“You did well, son,” Amos clapped Jeremy on the shoulder. “You fought well, coordinated with the men, and even did a bit of healing I’m told.”

“Did the soldiers complain about me? Captain Cicero looked at me strangely after the battle.”

His son seemed to shrink, as if expecting a rebuke. The healing bit was surprising, especially when Cicero told him it was painful.

“Tsk,” Amos waved a hand dismissively. “No complaints, but some of the soldiers are beginning to get suspicious — because of your staff.”

“My staff?”

“It’s painful, right?” Amos laughed. “I worked closely with a healer named Sacher. She healed by touch — but then she made a whip that allowed her to do so at a distance.”

“A whip?”

“Yes — a fairly painful one,” he stifled a cringe, remembering the feel of the whip’s touch. “Some of the men got to work with Sacher — they think you’re her son.”

That whip drove their team against the enemy — even bringing some of them back from the brink of death. It shouldn’t have stung as much as it did. There was probably an enchantment — similar to what Jeremy did with his staff.

Amos started laughing. Sacher preferred women, and the thought of having kids would send her running to the mountains to live the life of a hermit.

“You had people you worked with when you were young?” Jeremy asked, the curiosity apparent in his voice. “Like a proper adventuring party?”

“I wouldn’t call it that — not exactly.”

Amos wrinkled his brows in thought. They didn’t do quests. They had a patron in the prince — now the King — who gave them a few missions from time to time. Faces would change depending on the mission — and he got to know a lot of them.

They were provided lodging, funding for their research, access to good equipment, and a generous stipend. In return, they kept the peace of the kingdom — and ensured the King kept his throne.

“We were more like soldiers than adventurers,” he explained. “The King got to know us in our youths. He pulled us into his circle and gave us direction. Who knows what I would be doing if it wasn’t for the King?”

“You’ll probably be a mercenary — or a Sorcerer-King of a small nation, father.”

“Or I could have ended up as a baker,” he smiled. “Magic and making pastries both use stringent formulas. Imagine all the recipes you need to start a proper bakery in the capital — every pastry a different formula.”

“So you bake? I never knew that until now.”

“Me?” Amos scoffed. “Of course, I don’t. Too difficult. Even your mother would go insane at the amount of detail it takes to make a proper pastry.”

His mind wandered to the times he tried his hand at baking — making bread rise in just the right amount was a magic that eluded him.

“Oh, and bakers use jerms,” he used the term his son had for tiny invisible creatures. “Bakers used to leave wet dough out for a day or two to attract jerms — now, they just use ale foam.

His son stiffened when he heard about jerms and bread. He thought it was quite cute.

“Don’t worry,” Amos reassured Jeremy. “They probably die when the bread gets baked.

Jeremy nodded, but Amos could still see a glimmer of doubt in his son’s eyes.

“Come now. You need to eat — fill yourself up for the next battle.”

“What’s for breakfast?

“The usual,” Amos started, trying hard to keep a straight face. “Gruel — and bread.”

***

Rikki wiped the sweat on his forehead — or he at least went through the motions of doing so.

The youngest of the farmhands stopped sweating more than a week ago, though he did feel his feet getting warm when the sun was up.

His brother said he was turning into a wolf. Corey said wolves sweat through their paws, the same way he did with his feet.

But he didn’t sweat through his feet — they just get warm.

He wanted to ask Sebas about it — but he remembered yesterday’s incident.

Men barged into the shop. There was a bit of shouting, followed by screaming — then a man ran out of the shop like he saw the Scourge, only to run into Shelby.

Rikki laughed.

Shelby was probably as shocked as the man — definitely more confused.

He turned towards the trees near the road. There were still a couple of spies there — which was strange. His highest count was eleven, though the usual was six or seven. Funny how they didn’t see each other — or maybe they did and just ignored one another.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

Rikki walked to Shelby. It was time to give them a visit. Maybe he could cheer up Sebas.

He explained his plan to the snail. He asked Shelby to stay hidden until they got close. Her presence was just too imposing — it would have the men running, which would ruin his plan.

Shelby agreed, happy to have something to do. She seemed listless the past few days, as if she was bored. Rikki worried about the snail. She should probably get a hobby to pass the time.

They approached the men hidden behind the trees. Rikki walked leisurely while Shelby swam beneath the ground.

It wasn’t exactly swimming — but he couldn’t figure out a way to describe what Shelby was doing, and swimming seemed pretty close.

“Hey there!” Rikki hollered. “Yes, you two. Shelby said to come pick you up. She thought you guys might be lost.”

Shelby’s gargantuan form rose from the ground.

Rikki thought it seemed like she just allowed herself to float instead of making an actual effort to rise.

He saw hints of movement — the spies were probably thinking about running.

“Please don’t run in the woods,” he pleaded. “You might get into an accident — and Shelby doesn’t want to take your broken bodies back to the shop.”

There was silence, then rustling.

Two men came out of hiding — one clearly older than the other. They kept their hands in front of them as if ready to ward off Shelby — not that it would do any good. Shelby could tear up the forest if she wanted to, trees and all.

Rikki smiled at the men, waiting for them to speak up.

“W-we were just… we just wanted to buy some healing drops,” the older spy stammered. “We were just hesitant to go in because we’re scared of the Scourge.”

“Yes, we were waiting for other people to go in so we could follow them.”

“Oh,” Rikki nodded.

Their story seemed believable. People were scared of the Scourge — and Shelby. They just had to get to know them. In the Scourge’s case, people near him also had to get used to the feeling of having their soul seemingly getting sucked.

It was a strange sensation — but you get used to it after a week or so.

“You’re in luck,” Rikki beamed. “The Scourge is out so the scariest thing in the shop would probably be Mister Siege.”

He saw the two steal glances at Shelby — probably not agreeing with him.

“I’ll lead you to the store. Healing drops are only 40 gold —“

Shelby gave out a series of clicks and whistles.

“But we can also accept the green gems in your pouch,” Rikki turned to one spy, and then the other. “Or the blue and red gems in yours.”

“But they should only cost 25 gold —“

“Hush — do as the kid says.” the older spy elbowed the other. “We appreciate your kind offer. Please take us to the shop so we could go about our day.”

“Gladly.”

Rikki led them to the shop. Shelby stayed behind them, making sure their new customers wouldn’t change their minds.

Customers always cheered up Sebas. Now they had ones so early in the morning.

Too bad he couldn’t do the same for their nighttime visitors.

Shelby said they barely had any money with them and Sebas might get disappointed if he found out about them.

Rikki ran to the shop.

He had to tell Sebas that their new customers were buying healing drops at a premium because they got to meet Shelby. Yes, that would probably cheer him up.

***

Siege swung his hammer down, feeling the metal slowly take shape.

It took him a while to get used to the Scourge’s strange furnace. A few chalk marks and experimentation solved the heat issue — now he had an easier time compared to working on a regular forge.

Hell-forged weapons.

He wondered if hell-forged would bring in more money than dwarven-forged — seeing as he was forging swords with literal hellfire, channeled from the depths of one particularly hot hellscape.

He swung his hammer down again. Shaking his head at the lack of ringing that he was used to hearing.

Sebas installed alternating wood panels in the room — saying something about noise. He called the smithy an echo-less chamber — but Siege felt it was something more.

The room made him want to work.

The sound of hammering drove away the silence — the deafening silence.

His inhuman assistants didn’t help with the mood. He put helms on them to make them seem more human — but their presence made Siege feel more alone.

At least they worked well.

He handed the finished blank to one of the golems for grinding. Siege felt it was a lot like cheating. The golems worked with precision — grinding swords perfectly after his first few days of guidance.

The swords they were turning out were too identical for the dwarf’s taste — soulless, even.

He was sure of their strength and cutting ability, but having a sword that was similar to another adventurer’s felt wrong. He could probably add ornamentation to change things up, or have Sebas change the hue of the blades to make them a bit different.

One blade that had a soul was his sword — a demonic one at that. He was expecting compulsions or bloodthirst, but the sword didn’t seem to even try to influence his thoughts.

It was sentient — he was sure of it.

He could feel its thirst when it made contact with an enemy or block a wizard’s spell. Perhaps it was just content with its owner — or maybe just content that it was out of hell.

Siege grabbed another blank, ready to hammer it into shape. There were three grinders in the smithy — all of them manned by the human-like golems.

He would run out of steel stock in a few days — it was time to talk to Sebas.

The Corner Shop™ had a lot more people now. It seemed the butler took in orphans from Forge.

The name gave him an idea. Perhaps he could convince one of those orphans to work on his smithy — then they’d be a blacksmith from Forge.

Siege chuckled.

At least he would have someone to talk to. He wanted to pass on the job to another and have them experience the deafening silence as he did.

The smithy was a room of ritual — and his would-be apprentices would have to pass its trials.