Eisenrahm was now in full bloom, overflowing with citizens hustling and bustling about. It was quite warm out, as the final days of spring were ending and the hotter temperament of summer was just setting in. On days like today citizens could be seen in every nook and cranny of the capital city, working to earn their wages or otherwise taking what free time they had to relax.

      Rygart was on his way home with some materials he’d just purchased from one of his suppliers. He was pulling a cart, bristling with metal. Some were in the shape of fine ingots, yet others were bent rods or springs, and other tools. Rygart often kept a stockpile of old metals on hand. The quality of the tools here in the city was a marked improvement on what was found in Brekt, and Rygart often reforged the old metals into something useful he needed.

      Oberon’s smithy had been well stocked of course, but once word had gotten around of a young smith working out of the old man’s smithy Rygart had quickly used up what Oberon had left him. Business was slow at first, Oberon knew some tradesmen that had been quite pleased to have him fashion a chisel or knife, but Rygart was afraid he wouldn’t be able to sustain himself on his smithing skills alone. However, one day, while in a particularly depressing mood, Rygart started working some metal to clear his mind. He’s found that whenever he was at the forge the world seemed to stop, and all focus was drawn in to the work.

      Rygart had toiled away for hours, only stopping to eat or relieve himself. He made countless tools, some of which he’d just thought up. Hammers of differing sizes, clamps, wrenches, chisels, you name it, he made it. Having been satisfied that his skill hadn’t waned, he began working with blades again.

      First, he’d made a simple short sword, with an oval guard and a tightly wrapped leather handle. The blade flared out a little as it got longer, up until the wide taper he’d put at the end. He’d used a simple steel that had been left in one of the various barrels or boxes that were scattered across the smithy.

      Once finished, Rygart started again, this time creating a broadsword. And again he finished and, yet again, he’d start anew. Hours he worked. By the time he came to himself again, it was nearly morning! He had worked every hour of the previous day, and as Rygart realized this, he felt exhaustion like he’d never known before.

      He put the finishing touches on his current work, a fine rapier, and prepared himself for bed. He could only afford a few hours rest, which he slept through second, and had left a note asking Oberon to wake him. As he climbed into his cot, he found himself at greater peace than he had known in quite a while.

       When Oberon had seen the work that Rygart was so thoroughly exhausted from, he was shocked. A half dozen blades lay neatly in a row on a worktable which had been cleared of everything except the fine works of steel and iron. Oberon could actually tell the order that the blades had been made. Each time this kid makes a sword he gets better. He’s a natural. Oberon smiled with pride as he thought. His young friend was quite the budding smith.

      Oberon woke Rygart, as he’d asked, although it took a fair effort to pry him from his dreams. As Rygart finally relented Oberon began speaking with him about the blades. Rygart quickly explained that he had been in a lousy mood, and so he worked to clear his mind. Oberon left it at that, not wanting to inflate the young man’s ego. And so, Oberon set out on his own business as Rygart returned to the smithy.

      His entire body ached from the hours spent relentlessly hammering the metals. His forearms felt as if he’d never be able to grip anything the rest of his life, and his shoulders couldn’t even be bothered to lift his arms. His entire body was a testament to the pain that always followed progress.

      As Rygart sat at his worktable laiden with blades, he thought of just what to do with them. He spent the morning fashioning a display where he could show off his works, using some wood and old bits of iron. There was a section of the front wall that was segmented, and could be opened up leaving a hefty portion of the smithy open to the street. Rygart set his display of tools and weapons around either side of the opening, and went inside to a forge nearby and began heating it. Before long he was working at full speed and, shortly after that, a crowd had formed, interested to see what was going on.

      Rygart worked as fast as he could, not making tools or weapons, he had plenty of those now. No, instead he made decorative candle sticks, intricate iron canes, and many other items. Anything that could be done relatively quickly. As he finished a piece some in the crowd would applaud and “oooo” and “ahhhh” at his work.

      After a few hours of work Rygart walked to the front of the crowd and called out to them, “Welcome to the newest smithy in town! Where you can not only get your tools, but also a show!” The crowd seemed quite pleased, and let out a modest cheer. “As you can see we can make anyone anything! On the table over here,” he gestured to one of the tables holding a display with a pair of swords and several other tools as well as a large leatherbound book, “I have an order book. Any time during they day, if you you can’t find what you need on display, write it down and I’ll be sure to add it. Prices are negotiable up until the first hundred orders! First come, first served!” That last part seemed to get some of the crowd stirred up, and before too long Rygart was selling his work hand over fist.

      The first day had been the hardest. He was still incredibly sore and weak from the previous day, not to mention the exhaustion of only having a few hours of sleep, but it was all worth it. After that day Rygart never had to worry about finding work. He soon added more books to hold the orders, and then more again. He worked diligently, every day, and every morning he would open up his shop and work, seldomly stopping throughout the day.

      It was the most he’d ever been behind a forge. Every night he went to bed exhausted, only barely managing to make it to his cot in the corner of the smithy. And every morning he woke, sore and weak from the previous days exertions, and so a routine developed. He would wake early, just as it began to brighten outside, and then he would stretch his aching muscles and eat breakfast. Just as the street was beginning to fill, he would open his shop and get to work.

      Three months went by like this, and Rygart could feel his strength growing. Not only  did his strength improve, but so did his skill. The time it took for him to complete a project greatly diminished as these two things grew. Rygart’s experiences certainly helped him improve his skill, especially with swords, but what really pushed his skill to grow were the days he spent with Oberon.

      The old man didn’t often lend him time to learn, but when he did Rygart devoured everything Oberon said. Whether it was smithing , city politics, or Draghiem, Rygart always listened and observed. He would spend days trying to perfect the skills he was shown, or to commit to memory what information Oberon would share about the state of the city and Draghiem.

      Truth be told, those three months flew by like they were but a fleeting dream. Which brings us to today. As Rygart pulled his cart of metal he thought about a particular technique Oberon had showed him a few days ago. A forging process unlike any he’d ever seen, where the resulting blade had been immaculate, and curved gently with the sharpened edge on one side.

      Rygart had never seen a single-edged blade before, and he had been very curious. He had asked all about the benefits and the disadvantages. It was quite the novel concept, however it wouldn’t lend itself well to Rygart’s fighting style. Oberon agreed, saying that he himself had never wielded such a blade in battle, but that there were many in the assault guild that used such blades, and that they would pay an outrageous amount of gold for one that was well crafted. Apparently none of the smiths in the city frequently made any such blade. Some were known to forge one upon request, but the quality was often lacking.

      “I’m decent enough, though far from any sort of mastery of the technique” that’s what Oberon had said when telling Rygart of this new technique.

      Earlier, Rygart had decided to give it a try, and the result was, well, not what he had hoped for. But, he shrugged it off and tried again. And again. There was something off about it. Rygart had never had such trouble before, and he vowed to master the art. Which is what had brought Rygart to his metal supplier. He believed that this process was just as much about finding the perfect balance of metals as it was the process of forging.

      One of the most impressive things about Oberon’s smithy is that it had a blast furnace, built into the back wall. Rygart hadn’t noticed it at first because it was obscured by tables and machines. When he made the discovery, Rygart couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a massive thing, made of sturdy, giant stone bricks. He had worked with one of course, but not often.

       Rygart had pressed Oberon for an explanation, but the man acted like it was no big deal. Well, for all Rygart knew it wasn’t. Here in Eisenrahm anyway. Ever since he discovered the behemoth, Rygart was consumed with the idea of creating new steels and alloys. Rygart spent a lot of time learning about the process, and trying to perfect it. There was progress that had been made, though it was incredibly slow.

       Rygart had intended to get right to work upon returning to the smithy, however as he was just about to pass the threshold into the building, he heard Oberon holler from the opposite direction.

      “Oy! Rygart! I’ve got some good news for you.” The giant of a man was unusually chipper, which is saying quite a lot for him, and he had a joyful, yet mischievous, look in his eye.

      “Oh? Did the doctor do something about that poor face of yours? Hmmm, nope, still looks the same as ever” Rygart replied with a wry smile.

      “Haha don’ you wish! Then maybe you’d find yourself a lass! Instead of ‘em always fallin’ for old Oberon here.”

      “The women I’m interested in don’t have beards”

      “Hey now, I told ya, she didn’t have no beard! It was just...a couple of little hairs on her lip. Hardly noticeable!” They both laughed, knowing that there was more than just a grain of truth to the story.

      “So did you really have something important to say, or was that just a ploy to brag about your bearded lady.” Rygart spoke as he entered the smithy through a small door against the far wall, opposite the side that leads to the rest of the house.

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      “Oh, right. I have it on good authority that, soon, a certain guild will be allowing for new members to join.” The mischievous look returned once again to his eyes.

      “You're kidding! You said it’d be six months before they took in applications!”

      “I said it could be six months. Use those things on the side of your head more often.”

      “Oh, whatever! What exactly did you hear??” Rygart had abandoned his cart of metals against the wall, and turned to face Oberon, with excitement burning through him.

      “Well, it seems that instead of the usual application process, they have somethin’ a little bit more….flashy in mind.” He had closed his eyes and began to stroke his beard, seemingly deep in thought.

      “What’s that supposed to mean? Oh, just out with it you old git!” Rygart went to grab something to smack the old man upside the head with, when the old man raised his hands, as if to surrender.

      “Alright alright. Don’ get your danglies in a twist. It would appear that, in honor of the foundin’ of our nation, the guild Heads have decided to host a tournament of sorts.” Oberon paused and looked around the room, hoping to find a place to sit.

      “A tournament? Have they done anything like this before?”

      “Oh yes, it’s called the Eisenverd Festival. Since the guild was first established they’ve held, maybe, 75 or so of these festivals. There’s an entire district of the city dedicated to it!” Oberon finally cleared himself a seat and sat down with a .

      “Eisenverd?”

      “Well, I’m told that it comes from an old language, meaning iron-blooded. Eisenrahm is supposed to mean iron beast, or some such. They say that to have fought off a horde of demons, our ancestors must have had had iron for blood.” He scratched his beard as he settled down into his chair, explaining the festival to Rygart. “Now then, as I said earlier, there is an entire district dedicated to these festivals. It’s a big deal. There are large coliseums, where various competitions are held. Usually there is at least one combat-oriented contest. Sometimes they are one-on-one duels, though there are others. At the last one, they captured a creature from one of the upper floors! They set 16 men against it! Damn crazy if ya ask me.”

      “They captured something from the Tower?” Rygart was surprised to hear that. In all his time here he’d never seen or heard of people bringing monsters out of Draghiem.

      “Yeah, but it’s unusual. It takes someone very large and at the top of the city hierarchy to arrange something like that. Even the assault guild needed permission.” He cleared his throat before continuing, “Anyway, I doubt they’ll do that again. Most likely it will be filled with other types of contests. Feets of agility, strength, cunning, all things that are needed to survive Draghiem. Obstacle courses are common enough.” Oberon leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms as he finished speaking. It appeared as though he was having a hard time getting comfortable.

      “That’s all very interesting and everything, but did you find out when this will all be happening? That would be good to know,” he let an ample amount of sarcasm seep through his words.

      “Oh, right. About that. It seems they’re keeping it all hush hush, but I have it on very good authority that the games will begin in no more than four months.” He closed his eyes and nodded his head, reaffirming what he’d just said.

      “Hmmm, four months huh? So it's still a ways off. From the sounds of these events, it’s not going to be a picnic, that’s for sure. And fighting? I’m rusty. There’s only so much I can do on my own…” Rygart was biting the end of his thumb, which he did whenever he tried to figure out a particularly difficult problem. At this point he was more talking to himself than he was to Oberon, “It would help a lot if I knew what events to expect. I wonder if they’ll release that information as time gets closer.”

      “Nah, they never do. They only announce the event just before it starts. They like to play it all very close to the chest, that’s for sure. Somethin’ bout thinkin’ that the more spontaneous it is, the better they can judge the competitors. Draghiem doesn't exactly hand out itineraries, now does it?”

      “Yeah, that makes sense, but still…” he trailed off into thought again, worried that he might not have the skills necessary to succeed.

      “From what I hear, not only does the 1st place participant get a guaranteed spot in the guild, they’re even going to hand em a 1st class C rankin’!” Oberon said that last part with an amount of incredulousness that caught Rygart by surprise.

      “Is that a big deal? What is a “1st class C ranking”? I’ve never anything about that.” Rygart had an inquisitive look on his face. For it to get Oberon so worked up must mean that it was something of value.

      “What? I haven’t told you of the rankings at the guild?” Taking Rygart’s questioning look as an answer to his question, he continued, “Well, the assault guild ain’t exactly military, ya know? And as such, they don’t have any ranking system commonly found in armies. Instead, they have their own unique system.” Oberon rubbed his beard, as he spoke, “You see, at the top of what you might call the grunts, is A rank. Under them sits B, then C, and so on, down to F rank. Each rank is split into “classes”, which indicates how far along they are in their rank. Ranks A through C have three classes, 1st class, 2nd class, and 3rd class. Ranks D through F have four.  Understand so far?”

      “Yeah, I think so. Your rank is an indicator of your strength and skill, I’m assuming, and the classes gives you a way to compare yourself to those within your own rank, right?”

      “Yes! Exactly. Now, most who start at the guild start of in either ranks D or E, depending on how well you do during your first week of training, with trainees being deemed rank F. Now, the only way to increase your rank, is to reach the 1st class of whatever rank you’re in, and then ask for an evaluation. That, in itself, is fairly complicated, and will be explained to you better when you get there. It usually takes years to reach a 1st class C ranking. Them giving away such a prize will put whoever it is that wins it on the front step of the big leagues, right out the gate!”

      “Wow, that is a big deal.” They both sat for a moment, Rygart mulling over everything he’d just learned, and Oberon reminiscing about his own years spent with the guild. “Wait, you said this A rank is still considered the “grunts”? What is above that?”

      “Ahhh, right. Always quick with the observations, aren’t ya? Well, once you’ve reached the 1st class of A rank, the next step would be to earn a Title. Only a few ever get that far. I mean, not even one in a thousand, no not even one in  ten-thousand, get that far. Those with Titles are called The Named. Usually it is some great feat of skill, power, or bravery that earns them a Name, from the royal court even! The only way to get that far is to be recognized by the most powerful people in the kingdom. So naturally, not many ever get that far.”

      Again time passed as they sat in silence. Rygart was curious as to the identity of The Named. I wonder how many there are. I would love to meet someone like that one day. Imagine what I could learn from them! After that, a thought came to Rygart.

      “Hey Oberon, how high ranked were you?” Rygart knew it was probably rude to ask, but he just couldn’t help it. His curiosity had gotten the better of him.

      “Oh ho! Curious, are ya, to see how the old man stacks up? Well, I was a proud member of the 1st Class of B rank! Not too shabby eh? Ahahaha” Oberon really was quite proud of himself.

      And for good reason too, thought Rygart, if what Oberon said was accurate, it’ll take me years to reach that. I have to admit, the old man surprised me. I never would have thought he had such drive. I wish he would be more forthcoming about his life. Rygart again felt his curiosity bridling beneath the surface of his mind. This time, however, he kept it in check.

      “Ya know..” Oberon spoke, with a look of deep contemplation on his face, “I know you’re worrying about bein’ ready and what not. But I might be able to help with that.” Rygart looked up, wondering what Oberon might be talking bout. “I’m not much of an adventurer anymore, but there’s a friend of mine that occasionally takes on a student. If you want, I could set up a meetin’. See if he’ll help you train for the festival.”

      “Well, since you’re the one that knows him, would it help?” Upon hearing Rygart’s question, that mischievous look returned to Oberon’s eye.

      “Oh, I’ve no doubt about that. Assumin’ you survive and all.”

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Hey guys! Some great stuff is comin' up, so don't forget to come back!  Also, if you haven't gone to checkout the new cover art, what are you waiting for? Go! Go! Go! Anyway, that image is of Draghiem, from a great distance, of course. The damn thing is huge after all! I know it's not perfect, and I have requests out there for artists to do something better, but until then, my cover will just have to do! I wanted to give it a cover ASAP, but I also didn't want to just throw something together. Now that it has a cover, it feels more "official". Anyway, I hope you guys are enjoying the story so far! Thanks for reading!