Stugrond stepped forward, his blade leaping off the floor. He swiped at the haft of Eresthanon’s glaive with his massive sword. Eresthanon adjusted his position and there was brief contact with their two blades, then they began a series of quick exchanges.
Their feet moved swiftly, changing their angles as they jockeyed for position. They probed at each other, blades flowing from one contact to the next, searching for an opening. They made contact only for the briefest moments, just enough to deflect or be deflected. Neither would overcommit and risk leaving an opening.
Eresthanon relied on elven reflexes, following a brief contact with a lightning quick follow-up to snake through Stugrond’s defenses. The dwarf went for moments of leverage, using his strength and the weight of his weapon to overpower Eresthanon. Neither were having great success, so it remained a battle of footwork and position.
Boring, in other words.
Although their weapons didn’t maintain contact for long, the motion reminded Aaliyah of the sticky hands drills she’d done in a number of martial arts, only way more aggressive and incorporating footwork.
They went at it without any definitive blows landing for several minutes, then Stugrond took several steps away from Eresthanon. He kept his absurd sword up in a guard position until he was clear, then swung it up onto his shoulder.
“You could’ve moved faster,” the armsmaster said.
“You didn’t.”
The dwarf puckered his lips at that but offered no retort. Instead, he stowed his demon-slaying anime sword back on its rack. Eresthanon slid the glaive into a slot on the rolling cart. He began applying the blunting potion to the two short swords.
The swords were made of a dark, almost black steel. They had very short handles with no crossguard, the hand protected by a kind of hook that curled over the hand at both ends. The blade was thinner near the hilt, almost concave, and reminded Aaliyah of the kukri with significant differences. The blade was slimmer, the angle not as severe, and it tapered to a much sharper point.
She knew she’d seen blades like it before in some dense history book someone had foisted on her and she thought it had something to do with the African elephant guy, Hannibal. It also reminded her of the swords all the pretty boy elves had used in that Legend of the Rings movie, but she hadn’t dated a nerdy bitch in a hot minute to get roped into watching those so she wasn’t sure about that one.
Stugrond inspected the two swords with a critical eye, then turned to Eresthanon. “Are you sure you want two? We have a variety of shields, they’re just not out on the racks because they take up so much space. Wielding two blades when neither are short is pretty suboptimal for real combat.”
“These are what spoke to me,” Eresthanon said. “I don’t believe it’s a nascent desire simply to look ‘cool’ and I think I can wield them effectively.”
“Alright,” the dwarf said. “Those are falcatas, though, so make sure you blunt the edge on the rear of the blade, as well.”
While Eresthanon coated his swords — falcatas, apparently — Stugrond strolled along the weapon racks. He selected a sword that was practically an archetype — a long, double-sided blade with a short handle and simple crossguard — then opened a couple cabinets beneath some of the displays to peruse shields. The dwarf settled on a buckler, eighteen inches across and held with a closed fist instead of an arm strap. Then he, too, coated his weapon in the oil and the two men squared off again.
Eresthanon's fighting style in the second bout was completely different. Instead of the tit-for-tat and fencing footwork he’d used with the glaive, he moved more like a boxer or grappler, striking from oblique angles.
With a blur of feints, thrusts, and slashes, Eresthanon probed for an opening and tried to lure Stugrond’s shield out of position. The heavy end of the falcata hit the shield with force closer to an axe than a sword, leading to some very satisfying thonks and cracks. The dwarf was more pressed in this matchup, but held his own.
“I guess dwarven height comes in handy sometimes, master smith,” Aaliyah called out after one of Eresthanon’s blades clipped the top of his shield and sailed over his head.
Once more, Stugrond stepped back from the fight when he felt it was time to end. The dwarf shot Aaliyah a nasty glare and she, not being a scaredy-cat pussy-ass bitch, replied with a shit-eating grin.
Finally, Eresthanon picked up the weapon he’d taken the longest to select — the flanged mace. Although his expression gave nothing away, Aaliyah thought he was uncomfortable with the bludgeon. Unlike his two previous selections, he seemed more clumsy testing the mace for weight and balance.
Aaliyah perked up from her seat against the wall. If her new partner was going to get thumped in any of his tests with the dwarven armsmaster, it was going to be using that mace. She had no idea why it had been one of his choices considering how uncomfortable he looked futzing around with it.
Stugrond was coating the head of a halberd and monitoring Eresthanon as he warmed up. “You sure you don’t want a shield?”
“Academically: yes, of course, and it’s foolish of me to do otherwise. However,this is what feels… comfortable, for lack of a better term.”
Aaliyah wondered whether it was a mark of stubbornness or — more likely, in her opinion — those weird partial memories the elf was supposed to have from whoever he used to be. Stugrond, for his part, accepted Eresthanon’s decision and the two faced off once again. She didn’t think the old dwarf was going to go easy on Eresthanon no matter how well they’d hit it off over the language thing.
The third bout ended quickly — Stugrond landed several telling blows in a few quick exchanges. He set the haft of his halberd on the floor as he stepped back with a grunt.
“You’re hesitating, second-guessing every move,” the dwarf said.
Eresthanon nodded mutely, considering the mace in his hand. “I must admit to some discomfiture. I am leery of my instincts wielding it.”
A gun-shy partner? Aaliyah didn’t like the sound of that. It could be her ass on the line when this clown was overcome by his so-called ‘discomfiture,’ a five-dollar word if she ever heard one. Stugrond reached a different conclusion.
After some thought, he said, “Some martial training is particularly direct, even brutal, especially those meant for war instead of demonstrations of skill or mastery.”
Eresthanon looked at the stout weaponsmaster, giving him his full attention.
“Sometimes even hardened soldiers hesitate to apply what they’ve learned because the consequences of doing it right are more terrible than doing it wrong. But this isn’t war and between the alchemical oil on that weapon and my stone bones, you can let your training and instincts do what they were meant to do.”
Aaliyah bit her tongue because this was serious stuff — life-or-death stuff — and she didn’t want to screw with it. After a few seconds of weighing Stugrond’s advice, however, Eresthanon shot a glance her way. She didn’t know elves from cocks and had only known her new partner a few minutes, but she was pretty sure there was a mischievous twinkle in those freaky big eyes. If he was giving her permission to sass, her new partner just might have a little gay boy hiding inside him, looking to shade.
“Stone. Bones?” Aaliyah called out, snickering.
Stugrond said nothing, just grunted and waved dismissively in her general direction without even looking over, which earned him a full-on cackle from the peanut gallery.
Eresthanon, on the other hand, had his eyes closed and was taking centering breaths. He adopted a lower stance than the previous bouts and cocked his arm, the head of the mace hanging back over his shoulder. Stugrond gave him a nod and they were at it again.
For a second or two, Aaliyah thought Eresthanon was still hung up on whatever was bothering him about the mace. He took a few halting steps at the initial probe of the halberd’s point, the mace shuddering as he adjusted and readjusted his arm without actually swinging it. Aaliyah pursed her lips; better he stick with his first two choices than hesitate when shit got real.
Then, the elf erupted from his low stance.
He sidestepped a thrust of the halberd’s deadly tip, but when Stugrond followed it up with a pushing slash of the bladed head, Eresthanon rolled his body under it and flowed into his opponent. The mace lashed out, hitting Stugrond in the ankle and jarring his footing loose. Eresthanon rode the momentum of the strike, redirecting it backhand into Stugrond’s elbow, and then back again into his neck.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Stugrond tumbled to the floor with an undignified squawk and Aaliyah was on her feet before she knew what she was doing. Eresthanon had started to swing the mace down again in what would have been a killing blow and she had the strongest intuition he was going to kill the fallen weapons master and nevermind the alchemical hoodoo on their weapons. The feeling was completely irrational and all that much harder to ignore for how deeply visceral it was.
Eresthanon froze in place, the mace suspended over his shoulder again and ready to strike. His expression was completely inscrutable. He loomed over Stugrond for a second. The dwarf’s eyes shot towards Aaliyah. She didn’t see fear in his eyes, but the exact same sense of danger that had propelled Aaliyah to her feet.
The elf hadn’t even moved that fast — and Aaliyah knew elves could move faster than most — it had just been… brutal. A relentless assault that forced a single opening then multiplied them. It had been like watching a river flow, swollen by rain, except the river was dragging a boulder along its currents.
It was a long second between the three of them, until Eresthanon stepped back, tossed the mace onto the cart, and offered his hand to help Stugrond up off the carpet.
“That was certainly something,” Stugrond said when he was back on his feet. “You’ve got a good deal of skill with each of the weapons you chose, but you were frankly terrifying with the mace.”
Aaliyah would never admit it, but terrifying was precisely the right word. She’d seen more than her fair share of violence and known a lot of people who lived violence, but the elf had been something else. It wasn’t the brutality or precision of his skill with that overhyped baseball bat that was so jarring, it was how casual the whole thing had been. It was like watching guys who could sink free throws without even paying attention, just letting muscle memory carry them through something as mundane to them as spreading schmear on a bagel.
“I can’t help but agree, master Stugrond; it was unsettling, to be frank,” Eresthanon said.
“It’s always that way when a warrior first discovers what they’re truly capable of. The decent ones, anyway.”
“Not for nothing,” Aaliyah added, “but if you can do that reliably, the fancy club might be the only weapon you need.”
Eresthanon considered that for a moment. “Perhaps, but there’s always a benefit to be found in versatility and I’d prefer not to rely on that particular weapon. It’s not a frame of mind I’d like to propagate.”
The dwarf nodded. “Understandable, quite understandable, and not a problem in the slightest. I can easily dedicate these four weapons to you, unless you’d prefer more customized pieces, which would take some time to produce.”
“That won’t be necessary, master smith, these arms were of exemplary quality and you’ve been more than generous with your time already.”
Stugrond rolled the cart back over to his desk, where he produced another small case, this one made of metal and very sturdy looking.
“No trouble at all,” he said, removing several bits of arcane paraphernalia from the case. “Are you familiar with the dedication of equipment to an individual?”
Eresthanon nodded. “I understand the theory, though I can’t say I’m practiced with the specific enchantments.”
“Unlike the standard methods, we bond the object to the individual’s magical essence, rather than their body. It’s more complex, hence all the materials I’ve got here, but it has a number of advantages.”
Eresthanon’s eyebrows rose on his forehead slightly, an expression that would suggest he was mildly impressed at that pronouncement. Aaliyah was good at reading people and thought she was starting to get a feel for her new partner. That tiny expression, in her opinion, meant he was practically astonished over the Vigiles’ little proprietary enchantment. Stugrond didn’t even notice and continued with his presentation. They were both nerds any way you looked at it. Useful, powerful, magic-wielding nerds, but nerds nonetheless.
Eresthanon stroked his chin thoughtfully. “That would provide a great deal of flexibility in where you place the marking, I should think. Will the marking migrate if the body is damaged?”
“I’m glad you grasp the significance,” Stugrond said, more than a little pleased to have someone take an interest in the bit of magic he’d helped create. “The mark will continue to function normally if the physical locale is damaged and even remain somewhat effective if the placement is severely maimed or removed.”
“I take it, then, that if an arm bearing the mark were severed, the magic of the bond would remain intact, but the talisman would be limited in where it could appear?”
Stugrond beamed. “Yes! The talisman can still manifest anywhere on the body, even with the mark detached. Which is directly tied to the greatest benefit of our process — and why we’ve tried to keep it under wraps — if the talisman gets more than about twenty feet from the owner, it will return to the marking.”
That seemed to be particularly interesting to Eresthanon. If Aaliyah had to guess from his expression, she would say he was shocked. Maybe even flabbergasted.
“Without conscious invocation? Regardless of impediment? Does it discorporate?”
“No magic or act of will is needed nor have we found anything that can stop the return.” Here the dwarf’s smile broadened even more. “And the talisman doesn’t have to discorporate unless there’s an obstacle it can’t penetrate.”
Aaliyah didn’t know what all of that meant from a technical standpoint, but she knew she should slip her knife through a mail slot, walk away, and it would cut through the door as long as it wasn’t significantly reinforced with magic. A useful trick she’d employed a couple times.
Stugrond continued geeking out. “We’re trying to work out a way to allow a talisman to be left somewhere and conjured remotely, but it’s proving to be a major pain in the ass.”
Eresthanon nodded. “Teleporting anything, especially without a stable nexus, has always been a nearly legendary feat of magical power. I would be terribly impressed to see such magic in this day and age.”
If she let them, these two would probably spend hours talking about math or whatever nerd shit was behind how the pointy hats did their magic. Normally, she couldn’t have cared less, but if she had to sit here and listen to it…
“Why don’t you two talk it over at Comic-Con; I’ve got shit to do with my day,” she interjected.
Like the urbane conversationalist and paragon of wit he was, Stugrond merely grunted in response and finished laying out his enchanting tools. The armsmaster fidgeted with Eresthanon’s chosen weapons, making sure they were laid just right on the desk before him.
“We’re going to have you hold each weapon one at a time, then tell me where you’d like the mark placed,” Stugrond said. “Whenever you want to summon a specific weapon, it will manifest outside your clothes and remain suspended for about a second as long as you’re not wearing a half inch or more of layers. You’ll want to bear in mind that it could be uncomfortable or a tripping hazard depending on your position and environment. So…let’s begin!”
Aaliyah knew the ritual was basically the same as the one Enid had performed in the Cage with Eresthanon’s badge and she was glad to see that the elf made that connection, as well — he was clearly steeling himself in anticipation of another jarring experience. He was thinking on his feet and that was a good sign; she didn’t want a partner who couldn’t adapt on the fly. Eresthanon was shaping up to be not quite a complete turd and that was more than she’d dared to hope for when they told her she had a partner coming. The day wasn’t over, though, and he’d have plenty of opportunities to show his true dick colors before they clocked out.
The ritual to dedicate each talisman was significantly more complex than Enid’s box of bad touchies. You didn’t get to be a dwarven master smith just by working metal; you often had to be nearly as skilled in enchanting objects as making them. Stugrond handled it all with a deft hand.
First, he loosely wrapped Eresthanon’s hand that held the weapon three times, with a length of rough cord, a long ribbon of silk, then a fine metal chain. Next, Stugrond dropped some kind of dried herb or leaves into a small metal bowl and set them on fire. The bowl was held so the smoke drifted up and swirled around the hand and weapon. The smoke smelled like hot garbage. That wasn’t Aaliyah’s opinion, it was an outright fact. She was a New Yorker, she knew the smell of hot garbage. After a few seconds, Stugrond poured some kind of hazy liquid over Eresthanon’s hand, collecting the runoff in the small metal bowl and extinguishing the leaves. Finally, the dwarf dipped his fingers into the bowl, mixing and scooping out a clump of dark goop. He used his fingers to smear a vague shape, or maybe a symbol, where Eresthanon wanted the mark placed.
Despite the… interesting… smells, Aaliyah couldn’t resist craning her neck to watch as each disappeared into the elf’s flesh, replaced by a distinct marking. The magic allowed Eresthanon to determine the form each mark would take. Tattoos, birthmarks, constellations of freckles and moles, all kinds of markings were possible, but Aaliyah had been told they always had to convey something about the talisman. Forging a bond with a talisman required a strong connection between object and owner, so muddying that with attempts to obfuscate the mark of the dedication undermined the magic.
Eresthanon opted for tattoos of the objects themselves, although significantly smaller than the real items for convenience. Except for the mace, which manifested as a tattoo of a word in what appeared to be an elvish script. Aaliyah was curious what the word meant, but that wasn’t any of her damn business (until it was).
As Stugrond conducted each of the bindings, Eresthanon showed obvious signs of discomfort, but not like he had in the Cage. Either elves could adapt to extreme experiences in less than an hour or the impact of this ritual wasn’t as severe. The latter seemed more likely and Aaliyah wondered why. Hadn’t Eresthanon said something about the connection to a network making it worse than it usually was? Ah, Aaliyah didn’t really give a shit about that. The elf didn’t seem to be dying and he wasn’t whining about it, which was good enough for her.
Eresthanon wanted the glaive’s marking placed at the base of his neck, the falcatas on each of his forearms just below the wrists, and the mace near the top of his shoulder, about where it would be if he had his arm cocked back to swing it.
Whatever grudging respect the guy was earning, Aaliyah reminded herself that his demonstration with that murderous club had shown he was a bit of an unhinged, scary mother fucker, too, and she didn’t actually know him from Adam yet. She trusted the Vigiles, in theory, and she trusted Khaldun, in fact, so she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt… so long as she could keep an eye on him.
With the equipment sorted, Aaliyah sidled over to the door, eager to get away from the lingering stink of magic fumes and fluids. Not all magic was that funky, but this particular bit of enchantment? Nasty.
She clapped her hands together. “Alright, you’ve got your kit! Let’s head to the office so we can get to work.”
Eresthanon had already straightened his sweater out from having the magic marker crud applied to his shoulder, now he finished pulling his jacket back on. He picked up the small box with his standard gear, thanked Stugrond again for his efforts, and fell into step behind her as she took him back upstairs.
Next came the fun part: clocking in and hitting the streets.