She was prepared to kill the eclipser if need be.
“Ready?” she asked Tor. And then, after a deep breath, she threw open the doors.
Sreovel worked away at a grindstone, her back to the door. When Oleja burst through, she turned and cast a glance over her shoulder, flicked her eyes down to the knife in Oleja’s hand, and then returned her focus to her work, making no other movement.
“Welcome back,” said Sreovel with a dry tone.
“Stay there and don’t move!” said Oleja, imbuing her voice with as much power as she could muster.
“Leave the coyote outside, for its own safety. Too many things in here will ensnare a tail or an ear if not approached with caution.” Sreovel didn’t look at Oleja while she spoke.
Oleja looked back at Tor. He continued to growl, his eyes locked on Sreovel, but he did not cross the threshold. Oleja doubted she could force him inside if she tried.
She scooted around the room, making her way to a bench opposite Sreovel, a free section of space in the corner near a window. There, she deposited her bag and crutches, but kept her knife in hand. Sreovel kept her attention on her work.
Stealing a few glances at the eclipser, Oleja sized her up. She wore no armor, only similar clothes to the day before under the same heavy apron. A boon in Oleja’s favor—it meant any strike she made at the eclipser could more easily become fatal. Of course, she wore no armor herself, either. If it came to a fight, she just needed to strike faster and with more precision in order to fell her opponent first.
Sreovel carried no weapons—aside from the dagger she sharpened. Plenty lay around her on every surface in the forge, so Oleja could not expect to fight her unarmed if such a brawl broke out. Still, it meant that no shortage of weapons lay about for her own use either.
Ultimately, the field looked level; neither of them received a greater advantage than the other, as Sreovel’s size and physical strength matched Oleja’s quick nimbleness, assuming her prosthetic didn’t get in her way, and though Sreovel certainly had better knowledge of the forge, Oleja’s alertness kept her ready to react to any tricks in an instant.
But if it came to a fight, Oleja would win. She had no other option.
Stealing another glance, Oleja’s eyes fell on the tattoo that marked the upper section of Sreovel’s right arm. Sweat made her skin gleam. The scars around the tattoo bulged, their jagged edges diverting the beads of sweat as they rolled across her skin. From Oleja’s angle, the light caught on the image in just such a way that it revealed what looked like different layers, the two shades of ink not quite mingling on her grey skin. The heavy lines of the Ahwan symbol covered up the second image below: a full circle, joining the three lines near the top, all of which seemed to have borne the brunt of the cutting as if someone had taken quarrel with those details specifically.
“What brings you back so soon?” asked Sreovel, not looking up. “I didn’t expect to see you again for another several days.”
“Quiet,” snapped Oleja. Sreovel scowled at her, shifting just her eyes to look up from beneath a heavy brow. She said nothing.
“Stay over there—do not take even one step towards me, or I will cut your throat. And do not touch any weapons.”
Sreovel eyed the dagger she held to the grindstone. She looked up at Oleja. “You know what work I do, right?”
“Put it away.”
“I have no plans to brandish it at you.”
“Place it down there on the bench.”
“Unlikely to happen.” Sreovel kept at her work, her posture relaxed, shedding little attention in Oleja’s direction. Frustrated, but not wanting to lose her commanding demeanor, Oleja let it go.
A large slate hung on the wall nearby. A tray lay beneath it holding several finger-sized sticks of a hard, chalky stone that left behind a film on her fingers. A few diagrams marked the surface of the slate. Oleja laid her knife on the bench and began to sketch out a design for her prosthetic.
“Redesigning your prosthetic?” asked Sreovel.
Oleja gave no answer.
“The design you have now really is quite well made. Minus the damage.”
Still, Oleja said nothing.
Sreovel sighed. “All right. What is going to make you more comfortable here?”
Oleja paused as she drew. “What?”
“What will make you more comfortable while you work here? What can I do to help you be at ease?”
The eclipser watched her carefully, and Oleja watched her right back. She wanted to help Oleja be at ease? But why? To get her to lower her guard? Some devilish motive drove her, surely—she hoped to gain Oleja’s trust by giving her a snack or some other foolish favor, and then she planned to strike. It wasn’t like the eclipser would offer her a weapon, or promise to—
“What’s your weapon of choice?”
Few words tumbled around in Oleja’s head, and none made it to her mouth. She eyed Sreovel in suspicion.
“I assume your preference is something more than that puny knife there. And from our little tussle yesterday I can tell that you have some fighting experience. What do you use? Spear? Sword? Axe?”
“Bow.”
Sreovel stuck her tongue in her cheek and furrowed her brow. “Not my specialty, certainly, but I may have something around here somewhere. Let me see.” She got up from her stool and started across the room.
Oleja flinched and took a step backwards. Her hand jumped for her knife.
“Whoa there, I’m not coming to kill you,” said Sreovel after snapping to an abrupt halt, her hands up to show she carried no weapon. Hesitantly, keeping eye contact with Oleja, she kept advancing.
She went to many spots around the room, sifting through piles of weapons and materials, unfurling cloth-wrapped bundles and checking shelves both high and low. Finally, on a tall shelf above a workbench, she found a long roll of burlap wrapped many times around by a thin strip of fraying cloth. Dust shook free of the package in a dense cloud, which Sreovel batted away with her hand. Unwrapping the bundle, she removed a long and thick bow of wood and four arrows.
“Here you are,” she said, and moved slowly to place the items on a workbench near Oleja. Oleja took up the bow in her left hand.
One long piece of wood composed the thing, from the grip to the two limbs, wide and curved. A few dents and marks cut into the grain, but otherwise it remained smooth and fine beneath the layer of dust and grit that had permeated the burlap casing. The limbs spread wider than those of her old bow, or any other she had seen, and the thing weighed more overall as well. An old bowstring linked the two ends from tip to tip, held taut by the bent limbs. A few fibers of it hung loose or wrapped around the others, snapped and frayed as time deteriorated them. Age and use showed clear on the old bow.
“You shouldn’t leave a bow strung when you store it,” said Oleja.
Sreovel shrugged. “It’s been up there for a long time, and I didn’t expect it to see the light of day again.”
Oleja gave it another once-over and then, holding it in her hand, left arm outstretched, she drew back the string.
Compared to her old bow, this one took a good deal more force to draw, and though it surprised her, she managed it without struggle. The bow allowed her only a moment to assess it, however, before the string snapped with a silence-splitting thwip. The bow shuddered in her hand.
“Well, it looks like that old thing is off the table,” said Sreovel. “But I have no other bows, so take your pick of whatever else suits your fancy.” She waved to the wide array of blades scattered throughout the room. Oleja took up a sword from a nearby shelf, and after a few test swings, she placed it on the bench where she worked.
“A fine pick,” said Sreovel, and then dryly added: “You are welcome to kill me should the need arise.”
Oleja did not look over at the eclipser, nor say anything in response, but the words stayed in her mind for many long minutes after as she grappled to make sense of the situation. No person or beast with any sense
of self-preservation would invite another to kill them in such a manner. Perhaps as a trap, knowing they could best the other in a fight, but Sreovel couldn’t beat Oleja. Yet here she was, welcoming death. The eclipser gave her permission—basically asked her to do it—what honor was there in being killed after such a declaration?
Oleja pushed the confusion from her mind and returned to her diagram on the wall. The weakest point in her prosthetic design seemed to be the wooden body, so she would use metal in her new one—thin enough to keep it light, yet not so thin that it would dent or bend too easily. She needed it durable, especially if she intended to fight on it. With the specialized facilities of the forge, making such pieces should progress easily enough. Extra padding for the inside would be a necessity as well; hard metal promised aches and bruises in abundance.
“That coyote of yours—does it have a name?”
Oleja flicked her eyes up for an instant, and then back to her work. “His name is Tor.”
“How did you come by him? He’s big—looks earthborn bred.”
“I killed his earthborn master.”
“Ah.”
Only the sounds of the forge filled the room for a few moments.
“Sounds like quite the story.”
Oleja kept working on her sketch.
“You’re new to the city, right? Where are you from originally?”
When she received no answer to her question, Sreovel returned to her work at the grindstone. She pushed her foot down against a pedal on the floor, which shifted a wheel forward, pressing it to another piece that spun of its own accord—attached to one of the great wheels that spun in the river current, no doubt. When the movable wheel made contact with the second, it produced a quick grating sound, and then the grindstone whirred to life. Sreovel placed the dagger atop it. Sparks danced on the blade’s edge.
Oleja laid out a few things from her bag, beginning to piece together her materials. Most of the design required one specialized piece—metal that she would have to cast. She looked around for scrap to melt down. Though the room followed a strict code of organized disorganization, Oleja did not immediately spot anything she could guarantee wasn’t a half-finished project.
She wound around one bench, and then another, peering into the corners of the room. Metal cluttered every surface.
“Scraps are in that big wooden crate over there,” said Sreovel without looking up, gesturing to a long rectangular box near the door. After a moment of pause, Oleja walked over to it.
She sifted through the things inside—scrap metal of all sorts in abundance, more than Oleja knew what to do with. She selected the pieces that would serve her best and then returned with them to her workspace.
“What changes are you making for the new design?” asked Sreovel, obviously taking another swing at making conversation.
“Improvements,” said Oleja, arranging the new materials on the surface of the bench.
“I should hope so,” said Sreovel with a chuckle. Oleja did not echo her amusement. “Have you come up with a new design for the ankle joint?”
“Mhm.”
Sreovel eased up on the pedal beneath her foot and traded the now-sharp dagger for a second one. She began the sharpening process anew. “Really? May I see what you have come up with?”
Oleja kept to her work.
“Well, if it were me, I might take out that element altogether, you see,” said Sreovel, as undeterred by Oleja’s lacking responses as ever. “To me, it seems like a weak point of the design, yes? It will stay intact as long as something else—right now that wooden exterior—takes the brunt of the damage, giving in to any applied force sooner than that joint. But when the rest is strengthened, it will leave the joint more susceptible to damage. Plus, if you’re out in the wilds—say, the desert perhaps—what happens when sand and dirt accumulate in the mechanism? They’ll stiffen it up, leaving it with less mobility. Or none. That will only make it even more likely to break. You might want to consider a design with no joint at all, if you want it to be as durable as possible to stand up to whatever you put it through. Finding yourself stranded out in the wilderness with a broken prosthetic could be disastrous—deadly, even.”
Oleja paused. She had planned to repurpose the joint on her current prosthetic for use on the new one, but—though she hated to admit it, even to herself—Sreovel made a good point, one that Oleja hadn’t considered.
“Yes, I’d thought of all that,” she said without looking up at the eclipser. She stepped back over to the slate on the wall and started to revise her design, positioning her body to better hide the image from Sreovel.
But if she left out the joint, what would she replace it with? She wanted the limb to have some spring in it to keep her nimble and able to jump as far as she could before she lost her leg. Having no hinged section meant that even the process of walking would be a clunky and awkward one; she knew this well, as he first prosthetic hadn’t used an ankle joint, only a lower leg and foot shaped from wood. Walking on it was not only clumsy and painful, but looked horribly silly. Reverting to that design wouldn’t do—she needed some other option. But what?
“Perhaps in place of that joint you could reshape the structure of it altogether,” said Sreovel, continuing with her idea as if listening in on Oleja’s thoughts. “After all, who says it has to look like a leg? Maybe a curved limb of metal, providing just enough pliability for some give. It will work in place of leg muscles when running and doing things of the like. If you keep it sturdy enough, the shape will still reform after each step. That will keep it thin and light too, and if it’s all one piece it will be very durable as well. But I imagine you’ve thought of all that already as well.”
“Yes,” said Oleja. A lie, of course, but she would never admit that. Sreovel’s design made a lot of sense, taking into account what Oleja needed it for while casting aside expectations of what it should look like. It was thinner, sleeker—it didn’t waste space with a hollow interior like her current model. Perhaps the eclipser had learned such ideas from watching human slaves she loomed over, as no eclipser possessed the ingenuity to make such things on their own. They killed and destroyed—they were not intelligent crafters by nature.
Oleja looked down at the floor. Her boot—Ahwan made, a replacement for the old one of torn and cracked leather she wore in her travels across the desert—gripped the stone floor well thanks to a sole of a hard waxy material called “rubber,” the same stuff she used to make the roof of the raider wagon waterproof so many weeks ago, though this variety was nowhere near as stretchy. Something like that could improve the design further, since metal wasn’t known for its impeccable function of holding tightly to stone ground.
“My plan was to put a rubber sole at the base of the metal limb too, for better traction climbing stone slopes or on other hard, uneven ground. It will fix tightly to the bottom of the limb,” said Oleja, building on Sreovel’s design as if she’d already thought it through and gone further even than the eclipser.
“Oh, excellent thought!” said Sreovel. “You can even make spares to carry with you in case the first gets worn out or damaged or lost. They will be light and easy to pack for journeys.”
Oleja’s hands worked quickly, sketching out this new design as it all came together. It seemed so obvious to her now—she would have come up with it on her own given only a few more minutes of consideration and with less pestering from the eclipser, no doubt.
Sreovel cleared her throat. “Listen, Oleja—”
Oleja listened but did not show that she paid any attention.
“I know that I’m not going to get through to you anytime soon. You hold deep biases against me, that I can see as plain as anything, and I cannot force you to shed them against your will. It is nothing new to me—you are certainly not the first to aim such feelings in my direction. But I value your help here in my forge. You excel beyond your years in your mechanical mind, and that is a good asset to have. I know you need work—or pay, at least—and I a
m willing to provide it. If, that is, you are willing to work here at all.” She paused. “You are uncomfortable in my presence, I know, so we can make a schedule by which we encounter each other less; I work in the mornings and earlier in the afternoons, you work from the late afternoon through the evening into the night. You can use anything you need for your own projects—the facilities, the materials—alongside fulfilling your duties as an employee here, working on the jobs we have from the people of the city. That offer is available if you wish to take it, either now or at any point in the future.”
Looking around, Oleja assessed the forge. It worked like a well-crafted contraption—like her glider, all of the pieces operating in harmony. It truly was a work of genius the way so much power came from the river—some feat of human handiwork, no doubt, having stood there in that spot on the riverbank for many long years if Oleja ventured a guess. She couldn’t deny how much she longed to work there in the forge, if not for the eclipser haunting the dark corners of the room.
But to work there when Sreovel was away—that could suffice, at least for the time being until she managed to construct a forge of her own, or—ideally—if she managed to build an army sooner rather than later and head for Itsoh, leaving Ahwan and the need for a “job” behind. Alertness would still hang like a heavy cloak about her when she worked in the forge, as even if the eclipser didn’t wait within the building’s walls, Oleja refused to operate on the assumption that she had no reason to lurk outside, waiting to burst in and catch her unaware. But that she could deal with.
“Fine.” Oleja spoke the word without turning, the sounds coming out flat and dull, almost meaningless.
“You will work here?”
“Yes, at least for a time.”
“Excellent, you will start immediately. Take the time you need to finish this project, and then once you are done you can begin the duties of your job.”
The words soured Oleja’s mouth. To work there, under the instruction and command of an eclipser—how was it any different from living in the canyon back in her village, required to do the work of her beastly overseers?
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