The Soul Forge Read online

  “Hello, Thomas. Pleasure seeing you again.”

  Chapter 18: The Stable Boy’s Sacrifice

  “Wish I could say the same,” Thomas retorted, “but I’m afraid I ain’t so happy to see you.”

  “Yes, I’d imagine not. But come, look at all the effort I put in just to make sure we’d meet again! All of the people enslaved, the homes destroyed, the families torn apart. You know, this would have been far less painful for everyone involved if you’d just given me my staff to start with.”

  “It wasn’t yer staff, ya lyin’ scum. You ain’t the Priest. We know the truth.”

  “Oh do you?” the pretend Priest said. He didn’t appear the least bit agitated by the news. “Well then,” he continued, “tell me what the truth is.”

  Thomas didn’t immediately answer, disconcerted. What was this faker hinting at?

  “You don’t even suspect, do you? No, I’d suppose not. Simple little… Stable Boy.”

  Thomas’ eyes widened at the mention of his unwanted nickname. And now that he thought about it, when did the pretend Priest learn his name?

  “No,” he whispered as the answer hit him like an iron fist to the gut. “No no no…”

  “Gotten there at last, have we?” his enemy said, waving a hand. From the crowd of Inanis came forth three, two regular sized and one child.

  Thomas sank to his knees, disbelief etched into every corner of his face. So they hadn’t been able to escape after all. He had so been hoping, so willing to believe that they had.

  “Oh, does this upset you? I’m sorry to see that. But when you think about it, I’m actually doing them a service. Now they don’t have to live with the knowledge that the person they put their trust in… failed them. Not them, not Chancellor Valerium nor Chancellor Vontanado.”

  “What?”

  “Oh yes. I have all of them. Every person you failed to save is standing around you. The beautiful Chancellor of Ludicra, gone. The sniveling, cowardly ruler of Verdonti, gone. Elves, humans, dwarves… of them forming my faithful legion. The world is mine.”

  Thomas was silent as his hand curled into a fist with such intensity that flames started brewing. The hand holding the soul-blade increased in pressure until the handle creaked in protest. When he finally lifted his eyes, there was nothing but flame reflected inside them as the blue-hot fire chased its way up his body.

  Without even meaning to, his anger was summoning the very power of his soul. The blue flame was dark, corrupted. Edging closer to an unnatural purple instead of what it was meant to be.

  “Not yet,” he finally said, “if you want this world, you’re going to have to go through me.”

  “A challenge I’m sure my right hand is up to,” the pretend Priest said, waving his hand at the swordsman. The warrior drew his blade, leveling it in front of him in anticipation.

  “I will handle him,” the Keeper said, starting to move forward.

  “No,” Thomas replied, standing up, “he’s mine. Keep the Inanis from getting into the forge.”

  “I don’t think…”

  “Do it.”

  Without waiting for further interruptions, Thomas sprinted forward with the soul-blade at his side. The commander surged to meet him, and the two blades crossed amidst the chaos of the Inanis invasion.

  Thomas was focused, his anger becoming a weapon he could use. The soul-blade became more an extension of his will as it banged and clashed with the commander’s black-bladed sword. He pushed forward, fire pouring from his body as if his insides were burning. The commander didn’t back down, meeting his every strike with skill, no energy wasted and no fear present.

  Thomas, however… Thomas just kept pushing. No strategy, no plan, no qualms. All that mattered was the Priest, meaning the commander was just a target that needed to be extinguished. The commander tried to roll away, to create some distance, but Thomas didn’t relent. His sword just kept flashing at the commander, fire pushing from his body with such intensity he was melting the snow around him.

  They kept circling, swords smacking off each other so fast Thomas wasn’t actually sure how he was keeping up. He had taken to his lessons well, and there was something to be said about the power of anger.

  But that ‘something’ wasn’t always a good thing.

  Ignorant of his surroundings, Thomas didn’t notice the puddles that had formed. His foot slipped in one, and he momentarily lost his balance. The commander didn’t give him an inch, pushing forward with a complicated array of strikes. Thomas was barely able to keep up, his sword only catching his opponent’s at the last possible second. Now he was the one to give ground, sweat forming on his brow.

  It only made him angrier.

  The fire was coming off of his body in waves now, melting the snow as it fell from the sky and evaporating it almost in the same moment. Unaffected by his own heat, Thomas was able to shift the battle due to his opponent’s exhaustion. The commander’s blows had less force behind them, his blocks less swift.

  It was then a forgone conclusion that Thomas knocked aside the commander’s blade. The more experienced warrior fell to his knees, breathing heavily.

  “Well done,” was all the commander said. Then he raised his head and closed his eyes. It was clear what he expected.

  But no matter how angry Thomas was, he absolutely would not murder a defeated opponent. The blue flame quieted to a deep red as Thomas took several breaths, trying his best to remember himself. To remember who he was. Gods, it was almost a blessing Ms. Anna couldn’t see him. How ashamed she’d be. It was necessary though. Just for a little while longer. The murderous rage was needed, but not for the commander.

  No, he was saving that bit of his temper for the pretend Priest…

  That was as far as his thought went before something incredibly solid ran into him, knocking him to the ground. He rolled several times before coming to a half, completely winded.

  The pretend Priest stood over him, his face contorted in anger. Thomas held tight to his soul-blade even as he fought to get back to his feet.

  “As amusing as I find you,” the pretend Priest said, “I’m afraid your part in this tale has ended. It’s time for you to die, and those accursed blades be destroyed.”

  Thomas lay on the ground, unable to rise. Somehow, the Priest was keeping him down.

  “You see, magic is very complicated,” he said, raising his hand. Impossibly, unbelievably, Thomas started to rise with it. He clawed at the air, but there was nothing to grab. The Priest was lifting him with his mind.

  “Some people can make fire. Some people can heal. Some people can raise the dead. And some can move things with their minds. You are the first kind. I am the last.”

  The Priest moved his hand across his body, throwing Thomas across the summit. He landed painfully at the edge of the mountaintop, struggling to breathe.

  “Now, young one, you will die.”

  Thomas couldn’t fight him, couldn’t even try. He had brought this on himself, letting his anger do the thinking for him. Now he was going to die and there was nothing he could do…

  He shook his head, warding away the thought. When did he become a quitter? Never before, and he certainly didn’t plan on starting now. Shocking everyone, including himself, Thomas fought his way back to his feet. The fire across his body started burning again, accelerating to blue. But it was purer now, a bright, electric blue instead of the dark-hued blue that his anger had caused.

  Thomas calmed his rage, instead choosing to focus on what was right: defending his friends, saving his home. Anger had no place here. All that mattered was doing what was right.

  The pretend Priest shoved his hand forward at the same time Thomas did. Twenty feet apart, a spurt of flame met condensed air, and neither was able to claim the advantage. Thomas felt the familiar pain of using his magic creep into his brain, but he accepted it. No ignoring, no pretending it didn’t exist. Not this time. This time he simply welcomed it like an old friend.

  He would feed h
is power with his pain, utilizing it.

  The Priest stared him down, though neither one really looked at each other. They were looking through each other, through to the very core of each other. It was so strange. Thomas had never before imagined his life ending up this way, fighting a mental war with the incarnate of darkness itself.

  Without really knowing why, he smiled. Now he truly understood why Thomas had found the adventures and the quests so enthralling. Being here, facing the enemy, saving lives…

  There was nothing like it.

  The blue flame started to push the hardened air, his will overpowering the pretend Priest’s. The Priest fell to his knees, putting up both hands to ward off Thomas’ magic. Thomas didn’t falter, taking step by painful step. The maelstrom opened up in his mind, putting every single scrap of consciousness to the torch. Still he moved forward, refusing to give in, refusing to surrender.

  He would take death before surrender.

  Standing over his foe, Thomas swung his other hand down, fire bursting forth from it. How far he had come from barely able to make sparks in his stable. How much he had given, how much he had seen. Lives destroyed, families torn apart. Innocent beings falling to the dark. He thought of Chancellor Valerium. He had so been hoping to see her again. Now she was probably just another Inanis, mindless and savage. Just like the Kimpchiks. Just like everyone else.

  His friends would not share that fate. He wouldn’t allow it.

  Finally, his will overpowered the pretend Priest’s. Experience fell to courage, and the Priest smashed into the ground with the pure force of the explosion.

  Then he started laughing.

  “You find somethin’ funny?” Thomas said, lifting his soul-blade.

  “Do you think you can kill me with that thing? Don’t you understand how it works?”

  “Not really,” Thomas admitted, “but I’m bettin’ the sharp point oughta do the job.”

  The Priest only kept laughing, and Thomas hesitated. Something was very amiss here.

  “Don’t let him into your head,” Zach said from the door, “he’s just trying to stall. Finish him!”

  Thomas nodded, trying to shake free of the nagging feeling in his brain, but something stalled his hand.

  “What do you mean?” Thomas found himself asking.

  “Why should I tell you?” the Priest said, smiling.

  Thomas mulled it over before shrugging. “That’s a fair point.”

  Without batting an eye, Thomas thrust the blade into the Priest’s chest. Bone cracked and blood spurted out, but the wound didn’t seem to do nearly as much damage as Thomas thought it would.

  This was proven true when the Priest stood up, his laugh gone, and pulled the blade from his chest. The wound it left behind dripped blood, but it wasn’t the geyser it should have been.

  “You see, this is why children shouldn’t be given sharp objects.”

  The Priest suddenly slashed, and only a desperate dodge kept Thomas alive. This was insane. The pretend Priest was dead. How was he still moving?

  An arrow flew out, catching the Priest in his arm. He fell to the ground, howling in pain, the wound from the arrow doing more damage somehow than a blade to his heart!

  Suddenly, Cynthia was at his side, pulling him back to the forge. But he couldn’t go, he had to know. And they wouldn’t reclaim the advantage if they abandoned the field now.

  “How? How are you alive?”

  “The sword,” the Priest muttered, speaking as if the words had life of their own, “works against the soul. It’s the fundamentals of soul-ore. If you want a weapon that will physically harm beings, you’re using the wrong weapon. Soul-ore directly attacks and tries to purify the soul of whatever it touches.”

  “So why aren’t you purified then?” Cynthia asked, her eyes narrowed. Thomas noticed beads of sweat on her forehead. That was certainly strange.

  “A soul… is only purified… if the attacker’s soul is as pure – or purer – than the soul it’s trying to purify. If your light isn’t greater than my darkness, than I can’t die.”

  “How do you know that?” Thomas asked, thunderstruck. “How do you know what soul-ore can do?”

  “Because… I was there when Chromwell discovered it, stole it. I was there when he experimented with it.”

  Thomas stared, his mouth wide open. This… this was blankly impossible. Thomas had clearly taken leave of his senses. He couldn’t have been there. He would have to be close to the General, close to his inner council…

  “Who are you?” he found himself asking.

  “I am…” He stopped talking, looking as if he was trying his very hardest not to say what he was being forced to say.

  “I… am… Tiber Odenyt.”

  Thomas literally fell over backwards. When he had recovered himself, he had to work very hard to get his breathing under control.

  “The King. The King of Ludicra. You mean to tell me that you are the King of Ludicra?! No. You’re lying. You have to be.”

  “He’s not,” Cynthia said, “he can’t be.”

  “How do you know?”

  She didn’t answer him, but something in her gaze made him believe her.

  “So you’re the King. You are the human King who gave the order to kill every magic-caster. It was you! You all along!” Thomas raged.

  “Yes,” The pretend Priest, King Tiber Odenyt, replied. “Yes it was. Ever since Chromwell refused to use the soul-ore. Such power it had! We could have done so much with it! But instead, he defeated the Dark Priest, took his staff and locked it all away. I couldn’t get to the Silent Mountains for more without the staff. That mountain range is guarded by a darkness you can’t fathom.”

  “So you razed your own country the ground?” Thomas shouted, “turned all these people into monsters? So you could… what? So you could bust into the Silent Mountains and get more soul-ore?”

  “Yes.”

  It was all Odenyt said, but it was all he needed to say. Thomas started hyperventilating again, trying his best to keep his heart inside his chest.

  “That first night. The night we broke into the castle, when we got the staff. Why didn’t you take it? Five years it was just sitting there. Why wait?”

  “Firstly, because I had to get the spell to create the Inanis correct. That took some time. And secondly, dolt, because Chromwell placed a seal on his weapons. They could not be disturbed until a threat of sufficient terror had arisen.”

  “So… you created the threat?”

  “And you removed the obstacle. Your presence alone was enough to unlock the vault.”

  “But I smashed the staff,” Thomas said triumphantly, “you can’t get into the Silent Mountains now.”

  “Oh, I can,” Odenyt replied, and Thomas’ heart fell. “I just need to do it by force now. Meaning I need every Inanis I can get. Including you. And including the Makers. Now. That’s quite enough talk. Time for you to join the legion.”

  Thomas shook his head, refusing to give in. But if what Odenyt said was true – and Cynthia firmly stood by her belief that it was – there was no way he could defeat him. Apparently, the King’s darkness was just greater than his goodness.

  He immediately felt a little ashamed of himself.

  “There’s something in you boy. Some inner darkness that is trying very hard to get out.” Odenyt’s words stung, but Thomas couldn’t refute them. It really did feel like something had come over him, something had leaked darkness into his soul.

  Meaning Thomas had to get rid of it.

  He called for the Keeper’s soul-blade, and the Keeper tossed it to him without hesitation. Gods, this was such a bad idea. But there was no other way to be clean, no other way to save the day.

  “The first time didn’t work. What makes you think the second time will be any better?”

  “Just a feeling. I got a little hope in me, is all.”

  Thomas stared at the blade in his hand, feeling the familiar weight of it. It would be fitting if this would
be the last thing he ever felt. For some reason, he would have welcomed it.

  He would welcome it far more than the feeling of agony that tore into every fiber of his being as he drove the blade into his own heart. The physical pain was marginal, just the feel of torn flesh. It was as if the blade changed when it entered his body, interacted with his blood. Now instead of killing the organs inside of him, it was burning away the darkness.

  Maybe his light wasn’t greater than Odenyt’s darkness, but he fully believed it was better than his own inner demons.

  He fell to his knees, the blade setting every nerve in his body on fire. It was pain past belief, pain past endurance. Without thought, without knowing, he pulled the blade out and jammed it forward, stabbing it through Odenyt’s chest as he sat there, stupefied.

  Thomas wasn’t even aware of doing it until the pain finally stopped. In the wake of what he had done there was a body in front of him and an army of Inanis on the ground, all collapsed.

  “What… what did you do?” Cynthia asked.

  “I figured… my light had to be stronger than my own darkness. Then… well, I guess I stabbed him. I didn’t mean to. But I guess my light was stronger than his after all.”

  “No, not that,” Cynthia replied, “I saw that. I meant what happened after that.”

  “What… what happened after that?” Thomas asked, completely lost.

  “A wave of darkness… it went from you and went into him. Then he collapsed.”

  Thomas looked at Odenyt, worry creeping back into his brain. But that meant… his darkness hadn’t been burned out of him… it had simply… moved?

  “Gods, I am so tired of hearing you think,” Odenyt said, but it wasn’t the rattling breath of a voice Thomas was used to. This was deep, terrifying. It made the hair on Thomas’ arms stand up, and every warning bell in his head screamed at him to run.

  “Who… who are you?”

  Odenyt opened his eyes, and the red irises were gone. Only black shone out, an endless array of night in a face twisted by malice.

  “I am sick of holding you by the hand,” the Priest’s mouth said. “How many times did I have to carry you? How many times did I have to point you in the right direction? Quite a few.”