Read The Four Forges for Free Online

Ready or not, he’d run out of time.
    Fyrvae looked upward, but he did not see the soot-stained roof of the building where smoke curled ever upward, and the blue-orange glow of flames danced against black reflection. He looked into existences not meant for his eyes to see, heard the discordant strains of beings never meant to be heard by mortal ears, touched and answered back and commanded and called Demons beyond the reaches. They snarled and fought him, whipping his soul in anger, scouring him with their power. They branded him from the inside out, and Fyrvae cried out in pain and anger of his own, whipping back at them. He lashed them as only a Vaelinar could, not born of their world, yet able to command it at great cost, and he willed himself to pay the price.
    Once the Vaelinars had not been Lost, Suldarran , from their own world and Gods, but here on Kerith their greatness still could not be denied, and the lesser Gods and Goddesses of this place were laid bare to the Vaelinars who had the Talent and could harness it. He did. Having discovered it by accident, the Talent had doomed him to Quendius. Now he would return the favor.
    Fyrvae threw aside unwanted lesser Demons, reaching for the greatest he could call. A roar of power and rage flooded his being, and he gathered it in, weaving its fiery lines as he wove the fires that forged his weapons, teeth clenched against the scorching anger. He rode the planes of his soul, soaring along scorching winds under a sun that would blind him if he looked with mortal eyes, and felt beings reach for him with a hunger to suck him dry except he did not allow their touch. Only one did he call. His hands gestured through the air, fingers threading the sigils of a calling despite its vast resistance.
    A Godling Demon answered in murderous rage, lunging at him, no longer resisting, and his power erupted over them. The force catapulted Fyrvae back into his body, his arms upheld, trembling with the burden of his thoughts and workings, driven back onto his haunches. The Demon he called dove after him.
    Something snapped in him as clear as a green branch breaking in two, and the pain shot through him. He buckled. In a flash, he knew that he had called one he could not handle, the answer to all his needs, and the solution that would kill him long before it got to Quendius. Fyrvae swayed as the Demon came at him, maw yawning crimson, otherworld rage bent on ripping open his throat, eager to take his heart and soul. He anchored himself with the only thread he could find, his love for Lindala, a ribbon of the riversoul she held, soothing, wet, and pure, against the fire of this Demon Godling that seared him. He grabbed for strength from her, wrapping it about him as if she could shield him from what he must be. The being took hold of him, and Fyrvae shoved back. He thrust the doubt, the pain, and the Demon off a heartbeat away from being shattered. Agony howled from his throat, followed by defiance. Around him, the Bolgers cried out raggedly, snarling in fear and excitement, hoping to bluff the thing they sensed unseen among them.
    He grasped the sword, the double edge slicing open his palm, hot blood spurting upward and the Godling Demon swerved. Fyrvae grabbed up the weapon by its hilt, opening his fingers and letting his blood smear the length of the steel, where it ran into the channel he’d cut into it. The Demon entered the element shouting in greed and unwary need. Fyrvae thrust the sword into the furnace, blasting it a last time. The runes he’d marked on it suddenly shone, entrapping its captive. He waited till the last etching glowed, then took the blade and plunged it into the cold riverwater. A last quenching of water. Now all the other quenchings would come from blood. It inhaled deeply and all went still.
    An icy blast roared through the building. The forges all went out at once. Fyrvae staggered, going to one knee. The broken thing inside of him might be as solid as bone or as