Tunde watched as the forge flames came to life, their heat licking his skin softly. He grabbed the bucket containing the ingots of Ethereum, staring at them as he summoned Ifa.
[What is the possibility of me forging a lord-tier weapon with the forging art of Irin?] he asked.
[Infusion of cosmic Ethra into the metal, as well as essence flame in the forge fire, should be sufficient to attempt the process,] it replied.
Tunde chewed on that thought. [Attempt?] he asked.
[Skill and practice must also be considered,] Ifa clarified.
Tunde nodded. He had only attempted forging a weapon once with the forging art; attaining anything close to perfection was still a long way off.
[What about soulbound weapons?] he asked.
[Apologies, the complete forging art must be acquired to attempt such,] Ifa replied.
Tunde guessed as much. Either way, he needed a weapon to withstand his techniques without breaking down as the void edge blades had done. Pouring his Ethra into the bucket, watching the ingots soak it in, he turned to the forge flames, glancing behind him to ensure no one was watching.
Draven stood at a nearby forge, keeping an eye on him. Tunde waved cheerily, and the adept forgesmith snorted and turned away, embarrassed to be caught watching. With a chuckle, Tunde summoned a little of his essence flames, the black and white fire licking his palm as he threw it into the forge flames.
Immediately, he cocooned the forge with his aura, keeping the effects contained within his surroundings and shutting out the noise around him. His aura dampened the sounds, creating a bubble of focus.
[Begin the art,] he instructed Ifa.
The familiar featureless figure appeared beside him, its deep baritone voice resonating. “Harmony, young lord,” it began. “The melding of Ethra and spirit to metal, sing with every strike of your hammer. You must remember the feeling.”
Tunde picked up the bucket where the ingots had soaked in his Ethra, now midnight black with specks of white. He noted to soak them down in advance next time, curious about the difference it could make to the metal. But for now, he had his first trial to attempt, and he was ready.
Releasing a deep sigh, he grabbed the tongs and placed the ingots into the black and white flames of the forge, watching as they heated up rapidly.
“Feel the energy from the metal, from the flames carrying the weight of your essence. This is no ordinary weapon you are attempting to forge; you create a reflection of your desire,” the voice rumbled on.
Tunde’s eyes were drawn to the slab of stone set aside for him by Draven. Picking it up, its smooth surface called to him. Aura coating his hand, he found himself lost in a trance, carving the specific shape of the weapon he envisioned. Fingers moved with precision as he bent his entire willpower into the process, gathering the latent heat aura in the air and guiding it towards the forge flames.
Satisfied with his work, his aura dissipated, and he was accosted by the raw heat of the flames, the metals burning red hot. Tongs in hand, Tunde brought them out, watching the semi-malleable metals soften as he layered them on each other.
“Will, you must envision what you want, coax the essence of the metal to bend to your will,” the voice said again.
Raising the hammer, Tunde gathered his Ethra, aura, and essence flame, watching the ordinary weapon struggle under the raw power tearing through it. His willpower barely held it together. He brought it down with one strike, the metals ringing out with a Tunde that sent waves through his body.
“Do not resist its voice. Listen, attune yourself to its wants, and make them yours,” the figure said. “Observe.”
Tunde’s Ethra sight turned to the figure, watching as it expertly weaved Ethra, aura, and essence flame into one fluid movement. It was the work of a master. Eyes glued to the figure, Tunde followed the process, his hand rising and falling in sync, the ringing sound of the metal increasing in tempo with every strike, oblivious to himself wreathed in essence flames.
The metal began to take shape with every strike, every bit of his will forcefully infused into the metal’s surface. Burning hot, he transferred it back into the flames, watching as it began to melt. He tightly wrapped his Ethra and aura around it, watching as the semi-liquid eagerly drank them.
“You have willing metal, bent to your will. Now, shape it,” the figure commanded.
With his aura and Ethra wrapped around it, Tunde transferred it into the mold, feeling his willpower fray at the edges. Still, he held on, lost in the rhythm and flow of the process, cycling with every heartbeat, forcing his body to keep giving.
The motions became second nature, his arm swinging in tune with the ringing, the metal taking shape before his eyes. Feeling the flow of his Ethra and aura within the metal, Tunde doubled his effort as his eyes stung, Ethra sight revealing the weak spots. More and more, he sunk further into the process, pushing out everything and everyone. Nothing mattered but the hammer, the blade, and the beating of his heart.
“You attain the crescendo of the process. Gather it all and sing the weapon to life,” the figure commanded.
It felt like second nature. Tunde felt his Ethra and aura rise in a crashing crescendo, his essence flames adding significant power. He brought the hammer crashing down on the metal, imbuing it with everything he had. The hammer shattered, jarring him forcefully from the process as the figure vanished, Ifa blinking to life.
[Incomplete forging art ‘Irin’ has been used. Practice more to improve yourself,] it wrote before fizzling out.
Tunde’s aura bubble popped with a snap as he sagged to his knees, breathing heavily, blisters covering his arm as they healed. The very floor around him steamed. Draven stared at him with wide eyes.
“Everyone, out now!” Draven barked. The forge hands scampered out, leaving Draven alone with Tunde.
Tunde grabbed a bowl, dipping it into a large vat of water nearby, drinking heavily. His parched throat greedily took it all. Panting, body covered in a sweaty sheen that steamed, he turned to Draven, who stared at him with a blank expression.
“What was that?” Draven asked.
“I just watched you bend the entire aura and Ethra in your surroundings to your will, trapped in a ball of black and white flames that felt… well, I have no words for how it felt. Neither do the forge hands who shivered in fear throughout the process,” Draven said slowly.
Tunde nodded. “Forging technique,” he croaked.
His void ring was open, one of the spare ones he wore to avoid suspicion. Bringing out a piece of roasted meat and some fruits filled with rich vitality aura and Ethra, he scarfed them down, his emergency rations. As usual, his body drank in the power like a desert, calming his shivering body.
Tunde turned his gaze to the blade he had forged, pitch black with tiny spots of white on its body. Draven used tongs to lift the still-hot metal, dropping it in a vat of water, which bubbled and steamed.
“What the dead artificer taught me about forging, he gave me a vital piece of advice,” Draven started. “He said there are two types of forgesmiths: those who bend the will of their surroundings to their creations, taking from nature to create something even more perfect. These are the ones who use cores and crystals to imbue weapons.
“And then, there are those who decide they are perfection, forging not by taking from nature but from themselves. Hubris forgers, he called them.”
Tunde said nothing, merely staring at him.
“Vain, glorious, but if tested, they could go against nature itself,” Draven completed.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Feels like the artificer wanted to make himself sound wise,” Tunde said.
Draven gave no reply at first, pointing to the blade still bubbling in the water. “To my knowledge, you used no cores or crystals. It was as if you took from yourself to forge this weapon, a lord-tier weapon,” Draven said.
“I was simply testing something,” Tunde responded with a sigh.
Draven stared from him to the blade and back. “I don’t know how you do the things you do, but I want you to realize it’s in no way normal,” he said. “You’re not an artificer in training, yet you’re putting me and every other smith in the settlement to shame.”
“Just you. No one else here matches you,” Tunde joked as Draven frowned.
“I’m serious. I hope you have a legitimate excuse to tell the Highlord. News of this will spread,” Draven replied.
Tunde frowned, realizing it. “You didn’t think that far, did you?” Draven asked.
Tunde got to his feet. “One thing at a time, my friend,” he said softly, moving to the vat where Draven used tongs to bring out the blade, laying it on the table.
“Its edges are so sharp, I dare not touch them with my bare hands,” Draven muttered. Drumming his hand on the table, he spoke to Tunde. “Run your Ethra through it. I want to confirm something,” he said.
Tunde obeyed, watching as
the blade drank his Ethra until he cut it off, feeling dizzy. “No signs of spillage,” Draven said with an appreciative sigh. “I’m actually jealous.”
“Spillage?” Tunde asked.
“You don’t know a lick about forging imbued weapons, yet you somehow forged one as good as any I’ve seen?” Draven asked incredulously.
“Luck, I guess,” Tunde replied.
“The heavens must really favor you,” the forgesmith grumbled.
Tunde patted his shoulder consolingly. “We can’t all be good at random things we do.”
“One more word, and I’ll let you find a hilt and sheath for this blade,” Draven threatened.
Tunde bowed at the waist. “I plead to listen to the eternal wisdom of the adept,” he said.
Draven sighed, tired of Tunde’s antics. “Spillage is when imbued weapons leak Ethra. Not all weapons are equal. Some begin to break down from within, spilling the vital Ethra used in their forging. That’s what separates good imbued weapons from the rest.”
Tunde glanced at the blade. “So, there are no cracks?”
“I’m saying the Ethra has fused with the weapon. There’s no telling where one ends and the other begins. It’s like you fused them so perfectly that the blade is an extension of your Ethra,” Draven said.
“All the better, I believe,” Tunde said.
“So, what are you naming it?” Draven asked.
Tunde stared at it, the black gleaming weapon resonating with him. “Midnight,” he whispered.
Draven grunted. “Well, I’ve heard worse. Midnight it is,” he said. “That’ll be five thousand lumens for the hilt, polishing, and sheath.”
Tunde sputtered, eyes wide. “You’re charging me?” he asked incredulously.
“Let’s see. You came to my forge, took over a whole section, created a spectacle, and terrified my forgehands,” Draven listed.
“You’re saying I terrified a bunch of grown, muscular men,” Tunde asked.
“As well as mouthing off to me. Throw in another thousand, and I might consider playing dumb when Lady Ryka inevitably asks about what happened here,” Draven said.
Tunde grumbled, opening his void ring and giving it to him. The forgesmith grinned. “Much pleasure doing business with you. Now get out of my forge. I need to concentrate,” he ordered.
“Before that,” Tunde started.
With a deft hand, he opened his void space, dragging out the gold sword and shield. Draven exclaimed, “By the hegemons above, where did you get these?”
“Took them off the dead body of the baron, along with the shield. Think you can melt them down?” Tunde asked.
“The sword, yes. The shield, though, is another matter entirely,” Draven replied.
“What do you mean?” Tunde asked.
Draven pointed to the blade. “That’s just wealth as a weapon, the baron’s sick ego at play, melting gold into a blade. The shield, though, feels like something forged by a Highlord. It emanates palpable power,” Draven said.
Tunde blinked in confusion. The forgesmith sighed. “Keep it and tune it to your aura. It’ll protect your life until it breaks down.”
Pointing to the blade, Draven continued, “This, though, should have enough gold to buy a small settlement. What do you want me to do with it?”
“Not sure yet. I’ll get back to you on that,” Tunde said, storing the shield back.
Draven waved him away, turning to the blade as Tunde donned his upper robe and left, exhausted, towards the stronghold.
*******************************
Returning to his room, Tunde cleaned up before touching the book Elder Wren had lent him. Its brittle pages and the smell of worn paper soothed him as he reclined against the wall, the light of the Ethra crystal illuminating his surroundings.
The book had a small inscription at the bottom of its page, the words “The Script Writer” barely legible. Tunde was thankful it was written in the common tongue. He frowned, wondering why it would be written in another language. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure what its name was.
Shaking his head, he realized there was still much he didn’t know about the world. In his defense, there was only so much he could do with his life on the line. Sighing dismissively, he read the opening words of the scriptwriter.
“There is no such thing as truths and lies, only what is.”
Tunde grunted, feeling the beginnings of a headache. It was an introduction to the political landscape, the power of the cults, and their structures. Whoever this scriptwriter was, he seemed to have issues with the powers of Adamath.
“Regents are nothing more than mouthpieces of the hegemons, elusive divine beings whose powers transcend the boundaries of Adamath and into the definite unknown. They wield such authority because of the backing of untold millions. The cults aren’t powerful because of the regents and hegemons; they are powerful because of the millions who venerate them and the thousands who follow their teachings.”
Tunde reread the passage, pondering its meaning when a knock at his door drew his attention. Closing the book with a snap, he tossed it into his void space along with other floating items. He realized he might need to arrange it at some point, though the problem was how.
Opening his door, he faced a disciple who bowed, head touching the ground. “Venerable lord, your presence is requested by the venerable Highlord,” he said, voice quivering.
Tunde sighed, dismissing the disciple and closing the door, running his hand over his smooth head. He had taken to cutting his hair like Elyria had done for him, leaving nothing behind, a smooth surface that, in his opinion, let him think clearly. The Highlord had found it horrifying, gagging at the thought of cutting his lush hair.
Putting on a cleaner robe, Tunde stared at his bed wistfully before heading to the Highlord’s abode. Perhaps Varis was considering an attack to push back the king’s forces creeping closer? He shook his head, doubting the Highlord would act without personal benefit.
With promised reinforcements from the capital still absent, Tunde realized Black Rock might have to defend itself. Oddly, the thought of facing this powerful force alongside those he trusted calmed him.
Knocking on Varis’s door and entering, the Highlord sat on the ground, eyes closed. When he opened them, Tunde felt his spirit quiver. He could have sworn he smelled ash and storms, the herald of destruction. Cycling his Ethra quietly, he braced himself against whatever the Highlord was doing.
Bowing at the waist, sweat beading on his forehead, he spoke softly yet strongly. “This lord greets the venerable Highlord,” he said.
“Sit. I’m in no mood for your veiled sarcasm,” Varis replied.
This wasn’t the fickle, carefree Varis Tunde knew. This was the Highlord of Clan Talahan in all his glory and terror. With a jolt, Tunde realized the overwhelming presence he felt was the Highlord’s, not even his aura.
Swallowing softly, Tunde met Varis’s gaze. “Officially, the forces sent by the imperial clan are on their way,” Varis began.
Tunde wondered why Varis wasn’t smiling. By the Highlord’s standards, that should have been good news.
“My branch of the clan leads the forces coming, and I am to hand over command to the master in charge. However, I have one last mission that will decide how useful Black Rock will be in the coming battle.”
Tunde’s hands clenched into fists. Hadn’t they proven themselves enough? What more could the empire want from a distant settlement? If Varis noticed his reaction, he said nothing of it.
“They want to know how far the wasteland king’s forces are from the empire’s borders.”
“Pardon me, venerable Highlord,” Tunde said, trying to hide his anger. “But if I recall correctly, you said the king can’t move against us, not yet.”
“And he can’t. But a king isn’t a king because he rules alone, is he?” Varis asked.
“His forces,” Tunde said softly.
“The two claws of the wasteland king. Not beast blood cultivators, but actual wasteland creatures who attained sentience under his cultivation. Powerful in their own right and only growing stronger,” Varis added.
Tunde shut his eyes as Varis continued. “You will head to the wastelands with any adept of your choosing.”
“I can do it alone,” Tunde replied.
“You will search out their latest position, assess the force’s size, and return,” Varis continued, ignoring him. “Under no circumstances should you engage unless attacked.”
Tunde stared at Varis, frustration gnawing at him. “There’s no need to waste the life of an adept, venerable Highlord,” Tunde repeated.
“And I could care less. You will take an adept. If you throw your life away in battle, the adept should return with the information I need,” Varis spoke bluntly. “No one is irreplaceable. I trained you because you suited my plans. Now the plans have begun, and you need to start bearing fruit.”
Tunde held himself in check, swallowing the bitter reply. For the first time in a long while, he missed Elder Joran’s presence. Joran was a sheathed blade, maneuvering around powerful figures without losing himself. Tunde, he realized, was a naked blade, sharp and ready to cut.
“I hear and will obey the orders of the Highlord,” he said, bowing his head.
“Your ignorance is grating, but I will enlighten you,” Varis said softly. “Your settlement has long been deemed a deterrent, its people bodies to be thrown against the king’s onslaught.”
“In case you don’t understand, I’m telling you your people will serve as nothing but bodies to be slaughtered while the empire prepares for a decade-long battle,” Varis explained. “While you may consider what I just did near evil, your ignorance of leadership blinds you to the bigger picture.”
“What I’ve done buys you time and shows them the settlement is more than helpless bodies,” Varis completed, tucking his arms into his robes. “Think before you act, Tunde, for the people who look up to you. It would be a shame to watch them die. I’ve grown fond of them, honestly,” Varis mused.
Tunde bowed his head again to school his raging features. “Will that be all, venerable Highlord?” he asked.
“Yes. You leave the day after tomorrow. It’s enough time to prepare you and your chosen adept,” Varis said.
Tunde rose, bowing before leaving the room and closing the door gently. Rage burned within him. He shut out the noise, heading to his room as disciples and initiates parted, sensing something amiss.
He arrived at his door, beckoning a passing disciple who hesitantly came over. Giving him a message, Tunde sent him on his way. Watching the disciple rush off, Tunde entered his room, shutting the door behind him. He sat on the floor, legs folded, breathing audibly as he cycled to calm his nerves.