Arcfire—Chapter Eight

by E. E. Bowers

“So you saw fit…to have a duel of wits…with more of Morkudum’s Moronic Reserve,” said Master Fromm, one massive dwarf-fist on a hip and the other wrapped round a massive tome. Looking up at Jhort who was not only taller by an entire body-length but also still astride his korth. “If only you kept your mind as sharp as your weaponry!”

“Ah, but even a fool with a keen blade lives to fool another day!” declared Jhort, getting down from his ride-beast. Then bringing down Aia as well. Hands lingered on her arms perhaps overly long even safely on the ground. As safe as this land would be otherwise, that is.

Keeping eye-contact, Aia gently pushed away the huge mercenary hands. Not so gentle was her kick to a left shin. A right-proper coup de pied. “That’s for enjoying the ride overly much!”

“Hah!” cheered Master Fromm. “The mercenary lad of titan height fails to pay for shin-armour! What’s the matter? Not enough crystal or coin for the before-mentioned?”

Jhort grimaced and hobbled a dance. Now the foolish thing about human physiology is how the very same nervous system which maintains your thought also handles pain processing. In this case, perhaps Jhort’s next bit of commentary can be somewhat excused—for perhaps the agony had shorted his already relatively short wits. “What person would not enjoy you riding him?”

Which promptly earned another serving, more of the same. Please, madam? May I have some more? That said and that done, it seems that the members of matching chromosomes did not see the need to punish the punished.

Moving to sit down to alleviate some pressure from his lower limbs, Jhort looked up at the elf. Any excuse to look at her would do, as you well know. “The rewards of a mercenary! And acting without fee at that! A touch bit more thanks and less in the way of blows would be in order!”

Asked one of Jhort’s men of undamaged shins, “How did you know of our encounter with more of Morkudum’s morons?”

“An alliterative turn of phrase! A bit of verbal wit! There’s a wee bit of hope for the next generation yet!” jeered Master Fromm. Then slipping into snappish tones. “Quite simple, actually. Jhort’s hide-the-bairn blanket was jostled from its normal moorings. Meaning, it has been used to hide something girl-sized and likely having a set of pointed ears. Otherwise, he would be too proud to show off anything attractive riding upon his…ah, saddle. Showing off for all the world to see! That is, unless, we are dealing with a certain aspect of the world that is somehow of sharper blade and duller wits than all your lot! Three guesses in regards to whom I refer, and all guesses are pointed in the direction of Morkudum’s men!”

“Cor blimey! Ah-ma-a-azing!” went another one of Jhort’s Jesters. “Wish I were born a dwarf and all that.”

“Why… That’s the third-kindest thing the likes of you have ever said to me!” went Master Fromm. Before anyone could ask about the first or second, he gestured for them to follow—was already walking. “To the workshop prime! ‘Tis the only place o’ mine large enough to accommodate your massive forms! That, and we cannot have that skyfall-bright head of hair advertising for more unwanted attention!”

“Just like being a schoolboy again,” said yet another one of Jhort’s Jovials…or something in that regard. He nevertheless joined everyone else in stepping down from their korth to walk forth.

“Morkudum’s men, Morkudum’s men…” went Master Fromm, leading everyone to the largest of machine-houses. “They’ve been more trouble than is usual. And that was even ever-so-slightly before the arrival of someone of pointed ears.”

And it took Aia that long to catch the reference. Putting fingers to those very external features. “Oh. Me.”

“What now! Did you forget that those pointy organs of hearing were attached to your brain-bowl, lass?” went Master Fromm. “Likely forget to put them on every morn if they were detachable.” He then made a broad wave of his right hand.

And the gesture was interpreted by a cluster of smart-crystals at the double doors to the main machine-cottage—resulting in motors and the like opening the way inside. Not too smart in the way of crystals, mind you. Extremely intelligent crystals being used for extremely dull tasks would likely fail—insanity from extreme inanity. Something to consider in regards to humans being employed merely to open doors or—worse still—push elevator buttons for wealthy buffoons who would be more or less capable otherwise.

No, worse than that! Let us go with less than capable! What brand of society allows the least intellectually capable, the least professionally competent, and ultimately the most inbred occupy its seats of power? Using such seats for toilet seats by which they vent their waste products upon the lower classes? Oh, that would be your society! As if affairs were not bad enough, what with humans being laughingstock at best and a cultural plague of intellectual self-destruction at worst—therefore leading to that absolute lack of other-worldly visitors. (Again, only sending down expendable bio-bots to muck about for the sake of exploration or just any excuse to gather data on you fools.) That said, the strong serve the weak, the keen serve the idiots, the intellectually superior classes serve the inbred aristocracy! And so long as the idiocy remains, humanity will remain in its current condition until that solar-induced baked-apple paradigm shift takes place. Or, those giant insects decided to make an early appearance ahead of humanity’s extinction!

…

Fortunately for the likes of dwarves, skyborne people and skyfall children, humanity’s stupidity is at least kept down to livable levels hereabouts. This, much like how heat from your sun is not often enough to kill everyone outright. Not yet, at the least. Also fortunately for the before-mentioned, the dim wits of the aristocracy are such that they cannot do too much damage. Again, not yet.

Which leaves time enough for Master Fromm to have affairs regarding the arcfire bow to be handled right-proper. If anything is to be done, no other way to go about it. That is, unless one wishes to court the sort of disaster which lands one in a vasi vat for a week. Yes, yes! Present company included!

And such present company had already made its way into the main machine-house of Master Fromm’s crystal-craft collection of cottages. Such is the way of cottage industries, after all. One works where one lives—out of the home. That said, every home is a place of business.

Which is also to say, this gathering was all about the arcfire—seeing if the skyfall child was fit for using it. And to do that, part of Master Fromm’s process involved actually taking up the legendary weapon from where it was hidden. True genius how he hid the thing, actually.

He reached into… No, onto a pile of metal-and-crystal bits and bobs. Bits of machinery and the bobs that controlled them, what. Just because grow-kilns grow most everything that a human, dwarf, etcetera could ever need, such did not mean that everyone saw fit to throw out everything. Might come in useful to make a pile enough upon which to place the arcfire.

“You mean, you leave that wondrous and powerful weapon in plain sight…and upon a pile of rubbish, of all things?” went Jhort, his voice rising to the occasion.

“Yes! I mean to do exactly that!” declared Master Fromm. “Did it not thus far keep soiled hands away?”

“Yes, it did not,” went Jhort. Realising how inverted and incorrect that sounded, he tried again. “No, it did that. I mean to say… What were we saying?”

Master Fromm ambled over to Aia and spoke conspiratorially, “A big person in a state of befuddlement, affairs as usual. Us wee folk must remain together to bask in the comfort of our mutual intellectual camping fires on these cold, cold plains of human idiocy.”

“A camping fire? In here?” went Tokla the Brave, who was unfortunately not Tokla the Wise.

“Aye and alas, my lass,” finished Master Fromm, looking to Aia. Then the dwarf brought out a glossy case out from a large work-drawer… He opened said case, revealing the much vaunted weapon from a hiding place that was both overly obvious yet also hidden in plain sight.

Jhort looked at the dwarf. “You mean, the arcfire was bundled in with all manner of common hammers and chisels and what-not?”

Master Fromm took offense, of course. “Common hammers? Insult my tools again, and I should find occasion to insult your bloodline!” Looking to Aia. “Do follow.”

Like a dutiful apprentice despite not actually being one—and this despite her raiment—Aia did so. An apprentice learns. Learning is done by doing a great deal of paying attention. Or, simply paying attention at all! Such is something to consider as you much about with your smartphones and regal your teachers with random antics. Otherwise, doing that sort of nonsense here? If one lives long enough to be put in a vasi vat, then one may learn to not do such things and to instead pay heed to the teacher of the craft.

As such, with Aia still mentally being of an age that remains in school, the elfin teen was all too trusting when told to do something. “Hold these,” said Master Fromm immediately and succinctly, putting down the arcfire and holding out a pair of bare wires that were connected to something or other. Not immediately noticeable on Aia’s part would be the thick insulating gloves worn. Not worn by her.

With such an event followed by a loud heavy humming sound and a tingling sensation running between her bare hands. The girl could then feel the tresses of her hair fluttering away from her back. More strands seemed to raise up on their own accord away from her forehead and cheeks.

Turning to look at her. “Enough and strong enough electricity to power a few hundred lighting strikes, that.”

“What!” shouted Aia, promptly dropping the bare thickly-braided wires. A loud and explosive crack of sound as a snap of electricity hopped from one cable to the other. The lights in here flickered as if someone was doing something quite powerful and therefore quite dangerous in regards to electricity.

Just one crack and no more. Master Fromm had expected such a reaction and had already snapped off the electrical current. But he was not as young nor as quick as the youngsters, and so there was that discharge when Aia dropped it before he could react. Youths may be fast-witted at certain times, yes. Small mammals and adolescent minds, both quick and also quite small.

“What, indeed!” responded Master Fromm in turn. “What seems to be quite innocent skin that draws so very much attention from the lads is also quite resistant to electrical charges! When handling devices capable of discharging entire lightning bolts’ worth of ferocity, such a physical and electrical property will be quite necessary! As thick-headed as Jhort may be, his skin seems not to match!”

“My skin has recovered quite well enough from that bit of energetic adventure. What say we try this again?” sniffed Jhort, walking toward the arcfire bow.

“Nay, mercenary! There is but one fated to wield that weapon!” declared Master Fromm in probably the most hackneyed phrasing ever to come out from him in quite a while. Not so awkward would be him holding out the beloved, the wondrous, the ultimate weapon. Or, as ultimate as portable weaponry would go.

And it was with hushed silence that Aia stepped forward and received the oversized thing. Aia herself is smallish, and the weapon is largeish. And yet, the elf-girl of synthetic corpus was able to hold it one-handed by its grip.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Which is to say, the girl was touching it—the proper individual. As if confirming this, the object began to react. Aia winced and held it a bit aways from her face—as if mere inches would matter much.

The electromechanical bow had bits and pieces that clicked and snicked in response to her touch. There was a pause. Aia seemed to relax ever so slightly. And then the thing did more of the same. “The sword from the stone, indeed,” said Aia.

“Pulling a sword from someone’s stones?” went Master Fromm. “Skyfall child, I would like for you to keep talking in that manner of yours. Such is bound to make sense eventually by rules of probability alone. It may take half of forever, yes. But sense will be had.”

“What sense is this, then?” complained Jhort. “The skyborn, or skyborne… Whichever they are! They can command the powers of the universe! They may dance between the stars and reside in them as one would relax upon a comfy chair! Immortality is a parlour trick!”

“Keep talking, and you may make sense eventually, much as a million arm-beasts typing on a million crystal-scribes will produce a work of Tyrannis the Spear. You do not have as long as the skyfall to meet that criteria, however. Not close to a million-year lifespan,” said Master Fromm.

“The weapon… The weapon!” said Jhort. “Why would a skyborne have need for such a…thing! Why not be able to fling deadly bolts of energy from her fingertips! Or, just think someone dead…such as Lord Taxes-to-Come!” Pausing to peer at Aia. “Are you trying?”

“Stop it!” complained Aia. “If you tell me not to wish someone like Lord Morkudum dead, then it is inevitable that I think on it regardless! Or thinking anyone else dead!”

Which resulted in someone absolutely bolting from the room. Who was that? Oh, looks to be Tatril the Lucky. More seems to be, his luck only held out as long as he bothered to stay apprised of his immediate environs. A touch bit of paranoia also helps out lots.

“Oh do return!” complained Jhort the Leader. “As if being fleet of foot would ever out-speed the pace of thought.”

“A handbeast, spitted and roasted, could outpace your thoughts!” jibed Master Fromm. “Why not consider words three steps ahead before they make a vaunted exit from your person?”

The head mercenary—as ridiculed as the value of his head may be—turned to one of his comrades in arms. “Please see to it that he does nothing overly unlucky.”

“And miss what comes next?” complained this comrade-in-arms. We won’t bother to tell you his name again.

We have already told you his name! Should have remembered it from last time. Big fellow, wears cut-crystal armoured plates, has a sword and a bow… Oh wait! That largely describes just about half of this band of buffoonery!

“We’ll tell you about what happens next,” said Jhort by way of comforting the big man. And he was glad to see such was enough to have him set off to keep Tatril the Lucky from becoming Tatril the Fertiliser Patch.

Well, not that anyone actually need partake of agriculture—what with crystal-controlled grow-kilns growing all the tasty nutrition-chunks that a person could ever want to eat. It is the thought which counts. Thoughts, because the word farming comes and goes out of existence with the generations hereabouts. What? Do you think your world any better? Why, you would not know the difference between a candelabra and a codpiece.

Oh, and do have fun rooting about in regards to the etymology of the latter. Good, clean, embarrassing fun for the likes of humanity. More fun still must be having your organs of producing offspring doubling as the means of dispensing with bodily waste.

…

Speaking of good, clean fun, there was likely no actual, good, or pressing reason to have Aia do what comes next. No actual reasonable reason whatsoever. What, must be why there is the word reason contained thereabouts. As in, pertaining to reason. Not that humanity practices such a thing overly much anyway, reason. But, it is the thought which counts. Again.

Which is to say, you gather a group of able-bodied humans that have nothing in the way of digital or virtual entertainment, and things can be expected to happen. If not, then people will pay good crystal and coin to make it so. Then there is…

Dear goodness… Are you still ogling two-dimensional digital images of codpieces? You know the purpose of the before-mentioned. If you did not before, then you certainly do now. And you know full well what it covers! Furthermore… Oh really, a comic-book villain? We’ll leave you off with that, then.

For those of you still possessing active frontal-lobes enough to keep calm and carry on, we come to the matter of whatever it is that Aia is set to do. This does not mean your reptilian hindbrains are any less active than your less-capable camarades de classe. What, you wanting to see Aia in a way that lets you see more of her. This, because despite having seen genitalia in some context or other, you wish to see more! You plan on doing the same for most all of your nasty, brutish, and short lives, if empiricism still holds and your smartphone data-records are any indication. (We are masters of time and space with immortality to boot. Of course we can prise out your internet-trolling data.)

No, what Aia is doing next does not involve any sort of stage—one equipped with a pole or otherwise. Is it true that the only reason you retain the use of paper and metal currency is to throw it upon the stage? Nasty stuff, paper currency. Goodness knows how many pairs of underthings it’s ridden along in. Goodness knows what it is ridden with.

No stage, but there is to be a show of sorts. Somewhere perhaps a quarter-mile’s walk away from the crystal-master’s settlement, all the all the audience members assembled were going to be seated. They were also provided with crystalline protective goddles to wear over their eyes. Goddles, that’s what they are-- extremely upgraded goggles. Also provided with protective over-boots (for insulation of course), and even tiny, tiny filament-wires leading from their belts to the bare ground. Such is why the practise is called grounding, you see. Coupled with lighting rods, keeps lightning moving straight on to its business with the nearest surface that retains a lesser charge. And if some hapless human standing head-high is in the way, woe be it unto him without such a setup.

Which is to also ask, why is it that lighting protection does not exist for sale within your world? Simple contrivances, really. Just a highly-conductive pointy metal stick attached to a wire, which is in turn attached to another wire running thereabouts your boots. Would protect you from dying… Oh wait, we see! You would prefer death by sky-borne electrocution than to be unfashionable! Oh well! Live and learn. Or not live! The choice resides with you, unfortunately.

No choice for these humans. Master Fromm stated that failure to abide by safety regulations upon his watch would result in being expelled from the audience. If anyone was to be a head-strong buffoon and insist upon dying for fashion’s sake, then such would not come to pass here!

But in any event, they all wanted to put on their best behaviour for the skyfall girl. They all wanted to impress her with their willingness to listen to her adopted guardian. They were also wiling to put up with the catankankerous and borderline-deranged attitude therein. (Catankankerous, which is actually a lot worse than cantankerous at times. Likely to prefer a bit of some other product of the sky—something more…electrifying.

So there they sat, all of them clustered like non-American schoolchildren—calm and attentive. And there was Master Fromm standing by as the master of ceremonies. Meanwhile, Aia stood ready with the arcfire. And the anticipation was squelched when the girl asked…

“Wait… So how do I go about using it?” Confused looks on the goddle-eyed faces of the audience in regards to Aia’s confusion. “Do I simply…?”

“Yes! You just simply!” insisted Master Fromm. “’Tis a bow, lass! Surely you are capable of using something crafted by the wit of your own people!”

“I’m willing to give her a go,” said Jhort. The snick of a dagger taking a step out of its holstered home quieted him down.

“Then…” began Aia. Aiming this thing as the horizon. But wait, there may be innocent korth-riders thereabouts, going on their long mystical voyage from one adventure to another. Then realising that this world seems not to have taken to airborne transportation—other than the much-spoken-of floating castle—Aia aimed it upward. Her fingers reached for the poly-nano-whatsit cable which served for the nocking point.

And it was obviously the correct thing to do, for there was suddenly an intense blue glow as astounding energies gathered thereabouts. And sound effects. Don’t forget the sound effects. A deep thrumming of restrained power.

You seem to think that electricity itself is blue, but such phenomena is only a result of electrons doing things to matter that should not be described in polite or mixed company. And the more electrons there are, the more aggressively they…ah, go about their business, the more that there will be a blue glow. More like, the sorts of things that many would like to do with Aia. Or to her.

Nothing like a good old-fashioned arcfire blast by an elf bearing a synthetic corpus. What better way to pass an unnamed day of the week on an unnamed planet than to attend this son et lumiere show? You would vastly prefer the absolutely virtual and especially sadistic delights of seeing real people suffer real injuries. Humans tripping into pools of water or cracking each other over their hard heads with harder objects. Seeing humans suffer, always fun and funny. This time, it is not a matter of an overly enthusiastic mercenary doing something that should not be done by a human. It is a matter of a fake elf doing something that should not have been done by her.

Is being an elf a profession? It could be, perhaps. This, though real elves do not have magic—no more than there are real unicorns or real dragons. Magic does not exist. Technology exists. Instead of being a damnable idiot and trying to mutter incantations or memorise nonsense phrasing whilst someone sprinkles squid blood upon your bare buttocks, why not try studying physics or engineering to make real things happen? The sort of beings who created pointy-eared girl-beings and antimatter-manipulating hand-held weaponry were also the sort that practised physics research and engineering.

But you are not here to hear that. You are here to hear the sound of the arcfire bow thrumming even more loudly still as those awesome energies took hold. It is quite a good thing you are not standing upon the same physical plane of existence as the brightness would cause you to turn away—short of you having an excuse to wear sunglasses somewhere other than the beach or some horrid place such as the American state of California. The brightness grows brighter, the sound grows brighter as well, and Aia pulled back on the nano-poly-whatsit string as well as the draping trace-strands of glowing antimatter mixed in with concealing plasma…

Somewhere mixed in with those sound effects where sounds of humans being all agog at the spectacle whilst wearing their crystal spectacles. A sound of aah as the plasma burst blazed up into the sky!

Oh, all right. You’ll want more pretty, pretty details as to what is going on. This is nothing in the way of your piddling nothing-little spray of colourful combustibles. No, it is of one color—a fluorescent blue. This is not to be confused with incandescence, mind you. This phenomenon is very, very much radioactive in the hardened sense. Worry not, for the blaze is headed upward and away. So long as they do not lick the dirt within nine miles of here, they will be quite fine… (Don’t you dare.) Fluorescence, as in, the sort of light-producing which is matched by your sun. And this was not just a pointed streak of some smallish size. This burst from the arcfire bow had to have been the size of a decent-sized ship of war. Moreover, it seemed to have grown larger even whilst it was on the way up…and up…

And then, it seemed to have winnowed down to something the size of one of the moons. (Those childhood fantasies of yours blowing up the solitary satellite around your planet? This would make it possible!) Still aglow, still receding… Ah, now it seems to be something on the order of a visible planet. Yes, you are able to see planets without aid or telescopes or cybernetic eye-augmentation. Do you realise what this means?

…

This late in the day—and it always seems to be getting late in the day hereabouts—the people of smaller villages and the large city had time enough to look out of windows or away from their… Just sit there content in the knowledge that they were doing something more or less productive after work. (A pre-industrialised society with out-of-cottage businesses, they have a great deal more free time than you ever will! Meanwhile, you have neither time nor money enough to reproduce—thereby leaving your respective country to vanish into oblivion as fertility rates dwindle ever smaller! Hah-hah!) No smartphones or internet, only games played with analogue game-pieces. Which is to also say, they are content enough to sit there at times.

Which leads us to say, they certainly have more time and wherewithal to go staring at horizon and sky. Pre-industrialised peoples on one hand and rural peoples of contemporary times on the other, such explains why they see what they may see at times. If they see flaming wheels in the sky or high-technology vehicles shaped like teacup holders otherwise—such things capable of bearing those simple bio-robots we mentioned—then such would be why.

But no, your eyes are firmly affixed to those primitive slips of embedded electronics you carry around in your pocket. You are incapable of seeing anything above you. Why, a mothership of the Tchl’pah could return to your world after eight hundred million years of being away on business, a city-sized starship hovering over your very heads! And then…you would fail to notice.

Then the Tchl’pah would promptly go about their business and immediately so. The Tchl’pah are a busy, busy race of sentient beings—so much so and so valued their expertise that one need to schedule their consultation at least eight million years in advance. So, why did they return to your planet? Such was because a certain race of tentacled beings wondered what to do about the prospect of lovingly crafting a race of subservient beings from the likes of primates. Yes, tweaking primate genetic structure as so they lose a bit of that body hair to free up skin in dispensing with body heat, are able to go longer on two legs, and giving them ever-so-slightly more intelligence. Certainly enough intelligence to do their bidding, but not intelligence or intellectual competence enough to make much of yourselves… And did we just give way a secret that your anthropologists would not discover for the next two thousand years? (Provided you happen to be on a timeline in which your race has not destroyed itself!)

There were no sentients eight million years ago on this world. Thus, it stands to reason that there would be anyone to schedule consulting services with either the Tchul’pah or the miserable, stupid, insular, agonisingly parochial and ever-hateful little things that consider themselves accomplished for digging shiny things out of the dirt, melting them down, then using them to make metal sticks for holding up their pathetic little dwellings! Of course we are talking of you! Feel quite free to take all the umbrage you like thereof!

Now again, blazing indeed. Why, it was so very bright that one could see it from the vantage point of a floating castle. Not that the inhabitants are an especially curious lot, but some things catch their attention.