Heden arrived at the large metalworking smithy a little before noon and already weary from a long day getting longer. Though it was grey and overcast, it was hot and humid and he wasn’t dressed for it. He was wearing a mail shirt under his jerkin. When he realized it was the mail that was causing him discomfort, he was surprised to learn he’d put it on. He couldn’t remember doing so. Obviously, he thought, a part of him decided it was appropriate for some reason.

The smithy was known as the Sun and Anvil because the signs over the two entrances, each opening out to a different street, had a stylized dawning sun rising over an anvil. It was originally named Dawnforge, but  few people knew that now. Unlike the vastly more advanced city of Capital, where shops and streets were named and the names printed on signs, shops in Vasloria used symbols to communicate what kinds of services you could find inside. It was only by intuition and common consensus that places acquired names. Having been to Capital, Heden was surprised signs without words worked so well.

The dawning sun was one of a handful of symbols, the moon and stars being other common examples, which meant magic could be found within, for a price. Heden couldn’t remember when he learned this, but he was certain the majority of people who came and went didn’t know it. There was no reason they should.

The Sun & Anvil was more than a blacksmith shop; it handled metalworking of all types and employed over two dozen workmen, including specialists in fine metalwork and jewelry.

As soon as he was standing outside the wide stone archway, he felt the powerful heat radiating out from the shop. The throng of people on the street gave the place a wide berth to avoid the thick heat in the already humid day.

Heden stepped inside. It was busy. In the center of the large, warehouse-sized building was the main forge where metals were fired. It was built into a column of stone that went from floor to ceiling. The octagonal shaped building’s ceiling also tilted upward at the center, turning the whole building into a flue.

There were customers from across the strata of the city talking with workmen. Almost all men, but Heden could see a handful of polder as well, their short, diminutive frames looking a bit like children, but the way they held themselves and moved was subtly alien to the human experience.

There was nothing subtle about the 2 massive warbred urmen who worked in the place. The wizards who created them decades ago bred no special love for craftsmanship into them, but they were strong and, cast adrift from the war they were made for, searched for jobs that brought honor and kept them away from the public. Living among men went without saying; there was no question of them making a life among the urq.

The forge was loud, the ring of hammers was loud, everyone in the place had to shout to be heard. Heden stood just inside the doorway.

There was a knot of people standing off to his right. Heden looked at them. It looked like two patrons and three craftsmen discussing a project. They were all smiling as they talked. It was a good place to work and do business.

One of them caught Heden’s eye and stopped smiling. The rest saw the man’s reaction and turned to look at Heden. The patrons’ faces were blank. The craftsmen all suddenly went grim.

The man craned his neck, looking farther into the shop at something Heden couldn’t see. Something obscured by the forge. He called out to someone, and then turned to Heden and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

Heden nodded and made his way through the shop. As he passed by the craftsmen, they said nothing, just watched him.

As he rounded the forge, he found what he was looking for.

There were anvils of all sizes and function in the shop, but this was by far the largest. It was sunk into the ground in a neat bit of engineering that betrayed the influence of its creator, currently using the anvil to hammer on what looked to Heden like a long metal pike.

The dwarf, owner of the Sun and Anvil, looked up from his work. His squat, square face illuminated by the fierce orange glow of the heated metal, and stared at Heden. He wasn’t the only one in the city, but for a small group of people of a certain generation that included Heden and Gwiddon and many of the people who now ran the city, he was The Dwarf. Just as there were many elvish wodes, but only the Iron Forest was The Wode.

He was four feet tall and though short, seemed massive. Heden knew he weighed a quarter ton, though he didn’t look it. But there was something Heden could only describe as ‘density,’ a word he learned long ago. It seemed to Heden as though the world around the dwarf bent and bowed in an attempt to make itself smaller.

His dusky brown skin appeared to be flesh. Heden knew this not to be the case. He was one of the stone dwarfs. Known to academics as the Granite Elementals. Any town that had one counted itself lucky. They were master craftsmen in every material, and stone was their preferred medium. His skin was a strange combination of flesh and rock. It was supple, it moved and flexed like skin, but a normal sword would spark off it, deflected as though bouncing off armor.

The dwarf stared at Heden for a moment, threw his hammer to the ground in disgust. A watching assistant scurried up to the anvil, used a pair of locking tongs to grasp the heated metal pike, and took it to another, smaller anvil to be finished.

Heden stepped forward and looked down at the dwarf. Many people throughout the shop were watching. The dwarf’s body was hairless. He wore a leather apron and leather pants. His broad face bore a thick scowl and his small eyes fired red. They gave a baleful look, but his eyes always did that. The dwarf radiated back the heat he’d absorbed from the forge.

“I need one of the swords,” Heden said.

The dwarf just sneered at him, and waited. Heden realized why.

“It doesn’t matter which one. You choose.”

The dwarf spat on the ground and turned his back on Heden. He selected a long metal rod from amongst the scrap on the floor, picked it up and inserted it into a small metal collar set into the bottom of the anvil. He pushed it in, then pulled on it with one strong arm.

With a burst of steam, the Anvil rose out of the ground and slid aside, revealing a large hole in the dirt floor. It was well-lit and walled, and there were steep stairs going down. The dwarf trudged down them soundlessly. Everyone in the building was watching. Many had their mouths open.

Heden had served the gods for as long as he could remember and one thing he’d learned; they influenced the world in direct and indirect ways. There were several traditions in his culture that deliberately subtracted conscious will from a decision, in order to grant gods or saints the opportunity to step in and influence things. Heden had no way of knowing what the dwarf would choose. Let fate decide.

Heden had met people who laughed at such things, and for them, probably the saints had no interest in influencing their lives. Heden was not so lucky.

The dwarf emerged with a long thin object wrapped in plain, dirty cloth. He held it out abruptly, unceremoniously. Heden took it.

He unwrapped the handle revealing the hilt, pommel, and guard of a sword. It was beautiful but full of angles, as though it were built out of complex, geometric shapes. A contrast to the flamboyantly crafted sword guards that were the fashion, such as Gwiddon carried. That looked like flowing pen-strokes carved from gold.

There was a black gemstone in the pommel. Only a little of the blade was showing, but it was a dull purple-grey metal. Unlike any in the city. The metal threw off a light few humans had seen. It was a kind of glowing violet and it cast Heden’s features into sharp relief.

“Starkiller,” Heden said, regarding the weapon wryly. “Figures.”

The dwarf said nothing. He turned his back to Heden and pushed up on the metal rod. He removed it, and threw it aside with a loud clang as the anvil slid back into place, and an assistant brought forth another item for the master’s attention.

Heden stared at the dwarf’s back for a little while as the whole forge scurried back to work. He didn’t say anything. He looked at the ground for a moment. Then he wrapped up the sword, tucked the whole package under his arm, turned, and left.

Chapter 9