Darius Chapter 41
It was a beautiful day to create a weapon of mass destruction.
Darius and Marth trundled down the hilly road, lugging the cart behind them like two boys getting up to mischief. In a way, that’s exactly what they were doing. They received some curious glances – the citizens of Barringvale weren’t used to seeing their prince pulling along a strange array of blacksmithing gear.
The cart contained the anvil, Darius’s hammer, the arrowhead and dagger they’d just forged, and a file. The arrowhead was already too cool to hammer into shape, but Darius planned on at least filing down the ragged edges until it at least looked like it had been worked on after pouring the metal into the cast. Imbuing his works often cleaned them up, smoothing and buffing the face of the piece and sharpening edges on blades, but he didn’t want to rely on magic too much – he was still a normal blacksmith at heart.
The hammer would still be needed for the finishing touch – he assumed. He hadn’t really had time to experiment, but the magic didn’t feel like something that would just pour out of his fingertips if he pointed at something and said huzzah!
Besides, the place where the hammer contacted the weapon always glowed that faint blue or green after using a spell. He was pretty sure there was some connection between his hammer and the magic, and he didn’t want any part of his body to be that connection.
When they reached the gate, the woman who’d almost shot Darius the first time they’d met, Marlo, called down an order to open the gate for them. She also yelled out to Marth.
“Prince Ranvost, may I ask where you are headed? I will send a retinue with you if it’s far.”
Marth had planned on steering clear of an audience – most of Barringvale wasn’t privy to the fact that a magical blacksmith now lived within their walls – but the soldiers on the guard had done a good job of keeping secrets so far, so he allowed a small group to come with them.
“Aye, Marlo, send a few with us. Perhaps five or so if you can spare them?”
Darius didn’t mind the added company. As far as he was concerned, the whole army could watch – they'd be wielding the weapons soon if it came to it, and watching him pound away and shout words at a sword wouldn’t allow them to replicate the magic anyway.
Six soldiers jogged up behind the cart, all offering to pull it for their Prince and his guest. Darius shooed them away with a smile, happy to pull the cargo himself. The gates opened, the early morning sunlight reflecting off the iron studs on the left door. Marlo waved them through, and they went out onto the dusty track leading to the forest and surrounds.
Marth led, taking them to a clearing not far from the castle. It was plain and sandy. Darius regretted not bringing a sack with them – the fine sand would’ve been useful as a ‘medium’ for joining metal.
When Marth stopped, Darius heaved the anvil out of the cart. He was a little surprised that the old, hole-ridden wood had survived the journey. He plonked it into the sand, pushing it down until the ground compacted beneath and it was flat enough to work on.
The soldiers stood a short distance away, like students watching a professor. If they were confused by the prospect of Darius bringing an anvil out to the middle of nowhere, with no forge to heat anything, they didn’t show it. Instead, they all stood, waiting expectantly, occasionally looking around for any threats, not looking hard because they didn’t expect any.
Darius checked that they were a good distance away, then perched on the anvil, taking the file and arrowhead and smoothing down the spots where the last of the iron had sat and cooled, forming a ridge. He murmured under his breath, pretending he was casting some intricate spell. He stopped the facade after a couple minutes, realizing that these soldiers weren’t aware that he was the smith who’d made the axe Falsith had shown off in the battle, so they probably thought he was raving mad.
When he was happy with the shape and edge of the arrowhead, he laid it down on the anvil. Marth stepped forward to help, but Darius held out an arm, blocking him.
“Got no tongs or anything for you to steady it with. Besides, I reckon I won’t even bother whacking it around at all – I'll try the spell straight from the get-go.”
Marth stepped back with his hands up, going to stand with the guards. When he got in line, he yelled out to Darius.
“Hey Darius! If this has anything to do with an inferno, should we be worrying about getting our legs burnt off, or an explosion sending us all sky high?!”
Darius paused; his hammer raised.
“Ahh, yeah, actually, you might want to step back a good ten paces or so more – just to be safe. I thought I knew what the last one would do but seems my predictions can be a bit off.”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Marth guided his men back twenty paces. They had an anxious look now, understanding they were about to see something peculiar.
Darius assumed his stance again and closed his eyes. He let his mind wander to the corners of his brain that it needed to go to for this to work, and he swung.
“AL-KANI!”
Instead of a BANG or any other bone-chattering sound he was expecting, the contact made a sound like the constant thump of a waterfall hitting rock, and then a thick plume of orange flame rolled out from the anvil, rushing towards the soldiers and everything else in the thirty-foot radius around Darius. He cried out in alarm when he felt the heat pass over him, but it didn’t burn his skin, only charring through his pants at around knee height, leaving him standing there in shorts. When he came out the other side of the wall of fire, he saw the red-orange light shooting up from the anvil, and the tendrils floating up the beam. They were in groups of three now, twirling together in a helix pattern.
He was curious what would happen to the tendrils if he cast the Necromancy Spell, but he hadn’t been able to find the pronunciation – and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. That kind of knowledge was extremely dangerous if it – or he – fell into the wrong hands, as had happened with Silfor.
Further afield, Marth and the soldiers were knocking into each other while they tried to escape the flames. Marth bolted out ahead and then dove into the sandy dirt, covering his head and curling up. The soldiers followed his example and dove in after him, all seven of the spectators cowering like crabs in their carapaces. The rolling flames dissipated when they reached a foot or so from where the men had originally been standing. Darius yelled out at them, standing in his charred shorts.
‘You wusses! Can’t handle a warm breeze, huh?”
He grinned and looked down at his blackened shorts and bare legs. He held the arrowhead in his hand, but it wasn’t hot – instead just as cool as it had been just before he struck it. Marth stamped over.
“You blithering Bilgog! Just about burnt us half to death! I just about shit myself seeing that come towards me.”
They laughed, and the soldiers came over too, patting away the heat of phantom flames and sniffing the air for smoke. They looked at Darius with awe and chattered over one another.
“I didn’t realize working as a blacksmith made you immune to flames!”
“Is that going to happen every time?”
“I think I wet myself a little...”
Darius laughed and heaved the anvil back into the cart. Satisfied with his experiment and completion of the third spell, he let the soldiers drag back the equipment. It took three of them to guide it up the steep slopes. He and Marth traveled behind, theorizing.
“We’ll have to get that one and a few more to the fletcher as soon as we can. And we should try out that dagger with the Strike Spell – seems like it ‘extends’ the length of a strike.”
Darius had a different concern on his mind.
“Marth, when you’re in battle and being shot at by archers, do you ever pick up the missed arrows that are shot at you and fire them back?”
Marth thought about it for a while, but prior to Erinstone, he wasn’t as experienced in proper battles as Darius seemed to think, so he could only go off what he’d read in books and heard about from the ancient generals that fought in the series of battles against the Southern Islanders.
“I suppose it does happen, yes. I’m not an archer though, so it’s hard to say with absolute certainty.”
“But what if you just saw the arrow produce an explosion or a flame like that? You’d fight tooth and nail to get to it and fire it back, wouldn’t you?”
Marth hadn’t considered it, but Darius was right. Making these arrows was a risk – a missed shot, or even an arrow that hit its mark but was recovered by an enemy would be used against them.
“Is there some way to make them single use? You know, like we shoot them, but when they pierce through something or hit the ground they just break up? Can you imbue glass?”
Immediately, an idea came to Darius’s head. He took a moment to formalize the thought before he blurted it out, because it had the potential to be controversial and very, very expensive.
“I don’t think glass would work since I’d still have to whack the crap out of it, but...I have an idea, but your father – or his Treasurer – won't be our loudest supporter. How about we make the arrows out of gold? It’s so soft that regardless of what the arrows hit, they’ll be all malformed and dented when the Erinians pick them up, and they won’t fly straight in return – unless they’ve got a spare hammer and blacksmith handy.”
Marth made a sound like ‘dOOf’, and pictured the surprise of the Erinian army when the soldiers discovered they were being assaulted by weaponized money. Some might just grab their share and nab home with it. What a way to win a war – bribery.
“That would be...unorthodox. My father is partial to his gold, too, not just his Treasurer – loves it for decoration, as you would have noticed.”
“Aye, and you may also have seen my passion for redecoration. I reckon charcoal grey would be a lovely addition to his easel.”
“You can tell him yourself, seems like he gets along with you.”
Darius hadn’t talked to Marth about King Tarth since he’d stormed out of their meeting. Things seemed to cool down once Darius was granted the position at the Barringvale Forge, but there was still something there, a blockage like a boulder sitting in the middle of a flowing river.
“I think it’d be best coming from you, mate. He’s a tough nut, I’ll give you that, but he said good things about you once you left. If the Erinians return – and they will – he'll want you leading the charge, with golden arrows in abundance.”
“Mm.”
They stayed silent until they reached the forge, and the soldiers helped unload the gear, shocked at the soot-covered rearrangement. The only thing in Barringvale that was intentionally kept bland was the army’s clothing and equipment. King Tarth had a fierce belief that the war efforts should be limited to practicality – a belief that Marth felt he needed a reminder of. Armor was left unpainted, unless camouflaged, banners were simple and light, and sigils were made of less valuable metals like tin and copper aside from a few exceptions like Lord Grenfell’s golden eagle.
When everything was ordered, and a resin-like substance had been applied to the severed leg of the workbench, sticking it back together, Darius asked a question that was at the peak of everyone’s mind.
“What’s for lunch?”