The Soul Forge (18 page)

“So we can pour our soul
s into ore?” Thomas said slowly, “and make soul-ore?”

“I am not saying we can. It’s never been attempted.”

“Well, then I’m going to attempt it,” Thomas said.

“I’m with you,” Zach said.

“Me too,” Gilkor said, pumping his chest with his fist.

“Can’t let you boys have all the fun
,” Miranda said, flipping her hair with a wink.

Bellon
nodded, motioning for them to follow him. He led them into another room, which was far warmer and smelled like burning iron. Thomas’ jaw dropped, and Gilkor’s face swelled with obvious pride.

The Makers forge was every bit as majestic as Thomas has been imagining.
It was huge, with multiple anvils and even more Makers, with glowing weapons and armor that seemed more beautiful than they had any particular right to be. The Makers were hard at work, fashioning something. Four stood over a single large anvil, smacking whatever it was with a hammer in perfect cadence.

Two more stood over another anvil,
melting ore and pouring it into… Thomas wasn’t sure, he hadn’t gotten that far in his lessons. Without preamble on the other side, there was a loud splash as they threw something clear across the forge into a large pool of water, no doubt used to cool down the blazing hot weapons.

“
Amazing,” was all Thomas was capable of saying.

“If a weapon can be made anywhere, it’s here,” Gilkor said.

“Makers,” Bellon said, moving forward. As his voice rang out, all of the Makers present stopped and looked at him.

“We have a very important job to do.”

“What’s happened, Bellon?” one of the Makers asked, one with a deep scar over his right eye and a short black beard.

“Much. But we do not have time. We need to make soul-ore.”

“Make?” the same Maker repeated, “ore can’t be made, lad, especially ore like that.”

“I know,” Bellon said
, his confidence fading rapidly, “but we need… there’s…”

“Pardon me, Makers,” Gilkor said, striding forward. His hands were held behind his back, because Thomas saw they were shaking.

“Gilkor, yes?” a different Maker with goggles asked.

“Yes, sir,” Gilkor replied. “The Dark Priest has returned, and the world is about to die. We must do something, and the only thing left to
try is to make soul-ore. We can use any of the ore you have, iron or bronze or… but we need to change it. Is this possible?”

“I’m sorry lad,” the black bearded dwarf said, “but it’s never been done before.”

“But,” the goggled dwarf replied, “that doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”

“True, true,” the black bearded dwarf replied with a growing smile. “I do love a challenge…”

Thomas looked from one dwarf to another as the dozen or so Makers all glanced back and forth. Finally, there was a general nod of agreement, and Thomas felt a little bit of hope creep back into his chest.

“Well then,” Bellon said when he finally found his voice, “let us begin at once.
Thomas, the shards of General Chromwell’s sword.”

“Shards?” the black bearded dwarf said, “what happened?”

“A boulder fell on it, sir,” Thomas replied sheepishly as he gave the sheath and its contents to Bellon. But the dwarf only laughed.

“Of course it did. It’s just one of those things.
Well, give it here. If you manage to create the soul-ore we can remake it. Maybe even make it better, seeing as it already has soul-ore… who knows what’s going to happen?”

Thomas wasn’t sure if he was excited or not – certainly not as excited as the Maker – but he was at least hopeful.

“Are any of you magic-casters?” Bellon asked.

“I am, sir,” Thomas said.

“Good. That will make this much easier. Now, we are going to melt the shards down and some of a different ore. You, my boy, are going to concentrate. Call on whatever magic you can use, and change the ore. I’m sorry we don’t have a clue how, but you must find a way. Unlock the power within you.”

Thomas nodded before turning to his friends. Then he smiled.

“Yeah, I think I know where to start.”

It didn’t take long to melt down the shards and the ore. Before Thomas was truly ready, he was standing over a boiling pot of molten metal without a clue as to what he should do. He stared at it, concentrating, but nothing visibly happened. He concentrated harder, but that led to a similar effect of absolutely nothing.

“I did not come this far just to fail now,” Thomas muttered to himself
, staring into the rolling heat. His hands started to shake with the effort of his concentration and beads of sweat ran down his cheeks. Sweat ran down his palms, and he unconsciously rubbed it away.

His hands caught fire, but he didn’t notice. He didn’t notice the flame run up his arm and ignite his shirt, and he didn’t notice that there was no pain. The fire wasn’t burning him.
He just stared at the molten ore, willing it to be something it wasn’t, changing it with the force of his mind alone, inspiring it with only his fortitude to be something more.

But it just wasn’t enough.

“Do y’all believe in me?” Thomas asked without breaking his gaze. “Do you believe we can do this? Stop the Priest. Save the world. Save our friends. Do you believe?”

“I told you, buddy,” Zach replied, “I’ve always wanted to go on an adventure. Fight monsters.
Save people. Here’s our big chance.”

Thomas nodded, and he felt… somehow connected with Zach. Like the other farm boy was giving him strength.
It was a welcome feeling.

“You helped me in that castle when anyone else would have run away,” Miranda said. “I think you’re probably an idiot, but I guess I believe in idiots.
Especially cute ones.”

“Hey now,” Zach said with a laugh. Thomas couldn’t help but smile with fondness.
These people, his friends, had really grown on him, especially in such a short amount of time. Morando, the Healer, fighting off the horrors of the Magi War as he tried to reclaim his family. The Keeper, the old soldier of wars long since forgotten, training new recruits to fight the darkness.

Cynthia, the barmaid who risked everything to see him free.

The fire expanded down his back, forming symbols no one present recognized.
Faces, glyphs, nonsense? There was no telling. They weaved around his arms and his chest, jagged lines like the roots of a tree.

If Thomas even knew it existed, he could have told them it was tracking his veins.
But he was unaware, his focus so completely consumed by the molten ore that needed to glow blue.

He thought of Ms. Anna, Master Kimpchik and Mrs. Lucinda.
Benjamin, lost to the fire that consumed his parents. Gods, how he missed them. Killed during the Magi War miles from any battle. His father wanted him to be an adventurer, to explore, to discover. He had forgotten. His mother wanted him to read, to explore with his mind. That he would never forget.

How much he’d given for them.
How much there was still left to give.

He could feel them stirring inside him. Every life he’d touched.
Every person who believed in him, who believed in the power of good over evil. Of life over death.

That flame didn’t just destroy, it could create.

Fire surged from his hands, covering the molten ore with red flames. The ore seemed to surge back, fighting the strength of his soul. For the first time in his memory, he felt the heat of flame. It surprised him with its intensity, but he refused to back down. Not now. He had come too far. He wouldn’t surrender now. He couldn’t.

The heat was more intense than anything anyone present had felt before. It was more than any corporeal flame. This flame was something
more, more than forge fire or hearth fire or anything of the sort. This fire came from deep inside Thomas. From the very root of who he was.

Soulfire.

The fire covering his body suddenly burned even hotter, until his veins glowed with blue-hot flame.
It surged from his hands with such intensity everyone else was forced to look away. Only Thomas stared into the roiling flames without batting an eye.

Then the molten ore started boiling so fast it looked like it would overrun its container.
The golden substance inside literally shone for a long moment before the entirety of it ceased to sparkle.

When the flame faded from a barely conscious Thomas, the molten ore
was now bluer than the sky. Thomas fell to the ground, drained beyond any measure he could have accounted for. This was more than a physical weariness, more than mental fatigue. Thomas felt like, well…

He felt like his very soul
needed a rest. It was a deep ache in the very core of every muscle, as if he had exhausted his energy hours ago but kept doing the task at hand anyway.

“Well well…” the black bearded Maker said, looking at the molten ore, “I guess miracles can happen.”

Thomas smiled, the only muscle he was sure was under his control. “Can you… forge the sword…?”

“We’ll have it ready in no time. You look like you could use a rest.”

“Yeah… bit of a nap… no problem.”

Hands lifted him from the ground, but his body was under no one’s control.
All he could do was lay there, limp as a boned fish, and allow them to carry him wherever they thought best.

Turned out, they thought it was best he lay in a cot.
At least, that’s what he discovered when he woke up. He was still sore from his head to his toes, but he could at least keep his eyes open. He tried to push himself into a sitting position, but that didn’t work out. Instead, he simply lay flat on his back, staring at the black ceiling and wondered how the lamps so high up stayed lit. He mulled it over for about ten minutes before he decided he was never going to figure it out.

“Get up, lazy boy.”

The order was like a whipcrack, and Thomas would have jumped if he was even capable of moving. But as it was, the Keeper’s order went unanswered.

“Peace, Keeper,” the younger voice of Morando said, “he has been through much.
He needs time and healing.”

“
Is he going to be okay, Daddy?” the innocent voice of Etanta asked with concern etched into every syllable.

“Eventually,” was her father’s answer.

“Nice to… see you all… are okay.”

“Yeah, we’re managing,” the most welcome voice of all said with her usual flirtatious giggle.

“Cynthia?” Thomas said, trying to sit up and again failing. He was able to turn his head just slightly and his gaze found hers, standing on her own two feet. Her leg was in a makeshift cast, but she was standing on it easily enough.

“You’re alright,” Thomas said, “
everyone’s all right.”

When a moment of silence greeted his words, Thomas began to worry. “What’s happened?” he asked.

“Well, we are well,” Morando said slowly, unsure of himself. “We… perhaps this should wait until you’ve had some rest.”

“There’s precious little time,” the Keeper said, his reply stern but not unkind.

“You… are right,” Morando said, bowing his head. Thomas’ worry only intensified. “Thomas… Andomer has fallen. The outpost was taken by the Inanis.”

Thomas closed his eyes, his temper rising
in unison with his sadness. Now the dwarves had been crushed as well. There was no one left to fight.

His eyes suddenly grew hard, and he forced himself to sit up. The pain was incredible, but he pushed it down. There was no one left to fight but him.

“Then let’s take it back.”

Heads shook, but Thomas ignored them. He tried to get to his feet, but Morando put a hand on his shoulder and forced him back down with very little effort.

“The mountain is safe for the time being. You must rest and recover, and then we can discuss how to fight back.”

Thomas didn’t think much of the idea, but he knew Morando was right. He couldn’t even stand, let alone swing the…

“Is the sword forged yet?” he asked, excitement etched in every syllable.

“Should be finishing up really soon,” Zach said, joining them with Miranda close behind. Thomas raised his eyebrows at them in an unspoken question. “Gilkor’s helping finish up the blade. I think the black bearded Maker is really impressed with him.”

“Zacharias,” the Keeper said reproachfully, “this is no time for idle humor.”

“Oh come on now,” Thomas said
, leaning against the wall with only a little bit of discomfort, “a little humor ain’t gonna hurt anybody.”

The Keeper made to respond, but a gesture from Morando silenced him. It was only then that Thomas realized the elf’s hand was still on his arm.

“Are you healing me?”

“Trying.
You damaged yourself in a way I have never before seen. Given enough time, I can fix the burns you’ve incurred.”

“Burns?
What’s been burned?”

“You have. It is as if your veins were burned somehow.”

“Hmph,” Thomas grunted thoughtfully, “well, that’s Soulfire for you.”

“I’m sorry,” the Keeper said, his mouth agape, “what?”

Zach spoke up, spending the next fifteen minutes catching the elves up on everything that had transpired since they had parted. Cynthia helped fill in the blanks while Thomas sat there, enjoying the company of his friends before the inevitable chaos that was sure to be on its way up the mountain.

“Then Thomas burned the bunch of ore, and it turned blue. He turned it into soul-ore,” Zach finished
with more excitement than Thomas felt was necessary.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” the Keeper said, awestruck. “Could that be how soul-ore was created in the first place? This could revolutionize magic-casting, smithing! This could lead us all to a new age of discovery!”

Thomas would have laughed, but Morando chose that exact moment to dig his fingernails into Thomas’ arm.

“Ow!”

“I apologize,” the Healer said, “but I’m trying to get to a very specific injury. It is… elusive.”

“Elusive?” Thomas repeated, “how in the world can an injury be elusive?”

“That is what I am also trying to figure out. It feels like it is avoiding me.”

Thomas sat there, completely confused. How could an injury try and escape healing? Shouldn’t his body be trying to do the exact opposite?

Their confusion was put on hold by the arrival of Gilkor, who was holding a large sack in his hands. Conversation stopped as he placed it on a table in the middle of the room. Thomas stood, not realizing how surprising it was until he did. Morando certainly hadn’t held back his healing power. The group gathered around the table as he pulled the sack open, revealing three things: two swords and a bow.

“Turns out you mutated all of the ore within a few feet of you. So we had a bit more to work with than we expected.
”

“So…” Thomas said, “instead of one sword, we have two and a bow?”

“Aye.”

“Wow,” Thomas smiled, “some good luck. What a change.”

“And just in time,” the Keeper said, his head cocked as if listening for something. Thomas listened too, and he heard what the Keeper did.

Footsteps.
Not quite a march, more like the shambling footsteps of hundreds of troops. The Inanis had found their way up the mountain.

“Looks like it’s time we fought,” Thomas said, taking one of the swords. “No one has to
fight with me that doesn’t want to.”

“Please,” Zach said, taking the other sword. “No way I’m letting you have all the fun.
Or all the glory.”

“And this is too tempting to leave sitting here,” Gilkor said, taking the bow. “No telling if it will do the job, but hey – at least it should be fun.”

“What should the rest of us do?” Cynthia asked, though an unconscious glance at her leg betrayed her misgivings.

“Morando, keep working on her leg, please,” Thomas said. Somehow, his head was clear and he knew what to do. “Miranda, you’re going to be Zach’s back up. If he gets tired, you two switch places. Keeper, you do the same for me. Morando, I need you to keep everyone fighting.
Cynthia, you be Gilkor’s support. Back him up with arrows and switch out when he needs a rest.”

No one said anything, and for a moment Thomas was worried they weren’t going to listen to him.
Eventually, however, they all nodded.

“You make an able field commander,” the Keeper said. Thomas’ heart almost stopped from shock.

“What should I do?” Etanta said, looking very much like she wanted to be involved.

“
Are you a magic-caster? Can you heal people like your father?”

“I don’t know,” the little girl replied, “I never tried.”

“Well, you’re going to try now. Morando, teach her whatever you can, help her figure it out as fast as possible.”

“It takes years to become proficient in the healing arts…” Morando said, clearly worried.

“We have minutes,” Thomas replied, “we don’t have a lot of options.”