For all their efforts, the only thing upon the steel bed of the cart was a single ingot of star-metal. The glassy-black bar was about two-feet long and no more than an inch thick, yet still it was impossibly heavy. This bar had once been part of a Saint’s Star-Armor. Who that Saint had been was anybody’s guess. It had been acquired with the skull, brought by Celacia before Tarquin disposed of her. Tarquin reveled in the fact that Celacia was already just a memory. In time, she would be just as forgotten as the Saint whose armor provided the star-metal ingot.
At last Tarquin watched his men get the cart beneath the pincer-arm of the crane. Tarquin’s newest blacksmith, a man named Tabar Torstein, came over to inspect it. Tabar was a giant of a man, a good hand taller than any other in the chamber. He was muscular of build and wore heavy, leather armor and a thick apron to protect him from the heat. Upon his face was a leather mask with dark, tinted goggles, beneath which his gray beard hung in tight plaits. Tabar had come highly recommended from Lord Kanen of Graystone. There, Tabar was a master armorer but here he had yet to be successful in working with star-metal.
The Dragon Forge—the skull of the fire dragon—was the only thing in the world capable of melting star-metal. The hope was that Tarquin would be successful in forging it into a metal light enough to be worn by soldiers or used by the Jinn, yet still maintain its indestructible properties. After having gone through nearly thirty of Duroton’s best blacksmiths, all Tarquin had accomplished was the successful melting and forming of it. No matter what any smith had tried, they could not get star-metal to accept any other metal or element. Tarquin was no closer to achieving the goal of light star-metal than when he started, and he had long ago lost his patience.
Still, he had some hope for Tabar. In Graystone he was renowned for his incredibly light and durable armor and had even made a number of suits for Dark Star Knights. Last week Tabar had formulated a bluish, metallic compound of rare metals and elements and today he hoped to fold it into the star-metal, making it lighter. They had already tried melting the metals together, but molten star-metal was nearly impossible to work with and it always rejected foreign metals once hardened. Tabar was convinced that folding and pounding the metals together held the best chance for success.
As Tabar inspected the star-metal ingot, a number of laborers signaled to the crane operator and helped to guide its pincer-arm down to the cart. Tarquin’s mechanical left arm whirred as he pulled himself forward in his throne, watching expectantly as Tabar secured the crane’s pincer to the ingot. Tarquin had lost the arm ten years ago to Celacia, and the left side of his face still bore patches of sickly gray and yellow skin which made his long, blonde hair seem even more tarnished. With his other hand he stroked his beard, which fell in two thick braids from his chin.
“This is it,” muttered Tarquin as Tabar whirled his hand around, motioning for the operator to raise the crane. Tarquin turned his smokey, blue eyes to the tall, rigid figure that stood beside his throne. “This is it.”
The Ghost leaned forward ever so slightly in acknowledgment.
The thick, iron chains of the crane creaked as they went taught. Gears moaned and clouds of steam screamed from the pipes as the ingot slowly rose. Gazing out the length of the skull’s snout, Tarquin could peer through the nostril holes and watch as the star-metal was swung around until it was just outside the fiery mouth. The iron pincers didn’t take long to become red-hot even just hanging outside the skull. From the side of the pincers a steel rod pressed against the end of the star-metal ingot, slowly pushing it so that it alone moved within the mouth. After a few moments the edges of the star-metal began to glow red and then orange, and after a moment longer, the entire ingot was yellow. Then the edges began to glow a soft violet color. At this crucial moment before total melting, the crane operator quickly swung the arm away from the mouth and began lowering the ingot to the machine known as the Heavy Hammer.
The Heavy Hammer was a monstrous contraption of huge, steel beams flaking with rust, exposed gears large enough to grind horses into slurry, and shiny, steel pistons. Like most of the equipment here, it had been made by the Jinn and was fueled by power crystals. It sat just far enough beyond the skull’s mouth that the heat was bearable. The work surface was a rotating iron plate where different anvil surfaces could be selected. Currently there was a rounded surface, but Tabar threw a lever and the disc clanked around until a flat, smooth, surface was before him. Tabar quickly squirted oil on the anvil surface and ducked away just as the glowing ingot came down with a tremendous thud. As the crane arm swung out of his way, Tabar laid a small bar of his specially formulated element on the yellow-hot star-metal.
Above the work surface were a number of different hammer heads, all upon massive, hydraulic arms. Each head was a good four-feet in diameter and weighed far more than any man could hope to lift. Working quickly, Tabar clanked a lever down and over, selecting the largest, flattest hammer the contraption offered. Gears clattered and the hammer arm moved into position. He held down a brass button and the hammer came down upon his ingots in rapid succession, each blow creating a thunderous echo in the immense chamber.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Blue sparks erupted with every pound, showering Tabar in them and lighting up his goggles. He released the button and leaned in, inspecting the metal.
Quickly, Tabar threw another lever. A steel rod slid over the work surface, on top of the flattened ingots. Then, from the front of the machine, a steel bar pushed forward, folding the metals over the rod. The bar slid back and the rod pulled out. Tabar hit the brass button and the machine roared to life, pounding down on the metal a few more times. He released the button and the hammering stopped.
By this time the star-metal was no longer brilliant with heat and Tabar leaned in, inspecting his work and brushing at it with a gloved hand. From his perch Tarquin could almost see Tabar’s disappointment. Tarquin watched as Tabar threw off his leather mask, shaking his head in frustration.
Tarquin spat a curse and stood from his throne. There was a steel staircase that led up to the top of the skull, and Tarquin hopped up them and strode toward the back of the skull where a small cavern led into the mountain where Tarquin’s private quarters and other rooms were. This hall wound around the very back of the skull and out to its side, where another steel staircase led down into the forge’s primary chamber. The Ghost followed silently behind Tarquin. It moved rapidly, its waist bent forward at an eerie angle. The shroud of lithe, iron chains flowed like smoke around it as it moved, concealing its arms and legs and making it look as if it were floating. Tarquin made his way toward Tabar, his own cape fluttering behind him. “What happened? What went wrong this time?” he barked.
Tabar shook his head and held his hands up. “I don’t know, my Lord.” Tabar looked down at the Heavy Hammer’s work surface, scratching his gray hair. The star-metal was flattened and folded but the blue metal from his element bar was simply sandwiched in it, like meat between bread. Tabar tugged at the blue metal and it began to slide out as a separate entity from the star-metal. He broke off a piece of the brittle metal and shook his head. “I can’t get anything to fuse. I can’t even get anything to fold into it. Star-metal is a confounding metal, my Lord.”
Tarquin swatted the metal out of Tabar’s hand. “What’s next? Where do we go from here?”
Tabar sighed. He put his face down to the flattened star-metal, inspecting it. He brushed at it and some blue powder came off. “Nothing. Not a single grain fused.”
“What do you need?” barked Tarquin. “More chemicals? A new element? What?”
Tabar stood up and looked at Tarquin. He hiked his shoulders. “I don’t know, my Lord.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” spat Tarquin. “You’re supposed to be the best smith in the west of Duroton. What do we try next?”
Tabar made a troubled sigh. He stared down at the flattened star-metal, shaking his head as he thought qui
etly to himself.
“Commander Tarquin!” came a familiar voice, but not one that Tarquin particularly wanted to hear right now. “You live! Why, we all feared you dead, being that our last three quick-hounds hadn’t been answered.”
Tarquin turned to see four of his Guardians escorting Balin Yagdril across the vast chamber. The Councilman was dressed in a fine, yellow doublet with elaborate, red stitching in the form of a phoenix upon the breast. He walked briskly beside the Guardians, his polished boots clomping on the stone floor. Behind his well-groomed mustache and sharp beard was a stern face that was quite rare on the Councilman.
Tarquin scowled even as he bowed slightly. “Most Exalted Councilman.” he said. But then he noticed another figure, thinner and more frail, behind Balin. It was an old man in red robes. He walked nearly as briskly as Balin, though his back was hunched slightly. Still, he used no cane. Balin had visited sporadically over the last decade, but this was the first time Rankin Parvailes had ever come.
Tarquin’s scowl deepened. He cast a glance at the Ghost, and then looked down at his necklace. The old man would figure it out if he saw the Blood Iron. He quickly tucked the necklace under his breastplate. It was a thin, iron chain hung with three fingernails, each cast in the same pocked, bloody-red iron as his throne. A thought occurred to Tarquin that maybe there was nothing for Rankin to figure out. Maybe the old man already knew. Why else would Rankin make such an exhausting journey here? Tarquin silently cursed Saint Isley and his vexing little spies.
Tarquin approached the Councilmen. “Exalted Councilman Parvailes, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I thought it time I see this thing with my own eyes.” Rankin’s voice was like two ancient stones sliding over one another. His gray eyes scanned up the height of the dragon skull. They fixed near its eyes. Tarquin watched Rankin’s face for any sign of knowing as the old man’s gaze fell upon the throne. Tarquin couldn’t be sure if the old man could see it, the way he was squinting.
“I hope your travels were well.” said Tarquin. Behind him, Tabar and his laborers helped lower the crane down to grab the flattened star-metal. As it lifted, all the blue metal crumbled out from the fold.
“Funny thing about travels,” said Balin, removing his riding gloves. His deep, brown eyes fixed on Tarquin’s sword, Whisper. “All you have to do is wave that sword of yours around and you can be in front of our Council table.” said Balin. “Yet, here we are, a seven-day ride from the comforts of the castle in this stars-forsaken mountain of yours.”
“My apologies.” Tarquin bowed slightly, more to conceal his smirk than out of respect. He couldn’t help but notice that Rankin was eyeing the Ghost strangely.
“Is there a reason our retinue was made to remain outside?” asked Balin, his eyes now catching sight of the spectral figure. “I see you’re fine keeping some new company of your own.”
“The Dragon Forge is to remain secret.” said Tarquin. “The fewer who know its tunnels and chambers, the—”
“We’re not in Council. Let’s not blow warm smoke up each others’ asses.” said Balin. “We have sent three quick-hounds asking for progress reports these last twelve months and you have not responded to a single one. King Dagrir sends me to remind you that you, your men, and this forge belong to the Lands of Duroton. Have you forgotten that, Commander Tarquin?”
“I know where my loyalties lay.” said Tarquin.
Balin seemed to take notice of the throne atop the skull. “Are you sure, Commander? I wasn’t aware that anybody other than the King sat upon a throne. Though, iron seems to be a poor choice of metals. It’s unbecoming of any ruler.”
Rankin turned his eyes to Tarquin. “There was one who found iron a worthy seat.” he croaked.
Tarquin averted his eyes from the old man. “It is merely a place I can sit and observe operations. Hardly a throne.”
“Good.” said Balin. He made a show of looking around the chamber. “Because what the Exalted Council giveth, the Exalted Council can also taketh away.” Balin turned to one of the Guardians and said, “If I told you that the King or Council had requested you leave this mountain and return to the castle’s direct service, would you obey?”
The Guardian nodded. “Absolutely, my Lord.”
“So, you are not sworn to Commander Tarquin?” pressed Balin.
“I am,” said the man. “But my allegiance to King and Country comes senior to him.”
“And what of you?” asked Balin of the next Guardian.
“I am sworn to King and Country above all else.” said the Guardian. “Wherever the Lands call me, that is where I go.”
“You see,” said Balin, turning to Tarquin, but all Tarquin could think was that this was exactly why he had the Ghost and his other specters, and that perhaps it was time to bolster their ranks. “You were given command of this place, but you are not the master. You are the dog.” Balin fixed Tarquin with his eyes, “Allowing foreign slaves into Duroton has brought a level of prosperity to myself and other nobles these last five years. But it has also taught me a great lesson. There is a certain level of trust that a master must give his dogs. Sometimes those dogs will test their master’s boundaries and a swift correction must be made, lest they do it again. However, some dogs will go so far as to bite the very hand that feeds them. Those dogs have broken a trust that can never be restored and it’s best to put them down. I assume you learned much the same during your days training Great-Hoofs, did you not?”
“I did.” said Tarquin coolly, but on the inside he was seething.
“Good.” said Balin. “I’m willing to consider this no more than a test of boundaries. Pray you don’t make it a bite.”
Tarquin nodded. Behind him, the Forge was swinging back into full gear and Tabar began issuing orders to all the laborers. Aside from working on star-metal, one of the Dragon Forge’s duties was refining the metals mined from the mountain or brought in from elsewhere. Men and horses began wheeling carts up the tracks laden with raw iron, as well as silver and gold ore. Carts full of scrap metal were also being brought in. Around the other side of the dragon skull, huge machines to crush and strip the stone rumbled to life, spewing steam into the chamber. Enormous, iron arms began to work back and forth, spinning towering flywheels that seemed to give the skull a roaring voice. A crane arm lowered, grabbing up a tremendous load of scrap metal. Rusty gears and chains shrieked, as if the skull itself were crying out in hunger for its meal.
“I’m glad we have an understanding.” said Balin, watching the steam from all the machines cast their fog over the skull, giving it an eerie, haunted feel. “I have my arenas and brothels to run and a country to serve, so let’s make this quick, then, shall we?” continued Balin, turning back to Tarquin. “King Dagrir would like to know where we are in regard to star-metal?”
“The reason I have not reported is because I have nothing to report.” said Tarquin. He waved a hand toward Tabar and sneered. The blacksmith was at the Heavy Hammer with a number of his assistants, poring over what looked like pages of formulas. The crane arm dumped the scrap metal into the skull’s mouth. Flames flared outward and in an instant it was part of the molten sea within. “I need a better smith.”
Balin watched the action for a moment. At the far side of the skull was another machine, like a crane with an iron bucket upon its arm. It swung around, quickly dipping the bucket into the molten interior. It swung back around and began pouring the fiery, liquid contents into another mechanical beast. “Quite an operation you have here. It’s a shame there has been little progress with star-metal.” said the Councilman. He turned to Tarquin, “You used to be a man of ambition, Commander. When we placed you in command of the Dragon Forge and its Guardians, it was because you shared the Council’s desires for more. Yet, here we are, ten-years later, and what do you have to show for all we’ve given you? Make no mistake, Tarquin: If the Council desired a man content with
smelting ore to run this place, we would not have given you command. The entire world lies south of us, and last I looked to the sky, there was but one star remaining. If the prophesies are to be believed, that means a new age is nearly upon us. Where is the Lord Tarquin that was so intent on helping the Council make this new age all about Duroton? Where is the Lord Tarquin that desired star-metal armor to lead his armies against the Saints of the southern lands?”
“I am trying, Councilman,” said Tarquin, stinging from the words. He met Balin’s gaze. “It’s not as if I’ve busied myself by opening brothels and training slaves to fight in arenas.”
Balin huffed. “I’ll tell you what. Come by one day and see the establishments me and the other Councilmen have put together. You strike me as the type who would appreciate a good bloodsport and you’ll see that gladiatorial fights have become the favorite pastime of the people. Afterward, I’ll let you avail yourself of any of my women. I have a sweetheart from Dimethica who can make you forget all your troubles. Or, if you’re more adventurous, I have an exotic beauty from Escalapius who can bend in ways you’ve never imagined. They might put a little hop back into your step.”
Tarquin smirked. “I suppose you and the others already had such establishments in mind when you passed the laws opening Duroton to foreign slaves.”
“What we’ve had in mind, Commander, is to have our armies south. Unfortunately, without star-metal armor of our own, or the Mard Grander reforged—both duties tasked to the Commander of the Dragon Forge, I might add—we have no way to face Sanctuary on an even playing field. But, as Council, we take what we can get and have adjusted our plans accordingly.” said Balin. “The new age is upon us, Tarquin. Pray you do not allow it to pass us by. Duroton will not survive another thousand years of isolation.”
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