“You still haven’t answered my question,” Zel grinned at him. The smith’s answer hadn’t surprised her in the slightest, and thus hadn’t dampened her spirits either. She viewed Eisengeist as a one-in-a-million shot for the moment, as well as something to plan for in the future. Seventy-seven years; by then she would be doubtlessly strong enough to fight the dragon one-on-one without meeting Wide-wuth’s fate.
“Purely theoretically, yes - Eisengeist’s tails are most likely tipped with a metal superior to any naturally-occurring cold-iron, not to mention imbued with the dragon’s immense arcane power over its lifespan. The Saga of Wide-wuth and survivor accounts both detail the beast’s tails clashing with the Serpentkiller, meaning that they must be at bare minimum equal to Fallen Star heart-metal. Even if they were organic - which I find to be unlikely since Razorflayer tail-blades naturally metallize over time - I could still use them to smelt low-grade, high-impurity hematite into Dragonsteel worthy of reforging your blade. Wielding such a weapon, becoming one with it as you Storm-soul Cultivators are wont to do, could very well awaken some of that draconic heritage that hides behind your eyes. Such is the power of a living Dragon Descendant… And such is the reason you stand no chance of slaying Eisengeist. I say this not to cast doubt on your strength - I would say the same to any of the Great Clans’ elders. There are few alive on the continent who could go toe to toe with a living Dragon Descendant, even a three-eyed one like Eisengeist, and of those few, even fewer would be willing to take the risk.”
Two more crucibles down.
He cracked the first mold open, arraying its still-smoking contents into the new box’s trays with his bare fingers, the wood charring as the pills were seated into place.
“You do not seem surprised. You expected this answer, didn’t you?” he asked.
Zel nodded, but she couldn’t keep her mouth shut as another idea popped into her head: “Is the last of Koschei’s Titans not here, in Borea? If one of them fought a five-eye like Ten Billion Fathoms on equal grounds, then surely it should be able to overpower Eisengeist.”
“Even if I assume that its capabilities have dropped by half since its arrival here… Certainly, it could fight Eisengeist on even terms, if you could somehow convince it that you are Koschei. It’s not an impossible endeavor, we have considered it before - it would simply be too resource and time-intensive to shoulder the high risk of failure.”
“Shame, but I can’t say I expected any other answer. I will keep that in mind. Perhaps I’ll come back in a few years with the means to slay the dragon, or maybe one of my sect members will come up with a neo-dungeontech device able to fake Koschei’s soul signature. Never know with cultivators…” she shrugged.
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The fourth crucible was emptied into the first mould as Ingvald used his free hand to empty the second mould right into the box.
“I will admit, I was concerned that you would be a typical arrogant upstart; you know the sort. One who begins to believe in their own invincibility after surviving on the battlefield for a while.”
“Really? Everywhere I turn, I see reminders that I’m nowhere near the top. Hell, the strongest praise I got for a while had to do with my looks. Everything else was “above-average”, “good enough”, “just about up to pre-war standards”. Even after growing past that level, I keep finding further reasons to seek greater strength. More power, greater beasts to slay, greater evils to fight, greater means by which to uplift my comrades if I even suspect that they might fall behind. It never stops.”
“You will never be strong enough, just as I will never be a good enough smith, just as Arnys Krishorn will never be rich or fast enough, just as Kyriak Bjorn will never be able to lift heavy enough or scream loudly enough. It’s the curse of our kind. Take care that your own drive does not consume you.”
“I will. I will. Speaking of, what is Kyriak’s deal with screaming?”
“He’s not actually as fat as he looks and he can tear men to pieces with his voice alone. That is all I can tell you without revealing the Bjorn clan’s secrets.”
She stopped herself just short of saying that she knew a man who could fell scores of locusts using sound alone, knowing that Strolvath did not want to be mentioned.
“There’s one more thing I would ask of you, though it may seem banal - I need climbing picks. Good ones. Ones that-” she said, being interrupted mid-sentence by Ingvald as he poured the last crucible’s contents into a mould: “-ones that can stand the climb up to the Immortal Throne, yes yes…”
Taking the empty crucibles in hand, the smith got up and vanished into the back, returning with five more full crucibles in one hand and a set of four gleaming, cold-iron picks in the other. The shining metal sung with every motion as the smith walked, smacking them down on the anvil as if they were common tools.
“...There, you can borrow one of my recent pieces. I won’t charge you if the climb claims them, just try to bring them back.”
“These are starmetal. Why just hand them over? I figured you’d at least say the price would be part of that Fallen Star I owe you.”
Ingvald shrugged with only his left shoulder: “If I sell them to some Great Clan they’ll just hang on a wall or sit in a vault. I will not see my works denied the fulfillment of their purpose. I doubt you will need them again after that climb, but I would be willing to let you borrow them once more if you do.”
A few more minutes passed mostly in silence as Ingvald finished with the next batch of pills. It totaled sixty, just like that last, each mold making six pills. Zel departed the smithy. She hoped that her two subsequent visits to the smith before her holmgang and departure for the Immortal Throne would proceed without notable incident.