It was gone.
His greatest work. Gone.
•••
Two travelers approached the building. The first was a man, perhaps thirty, with dark brown hair and a confident air. His companion was younger, black haired and quiet, perhaps eighteen or twenty. Anticipation was easy to read on the older man’s face, relief at the end of a long quest, with bright prospects lying ahead of him. The youth seemed apathetic almost, compared to his companion, but a flicker of interest crossed his face as he took in the scene before them.
Nestled amongst the pines was a small, rustic lodge, dwarfed by its neighbor, the blacksmith’s shop. Dark wooden pillars supported a simple roof that bristled with chimneys, belching smoke and ash. Even pouring rain, as it was now, the smithy was stiflingly hot, and the sharp chink of hammer on metal blended with the patter of the incessant rain. A rather redundant sign hung in front of the building, bearing the blacksmith’s symbol of hammer and anvil.
The two men dismounted, and the older man strode forward, each step on the cobblestones throwing up a spray of water. Stepping into the spacious but cluttered workplace, he looked the blacksmith square in the eye and said:
“Greetings, Kalrag Forgemaster. My name is Lithra, and I have a proposition for you.”
•••
Where was Resca? He hadn’t seen his apprentice in hours. Perhaps he knew where his missing masterpiece had gone.
•••
Another sheet of paper was crumpled, torn, and finally set fire to, flames leaping from the fingers of the irate enchanter. He’d known it would be difficult, but this spell, this incredibly complex web of enchantment, was proving somewhat more difficult than even he’d anticipated.
Still, the vision hung before him, the ideal of the perfect weapon, the deadly tool, a powerful force for good in the world, to carry his name, and his legend, long after he was gone. It drove him forward, even after weeks of hectic rewriting and planning, and he would not settle for anything less than that ideal.
Kalrag certainly had no time for idleness either. It was a long ride to Quarryvale, and he’d made dozens of trips over the course of the weeks. Sleepless nights were passed as wagonloads of ore were processed and refined countless times, all of his equipment checked and rechecked, and all things set out to perfection.
Only Resca was left without work to do, and he wandered aimlessly for days. He lacked Lithra’s intense devotion to his project, and although learned in the enchanters arts, he had too little experience to offer much help to his mentor. He certainly wasn’t any help to the blacksmith.
He kicked at a rock despondently, gloomy thoughts churning through his head. Lithra was a good teacher, he could not deny that, and he was fortunate to be apprenticed to one of the most skilled enchanters in generations. Still, he was restless. He wanted glory, and, although he would not admit it to himself, he wanted power. This business with Lithra’s sword was impeding his progress, who knew what he might have learned in the time it took to accomplish this project?
He tried to be patient, but there was little to distract him from the resentment he felt. But there were still many long, empty days ahead of him.
•••
If this is some kind of joke, Resca, there will be trouble, and plenty of it. His student, and his sword, the two most important parts of his life, were gone, and even now dark suspicions were creeping into his thoughts.
He saddled up and rode for town at a gallop.
•••
At last the great work had begun. All the materials were ready, and Lithra had finished his preparations. Dozens of papers now held the perfect spell, every section checked and scrutinized endlessly.
The enchanter and the smith peered into the chunk of metal that would soon become the testament to their strength, the epitome of their craft. So much potential lay there, and they would not rest until the sword was perfect.
Both men made a final check of their equipment, Lithra ensuring his pages were legible and in order, and Kalrag making a few last adjustments to his forge, confirming that all was in order to transform this iron into fine steel.
Grasping the metal with his tongs, the blacksmith shoved the metal into the forge, and the enchanter began the first of many long chants to come.
•••
Resca tossed his fifteenth galestone into the heap. The resulting pile was worth a small fortune, but Resca didn’t care. Thunderstones, descrying charms, magical rings, all worthless. All boring to him. It wasn’t a challenge anymore. He longed for something more, some new power to master, like the safeguard spells, or advanced spellcasting techniques, anything would do.
But his master spent all his time working on his precious sword, and collapsed exhausted into his bed each night as another stage of the construction was complete. Boredom fueled thought, which together formed desperation and resent.
Master and pupil had always gotten along well, but there was always an air of professionalism between them, one which Lithra hardly noticed, but it irked Resca, and the loneliness distorted that slight distance into fantasies of cold neglect. The respect that both felt for one another dwindled in his eyes, and his thoughts began to turn to darkness.
•••
How could he do this? Certainly they hadn’t been as close over the past weeks, but patience was a large part of becoming an enchanter, and he’d thought Resca had learned that long ago. He had been surprised at his pupils absence during the spellcasting portions of the forging, he might have learned a great deal.
But the work was finished now, and Resca had betrayed them on the very day he was to enter the final stages of his education? He didn’t want to believe it, but the heaviness in his heart told him otherwise.
•••
Kalrag pulled the white-hot sword from the belly of the furnace, sweat racing down his face, and soon disappearing into his impressive beard. The dull monotony of the enchanters spell wove through him, lending a rhythm to the constant blows of his hammer. Lithra’s voice was becoming hoarse, but he was not about to let mere bodily weakness stop him. They were so close to the end now, just another hour or so and the final shape of the blade would be complete.
Many long spells had been completed now, infusing unearthly strength and resistance into the metal, forming invisible but powerful spells to the sword, the incorporeal inextricably bound to the physical.
•••
Resca watched from a dark corner of the forest, unnoticed by Kalrag or Lithra. He was too far to hear anything but the relentless clang of the hammer, but he didn’t need to hear, only to see. There was a light in his teacher’s eye that he’d never seen in all their lessons, a zeal lavished on his trael cé phai sword that he’d never shown to his own apprentice.
Resca was too enveloped in his dire thoughts to consider things from his teacher’s point of view. As Lithra saw it, his purpose as a mentor was not to befriend or raise his students, merely to provide them with the tools they required to excel on their own.
And although he valued his students greatly, this sword represented the greatest work he would ever accomplish in this life, one by which he would be judged and remembered for centuries. He’d spent years in service to King and country, it was time to spend some of his attention on himself.
But this reasoning was lost on Resca, and the resentment soon fell into jealousy. At that moment, he stopped planning his future, and began plotting.
•••
It was a simple equation, but the conclusion was unbelievable. His sword was gone, his apprentice was gone, and a horse was gone. The Quarryvale gossip was teeming with tales of the young, sword-bearing rider that had swept through town like an avenging demon, snatching supplies and racing off as if a dragon was chasing him.
And he was right to flee. He has far worse than a dragon on his tail.
•••
At last the final blade was complete, gleaming in the soft flickering light of the lanterns. It was polished to a fine luster, sharper than the north wind, deadly, elegant, powerful. The blade was roughly three and a half feet long, not including the handle, large enough for two-handed wielding, light enough for one. A shallow fuller tapered smoothly down the blade, lessening the weight and providing a useful path for his additional spells.
The rest was mere child’s play for a man of Lithra’s talent, but of course great care was taken here as well. Days were spent rounding out the final details of the sword. A molded wooden grip was added next, covered with diamond-shaped black leather pieces. A simple, conical silver pommel completed the weapon’s physical construction. Spells of preservation and strength were laid on each, ensuring that the sword would survive for generations before requiring maintenance.
Then came the external spells, dozens upon dozens, layered in and through one another to form an intuitive whole. Spells that would summon fire, electricity, ice, enchantments of his own design. When in motion, the sword would accelerate upon contact with an object, using the same principles as the Galestones. This provided the effect of phenomenal strength while still allowing the wearer to swing at normal speeds.
And finally, when every combat useful enchantment he could muster had been completed, Lithra reached into his traveling pouch and pulled out the small wooden charm that he’d carried for so long. Years ago, he’d bartered a trade with an Elvish mystic, in anticipation of this day. The charm allowed him to manipulate and store memories, although only with the subject’s consent. For years, he’d sought out the greatest warriors and tactical minds in the North, and one by one, had duplicated their memories and knowledge of war into this charm.
He held the simple wooden talisman over Sa’Lithra, and began to chant. His sword would be complete this night.
•••
There it was, lying in front of him, metal softly shining in the moonlight. It was irresistibly alluring to Resca. Throughout the long weeks, jealousy and spite had twisted him, revealing his true colors. He wanted power, and there it lay.
Should he take it? A month ago the answer would have been no, but now he was not so certain. Lithra, ignoring his own apprentice, to make this sword. Looking at the weapon on the table, he could almost understand the appeal. It was a work of art, he could tell, he could feel the thrum of power emanating from the sword. Disillusioned visions of grandeur flashed before his eyes, long-held and unshared beliefs about the fall of government rising in him, and Sa’Lithra was the key to his dreams.
The world would unite under one banner again.
His.
He gripped the sword, felt the knowledge flow through him, and left.
•••
He was gone, he was really and truly gone, and he took the sword with him. As much as he wanted this to be a bad dream, it was not. He had no idea what had possessed Resca to steal his sword, but if he was willing to do so, doubtless he would attack his former teacher to keep it.
What had he unleashed? A weapon even he could not stop, not without the proper tools. His mind raced as he considered a course of action. He must forge another sword, quickly, before Resca could wreak too much havoc. One which could stop the thing he’d made.
Things, he corrected himself. The sword was not a force of evil, it was a tool, and somehow, he was sure he was responsible for what Resca had become. He had to stop his pupil, no matter the cost, regardless of what he would have to sacrifice.
•••
Two weeks later, Lithra set out after his treacherous apprentice. The new sword had been finished, a hurried masterpiece, the balance and counter to Sa’Lithra.
He called it Avenger.
