Dragon Mage

by ML Spencer

  Aram nodded excitedly, his eyes wandering over the tools that lined the walls of the shop. There were various types of long-handled grasping tools and tongs, and a vast assortment of hammers, ranging from very small ones to sledgehammers with handles longer than he was tall. There were files, chisels, and clamps of all sizes, along with troughs of water and large, floor-mounted whetstones and anvils.

  “The strength of a star-steel blade lies in its composition,” the delicate swordsmith said quietly. “Each sword possesses a destiny. To achieve that destiny, it must perform its duties without breaking or bending. So, inside, we give it a core of soft and flexible steel. Then we cover the core with a jacket of harder steel. This makes the blade strong and allows it to hold a fine edge.”

  Motioning for Aram to follow, he guided him toward the cold forge in the back corner of the workshop. On the left side of the forge was the bellows, which was operated by a piston pulled with a long handle. The forge itself was long and narrow, simply a trench cut into the floor and filled with charcoal, covered by a large hood to vent the smoke.

  Squatting beside his forge, Onsel motioned Aram to crouch next to him. “This is the forge where the blades of Champions are created.”

  Opening a container at his side, he selected an irregular chunk of bright steel roughly the size of his palm and handed it to Aram. “This is special steel mined from a fallen star.”

  Aram gazed down at the heavy chunk of steel in his hand, marveling at it. To think, he was holding an actual piece of a star, something that had fallen from the heavens. It was irregular, reminiscent of pumice, and glistened with flecks of many different colors, just like his own eyes.

  Taking the piece of steel back, Onsel handed Aram a thin metal rod as long as his forearm. “The first step to creating a star-steel blade is to light the forge. This is a task only you can perform. To light the forge, hammer this rod to a sharp point. If you strike it hard and fast enough, the point will produce heat.”

  He gave Aram a small hammer then motioned him toward an anvil set into the floor. Aram held the rod at an angle and struck the tip of it with the hammer.

  “That’s good!” said Onsel. “Now, just like that—flatten it!”

  Aram did as instructed, striking the metal rod with his hammer several times, making a tink-tinking sound. When the end was flat, he turned it over and struck the other side.

  “Keep turning it,” Onsel directed. “Strike faster!”

  Aram did as he said, turning the rod over and over while striking it with the hammer, lengthening the end and sharpening it to a point.

  “Faster!”

  He could feel his forehead start to sweat. Pressing his tongue against his upper lip, Aram concentrated harder, putting all his vast focus into the precision of the act, striking the rod faster until the tip started heating up.

  At that point, Onsel handed him a strip of parchment, which he held to the heated tip, and watched as it started smoldering, then blackening, at last producing a flame.

  “Quick! Light the forge!” Onsel urged.

  Moving quickly but carefully, Aram scrambled past him, shielding the tiny flame with his hand, and used the lit piece of parchment to ignite the kindling within the forge.

  Instantly, the star-steel forge blazed to life.

  “Good!” Onsel cried.

  Grabbing a shovel, he added fuel to the forge. “This is special charcoal made from crushed dragon bone!” he said loud enough to be heard over the scraping of the shovel and the crackling of the flames. “It produces far more heat than regular charcoal and will add carbon to the steel without letting it burn!”

  The forge flared, casting sparks upward toward the hood. As the forge heated, Onsel stirred the coals with an iron rod, working the piston of the bellows with his other hand.

  “The color of the flame tells us the temperature of the forge,” he explained, pumping the bellows. “If we want a hotter flame, we add air to the forge.”

  With that, he stopped pumping and let the flames cool, fading from pink to orange. Fascinated, Aram watched the flames of the forge gradually dwindle, leaving the coals glowing red. At that point, Onsel grabbed a pair of tongs and placed one of the large steel ingots directly into the coals. “We start out with four times more steel than we actually need, because most of the impurities will be removed during the forging.”

  Aram crouched on the floor, watching in silence as the piece of star steel gradually heated until it was red-hot. When it reached the right color, Onsel motioned his apprentices forward then removed the chunk of steel with a pair of tongs. He set the glowing steel on an anvil and held it there with the tongs while his apprentices used sledgehammers to beat the glowing steel flat, hitting it in turns while Onsel held it to the anvil.

  After it was flattened, the glowing ingot was returned to the forge to reheat. Then it was removed and placed on the anvil again. This time, Onsel picked up a small hammer and started tapping out a rhythm on the anvil. His apprentices stood on wood boxes to add to their height. They took turns beating the steel with their sledges while Onsel tapped with his hammer as though drumming a cadence. It took Aram a moment to realize that Onsel was using his hammer to communicate, giving directions to his apprentices by varying the patterns of his tapping. When the steel was flat, he doused it in a water bath, which steamed and gurgled.

  “This pulls out the impurities then peels them off the surface.” Setting the cooled steel wafer back on the anvil, Onsel rose to his feet. “This is as far as we go today,” he said with a gentle smile. “You did well. I will call you back in a week to move on to the next step.”

  Aram nodded absently, gazing down at the steel that would someday be his sword. He felt no small amount of pride that he was allowed to participate in his sword’s forging. Thanking the master swordsmith, he removed the apron and left the workshop.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The stench of the burned forest permeated everything: the air, the soil, the food, the water … even his hair and clothing. For the hundredth time that day, Sergan spit the taste of ashes out of his mouth, gnashing his teeth. Smoke was still thick in the air, and in many places, the Grove was still smoldering. He had to be careful wherever he walked to avoid stepping on the charcoaled remains of both people and animals.

  He waited in front of the pavilion that had been erected beside the new gateway they had established between worlds. Scores of soldiers had been flooding in from the Imperial side of the gateway, more every day. An entire army was gathering, ready to defend their freshly gained territory. They brought with them many miners and Extractors to harvest the wealth of essence they had secured.

  The Extractors were already busy filling jugs and carts with water from the Wellspring. Others had set about the task of butchering the great Tree, harvesting its wood, which was rich in essence and had other arcane properties. Even the soil around the Wellspring was being mined. After the battle, the soldiers had figured out that the loam possessed healing properties, and many had slathered it on their wounds.

  “Exilar.”

  Sergan turned to regard the soldier who stood awaiting his attention. “Yes, Corporal?”

  The soldier, a gaunt man with pale skin splattered with freckles, reported, “A woman claiming to be an emissary wishes to speak with you.”

  “Interesting,” Sergan muttered under his breath. The Grand Vizier had warned him he’d be contacted by their allies in this world. Sergan assumed those allies were the ones responsible for torching the forest, although he had seen no evidence of them yet. “Bring her here.”

  “At once, Exilar.”

  He watched the man walking away, a tingling sensation crawling over his skin. A frown crossed his lips, then his gaze drifted to Obriem, who stood apart from him, intent upon the rape of the Wellspring. He had never liked Obriem, but since Markus had defected, he had no choice but to work with him. The sorcerer Obriem had been paired with had died during the battle for the Anchor, which was an unfortunate conv
enience. Sergan lacked a Shield and Obriem lacked a sorcerer, so he’d taken him on. It was either him or Poda, and Poda’s nature was too gentle for the task at hand. Obriem had a coarser side to him, a grit that would be necessary for what they faced ahead.

  He called Obriem over with a sharp whistle.

  “Some type of emissary’s coming to speak with us,” Sergan informed him. “I want you here with me.”

  Obriem wiped the sweat out of his eyes, creating a smear of sooty grime across his brow. “Do you suspect treachery?”

  “I always suspect treachery.” Sergan trained an accusatory smile on Obriem.

  The young man scowled, not missing the expression nor the intent. Sergan enjoyed irritating him, for Obriem irritated him.

  He cut the smile short, though, as he caught sight of a small party riding toward them around the perimeter of the Wellspring. At their head rode an albino woman with long, lustrous white hair, and though her skin and eyes were wincingly pale, her facial features were striking. She drew her horse up in front of them, looped her reins around the pommel of her saddle, then lowered herself lithely to the ground. Stepping forward, she bent at the waist, presenting herself with a formal but masculine bow.

  Sergan plied her with a gallant smile. “Welcome to my encampment, Mistress…?”

  The woman returned his smile. “Greetings, Exilar. My name is Lazair Saliste. My master, Kathrax, has sent me here to speak with you regarding our mutual interests.”

  Sergan ran his gaze over her, taking in her silken robes, which were strangely unaffected by the environment of ash and soot she had traversed reaching him. She must not have come from far away, he decided.

  “Exilar Sergan Parsigal. So honored to make your acquaintance, My Lady Lazair.” He mimicked her bow. “Please join me inside?”

  Holding back the tent flap, he waited for her to enter the pavilion before following her, Obriem having to duck to enter behind them. Inside, the tent was large enough that they could both stand upright, covered in rugs and appointed with elegant furniture. Sergan motioned his visitor to have a seat at a long walnut table, pouring her a cup of wine before taking one of the chairs across from her.

  Folding his hands, he invited her, “Please enlighten me about our ‘mutual interests.’”

  The pale woman took a sip of her wine, capturing and holding his gaze. He couldn’t help but stare at her, for he found her intensely fascinating. As the seconds went by, and his initial shock subsided, he found himself reassessing her appearance, his appreciation of her looks swelling enormously.

  Her skin was chalky white with undertones of pink, in some places all but translucent. The woman’s eyes were her most arresting feature, for they were a shivering purple-blue, framed by long eyelashes that appeared frosted with ice. Her face seemed chiseled from crystal, all sharp edges and angular planes, and there was a subtle sheen to her cheeks that made them glisten in the candlelight. By the time she opened her mouth to speak, Sergan was convinced that he sat across the table from the most striking woman in the world.

  She smiled at him with full lips that were naturally pink. “In the land where I come from, there are four great tribes who are ruled by four great thanes who are, in turn, guided by prophets of the Divine Archon Kathrax.”

  Sergan grunted. “There are many gods of men, my lady, but I’ve never met one I’d consider divine.”

  The woman’s brows compressed slightly in what might have been irritation. “The Divine Archons are far greater than mortals and yet less than gods. Once, before the Sundering, there were seven. Seven brothers, the Scions of Senestra.”

  Sergan knew that name, for in the ancient myths, Senestra had been a human sorceress seduced by the Earth-Father, spreading her legs in exchange for divinity. Ahn had sired on her seven sons, the Seven Archons, who had been entrusted with the protection of the Auld, their father’s mortal children. But when Senestra received the gift of divinity, she turned against her lover, sparking the War of Desolation that had been fought between the gods of Auld and the gods of Men. The Archons of Senestra had betrayed their vows and turned against the Auld. In response, the first Champions arose to oppose them, and the ensuing battle had eventually ended in the Sundering, stranding most of the Archons in the World of Men—the World Above. Of course, all of that was just mythology—just ancient man’s pathetic attempt to explain the cataclysm that had broken their world.

  So, this woman and her people worshipped a demigod who, if mythology was to be believed, was committed to the annihilation of the Auld and the defeat of their Champions.

  Interesting.

  They had achieved that goal in the World Above, it would seem. And now this Archon Kathrax was moving against the Auld in the World Below, conceivably to end the race forever.

  Perhaps there was something to mythology, after all.

  “And what would the Divine Archon have of me?” Sergan poured a cup of wine for himself.

  The woman gave him a wan smile. “The Archons of both our worlds have been working for centuries to reverse the Sundering. Your God-Emperor has pledged you to the service of his brother, Kathrax, to aid us in this task.”

  Sergan stared at her vacantly, his mind working as swiftly as it could to connect all the dots she had just strewn before him like breadcrumbs.

  God-Emperor Mirak ruled the Abadian Empire supposedly by divine right and was regarded by most of his subjects as truly divine. Mirak was also called the Never-Dying for, according to legend, that same man had ruled the Abadian Empire for hundreds of years. Since no one except his servants were allowed to see the Emperor, this claim had never been proven nor disproven. Most people of reason tossed the notion aside, assuming that the births and deaths of Emperors were cloaked in secrecy so that the illusion of divinity could be maintained.

  But if mythology could be believed, then perhaps there was something to legend, as well.

  Sergan’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying that the Emperor of the Abadian Empire is an Archon?”

  Lazair nodded, smiling coyly. She took a sip of her drink, smoothing her crystalline hair back from her face. “Your Emperor is one of the three Archons that exist in your world.”

  Sergan reminded himself of how much he hated religious fanatics. It was too bad this woman was one of them. She was almost beautiful enough for him to want to attempt a dalliance.

  “Who are the others?” he asked.

  “One is the ruler of your own Order.” She smiled grandly.

  “Valeda?” He could not suspend his disbelief any longer and let out a hearty chuckle. “The wine must be too strong for you, my dear. Maybe you should leave off.”

  “You believe I lie?” She scoffed, as though it were he that was the fool.

  “I’m not calling you a liar. I’m calling you delusional,” Sergan corrected. “Either that, or you think I am.”

  Setting down her cup of wine, Lazair gave him an enigmatic smile then rose gracefully to her feet. “Come with me, then. Let me prove my sanity.”

  Intrigued, Sergan rose after her. Setting down his wine, he followed her out of the tent and let her lead him back to the rest of her entourage, who had remained behind with their mounts.

  “I invite you to ride with me out a short distance from this camp,” Lazair said, untying her reins from her saddle.

  Sergan looked at her sidelong, wondering just how far he dared trust this mysterious and exotic creature. “May I bring my Shield along?”

  “Of course.”

  He licked his lips, pausing in indecision. Then he summoned Obriem with a jerk of his head. Lazair waited for them to procure mounts, then motioned for him to take a place behind her black horse.

  Clucking his stallion forward, Sergan motioned for Obriem to ride abreast of him. Together, the three of them rode away from the defiled Wellspring into the smoldering devastation of the forest. A white haze of smoke hung low to the ground, rising from hot spots that still seethed beneath a thick layer of ash. The Grove was thoroughly
denuded, reduced to a charcoaled wasteland. Sparse, blackened snags were the only evidence that there was ever a forest here in the first place. Ash drifted like snowflakes from the sky, dusting the shoulders of his mantle.

  Sergan kept his gaze fixed on Lazair’s back as they rode. She sat her horse straight, fully at ease in the saddle. Every so often, she glanced back at him, flashing him a knowing smile before turning back around.

  Eventually, they came to a place where the ground sloped downward toward a dry riverbed. There, Sergan’s eyes fell on a good-sized encampment that all of his scouts either hadn’t noticed or had somehow forgotten to inform him about. Sergan traded looks with Obriem, who sat his horse rigidly with an ever-deepening scowl. Apparently, his new Shield didn’t like the situation either.

  They started down the blackened hill toward the riverbed. His horse shied when a rock turned under its hoof. The beast was already ill at ease, made anxious by the sights and smells of the surrounding terrain. Beside him, Obriem’s mount tossed its head and chomped nervously on the bit.

  Before they reached the bottom of the slope, Sergan’s attention was captured by the sound of low, inhuman moans. He rode leaning forward, scanning the ground ahead, but could see nothing through the hundreds of tents that blocked his sight. Whatever was making the noises, it sounded like a wounded monster wallowing in pain.

  Lazair drew her mount up on the outskirts of the camp. There, they were met by warriors wearing some type of tribal costumes who walked out from the encampment to intercept them. There were three men: two younger and one older. The older one’s face and body were covered in intricate tattoos. The younger men’s bodies were also inked, although far less elaborately. Perhaps the tattoos served a symbolic function.

  Lazair dismounted, and Sergan followed suit. He attempted to greet her men, but they ignored him. In silence, they relieved them of their horses. Sergan stood for a moment surveying the camp, his gaze lingering on the dark rows of felt tents. Judging by the amount of ash that had been churned to gray sludge on the ground, Lazair’s people had been there for some time. Which meant that, somehow, they had managed to keep their presence hidden from his own scouts.