Chapter Two Hundred Fifty-Three: 'That which eludes Knowing...'

Abbas had never seen anything like it. Even the Earth Cruncher didn't truly compare. They were only similar in the most superficial of ways.

He wished he had more to contrast it with, but he'd only heard of others, never gotten close to them. He'd actually been hoping to change that soon, what with the Vanguard having grown so eager to win his favor. In time, he was sure that he would have finally been able to gain access to their famed Golden Hour in Intar.

They had always protected that thing with an absolutely absurd level of paranoia, due in no small part to that blasted Magician of theirs. By all accounts, that man had been guarding their only Forge like a jealous housewife for nearly two centuries now.

And for what? What technology did the Vanguard have to show for all that effort? What had the Magician come up with that was so vital to their enterprise?

Perhaps they were keeping that, too, a secret, but Abbas doubted it. More likely to him was that this so-called Magician of Light was, in truth, incompetent and arrogant. How the man had convinced the Vanguardian leadership that he should be the one to look after the Golden Hour, Abbas could only imagine.

But it was the world that had been suffering as a result of such foolishness.

Meanwhile, Morgunov was obviously making great strides with his own work. There was little doubt in Abbas mind that the Mad Demon had a new Forge of his own and was using it to create these mechanical nightmares. Either that, or his old one, the Cauldron of Chaos, had not been truly destroyed during the Jungle Wars like the rumors had said.

Supposedly, Sermung himself had put an end to it, so Abbas was inclined to believe that was the truth. Sixty years was certainly enough time for Morgunov to have created a new Forge for himself.

Hmph. Abbas remembered overhearing some of the younger servants in the Golden Fort discussing Morgunov's absence from the world stage over the last few decades. They dared to hope that he might have grown tired of waging war or become otherwise indisposed permanently.

Abbas couldn't fault them for their youth and inexperience, he supposed. But there had never been any doubt in his mind that the Mad Demon was working on something this whole time. More than just one thing, most likely.

He didn't even want to imagine what other horrors that madman was waiting to unleash. He had a feeling that Uego had just been a taste of what Morgunov had in store for them.

In any event, with the way the war was going, Abbas felt that there was little chance of him being allowed access to the Golden Hour now. He hoped that someone would be able to do something with it, though. Anyone, so long as they weren't with Abolish, would do.

Forges were too important to be left idle and unused. In the right hands, they had the power to enact incredible change in the world. For good or ill.

As far he knew, there were only six Forges in the world--and that was counting the one in front of him now. Perhaps there were more, squirreled away and lost to history like this one, but he doubted it. They were simply too highly sought after.

How many wars had been fought over these objects, he wondered? It was hard to say. Even with reapers constantly watching, so much had still been forgotten to the ravages of time. And oftentimes, the self-appointed stewards of remembrance were themselves secretive.

Abbas had visited the Prime Archivers in Luugh multiple times for this very reason. If anyone could help him learn more about Forges that had been lost or destroyed, it would be them. Theoretically.

He had never met a more uncooperative group of reapers. They weren't "hostile," exactly, but they refused to aid him in his search and demanded exorbitant payment each time he visited.

It had been many years since his last trip, but even after double-checking with Worwal, he did not recall ever reading about a Forge that matched this one's description. A giant glass orb in the heart of a giant tree.

Assuming that really was glass.

It seemed to be, but looks could be very deceiving when it came to Forges. Or so he had read.

He took a deep breath and pressed his bare hand against it.

He partly expected the world to erupt into fire around him or for his mind to be assaulted by a tidal wave of ardor. That would have at least given him something to work with.

But it was silent. Still.

Not quite dead, though.

The tree would not be alive if that were the case. It was deeply connected to the Forge, though he was not yet sure how. Was it drawing life from the Forge's dormant power? Or was its life force sustaining the Forge? Perhaps a bit of both? Mutualism would be an interesting strategy to employ in the creation of such a thing.

He wished he knew who had made it. In terms of historically famous integrators, there could not have been many candidates. Hamenszoon was likely still too recent, so perhaps someone like Unso or Skapa. But then again, if someone that famous had been its creator, then how could it have ended up here, abandoned?

He was just guessing, of course, but it seemed more plausible to him that this Forge had been created by a so-called "secret emperor." That was, someone who held the requisite level of power but never revealed it.

It was difficult to know how many such people had existed throughout history. Some reapers argued that none did, that it was simply impossible to keep such might secret for long. And he could see the logic in that. But he'd also read accounts of past emperors being bested by completely unknown warriors. Unso, for example, had been slain by a cabbage farmer, of all things, when the emperor tried to seize his land from him.

That account had read like something out of a mythic legend, though Abbas had since met several reapers who swore up and down that it was true.

However, what became of that cabbage farmer was still a matter of dispute. Some argued that his anonymity was destroyed by that event and that he went on to be known by the much more famous name of Ferrico, another emperor of that Age.

Others claimed that the cabbage farmer was actually Unso's rival, Isaac, in disguise and that the whole affair had been a ruse in order for Isaac to get close enough to Unso to kill him.

And still others said that it was all some sort of cosmic fluke, that the cabbage farmer somehow killed Unso's reaper without even realizing it and that afterwards, the farmer was himself killed by ambitious upstarts seeking to make a name for themselves by slaying the man who had brought down an emperor.

For his part, Abbas leaned more toward the first theory. While it did seem difficult to keep such incredible power concealed, he wasn't convinced that it would be impossible, especially if one had centuries to devote toward that quieting effort.

It did make him wonder what sleeping giants might exist in the modern world, however. And what would it take to stir them?

A continental war, perhaps?

Hmph. He was letting himself get distracted. He tried to focus on what was in front of him.

This Forge was all that mattered, right now. He needed to let everything else melt away.

He kept his hand pressed against the glass and closed his eyes.

The art of sensing ardor was a strange thing. On the one hand, it was as obvious as soul power. Any reaper or sufficiently aged servant could detect it. But on the other hand, there were many subtle complexities to ardor that were lost on those who had not actively worked with it for years.

Ardor. The so-called "planet force." The Earth Cruncher had not utilized it, but this one clearly did. He could sense its presence all throughout the base that the giant orb rested upon.

This would be tricky, Abbas knew. He had to do something that was generally considered incredibly stupid by integrators.

He had to begin the process of fusing his own consciousness with a material object. In this case, the Forge.

For reasons that were perhaps very obvious, the use of this technique was greatly discouraged. A sufficiently terrible mistake at this stage might mean trapping himself in this Forge for all eternity--or at least until Worwal decided to take mercy on him and release his soul.

Abbas was confident that wouldn't happen, though. Mostly confident.

Dolf Rachman had taught him of this method. With normal objects, the fusion of the consciousness was a supremely stupid and pointless activity. There was nothing to be gained, other than the potential loss of one's own body. It was akin to walking a narrow ledge across the side of a cliff. The balance and skill required to do it were technically achievable, but the risk was so great--and the reward, so small--that there was little point in learning.

When it came to soul-infused or ardor-infused objects, however, this was not the case. One could discover any number of useful things about the object in question while dancing at the edge of brain death.

The trick, of course, was to not actually fuse his consciousness with the Forge, to hold himself back just enough so that he could catch a glimpse of the true nature of the thing.

He wanted to find its name. With the name, he would probably be able to unlock other bits of dormant information. The name was like a key in that way. Or the first in a line of dominoes, perhaps. It depended on how one wished to conceptualize it.

Which was an important aspect to this whole thing, by the way. His chosen method of conceptualization of this process would affect the clarity of his searching ability. If he didn't maintain a strong grasp on what he was doing and why, it would not work. Or it would just take an incredibly long time.

As he pressed himself more deeply into the Forge, he had to be careful. Getting a good, clear look at the ardor therein was the goal, but that was also where the temptation lay. Go too fast, stretch too far, lose concentration, and this slumbering beast would swallow him whole before he even realized what had happened.

Or at least, that was how Dolf had described it. Abbas wasn't terribly keen to find out how accurate that had been.

The ardor was there. Just at the edge of sight. If it was possible to squint with one's mind's eye, then that was what he was doing now. Strain to see. To understand.

What was your name, damn you? If you recalled that much, then there was a fair chance that you were still operational. If not, then... well, this was going to get a lot more complicated.

He lost time. Hours, maybe. There was a moderate chance that time was simply flowing differently in this strange space. If he hadn't been relying on his own body as a tether back to reality, he would have known even less. Days or even months could have transpired without his knowledge. Years. Decades.

Time might've become little more than an illusion in this place. Hell, for all he knew, it could've started going in circles.

It was confounding, to be sure. But the distortion of time was almost certainly a factor in how objects like these were able to keep memories within them, Abbas knew. Such fleeting pieces of information would normally be lost to time's arrow. But here, it could be preserved. The steady march of entropy could be held at bay. For a while, at least.

How long that "while" might be--well, that was anybody's guess. How long could a Forge last before eroding to dust? If left alone, perhaps these things had the potential to outlast humanity. Ardor was the fuel of the planet, after all. The relevant time scale could have been approaching the cosmic for these bad boys.

Shame they usually ended up obliterated long before nature could run its course.

Slowly, the ardor at the edge of his senses was becoming clearer. He tried to press onward, to "move closer," but it was a deceptive process. He couldn't expect the desired change to be immediate or even obvious. It would appear when it appeared. Hopefully.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

To perceive memory, he would first need to perceive the ardor's flow. Information often was usually found within any disturbances there, sometimes referred to as "whirlpools" or "knots." Without a clear view of that flow, they might as well have been invisible.

Oh, goodness. Yes, the ardor was coming into focus.

But there was so much here.

He'd expected a lake, but this was a sea.

Just how old was this thing? Had it been created this way? Or had it been accumulating ardor over time? Already, this seemed to dwarf the amount of soul power that had existed within the Earth Cruncher.

That didn't necessarily mean it was more powerful, however. With a machine of creation, what truly mattered was the creative potential that had been poured into it--and the skill of the person who hoped to use it, of course.

...But yes, this was surprising. Why was there so much? And it was so dense, too. Streams layered upon streams, so close together that they almost appeared to be flowing through each other.

Almost. Because, of course, that was impossible. If the flow was disrupted to such an extent, the ardor would clash and begin to leak, eventually dissipating.

This was simply a masterful use of space. The efficiency with which these flows had been pressed so closely together--Abbas had to admire the craftsmanship. If he survived long enough and reached the point where he could create a Forge of his own, he would have to remember this technique.

Unfortunately, this density was also going to make his search more difficult. Oh, and gods forbid if he had to make repairs. That already sounded like a nightmare.

Hmm. But looking at the quality of the ardor's flow, the Forge seemed to be in rather good condition. He couldn't spot any major breaks or diversions--no "hemorrhaging," as it were.

He had a feeling there were many smaller "bleeds" going on elsewhere, though. He would have to inspect the Forge with a fine tooth comb before he dared to try and reactivate it.

Which was a whole other problem--and an even more dangerous one, in fact. Right now, he was just searching for the name in order to help him comprehend what this thing was truly capable of. If and when the time came to actually turn the Forge back "on," that was when the real fireworks would happen.

The kind of fireworks that could kill him and Worwal in the blink of an eye. That was why it was so important to ensure that repairs had been done properly before trying to flip that metaphorical switch. Worst-case scenario, the Forge would explode and leave a city-sized crater behind.

Admittedly, that possibility seemed quite unlikely--and not just because he was confident in his ability to do everything correctly. This Forge had a gentleness to it. An explosion would be "out of character" for it, he felt. If it were to destroy itself, it would probably go some other way. Ah, an implosion perhaps.

It could still suck him and Worwal into it, though. And they would still be just as dead.

His search continued for what felt like a long while. He could sense many tiny knots in the ardor's flow, but without the name, they were all but impossible to read. Perhaps Dolf could have done something with them at this stage, but alas, he could not.

The name, the name. Where could it be? He sincerely hoped it had one. If it didn't, then he was searching this entire sea for nothing.

Agh.

He could feel his consciousness slipping. This frustration wasn't doing him any favors. The tether was weakening. He had to pull himself out before the risk became unacceptable.

So he did.

His eyes opened, and his hand came away from the glass. And he felt his own body again. Breath in his lungs. Flesh and bone wrapped around his soul.

He gave a long, tired sigh.

This wasn't going to be easy, was it?

After a few moments of allowing his thoughts and emotions to settle, he moved to press his hand against the glass again.

But halfway, he stopped himself.

Perhaps he needed to rethink his approach. There was far more ardor in this machine--if it could even be called that--than he had expected. At this rate, searching for the name could take days, weeks, or even months. Hell, maybe longer. He didn't really know how deep the ardor was, yet.

He looked around the chamber. It wasn't just the Forge in here. This place was obviously some kind of ancient workshop. Hector and his associates may have already inspected it from top to bottom, but perhaps it would be prudent to give it a look himself. They said they hadn't found the name in any of those books over there, and he believed them, but there could still be useful clues therein.

Honestly, he didn't know what he was looking for. He had a faint hope that something he learned would help him to locate the name when he dove back into the ardor. Some kind of historical context, maybe?

He couldn't read the language that these books were written in, but fortunately, Worwal could.

So they set to work--Worwal reading, Abbas turning pages. He counted twelve books on this shelf, and perhaps another ten or so on a different shelf by the door.

But if he had to sit here and let Worwal read every single one of them, cover to cover, then he would.

This was why he'd tried to start with the Forge, first. Going through all of these texts was obviously going to take ages, but there'd been a chance, at least, he could have learned what he needed from the Forge right away.

A shame.

At least he could relax his mind a little while he let the reaper read. The strain of that dive through the ardor was probably not something he should ignore--even if he'd been about to do just that. He could handle another two or three dives, most likely, before requiring real rest.

Meditation was a fair substitute, though.

Or it would have been, if he didn't have so much trouble settling his thoughts.

Even at his age, with all his experience, he still encountered this problem, sometimes. His younger self would probably have expected to grow out of this by now. But worries only ever seemed to grow with age. And power.

What would become of his kin? That nagging question lay at the root of every concern that crossed his mind.

Before this war had come to their doorstep, Abbas had harbored an idea. It was an absurd notion at this state in time, far beyond his or Haqq's ability to achieve. But if he'd pushed for it more, if he'd worked harder... then perhaps they wouldn't have had to flee from their homes. Perhaps they wouldn't have had to suffer such disgrace--or not to this extent, at least.

It wouldn't have stopped Morgunov, most likely. But it might have stopped his horde of madmen.

This armor. Creating copies of it, lesser ones if need be. That was the idea.

That had always been the ultimate goal when designing it: to one day make it usable by much younger servants. Or perhaps, dare he imagine it, even non-servants.

The Mudarra'un--or the Armored, in Mohssian. An entirely new warrior class. An elite group of soldiers, trained in the use of his armor.

It was a long-held dream, one that he'd gone back and forth on over the last twenty or so years. Sometimes, it seemed entirely achievable. Other times, he chastised himself for not staying focused on more realistic goals.

Just creating the prototype suit had been so incredibly laborious. And it still wasn't even done. Rather, it felt like a constant project, always tweaking, always refining. A slow crawl toward strength.

He may have achieved victory over Ivan, but he knew only too well how close it had been. That was a victory with an asterisk next to it.

Obviously, not every suit needed to be as powerful as this one, but at the end of the day, what was more important? Creating the Mudarra'un or continuing to improve upon the prototype?

Ideally, he would be able to do both. Pragmatically, he knew that to be impossible.

He had hoped that perhaps this Forge would be able to change that, but now he was more uncertain than ever about that possibility. Given its apparent age, there was absolutely zero chance that the creator had intended for it to be used on machinery.

That might be a problem.

Or it might not.

And worrying about it was making his stomach turn.

He took a moment to steady his mind, to quell his emotions. That's all anxiety was, ultimately. An emotion. A persistent one, perhaps, but an emotion, nonetheless.

First and foremost, he was a man of rationality. To calmly assess every situation, to think everything through as much as time allowed--that was the ideal that he had always striven to achieve.

That was another lesson that he had taken from Dolf--though not by Dolf's design. That man, in so very many ways, had been the furthest thing from rational. True, he did have his moments of it--and Abbas had been supremely relieved whenever they occurred--but those who knew Dolf would have certainly characterized his life as one of constant, fiery passion.

Until it had been snuffed out, that was.

Abbas admired his mentor for many reasons, but that was not one.

And Dolf had known that, too.

"That's good," the man had once told him. "That's how it should be. You are my apprentice, not my clone. A copycat is never as good as the original. SO take what I have to teach, and then pursue further knowledge in your own way." And he'd laughed. "Who knows? Maybe one day, my accomplishments will look quaint compared to yours!"

Abbas remembered thinking, at the time, that he'd been sarcastic in saying that last part. But now, all these years later, and after having had a couple apprentices of his own, Abbas felt differently.

As a teacher, the idea that his students might one day achieve wondrous or remarkable feats--that was one of the most appealing thoughts in the world.

Dolf hadn't been joking, Abbas had come to believe.

Somehow, that seemed more relevant than ever.

It had been some time since Abbas felt the that familiar burn of ambition within himself. As a young man, it had been there all the time. A constant pressure to prove himself to his elders and his peers.

When had that changed, exactly? The slow grinding of age had whittled him down, it seemed. He'd like to think of it as "growing," but was that really so? Was it growth when the motivation deep within one's soul had diminished so greatly?

Hmm.

Perhaps the gods were giving him another chance. If he allowed it to, perhaps this Forge could reawaken his ambitions from all those years ago.

Heh. He felt like such an old man.

A thud arrived from outside, heavy enough that he could feel the ground tremble briefly beneath his feet. He stood up to go take a look, while still holding onto the book in his hands and turning pages for Worwal.

He opened the primitive wooden door and saw Hector there in the distance, standing in the middle of an elongated crater.

What in the world was he doing, Abbas wondered? Had he just arrived? It looked like a meteorite had struck the field.

Not the most graceful of landings, apparently.

Come to think of it, though, he had not actually seen Hector flying during that last battle--unless he was feeling extremely generous with the term "flying," perhaps.

Abbas just stood there in the doorway, turning pages absentmindedly as he watched Hector hobble closer.

Broken a few bones, eh?

Ah.

Abbas was beginning to get the picture.

It was true that Abbas hadn't quite gotten a clear understanding of the young Atreyan lord's strength, but he also hadn't given it much thought, either. The boy had saved his life. And finished off the Man of Crows.

Could that have really all been a fluke? He hadn't thought so.

Now, though?

Hmm.

Perhaps.

And not terribly difficult to believe, either. It would not be the first time that Abbas had seen a young servant best a much older one through little more than good fortune.

But from everything else that he had seen thus far, there was obviously still more to this young man than just luck. The Lord of Warrenhold? Encountering Rasalased? The strangeness of his power? A nest of Wrobels at his disposal? And a Fusion Forge, too?

He would have been a fool to dismiss all of that as luck, too.

No. There was, at the very least, a certain... grit to this young man. It was difficult to describe, having known him for so short a time.

He would have to pay closer attention in the future, Abbas decided.

Hector's composure improved as he got closer, until he finally zoomed the rest of the way and landed gently in front of Abbas.

"Learn anything yet?" the young man said, ever so slightly out of breath.

For a moment, Abbas just gave him a look. He shifted his gaze back to the crater in the distance, then back to Hector. "...Are you alright?"

The boy was keeping his armor on for some reason. "Oh, uh, yeah. I'm fine. I was just, er... experimenting with my ability a little and, uh..." He threw a glance back toward the crater, too. "I'm still working out the kinks. You know how it is, I'm sure."

Mm. Indeed he did know. A fair explanation, he supposed.

He decided to let the matter drop. Whatever the truth was, Hector most likely did not wish to appear weak in front of him. That was probably why he wasn't removing his armor. If he'd really been "experimenting," then his clothes might very well be soaked in his own blood, right now. And considering how long he'd taken to shamble out that crater for using his materialization to carry himself closer, he'd probably been trying to buy time for himself to finish regenerating.

Fair enough. Abbas couldn't fault him for caring so much about appearances. Any leader needed to be aware of such things. Abbas and Worwal were not the only ones here, after all. A handful of his family members were waiting by the car and probably saw that little display, too.

"Unfortunately, progress has been slow," said Abbas, turning to go sit back down. Worwal asked him privately to turn the page again, and he did so. "And I suspect it will be for some time."

"I see," said Hector. Garovel phased through his armor as he closed the door behind him. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Thank you for the offer, but I am afraid not."

"Are you sure? Anything at all? I could bring someone here to assist you, if you want. Haqq Najir, maybe?"

"Haqq should remain focused on my armor until its repairs are complete," said Abbas. He eyed the Forge again. "And this... well, let's just leave it at that, shall we?"

"Alright," said Hector, "but is there anyone else? Literally, anyone you can think of. If they're trustworthy and could help, then I'll do my best to bring them here for you, even if I have to go halfway around the world."

Something about the boldness of that statement made Abbas want to tease him. "Perhaps Xixa would be of some use. I hear she is quite good at keeping things to herself."

Hector paused at that, his expression unreadable, but Garovel spoke up in his stead.

'Yes, I'm sure the Goddess of the Secrets would be very helpful. If she existed. Or are you saying you know where we can find her?'

"I'm afraid not," said Abbas, exhaling half a laugh. "And while there might be plenty of individuals out there who could assist me, I do not think it worth the risk. As you said, Hector, trustworthiness is a key factor. But Forges are so highly prized that someone whom I currently believe to be trustworthy might soon discover the motivation for betrayal upon seeing it."

Hector frowned but bobbed his head to the side a little, as if acknowledging the strength of his point.

"I am certain that I will be able to revive it," said Abbas. Which wasn't entirely true. He was certain that he would either do it or die trying, at least, but that wasn't something that he wanted to admit. Not even to Worwal. "I only need time."

The Lord of Warrenhold stepped closer. "You'll have all you need."

Hmm. He did have a way of saying comforting things, didn't he? Why was that, exactly? Something in his tone? In his expression, maybe? Abbas couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"By the way," Hector went on after a time, "there was something I wanted to ask you. What are your thoughts on building a castle around the Forge?"

Abbas blinked.