I did not know how they had gotten my tools. The truth was, I did not care. I needed every small help I received. I likely had only a couple of hours before my enemies arrived.
As I heated the forge, I could only think whether it was right to attack these representatives of the continent's faith. I did not think they were or should be my enemies, but this was my ancestors' home. It was the refuge of thousands of dwarves who had lost their property when we were expelled by the elves from the beautiful caves of the Spider Mountains. I did not know this record house existed. I thought if they promised not to interfere in the battle of the mushroom forests, I would gladly let them spend the night here. Yet something I learned in Stormhammer was that one must be prepared even when one should not. Regardless, among the techniques explained in the book, there were a couple I wanted to try.
In the city where I worked as a smith, I was considered one of the best. Like the inventors, I was only limited by the tools to shape better quality items—not to mention the techniques that master smiths did not share for less than five thousand gold. I had used that money to pay for my son's schooling... Now I would have the knowledge to purify iron. These supposed steel ores were very good. I could make a shield and a mace from this material—it would even suffice for pauldrons—but it was not pure enough.
The text was simple. One had to keep the carbon level below two percent and above one percent to obtain malleable, resistant metal—exactly what I needed. When the crucible held the melted ores, it was time to use magic. The attraction runes began to charge, a little faster than I had anticipated. From the hot metal, I slowly extracted those residues. I could even feel the purity level of the metal. This alloy was becoming something of very high quality. The manual said I could leave some small fragments of magnesium and other metals, but I only sought something similar to the original formula. I could experiment later.
The next step was sudden cooling. That was a little difficult. I removed the crucible and patiently began extracting the heat from within the metal, expelling it into the environment, so the forge's already high temperature rose further. I sweated profusely, and the armor weighed on me. But it was worth it when I returned the metal to the furnace. Now it was complicated. Its melting point had risen because it was pure metal. For that, I had all the heat surrounding me. I focused it again, now toward my hands, then into a superheated current that enveloped the crucible. The metal mixture finally released the last residues, which I extracted and deposited in a corner. From the weapon molds, I took another war hammer—a one-handed one—and a kite shield to improve my defense and the damage I could deal. But I hoped I would have plenty of metal left even if I could not make the pauldrons. I had something more valuable in mind.
While the molds cooled, I discovered happily that enough pure steel remained. Calmly, I chose pieces I began shaping on the anvil—first as sheets, but with a little work, the scales began to take form. These would not have complicated runes. They were engraved with simple actions of joining and repulsion, so my bronze armor would not face attacks directly until the metal sheets lost their engravings. They turned out quite hard—two centimeters thick and not deforming unless struck with my maul. That was a beauty. The shield was half my body's size, wide at the top, protecting my chest and face, tapering below into the shape of a kite—hence its name. I flooded it with runes of magical resistance and hardness. My new maul had a very useful rune that only activated in combat. It took the centrifugal movement of the strike and added its weight as gravitational value—capable of breaking a rock the size of my first cave with no more than a swing. But there was the problem: I had to be very precise. If I did not hit anyone, the momentum could knock me down. I would use it only at the beginning, or I would not last.
Night fell as I ate hard bread. The pantry of the place had no meat—only barrels of beer and some travel bread. The beer tempted me, but I could not be drunk... or could I? In truth, it did not sound like anyone had arrived. Perhaps the knight's information was not accurate. Almost guiltily, I opened the tap of one of the barrels. An amber liquid of unsurpassable color greeted me in a mug. The aroma was tempting. I had not drunk while my son studied to save money. But today, one night, I thought it would not matter if I had one in honor of my lost life.
I could almost feel the bubbling aura of the beer on my lips when I felt... it was the closest thing to what happened. I felt disappointment, the shame of someone who expected things that seemed beyond his reach. Shame overwhelmed me. I did not know who was watching me, but it made me feel like when I was young and nearly ruined my family with drink. Just as I was about to break down crying—for the absence of my beloved, for the loss of my son, because the jackals of the Wolf Clan still breathed—I began to feel danger. Danger was coming. My beard bristled, but it did not seem immediate. Something—perhaps my son—warned me it was not time to drink, but it was time to rest. Guided by the sensations, I found the baths. The water was cold, and the feeling of panic faded a little as soap and scrubber removed the soot from my skin. My armor was only a meter away, and no one seemed near.
With some surprise, I saw my body. It had been two months since I could see it. First, badly wounded, abandoned on the plains. Then traveling without stopping. I had not bathed. I did nothing but wander, looking for Wolf Clan mercenaries. I ate while walking, slept a couple of hours. I saw only a few scouts. When I interrogated them, the answer was always the same: "They send us because we are low class. We have to investigate the kingdom. Only the large, safe rewards are worth visiting. Everyone fears the Dark Lord's fury." They did not survive, certainly. But that was because they could not provide information, and I could not leave people who would tell others where I was. The figure I had acquired through this manic search would have made any dwarf envious. My belly—the product of cheap, abundant dinners—was gone. Apart from the scars from the hazards of being a smith, I had to add all the blows, marks, and somewhat old wounds from metal boots and hand weapons. In short, no one would see me as a smith.
After the bath, I went up to the throne room to sleep. There were some magical crystals, some runes I did not understand but did not seem threatening. With some effort, I fell asleep watching the arrow slit that looked out onto the courtyard.
Noise woke me. It was the sound of maces striking shields. When I looked out, I saw some very corpulent warriors, all clad in bronze armor—genuine plate armor, nothing like my inventions. These beauties provided great protection, provided you could carry them, and with that mass, I was sure they could. Armed, I only had to descend the stairs. Shouts echoed throughout the cave: "Come out, scum of the abyss!" "The sacred army has come to eliminate you!" "We see evil here—evil that will not endure before our light!" There were many, but they were idiots. They entered and kept coming, but there were fewer than twenty. How did they expect to face the supposed horde?
As I crossed the dining hall, I heard: "Look, brothers! Demon eggs! We will destroy them in the name of the sacred!" At that moment, as I emerged from the doors, I saw one of the serpent women coming out of a crevice—only one attacked. She lunged as the mace fell upon her young. She continued forward and attacked the one who had killed her offspring. She broke her fingers on their shields as she pursued them. I saw her receive a blow to her tail and her back, and they laughed. Of the three who were near, they had already raised their shields or swords to finish her off. I could only perceive someone asking for help. The speeches, the reasoning—everything disappeared like fresh ink washed away by water. This was not a matter of dialogue. It was a matter of vengeance.