Every strike of the hammer brings another sword into the hands of a soldier. Every crash of the molten iron molds the future of the empire. Every clanging blow sparks flames that cast out the shadows of war. But the hammer is only as strong as the hands that stoke the fiery forge.
Rutair was both the hammer and the flame, for he had received a gift from the Gods that made him wield fire as he wielded the hammer. His towering figure scared away even the most fearless generals sent to enlist him in the army’s theurgical cadre. He longed for a simple life that lay with the hammer of the family’s smithy, and the generals saw talent in him and left him be to provide them with weapons. Now, with the war almost at his village’s doorstep, Rutair worked tirelessly.
The villagers struggled to keep up with the empire’s unfair number of delivery demands, and they suffered as they provided not only weapons but also grain and lumber. The sickly and starving population toiled to exhaustion, with more people unable to work with each passing day. Even the children faced the same harsh fate.
But the sound of the hammer striking the anvil reverberated, filling them with hope that the war would soon be over.
It was a chilly autumn morning as Rutair pulled the supply cart over to the only horse in the village. The thin fog hadn’t settled on the ground yet, and the dead leaves would crunch beneath the wheels.
How will I explain this month’s deliveries? Rutair reluctantly hitched the cart as if wanting to delay the upcoming meeting. Only a few weapons. No food, no wood, nothing else. I just hope they’ll spare me some medicine.
He glanced back at his home. Overgrown grass blended in with the peeling and faded color of the once-bright paint, and the roof seemed to sag under the weight of moss. The light wind thudded the broken shutters against the window, each thud accompanied by a creaking complaint. He would fix it if he had the time. The smoking curls that escaped the chimney were the only signs of life.
“Where are you going this early?” a playful feminine voice came from behind Rutair as he climbed on the cart.
He faced her as she was trying to brush aside her fluttering blonde hair from hiding her beaming face. She struggled to stand straight over the weight of a basket she carried.
“It’s that time of the month again, and I hope to return by nightfall. My parents are sick again. They need me.”
She looked inside the cart, frowned, and lowered her voice before replying. “Where is everything else?”
“That’s it, Moira. If they want us to deliver the last of our food, I will fight back.” His lips seemed like they were about to continue speaking but instead hid themselves behind his long, rugged beard.
Moira broke the silence. “I’ll visit your parents later. Don’t worry about them,” she paused and took something out of her basket. “Here. I brought you something for the road–thought you might get hungry.”
“You need it more than I.” Rutair gestured, dismissing the food, which he guessed was some old bread and cheese.
“Nonsense.” Without hesitating, she reached out and put it into his pocket. “We can meet later if you return early,” she continued with a mischievous wink.
“We’ll see.”
Rutair picked up the horse’s reins and flicked them. The cart moved and soon disappeared from Moira’s sight.
By mid-morning, Rutair had already reached the muddy road by the forest edge. He had made good time and was already fantasizing about the hot bowl of soup that would be waiting upon his return.
The sound of a horse cantering disturbed his daydream. Alerted, he reached for his sword at his side. He looked around. The sound was loud and clear now, approaching at high speed. He clenched his hand around the hilt. He could see the rider now as he bolted, appearing and disappearing from behind the trees. Finally, the rider came into view on the same road as Rutair. He also saw him and slowed down to a stop.
Rutair relaxed his hand. The man before him wore the colors of the empire. It was the ceremonial outfit–a shimmering sapphire silk tunic embroidered with silver chain stitches. Dark-brown trousers matched with a delicate belt decorated with the empire’s crest completed the ensemble.
But there was something very off-putting about him. The man was smiling.
“Good morning, traveler,” the rider’s enthusiastic tone was unexpected. “You come from the village down the road?”
“Aye,” replied Rutair, coldly.
“You are to return at once with news of our victory. The war is over–the soldiers are returning home.”
Rutair, bewildered, couldn’t believe a word. How could he? Everything felt unchanged since this morning. His people were still hungry, and his parents still sick.
Since Rutair didn’t reply, the rider cleared his throat and continued. “You’ll receive provisions tomorrow by early delivery–food, medicine, and clothes. Over the next few months, you’ll also receive livestock to replenish some of those you lost.” he saluted sharply, “by the Emperor’s grace, we are blessed.”
The world around Rutair felt lighter, as if the heavy mantle that burdened him had suddenly lifted. If this was what normal felt like, he couldn’t remember anymore.
“Thanks,” muttered Rutair, at a loss for words.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have three more stops before the day’s end.”
The rider skidded off, and Rutair sat there until a tear dropped, soaking into the wooden cart.
Rutair paced his return to the village, taking in the nature around him. He envisioned the deer slowly reclaiming the forest after the excessive hunting had driven them away. The trees would grow back, filling the void left by the cut trunks surrounding his village, and life would return to normal.
He took a deep breath of fresh air. Do I smell something burning?
He slapped the reins. The horse protested with a neigh as it quickened its pace. He made it to the clearing and saw, to his horror, smoke rising from the tiny huts in the distance.
Something’s wrong. Fire? Bandits? No, no, no.
Rutair jumped on his horse. With a sword swing he cut the ropes, unhitching it from the cart. He clenched the fingers of his free hand, channeling the power of Gods as thin tendrils of smoke materialized in his palm. He galloped back to the village, and soon, he could hear the screams that would confirm his worst suspicions.
He made it to the first houses just in time to witness his friend Feirun get sliced by an unclean cut to the neck by one of the bandits. The bandit, alarmed by the sound of the horse, faced Rutair, his eyes widened in shock.
“You… you are not supposed to be here,” the bandit’s voice trembled.
Rutair staggered. That was no bandit. That was the baker from the neighboring village. In fact, he had traded with him the week before. The same bread now lay in his pocket.
“What have you done?” blustered Rutair. The smoke in his hand intensified, swirling faster around his palm. The air shimmered from the rising heat, and the smoke pulsed an orange glow as he twirled his fingers toward him.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The baker tried to run, but the tendrils quickly reached him, constricting and escalating into a conflagration of burning flesh until he fell to the ground, spasming.
Rutair’s horse, spooked by the flame, reared, dropping him to the ground as it leaped around.
Rutair’s back throbbed with pain as he rolled over, narrowly avoiding the stampede of the hooves thundering past. With one continuous motion, he sprang to his feet and ran towards the slaughter.
The sight ahead was a scene from a horrid nightmare. Friends and neighbors lay gutted on the footpaths that had turned to mud from soaked blood. The flames on their houses were burning what little remained of their memories, and following the trail of fire, the slaughter continued. The bandits cleaned up the last survivors who tried to escape the nightmare while others stocked their wagons with everything they could find–valuables, weapons, food.
Hidden behind the smell of burned flesh and charred wood, Rutair picked up a miasmic scent that burned his nostrils. Whether it was gasses or something poisonous, this was not good. Another theurge was lurking about. He knew that he should make killing them a priority, but he had to make sure his parents were safe first.
He could see his house at the far end of his vision. The fires hadn't reached this part of the village yet. His heart sank as he saw Moira struggling to escape from one of the bandits who had pinned her to the ground. Her screams and cries for help pierced through the chaos of the destruction and killings directly into Rutair’s ears.
Two bandits noticed him and lunged at him. Rutair parried the blade of the first one with ease, striking back with the pommel, smashing his face. The second bandit slashed his sword, missing by only a few inches, which left him vulnerable. These were not trained soldiers. Rutair grabbed him by the face with his free hand and conjured a flame that melted his eye sockets and everything past them. The fire burned Rutair’s palm, but the scorching pain wasn't enough to let go.
He pushed aside the dead man and sprinted.
Moira was now desperately pushing the bandit’s hands away from her. She managed to get a bite in his hands, forcing him to retract and change tactics. He punched right in her face with a force she couldn't stop. Her head went spinning, and he found an opportunity to stab his sword between her ribs. One. Two. Three. She stopped moving.
Rutair screamed as he launched at the aggressor, his sword point first. They rolled over Moira's body, and he hit and stabbed until his face was a fleshy display of gore and cut skin. He got the attention of the rest of the bandits now.
Rutair wiped the blood from his eyes toward his beard. He glanced at Moira, and the pain in his burned hand was nothing compared to the ache in his heart. Yet he knew he had to find the courage to press on–for his parents.
He reached the front of his house, ready to make one last stand. There were fifteen, no, twenty bandits ahead of him. I can take them. He steeled himself for a fight.
Rutair cast aside his sword and conjured a flame in both hands, swelling with intensity. Sparks danced out of the raging fire, singeing his skin and beard–but he didn't stop. The panicked bandits scattered in search of cover—everyone but one.
What's this? I smell gas. “Shi…”
For a split second, he saw her. An old hag waved her hands in a snake-like motion as if trying to give shape to something invisible. She braced her legs on the ground for what was about to unfold.
Rutair unleashed the fiery inferno, but it was too late. The explosion knocked him back, sending flames cascading in every direction and igniting the rest of the village. The force slammed him against the front wall of his house, crumbling bricks and roof upon him.
Darkness.
The pole that once supported the roof shifted, dislodging some bricks. Muffled screams pierced through the debris, and a hand emerged from beneath, pushing aside the pole to create space for Rutair to rise.
The sun was about to set, gradually shrouding the ruined village in darkness. The smell of the still-smoking houses blended in with the scent of blood and burned flesh, nauseating Rutair. The sight of the burned and pillaged houses filled him with a tremor of rage. Yet all those feelings were masked by the sight of Moira, who hadn't moved since.
Limping, he went over to the nearest water source. The cool water over his palm reignited the searing pain. As he splashed his face, the remnants of the ash, dirt, and blood swirled away, but his half-burned beard scraped against his palm like tiny daggers.
He returned to his home and took the rumble off, brick by brick, but he knew nothing lay under the debris that would bring his happiness back.
The pyre blazed fiercely, turning all fifty-eight souls that once formed a small village to ash–embraced by the Gods. In contrast, the dead bandits lay abandoned, left to rot under the ruthless sun and the hungry wolves.
Rutair’s scream shattered the silence, sending the lurking crows scattering into the sky. Rage burned in his eyes as he approached his ruined smithy. He grabbed an unfinished piece of metal and sat it on the anvil. A tear dropped on the cold iron. He struck it with his hammer. Again. And again, and with each strike, another tear imbued inside the metal. The last tear never reached the metal–evaporated by the heat. There was no fire, yet sparks flew with every blow. He needed no fire because he was the fire, and none could extinguish the flames of vengeance within him.
The next day, Rutair waited until nightfall before approaching the neighboring village. By rights, this would be a night of festivities, and he expected to find people dancing under the cheerful music of the lutes and flutes, filling their stomachs with salted veal and wine until everyone would collapse, exhausted but relieved. Instead, he observed a scene that looked opposite to what he expected. The villagers had set up large tables in the center of the main square that would fit their entire population. The tables overflowed with cheese rolls, generous portions of cooked meat, and fruit. Surrounding it, the total population of the village sat on chairs, staring at their rich plates, not making a sound. No sound of the cutlery clinging and scratching against the plates, no cups smashing against each other, no gossipy chatter, no laughs, nothing. The only thing that broke the dead silence was the monotonous plucking of a single, out-of-tone note from a finely dressed woman near the pyre at the center of the surrounding tables. Rutair stared at the scenery a little too long, uncertain about how to proceed, until finally, something changed. He moved ahead.
A silver-haired woman rose from her seat and slowly walked towards a makeshift wooden platform near the first line of tables. She climbed the stairs to the platform with the help of one of her fellow villagers, and without making eye contact with anyone, she cleared her throat. The villagers looked at her, anticipating words that would grant them forgiveness or even a reason for everything that happened.
“There is nothing I can say or do to make things right again. There is no one to blame but ourselves, and we can only hope that the Gods will forgive us. As for the ones fallen,” she paused for a long moment. “I can only offer remembrance…” Her voice was suddenly cut short by a piece of metal, slicing through and appearing from inside her chest. The blade was jagged and pitted, with a chipped and dull edge, suggesting that it was hastily forged by an inexperienced smith. Unexpectedly, the blade burst into flames, burning the silver-haired woman from the inside. The villagers' eyes were wide with disbelief as Rutair appeared behind her, pulling out and raising the flaming sword above him, radiating a blinding light.
Rutair ran towards them, and the god-fearing villagers screamed and bolted while others fell on their knees, begging for mercy. He first noticed the aghast old hag in the distance, her trembling hands desperately trying to conjure anything that could repel him. He swung the swordpoint towards her, and the flame extended, slicing through the air like a whip. The impact of the flame on her arm detonated, ripping apart bits of flesh and shattered bone, and then exploded again by the gasses she was emitting, knocking down everyone in proximity.
He then advanced towards the first man in his path and struck his dull blade upon him. It was so hot it sliced from neck to torso like butter. In a continuous movement, he attacked the next one, who had grabbed a silver plate from the table to defend himself. Rutair brought his sword down on him, which the man stopped midair with the plate, only for it to melt seconds later. Unable to provide the necessary resistance to halt the force of the sword, it folded and smashed against his face and fused with the skin. Five more of the more courageous villagers came to meet their deaths by Rutair’s blade before the others tried to flee.
Rutair rushed to the pyre. The intensity of the sword attracted its flames like a moth is attracted to light, and he spun them around until they encircled him. He then pointed the accumulated flames to the sky and released them. The wind picked up quickly by the heat and soon was large enough for a firestorm to surround the village, making escape impossible. Still, the blade burned so hot it pulled the firestorm towards it, slowly closing in, disintegrating wood, stone, and flesh alike.
The desperate villagers soon had so little space to run that they had to choose to either die by the sword or be consumed by the soaring flames. Rutair slashed and hacked until the firestorm was almost upon him. One last man was still left alive. He put down his sword and stared at him.
“Why?” Rutair’s voice was desperate.
The cowering man looked up with terror in his eyes. “Please don’t kill me. We were so hungry. I’m sorry, we didn’t know–the messenger only arrived with the news after our return.”
Rutair didn’t feel any better, nor worse. He felt nothing. And he continued feeling nothing as the fires engulfed them both.
A figure of ash and coal made his way to the ruined smithy of his home. His surface was dark and rough, with cracks running throughout his entire body, but instead of appearing damaged, the fissures glowed with the warm, flickering light of the flames beneath.
He raised his sword, examining every inch of its hideous appearance with his hand, and hung it on the rack alongside the other damaged blades.
He momentarily stood still, his dark form like a shadow of his former self. As a sudden gust of wind swept through, ash particles swirled into the air like smoke. The coal that was his body slowly lost all substance, becoming one with the debris of his home below. The flames beneath the cracks flickered an ephemeral glow before being snuffed out by the breeze, leaving only whispers of his existence behind.