The Forge of Men

by Caleb Wachter

  After finishing the task, he took out a fresh piece of coarsely woven cloth and tried to wipe his breastplate clean, but the acidic vital fluid of the demon had already burned an irregular hole clean through it. The metal of the breastplate was of significantly lower quality than that of the spear’s tip, and it was all he could do to strip out of the breastplate before the acid burned through to his chest.

  By the time he had done so, the tip of his spear was also completely ruined, having been eaten away at by the acid blood until it was little more than a nub of metal bound to the Spirewood shaft by the bronze binding ring.

  Surprisingly, the shaft of the Spirewood spear seemed almost completely unaffected by the acid, so rather than discard the valuable piece of wood he slung it across his back and continued on his way with nothing but that plain shaft of wood and Kephus’ sword for defense. His shield had almost completely come undone, and he knew it would be worse than useless in a fight, so he left it beside the corpse of the demon after performing a cursory examination of its dismembered corpse.

  He did not go more than twenty steps before a large shape loomed before him, and he felt his heart leap into his throat upon seeing what could only be the pillars of a temple supporting a dilapidated roof which covered a large section of hewn stone floor spanning at least twenty meters from edge to edge. Strangely, there were actually a few seemingly living trees nearby, and the building itself seemed to be lightly covered in pale green moss while patches of also unrecognizable vine-like plants climbed the vertical surfaces of the temple.

  “Finally,” he breathed, excitement overcoming the fact that he had lost his most important piece of armor, his best weapon’s most important piece, and his only shield.

  As he approached the steps, he felt genuine reverence in the structure’s ominous, silent presence. When he was at the first step which led up to the hewn stone platform on which the six front-facing pillars had been erected, he saw writing carved into those pillars and immediately recognized its meaning.

  Each pillar corresponded with one of the six pillars of warfare, so-called for their integral contributions to the successful prosecution of any war ever waged in creation. They were, roughly translated from their original writings: Strength, Preparedness, Intelligence, Deception, Terrain, and Heaven. If one mastered his understanding of all six of these pillars in practical warfare, then he would be invincible in any engagement he chose to undertake—and he would be able to choose only those battles in which he would emerge victorious.

  It was fitting that the tomb of the last King would feature the six pillars as structures which must be acknowledged each time one set foot in the hallowed place, and Nikomedes took a moment to reflect on his own limited knowledge of the six pillars.

  After reaching the stone landing, he saw a large statue standing like a silent guardian before the central stone structure which he assumed housed King Lykurgos’ remains. The statue was impressively large, standing at nearly twice his own height and it was carved of a jet-black stone which was unfamiliar to Nikomedes. The most notable features of the statue were the giant blade it held before itself as a silent declaration of the warrior’s prowess, and the fact that the statue’s head was missing.

  Behind the statue was a less than elegant carving in the old language, which translated roughly to, ‘We gladly feast on those who would subdue us.’ It was the motto of Hold Mistress Adamus, whose coalition of likeminded Hold Mistresses had undone King Lykurgos’ reign hundreds of years earlier.

  He knew that the statue could only be a rendering of King Lykurgos’ likeness, and he felt his blood begin to boil as he concluded that the coalition of Hold Mistresses had defaced his otherwise eternal likeness. A warrior’s life was spent in conflict, and to have his memory violated in this way was something which he found more offensive than even Kratos’ heresies at Blue Fang Pass.

  The thought of that one-eyed tyrant only served to increase his anger, but he knew he stood in an unfathomably dangerous place and needed to complete his task so he could leave before Nazoraios’ liniment was exhausted. The old man had made clear that it would only remain usable for three days after Nikomedes applied it to the mask, and that when it was exhausted there would be no stopping the vile vapors of the chasm from burning his body from the inside out as it had done to Kephus’ ancestor.

  He circled the centrally located stone cube—which supported a large, tiered tower that rose high above the rest of the roof—behind the headless statue, measuring it at just over three meters long on a side and significantly taller. After he came to the last facing, he found what he was looking for: a diagram of thirteen circles carved into the stone itself, interconnected by seemingly random lines which he had already memorized at Kephus’ instruction.

  He cleared his mind as he looked at the circles, but he dared not attempt to do as Kephus had instructed until the sun rose so he could be absolutely certain of each circle’s corresponding symbol. He had come too far, and risked too much, to allow failure to claim him because of foolish exuberance at reaching the threshold of what would doubtless be his greatest achievement.

  So he sat down and faced the circles, waiting for the sun to rise as he kept his attention on the surrounding rocks so he would not be surprised should another demon seek to claim his life.

  Chapter XX: The Forge of Men

  After the first rays of sunlight hit the fog-shrouded chasm’s floor, Nikomedes could clearly see the circles carved into the stone before him. He waited a few more minutes until his eyes no longer strained in the darkness, and he stood so he could approach the hewn rock.

  The thirteen circles were as he had remembered from Kephus’ sand drawings, but just to be certain he turned his back, knelt down, and poured the pouch of sand he had brought for this very purpose. With slow, deliberate movements he traced the image he recalled from memory in the sand, and when he was done he compared the two images.

  They were almost exactly identical, with only the length of a few lines off by small amounts, but he knew that his preparation had been as good as it would ever be so he walked around the structure one last time, looking for any markings which might indicate another step in unlocking the tomb.

  Aside from the headless statue, the scrawled declaration behind it, and the carvings on the pillars, the only feature of note was the diagram of thirteen circles—circles which clearly held some strange variation of the Zodiac calendar with which all people were intimately familiar. So he drew a deep breath and approached the carving in preparation to do that which he had come to do.

  Once he stood before the carving, he saw that the first circle he was to touch had a small hole carved in it, and that hole connected with each of the lines that touched the circle’s edge. The hole—and the lines which connected it to the other holes at the center of the other circles—was just large enough for his finger to fit within, and he suspected that was precisely what he was meant to use to trace the pattern.

  Removing the gauntlet of his right hand, he hesitated before sticking his finger inside the hole. When he did so, a sharp pain lanced beneath his fingernail and he found himself unable to extricate his finger from the hole. A brief moment of panic quickly abated, as he realized there must be some kind of mechanical lock behind the stone facing which had gripped his finger.

  He began to trace the pattern across the large carving, and found that each time he reached a new circle’s center there was a palpable click. A trickle of blood ran down his finger to his palm and dripped to the floor as he continued to work his way through the pattern.

  When he reached the final circle, after having made the circuit precisely as Kephus had instructed, there was a low-pitched thrum behind the wall and beneath his feet. Shortly after the thrum began, his finger was released from whatever had held it within the stone and the panel of seemingly solid stone split down the middle and slowly swung outward to reveal a winding staircase beyond.

  “Pattern accepted; preliminary genetic coding indicates
native Tract Two specimen with acceptably minimal mutations,” a strange voice said which was neither male nor female, and sounded strangely metallic as it echoed through the open temple. “Supplicant 119 is granted access to the outer Forge granted; proceed within to receive antidote. Failure to comply will result in death via cardiac arrest within six minutes.”

  “You poisoned me?!” Nikomedes blurted, more surprised at the strange utterances it spoke than by the fact that a disembodied voice chose to speak to him in the first place.

  “Five minutes forty six seconds remain until Supplicant 119 experiences fatal cardiac arrest,” the voice said calmly, seemingly ignorant of his outrage. “Reaching the antidote has required an average of four minutes fifty two seconds for previous entrants. Five minutes thirty five seconds remain before fatal cardiac arrest.”

  Nikomedes felt his chest begin to tighten, and he was quite certain it had nothing to do with his anger at being poisoned at the literal precipice of his greatest triumph. He knew the voice spoke truly, so he quickly ran to the downward, winding stairs and made his way down as quickly as he was able.

  “Closing outer doors,” the voice said, almost as if it was an afterthought, and the staircase was quickly swallowed in all-consuming darkness. Nikomedes paused briefly, but a faint line of white light slowly began to illuminate the outer wall which matched the descending staircase’s angle perfectly, so he quickly resumed his run to the bottom of the stairs.

  He counted no fewer than three hundred sixty steps before reaching the bottom, and he had taken to leaping two or even three at a time to expedite his descent to the bottom of the strange place. Only twenty steps into the descent, the walls had changed from stone to metal but he paid the change little mind as he raced to the bottom—where the supposed antidote was located.

  As he descended, his chest felt increasingly tight and his breathing became so labored that he had to remove the mask or risk collapsing as his vision began to narrow as his limbs became numb.

  He reached the bottom of the steps and came to a door, beside which was a piece of strange-looking, dark glass that magically sprang to life with a series of numbers and other symbols—most of which he did not recognize at all. Those symbols quickly shuffled themselves until they formed a human-looking face, the mouth of which moved as it said, “Supplicant 119 will place his hand within the analyzer below this terminal to receive the antidote.”

  Nikomedes saw a slot large enough for his arm to fit inside and quickly rammed his fist into it. His fist struck the far side of the box-shaped slot, and when it did so his arm immediately felt as though it was encased in solid ice. He tried to remove his arm, yelling in surprised alarm as he felt a series of rapid pricks strike his hand and forearm, but his arm could have been encased in solid stone for all the good his struggles did.

  “Congratulations,” the voice said as his vision narrowed and began to black out, “Supplicant 119 has reached this console more quickly than any prior supplicants; total elapsed interval is four minutes twelve seconds. Administering antidote now,” it said casually, presaging a fiery pain which ran up his arm so quickly and with such ferocity that he genuinely expected his body to burst into flames as it did so.

  He screamed as the worst pain he had ever felt spread throughout his body, but even as he did so he felt the incredible pressure in his chest begin to abate and his senses sharpen slowly, but surely as his breathing also became less labored.

  His screams subsided before long, and when his senses returned to their usual capacities he found himself on his knees with his arm still encased in whatever it was which held him firmly in place beneath the strange face composed of ethereal symbols.

  “Processing Supplicant 119’s genetic template,” the voice said, “stand by.”

  He remained in place, unable to remove himself from the slot—which had filled with a dark, opaque substance after he had inserted his arm—and genuinely considered hacking his arm off with Kephus’ blade if the entity which had trapped his arm did not release him soon.

  “Supplicant 119’s anxiety approaching dangerous levels,” the voice said as the stream of light-composed numbers on the pane of glass above him sped across the face composed of them with increasing speed. “Administering sedative now,” it declared, and Nikomedes felt another series of pricks stab along his forearm before he could protest.

  “Who are you?!” he demanded as he felt a strange wave of numbness suffuse his every pore, followed by the worst bout of drowsiness he could recall experiencing in his entire life.

  “The singular We that is Us operates as a wholly independent, yet simultaneously recombinant, Fragment of the Massively Multi-Parallel Entropic Network,” the androgynous, metallic voice replied in a nearly incomprehensible stream of dialogue as Nikomedes fought to keep his eyes open as overpowering waves of drowsiness threatened to rob him of his senses. “Addendum to clarify, due to probable communication barrier based on Supplicant 119’s limited technical vocabulary,” the voice echoed in his ears as reality became stretched and thinner in every facet of Nikomedes’ consciousness, “We are MEN.”

  Upon hearing those last three seemingly impossible words Nikomedes’ mind collapsed in on itself and he fell into a deep, dark, dreamless sleep.

  Nikomedes awoke with a start, realizing a truly agony-inducing sound had stirred him from his unnatural, thoroughly unwanted, sleep. It was a strange, unnatural sound that seemed to be a chord composed of only a few notes, but their discordance was truly nerve-wracking and he could barely resist the urge to cover his ears and fall to his side in pain as it pierced his skull

  “Supplicant 119 is required to declare maternal lineage back ten generations in the traditional fashion,” the Voice of Men commanded mere seconds after that horrible, brain-numbing sound abruptly ceased.

  “What?” Nikomedes asked blankly before gathering his thoughts—and realizing that his arm was no longer encased in the strange, dark ice which had held him firmly in place prior to losing consciousness. He stood quickly and eyed the face composed of light and symbols, wondering if what it had said prior to his unnatural sleep could possibly be true.

  “Supplicant 119 is required to declare maternal lineage back ten generations in the traditional fashion,” the Voice of Men repeated with absolutely identical pitch and cadence.

  Nikomedes could do as he was asked, but he jutted his chin out as he knew that if this truly was the Voice of Men, it would be unwise to attempt deception. “My mother has sundered me from her line—“ he began, hanging his head in shame for the first time as he recalled the event where she had rebuked him so candidly.

  “Irrelevant,” the Voice interrupted before he could finish, “social contrivances do not concern Us; Our genetic records database require an immediate update. Supplicant 119 will recite his maternal lineage back ten generations or have his organic components recycled,” it said, and the solid sheet of metal wall paneling beside the face made of light slid away to reveal a strange, but clearly dangerous device which looked like a hollow tube connected to a block-shaped base.

  The device made a strange noise—like a humming, or buzzing sound—as a soft, yellow light near the open end of the half-inch diameter tube switched to flashing red.

  Eyeing the strange, tubular device—which he suspected was a magical weapon of some kind—Nikomedes drew a breath. “My mother was called Hera Anteus of Messene, out of Dorkas of Messene, out of Cassia of Argos, out of Isadora of Argos, out of Ellice of Argos, out of Thais of Argos, out of Xanthe of Argos, out of Aspasia of Lyconesia, out of Alala of Argos, out of Nerissa of Argos,” he recited, the words coming to him like anything else a child memorizes by rote because his mother demands it of him.

  “Processing,” the Voice of Men declared languidly, and a long silence ensued before it repeated, “processing.”

  It continued repeating this every minute or so fifty three times in all, during which time Nikomedes waited patiently as any reasonable person would do while standing in th
e presence of his god.

  “Partial genealogical reconstruction complete for elapsed period,” the Voice said without a single hint of satisfaction. “Genetic sample catalogued and compared with current samples on file; material is sufficiently pure to warrant inclusion in Our database; error,” it said, its face contorting and briefly losing its shape as the stream of numbers turned red and flashed for several seconds, causing Nikomedes’ heart to literally stop until the stream of symbols returned and the Voice said, “communication with primary network unavailable—overriding emergency protocols to enable continued operation of this facility. Error,” it said, though this time the pane of glass on which the face was displayed did not waver as it continued, “corruption of genetic samples detected; replenishment required.”

  The strange, tube-shaped device withdrew into its nook and the panel of metal slid back into place before the door beside the Face of Men slid open in near silence.

  “Supplicant 119 will enter the Inner Forge for immediate Upload,” the Voice said all too casually, and Nikomedes’ eyes went wide at the last word it had spoken.

  To be Uploaded was the ultimate goal of his entire society, and it was spoken of with a kind of reverence as it meant that Men had deemed the people of his world ready to take part in the endless battle among the River of Stars. But no one outside of the Hold Mistresses would claim any real knowledge of what an Upload entailed, and even they were tight-lipped regarding the true nature of what an Upload was.

  But he had just been personally ordered by the god of his people, Men itself, to step into the most hallowed sanctum he knew existed so he could be Uploaded.

  “I am honored,” he said, uncertain how to accept such a momentous boon.