Soul Forge

by Richard Stephens

  He began chanting warding spells to protect himself from the Sentinel, but the creature never materialized.

  “’Ware the skies!” Thorr’s voice commanded from somewhere behind him.

  Wendglow cast a warding spell over those nearest him and incanted an offensive spell to deal with the incoming Terrors. Seeing the group of Terrors break formation to head for Silurian’s group, he aborted the spell and hobbled away from the riverbank, throwing his arms in the air. “To Silurian!”

  Yarstaff and his husky crew crashed through the tall reeds bearing the elder’s litter, but the Terrors descended into their midst. When darkness replaced the light, they stumbled to their knees, spilling their burden.

  Screams sounded all along the riverbank.

  Wendglow rolled free of the upturned litter and strained the limits of his rapid spell casting to create a shroud of light, its boundaries hardly sufficient to make a difference to the members of the quest floundering around in the darkness at the mercy of the Terrors.

  Other Voil wizards followed his initiative, but their combined spells did little to illuminate the skies overhead.

  The Terrors fell upon the wizards commanding the illumination spells, forcing the wizards to drop their light enchantment and summon a warding spell. Several Terrors burst into flame and dropped to the ground, their burning carcasses igniting the tall grass.

  The regular fighters were hard put to evade the plunging birds. If Wendglow’s group were to have any chance of living to see the morning, they had to get to Silurian.

  Wendglow’s handlers ignored the dangers snapping at them and gathered up the fallen litter. Yarstaff plucked him from his feet and threw him back into the litter without losing a step, following in the wake of the illumination wizards and Blindsight.

  Wendglow puzzled over the Sentinel. Why hadn’t it been heard from yet? Since it hadn’t taken the bait when he touched the river with his cane, it had to be lying in wait for Silurian.

  The frightened faces of the quest were grim shadows in the faint light provided by the spell casters around him. It was difficult to make out individual faces, but whenever a Terror dropped from the sky, the gruesome result was plain to see.

  Wendglow concentrated harder, expanding his cocoon of protection as far as possible, but he struggled to ignore the destruction wreaked by the large birds of prey. Coupled with the war cries of the approaching land demons who sounded like they were almost on top of them, his anxiety heightened. Where was Thetis?

  Rook clutched Thetis’ arm tight, letting her guide him through the chaotic scene unfolding around them. Several times, he went down hard, tripping over the moaning remains of one of their company or slipping on slimy bits of gore from one of the downed Terrors.

  They had been running ahead of Wendglow’s litter, farther from the river, but when the light disappeared they lost contact with the main group. That struck him as strange. Thetis’ vision wasn’t hampered by darkness.

  He sensed, rather than saw, the beasts diving at them, only to bank away at the last second when he threw his arms uselessly over his head. She must be diverting their flight.

  All around them, sailors and Voil alike were being picked off and ripped apart. If not from the air, then from the ground by birds that had been downed but not killed.

  Why wasn’t Thetis protecting them?

  Rook stopped and spun her around to face him. The press of men and women bumped them about in their frantic attempt to reach Silurian’s group.

  He stared hard into her eyes, her pretty face visible in the flickering light of burning grass.

  “Why aren’t you fighting back?”

  Thetis gave him a contemptuous look.

  Taken aback, he swallowed. “For the gods’ sake, do something!”

  Her upturned lips turned his blood cold. She laughed, but not in her normal voice. Her laughter resonated deeper. Raspier.

  Releasing her, he backed away. A passing warrior striving to get by brought him up short.

  A maniacal laugh escaped Thetis’ lips, drowning out the death cries around them.

  The woman Rook thought he had fallen in love with began to transform. Her face oozed. Melting lips exposed bloodied, jagged teeth. Beautiful golden hair mutated into blotchy, grey fur. Bulging muscles tore the clothes from her increasing frame.

  Mesmerized, Rook gaped. Others around them screamed at the sight, not sure of what they were seeing, and ran into the night.

  A massive beast, covered in clumps of bloody fur that sloughed away the last vestiges of Thetis’ skin, transformed before his eyes. The beast’s head consisted mostly of bone. Scraps of skin dangled from the chin and cheeks of the beast as it transformed into something resembling a gigantic wolverine. Twice the size of Pollard, it rose up onto powerful leg muscles that ripped away Thetis’ knee-high, leather boots—its clawed feet shredding the material into ribbons.

  Three sailors charged in to confront the beast. A lightning swipe of the beast’s forepaw raked the first man’s face from his skull.

  The second man ducked the beast’s initial swing and jumped into the air, bringing his sword down in a mighty, overhand chop. His sword shattered upon the creature’s head.

  The beast ripped his throat out with a savage snap of its jaws.

  The third sailor vaulted onto its back, wrapping her arms around its neck. The sailor Silurian had spent many hours sparring with and learning the sailing craft. Tara.

  The beast reared up with a mighty roar, trying to throw the woman, but she held fast. It twisted its head, snapping, but its mouth couldn’t reach her.

  Tara smote the beast’s spine, her hard leather boots impacting like warhammers cracking rock.

  Unaffected, the beast reached behind its back with a massive paw and grabbed Tara by her jerkin, pulling her free.

  She thrashed about in the beast’s grasp, trying to stab a dagger into the arm that held her, but it shook her so hard, she dropped the blade.

  Its claws tore through her leather armour like she wasn’t wearing any.

  Tara screamed and blood spewed from her mouth.

  The beast extended its claws to wrap around her spine. With a sudden snap of its wrist, it tossed Tara’s corpse into a knot of fleeing warriors—her disembodied spine still hanging from its grasp.

  A Voil wizard ran into view and shrieked, “’Ware the Morphisis.” The misshapen spell caster stumbled and fell over. Mumbling a few words, the wizard waggled his fingertips at the feral beast, but before he completed his spell, the Morphisis reached out to clutch the wizard’s head and squeezed. The wizard’s head popped, spraying the beast in gore.

  The Morphisis flicked the pulp aside and stomped on the wizard’s carcass, snapping his bones with a sickening crunch.

  Rook stood alone. The last of the warriors had disappeared into the darkness, or worse. He stared at the horror that had been Thetis. His love. The Voil were right but it didn’t make sense. She was Saros’ disciple. Seafarer had vouched for her.

  It dawned on him why he and Thetis hadn’t been attacked. The demonic birds must have sensed the Morphisis and let them be. He suddenly understood why their flight up the Marrow Wash, in the dead of night, hadn’t been cut short by the Sentinel.

  “Rook!” A familiar voice called from the darkness.

  He dared not look away from the creature looming over him, but he knew the voice.

  The chinking of Avarick’s armour came up behind him.

  Without taking his eyes from the creature, Rook called out, “Stay back!”

  “I’m coming!” The chinking of armour increased its cadence.

  “Avarick! Stop!”

  The chinking slowed.

  “If you come any closer, I’ll kill you myself!”

  The chinking stopped. “Is that the Sentinel?”

  The Morphisis laughed. It cocked its head, eyeing the Enervator amongst the broken reeds and death piled all about.

  “The Sentinel has been summoned back to your pitiful
kingdom by Helleden. It has fled this realm. Come at me, Thwart. Let’s see how dangerous you really are.”

  “Don’t, Avarick,” Rook pleaded.

  The Morphisis cackled, “It seems your friend is a coward.”

  Rook winced. “Don’t rise to the bait.”

  Ignoring Avarick, the Morphisis changed its tact. “What’s the matter, my sweet? Am I not to your liking anymore?” It tried to put a pout on its near fleshless lips. “Won’t you come lie with me?”

  Rook shouldered his bow and ran at the creature, drawing a dagger from his belt.

  The Morphisis jumped into the air, vaulting him. For a creature so large, it landed behind him with nary a sound.

  Rook charged again.

  The Morphisis hopped sideways.

  Rook faced the beast. He wasn’t going to catch it unless it let him. He dropped the dagger and pulled his bow from his shoulder. “What did you do to Thetis?”

  The Morphisis cackled, “Why, my sweet, absolutely nothing. I am she, she is me.”

  “Saros sent Thetis to guide us. You’re not…” he trailed off.

  “Yes, my sweet. Saint Saros Carmichael,” the Morphisis’ voice sounded like Thetis again, but its words dripped with venom, “sent unto you his great, great granddaughter. Thetis Saros. Sad about that one. She met an unfortunate end.” The Morphisis’ voice turned raspy and deep, emitting a wicked laugh.

  “You and I met at the docks, when you first arrived in the Bay. I offered to help unload the Seagull, or whatever you call that garbage scow.”

  Rook’s mouth hung open, recalling the wart covered man on the docks.

  “You also gave me money. In an alleyway, though you were reluctant to do so. Silurian had to guilt you into it.”

  “The old crone?”

  “Yes, my sweet. If you had only taken the time to look closer, you would’ve met the real Thetis,” the Morphisis cackled. “You see? I can take many forms. Thetis is but my latest. A useless body really. Too soft. I prefer this one, cast at Soul Forge.”

  Rook’s breathing grew ragged. He recalled the image of the hag in the alley. In particular, he remembered seeing the body lying in the pile of garbage at her feet.

  The Morphisis cackled like the hag, “Grans will see to you.”

  Quick as a thought, Rook withdrew an arrow, nocked it and let loose. The missile struck the Morphisis’ chest and bounced harmlessly away.

  The Morphisis cocked its head. “You can kill me, but you won’t. You lack what it takes. Weapons can’t hurt me.”

  Rook trembled with fury. A metal sword had no effect. His arrow was useless. He doubted even Saros’ enchantment would have proven effective.

  In the distance, new cries sounded out. He couldn’t see those responsible, but he knew the land demons had engaged Silurian’s group.

  Silurian! He had to get past this beast and get to him. Alhena’s words echoed in his mind, ‘If you wish to confront Helleden and survive, you must be united.’ He shuddered. How had he let himself be so deceived?

  “Come, my sweet. Let me save you. They are nothing. They will be dead soon,” the Morphisis purred. “Join me in the river.”

  Resist as he might, his feet carried him toward the mystic river. He twisted the upper half of his body away from the riverbank but couldn’t stop his feet from moving forward.

  Upriver, flames shot into the sky, illuminating the river basin.

  A guttural howl sounded behind the Morphisis, breaking the creature’s hold on him.

  Rook winced. The rapid cadence of chinking metal armour marked Avarick’s approach. In the eerie light cast by the burning grasses, Avarick charged at the beast.

  The creature turned to intercept him.

  “Avarick, no!”

  The Morphisis swiped at the Enervator, but Avarick dodged the blow, rolling beneath a deadly swath of claws. In one fluid motion he gained his knees, unslung his crossbow, and hammered a bolt home.

  Rook heard the snick of the crossbow releasing its deadly missile.

  The creature had no time to react, but the bolt bounced harmlessly off its forehead.

  The Morphisis kicked out.

  Avarick was quicker. He got his feet beneath him, threw the crossbow over his back and vaulted the beast’s outstretched leg. Barreling headlong into the creature’s chest, he drove his serrated black sword point at its neck.

  The blade rebounded uselessly aside, but the resulting collision toppled the two combatants in a flurry of swatting claws and lightning fast sword jabs.

  The Morphisis landed on its back, sending a shower of embers into the air, crushing a patch of burning reeds beneath it.

  Avarick’s attack, as brutal as it was, proved ineffective. The marks he left on the creature were superficial at best, but as they rolled about in the smoldering reeds, he pulled a dagger from his belt and drove it deep into the creature’s left eye, opening a gory wound that showered him in green ichor.

  The Morphisis lurched to its feet and staggered about, roaring in agony. It latched onto Avarick and hurled him screaming through the air.

  Avarick’s broken body landed in a heap of bashed armour and broken bones. The acidic ichor from the Morphisis’ wound had dissolved holes through his thin plate and leather armour—smoking and sizzling into his body.

  The Morphisis howled in rage. Heaving great breaths, it clutched at its damaged eye. The hilt of Avarick’s dagger fell to the ground at its feet—the metal blade dissolved within its eye socket.

  The ichor hissed as it ate into Avarick—the air rank with the smell of his burning flesh.

  Delirious, the stricken man tried to regain his feet. He made it to one knee and placed his other foot beneath him. He paused, glaring through the veil of blood covering his face, and fell over sideways. He rolled onto his back, his legs sprawled beneath him at an unnatural angle.

  Rook ran to him and dropped to his knees, taking in the grisly sight. Avarick’s blackened eyelids were clenched shut. His body convulsed. Rook fretted at his inability to help the suffering man. The only release for the irascible Enervator would be death.

  Avarick opened his eyes. The searing pain evident behind them made Rook shudder.

  “Its other eye,” Avarick said through clenched teeth. Choking, he coughed up blood, splattering Rook’s face. He shut his eyes tightly and trembled violently one last time.

  Rook stared hard at the lifeless Enervator. The Chamber’s hired thug. He hadn’t been the easiest to bond with, but he had accounted for himself well. His death had offered Rook a chance at life.

  Rook grabbed Avarick’s crossbow and the small quiver of bolts attached to the weapon’s sling. He threw the straps over his shoulder and stood, eyeing the foul beast. The creature who was supposed to safeguard the quest.

  The clatter of weapons and horrific screams marked a furious battle not far away. He had to get to them.

  The Morphisis growled, “He was a foolish man. His actions have served to quicken your demise, my sweet.” Its steps impacted the ground with a discernable tremor.

  Rook’s hands trembled, but a strange calm washed over him.

  The ground shook again.

  Rook yearned for the death of the creature responsible for luring his people into the Under Realm to be butchered, while Helleden Misenthorpe wreaked untold havoc back in Zephyr. Decades of training and self-discipline forced his mind to focus on what needed to be done.

  Another burst of fire upriver allowed him to see the Morphisis more clearly. The wretched beast stopped its advance—a bloody paw pressed against its damaged eye. It squinted its good eye and snarled, baring dagger sized teeth.

  Rook stepped in front of Avarick’s corpse, daring the beast to attack. Rage consumed him, but he honed his anger and funnelled it into resolve.

  The Morphisis’ eye opened wider as it launched itself into the air.

  Rook withdrew an arrow, strung it, and loosed. The arrow flew true, piercing the Morphisis’ good eye—the shaft burying itself to its fle
tches.

  The Morphisis shrieked as it fell upon the man who had killed it.

  Rook put his hands up in a futile attempt to block the ensuing collision.

  A furry, orange missile flew from the burning reeds, painfully driving into his side and knocking him out of harm’s way.

  Struggling to regain his breath, he let Yarstaff help him to his feet. Without a word, the quiet Voil ran back to Wendglow’s litter and led the last of their group upriver to join the slaughter.

  The Soul

  Pollard. Silurian couldn’t ask for a better ally. Even in the near darkness, the tired, bloodied, and bruised giant held his own.

  Together they made their way to the river’s edge. If he was going to immerse his sword in the river, he knew he must do it now. All around them, Terrors swooped in for the kill.

  Spellcasters, archers and swordsmen fought for their lives amid the burning reeds, raking claws, and snapping jaws, but the worst was yet to come. The hellish din raised by the oncoming land demons sounded like they were almost upon them.

  He hesitated. Doubt crept into his mind. Was he strong enough to face the Soul? How could he fight something he knew nothing about? If he failed, Wendglow claimed he would end up killing them all. He had spent most of his life battling that never-ending fear. A fear that forced him to remain hidden deep within the Nordic Wood. The fear of destroying everything he strove to preserve.

  Pollard stood over him, cleaving a Terror’s head in two. The creature’s bulk shook the ground behind him. A chunk of the creature’s head splashed into the river and sprayed Silurian with water.

  The Voil were right about the water’s compelling touch. He immediately experienced an insatiable desire to wade into the river.

  A woman’s scream pierced the chaos of battle. A man cried out for help. The demon flyers were decimating the company at will.

  Adrenaline throbbed in his veins. The same phenomenon that had gripped him when Menthliot had gone berserk. A finger of blue flame eddied along the tip of his blade—the runes softly glowing. He felt better equipped to handle the sensation this time.