by J. A. Hunter
“Enchanted,” Carl replied matter-of-factly. “The Order of the Dawnbreaker has illusion clerics that man towers throughout the city. Day and night they power these giant engines that maintain the spell. Reality generators. Mimics the sky outside. Costs a fortune to run, but no one seems to complain.” He sniffed, not nearly as impressed as the rest of us.
“Wow,” Ari whispered from nowhere, still cloaked in glamor. “I can see the threads of their magic. It’s a bit like my own powers, but on a scale I’ve never seen before.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty neat, I guess,” Carl agreed, as though neat could possibly be an adequate description. Of all the cities I’d been to in my travels so far, only Ankara—the Jewel of the West—came close to the beauty this place had so casually on display.
The enchanted sky wasn’t the only impressive thing about the city. Its myriad of buildings were carved into the walls of the mountain in a series of concentric rings. Seven of them, rising up, up, up. Each ring was set on a shelf of rock, the biggest of the rings at the bottom, the smallest at the top almost like stadium seating... but for an entire city. We’d emerged on the fifth ring up, which gave us an excellent view of the impressive city spread out below us. In the very center of the mountain, far below us, devoid of buildings, was a forest.
One with towering trees, their leaves glittering gold and silver and ruby and emerald. The trunks were all ghostly white like exposed bone and shot through with golden metallic veins. Suddenly, the Dwarven obsession with Yggdrasil, the tree of life, made a whole lot more sense. Whoever would’ve guessed that there was a forest squirreled away inside this place? More mundane foliage also dotted each of the city circles: vibrant grass, flowers in a riot of hues—beautiful, if standard—and a surprising number and variety of mushrooms.
There were squat mushrooms, willowy mushrooms, and some the size of young oaks, all glowing in a variety of psychedelic colors. I’d seen mushroom forests like that once before, deep in the lair of Lowyth the Immortal Spider Queen.
I still had occasional nightmares about my encounters there.
The buildings themselves were likewise otherworldly wonders. Unlike the utilitarian stone houses and shops of Cliffburgh, the intricate homes and sprawling businesses here were sculpted directly from the mountainous rock, and they were absolute works of art. They didn’t seem to be built so much as they looked almost grown from the rock—all flowing lines, graceful arches, and spiraling columns. Stone statues and enormous fountains, all masterfully sculpted, adorned almost every intersection.
“Come on,” Carl said, breaking the spell this place had cast on the party. “My temple’s down on the second circle, and it’s a helluva walk, so better we get moving.” The unimpressed Cleric set off at a brisk pace, robes swishing around him as he led us through the tightly packed streets filled with Dwarves. Seriously. Dwarves everywhere.
I spotted a couple of Risi, a handful of Wodes, and a number of Accipiters—they seemed to be the most readily accepted outsiders—but even they were few and far between. We caught a lot of curious, suspicious, or outright hostile glances as we made our way between the levels. Guard patrols stopped us more than once, blades drawn, shields raised, scowls etched into bearded faces, but a few words from Carl and a flash of the paper from Captain Raginolf saw us on our way with only mild issues and no bloodshed.
On the third level, Forge stopped dead in his tracks in front of a rather plain workshop. Well, plain for Stone Reach.
“Well, screw me sideways,” he grunted. “I can’t believe it.”
“What is it?” I asked, eyeing the building over one shoulder.
The sign above read, Blue Blazes Metalworks. Carefully carved into the stone was the visage of a dragon, its mouth opened wide, flames bursting out. A bold number 1 was carefully worked into the stone, just below the creature’s eye.
“Oh. My. God,” Abby said, sounding nearly as impressed as Forge had.
“I’m sorry, is there something I’m missing here?” I asked again, glancing between my crew and the building.
“Jack,” Abby replied, eyes still fixed on the workshop, “this place is legendary.” She pulled her gaze away, turning it on Carl. “Is this where Lars Blackblade works?”
Carl sniffed and nodded. “Yep. The 1st Ranked Dragon-Class Blacksmith. Best in all of Stone Reach.”
“He ain’t just the best in Stone Reach, partner,” Forge said. “He’s the goddamned best in all of Eldgard. His weapons and armor sell for the price of a starter house back IRL, and that’s when you can find ’em at all. Which you can’t. It’s like trying to track down a pack of cigarettes at the end of a field op. Ain’t no one got ’em, but everyone wants ’em.” He paused, glancing left and right. “I don’t get it, there oughta be a line stretching for a mile. Where is everyone?”
Carl snorted and rolled his eyes. “Wow, are you guys freakin’ clueless. Aside from the fact that Lars’s weapons cost more than anyone in their right mind would ever willingly spend, the guy rejects ninety-nine percent of the customers that walk through his door. He does, uh, maybe eight or nine commissions a year—all custom work. That’s why you can’t find his stuff on the open market. Besides, if you got lucky enough to get a piece from him, would you sell it?”
“Jack,” Forge said, wheeling on me, a fanatic gleam in his eye. “We gotta go in. Gotta.”
“I’d love to, but we’re sort of on a tight timeline here.” I stole a quick look around, making sure there was no one close enough to eavesdrop, then dropped my voice low all the same. “We still don’t know where the Doom Forge is, and we only have a day and a half, tops, before I drop dead and we lose any chance of completing this quest.”
“But, Jack,” he said, now desperate. “This could be a once-in-a-lifetime shot. And this guy’s weapons and armor. They’re daggon life altering. If I could get an axe from him, it would give me an edge like you wouldn’t believe.”
“He’s right, Jack,” Abby added. “Anyone who’s ever swung a hammer in a forge knows about Lars Blackblade. And what do we have to lose? If Carl’s on the level, he’ll probably turn us away before we’re all the way through the door.”
I frowned and pulled up my interface, double-checking the time. Quarter after five. We had a ton to do, but if this guy really was as good as Forge and Abby seemed to think, it would be a crying shame not to at least stop in. True, we could always come back after the fight, assuming we survived, but it would be awesome if we could snag some new legendary gear before we tangled with Khalkeús. I quickly toggled over to my Active Effects screen, double-checking just how long I had until the next debuff hit.
<<<>>>
Current Debuffs
Death-Head Mode: You’ve temporarily activated Death-Head Mode! Time until the Gut Check debuff takes effect: 18 hours 58 minutes 23 seconds.
Diseased: As a result of the Death-Head Mode, your body is slowly dying! You’ve been afflicted with Death Head’s Disease. Attack damage and Spell Strength reduced by 15%; Health, Stamina, and Spirit regeneration reduced by 25%; duration, until death or quest completion.
<<<>>>
“Fine,” I finally conceded, closing out the screen. “But let’s make it quick. I doubt Peng found anything out about the Doom Forge, but if he did, he’ll have a solid lead on us.”
“You ain’t gonna regret it, Jack.” Forge beamed, nearly bouncing on his toes as he headed toward the doors, which were carved from the strange bone-white wood from the forest below. “I can feel it in my gut.”
A brass bell let out a tinkle like broken glass as we pushed our way inside the shop.
For being the forge and storefront of the finest-rated blacksmith in the world, the interior of the shop was rather unimpressive. And by unimpressive, I really meant empty. I’d expected jewel-encrusted axes and talking swords in glass-fronted cases, but no. There was just nothing. Empty walls devoid of shelves and weapon racks. No polished tables prominently displaying choice armor. Just bare space, creaky floorboards, a
nd a long, polished service counter near the back.
A door behind the service counter swung open, and a Dwarf hobbled out, his salt-and-pepper beard down nearly to his knees, golden goggles strapped on over his eyes. A heavy leather apron hung down his front. He was topless underneath, his skin scarred, pockmarked, and so heavily stained with char and soot it was as black as rich soil. He pulled a filthy rag, nearly as grimy as his arms, from the back pocket of his trousers and mopped at his sweat-dotted forehead. He took one long, measuring look at our party, then sniffed and spit onto the floor. “Shop’s closed for business,” he grunted, turning on his heel and making for the door to the back.
“Then why was the door open?” I asked. “That seems like an invitation to me.”
The Dwarf paused for a moment. “Lemme amend my statement. The shop is closed. To you. Not sure if you know where you are, but this here ain’t your run-of-the-mill equipment boutique. I don’t sell items off the shelf, and I certainly don’t want to buy any of your secondhand trash. This is a commission-only shop, and I don’t have a commission with you. Nor with anyone else in your party. So, like I said, the store is closed.” He turned, poised to head into the back.
“Wait. What if I wanted to commission a piece? A piece for everyone in my party.”
The Dwarf paused, snorted, and turned slowly to face me. He flipped up the lenses on his goggles, showcasing eyes that burned with unnatural golden light. “This ain’t no trinket shop, boy. You couldn’t afford one commission, let alone six. ’Sides, even if you had the gold, which I doubt, there’s more than money involved. I don’t pour my heart and soul into a piece that’s gonna sit on some shelf in a bureaucrat’s office. This job is about far more than money to me.”
“Well, it’s actually seven commissions, not six.” I snapped my fingers. “Ari?”
The little Pixy appeared in a flash, motes of neon pink light drifting down like fresh snowfall.
The Dwarf’s eyes narrowed, and he rubbed thoughtfully at his bearded chin. “Pixy right?”
Ari nodded.
He grunted. “Hmm. I’ve never made something that small before.” He seesawed his head for a moment, left, right, left, right. “Alright. Let’s say you’ve piqued my curiosity. Come on over here and let me take a good look at ya. Need to check your renown.”
“Why?” I asked even while I edged closer to the service counter.
“I ain’t no regular smith, son. I’m what they call a Soul Smith. Each commission I take on, I gotta imbue a chunk of my soul into the item”—he tapped at his barrel chest—“that’s how I make ’em so powerful. I regrow the piece of soul in time, sorta like a scab healing over, but it takes a long time. Real long. But there’s an upside to it. I get experience for crafting each item, but then I also get a fractional portion of experience for any experience the player wielding it earns. Can only take on so many commissions at a time though, so I make sure I don’t make gear that’s gonna collect dust on some senator’s shelf, you got it?”
His eyes narrowed as he examined me, then flared wide a moment later. “Gods almighty. Your renown is at 2,500. You’ve been a right busy bastard, alright. Don’t reckon I’ve ever run across someone with renown that high. Fine.” He quickly examined each of us in turn, nodding, a small smile creeping across his face. Finally, he grunted in something close to satisfaction. “My goin’ rate is five-hundred gold per commission. You pay half up front, the other half upon completion.”
I nearly choked at the price. Five-hundred gold was the equivalent of fifty thousand US dollars—a staggering sum. For seven items, that would run me a cool three hundred fifty thousand dollars. I had it socked away in my personal funds, but damn did that smart. Still, Forge was right, this probably was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity I couldn’t possibly pass up. “Okay, I’m game,” I replied, opening my inventory and pulling out a fat stack of coins, which I dumped on the counter. “Seven commissions.”
The blacksmith eyed the gleaming pile of coins, but made no move to take it. Truthfully, he didn’t even seem all that interested in the money. If those were his going rates, I suspected he was already filthy rich, which meant he was in this for whatever gain he got on the tail end. “Good enough,” he grunted. “I’ll get working on your order. Should have the whole lot of ’em done by tomorrow, ’bout noontime. Once the muse takes me, well, I’ll just about work myself to death.”
Without another word, the Dwarf turned and marched toward the door, leaving the gold just sitting on the counter where I’d left it.
“Wait a minute,” Forge called at his retreating back. “Don’t you need our names? Our classes? Don’t we need to tell you what we want you to make for us?”
The smith faltered and let out a deep belly laugh that shook his whole, soot-covered frame. “That ain’t the way this works at all. I already got everything I need. And, for your information, you don’t tell me what you need. I tell you. Now get outta here and let me be about my business.” There was a glint in his eye. I thought he looked... excited. “You be back tomorrow. Come with the rest of my gold. Believe you me, you won’t be disappointed. Now get.” He shooed us away with one hand, then shouldered his way through the rear door, disappearing without another word.
Hammer and Shield
AFTER WE LEFT BLUE Blazes, it took us another fifteen minutes to get to the Temple of the Hammer and Shield, located down on the second level. With the way Carl talked about his order, I was expecting something run-down and drab—a hole-in-the-wall temple, if there was such a thing. Not even close. The building was a hulking monstrosity of fluted pillars, multilayered roofs, gold-capped domes, and lacy arcades. A grand staircase seemed to ascend forever, and at the top stood a pair of enormous gold-covered statues of Khalkeús flanking the steps.
One statue held a smith’s hammer, though I knew from my trip into the pages of Eitri’s journal that the Aspect hadn’t used a hammer at all. The other statue had one hand outstretched, fire burning in the palm like a beacon in the night.
If not for the guards standing watch at the bottom of the staircase, it would’ve been impossible to tell anything was amiss. There were five of them—seemed like that was a standard unit around these parts—a pair wielding halberds, one tank, one Cleric in a chainmail shirt that draped to his knees, and a female, axe-wielding squad leader. Their gold-and-black tabards, marked with a prominent mountain and anvil, were identical to those worn by the Cliffburgh guards. One thing was for sure, these Dwarves were nothing if not orderly.
The squad noticed us at once, shoulders squaring in anticipation of violence.
Carl motioned for us to stop. “Better let me handle this, guys. Lemme see the writ of referral.”
I reached into my bag, fished out the scroll Raginolf had provided us with, and handed it over. Carl took it, lips pressed into a thin, worried line. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, ran a hand through his thick beard, then marched up to the guards, who drew their weapons as he approached.
“Keep moving, citizen,” the squad leader said, the threat clear in her voice. “This temple is closed until further notice.”
“Sorry, lady, but that won’t work for me. I need to get in—”
“Not lady. Corporal Shawna, 5th Ranked Manticore-Class Paragon. And no one gets in,” she cut him off before he could finish. “Not sure if you’ve heard, but an atrocity was committed here. Every priest in the order, massacred. The doors won’t open up until we finish with our investigation. Period. End of discussion. If you need a blessing or restoration, I’d try the Custodians of Akriel down on level one. They can patch you up and get you and your party on your way. Sorry for the inconvenience.” She didn’t sound sorry, though. She sounded like someone itching for a fight. “Now, move along.”
Carl didn’t move, though, not an inch. “You don’t understand. I’m not here for services. I’m a member of the order. This”—he jabbed a finger at the building behind her—“order. Hell, as far as I know, I’m the last remaining member,
and I needed to get in there. Now.”
A look of absolute suspicion flashed across Guardswoman Shawna’s face. She turned toward the tank with the pair of heavy shields strapped to his tree-trunk arms. They exchanged a hushed conversation, too quiet for me to follow. After a second, she turned back. “Look, I don’t care who you are. This?” She gestured at the temple with her axe. “This is an active crime scene. Until we close our investigation, no one’s going in there. Not you, and certainly not a bunch of outsiders.” She shot us a withering glare as though we were personally responsible for the murders inside.
For all she knew, we might’ve been.
“Is that so?” Carl said, unfurling the letter Captain Raginolf had provided us with. “This says different.”
The female guard rolled her eyes, smirked, and snatched the doc. “Fine. Let’s see what you have.” She sniffed in clear disapproval, then smoothed the parchment and held it out at arm’s length. She visibly paled, her eyes growing progressively larger with each line she read. She glanced up at us as she finished, staring at each of us in turn, then turned her gaze back to the sheet, reading through the details once more. She muttered as she finished it for a second time, then promptly thrust it into the hands of the dual-wielding tank.
“That forged?” she asked as her partner gave it a read. “I’ve never heard of Captain Raginolf ever giving a blank writ of recommendation.”
“Looks legit to me,” the tank offered with a shake of his head. He spoke with an accent that reminded me of Raginolf. “Dinnae make a lick ah sense, but it checks out.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, sliding up next to Carl. Probably, I should’ve just kept my mouth shut, but I was too curious not to ask. “How do you guys know Captain Raginolf? It seems odd that you would know about the guard captain of some little trading post two hours from here.”
Corporal Shawna snorted and slapped a knee. “Captain Raginolf’s not just some ‘guard captain.’ He was the Arch Merkismathr of the Stone Reach Guard Corps before he retired a year ago. Wanted to settle down someplace nice and quiet—away from the hustle and bustle of the city. He’s the single most decorated Dwarf in Stone Reach. Man’s a bloody legend and one of the only 1st Ranked Dragon-Class adventurers in the province. He has more campaigns under his belt than the next five captains below him.” She pushed the parchment into Carl’s hands. “You better hope this is legit, because if it’s not, Raginolf will find you, and he’ll fillet you alive with a blunt war axe.”
