Rise of the Living Forge

Darkness clung to the edges of his vision, consuming the dim light cast by his torch like a nest of starving insects. He could have sworn that the fire was illuminating less and less with every step he took, even though the remains of the tar on the torch’s head were still burning away.

I hate this job. I wish I bought more tar. I’ll have to make this fast.

More footfalls echoed through the dark. His, of course. Jack and Jill were always very thorough. They wouldn’t waste him on a task where there could be a monster lurking in wait. After all, it was hard to find people like Jorge.

He was good at what he did.

He didn’t like it, but he was good at it.

This job took skill. It took talent. And most of all, it took someone who was good at staying quiet when the time called for it.

Jorge was good at staying quiet. And so he walked, accompanied only by the sound of his echoing steps and the growing unease bouncing around in his skull.

If you’re scared, you aren’t dead.

If you’re scared, you aren’t dead.

If you’re scared, you aren’t—

A rock clattered.

Jorge practically leapt out of his boots. He let out a slew of curses as he scrabbled for the sword at his side with one hand while he waved his torch with the other, trying and failing to banish the all-consuming darkness around him.

All he found was an empty cave.

His heart slammed in his chest and he tasted bile in his throat. Jack always chose the absolute worst places to assign him. But he always did his job. That was why Jack paid him so well.

Jorge swallowed back his unease and lowered the torch, shaking his head. He ignored the cold sweat prickling against his back and rolling down his forehead. All he had to do was one job every few months, and that paid for everything he needed.

If you’re scared, you aren’t dead.

It was a good deal.

If he repeated that enough times, perhaps it would become true.

Jorge could have sworn Jack told him this target wasn’t too deep. That the dungeon had been fairly shallow, and it should have been an easy job. Maybe he and Jack just had different ideas of deep, but this particular dungeon had gone on too long after he’d passed through just a single room.

There was something about it that set his entire body on edge. Every one of Jorge’s senses screamed at him to run, but still he pressed on.

Jack didn’t pay him to be scared.

If you’re scared, you aren’t —

A wall loomed up from the darkness before him. Jorge ground to a halt, heart still pounding in his chest. He lifted the torch and waved it from side to side. There was nothing.

He’d reached a dead end.

“Weird,” Jorge muttered to himself, his words barely louder than a breath. “Where’s the guy?”

He swept the torch back through the air, squinting at the ground.

A corpse exploded from the darkness. His heart leapt —

No. It was just a corpse. Just a dead man lying on the ground, face down. The body hadn’t moved at all. He’d just swung the torch too quickly and sent shadows dancing through the darkness.

Dead men couldn’t hurt people. The only thing they could do was be dead.

Jorge swallowed. He fumbled with his sword, returning it to the sheathe at his side, then pulled a bag away from its spot at his hip. This part was always distasteful, but at least the job was almost done. He just had to chop the body up and then he could leave.

Then he could be done.

Jordge crouched beside the corpse.

It twitched.

He let out a terrified scream and lurched back, heart slamming so violently in his chest that the breath drove itself from his lungs. His torch clunked against the ground and rolled to the side, sending shadows swirling across the dimly lit area.

Only a moment later did Jorge realize his mistake and lunge, but the corpse was faster. A fist flew out and slammed into Jorge’s stomach. He let out a terrified wheeze and doubled over, stumbling back a step as the dead man grabbed his torch and rose to his feet.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Man and corpse stared at each other, torchlight dancing in their eyes.

Terror welled and rose within Jorge like a tsunami —

And then it froze.

His stomach didn’t hurt. The blow hadn’t been empowered with magic. It was the strike of a normal man.

“I’m weak,” the corpse rasped, staring at his hand in disbelief.

Corpses didn’t speak.

“Jack didn’t finish you off,” Jorge said, his eyes going wide as he took a step back. “You’re meant to be dead.”

“I am, aren’t I?” the not-dead man replied, looking down at himself before back up to Jorge. “And you’re meant to be finishing me off.”

“Now don’t you get any ideas,” Jorge said. He grabbed the sword from his side and drew it in a clumsy motion. “I’m just disposal.”

“And I’m the trash,” the man, for that was what he seemed to still be, murmured. He pressed a hand to his stomach. “My magic. It’s gone. All of it.”

Jorge shifted from foot to foot. This had never happened before. Jack had never left a target alive. But something told him that Jack was not about to accept failure as a result. If the man was still alive, then Jorge just had to rectify that issue.

After all, it didn’t seem like the would-be corpse had any magic. He’d said it himself. Jorge was a Journeyman. Not the best Journeyman, but a Journeyman. Against a man with no magic, Jorge was safe.

So why am I so scared?

“Who are you?” the man asked. “Who do you work for?”

Jorge lunged, drawing on [Quickstep] and sending his sword blurring for the dead man’s head. It was a blindingly fast blow.

One he was quite proud of.

One that missed completely.

The other man twitched out of the way, moving before Jorge had even realized he had moved. He hadn’t even been fast — he’d just completely predicted the attack before it had gotten close.

“You’re with my brother,” the dead man said. He let out a bitter laugh. “That much is obvious.”

“Jack is your brother?” Jorge swallowed heavily and walked in a circle around the other man, searching for an opportunity. It should have been so easy to finish Jack’s target off — but every single one of his senses screamed danger.

“Jack?” The dead man tilted his head to the side. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. That doesn’t matter. A fake name. Perhaps the man that was with Hein.”

“Hein?” Jorge asked. He found no opportunities. No holes in the target’s attention. The dead man should have been weak, but he still moved with a grace that should have been impossible for someone that wasn’t an adventurer.

Another bitter laugh echoed through the cave. “Oh, how he would have hated that. Even now, you still don’t know his name.”

Jorge lunged at the man while he spoke, activating [Quickstep] once more and pouring magical energy into the ability. He thrust his blade for the man’s heart with a scream of defiance. The weapon blurred through the air.

His target shifted, but Jorge was far faster. His blade met resistance. It cut across the man’s chest, leaving a deep wound in its wake and sending blood splattering across the wet ground.

Jorge’s heart slammed. Victory welled in his chest.

Yes! One more blow will finish this! I can handle this job. Jack will have to pay me twice for this one.

The dead man hissed in pain and swung the torch at Jorge, who flinched out of the way before it could connect with his head.

“Shit,” the dead man snarled. He looked down at the torch in his hands, then back up to Jorge. A faint flicker of a smile pulled across his lips. Then he reached for the flame at the top of the torch.

Jorge’s eyes widened in horror as he realized what his target was doing a second too late. He lunged forward, but a loud sizzle and the crackle of burning flesh filled the air as the man grabbed onto the remains of the torch and smothered it with his own palm.

The cave plunged into darkness.

“Stay back!” Jorge yelled, swiping his sword through the air before him as his eyes darted back and forth, trying to make anything out in the darkness. They found nothing but twisting shadow. He couldn’t even see his nose anymore.

A pained laugh, more sad than amused, echoed through the cave around Jorge. He lunged in its direction and swiped his sword. It connected with nothing. He stumbled, nearly losing his footing before he caught himself.

“God, it hurts,” the dead man said. His voice trailed from Jorge’s left to his right. He turned to follow it, but it was impossible. “It hurts so much.”

“Then let me kill you,” Jorge said. “Then it will not hurt.”

“It will always hurt. My own brother, running me through the back. My brother!”

Jorge leapt in the direction of the voice, cutting with all the speed and force he could muster. His foot caught on a rock and he stumbled, his strike connecting with nothing once more.

“Stay back!” Jorge screamed, swiping the blade before himself several more times in wild, haphazard swings. His heart pounded so violently in his chest that he feared it would shatter his ribcage.

He couldn’t remember where the exit was. He couldn’t remember how many rooms the cave had or the way back. It was too dark. The shadows seemed to be closing in around him, waiting to harvest his soul.

The smell of stale water and old, coppery blood mingled with cooked flesh in the air.

“Maybe it would have been better if I let you kill me,” the dead man said. There was a long, choked pause between his words. “I knew, you know.”

“You knew?” Jorge turned in the direction of the voice. If he could just find the man, he could re-kill him. He had to keep him talking. “Knew what?”

“I knew Hein hated me. I knew why he hated me. Godspit, I just wanted to make the world better, but gods—” he paused to draw a raspy breath, “Gods damn it. The timing was just so bad,” the dead man said. “Do you know the worst part? I understand why he stabbed me. I think I’d have done it too. I’d have killed my own brother. I should just let you put me down.”

Jorge approached the voice as quietly as he could. He was close. The man couldn’t have been more than a few paces away from him.

“I’ll make the pain stop. I promise. Just let me finish this.”

Agonized laughter echoed through the cave. Jorge lunged for its source — his sword met nothing but air.

“Why?” the man rasped. “I need to know why!”

“Why what?” Jorge demanded, striding for the voice and swinging his sword again. He had to be close. The dead man couldn’t run forever. He’d eventually —

A stick slammed into Jorge’s wrist. His bones cracked and he let out a scream of pain. A hand clamped down on his wrist, grinding against the injury, and another one ripped the sword from his grip before he could stop it.

Jorge’s mouth opened — and a blade slammed into his gut. He jerked. A wet, pained wheeze dribbled from between his lips.

The dead man caught Jorge by the shoulders as he slumped forward. His lips trembled as he tried to find words. To find the strength to beg for life — but nothing came. There was nothing but darkness.

As he faded, he heard one final whisper.

“I would have done it, but we were still brothers. I loved him so much. Just not as much as my job. I know the answer, but I’m selfish. I know why he did this… but I still need to hear it from his own lips. I need to hear why. Even you looked me in the eyes when you tried to kill me,” the dead man whispered, cradling Jorge’s head like a child. “So why couldn’t he?”

Then the dead man snapped Jorge’s neck.