Path of Transcendence 1: Ultimatum of the Nameless God

by Brian McGoldrick

  There is no sign of Sigurd or Xenia, when we reach the warehouse. Perzey and I do not talk while we wait. Even after being together for more than a month, we have very little in the way of conversation. I am not talkative by nature, and Perzey seems to live mostly inside her own head. The only time we talk much is when I train her.

  Along the docks, there are people in clothing and armor from dozens of zones. The kaleidoscope of colors and styles represents most of the Southern Reaches, from what I recognize. There are also others that are from the Western Reaches, but I have no clue where many of them hail from.

  As Talon, I spent most of my time in the Southern and Western Reaches. The Southern Reaches near the Western Reaches is where Thug Horde was based. Even though their main strongholds are fairly far from Tallifer, I am sure that there are some of them lurking around the city. The big question is why that raiding force was following one of the Nameless' DokkAlfar in the Swamp of the Lost.

  “Brand!”

  Sigurd's voice draws me out of my contemplation. He has changed, since I last saw him. The lost and beaten demeanor that he had, when I found him in the cell, is gone. His back is straighter, and his smile is reminiscent of the almost constant half-smile he had as John. The way he walks seems more natural, as well.

  “Perzey!” Xenia's voice and attitude are overexuberant, but there is a coldness in her eyes. With her arms spread wide, she runs up to Perzey.

  I was not sure about Xenia at first and did not have enough time to be certain. She is a sham, who does everything with an eye to the effects it will have on others. She is a prima donna. She always has be the center of everyone's world.

  Perzey slides past Xenia, hitting her in the stomach with a closed fist. Grabbing her a fistful of hair with the other hand, Perzey jerks Xenia's head, forcing her to collapse to her knees.

  “Do not touch Perzey. Perzey does not like Xenia. Xenia has too many faces.” The blatant malice and hostility in Perzey's voice is enough to shock anyone who has not been around her recently.

  “Perzey, let go of her.” Sigurd steps forward, his hand ambiguously half-reaching for one girl or the other.

  Perzey's head snaps around to glare at Sigurd, and her thumb presses into the V below Xenia's throat. She spits at Sigurd's feet.

  “Dickless pretty boy. John lusted after Carmen. Carmen ignored John. John was just a physical therapist. John was not a doctor. John was a joke to Carmen. Xenia is afraid. Xenia spreads her legs for Sigurd.” Perzey's smile is almost as malicious as one of my own would be.

  Xenia is attempting to claw Perzey's hand away from her chest, but Perzey's fingers are solidly hooked in her armor. The pressure does not look to be enough to kill or impede Xenia's breath, but Xenia is still gasping for air.

  Sigurd looks like he was kicked in the balls. “Let her go, Perzey. You're friends. Helen …”

  “Helen is dead! Perzey hates weak Helen! Carmen was a slut! Carmen a whore. Carmen fucked the man Helen loved. Carmen had the man Helen loved fired for sexual harassment. Helen hated Carmen. Helen was too cowardly to face Carmen. Perzey is not a coward! Perzey is not weak! Perzey hates Carmen. Perzey hates Xenia!”

  Not grinning or smirking is one of the most difficult things I have ever done. There is so much hidden hatred and viciousness inside of Perzey targeted at those she falsely called friends. It warms my heart to see such a good example of friendship and camaraderie.

  Their little display is drawing a lot of attention from the surrounding crowd, but almost all of them appear confused. They cannot understand what is being said. After all, English is a language that is only known by the Possessed.

  Only five of the people paying attention seem to be able to understand what is being said. The way that their expressions change and their eyes shift make it obvious they understand the language. Four of them are grouped together and have a slightly haunted appearance. The last one is alone and strikes me a scavenger or maybe a weak predator.

  “AAAARRRRGGGHH!”

  Sigurd falls to his knees, after being kicked in the balls by Perzey. Some of the watchers are covering their own balls, while wincing. Others, especially the handful of women, are laughing. The scavenger is staring like a hyena sizing up the lion it wants to steal from.

  “Stupid Sigurd. Perzey is not weak like Sigurd. Perzey is learning to be strong from Brand.”

  Sigurd looks at me accusingly.

  I smile and shrug.

  Perzey uses her grip on Xenia's armor to shake her.

  “Is this all Xenia has? Big body. Big tits. Small courage.”

  Perzey throws Xenia onto her back.

  While Perzey stands over her, Xenia stares upwards. Her face is filled with confusion and fear, as she gasps for breath. There should be no reason for her to be so out of sorts, since Perzey was not trying to kill her.

  “Why are you doing this? We were friends!” Xenia's eyes gleam with unshed tears.

  Perzey shakes her head. “Xenia betrayed Helen. Perzey was never Xenia's friend.”

  Perzey looks at me, with an innocent smile on her lips. “Perzey wants to kill Xenia.”

  “No.”

  Perzey frowns for a moment, before smiling even more dazzlingly. “Pretty please.”

  “No.”

  With a pout, Perzey turns away from me. “Brand sucks.”

  All of the people who understood English are looking in my direction. The scavenger seems to have found something he does not like. His stare is decidedly hostile. The other four have a mix of apprehension and disgust on their faces. The only female among is staring at what is visible of my face, with her own face a mask of blatant horror.

  I smile at the girl and laugh, when she turns away with a shiver.

  “Get up. You're embarrassing yourself.”

  Sigurd looks up at me, with a scowl. “Have you ever been kicked in the balls?”

  “I've been castrated, before being crucified.”

  Sigurd stares at me for a moment, before his face pales. His voice is barely a whisper. “You're not bullshitting.”

  Obviously in pain, Sigurd forces himself to his feet. Perzey has started to tap into the true potential of her body. With the addition of some barehanded combat training, she hits hard. While I am not teaching her Shadow Fist, she is learning Urehara Style martial arts.

  Xenia is still on her ass, looking up. While her eyes are slowly moving between the three of us, she has a vacant look in her eyes. She has probably just had a few delusions shattered and is not dealing with it very well.

  With the show over, the onlookers have started moving again. The group of four who understand English have disappeared, but the scavenger is still watching us. He has moved out of the flow of traffic and is leaning against a stone piling near the water.

  Perzey saunters up to me and leans against my side.

  “Perzey is bored. Perzey wants to fuck.”

  “Later.”

  Perzey glares at me for a moment, before pouting.

  Perzey's banter with me makes Sigurd stiffen, before he takes Xenia's hand and drags her to her feet. Sigurd's eyes are turned away, but Xenia's are filled with confusion and fear as she looks at him. The changes in Perzey have pulled the carpet from beneath their feet, and probably, neither of them is sure how to react.

  *Do you know where to find the best Smiths in this city? Do not speak normally. Use the raid channel for anything important. We are being watched by someone who is not friendly.*

  Sigurd spins around to stare a me for a moment, before obviously searching for the the watcher, like an idiot. He is not someone who is properly equipped mentally to survive.

  *And now the scavenger knows that you know he is here. That was a truly brilliant move.*

  Sigurd turns so red, his blush is blatantly obvious through is dark tan. *Sorry. I wasn't thinking.*

  *Not thinking is a fast way to get dead. This is not Earth. This is a giant battlefield constructed by a group of self-proclaimed gods, so that they can enjoy t
he misery and suffering of everyone they have trapped within. The people here are used to death coming out of nowhere. If you want to live, you need to learn to think and not react like a complete noob.*

  Xenia glares at me. Fear, hate and outrage are all mixed up in her eyes. *You are such an asshole. Who do you think you are? You act like we're dirt. You're not any better than us. You're just a scarred freak.*

  *So, is this the true face among Xenia's many faces? I wonder what you'll do when you run into some DokkAlfar, or even more Thug Horde trash for that matter. Next time you see Jinmu, kneel down and kiss his feet. If not for him, I would have left you in your cells in the Shit Hole.*

  Xenia tries to hold my stare, but her eyes almost immediately start to wander. She flushes crimson at Perzey's laughter, turns away in a huff.

  Perzey never heard what was said in the raid chat and must have made another assumption. She is too caught up in her delusions of strength. There is no victory here. It is not my strength that caused Xenia to run form a confrontation. It is Xenia's own weakness. Almost everyone from Earth is pathetically weak.

  *The best Smiths, do you know where they are?*

  *Follow me* Sigurd turns and leaves the docks, following a road between two warehouses.

  Perzey grabs my hand, practically skipping along at my side.

  Since Tallifer is built on an island, the Council of Five refuses to allow expansion beyond the current walls. All of the land outside the walls is dedicated to agriculture, to minimize the city-state's need to import food. To overcome the lack of available land the city is built vertically, and even trade and manufacturing type business mostly reside in the towers. The Smithy that Sigurd leads me to is no exception. Built on the seventeenth level of one of the tradesman's cylinders, the Smithy takes up the entire east quarter of the floor.

  Through the open gates, the main work area of the Smithy can be viewed. Sixteen forges and four smelters fill the space. A system of hoods over the forges and smelters, and flues resembling heating ducts vents the smoke to the outside of the tower. A couple dozen apprentices and eight Smiths of either the journeyman or master level are industriously laboring away.

  The Smiths' hammers have auras around them, varying in in shades between golden yellow and orangish red. Most are only a faint sheen, but two Smiths have brilliant glows surrounding the heads of their hammers. Sparks spray outward in polychromatic bursts, every time one of the Smith's hammers strike the incandescent metal on their anvils. The apprentices who are forging appear to be working on tools, utensils, and horseshoes. That must be nothing more than training, since these are obviously Smiths and not common blacksmiths.

  Real Smiths use mana in their forging. They are considered to be Makers, the types of Power wielders who actually create Items of Power.

  Beside me, Sigurd seems a bit nonplussed, as he stares at the Smithy. I think he does not really understand what he is looking at. Xenia, on the other side of Sigurd, has a contemptuous look on her face, as she stares down her nose at the sweaty, soot stained Smiths.

  Perzey is a surprise, she is staring raptly at the Smiths swinging their hammers.

  “Strong.” The whispered word is barely audible over the cacophony of the Smithy.

  A massively muscled man, with salt and pepper hair, comes out of an office to the side of the entry. His is a couple inches shorter than me, but he probably weighs close half again as much. Very few humans ever develop the kind of muscle mass that this man has. The force of his presence far exceeds his physical size. His eyes seem to dismiss the others and settle on me, as they carefully measure me from head to toe. Those chill blue eyes give the impression of being able to see though to the very soul.

  The intensity of his eyes does not match the businesslike smile on his bearded lips. “I'm Roderick. What can I be doing for you this fine afternoon.”

  “I'm Brand. I need some mundane chainmail repaired.” I push my cloak back from my shoulder, and point to the rent sleeve over my biceps.

  Roderick fingers the metal, and his narrowed eyes focus on my face. Even though nothing shows on his face other than a slight wrinkling of his brow, I am sure the thoughts are racing through his mind.

  “Can you take this off?”

  I shrug and store my cloak and weapons in my ring, seeing Roderick nod slightly, as he watches me. Taking off my hauberk, I pass it to him.

  A slight smile turns up the corners of Roderick's lips, as he bounces the mail in his hand. “How did you ever get enough Dvergar steel to have this made?”

  “Dvergar steel? What's that?”

  Roderick's eyes widen. “Don't you know what you have here?”

  “It was made on my home world, from an alloy of high carbon steel, and very hard and heavy metals. I was not born in the Battleground. There are no Dvergar on my home world.”

  Roderick's slight smile turns into a frown. “If you know what metals are in this alloy, I can duplicate it for you. Without making some of this metal, I don't think this mail will ever be repaired to its original quality. Well, the quality of workmanship is not all that high, but the metal is superb. If it is not Dvergar steel, it is close enough as to be virtually identical.”

  Surprise turns my face into a blank mask, and it takes me a moment to process everything. I have heard of Dvergar Steel, it was mentioned by Thorrin a few times. I have a vague memory of seeing it mentioned in a few books in the Battleground of the Damned, but I cannot remember the context. Could it be made from the same combination of metals as my mail and swords?

  “I don't know what the metals are called in the Slave Tongue. In my native language, they are called tantalum and tungsten. I think are found in very small quantities in some ores that contain iron, but I don't know how to identify them.”

  Roderick scratches his bearded cheek. “There are a lot of ores you can extract iron from. I may have to experiment with the slag and see what I can refine out of it. If nothing else, you have given me a clue, which I lacked before. About your mail, I'm sorry, but I cannot repair it to be as strong as it was.”

  Roderick stares at the mail in his hands, then at the mail still on my legs, before turning his eyes to my burn scarred cheek. “There's a lot of metal here. There might be a better way to do this, but it will take time.”

  “How much time?”

  Roderick frowns slightly. “Well, that depends on you. It could be half a year, or it could never happen.”

  My eyes narrow in irritation, and the ki in my begins to naturally circulate with my aggravation.

  Roderick grins slightly. “Quite a temper you have, to go with all that ki. You also have a lot of untrained mana.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “Can I see your burn scars?”

  Curiosity gets the better of me, and I take off my leather gambeson.

  Roderick stares at my chest and stomach for several moments. “I can see the fear of fire in your eyes. You know fire, and know it better than most ever will. You know its strength, and you understand its dangers. A Smith who does not respect fire is doomed. If you overcome the fear and keep the respect, you have potential. Have you ever considered following the Path of the Maker?”

  I am gobsmacked by his words. It takes me several moments this time to wrap my brain around the idea and formulate an answer.

  “How much will that cost me?”

  Roderick grins. “Nothing. It's another experiment. Do you know know the secret to Patterning more powerful items?”

  “More Power.”

  Roderick laughs, while holding his belly and slapping his knees. “Every idiot knows it takes more Power. The secret is the pattern of the Maker. The stronger the Maker's pattern, the stronger the items base pattern will be.”

  “I still don't get it.”

  Roderick snorts with a superior look on his face. “Smiths are Makers. Your pattern being stronger means what you Make is stronger. Refining more Power is the fastest way to strengthen your pattern, but it has some pretty severe limits
. Once you reach those limits, stories and legends are the best way to make your pattern grow.

  “Have you ever wondered why Named and Legendary items have so much Power? Everything in the universe is made of patterns. Just as patterns can be damaged and destroyed, they can grow. The knowledge and belief of others have in you, even if they just think of you as a story, will strengthen your pattern. It is not much for a single person, but when it becomes millions or hundreds of millions, they universe itself will help your pattern to grow. Every deed, for good or ill, that becomes known will strengthen your place in the Great Pattern. The more who know of you, the stronger your pattern becomes.

  “I don't adventure, anymore. I did in my youth, but now I'm settled in my Smithy. I've reached the limits of refining Power, and the weapons and armor I create do not spread my fame fast enough.

  “You are different. You're already steeped in blood, and I'm sure your infamy will become beyond legend. If I train you and you make it known that I am your teacher, I will become a part of your story. That may spread my fame faster than anything. I'll grow stronger, simply from being your teacher.

  “You're masterwork will be to melt and reforge that chain into a new suit of armor, which you will Pattern.”

  I stare at Roderick. “What makes you so certain about this?”

  “I'm a Smith. The first thing you have to learn to be a Smith is to see patterns. In your body and mind, I can see an enormous potential as a Maker. What do you say?”

  It feels as though something is still playing with my fate, but I do not think this is the Nameless' work. I cannot keep the smirk off my face. “Sure.”

  *** Tallifer (City of Tallifer) - Battleground of the Damned ***

  Return: Day 54

  Clang! clink. Clang! clink. Clang! clink. Clang! clink.

  Sigurd and Xenia have returned to Jinmu's base. Only Perzey is still with me. When she is not practicing her combat arts in a quiet corner of the Smithy, she squats near my forge. With her arms resting on her knees and her chin resting on her arms, she sit watching me for hours. Her hungry eyes follow the movement of hammer, and feral smile twists her lips.