The Blacksmith's Reaper
James Neal
The Blacksmith's Reaper
Copyright © 2016 James Neal
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to Mr. Neal, at the address below:
253 Bumper Hill Road
Camdenton, MO 65020
[email protected]
All characters and events are fictitious. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
First Electronic Edition
Table of Contents
The Blacksmith's Reaper
About the Author
The Blacksmith's Reaper
Gorbel Metallon grimaces into the hellish sunshine waiting maliciously outside the darkness of his home. He would not be bothering to dare the outside world, but needs the oils from a paruta plant which will add his trademark shine to the blade he finished crafting last night.
With the glare blinding him, Gorbel does not see the stranger sitting to the left of his cave entrance. Apparently, his visitor thinks this enough to surprise Gorbel. The stranger draws a dagger and points it at Gorbel’s stomach. Unfortunately for the stranger, Gorbel hears the unsheathing of steel against leather and grabs his throwing axe before exiting.
In his gruffest manner, Gorbel asks, “What does a godless wetlock such as you expect to get from a poor man as myself?”
“You are neither poor, nor in a position to defend yourself Gorbel Metallon. I am an avatar of your god, Preithis StormIron.”
The stranger has a soothing voice. It insists Gorbel put down his axe for the simple reason that harming such a man must be against some law. Gorbel’s eyes begin adjusting to the sun and he sees the man is wearing fine silks. Indeed, the signet of StormIron is not only on his necklace but also woven into his blouse’s shoulder. Gorbel cannot believe StormIron uses such a man as his avatar. StormIron is a god of weapons and war, not political sciences. Not pretty people.
“Any man can sew a signet into his shoulder and call himself an avatar. What can you do to prove what you say? My god has no use for me, I do what I do in reverence to him, but I am not active in pursuing StormIron’s goals.”
“That is where you are wrong, Gorbel Metallon. You have dedicated your life to forging weapons of war, weapons that draw blood in the name of domination. Never once have you apologized for your profession. You've not refused payment based on skewed ideals of peace, nor gave a worrying thought for whom you provide weapons. Preithis StormIron holds you esteemed among those he would bother to name as his followers.
You want proof of my own position however. I give you this decision: either I can show you my true form, or we can fight. Should you choose to fight, I further decree that not only shall I defeat you in combat; but also you’ll not tear even a single thread from my garments. What choose you, Gorbel Metallon?”
Gorbel must admit the man has made an impression. Not only does he understand dwarf etiquette by using Gorbel’s full name (being that currently they are not friends), but he also offers combat. More admirable is the self-handicapping stipulation beyond the competition to prove himself. Gorbel has no real choice in the manner due to his code of conduct. He chooses combat.
“Fine then, stranger. I demand to know the name of the man who says he can best me in such a manner before the fight commences.”
“Gladly. Gorbel Metallon,” the stranger bows without taking his eyes off Gorbel, “I am known, simply, as Purge.”
Gorbel does not have time to recollect from memory the history of this avatar - only that he is second in a line of four - before Purge jumps at him. Purge’s dagger is in his left hand at chest level, the blade level with his arm ready to strike once within range. Gorbel’s three-foot, four-inch body is not capable of dropping the throwing axe in his hand and drawing the war axe on his back before Purge plunges the simple dagger into his heart. Instead, Gorbel throws his three hundred-seventy two pounds of weight, sideways, into his own spring attack towards his attacker. This strategy wins Gorbel two things, his life and long gash along his right arm.
Gorbel does manage to drop his throwing axe in midair. Landing, he draws the bigger weapon from his back. Turning, he finds Purge already lunging at him again. Rather than leaping again, Gorbel holds his war axe ninety degrees from his torso. Expecting Purge to swing the dagger, Gorbel finds himself caught off guard and extended by his counter attack. Purge instead kicks into Gorbel’s right knee, snapping it with ease.
Falling, Gorbel growls his rage and forces himself to stand again. This battle leaves no room for words. Which is fine. At this point, anything Gorbel tries to say will be inarticulate…mere growls and guttural half-curses. Purge, on the other hand, holds no such reservations.
“Are you ready to give in yet, Gorbel Metallon? I will not kill you, but I can afford to cripple you for some time. How much pain do you wish to receive?”
Gorbel growls more contempt as he rushes Purge.
“Good. Very, very good,” the avatar replies, preparing to defend himself.
Gorbel races at Purge, a dwarf possessed, knowing that should he stop now his wounds will keep him down for good. His war axe held above his head in both hands, Gorbel reaches Purge just after beginning a downward swing. Purge ducks, the axe missing his head by a nonexistent measure. He stabs his dagger into Gorbel’s injured knee. Gorbel knows the fight is over but takes one last, intentional swing at the avatar’s head anyway. Scoring a deep nick into Purge’s left cheek, Gorbel growls his pleasure. Afterwards, pain overwhelms Gorbel and he dips to the ground. Gorbel knows he's left himself open to any attack Purge may choose to destroy him. Looking into the sky he prays mercy from his long admonished god.
Purge does not attack. Instead he offers a hand to Gorbel, replacing his dagger in some hidden compartment around his waist.
“Come, Gorbel. You are a blacksmith - not a warrior after all.”
A voice inside Gorbel demands an apology for this statement. Gorbel pushes this voice down and accepts his conqueror’s hand. Denial of the obvious will win him nothing but death if this man is truly StormIron’s avatar. As Gorbel grunts to stand, he feels a tingling within his right knee. Upon putting weight back on it, Gorbel realizes he is no longer impaired. Looking at his right arm he finds nothing but dried blood smeared over course, black hair and fire-tanned flesh.
Purge sees Gorbel’s puzzlement and laughs, “How can you do what I ask of you as a blacksmith if you are immobilized? Do you accept me then, as Purge, Avatar of Preithis StormIron?”
“I dunno. I managed the scar on your face after all,” the reply is weak, and Gorbel knows it, but he will not deny his stubborn nature any further.
“But you did not tear a thread from my garments. Tell me I am incorrect in this.”
Gorbel lowers his head to his chest, the braids in his beard sticking up into the air before him, “No, you kept your word as I shall keep mine, Avatar of StormIron.”
Purge smiles wider, “Do not look so glum Gorbel Metallon. Your god’s instructions are both clear and fairly easy to realize.”
Purge pulls from within his infinite cloak a bulging skin pouch. Gorbel’s best guess is the skin came from a deer, and a young one at that. Five clear, white spots surrounded by a glassy tan. Gorbel guesses the skin is ancient, but well taken care of over time.
“What might this be?” Gorbel asks.
“This is an alloy you shall never find
on Derisma, Gorbel Metallon. From this, you shall make your next, and I warn you, last, weapon. Gorbel Metallon, you are to create the most magnificent blade Derisma has ever seen. You will place not only your expertise into its making, but also your blood and life-force as well. When the blade is completed, you shall deliver it into the hands of your king, Devrum NightFist. From there, the blade shall make its own way into the hands of its rightful owner.”
Gorbel stares into Purge’s eyes, finding no hint of mockery or lie in their depths, “How do I deliver a blade I’ve put my life-force into? Sounds much like a dead man walking to me.”
“Preithis StormIron will hold you up as you travel to the Halls of Bundelcahl. Be sure you give King Devrum NightFist your god’s full instructions before handing over your masterpiece, for as you do, Preithis StormIron shall gather you into his arms and take you home,” Purge replies with soft solemnity.
Gorbel reaches for the skin pouch, surprised at its weight as Purge releases it into his rough hands. The avatar did not lie. There is no metal on Derisma that, in this quantity, could even begin to force his arm towards the ground. Gorbel is compelled to flex his arm merely to hold the pouch in one hand. He brings it close to his chest, using that as much as his arm to keep from dropping his prize.
“What shall I call this alloy then?”
“The alloy is known among celestial bodies as Smokesteel. The properties of the alloy allow it to bond with whoever works it, as well as those whom actually handle it in its final form. Beware Gorbel Metallon, once you have fully cooled Smokesteel, it shall never bend to the fires of Derisma again. Is that understood?”
At this Gorbel laughs heartily, “I’ve never known an alloy I couldn’t fashion into what I intended it to be. What have I to worry when my god makes plans for such a fantastical weapon? StormIron shall watch over my hand, of that I am sure.”
“Do not be, Gorbel Metallon. The nature of Smokesteel will keep Preithis StormIron’s watchful eye upon you, but should he help your hand, he gives the weapon a piece of himself. No mortal deserves even a portion of his power, regardless of his or her resolve to domination. You are well on your own in this matter, Gorbel Metallon. You shall be one of the few who shall ever be granted the pleasure - and pain - of working with such an alloy.”
Alerted, Gorbel looks up at his companion, “You tell me there have been others given this…Smokesteel, in the past?”
“Weapons are a permanent part of Derisma’s history, little as that means. But yes, others have used Smokesteel before, among other celestial metals.”
Fittingly jerbed, Gorbel realizes that in the web of all things, he is but a small fly stuck on a single sticky string. If Smokesteel were in use before, then he would not be creating anything that has not come before. Then to know there are different celestial metals in other weapons, well, he'd started to believe he is special. Now he is aware that is not the truth.
“Do not feel so taken advantage of, Gorbel Metallon. Gods choose their heralds carefully, even those who play smaller roles than say, my own. You will be remembered as a brilliant blacksmith, one who created many incredible armaments even before this final installment. This blade shall create for you a solid, permanent, place in history. This sword shall remain long after you are dust. Every time it is unsheathed, the name Gorbel Metallon shall be sung again. Is this not a worthy end to long, illustrious career?”
“I suppose that is what every blacksmith hopes for - that his name will not become lost in the fog of chronicle and myth. Why? Why must I perish for my god, if I have been so loyal to him? What is to be so special about this weapon that another could not give their life for it?”
“Do you believe another could craft such a weapon? I told you once the Smokesteel will take on your very essence…”
“What does that mean?” Gorbel shouts, “Shall it speak as me, think as I do? A weapon is a piece of steel shaped to puncture or smash an opponent. In itself, a weapon is dead. The only qualities it holds are its hardness and sharpness, its ability to handle tough situations and not break under pressure…”
“And there you have answered your own question. How much of yourself have you poured into the weapons you created before? Had you been reckless or uncaring of how they turned out, they themselves would have become untrustworthy, uncaring of the situation they were in. There is a certain amount of magic within blacksmithing. You already know this to be true. Smokesteel is magical by nature. Everything you put into it will be magnified. How the blade turns out is completely up to you, Gorbel Metallon.”
Finally, Gorbel understands how doing this will be his greatest work. Not only shall his name be credited with constructing the weapon, but also contain the essence of his very soul. Not in some magical I-am-in-the-blade way, but a much more comprehensive manner. The words to describe it are lost to his limited vocabulary, but that does not matter anymore. He understands - and understanding is all he asks for.
