thing the Carmichael boys were decent fighters, hmm?” Wendglow drifted away for a few moments.

  “Anyway, we had no intention of entertaining the trial with the river, but the witch woman convinced us otherwise. As she lay dying at our feet, she informed us that the only way back lay in the river.”

  The ancient Voil sighed again. He took measure of the quest members around the table. When he spoke, he averted his gaze to his withered hands, folded in his lap. “Three other members of our band survived the mutiny at the river’s edge. None of us were up to attempting the river, but what choice did we have? So, we made a pact to attempt the river simultaneously.”

  He shook his head. “Not a good idea. I don’t know what the others experienced, but I know what happened to me. Thankfully, it is but a fleeting memory. I was drawn into the river’s depths, into…nothingness. I remember intense pain. Something tugged at what I could only believe was my soul, and then…” He shrugged.

  “As for my brother, he had no way of knowing whether I lived or not.” Wendglow lifted his odd limbs as if examining himself. “In reality, I guess I died that day. At least the person I used to be, died. In the end, the rest of us were either dead or taken. Saros, however, attempted the river and won. He discovered a way to unlock its secret and defeat its maddening allure. He also figured out how to return, obviously, to wherever it is you hail from. So, that being said, we most likely hail from there too. Who knows? Of the other three, I have no idea. They may have been desecrated and tossed into the Marrow Wash as garbage, or they may have been transformed into legions of the Soul.”