Forger chapter 1-3, Jude Alquinto [read the beginning after the end novel .TXT] 📗

I am a story concerned not to your time

Of warriors, kings, and folks of much grime.

Of places and meetings one would think as so tragic.

Of a madmen, and curses, and great metal magic.

I may contain names quite familiar to thee.

But believe I am fiction and was written by he

The great men and heroes for whom the bards sing with glee,

And the villains, and foes, you all wish not to see.

I vow not to depict any person you know

The events they take part in is merely for show

Again, to make clear, I am far from real life

Though my voice may remind you of some personal strife

One’s trust to a poem, oh so quickly it falls.

I have told you of truths... but five lines were false.

Then a speeding sword pierced the monster’s arm—pinning the yard-long limb of an uncommonly large animal on a rotten tree. The injured beast parted its jaws; presenting a randomly jagged set of teeth. Then bellowed so loud it caused the branches around to shiver in fear. Throwing its crimson eyes about, it sought for the fool who issued the soaring blade. As it made its search, another plank of iron was spat out by the distant fog. It missed the heart by two feet but held enough precision to hit the next tree. 

Fogs, after all, were better at blinding men than spitting swords.

The girl, fallen to the ground, victim of the savage beast, looked to her right whence the swords came—a common response from anyone receiving an intervention from their certain death. Yonder the fog and darkness, there was a figure of a man approaching. Half a dozen glints of light flickered around the figure as it neared—then another shimmer was added, then another.

Lanterns, she thought. A group of men.

To her tragic disappointment, emerging from the blur of fog was but one hooded stranger in common clothes. Moonlight was peeking through the holes of his tattered cloak. No lanterns, no brothers. All the while, he was murmuring threats for the monster. Swords swimming around him as he did.

Here’s another damned wolf.

Feeding in the cover of the night.

Cryin’ from a little stab in the arm…

As he neared the beastly wretch, upon every line he whispered to himself, a sword was born from thick swirling grains of silver in the air. Eighteen strong, the weapons hovered about the hooded man—waiting for their forger’s command. Some were seen clearly while others crept within the shadows—vanishing and shining back as they moved under the moonlight.

Walking while guarded by his swords, lancing an exasperated glare forward, the man’s fearless arrival gained him the monster’s attention.

The beast gave another roar. More anger in it than pain.

Believing it was some mindless animal in the woods, he entered so gallantly that he started to believe himself invincible from the many beasts he had swiftly slain in the past.

The faintness of light and the thickness of the fog betrayed his eyes. Never had he been more wrong.

Wait… Wolves don’t roar.

As he came closer, standing on its two feet before the terrified girl was a beast drenched in its own blood. The light of a full moon had leaked through the branches and dry leaves above to pour colour and shape to the creature. It had two rows of jagged thorns for teeth, paws with long crooked fingers, each limb long as a pike, bones curved like hooks peeking from its spine, and skin glistening from ruptures and red.

And he had wounded it most sincerely.

The monster drew out the sword that went through its arm.

“Another forger,” it spoke, dark hollow voice like a rumble of thunder. Then the forger’s sword was thrown back with impressive might, spinning—sinking it halfway into a tree beside him—barely missing his neck. A quick blow of air kissed his cheek as the sword passed him by. Dazed, he stood blankly for a moment—absorbed by the thought that he would have been beheaded had it been thrown a little more to the left.

It was the start of a fight to the death between man and beast.

Believing that running away would be futile; he lunged forward, tossing back his hood knowing he needed to see every single thing around him—revealing a face freshly past adolescence. His rugged a hair danced with the evening breeze. Eyes wide open, overly cautious of his adversary. The beast’s ability to talk was the least of his concerns.

Speak and he may lose focus. Grimace and he may not see.

A man’s weakness weighs tenfold in the face of peril.

Blades flew from every direction—teamed with their maker’s unusual yet effective ways of handling them. He dashed across obstacles of withering trees and uneven earth while avoiding the creature’s onslaught—throwing his floating swords one after another at the beast with hopes of dismembering any part of it.

But the agile limbs of the bloody creature aided it to hold out on its own. Leaping from tree to tree, cleaving the ground as it ran, and attacking with the strength of twenty men, it proved itself a mighty adversary for any who dared to oppose it.

One of the swings of the monsters’ arm would have deformed the forger’s entire torso had he not grabbed a sword to use its flat as a shield. His body was protected but the force was too great—sending him flying twenty paces away—even farther if not for the decrepit tree that he felled when it broke his flight… and presumably all his limbs.

“This does not concern you, forger,” growled the creature, calm as if without notion of danger.

But the man kept wildly at his barrage.

The forger charged once more with the whole of his speed, wielding a sword for each hand and escorted by the rest. A scrawny man can only hold a fight against a creature nearly twice his size for so long. He roared his loudest as he engaged for the final thrust. All thoughts for sanity, discarded.

But to his tragic misfortune, the monster caught his hands. It gave no mind to the handful of blades that staked its flesh, heart, stomach, gob, shoulders, legs, and chest. The angered monster swung the forger against a tree which looked like a simple act of waving a twig. Out of shock, the rest of his metal spawns were cut lose from the unseen strings which held them in the air; letting them drop to the rocky grass.  

The forger, however, captive to his enemy’s grip, was thrown high above the trees. The creature and the girl became smaller and smaller and smaller. Branches slapped him all over as he ascended. When in a state of absolute helplessness, with nothing to grab a hold of or lean on to, one might feel a tad forsaken. Being helpless literally between heaven and earth, however, he felt his soul was being sucked out by every demon below as his flesh was hauled by every angel above.

As he sped to a height that no man has ever reached, tumbling uncontrollably, he flailed his limbs madly to the sky in desperate attempts to find some unseen ledge in the air. His scream echoed halfway across the forest.

Aaahh, he cried, shamefully like a someone strapped to a mad horse, you bloody fuuu~ the rest of his ineloquent profanity was gobbled up by the passing gust of wind.

Again stranded in mid-air, battered painfully, the forger clawed a gesture to him as a call for his swords, prompting all of them to bolt to his side. Firmly grasping one sword, he threw it down to the beast, ten swords sped after it. The remaining seven stabbed the nearby trees to serve as steps and grips to break their forger’s fall—all of which failed to serve their purpose since it was a branch that caught him. The branch broke and eased him to down. Ease, meaning a three yard plummet to the rocky ground one inch shy of snapping his spine out of place.

 Upon his landing, he stared the ground for a moment, kneeling, feeling its roughness and dirt, quirking a little idiotic smile for his triumph against the deadly height.

Then heard was a startling grumble, as though the creature called for his attention. At once, he held his hand before him; fingers spread apart. His action commanded all the swords to position themselves around the fiend—depriving it of escape.

The creature looked at the fine works of metal with indifference like how a man looks at clouds. “Not many can do this,” it said.

“To hell with you, damned monster,” said the forger, enduring the hellish ache of his beating.

His open palm closed to a fist. The blades, without delay, rushed towards the torn skin and bloody fur of the beast—resolute for the kill.

As the blades were but inches from piercing its black heart, the monster growled two words, “Zalatter Viedre.”

At once, every sword shattered into glittering specs of ashes from tip to handle as they neared the enemy.

Seized as to why his own blades heeded another’s voice, the forger glared at the creature’s eyes. “You’ve taken too many, monster,” with a swing of his arm, the blades were all summoned back—aimed at the fiend of unworldly flesh.

“Monster, you say?” responded the being with dozens of fangs and blood coated claws, fearless before the man’s power. “Hear what I say, forger,” its voice came with scorn. With feet big as a bear’s and nails like horns, it plodded towards him—gently pushing aside the swords in its path.

The forger wanted to impale the creature but realized it was futile after all the impaling he had done. Hence, he started to step back, careful of what the creature might do. His heartbeats in the rapid tune of fear.

“Take another step back and I’ll tear your neck open, forger.”

Thus, he stood in attention, placing all his faith on the swords around them.

The creature set  its maw beside the forger’s ear then spoke; the sounds came out hollow and deep like a lion’s growl.

“Not all monsters have fangs and claws. Look at her and she will burn you.” It raised its right arm, the entire length of its bleeding limb pointed to the girl. “Her fire will reach beneath you bones and turn your soul to ashes. You impede me in the favour I provide. Forgers and bewitchers alike—spread across lands like plague.”

The unworldly entity stepped back to lock eyes with the fearless man. Words leaked out of its mouth. “

Every sword cocked back by a foot. Then they all froze in place—like a brawler’s fist clenched before the swing.

“The mouse squeaks,” heard was a hollow laughter from the creature; its stench of a breath fouling the air. “You mistake oil for water in dousing this flame. Yet you pour a river of it all the same. I look forward to seeing your fate, forger.” Then it turned its back and walked away. “Take no pride in this victory. You have no idea of who I am… of what I