Forger chapter 1-3 by Jude Alquinto (ebook reader play store .TXT) 📕

“A devil’s what you are.”

“Your words are but sounds.”

Its figure shrunk upon every step. From a massive beast to a lifeless long-tail wolf—covered with rips and every bone out of place. As if its flesh was clothing; worn, ruined, and discarded.

Upon the creature’s leaving, the man eased himself on a tree trunk toppled to the ground by his enemy’s strength. He rested his eyes upon the young lady sitting on the ground two steps away.

“You there. Girl. You a girl? You still alive? Because if you’re dead, I’ll be on my way now. I don’t handle well with corpses.”

She sat on the ground, heaving breaths, staring into the dirt, petrified by the monster she had exchanged gazes with. Ants have already started to climb her dress.

“It’s gone,” he said. “Malicious little lout won’t be on its feet for a while, I think.” Exhaustion made his eyes see the fallen trunk as a feather bed, its coarse bark felt like silk.

She looked left and right, careful attention to sound as she did. Fog blurred the woods and foliage. Rustling leaves and silence all around. No oddities in sight; save for the presence of the man beside her.

“Where is it?” her voice, the frailest of sounds.

“Turned to a wee carcass, as I see it. All bloody and torn,” seeing the girl still fazed, he added, sounding more casual, “it looks more adorable now than a while ago, I assure you.”

He touched her shoulder to help her rise. The girl’s response was a terrified flinch.

“I can stand, sir.” She looked up and beheld her protector. Her eyes ran from his head to toe and once more. Filthy clothes, filthy hair, filthy all—definitely not a sir, she thought.

“If you can stand, let’s be on our way, then,” he spoke as if it was an obvious fact, “unless you’d rather enjoy the night alone.”

He took notice of the fear that lingered in the woman’s eyes—warily darting left and right, as did her whole head—overly alert for danger.

The forger, with a flick of his wrist, spawned back four of his loyal swords to promise her that no harm would approach them.

“It’s a bit late to be here. You’re from Tardel?” he queried.

An unknown man wearing clothes no better than a bandit’s suddenly asked where she lived. Common sense required her to lie—but the evening’s grim air dictated otherwise.

She nodded timidly, “Y-yes… why?”

“Come on, then. I rot there too.” With two hands to push down his knees, he rose with a grunt. “The Guide’s just a few hundred yards from here.”

“But I barely know you.”

“My fair lady, so sweet and mild,” his tone was gentle but with a hint of fading patience, “if I was to rape, kill, and loot you, in any order, I should’ve finished by now, don’t you think?” his swords took a turn in the air, as though saying indeed to their forger’s words. His candid query was enough to have her revise her thoughts of him.

She stood, patted the filth off her clothes, and walked.

“You’re going the wrong way,” he said. To which she turned.

Both of them treaded through the ghastly woods with knees muttering of fatigue and fright. The man purposely made his swords surround them so as to guarantee that a protector was still with her; and that he’d be safe as well. The iron planks zipped frantically left and right, up and down, like bees in search of a pretty flower to stab.

It pays to have an anxious sword or four floating around where vision is very limited. One would seem demented but it was practical. After all, an eerie forest with poisoned trees, fanged animals, blinding mist, and a talking monster was never an ideal place to be in during the night… or any other time of the day.

In the midst of their silence, the forger noticed the woman’s soft hair swing in tune with her steps—which was quite a rare sight for a man who spends his days around people devoid of grooming.

“A thousand thanks,” she said, barely enough to be heard.

Speaking with his nose, he gave a short “hm” for a reply.

Letting a few dozen steps pass by, she spoke again, “your swords gave me quite a scare… swinging about so near me,” she said in honest intention to commend her saviour, “it must have been an ordeal to gain such mastery.”

“About that,” he said, “I have to say, you’re the luckiest girl I’ve ever met.”

“Why is that?”

“I didn’t notice you at all until the fight’s about done.”

“You what?!” Her eyelids flipped open upon realizing that she went unnoticed while a flock of flying swords scrambled everywhere, nearly mincing her flesh and bones without care. She recalled one sword stabbing the ground a few inches away from her knee.

He shrugged. “This is a forest damned by some spectre they call the whisperer… and it’s night… and a talking pissed off bloody thing was frantically eager to bite my head off,” he explained, “I mean, who’d bother to check for damsels in distress given those circumstances?”

She thought deeply, brows knitted, then nodded with a quirk on her lips, “Fair enough. I’m not in distress.”

“Of course, you’re not.”

They continued walking.

“Who the hell are you, anyway?” He roared a yawn, “I forgot to ask.”

“I’m Arza,” She said, careful of disclosing herself to the stranger. Walking amidst the dark woods, she turned her head to see her saviour by the corner of her eyes. She needed a name should her escort start painting himself in darker shades. “And might I learn the name of this brave knight who almost killed me by pure chance?”

 “Axev. But I’m not brave and I’m no knight.” The part where he nearly dismembered her a few times needed no correcting.

“What are you, then?”

“Someone living quietly, but hounded by misfortune.”

“Why?” she asked, “you don’t seem to have lost a limb. Your head’s still there… that’s fortunate. Or is it your co—”

“No, all parts still here,” he said, cutting her short. He sighed in preparation for a quick tale which had a dab of pride contained in casual speaking. “I’ve gone against eight men before—eight men, bladders bloated with ale. Two of which were forgers—everyone was holding something sharp to poke me with… all because they were in search for a bit of merriment. Then I happened to be passing by. Not as harsh as losing my cock but quite unlucky, don’t you think?”

“And?” her expression lit up slightly.

“And what?”

“What happened next?”

“Here I am, alive. And they… feel quite hurt.”

“You killed them?” A mild rise in her tone.

“Heavens, no.” His swords twitched in accordance to his shock. “I outran them… I’m good at that,” he said. “Gave them a few taps here and there, though.”

“Broken arms and legs?”

“And some scratches.”

When in a forest too dark for angels to tread, the slightest rustling of bushes demanded immediate attention. A nearby wolf’s growl sent Arza racing to Axev’s side. The forger, startled as well, flicked an open hand to his right. His four blades dove into the bushes. Nimble little feet on scrambling soil told that the beast had gone away. His senses led his body without consulting the mind—a convenient trait to have when a little short on time.

“Isn’t this place a bit odd for a girl?” he asked, prompting her to walk again.

“I was on my way to Bont for some parchment.”

“Why Bont? There are parchmenters in the city.”

“There’s someone there I know. Sells cheap, that man… but just for me and no one else.”

“How’d you end up in these woods, then?” he asked. “It takes quite some skill to stray from a straight path.”

“My father had me accompanied by a horseman. Harn, he called himself. We were treading the Guide. But there was a snake on the road, longer than a spear and green as grass. The cursed serpent startled our horse. Wassel, that four-legged idiot, ran blindly into the woods, confused which of her feet to use first. Harn fell and his head hit a rock… badly. Wassel went on without me but three wolves got her quick. She gave me a chance to escape.”

“And then you got lost?”

“I never get lost,” she spoke it like a creed. “I left Wassel… and wandered with little familiarity over the terrain.”

“That is getting lost.” With knitted brows, Axev asked, “What do you need paper for, anyway?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“I’ll try to.”

“I’m a maker of maps.”

“A cartographer?” Axev stopped, “I think you’re a few decades short for that.” Three swords went to Arza’s side and melted into shackles, quiet as they could. The fourth one found its way to his hand. “I’ve come across people in these woods. Raiders or scouts, a few of ‘em. Most would act innocent until you turn your back.”

“Is that why you stayed behind me all this time?”

“A map-maker, lost. That’s a bit rare, is it not?” The shackles slithered by Arza’s feet. “And at the Whisperer’s Den at that,” he added. “Surely, you’ve heard the song about this place,”

“A whisperer… now it makes sense…” she spoke with brighter eyes. Unaware of the chains by her feet, Arza started to sing a line from The Whispers in the Den, softly so she’d not be heard by whatever beast hid in the cover of night. “Hold my hand, said the guide… don’t e’er you let go.” she turned her back on Axev and carried on walking. ”For the mist, oh it gently whispers in yer ear.“ Even to ears innocent of music, the mildness of her singing enticed. The chains danced to her melody like serpents tamed by flute. Axev swung a foot at the best dancer for discipline.

No raider’s this lively, he thought. Carefully, the shackles crawled away from her feet, straightened, crunched themselves back into blades, and resumed positions—swaying in the air as if caressed by the sweetness of her voice.

“A shortcut… I roamed aimlessly expecting I’d soon stumble upon a bloody shortcut to Bont,” she said in defence, hands on her head and sounding as if finding a shortcut in such grim place was certain as her next breath. “Shortcuts are my specialty, you see. I’m a map-maker after all.”

“Bloody, yes. Shortcut… one to a grave, perhaps.”

“Why would you be here, then? That is, if I may ask.”

“On a hunt for them flappin’ wolves,” said he. “By the way, who are you making maps for? A girl’s got no use for that.”

“For a rich man,” she said, “I’m not supposed to name him.”

Axev sheared the branches blocking their way. They yawned alternately as the evening took its toll on them.

“A defenceless girl strolling at night in a forest that many fear tread,” he said, peeling off the itch off his scalp fondly, “you do realize that your presence here transcends the bounds of logic, yes?”

“I’m not defenceless,” answered Arza, “I’ll have you know, I have a knife with me.”

“How frightening,” he smirked, head cocked left, all superior and smug, “this knife you take pride in, has it served you well so far?”

“There was a thief, once. He tried to touch me… quite ardently,” her casual voice melted to one filled with regret, “I had to cut his neck so he’d stop. There was a raper too; and a merchant.”

The forger had not expected