Sylva

Heat washed across the priestess's face as her helpers stoked the forge. Her brow furrowed as she watched the metal heat. The rough shape of a double crescent bladed axe head glowed a dull red. Hours had been spent refining and working the spearheads their fort had generated for them, the poor steel a continuous frustration for her. She had not had to work with this low quality of steel in over a century. She persevered though, the other smiths worked without stopping. Days had been spent building this rudimentary forge, repelling the nightly assaults from the bitter sea, and praying. Every day the dwarves marched under the earth and prayed to their gods of stone and metal. Piety would lead them to salvation. Piety and sharp steel.

Sylva pulled forth the now glowing axe head, her hammer raining down blows as she sang to her gods. Magic wove into the malleable metal, white runes forming with every hammer stroke. As the heat faded, the metal cooling, she shoved the half formed axe back into the flames. Hours blurred together, every time she pulled the axe forth more runes glowed with pale light. In the dark, with only the flames of the forge giving light, the glow of white light was a sign of hope. A sign of their gods listening to them, threading their magic into steel with her prayers.

Assistants worked next to her, bare chested in the heat, hair dark with sweat, held back with silver chains. Two of them labored to slice the heart of the great crabs, the valuable liquid splashing into a deep bucket. Scores of emptied brown hearts sat in a corner, waiting to be repurposed. Dwarves did not waste, everything could be repurposed to their cause with enough thought and time.

Lifting the axe head up to her face, ignoring the radiating heat, she studied the weave of runes. Grunting in satisfaction, she plunged the hot axe head into the bucket. Steam erupted, metal hissing, the smell of earth filling the room. The liquid was heavenly, mana mixed with bodily attributes, superior to anything she had ever worked with. The contrast of poor steel and superior magical supplies were a juxtaposition she normally would have enjoyed. If she hadn’t been taken from her home, left upon this flat world.

Sylva pulled the axe free and looked at it anew. Black scoring stained it, but she could see the glowing runes slowly fading into the steel. The magic had set perfectly, the axe would be one of the finest she had ever crafted regardless of the quality of steel. She handed the axe to one of her assistants, the dwarven maid taking it to a grinding wheel.

Leaving the small forge room, she took in the rest of the crafters who controlled the lower rooms. Armor was being sewn together, tough leathers soaked in the liquid from the hearts. Other arms were being worked, shafts for the long spears had runes carved in them and filled with crushed crystal as a filigree. The air was suffused with magic, every one of her breaths filled her lungs with the memories of home. A pang of longing struck her as she strode through them, the maids working with holy fervor.

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She left them behind and rose up rough hewn steps to emerge into the great hall of the fort they had taken. Warriors ate and drank in camaraderie, the pressures of the world forgotten for just a few moments. Her dark eyes scanned the crowds, looking for the First Son of Stone. She found him easily, sitting surrounded by their only greybeards, listening to their advice as they pointed at the maps strewn in front of them. Silence followed in her wake as she walked toward them, eyes tracking her as she walked to the knot of commanders.

“Voltag, First Son of Stone. It is time.” Sylva didn’t bother to raise her voice, her natural rasp carrying easily enough. Voltag raised a hand to his commanders as he rose to his full height. A dwarf in his prime, his pale skin reddened by weak sun, dark eyes of flint, a beard as black as night and braided with delicate chains of gold. Five and half feet tall and nearly as broad, his long beard fell past his waist, tucked into his dark leather broad belt.

“You have heard the priestess. Warriors. Arm yourselves,” Voltag boomed out, his deep voice echoing in the drafty hall. All around Sylva, the hall burst into motion as warriors rose to don their arms. A group of nine came to their gathering, the nine greatest warriors who had been transported with them. The competition had been fierce for the nine to be gathered, contests of skill and strength that had gone on for over a week before these nine rose above all others.

The nine and Voltag followed her back into the bowels of the earth. They had mined through the fort's floors to get closer to the furnace that powered it. Deeper into the earth where they were more comfortable, near the beating pulse of the world. Only the sounds of leather scraping stone broke the silence as they descended. Entering the crafting area, Sylva looked around to see that all the maids had covered themselves, veils covered their faces and heavy cloaks obscured their forms. She turned back to the ten warriors and beckoned them in.

They formed a line as the maids swarmed them. The warriors were stripped to their underclothes and then armed. Magic reinforced metal studded leather armor, helms of steel, and heavy shields of thick wood. Sylva left them to enter her personal forge and her assistants. In the few minutes she had been gone, her assistants had fitted the head of the war axe on a shaft of steel. The steel was dark as thunderclouds, absorbing the light from the forge. She took the axe from them and felt the weight of the magic she had placed upon it. Her soul shuddered over the weight and once again she prayed to her gods in her mind as she walked out of the room to Voltag.

He stood alone, the only one who was armed in full metal plate. Every piece had been subjected to the same treatment as his axe; a half dozen junior priestesses had worked together to forge it. Voltag stood straight and tall as she walked toward him, only bending his knees to kneel in supplication when she was in arms length.

“First Son of Stone, war has come to us. Will you lead us to victory?” Sylva questioned. The brevity of the situation was an irritant, normally a warlord would take weeks of praying and supplication, followed by a cleansing before the offer was given. Time was against them though, other zones had already been captured and they needed to act now or fail.

“I shall conquer. We shall survive,” Voltag’s deep voice echoed through the room. Sylva offered him the haft of the axe. He grasped it in one large armored hand, taking the heavy weight from her. Voltag rose to his feet as Sylva fell to one knee. All around her she watched as the others knelt to their warlord.