You were used to hearing their names. Like distant thunder. Like legends of old, like Dragons and heroes of a bygone era. [Kings] and [Queens], monarchs—famous adventurers, they were all the same. Names you heard, but never expected to meet. Giants you painted in your imagination, half-real figures who shook the world, but you were always so far away you only felt a rumble in the ground. Until the day you met one and realized everything was true.

And there he was. Orthenon, the King’s Steward. A tall, gaunt man with a long mustache and dark, somber clothing. He could have been an ordinary servant but for the gold that lined his clothing and the sword at his waist. And even then, you might have assumed he was a [Butler] of some kind, but his eyes betrayed him. They pieced straight through you with a glance; as imperious as any ruler born.

In that, he was every bit of the legend. As for the rest? He was not accompanied by an army of servants. His clothing was rather plain, for all it looked well on him. He stood by himself, straight and balanced. Not quite glaring at Trey and Gazi.

They’d fallen from a tower. Or rather, it sounded like Trey had been pushed. But there she stood as well. The half-Gazer, her skin orange-brown, her hair tied into dreadlocks and braided back. Three of her eyes looked towards Nawal and the rest of the frozen Tannousin clan, the fourth was staring at Trey, who was brushing himself, still shaking from his fall.

Two of the King of Destruction’s vassals, here, in the flesh! You couldn’t have asked for a grander reception, however incidental. Nawal couldn’t take her eyes off Gazi’s armor or Orthenon’s single-edged sword. But mindful of what had to be done, another of the caravan stepped forwards and bowed deeply.

“Lord Orthenon of Reim! I am your humble servant, Silmak of Clan Tannousin. With me travel thirty two of my kin. Among them I name Hesseif, who is chiefly tasked with defense of the caravan. Bezhavil, my aunt second-removed who is tasked with overseeing the womenfolk and managing the caravan itself, and Nawalishifra, who will serve as, ah, the [Blacksmith] in forging the Naq-Alrama steel. We have come far, bearing it, and are prepared to honor the oath made by Nawalishifra to the King of Destruction, long may he live!”

Silmak, the caravan’s leader, at least in name, swept a low bow towards the still Orthenon and the rest of Clan Tannousin, breaking from their stasis, immediately knelt on the ground. The men who had been guarding the huge, covered wagon in which sat the precious Naq-Alrama metal, the treasure of their clan, were the only ones who stood standing. They and the three Silmak had mentioned.

Hesseif, Bezha, and Nawal all approached and bowed deeply with Silmak. Nawal wondered if they should have knelt, but the stern face watching them gave no sign of displeasure. Then again, that might be as easily expressed by all of their heads suddenly rolling on the ground. She bowed her head, keeping her veil in place with one hand. And she kept it bowed, until she heard a voice.

“I am Orthenon, the King of Destruction’s [Steward]. In the name of his Majesty Flos Reimarch, I greet you, Silmak, and your clan.”

An audible sigh of relief rippled through the kneeling Humans. They raised their heads, and Nawal saw Orthenon give Silmak a slight bow. He was in his twenties—Silmak, that was—and it was a mark of his experience that he didn’t waver as he returned the bow a second time, deeper. There was a reason why the elders and headman had chosen Silmak to lead the caravan and do the speaking, and not just because he was a man.

Orthenon went on, his voice crisp, still glancing at Trey, who was edging backwards, face flushed. Nawal remembered Trey. Oh, how could she forget? The strange foreign boy who knew nothing of blades? And whom she had boasted to right before it turned out he and Gazi Pathseeker were both the King of Destruction’s servants in disguise? But Orthenon was speaking to Silmak, and Nawal focused on him lest she give offence.

“By the sands, I offer you sanctuary and friendship, Silmak, and to that of your clan gathered here. Let no one offer you violence under his roof, and know that should you ask it, both water and wine will flow so long as either remains in these halls. You are honored guests, so enter and find rest until the oases of Chandrar bleed dry.”

It was a good welcome, short, but powerful. The Tannousin clan straightened their backs. Honored guests? And the King of Destruction’s Steward had come to greet them? It was something you could brag till the end of your days. And then they remembered why they were accorded such honors, and all eyes turned to Nawalishifra.

[Blacksmith]. The one in charge of working the expensive, practically unique Naq-Alrama metal that their clan alone knew how to manufacture. By rights, she should have led the caravan and done the speaking. But there was a problem. Nawal was female. And as fast as Silmak had tried to slip that into their greeting, there was no way Orthenon had missed that. His piercing gaze met Nawal’s and she immediately looked down, shuddering in apprehension.

“Nawalishifra of Clan Tannousin. I greet you. His Majesty has accepted your pledge to forge for him a blade without equal. So long as you pursue that vow, let the palace and indeed, the city of Reim be open to you and whatever you need be made available.”

Another powerful greeting. But Nawal wished it were not so pointed.

“Lead me to your master, foreign warrior! Pay my cost and I will forge your master a blade sharper and finer than any he has laid eyes on in his life! My oath on it! I swear it on the body of the man-who-was-my-brother, cursed be his name!”

That was the oath Nawal had sworn near three weeks ago. She had had cause to regret it since. She had sworn—on the blood of her brother, whom she’d killed when he’d tried to sell her as a slave—to forge Trey’s master a blade that he had never seen before if he would pay her cost. And the King of Destruction had taken that offer. He had sent a bag of holding full of gold by Courier to her tribe and requested her presence in his capital city. Nawal’s clan had debated the offer for three full days before it was decided that she had to come, woman or not.

But she was still female. And young. And Orthenon had to know how tricky Naq-Alrama steel was. The King’s Stewards stared at Nawal, but made no comment as to her gender or inexperience. Instead, Orthenon only nodded.

“The affairs of Reim keep me busy; even to this day I prepare to ride north. However, four servants shall show you to your quarters and answer any needs you have.”

He gestured, and four servants, two men, and two women, seemed to appear out of the doors behind him. It was well done, but again, Nawal had half-expected the number to be two hundred.

“We thank you, Lord Orthenon. It is truly generous.”

Silmak again answered for the clan. Orthenon inclined his head. Again his eyes swept left. Towards Trey, who was now trying to sneak past the waiting servants.

“Trey.”

The young man froze. He looked back, with a pained expression that betrayed all too much. There was one who understood nothing of diplomacy or intrigue! Nawal studied Trey a second time.

Clearly a foreigner. He had pale skin, and he looked odd in his clothes, for all he dressed like a city man. Yes, it was that awkwardness that marked him as not from Chandrar, from his dark blonde hair to the way he gave Orthenon a wide-eyed look. And the way he spoke!

“Er, yes, Orthenon? I was just uh, being shown how to fall by Gazi.”

He looked around, as did Nawal, but Gazi Pathseeker had vanished. Nawal’s heart jumped although she should have expected nothing less. Orthenon looked disapproving, but he nodded succinctly. Then he turned back to Clan Tannousin and gestured at Trey.

“I understand your clan has met Trey Atwood, Honored Silmak. I would ask that you excuse any errors he makes. Trey Atwood is a companion of the King of Destruction, someone chosen to follow him. Bear that in mind, all of you.”

Trey turned red, but the Tannousin clan members gave him a look as if he’d sprouted another head. Nawal’s heart skipped a beat. One of the King of Destruction’s personal attendants? Not just a servant? Who was he? Then again, Gazi the Omniscient had spoken of training him…

Orthenon spoke again, driving all eyes back towards him.

“As for your task—I understand the journey was long. To have made it this far so quickly from Clan Tannousin’s traditional homes must have taken weeks of marching without rest. So, rest, and when you are able, I, or the King of Destruction shall discuss the nature of the blade you will forge.”

“It is understood. We shall await his summons with the greatest anticipation.”

Silmak’s voice was slightly hoarse with nerves. Orthenon nodded. Without another word, he turned and strode back into the palace. One of the servants stepped forwards, an older woman.

“Will you follow me, Clan Tannousin? Your rooms await. And if you would care to retreat for lunch, it is being served. Follow me.”

She turned and the clan awkwardly followed her as more servants came out, to take the horses and belongings. There was a moment of hesitation when it came to the wagon, because the Tannousin men guarding it would let no one handle the contents or approach the wagon, not even the King of Destruction’s servants. But that was dealt with by letting them carry their burden inside, and Nawal was following Silmak anyways.

The thirty two men and women milled about, beginning to follow the lead servant. On the way, they passed by Trey, who was awkwardly standing to one side, looking around as if still searching for Gazi. He caught Nawal’s eye as she passed him by and raised a hand, grinning sheepishly.

“Hi. I uh—I’ll see you around, Nawal.”

She stared at him. Trey’s smile slipped, but Nawal nodded.

“We have met again, Trey Atwood. I will see you, if it is permitted.”

She bowed slightly, her hand resting on the little dagger at her side. Trey blinked at her, at it, nodded, and walked backwards before turning. Nawal watched him go, and the burning question in her breast finally made its way out.

Was that it? Was this all?

Part of her thought this was more than enough. She had seen two legends, and heard both talk! The palace of the King of Destruction opened for her, and Nawal followed the four ordinary servants into the castle. But she couldn’t help but feel it should have been grander. Everything, that was.

—-

“Ow.”

Across the world, Erin Solstice cut herself with a knife as she sliced some pork for a premade meal in her kitchen. Or rather, she thought she’d sliced herself. But when she checked her hand and the stinging line of pain, she found she’d barely cut into her skin.

“Whew. That’s a relief. No missing fingers? Check, check. I could have gotten myself badly! Then again—”

Erin frowned as she felt the edge of her knife gingerly with one finger. It was certainly sharp, but she’d had to work it through the meat, which had led to it cutting her to begin with. True, it was also her fault for getting her fingers in the way, but recent events had led Erin to focus on the quality of her knives. Or rather, their sharpness.

“You’re not that sharp, are you? I thought you were hot stuff, but I guess that was back when I first sliced my hand open by accident. Now look at you.”

Erin placed her knife on the table counter and stared at it. The plain steel stared back. Erin tried to think of how many things she’d cut in the time since.

“Too many to count! And you were always there with me, buddy. Well, I’m afraid to say that you’ve lost your edge. Sad. What’ll I do?”

The knife didn’t respond. Erin bent until it was at eye level.

“Don’t worry. I know a guy. Well, a Dullahan. But why should I settle for just him? Maybe the problem’s not just the knife being sharp. Maybe you’re just not up to scratch!”

She poked the knife.

“Ow. Okay, you’re still sort of sharp. But…I mean, I never went to Liscor’s [Blacksmiths]. But Pallass has really good [Blacksmiths], right? Hold on, I’m going to ask. Hey, Selys!”

Erin poked her head into the common room. There was a shout.

“What?”

“Does Liscor have [Blacksmiths]? And are they any good compared to Pallass?”

“Liscor has [Blacksmiths]! Why wouldn’t we? But Pallass is known for having good [Blacksmiths]!”

“Got it, thanks!”

Erin reappeared in the kitchen, although her conversation would have been perfectly audible if there was anyone to hear. Which there wasn’t; there was only a knife on the counter and some sliced pork. Erin shook her head sadly as she picked up said knife.

“Well, buddy. It might be curtains for you. I’m gonna check this out. Let me just slice the rest of this pork…”

She sliced the pork, shoved it to one side for Lyonette to use in the stir fry she’d wanted to try out with her [Flawless Attempt] Skill, and wandered into the common room.

“Hey, Ishkr! Tell Lyonette I’m going to Pallass! See you all later! Still on holiday!”

Erin waved at the room. No one waved back. Selys was too busy playing with Mrsha and her ball, and the other adventurers were busy reading one of Calruz’ maps and arguing. It might turn into a fistfight, or it might not. Erin walked over to the magic door and changed it to Pallass.

“Nobody cares about me anymore.”

She grumbled as she stepped through the door. Instantly, there was sunlight and noise. It was midday in Pallass, or just about. Bright, sunny—Erin looked around and noticed a Drake glaring at her.

“Oh hey! It’s you again! Okay, I know I’m not on the list, but—hey, don’t you point that spear at me!”

That was how she began her day. This tale had no bearing on Nawal’s introduction to Reim, or Trey’s, but it was still relevant for other reasons. After all, Erin had little notion of or interest in the King of Destruction. But this wasn’t a tale about him today.

—-

“…And here is the interior well. You may draw from it freely at need. Please seek out one of the servants if you have any other needs.”

The old woman finished her tour and Bezha nodded. Both she and Nawal stared at the indoor well—who would have thought of such a thing?—and tried to guess at how much water it could supply. A lot, surely, if it was free for anyone to use. Reim must have been one of the natural oases—like many of the kingdoms or cities, it had grown on top of the only available water supply. Of course, there were some parts of Chandrar that even had streams and rivers, but Nawal had never seen them. She was born of the Tannousin tribe, and they wandered the edge of the great desert, plying their trade while mining the scattered deposits of ore only their tribe remembered existed.

It was a harsh life, but if they abandoned their lands, someone else would swoop in to control the valuable resources of metal. After all, it was said that in Chandrar, water was worth the same as blood. By the same token, steel and wood were worth their weight in gold if shaped correctly.

The King of Destruction lacked for neither, or so Nawal had assumed. The brief tour had taken her to the banquet halls, past training grounds filled with soldiers, through bustling corridors filled with servants, and finally here, to a wing of the palace devoted to guests. And now she and Bezha returned to the quarters gifted to the Tannousin clan.

The quarters were…nice. Yes, nice was the word. The palace of Reim had enough unused wings and rooms to house a caravan twenty times the size of Clan Tannousin without issue, and so the clan found themselves treated to wide, spacious rooms freed of dust and beds of soft cotton. Nawal had her private room, as did Silmak, Hesseif, and Bezha, as befit their status. Meanwhile, the rest of the clan was given two large bunk rooms, one for the women, and one for the men.

Spacious. You couldn’t ask for better treatment, really. Had they been in any other castle or palace, Nawal was certain they’d be sharing rooms, and that their status, even as a blacksmithing clan, wouldn’t earn them private rooms to themselves. But here she had her own private bed, freshly made. ‘Nice’ might be too weak a word. This was excellent treatment for a nomadic tribe who had done nothing yet to earn it.

And yet—cotton sheets. Nawal had to poke them a few times to be sure. The soft cloth was luxurious, to be certain, but they weren’t exactly silk. Perhaps it was a reminder of their status? But the drapes and other decorations in the palace had been made of cloth too, not silks or more expensive fabrics. And the walls had been decorated with some paintings, but many spots were conspicuously bare. Had the palace been looted?

Bezha wondered the same thing as both Hesseif and Silmak met with them. Obviously it was inappropriate for them to be together in a closed room, two men who weren’t Nawal’s immediate family in the same room, but Bezha was Hesseif’s aunt and they were all of the same tribe, so they left the door partly open. This wasn’t the time for strictest adherence to custom either.

“It’s fine treatment, Nawali. Don’t prod so. Were this any other castle, you would be overjoyed for a single room for us to share! And the quarters are filled with beds so that the men and women can stretch out and not roll into each other as they sleep! This is beyond gracious!”

The older woman pointed that out to Nawal. The [Blacksmith] scowled, flexing her callused hands restlessly.

“But this is the King of Destruction’s abode, is it not? Surely there are some rooms meant for the most privileged of guests, and we are not they! Our beds are simple, but is this a courtesy of goodwill or the basest of rooms spared because we are considered savages?”

Silmak shook his head.

“Hardly savages. You heard the way the King’s Steward welcomed us. Perhaps there aren’t any rooms filled with silk beds and rugs that span wall to wall?”

“And pretty maidens to wait on us hand and foot.”

Hesseif sighed. Nawal glared at him and the big caravan guard hunched his shoulders. Technically he and Silmak were in charge, but Hesseif was actually rather timid outside of battle. And Silmak? He only sighed when Nawal shifted her glare to him.

“It may be we are treated as those of lesser station, Nawal. What of it? Would you argue if you heard a [Lord] resided in the most luxurious of rooms, or a [First Warrior] of a tribe? No, I would not. And yes, it is odd that our rooms are not grand as the legends say, but perhaps silk bed sheets are too much to ask of the King of Destruction’s castle?”

He raised his eyebrows meaningfully and Nawal flushed. It was true; expecting that would be insane anywhere but the King of Destruction’s castle. Bezha nodded, running her tattooed hands up her covered arms.

“Perhaps such riches were sold off, too. Twenty years would lay any kingdom low. Perhaps they sold all of what was here to survive. It would not do to bring it up lest we cause offence. We should not cause any offence.”

She looked at Nawal when he said that. The young woman blushed and tugged her veil more securely around her face furiously. She gripped the dagger at her side.

“I will mind my tongue. But I represent Clan Tannousin, and we are due respect!”

“And the King of Destruction is due deference and fear and awe! And you are a woman!”

Bezha smacked Nawal on the back of her neck. Nawal’s grip tightened on her dagger, but she didn’t unsheathe it. Silmak looked between the two, not wanting to intrude on the argument and go the way of Nawal’s brother.

“Patience, Nawal, Bezha. We know not if offence has been given or taken. It is simply good now that we were issued a welcome and both bed and sustenance, is it not? We should eat first, and then inquire. But tell me—that foreign boy whom the King’s Steward spoke of. Trey Atwood. He was the one who you met, wasn’t he, Nawal?”

The young woman nodded. So did Hesseif.

“He was the same, Silmak. I would recognize him a thousand times over, sands strike my eyes if I err. Nawal must be careful around him, lest she give offence, even to someone not of Chandrar.”

A second poke at Nawal. The [Blacksmith] girl knew they were right—she’d gotten into trouble countless times and been taken to task by everyone from her deceased father, may he rest in the sands, to Bezha. But she still tossed her head defiantly.

“I did not know he was so important. But he is still a servant, is he not? Should I not speak to him like some dumb mule? I am the one chosen to forge the Naq-Alrama blades. To speak with a foreigner like Trey Atwood is not as disgraceful, surely.”

“You swore to make a blade that surpasses any the King of Destruction has ever seen. Let us hope he has never laid eyes on a Naq-Alrama blade. Or that he does not hold you to the strictest words of your promise.”

Silmak’s eyes were guarded. Nawal’s bluster faded. She looked around the room. Hesseif, Bezha, both stared at Nawal with the question in their eyes. Could she do it alone? Nawal had been trained by her father, yes, and aided him when he was too weak to do the forging, but always under his supervision.

This year was the first since his passing, and this would be the first blade of Naq-Alrama steel she forged unaided. It was a challenge even for a fully experienced Tannousin [Blacksmith] and Nawal was yet young and low-level for the work, even if she was the best in her clan by far.

Part of Nawal faltered. But then she straightened her back defiantly.

“I will forge him blades of our steel, that can cut through any spell! If he asks for more, I will rise to his challenge! What else can be done? Until an apprentice rises in level and skill, I am the only [Blacksmith] our tribe possesses. If I cannot forge the Naq-Alrama steel perfectly, our people will scatter to dust.”

Nawal pounded her breast passionately.

“I may curse the fact ten thousand times waking that I was born a woman and not a man, and that no other apprentice lived long enough or had the skill to follow in my deceased father’s footsteps, may he rest in the sands, but I will not disgrace our tribe! If I do, may my hammer twist in my hands and my blood water the sands!”

The three Tannousin clan leaders nodded solemnly. What choice did they have indeed? The King of Destruction had offered them gold where no one else would take their steel, let alone Nawal’s craft. If they had to live in the stables with the animals, they would humble themselves to keep their clan alive.

Bezha sighed as she sat in a chair made of soft, polished wood and backed by fabric.

“Then remember that, Nawali. Do not disgrace us, and we will support you. I will see to the caravan as I always have and ensure they do not cause offence—even find work for them if work is to be had in Reim.”

“I will guard the metal. It is being kept in a room and we will stand watch day and night, and let no one not of our blood enter, or any ray of sunlight in.”

Hesseif bowed his broad, shaved head. Silmak nodded. His eyes sparkled, and his hands, tattooed like Bezha’s, sparkled and lit up as he looked at Nawal.

“And I will prepare your forge, Nawalishifra. When the time is needed, we will do all in our power to give you no reason for failure. The rest lies on you.”

Nawal nodded, pride filling her along with fear. Her clan was with her. What else could she ask for? She bowed her head low, once, and the others did likewise. Then she went to find Trey to ask him to show her around the castle. He seemed the most approachable, the least guarded and easiest not to offend with careless talk.

Most importantly, he was a foreigner and she could speak freely to him and ask how good the King of Destruction’s [Blacksmiths] were. And at least in this, Nawal hoped the legends of the King of Destruction were exaggerated. Because she wanted to see the competition she would be facing.

No one could remember specific legends of the King of Destruction’s [Blacksmiths], although all agreed they must have been mighty workers of metal and magical ore, so Nawal had hopes the greatest of the masters had died out or gone elsewhere in his slumber. At the very least, she was relieved none of the legends mentioned Dwarves serving the King of Destruction. They would be really hard to outdo.

—-

Erin Solstice stomped down the streets of Pallass towards one of the elevators, grumbling to herself. This was actually a good sign, despite the people who gave her weird looks.

“Stupid uptight Drake guards. It’s my door! Security risk, am I? Your face is a security risk! That’s what I should have said. Boom! Nice one, Erin. High-five, self-five!”

Erin slapped her hands together over her head and laughed. She felt better today. More like normal Erin after—gosh, how long had it been? Ages. But somehow she was in a good mood. Even if she thought about Goblins, she didn’t want to cry—at least not now.

“Ninth floor, please! That’s the blacksmithing section, right?”

Erin asked the elevator attendant. The female Drake, who Erin could have sworn was the same one as yesterday, sighed and nodded.

“That’s correct Miss. Please stand clear of the ledge.”

“Whoops. Sorry.”

Erin walked further into the elevator and watched the Drake teen pull a lever. The elevator started to go up very quickly.

“You know, you should really have buttons instead of that lever! So the elevator stops on whatever floor you press a button for! It’d be a lot safer I bet!”

The Drake frowned as Erin gestured to an imaginary set of buttons.

“What would my job be, then?”

The young woman wavered and gave the Drake attendant a blank look.

“Uh…pressing the buttons, I guess?”

The Drake thought about that. She pulled a second lever and the elevator slowed.

“That would be nice. Hm. Ninth floor, Miss.”

“Thanks!”

Erin smiled at her, walked onto the ninth floor, and immediately heard a different noise take over. Clanging, sharp and brisk, filling the air, and behind it, a dull mix of voices, the sound of metal rasping on metal. Shouts as someone carrying white-hot metal navigated around the edge of a blacksmithing shop—the sounds of serious work.

There was something appealing about it; Erin had never seen anything like it in her world. Industrial factories were precise, mechanical without fault unless something went wrong. But this? This was organized chaos.

“Time to find me a [Blacksmith] and see about that knife. I wonder if I can get an extra-sturdy one if I have to slice up Ashfire Bees or stab monsters with it too?”

Erin rubbed her hands as she walked forwards. Last time she’d admired how many forges there were, but she hadn’t really appreciated the layout. Pallass had effectively created half a floor dedicated only to the blacksmiths, and given them rows of forges to work out of. Each one was more or less identical, such that you could move into one for the day, set up, and move out, or rent a space indefinitely.

It was the first step towards industrialization; Erin saw there was a dedicated cargo elevator meant to ferry supplies to the smiths, and more than one Street Runner was loitering about, perhaps waiting to deliver a finished product or take a request. Erin passed by working Drake and Dullahans, until she came to three forges near the middle and spotted some familiar faces.

“There’s Maughin! And uh…Pelt!”

Erin spotted the two [Blacksmiths] she’d been introduced to yesterday. Maughin, the giant among Dullahans, and Pelt, the Dwarven smith. Both were at work, but that was a generous term in one case. Maughin was busy tending to some metal in a furnace and instructing some of his journeymen at the same time, but Pelt was leaning on his anvil, scowling at some metal and hitting it with desultory whacks of his hammer. He was clearly hung over and not feeling it.

There was some irony in the two working side-by-side. As Erin approached, she saw Pelt grimace as someone hit a piece of metal especially hard in Maughin’s smithy. He turned and bellowed.

“Can’t your apprentices keep up a decent rhythm, Maughin? Or do all they know is how to hit something too hard!”

“Better that they have energy to spare than none at all.”

The Dullahan’s head glared back from its seat in a small basket where it could watch the metal heating in the furnace. Pelt snorted and flipped his hammer, catching it by the hilt.

“If I wanted to, I could do my job and yours. Don’t make me come over there!”

“The only time you’d come over is if we had anything to drink. Leave my apprentices alone!”

The two snapped at each other and got back to work. Erin eyed Pelt. Hm. Now, what had her friendly guides to the city said? You went to Maughin for reliable stuff, and Pelt for masterworks. Well, the Dwarf looked cranky, so she headed to Maughin first.

“Excuse me! Hey! Excuse me, Maughin!”

“Don’t enter the forge, Human! We’ve hot metal about! Master Maughin’s busy! If you have a request, make it at the shop! Third floor!”

A female Dullahan stopped Erin, shouting as she picked up her head. Erin backed up a few steps, but she saw Maughin’s head turn.

“Ah. Miss Solstice. Lasica and Rufelt’s acquaintance. What can I do for you?”

He walked over swiftly, motioning his apprentice back. Erin smiled up at him.

“Hey! Maughin, I was hoping I could commission a knife. Er, mine’s all dull and I thought I could use a new one. So…”

The Dullahan was frowning and shaking his head slightly.

“A knife, is it? I would oblige you, Miss Solstice, but my forge is swamped with orders. I won’t have time for at least three days to even think of something like a knife. But there are plenty of good smiths on this level. Ask about their forges. You might be able to squeeze in the order.”

“Got it! Thanks!”

He nodded and went back to work. Erin backed up.

“Well then. I guess—hey! Your name’s Pelt, right!”

The Dwarf looked up and winced as Erin walked over. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Maughin look back at her, twisting his head all the way around on his shoulders. Erin smiled as the Dwarf gave her the exact opposite of a smile.

“Oh, you. The Human. What do you want? A knife? Go to hell, I’m not taking orders, and especially not for anything that doesn’t involve lots of gold.”

“Aw. But I could use a knife and I heard you’re good. Plus, you’re not that busy.”

He sneered at her.

“I’m working on a gear. For those damn elevators. You’ve probably never seen something like this—”

He indicated the half-forged gear. Erin was a bit impressed when she looked and saw it resembled a proper gear like she’d find in a clock, teeth and all. And he was doing it by hand, which was crazy enough!

“What, that? I know gears. Yours looks nice. Big one, though. Probably needs a smaller gear to make it work. And uh, one of those rotating axle things. You sure you can’t make a knife? I can pay.”

Pelt looked at Erin. He stared at his gear, looked up, and then glared.

“No. You want a knife? A hundred gold pieces and I’ll forge you one.”

Someone laughed. Erin paused uncomfortably. She was still new to the economics of this world despite having lived here—food was cheap to an extent, but anything magical or high-quality like armor and weapons, especially enchanted ones, were exorbitant. But she was sure that a kitchen knife wasn’t worth even ten gold coins.

“Er, no thanks. I’ll ask around.”

“Get lost, then.”

Pelt turned his back on Erin at once. She glared at his back. Then she heard more laughter and a louder voice.

“Hah! If Pelt won’t make you what you want, why not stop over here, little Human lady? I might have time!”

She turned. Pelt’s forge was located next to Maughin’s, which was on the right, but on the left another smith was working. Alone, unlike Pelt who had a single Drake apprentice and Maughin’s space, which was two forges filled with workers. Erin saw a Gnoll in a large apron and nothing else waving at her. She headed over, blinking at him. He was a tall, lean fellow with long, wiry arms.

“You’re a Gnoll!”

“Well observed, Miss.”

The Gnoll leaned on his anvil, grinning toothily at her. Erin blinked, and then laughed with him. He had one of those infectiously good-natured personalities, and the attitude of joking when he spoke. She liked him at once.

“Sorry, I just thought most Gnolls don’t smith! Fur and all that.”

“Well, it does get in the way. But I’m no ordinary smith! I normally don’t work here, in fact, but I’ve rented the space for the day. How do you do? Bealt. City Gnoll and [Farrier]. At your service.”

He held out a paw, the fur singed and sooty around his hand and Erin, smiling, shook it. She felt a strong grip and a rougher paw than some of the Gnolls’ hands she’d touched.

“Erin Solstice! [Innkeeper] and uh, City Human!”

That made Bealt laugh again. He was setting up for the day with long, thin bars of metal about half a finger length’s wide, and pouring charcoal or maybe coal—Erin couldn’t honestly tell the difference if there even was one—into his furnace, arranging it just so.

“Pleased! So, you need a knife, Miss Solstice? Yours run out?”

“I think so. At least, it’s fairly dull, but I was shopping for a new knife anyways. Er, a special knife for really tough stuff like bugs or…I was thinking of cutting a Shield Spider up and serving it to some my guests!”

Bealt nearly lost his grip on his hammer. He swung around.

“Shield Spiders? And you want to cook one? Wait—you must be Miss Erin Solstice of Liscor! The crazy Human with the inn! Why didn’t I realize it before? Let me shake your hand again!”

He shook her hand, laughing, and sniffed her this time.

“Ah, but I heard of what you did. And heard more from my kin in Liscor, although I’ve not gone through to visit. Welcome twice, then! And if you need a knife, I think I can fit you in. I don’t have that much work, you see, but you might need to wait.”

“I literally have nothing else planned for today. So I can wait!”

Bealt chuckled.

“I mean, I’m going to be at least a few hours! I rented this space to make some horseshoes.”

“Horseshoes?”

Erin supposed that was a traditional blacksmith-y thing to do. But Bealt grinned.

“Yes! It’s my trade. I always like to have some ready, and Pallass has enough horses to give me all the work I need. I am a [Farrier]—do you know what that is?”

“Er…I don’t. Sorry, I was going to ask.”

“No problem! Farriers are simply a type of smith that also deals with horses. I clean their hooves, shoe them—and if they throw a shoe or get injured, I’m the one called to help them.”

Erin began to recall her vague and limited farming-related knowledge.

“Oh! So you’re almost like a horse doctor!”

“Only for the hooves, Miss Solstice. Only the hooves. But if you want to watch, I’ll show you my craft right here and now. The furnace is lit, I have my metal ready—”

He indicated the lengths of metal, and Erin stared at the bars, wondering how you’d turn that into a horseshoe. Or rather, how you’d make a perfect bend. All the Gnoll had was a hammer and a few tools. One of them looked like a long spike.

“—And I’ve got the Skills to do my work quick and easy. Better than a grumpy Dwarf or a Dullahan overworked! I can have your knife done by the end of the day, and my horseshoes as well!”

Bealt’s voice carried over to Pelt, and Maughin, both of whom turned and glared. Erin raised her eyebrows, delighted by the way the solo Bealt was needling the two experts. She raised her voice too.

“Well, if you can, I’d love to see how you make horseshoes! And a knife! I don’t know a lot about smithing, actually.”

It was the right thing to say. Bealt’s grin spread from ear to ear.

“Well then, take a seat, Miss Solstice! There’s one to be found I’m sure. And if you value your ears, maybe get a bit of wax! It gets noisy. But let me make a few shoes first! And remember this: there are many smiths, who make all sorts, from swords to knives and nails! Some make armor and some delicate art! But if you need quick work and reliable steel, always ask for the [Farrier]!”

He swung his hammer and the anvil rang with the sound. Erin was delighted with Bealt’s easy way. But she saw the other smiths glaring, and she knew that what he’d said was fighting words. And part of Erin, the devious part, sat up and began to form a plan.

—-

Well, as second meetings went, his with Nawal had been about as poor as you could hope. Trey wondered if she’d seen his shaking knees. And he’d ruined Orthenon’s greeting to them. That scared Trey almost as much as Nawal’s wrath. Almost. Orthenon was scary, but fair. But Nawal had killed her brother the first time he’d met her.

Then again, she was still outclassed by Gazi. The half-Gazer appeared as Trey went to lunch and got his meal of fried Yellats and some actual meat—goat—along with some fresh rye bread. Trey was eating it with some tea—Chandrar had tea, but it was all dreadfully spicy stuff, sadly—and happily eating by himself. Then she appeared, and Orthenon moments later.

“Trey.”

Neither of them carried their food with them. It was set before them when they sat, Gazi next to him, Orthenon across. The [Steward] ate the same as Trey, efficiently wielding his fork and knife. Gazi ate with similar etiquette, although she didn’t even bother tilting her head to look at her plate since her eyes could look through her skull.

Trey gulped down some of the Yellats in silence. He had good table manners, so the company fit him, as opposed to say, Teres, Mars, and Flos, all of whom ate faster and with less grace. Mars was especially bad and treated half of her foods like finger foods despite them being anything but.

“Er, hullo, Orthenon. Gazi. Good morning. Or lunch. I didn’t interrupt you greeting Nawal and the others, did I?”

“Clan Tannousin did not take offence from what I saw. But mind yourself, Trey. Chandrarian folk take perceived insults seriously, and the desert clans are especially touchy.”

Orthenon did not greet Trey. He spoke in a clipped manner as he sawed his goat meat in half and ate a slice. Trey nodded. It felt like Orthenon was one of his teachers sometimes, strict and unbending.

“Right. I understand that. Ah, did you want me to show Nawal around?”

“Perhaps. I understand Gazi is done teaching you for the day.”

The man shot a glance at Gazi, not especially friendly. She smiled toothily at him.

“Trey protests he’s overworked. And I think you want me to deal with Clan Tannousin, Orthenon.”

“Correct. You have your eyes on them?”

Gazi tapped a finger on her right cheek. Trey hadn’t noticed—you didn’t really stare at Gazi’s revolving eyes unless you didn’t want to eat—but two of her eyes had been rolled up in the back of her head all this time while the other two roamed free.

“Already watching. They appear to be settling in. I detect little guile from them. Just worry. It is in their body language. The ones mentioned were the leaders.”

Orthenon nodded, patting his lips with a handkerchief. He’d already finished eating! Trey stared. Forget Flos or Mars, Orthenon was the quickest! And somehow, the cleanliest!

“I doubt they’re spies, but if you could monitor them, I would be grateful.”

“Of course. And I will guard Reim in your absence. You ride to Germina?”

Orthenon’s brow creased slightly. Trey looked between him and Gazi, trying to read the unspoken words as much as the spoken ones. Some of Flos’ vassals did not get along, and Orthenon and Gazi’s relationship highlighted that. They were professionally courteous, but Gazi had said plainly to Trey that she and Orthenon weren’t always on the same page. Although…they had been a couple once. That boggled Trey’s mind as well.

“I will be departing tomorrow morning, yes. The Quarass must be spoken to, although I expect she will restore order quite quickly. Nevertheless, I intend to relieve Venith and Maresar and set up contacts and arrange a system while we are there. We must have Germina’s soldiers joining our army soon, not to mention their [Assassin] corps.”

“More spies for me to watch. Move them slowly. I don’t have enough eyes, especially with this one missing.”

Gazi sighed and tapped her main eye gently. It was always closed, still healing or still damaged from whomever had poked it out. Orthenon nodded brusquely.

“I will keep you informed. As for Hellios—I may have to spend weeks there, dealing with the aftermath of his Majesty’s edict. It will not be easy, although the abdication of Queen Calliope will smooth things considerably.”

“Speak to Prince Siyal. His Majesty desired his cooperation.”

“Naturally. Until then, Trey.”

The young man jumped as Orthenon looked back at him.

“Yes?”

“His Majesty will return soon if he is travelling at full speed. No doubt he will wish to stay in Reim and you will of course accompany him. Until then, if this Nawalishifra seeks you out, accommodate her reasonable requests. She is a guest and one of rare talent. I still don’t quite understand how the Tannousin Clan was persuaded to send a caravan to us.”

Orthenon drummed his fingers on the table. Trey looked blank.

“They’re that impressive? I mean, I know that magical metal they make is really good. But how special is it?”

Both the Steward and Gazi exchanged a look over Trey’s head. Gazi smiled slightly.

“A Naq-Alrama blade would suit his Majesty. But Clan Tannousin normally charges a fortune even for a dagger made of their metal. The fact that we could persuade one of their smiths, even a young one, to journey here is a great boon. They normally take no sides, and only sell their blades at bazaars like the one we visited.”

“I understand you’re to thank for that, Trey.”

Orthenon frowned again at Trey. Sometimes he did that too, as if he was trying to figure Trey out. Gazi nodded.

“He found her by chance. But it was truly luck, because the Tannousin clan had ready Naq-Alrama steel and no one capable of smithing it, Orthenon.”

His brows snapped together.

“Really? But the girl they claimed to be a [Smith] was—”

“Their best smith died and only his daughter was able to work the Naq-Alrama steel.”

“Ah. Naturally. A female smith wouldn’t be accepted by the tribes. Or in a lot of the northern lands. Well, that is a coincidence. A fortunate one for you to find. Trey.”

Orthenon shook his head dismissively, before giving Trey another long look. The young man from England rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. Orthenon stood up, and a servant took his dishes and utensils away.

“I must return to work.”

That was how he said ‘goodbye’. But Orthenon didn’t make it out of the room. He got four steps when a voice called his name.

“Orthenon! I beg a word, if you have the time?”

The man turned. Striding towards them was a figure Trey recognized. Several figures, actually. They wore turbans and carried light clothing, often exposing their bare skin despite the sands and heat. Their leader wore a long, curved blade at his side, and the two following him were armed—one with daggers, the other with a bow and short sword. They stood out, even from the other [Soldiers] dining in the banquet hall.

They were part of the Serpent Hunters of Clais. They were a band of irregulars in Flos’ army, mercenaries who’d come to join his banners the instant they’d heard of his return. As far as Trey understood it, they were notable for two things: using envenomed blades and being String People.

String People. Quick to smile and take offence, and energetic, even at the hottest parts of the day. The man speaking to Orthenon had pale gold stitch marks around his neck, shoulders, bared midriff, and joints on his wrists and elbows. Knees too. Stitch-People could and would remove inured or damaged body parts, turning them back into cloth to be repaired. They were like Cloth Golems—only, say that and you’d get your teeth knocked out.

Now the three paused before Orthenon and their leader swept him a dramatic bow. Then again, they were always like that. The Serpent Hunters had been in Reim for months, and Trey had gotten used to them. A bit.

“Steward Orthenon, I hate to interrupt, but I crave an audience on the word of our trainees. The one his Majesty ordered us to induct into our ranks?”

“Of course. Speak.”

Orthenon turned to face the leader, who was named Jelaim. He nodded, and the Stitch-Woman beside him stepped forwards. She unsheathed her daggers and Trey gulped as he saw the blades flash out. But it was a flourish, nothing more. Jelaim grinned at him and Gazi seated at the table.

“Morning’s greetings to you, young Trey, and to you, Lady Pathseeker! You see our weapons? Enchanted blades, and poisoned in their sheaths.”

The daggers the female warriors twirled in her grip were indeed coated with a dark black substance, and the metal beneath shone bright silver, too bright for the banquet hall’s lighting. They were curved and wicked, and Trey knew the Serpent Hunters were considered some of the best warriors present at the moment.

Orthenon, who was one of the best warriors in the entire kingdom, perhaps the world, didn’t look impressed.

“I’m aware of the Serpent Hunter’s arms, Jelaim. What is your point?”

“Ah, Steward! The point is only that we lack more such weapons to give to our trainees! We have dozens now, learning our tricks and fighting, but we can give them no weapons that will not corrode with our venoms. We need weapons.”

Jelaim struck an anguished pose, and the Stitch Warriors behind him performed parodies of the same pose. That was another thing. String People could be extraordinarily dramatic. Trey almost laughed, but Orthenon just sighed.

“We have steel blades being churned out in our forges. You’ve seen Smith Daiton’s work. If you need new weapons, I can order him to focus on blades for your recruits.”

“But that is steel, Steward Orthenon. Our blades must be at least enchanted to not decay with our poisons. Can more not be spared from his Majesty’s treasury?”

Jelaim protested, looking from Orthenon to Gazi. Orthenon frowned, shaking his head.

“We have few enchanted blades, aside from the collection Mars brought, and those are already distributed amongst our officers. I understand your problem now. Mage Ulyse!”

He raised his voice. Another body turned in the hall and Trey saw a second notable group turn and move towards them. The Serpent Hunters turned as a pair of [Mages] in long robes walked towards them. But these [Mages] were also unique; both carried light parasols, bright and colorful, ostensibly to block out the sun.

But Parasol Stroll as they were known, was a [Mage] group in which each of their members carried a parasol which was enchanted to enhance their magic and even cast spells on its own, like a staff or wand other [Mages] used. The two of them, a middle-aged man and a younger woman, approached. Orthenon addressed the man swiftly.

“Mage Ulyse, Mage Mirin, I’m aware Parasol Stroll is already busy performing the work of the Mage’s Guild and coordinating the rest of Reim’s magical needs. But have you an [Enchanter] or a [Mage] capable of enchanting blades for Jelaim’s warriors?”

“Ah. Enchantments is it? We know a few spells, if only to make our parasols. But I’m afraid the task isn’t that simple. Hm. No it is not.”

Ulyse, the leader of Parasol Stroll, had distant eyes and greying hair. He never quite looked anyone in the eyes, but Trey, who was himself learning to be a [Mage], could sense his magical power hidden behind his vacant stare. Ulyse had a bright yellow parasol, which looked to be made of silk or some other shiny cloth and embroidered with moons of silver. It was closed, but Ulyse tapped the tip on the ground as he thought.

“What is the problem, Ulyse? If you need blades, we have enough to spare from the forges. Even if some are lost to the enchanting process.”

Orthenon frowned, crossing his arms. Ulyse shook his head. Despite the [Steward]’s impatience, he couldn’t be rushed as he gave his reply.

“The quality of metal…is not good. Yes. That’s how I would say it. Metal requires purity and we have seen Smith Daiton’s blades. Beautiful, but flawed. Incapable of holding enchantment, right Mirin?”

“Yes. They are combination steel. Imperfect. Good for weapons. Poor for enchantments.”

The younger [Mage] spoke up. Mirin was quiet, her face shadowed, her voice soft. She was the kind of girl Trey might have fallen in love with at home, older than him by about six years, and reluctant to speak, but erudite when she did. Orthenon nodded.

“There you have it, Captain Jelaim. We did bring in a smith from the Tannousin clan, but she is not obligated to make blades for us. I will inquire, but until then, all we have is steel.”

“Oh. Tannousin has sent one of their [Smiths]? Perhaps there is hope after all.”

Jelaim had been sagging, but now his eyes shone. He turned to Orthenon.

“Where is this smith? And how long will he stay? Does she pass through?”

“She is staying to forge a blade for his Majesty. As for the rest, I would ask that you not make requests of her until his Majesty has spoken with her clan. I must return to my work, but Trey will be able to answer you any questions you have.”

Orthenon’s brisk voice gave Trey the impression he’d be checking his watch if he had one. He turned, nodded once as a goodbye, and strode out of the banquet hall, moving so fast Trey felt the wind pass him by. That was Orthenon for you; he was like lightning on a horse too.

Jelaim didn’t seem put out by Orthenon’s speedy departure. He turned to Trey and swept another bow. Trey copied it awkwardly.

“Ah, Trey! So you’ve caused another stir! And so early yet! Not even lunch past. Have you finished your meal? I wouldn’t wish to bother you while you eat.”

“Thank you. But I’m done, uh, Captain Jelaim?”

“Captain!”

Jelaim laughed and the other two String People behind him laughed as well. Trey turned red as Ulyse and Mirin smiled, but politely. Gazi—well, she was already grinning.

“Don’t call me Captain, Trey Atwood! Captain is a term for a class, for soldiers! True, I might be a mercenary captain, but I have none of these classes. Call me Serpent Hunter Jelaim, or Hunter Jelaim if you must stick to honorifics. But I would prefer my name and be honored to use yours!”

Trey blinked at that little speech.

“Serpent Hunter? Then that means you…hunt serpents?”

Again Jelaim laughed, slapping his thigh as if Trey was hilarious. Which, from Mirin’s quiet chuckle, he was.

“I am a [Serpent Hunter]. Not that I always hunt serpents. But from this class we have built our group. It’s a class that uses poison in our weapons, you see?”

“Of course. And you’re uh, taking new recruits? Is that what you said?”

Jelaim nodded. He gestured to the curved blade at his side.

“Training. His Majesty welcomed us into his home. We will fight his enemies of course, but he desires us to take any of the String Folk into our ranks and teach them our ways. Thus, our ranks swell with dozens of new recruits already, and perhaps hundreds or thousands should his Majesty claim a land filled with our kind.”

“Why only String People? Is that one of your rules? Do you not teach Humans?”

Jelaim shook his head.

“Not out of malice, no. But practicality. String People can take off a limb as easily as you take off clothes, Trey Atwood. If we are struck by a snake, we can remove our arm before the poison spreads. How can poison damage cloth? It may ruin it, but a new arm can always be woven. Humans are not so fortunate. It is a miracle your people ever settled Chandrar, but here you are.”

He grinned at Trey, gesturing to one of his bare shoulders, at the golden thread. Trey nodded slowly.

“Well I uh, I’m happy to help if I can. But like Orthenon said, Nawal is only here to forge a blade.”

“But you know her by name. I don’t suppose you’d be able to…? No, no, we should not intercede until his Majesty returns. When that occurs, I will ask for your help perhaps.”

Jelaim shook his head, looking crestfallen. He glanced at his companions.

“Until then, we will have to teach without venom. Perhaps dyes? To make the recruits understand a single cut to themselves is deadly. We will work on it. But I will leave you to finish your meal, courteous Trey. And you, Lady Pathseeker, Mage Ulyse and Mage Mirin.”

He bowed and the two String Warriors behind him did likewise before retreating. Trey blinked at them. He was about to return to his cold bread when the [Mage] coughed. Ulyse sat down across from Trey and blinked at him.

“Ah, Trey. I meant to speak with you.”

Trey stared at Ulyse, mouth open, about to take a bite of his bread. Ulyse stared past his ear.

“I understand Lady Gazi is quite adept at teaching. But—perhaps her focus is narrow? If we had time, one of our members would aid with your instruction, Trey Atwood. This is what I meant to bring up, an offer for later as Jelaim did.”

He said that despite Gazi being right across from him. Trey hesitated.

“Er, thank you? But Gazi’s teaching me a lot. Quite…quite a lot. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“Ah, but his Majesty, our [King] Flos asked. And we have been too busy to follow his wishes. And a young [Mage] should have as much instruction as possible.”

Ulyse blinked slowly at something only he could see, shaking his head sadly.

“However, Parasol Stroll is much smaller than the Serpent Hunters, as befits a group of [Mages].”

“But no less deadly.”

Gazi cut in, smiling slightly at Ulyse. The [Mage] bowed back, and Mirin raised her parasol and unfolded it. Her bright crimson-and-indigo parasol spun as she bowed, an elaborate gesture for such a simple compliment.

“You honor us, Lady Pathseeker. Our numbers do indeed allow us to fight an army many times larger, but I fear it is still a weakness. Especially since we serve as his Majesty’s sole [Mages].”

Ulyse looked mournful. Then he took Trey’s bread and began to eat it, speaking to the young man and to the air again.

“We are stretched thin. Too thin, accompanying the armies in Hellios and Germina to provide magical aid and protection, as well as to send basic [Message] spells. Reim lacks for [Mages]; all left in his Majesty’s slumber. And Reim never had as many [Mages] as some nations even in its glory. Only the one was famed throughout the world.”

Mirin nodded. She spoke quietly.

“Amerys. If she were here, his Majesty Flos would not need to fear enemy [Mages], at least. One wonders why she has remained in Wistram. Perhaps she truly has turned traitor. A strange thought, though.”

“Yes.”

The word came from Gazi. And it was so heavy that Ulyse’s eyes focused on her and both he and Mirin as well as Trey hesitated. All four of Gazi’s eyes had focused for a moment on Mirin. And her smile was gone.

At once, both [Mages] stood up. Ulyse nodded.

‘We’ve given offence.”

“It was not taken.”

Gazi smiled, but it was her fake smile that Trey had learned to spot. And Ulyse was not fooled either.

“We leave you to your lunch, Trey. But one more thing. I think you still have a staff in your quarters? Mirin complains that it gives off an aura at night.”

Trey jumped.

“How did you—”

Ulyse nodded.

“It was a powerful staff you took from the [Geomancer]. A useful tool for magic, but not if you lack the spells or experience to control it. We can teach you how to use it to augment your powers. I will speak to Orthenon or Lady Gazi when we have time to teach you more spells. Until then, Trey Atwood.”

He bowed and turned. Both of Parasol Stroll headed away from their table. Trey stared at their backs, at his now-empty plate, and at Gazi.

“Are all of King Flos’ vassals a bit crazy like that, Gazi?”

The half-Gazer looked at Trey with all four eyes and he shuddered. But then her eyes focused and two rolled back in her head.

“They are all unique, Trey. As people are. I am no longer hungry.”

“Because of what Ulyse said about er, Amerys? He’s a bit weird, but he doesn’t’ mean—”

“I don’t take offence from him, Trey. But what he said is true. Amerys was loyal. If she is not returned, it is concerning. We need her. And if she is an enemy, we must know.”

Gazi stood up. She walked away from the table and a servant took her plate. She spoke without looking back at Trey.

“I will find you tomorrow to practice more spells. This time bring the staff. You will learn to cast [Featherfall] with it.”

Trey gulped, but he didn’t dare protest. Then Gazi was gone too, and Trey had to return his plate and cup to the servants in the kitchen himself.

A room, no, a kingdom full of adults who all knew more than he did. All busy, all with their own interests, which were all in service to Flos. It was enough to make Trey lose his marbles sometimes. He wandered out of the banquet hall before someone else could find him. Trey hurried down the corridors of servants until he reached one of the unused wings of the palace reserved for guests, where far less people visited.

And then he was alone. No Gazi, none of Flos’ vassals. Just alone to do whatever he pleased. Which was what Trey had wanted, but somehow it left him empty.

“Swords with poison. Orthenon going to talk to the Quarass and a [Queen]. [Mages] with their spells. And what am I supposed to do? What about you, Teres? How useful are we to Flos except as…as entertainment? Inspiration for him?”

Trey scuffed along the corridor, scowling. He didn’t know how strong Jelaim was, but the Stitch Man looked fit and agile and his companion had made those curved daggers flash. He’d seen Orthenon and Gazi fight. And he could feel Ulyse and Mirin’s power radiating from them and their parasols. It made Trey feel like an ant. So, and because Gazi expected him to, he began to practice magic. Of all the things in this world, that alone was actually fun.

“[Light]. [Sand Arrow]. Combine it to…[Lightsand Arrow]!”

A ball of light appeared, and then a spinning projectile of dust, of sand, forming into a blunt projectile. The two merged, and a flash of light shot down the hallway, busting into a shower of sand that would have blinded a foe. Trey grinned—he could perform that spell with his bare hands! He shot another [Lightsand Arrow].

It was a weak spell, but it could blind an opponent and Gazi had taught him to aim perfectly with it. He hit a patch on the wall, a spot on the ceiling—and then saw the [Servant] with the dust cloth down the corridor glaring at him. She was cleaning and he was getting the sand everywhere.

“Sorry. I’ll clean it up. [Sand Sprite].”

Trey instantly folded his hands behind his back. Meekly, he conjured the sand on the ground towards him. It flowed across the ground, leaving the stone hallway spotless once more. And in front of Trey, a little golem of sand rose upwards. The [Servant] stopped glaring at Trey long enough to stare at the golem in puzzlement. Not because the golem itself was that unusual—although it was a fairly tricky spell, even temporarily—but because of how it looked.

The little figure looked like an odd, bobbleheaded figure like one of those cheap plastic figurines from Earth. It had a simple head with two big eyes, a crude body which didn’t match the oversized head, and a spear made of sand. It had nothing approaching a normal Human’s anatomy, or that of any other creature in this world.

Golems, spells, everything was based on a [Mage]’s image of the spell. Trey’s unique version of the miniature sand golems weren’t like anything other [Mages] could create. Mainly because his were ungainly and impractical, based on toy designs rather than form and function. Gazi had pronounced his sand sprites the ugliest, most useless creations in history. But she’d still praised him for learning the spell.

“Walk. And uh, don’t get sand anywhere.”

Trey ushered the little sand sprite golem down the hallway away from the servant. It trundled in front of him, walking oddly, balancing its huge head. Trey let it walk towards a window, and then couldn’t resist.

“Attack! Me, I guess?”

The little sand golem whirled around and nearly fell over. But it lunged at Trey with commendable speed and began whacking him with its little spear. He watched, tickled by the sensation. The sand sprite’s tiny spear was about as painful as, well, being hit by some soft sand. That was the flaw with sand golems, apparently. They were weak, easy to scatter, but held an advantage over other materials in that they were easy to conjure and maintain. Especially in Chandrar.

“Why can’t this be all I do?”

Trey mused as he squatted down and conjured another sand sprite to duel the first. This one had a sword and a shield and the two little figures hit each other and charged, a mockery of real fighting. Yes, this was what Trey liked. There was no danger to this. He wasn’t hurting anyone. But he was casting magic, and creating these little creatures out of his mind. Why couldn’t he just do this? Why did he need to be one of the two people Flos, the King of Destruction wanted by his side? Why did Trey have to be his moral compass? He was only sixteen. He was only…

“Trey?”

The young man looked up. The two sand sprites turned into lumps of sand as he lost control of them. He looked up, and saw a veiled girl, clutching a dagger at her side, approaching him. Nawalishifra stopped and stared at the young man crouching in front of the pile of sand.

Trey stood up hurriedly, wiping his hands and blowing the sand out of the open window. He smiled at Nawal. At least she was around his age. Well, a bit older. But at least she was like him a bit. And he rather fancied her. He wondered what Teres would think when she met Nawal. He hoped no one would get stabbed.

—-

“Trey.”

Nawal saw the young man stand up. The little golem of sand he’d been watching, collapsed. He flicked his fingers as he rose, and the sand blew upwards in a narrow funnel, out the window. She blinked at the sight. He was a [Mage]! She’d thought he was just some…well, just some servant. But he knew magic!

In her internal estimation of him, Trey rose another notch. Perhaps he really was someone special. The King’s Steward had spoken highly of him. But Nawal couldn’t help but remember the awkward stranger who’d come asking about her tent in the bazaar. And because she needed to, she approached Trey and spoke.

“I have been looking for you. You remember me? Nawalishifra of Clan Tannousin? And you, you Trey Atwood, who pretended to be a humble person of a common master when you served the King of Destruction? A fine trick you played on me!”

She glared at him, hand on her dagger, but with less heat than she might have otherwise had. Trey backed up a step.

“Uh, Nawal! Sorry. I mean, it’s good to see you again. I didn’t expect to see you so soon—I mean, I didn’t ask you to make that vow! And his Majesty did pay your clan, right? He really wanted to have one of your magical swords.”

“A Naq-Alrama blade. Not a ‘magical sword’. And he paid, or else we would not be here. But what he paid for was our journey, not the blade itself. Not that I would doubt the King of Destruction, and you should not either, as his loyal servant.”

Nawal tossed her head, adjusting the veil so she wouldn’t inhale it. Trey winced.

“Right. Er, sorry. But it is good to see you.”

That surprised Nawal. She flushed, and drew the veil more tightly around her face. Were all foreigners like Trey so forwards? She glared at him.

“We hardly know each other.”

“Um. Yeah. But we’re around the same age. You’re a bit older, but there’s few people my age in the castle. I was hoping to find you, actually. I could show you around? If you want me to. And I’d like you to meet my sister when she returns. You two might be friends.”

His sister? Friends? She was here to smith. But Trey was treating her as if they were two childhood friends from the same clan. She glared, but then decided to jump on this chance.

“I may meet your sister in the fullness of time, Trey Atwood. But I would take you up on your offer. I am new to the King of Destruction’s palace. And I have some questions for you.”

“Uh? Well, okay. I don’t know everything, but ask away. What did you want to know?”

Trey made a stupid face. Nawal rolled her eyes. She gestured around the bare corridor, where a servant was cleaning the hall. It had no artwork, or statues or suits of armor. It was just…a hallway. In a palace, but it lacked even a carpet, and the windows weren’t made of glass.

“I have walked around the palace. And seen my quarters. The beds are of cotton. Tell me, do the beds in your room consist of cotton or silk? Or do you sleep on stone, as a lesser servant?”

“I’m not a servant.”

Trey frowned, contradicting what Orthenon had said. He frowned.

“My bed? It’s cotton. Nice. Why do you ask?”

So maybe it wasn’t a slight. Nawal gestured around the palace.

“Simply because this is the home of the King of Destruction, is it not? His seat of power in Reim? His base from which he once conquered all of Chandrar and launched a campaign against the rest of the world?”

“…I guess. Why?”

Nawal stared at Trey. He gave her another stupid look. She stamped her foot.

“Well then! Why are his halls not filled with grand carpets hundreds of feet long? Why were only four servants sent to escort us to our quarters? Why are the beds not made of silk, even for his servants? Where is his fabled armory? The ten thousand swords of myth and legend that he won in a thousand battles? Surely some still remain. What of the artworks, the statues and wonders carried from around the world? Have all gone? And this palace—is this truly his home?”

Trey gaped at Nawal. He looked around, and stared at her.

“Beds made of silk? Grand treasury? I’ve never heard of anything like that. Flos—er, his Majesty used to have a lot of stuff, it’s true. But it’s all gone now. And this is his palace. Why do you ask?”

Nawal shook her head. How could he not know? Even as a foreigner?

“It was said that the King of Destruction’s citadel was larger than one could imagine, that the spires on top of the towers reached beyond the clouds.”

“Really?”

“Of course! How do you not know of this? Every child is told the King of Destructions’ story, of his grandeur! I came here expecting to see his castle rising out of the ground for hundreds of miles. Instead I found his city poor and his palace worthy of any [King], but not of him.”

“Yeah, well, he was asleep—or rather, he was depressed—for about twenty years. A lot of stuff went bad, or so Orthenon and Gazi said. And why does it matter? I thought a lot of Chandrar hated the King of Destruction. Most of the world does, apparently.”

Trey shrugged uncomfortably. Nawal stared at him. Then she turned.

“Why would that matter? He was still the King of Destruction. His myths still are told like tales of old. Hate him. Love him. But he was a legend worthy of Chandrar.”

She had grown up hearing his stories as a baby. Nawal stared at the plain servant, who was scrubbing at a stain on the wall. She shook her head again.

“Have you not heard one of the King of Destruction’s tales? Of his city of Reim, fairest in the world? How he turned it from a small kingdom no one knew into a world power? It was said that in those days when his strength was at its peak, the streets of his cities flowed with wealth. No one wanted for food or drink, and even the beggars were richer than some [Lords]. Every day caravans of treasures taken from far-off lands would flow into his kingdom, and heroes and adventurers from across the world would journey here, to seek his favor and fight in his name.”

She didn’t even mention the harems filled with [Princesses] and brides from across the world, or the stories of his rooms filled with the skulls of his enemies, or the dungeons in which his enemies were fated to live and suffer eternally. One would assume the virginal brides were all far older by this point, and that those kept in the dungeons expired. And if there were rooms full of skeletons, a prudent visitor would never inquire about them.

“Really? He had all that?”

Trey looked at Nawal, his eyes slightly wide. She looked back and saw he didn’t know. That hurt part of her. She’d thought that at least that legend had spread about the world. Chandrar had little to boast of sometimes.

But while those from other nations might sometimes laugh at the poor folk of the desert, they would all stop laughing when they asked what Chandrar had wrought in the last hundred years. Because the answer was always the King of Destruction. And for all he had been a terrible figure, he had made the world look to Chandrar with fear and awe.

“These are all things said of the King of Destruction’s city, Trey Atwood. These and more. I came here expecting to see some of that, even if it had faded. I saw so little I believed it to be an insult, a mirage. Is there anything like that? Anything you could show me?”

Nawal waited, hoping for Trey to say yes, to say that there was some legacy of that grandeur left. But he only bit his lip and hesitated. And part of the hope in Nawal’s chest, that youthful girl hearing stories around the campfire, died in her chest. She looked around the bare corridor and her heart sank.

Was this all that remained? Or, worse, had the legends been true to begin with?

“Sorry, Nawal. I don’t remember seeing anything like that. No caravans of treasure. No…well, Mars had an armory of magical swords. And there is gold in the treasury. But I don’t think there’s nearly as much as you think.”

Trey looked doubtful as he shook his head. Nawal stared at him, then closed her eyes.

“Then perhaps the King of Destruction’s legend is just that. A myth. A fable. I was a fool to think otherwise, naïve that I am. I thank you for telling me the truth, Trey Atwood.”

She turned. And there, lounging against a wall, suddenly there and making both Nawal and Trey jump, was Gazi. The half-Gazer grinned as Nawal unsheathed her dagger and Trey yelped.

“So you are disappointed, Nawalishifra of Clan Tannousin? Is this palace not enough, though you were offered the right of guests under my lord’s roof? Only say so now and I will answer your complaint.”

There she was, leaning against the wall. Neither Trey nor Nawal had seen her appear, nor had the servant cleaning the hall, who’d frozen, eyes wide as she stared at Lady Gazi Pathseeker. Gazi of Reim. Nawal’s breath grew tight in her chest. She had met Gazi once, but under an illusion spell. Now, up close, she was terrifying.

Gazi the Omniscient. That was one of her names. Another was Dunestalker. A terror of the night, an assassin who hunted other spies and traitors, anyone who would threaten her [King]. She at least was the same as her legends.

Oh, you might not think so if you just saw her. Gazi’s almost rusty, scale armor wasn’t impressive and her claymore, for all it was brilliantly made, wasn’t obviously magical. But Nawal knew of steel and she knew both armor and sword were not of steel. Or any metal she could identify at a glance, for that matter. The unique coloration of the armor told her it wasn’t adamantine, and the claymore wasn’t mithril, but neither were they common metals either.

“I—I did not seek to give offence Lady Gazi. I only meant that I expected to see the wonders of his Majesty’s palace. Not—”

Nawal realized her little dagger was out and she sheathed it quickly. Gazi smiled, but it was no welcoming smile. It was almost perfectly crafted to make Nawal shudder, a smile with malice hidden behind the curve of the lips. Trey was staring at Gazi, not with fear, but with confusion. He must be mad, or he hadn’t heard of her stories either.

Gazi detached from the wall and walked around Nawal as the [Smith] froze in place. Her voice was soft, pleasant but for the metal buried beneath the gentle tone.

“Sometimes legends grow until they are too big to fit reality, Nawalishifra Tannousin. Sometimes. And sometimes they fade. But hold your judgment until you have seen my lord in person once more. And when you walk through this palace, remember you see ruin. Two decades of despair. You and your clan have come to restore part of what was lost.”

“I—yes. Of course.”

“Good. You understand that. Then I welcome you still. But mind your words under this roof. And Trey?”

“Yes, Gazi?”

“Escort Nawal around the palace yourself. And keep her away from Orthenon. If he had heard what she had said, I doubt he would be so understanding.”

Gazi walked away from them. Quick, and despite her armor, silent. She turned a corner and was gone. Nawal remembered to breathe after that. That was Dunestalker. Silent. The King’s protector in the shadows. If you so much as breathed a word of dissent against the King of Destruction, she would cut you down. Oh, but Nawal had make a mistake! She looked at Trey, trying not to let her teeth chatter.

“D-do you think I gave offence?”

“To Gazi? No. No, that sounded like uh, one of her friendly threats. But she is right. I don’t think Orthenon would like you saying that.”

Trey looked troubled. Nawal wanted to laugh.

“I would never speak so in his hearing!”

“Really? But you’re speaking to me—”

Nawal shook her head. Both she and Trey stepped out of the way of the servant as she came down the corridor. They began walking, if only so Nawal could put Gazi’s ominous words behind her. She spoke briskly to Trey, taking solace in his simple nature. He couldn’t be that important and be so ignorant, could he?

“A woman should not speak to a man in the open, as he is in the midst of his work. By the same token, a man should not approach a woman before seeking her husband or brother or father first. In private, things are less important, and between family of course exceptions exist. But if I spoke to the King’s Steward? I would cut off my ears rather than hear of such idiocy from another of my clan!”

“But you’re speaking to me and I’m male.”

Nawal snorted. Trey looked very hurt, so she explained.

“You’re a foreigner. You don’t count. Besides, I must see the King of Destruction’s forges if I am to work there, and neither Hesseif nor Silmak is willing to go. Those fools, they wish only to gossip of the King of Destruction’s legends and look about like children. But I am here to forge. So take me there, Trey Atwood.”

“The forges?”

“Yes! Surely the King of Destruction has his need for [Blacksmiths], even if they do not forge magical works of art with each passing day, each greater than the last! Surely he needs nails and tools for his servants to work! He does have forges, does he not?”

Nawal threw up her hands. She was going to hit Trey if he said no. The young man hesitated.

“I’m sure he does. No, he definitely does! There’s at least one master smith—of course, I can take you right to him!”

That was a relief. Nawal nodded and bowed.

“Lead on, then.”

Trey hesitated. He looked around, forwards, back, and then sheepishly pointed back at the servant making her way down the hall, grumbling about sand and [Mages].

“Uh, let me ask where to go.”

—-

It took Trey fifteen minutes and two more servants to locate the forges. They weren’t in the castle, but outside of the main palace, for reasons that soon became obvious. The instant he approached the open-air forge, Trey was overwhelmed by the heat emanating from one of the furnaces, and the air was filled with the ringing of hammers on metal. He approached timidly, but made his way to one of the [Smiths]—mainly because Nawal was pushing him the entire way.

“Excuse me? Is Blacksmith Daiton here? I’m showing a guest around the palace, and uh—”

Trey shouted at a laboring apprentice. The young man looked up, saw that it was Trey, and his eyes widened.

“Sir Trey! Let me get Master Daiton at once!”

He sprang up and hurried over to an older man with grey hair and a growing bald spot on his head. The [Blacksmith] came over, and Trey was astounded to have his hand shaken at once as the friendly smith came over. He knew Trey was one of Flos’ personal followers, and he was overjoyed to have Trey here. And when he learned Nawal was a fellow [Smith], his grin spread ear to ear.

“I am Daiton, master [Blacksmith] of his Majesty’s forges. You won’t find a better smith in all of Reim, or Germina or Hellios, I’d wager! There are plenty of low-level sorts as we’re in demand, but I’m the most high-level—and oldest—by far in the area. It’s a delight to have you, Sir Trey, and you, young lady. Are you an apprentice by chance? It’s rare to have a woman practicing the craft, but welcome! I’d be honored if you used my forge so long as it’s here.”

He addressed Nawal directly, but she refused to reply. She’d suddenly turned shy. Nawal half-hid herself behind Trey, keeping her eyes to the ground and peeking around the forge furtively. She whispered to Trey urgently into his ear.

“Tell him I thank him for the great compliment, and that I hope to learn from his expertise. Tell him I am Nawalishifra of Clan Tannousin.”

Trey half-turned, frowning at Nawal.

“Why don’t you say it? You’re right—”

He received a jab to the back and a glare. Oh, right. Daiton was a native Chandrarian and Nawal was female. The [Smith] girl hissed at Trey.

“Tell him!”

“Er, sorry Master Daiton. This is Nawal. Ow! Nawalishifra of Clan Tannousin. She’s a [Blacksmith] come to forge a sword for his Majesty.”

“A smith of clan Tannousin?”

Daiton’s eyes widened and several of the workers who’d heard looked around. Daiton immediately gave Nawal another look, but her eyes were lowered and her veil was tightly around her face.

“I’ve heard Tannousin smiths are some of the best in the deserts. And a female smith? I thought—no matter. You’re welcome twice over then, ah, Nawalish—Nawali—Nawal of Tannousin. Perhaps we could swap techniques, if you’d trade secrets.”

“She would accept that gladly, Master Daiton.”

Trey answered for Nawal. He looked around, listening to the whisper in his ear.

“Uh, Nawal wonders if this is your entire forge. Could we have a tour, maybe?”

Daiton nodded at once.

“Please, step inside. But mind the steel and sparks! This is indeed his Majesty’s forge. We have other buildings, but they’re disused so this is the only active forge. Plenty of room, though! I’ve been here since his Majesty went into his slumber and I waited right here until he woke up. I’d do it for another ten years without hesitation.”

He puffed his chest out, and Trey nodded appreciatively. Daiton gestured at the men working around the forge.

“I have eight workers I’m training. Journeymen [Blacksmiths], apprentices…I’m hoping to double that number when I can trust my senior workers by myself. And have at least forty men working the forges around the hour in a few months! Even if Germina and Hellios start producing, there will be a great need for fresh weapons and armor, repairs, and that’s only for armies! Nails for houses, parts for barrels and axles for wagons, tools for every sort of craft—”

“Arrowheads.”

One of the younger apprentices, younger than even Trey, groaned as he labored over an arrowhead. Daiton scowled at him.

“You want to be a [Fletcher]? Half of it’s making the arrowheads, Fedi! Don’t complain, you’ll level up! And once we have more craftsmen flowing back into the capital, you’ll stop having to make arrowheads all day long.”

“So your forge makes all the materials for the kingdom?”

Trey looked around, impressed. That was a lot of work! Daiton shook his head.

“Not all. But weapons? The vast majority. There’re two other [Smiths] in Reim at the moment, but they handle more mundane work. Myself? I make blades for his Majesty. Come and see. This is my signature work.”

He led Trey over to a barrel of swords. Daiton pulled one out and Trey whistled as he saw a flash of steel. The smith handed the blade to Trey.

“Don’t worry, the edge isn’t sharpened yet. But this is a complete sword, one of many we’re making for the army. They’ve got old weapons, but new steel’s vital and we’re working around the clock here to meet that demand. We’re hoping to have two hundred swords made and four times that many spears if we keep getting enough wood.”

“It’s so light!”

Trey had held Teres’ sword, but he was already impressed at how balanced and how light swords actually were. Nothing like the heavy things he’d imagined. Daiton laughed.

“Light and strong! You can flex that one and it won’t bend or snap! And look—this is what I meant by signature. See the steel? Give it a close look.”

Trey did. And then he saw what Daiton meant. There was a pattern on the blade! The steel wasn’t one, shiny uniform color. His eyes widened as he stared at the curvy lines running down the blade.

“Bugger me. Is that…I’ve seen this pattern before!”

Damascus steel. It looked exactly like it! Trey stared at the fine, wavy lines on the metal of the sword, almost like the patterns of wood grain, or water running through the steel. Daiton puffed out his chest, delighted that Trey had noticed.

“Ah, sir! You have an eye for steel? You recognize the decoration? It’s pattern-steel. Forged from multiple types of steel, forge-welded and hammered together…all my swords are like that! Although you can only see the pattern on these ones.”

He indicated the swords in the barrel.

“These are obviously swords meant for officers. Note the etching and the hilt work? The rest of my apprentices can make swords to various degrees of quality, but we don’t bother etching those with acid.”

“Wow. That’s incredible!”

Each of the swords had its own unique pattern, and as Trey looked around, he saw more swords in the process of being made. And each one was made like that?

“It’s all pattern-welded, as I said. That’s my style. I take multiple layers of steel, forge them together and create a blade out of the result. You see, it adds to the strength of the finished product and it produces this lovely pattern. As steel forging goes, you’re hard-pressed to beat it.”

Daiton showed Trey what he meant. He’d taken several flat pieces of steel and melted the ends together. That turned into a ‘billet’, or a solid chunk of steel.

“See, the trick is you take these individual pieces and squeeze them together. Thus, weaker steels mix with the good if there are impurities or flaws, and the entire piece is stronger—and beautiful if you take the time to work it right. It’s a technique I use for every sword, and his Majesty himself has used some of my blades—although he breaks them with every other swing!”

Daiton laughed and Trey, reminded of Flos’ insane strength, had to laugh too. He looked at Nawal who was inspecting the sword Daiton had first shown Trey.

She didn’t look nearly as impressed as Trey thought. She peered at the edge and tapped the metal with her fingernail. She frowned closely at the pattern, then shook her head slightly. Daiton didn’t notice, but Trey walked back over.

“Isn’t it beautiful? Daiton’s a good smith, isn’t he?”

He desperately wanted Nawal to see something wonderful in Flos’ palace to impress her. But the veiled girl only looked p and shook her head.

“For art, and an officer’s blade I suppose? But it’s just a pattern. No more.”

“But that’s Damascus steel. It’s legendary, isn’t it? Really tough and really strong?”

Trey protested. That was Damascus, right? But Nawal was shaking her head.

“It’s not. I’ve seen steels with a similar pattern—you mean the steel that naturally has these little lines, don’t you? That’s a pure steel. Superior to this. This—this is just a pattern, made by the metal.”

Trey deflated slightly at Nawal’s mater-of-fact voice.

“Oh. But this is still a good sword, right?”

The look Nawal gave him was…well, it went straight through Trey. She leaned over and whispered to Trey as Daiton came back.

“Ask him to show you the ones he’s made. Not his apprentices.”

“What?”

“Anything the matter? I can show Miss Tannousin my process if she wishes.”

Daiton beamed at them. Trey gulped.

“Uh, Nawal was wondering if you had any of your blades she could see, Master Daiton.”

The man looked confused. He gestured to the sword Nawal was holding.

“Miss, uh, Nawal is holding it there.”

That was what Trey had thought. But Nawal gave both of them a surprised look. She eyed the blade again, closing one eye to stare at the metal. She tapped it and shook her head. She gestured at Trey and he leaned over.

“What’s the matter? That’s the sword Daiton made.”

“But it’s impure. The steel isn’t that good. It’s a poor sword. Tell him that.”

“What? No it’s not. I can’t just—”

“Anything wrong?”

Daiton looked concerned. Trey glanced at his face and gestured helplessly at the blade.

“It’s uh, Nawal is just studying the metal. She’s uh, wondering about the quality. Of the metal?”

The smith nodded understandingly.

“It’s a fair question. We have to buy iron scrap—it used to be we got our shipments via caravan, but I suppose now we’ll have access to Hellios’ iron mines. That would certainly improve the quality of the iron. And our steel. Still, the pattern-welding accommodates even for poor stuff, so I’m confident we could do twice as many swords per week if…”

He stopped as Nawal finished inspecting the blade. She put it slowly in the barrel and turned to Trey.

“It’s a bad sword.”

“What?”

This time Daiton heard. The smith’s jovial expression turned to shock and then anger in a second. Nawal glanced at him and then looked at Trey.

“Ask him how he made it.”

“He showed us, Nawal. With the metal and—”

Trey glanced fearfully at Daiton’s face. Nawal stared at one of the apprentices.

“And he takes the steel afterwards and has his apprentices forge it? Like that? Out in the open?”

She pointed. A journeyman was taking a solid billet of the pattern-welded steel and striking it with a hammer. The white-hot metal was being hammered out until it was longer, and longer.

“Um—er, Master Daiton—”

Daiton scowled at Nawal. He addressed her directly.

“Yes. That’s my process, girl! What of it? Look, this is how I do my work!”

He strode over and interrupted the journeyman at his task. Daiton took the hammer and began pounding away at the metal, glaring daggers at Nawal the entire while. Trey blinked. The journeyman had been hammering at the metal, but as Daiton struck it, the anvil rang with the force of his blows. Everyone turned to look as the metal began to flatten ten times as fast under Daiton’s hammer as the other men.

It wasn’t just strength; Trey saw a man with huge arm muscles hitting a piece of metal an apprentice held with a huge mallet of a hammer and not moving it half as fast a Daiton. As the metal in front of Daiton cooled, Trey saw that he’d lengthened it a good foot. He picked it up with his tongs and put it back in the furnace to reheat. He strode back to Nawal, glaring at her.

“With my Skills, I can cut the time it takes to make a sword in half! Do you know of another [Blacksmith] who can work like that? I have over a dozen Skills that help me with shaping the metal quickly! [Steady Rhythm], [Malleable Metal], [Twicelasting Fires], [Blazing Forge]—”

He began listing off Skills on his sooty fingers. He was glaring now and Trey was afraid Nawal’s sharp tongue had ruined Daiton’s goodwill. But Nawal was staring defiantly past Daiton’s shoulder, still not meeting his eyes. She looked at Trey.

“Tell Master Daiton that he has the Skills to move metal faster and with more ease. But that does not change what I said. His steel is poor steel. Poor quality of metal. And his swords are likewise flawed.”

The forge suddenly went silent. Trey hadn’t realized everyone was listening. Now the hammers went still and everyone looked at Nawal. She refused to meet anyone’s gaze but Trey’s. Daiton rumbled ominously.

“That is—I’ve had fellow [Smiths] insult my work before, but never to my face. And never in my own forge! You claim my work is flawed, girl? My steel is poor? Try one of my swords! And look at me! Do you have a problem with my skills and experience?”

Nawal refused to meet Daiton’s eyes. She looked deliberately at Trey.

“Trey Atwood. Deliver a message to Master Daiton. Tell him he should melt down his hammer and use it for scrap metal where it would do some good. Or cut off his hands and live with the goats, old fool that he is for thinking he produces fine craftsmanship. I have seen better swords rusting in the sands, young though I am. I spit on the idea that he is a master smith worthy of working in the King of Destruction’s forges!”

Her voice rang in the silence. Trey’s mouth hung open in silence. So did half the men in the shop. The other half straightened, and the look in their eyes was murderous. Trey glanced up at Daiton and flinched at the look in the older smith’s eyes. He spread his hands and looked around nervously.

“Uh, what I think she meant to say was—”

—-

Nawalishifra of Clan Tannousin had a reputation. Believe it or not, she was known to have something of a sharp tongue. Something of an attitude. Woman or not, her blistering remarks and insults had been known to cut more than one manhood down to size. That was why the elders and headman of her tribe had feared to send her out. Not just because she might give offence as a woman, but because her tongue might get her into trouble.

Actually, that had been true both of Nawal and her brother, Allaif. Where his over-exaggerated promises and sometimes outright lies and flattery had gotten the clan into trouble, Nawal’s remarks had been just as disastrous. But Bezha, Silmak, and Hesseif had all known Nawal since she was a child and it had been hoped they would be enough to rein her in.

But no one had expected her to create this much of a disaster on the first day. Nawal stood, not exactly staring past Bezha as the older woman screamed at her outside of the forge. All the [Smiths] in the King of Destruction’s employ were engaged with a glaring contest with the Tannousin folk, and the forge had gone to a standstill.

“Nawal, you fool, you imbecile! Did we not say to mind your tongue? Instead you have given offence at the first sign! And now a bet?”

“I simply said that I could forge a better blade than the so-called Master Daiton could within the span of a day. I spoke no lies. He was the one who challenged me to prove my words, and so I will.”

Nawal tossed her head. She ducked as Bezha took a swing at her face.

“You idiot! You sharp-tongued cow of a hornet, you! Why say that? Why challenge the King of Destruction’s personal smith? What difference is a bit of skill?”

Nawal caught the second slap headed towards her face. She spoke sharply.

“It is not just skill, Bezha! It is the quality of the metal itself! Or did you not see and test the swords? Look, you fool with your eyes only towards me!”

She pointed. Both she and stared around the forge. They stared at the angry [Blacksmiths], at the metal chunks and billets of steel waiting to be hammered out, and at the swords in progress.

After Nawal’s insult, Daiton had been on the verge of throwing her and Trey out of the forge. Until she’d made her claim. Then he’d lost his temper for real and demanded she bring her clan. Which she’d done. All thirty two of them were gathered outside the forge, and Hesseif and Silmak were inspecting the swords that Daiton had so proudly shown Trey, doing the same inspection of the metal.

They were also eying the crucible steel, the round mounds of steel that Daiton and his apprentices forged from raw iron. Nawal was familiar with the process and she could see the raw metal sitting, waiting to be pounded into billets. But it was bad metal. And as Silmak approached and handed Bezha one of the crucibles, her face changed to a look of dismay.

Crucibles. Trey, who was standing and watching from the side, looking very nervous, had to be explained what they were by one of Daiton’s apprentices. Nawal of course knew instantly. Crucibles were the containers in which you smelted metals, transforming it like in the case of iron, into steel.

In this case, Daiton used little pots, about the size of two hands in height, which he’d fill with cast iron on the bottom, pure iron and a bit of charcoal higher up. Then he’d seal the pot to make it airtight, and heat it up hot in a smelter. If done right, you’d get a puck of steel, which was actual steel as opposed to weaker iron.

That in itself was worthy of praise—not every [Blacksmith] could refine steel so well. And as Daiton shouted, it was an insult to think his steel was inferior to any other metal.

“It’s beautiful metal! You look at this, Sir Trey! Tell that girl, who won’t even look me in the eye, that this is quality metal! See how it’s flawless?”

He showed Trey the puck of metal and Trey had to agree. The steel wasn’t smooth, but it looked like one solid bit of metal. But that was because he was an amateur. Bezha was staring at the puck, and then the bar of flattened steel that one of the apprentices had made out of it.

“The grain of the metal is so large. And they made it from this? I can see the slag on the bottom. Did they remove the impurity?”

“No. Look. This is the bar one of the apprentices was using.”

Silmak handed Bezha one of the straightened pieces of metal, a long rectangle of steel. It was fairly straight and ready to be transformed, Nawal could give it that. But Bezha recoiled as she saw the soot and griminess of the metal.

“That’s how city smiths do their work?”

“In open air forges, no less. If they were making something simple I could understand. But blades?”

Silmak shook his head. He looked at the sword Hesseif was inspecting, and then raised his voice as he addressed the rest of his clan.

“Nawalishifra is right. A Tannousin [Blacksmith] would never work so. The steel is inferior; a blacksmith of our clan could make a superior sword.”

A rumble went through the listening smiths. The Tannousin clan members looked at each other, nodding silently in agreement. Daiton’s face purpled, but Trey seized his arm.

“Master Daiton! They’re guests of his Majesty!”

“Guests or not, I won’t have some tribe—even Tannousin—stride into my forge and insult me! That girl claims she can make a better sword? Prove it or get out and never sully my forge again!”

He pointed at Nawal. All eyes went to her. Bezha closed hers, but didn’t argue as Silmak and Hesseif looked at Nawal.

“Nawal. Can you forge a sword today?”

“If you prepare my space, I will.”

Silmak nodded. He turned and clapped his hands.

“Clear the space. We need brooms. Water.”

“They can use one of our spaces. Listen up, lads! This is a contest! These outsiders think our blades are pig iron crap! Well, I’ve a mind to forge a sword and shove it down their throats!”

Daiton turned and roared at his apprentices, who let out a hoarse cheer. They rushed into the forge, clearing a spot as they glared at the Tannousin. The clan split the forge down the center as Daiton’s people evacuated, and to Trey’s astonishment, began clearing everything out of the way!

Tools, the other anvils, even the ground. A broom appeared, and then a bucket of water. The clan washed the floor as they carted out all of the objects in their side of the room. Daiton turned red again, but he whirled around as the Tannousin clan emptied the forge of everything.

They left a single anvil in the large space they’d cleared. But they didn’t bother filling the forge with charcoal, and instead, Silmak, their leader, produced some chalk and began drawing on the floor! He drew a huge circle around the anvil as Hesseif and three other men returned, lugging a huge box made of…stone?

Yes, it was a stone box which they set on a stand of stone at chest height. Trey peeked inside and saw the interior of the box was filled with glowing runes. His eyes stung and he wiped them. Then he realized the circle that Silmak was drawing was filled with the same runes.

“Excuse me, what are you doing?”

“Trey Atwood. I am preparing Nawalishifra’s forging space. Please, do not interfere with the circle. I would tell you of its nature, but these are Tannousin secrets, and I ask you to look away.”

Reluctantly, Trey did. Silmak finished drawing on the stone floor of Daiton’s shop with the chalk and clapped his hands. The circle blazed with magical light and Daiton swore.

“Magic? In my shop? Are you trying to enchant that anvil? It doesn’t matter if the anvil or the hammer’s enchanted! With my Skills—”

“We are not enchanting anything. We are preparing a space. The metal decides the quality of the sword. Not the tools used.”

Nawal snapped at Daiton, although she had to glare at Trey to do it. The smith turned purple again, but he turned and stalked off, leaving Silmak to finish preparing. He shouted at his apprentices.

“Get me some of our unfinished swords! Yes, those billets! We’ll finish our swords and I’ll do some myself! Where’s my hammer gone?”

Trey could see Daiton’s forge busy at work while the master blacksmith scowled at the Tannousin clan. And the young man could tell that the forge was filled with experts, no matter what Nawal said. The forging of the swords went something like this as far as he could tell: the metal was first heated in one of the huge forges, which were filled with coals or charcoal or something, a blazing heat that was making him sweat even from where he was standing.

Once the metal was glowing with heat—not just red, but orange—the smith would take it over to the anvil with some tongs, where he would instantly begin striking the metal with a hammer. Or even just holding it while another man lifted a huge sledgehammer of a tool and struck it, flattening it out.

The process was meant to hammer the metal out, turn it from the lumps of steel into something resembling a sword. And Trey could see how hard it was. Even when it was hot, the metal was tough and a smith had to be careful to hit it hard enough to make the steel deform and move, but not so hard as to split the metal or bend it in the wrong direction. It would take weeks or maybe months for some of the apprentices to hammer the steel from a crucible cast into a sword, but Daiton could do the work faster. He showed Trey, turning his back on the Tannousin clan members as they continued to set up.

“Look at that! Without a Skill, you’d spent hours doing what I just did. That’s why my forge can produce so quickly. I can handle the first shaping of metal, and my apprentices can take care of the details. And if I need to, I can take a sword from the raw steel to the finished blade myself! What’s wrong with my method? My steel?”

“I don’t know, Master Daiton. Nawal’s uh, prickly. But she is good, I think. It’s just—”

A voice interrupted them. Trey turned. Nawal was standing behind him. She was still veiled, and her clothes still covered most of her body, but she’d rolled up her sleeves. Her bare arms had muscle and she held a hammer in one hand. Both Daiton and Trey stared at the odd sight. But Nawal’s voice was cold.

“Impure. Your steel is impure, and your forge only builds in more impurity, for all you clean away by striking it. We will show you true blacksmithing now. But we must have steel to do it. All we have brought is Naq-Alrama steel.”

“So. You’re ready with your little magic circle? Your forge isn’t even hot.”

Daiton pointed at the furnace, which was indeed flameless. Nawal stared at Trey.

“We have our own heat. Steel. Have you any of quality?”

“I have pucks and bars. All ready to be processed. Take your pick of my inferior steel and make me a blade better out of it!”

Daiton growled. Nawal looked at the bars of steel he’d indicated. She went over to some, grabbed one, discarded it, found another, tapped it against the table, listened, shook her head, and found another. It took her five minutes before she came back with eight bars of steel. Daiton’s eyes bulged.

“What are you doing with that? Do you plan on robbing me too?”

Nawal glared at Trey, who glared back. He was getting sick of being the supposed middleman!

“We steal nothing. But we need enough steel. This will do, I suppose. We must fold the steel.”

“What? It’s been folded! That’s good steel, right there! We hammered it out of the pucks!”

Nawal gave Daiton a scornful 