XVI. The Forge-Tender

Holland found herself deep in the underbelly of Dhir Daral, passing beneath the grinding gears and endless machinery that was the city of the dwarves. The heat here was almost unbearable and the air's smell was acrid from the smoke and fumes. It stung her eyes and made them water, but she felt reassured. They were far from pursuit now and Rust had relaxed noticeably. "So tell me of where we're going," she said curiously.

"The city has many forges, but once there was only one. All of their fires once came from the Heartforge," Rust explained. His walk was more of a hobble, bowed legs not wanting to support his weight. He took the pressure off them by grabbing supports and railings, using his powerful upper body to maneuver his crippled frame. "But it is more than just a forge. When every dwarf dies, their bodies are given over to it. The fires there possess an ancient soul, and all the memories of the dwarves who have come before us. If there were any way to convince the people of Dhir Daral of the rightness of your cause, it would be through the Heartforge. They will listen to its counsel over even the will of Olon Drunaast."

"And he is called the Forge-Tender because...?"

"A Forge-Tender is responsible for interpreting the will of the Heartforge," Rust said, glancing over at her. He seemed pleased by her inquiries, like he was a child sharing some special secret with her. Perhaps he was. She wasn't certain how many knew of the properties of this place they were going to. "Seldom does it provide its wisdom in a clear form. But I believe he has been twisting its words to suit his own purpose. It is not out of malice. Olon is...fearful. The fires there whisper of the great evil coming. He wishes to save our people. It is a noble goal, but fear can drive one to terrible mistakes."

Holland took a moment to absorb this. She was still furious with Olon for his treachery, but she supposed she could understand where he was coming from. The Imperium was a terrifying foe to be certain and perhaps an unbeatable one. The dwarves would not be the first people to try and align themselves with it. But invariably, ally became servitor. At least, that was her experience. "How do you know all this, Rust?" she asked curiously.

"Once my family were Forge-Tenders," the dwarf said. "But I was crippled as a boy and people do not have a high opinion of those who cannot work. A dwarf is measured by his crafts. I have no masterpiece to place my name upon. And so I rust away in the shadows, forgotten. I was not considered worthy to speak to the Heartforge." He sounded calm and collected, as if untroubled by the slights that life had given him.

"I'm sorry," Holland said quietly. She certainly knew what it was to be cast aside. "That must be difficult."

Rust chuckled. "It's as easy as falling. Life is a hammer and Dhir Daral is an anvil, and not every craft is a work of art," he said. "But that doesn't mean such pieces aren't useful—I too am a mechanism in Tek's great artifice. Besides, my father's father taught me some of the secrets of the Heartforge, giving me an inkling of its mysteries and its nature. Not a Forge-Tender's full knowledge, of course."

They wound their way deeper into the earth as they cut through the shadows of back passageways and hidden paths. Holland could feel something ahead, something that called to the sorcery in her own body. It was a deep resonance, deep and old, that hummed through her bones. It reminded her of being in Saraqael's presence, though perhaps this was even more ancient.

Rust stopped and turned to look at her. "I believe you when you say the demons cannot be bargained with," he said. "And I will not help sell the fate of the dwarves to the Princes of Iron, Holland. But the decision is not truly mine to make. The Heartforge has always spoken from our soul and its voice cannot be ignored. It will guide us now, as it has always guided us. You must trust me now, though I know Olon has made trusting a dwarf...difficult."

Holland studied the crippled dwarf as he adjusted a piece inside his metal arm so he didn't have to meet her eyes. Rust was different from Olon. He was unpolished, unrefined, and sincere. "I trust you," she said quietly. Whatever his reasons, Rust had saved her from Olon's grip. Besides, if his motives were what he said, they were not so different from her own. She needed an ally and the gods had provided her one. "And if you say speaking to the Heartforge is the only way, I believe you."

The dwarf looked relieved, as if she had lifted a great weight off his shoulders. "Thank you," he said, giving her a wry and crooked smile. "You are the first to rely on me in a very long time. It is strange to feel useful. Now come."

She nodded and followed him further, feeling the humming in her bones intensify until it was almost painful. The power of this place was overwhelming.

And there it was before them. Built of that same strange merging of stone and metal, the Heartforge was like nothing she had ever seen before. The blue-white flames glowed intensely and it was ringed by perfectly flawless glass that allowed a view into its fires. She knew that was more than just a view—it reminded her of the material Saraqael's throne was crafted of. Hidden in this glass-like substance was the voice of the Heartforge. Holland heard it whispering in the First Speech as they approached. This was no simple forge. It was alive.

This was the center of the great machine of Dhir Daral, what every cog and wheel truly powered. Some of the energy was siphoned off for the other metalworks, but Holland could feel the life-spark pouring through this area beneath her feet and above her head, focused on this above all other things. "This..." she murmured softly, lost for words.

"It knows we are here," Rust said quietly as they approached. He placed his grimy hand flat on the glass and the fire roared and danced in answer. The flaring flames seemed to form the shape of an apparition, vaguely dwarven in shape. It was hard to really tell what it was.

Welcome, the Heartforge whispered to her. Holland could feel every syllable echo in the now-changing vibrations. The hum of power fluxed in time with its words and she knew that would be felt throughout the machine.

"Olon will quickly learn that we are here," Rust said, confirming her concerns. "He will sense the change in the Heartforge."

"What do I need to do?" Holland asked.

"Share your understanding in the language that it speaks," her guide said. "Memory."

Holland stepped forward into the overwhelming power of the Forge, placing her hands on the smooth glass. She was just guessing now, but she knew that Saraqael could control all of Arcem Tenebris from his throne. Perhaps this was no different. A circle of light flared in the floor around her and she felt a presence flood through her body. The vibration, just like all magics of the First World, began to sync with her heart. She could feel the pulse in her entire being, her native sorcery flaring awake in answer. Threads of light wrapped around her hands, slowly spreading until her entire body was covered in a shimmering network of energy. It was reaching into her mind just as Saraqael could, calling to the same twisted, black parts of her. But this was not the corruption of a demon prince.

Memories began to flash before her eyes.

..."You have a soul too, Cruciata. A heart. Please, listen to it!" the figure was begging her as it backed away. Ilex knew the woman well, though they had not spoken much. Her most difficult battle, Adriana Vãduva, witch of the Oameni. Her grip tightened on her sword. The longer she let her enemy talk, the greater the chance Adriana would get a spell off. It was hard to think of the witch as a nameless enemy. She had spent months tracking her quarry, learning every habit and detail. That dedication to her task had unintentionally made this personal.

She had clashed with Adriana for more than a year now. It was hard not to be impressed by the witch's determination to live. But others more powerful had succumbed to the blade of Saraqael's immortal. This would be no different. She advanced on the wounded woman, ignoring the gaze of those pleading hazel eyes. "I take no pleasure in this," Ilex said blankly. It was true. The only reward she felt on each kill was merely the satisfaction of a purpose fulfilled. She felt very little, in truth. There was only a cold void behind her breastbone.

"Please," the witch said again, collapsing from her wounds. Her tan skin looked white from the pain and the life rapidly ebbing away. It was possible to survive, but only if she was left unfinished. "Cruciata—Ilex—please. You and I share blood!"

"Blood is blood. It spills," Ilex said as she raised her sword.

"Our mother, do you remember nothing of her?" Adriana said desperately, still trying to get away. "Her name was Sorina. She loved you!"

The normally faultless warrior of Saraqael hesitated for a moment. "I remember nothing," Ilex said. She had never seen her family. She had known in a distant way that her mother was Oameni, but her own blood was mixed with many races. She was Saraqael's creation. What did it matter who her mother had been? Saraqael had told her that what could be considered her family by the outside world had approved of his selection. It was an honor to have an Immortal created from one's blood.

"She missed you, Ilex. We all did! Please, you don't have to do this. You have a choice. You always have a choice." Adriana's hazel eyes were pleading. They reminded Ilex of her own, not that hers had ever been so expressive or fearful.

There was a strange feeling in Ilex's chest that she had never experienced before, a strange desire to do something, say something, that might make those eyes even a touch less agonized. "Death comes to us all," Ilex said before plunging her blade into Adriana's chest. It was what she told Laenus every time a comrade did not return. The blow was a good one, a thrust straight to the heart, one of the swiftest deaths she could offer. Ilex had never been one to extend the suffering of her marks. It served no purpose, and Saraqael was firm in his instruction that things without purpose were of no value and not to be tolerated.

She heard running feet behind her. "Ilex, are you alright?" Laenus panted out. He was young, probably fifteen, and far less experienced. Then again, Saraqael had started her younger than him, even, and that had been some time ago.

The wound in her side ached, but she said nothing as she looked down at the body. Adriana's face was smoothed in death, all traces of her pain gone. There was always something so peaceful about death. It made the immortal reflective. "Fine," she said, turning around and approaching her student. She wiped her blade off on the tablecloth before returning it to its scabbard. "The witch is dead. The others?"

"I took care of them," Laenus said. "And the army is handling the village."

"And not a scratch on you. Well done," Ilex praised, offering him one of her rare smiles. "We'll make an Immortal out of you yet."

"You're wounded," he said, worry plain on his features. That always surprised Ilex. Laenus was so sensitive, so emotional. It was concerning in its own way. None of them could afford to feel. "I'll fetch a healer."

"It's nothing," she said calmly. She could already feel Saraqael's boon beginning to heal her. It made her side itch and twinge, but she only felt the rush of pleasure in the place of pain. "Come, let's leave this place. The Divine Prince will want to know that the last of the Vãduva witches is dead."

They stepped out into a hell-scape of fire and scorched earth. There would quickly be nothing left of Iveală, not even stories. Even insects died in the wake of an Imperial assault. It had resisted too fiercely, and so it would be rendered to ashes: buildings, people, even the stones. "I heard her calling to you," Laenus admitted, looking over at her. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Of course," Ilex said, brushing off the concern. "Now stop dawdling. Arcem Tenebris awaits, and I have no desire to deal with the Legate."...

...she raised an eyebrow as she watched Galeo straighten his uniform for the fourteenth time in ten minutes. She would never understand the anxiety her companion felt in front of Pera. Yes, the girl was attractive, but this fussing was rapidly becoming excessive. Still, it was humorous and a little endearing. "How do I look?" he asked her for the third time.

Ilex lowered the blade that she had been inspecting for notches. There were never any, but she checked all the same. "You look fine," she said with amusement. Somewhere along the line, she had started to view the celeres with a distant warmth. It wasn't encouraged for the Immortals to associate with the regular army—or anyone, really, including each other, as duty always called—but she found herself with the occasional downtime and he had proved a diverting sparring partner. She offered him unofficial training that would keep him alive and he kept her from getting too bored. It was a good arrangement.

Galeo glared at her for a moment. "Fine isn't good enough."

"You are impossible," Ilex said with exasperation. "You said you wanted to see me for something important."

"This is important!" Galeo snapped. He pulled in a deep breath. "Sorry. I just..."

She sighed and set her sword aside. She stepped over and fixed the collar that he had made uneven in his fussing. "She doesn't care how you look," Ilex said pointedly before giving him a less than subtle nudge towards the door. "She will continue to blush every time you ride past and look at you with what I can only assume is an equally foolish longing. Now go talk to her and grant me an inkling of peace. If I have to hear one more word about it, I will slap you."

Galeo fidgeted, but nodded. He knew it was a serious threat...

..."Why are you giving me this?" Laenus asked, turning over the circlet in his hands. He knew what it was as well as she did: the Thorncrown of An, symbol of the druidic power of the shuhadaku. It was a prize that had been difficult to capture in battle, but Ilex had managed to snatch it before the last of their enemy could escape with it. An impressive feat, one that would not go without reward. It was just the two of them, though, as no one else had managed to keep up with the two running Immortals.

"So you can present it to the Divine Prince," Ilex said calmly. When he looked at her, stunned, she shrugged. "You were the one that located it."

"Ilex, you're the one that fought through the thick of it," he said. "If I give it to the Divine Prince, he will think the doing was mine."

"So let him," she said with her usual stony expression. "Laenus, you spent months tracking this. Less glorious, yes, but we would have never succeeded without that work. It deserves recognition. Now we should leave this place, before the Igigi regroup." Without waiting for a response, she started walking down the slope of the mountain back towards the others.

"Why?" Laenus asked, uncomprehending. "Why would you...?"

Ilex glanced over at him. Maybe it was all the time she'd spent around Galeo, but she was beginning to look at Laenus with actual emotion. She remembered training him with a spark of something that might have been pride. She spent time with him and felt the same odd companionship she experienced around Galeo. He made her feel less alone. "Take it and be content," she advised. It was her way of telling him to shut up.

"I won't forget this," he said, gratitude clear in his tone.

"You should," Ilex said indifferently. She wasn't entirely certain why she was doing it either, but she would never admit to uncertainty. Uncertainty sprang from doubt, and doubt was not something to be tolerated...

...she bared her teeth in a snarl at those familiar dark eyes, defiant even as she felt the pain begin to overwhelm the sorcery that brought her so much pleasure whenever her body broke. Her femur was not the first bone to break under the assault of the steel rod and it would not be the last. Had it been wielded by anyone but another Immortal, it would have been insufficient to the task. Even as it was, Laenus had to expend all his strength to fracture a single bone. The bones of her hands and feet were a shattered mess, so now he was moving on to the long bones, slowly working his way towards her heart. She kept straining at the bonds that held her to the saltire, hateful strength making the metal creak and groan. She would never forgive him, even if her lifespan was only a few more hours.

"Is the famous Invicta feeling something at last?" Laenus taunted. "Who would have thought it would have taken defeat to crack the ice?"

It wasn't the defeat that bothered her. The humiliation and agony were just salt rubbed in the wound of betrayal. She had watched over Laenus in every battle he ever walked into. Never had she imagined herself in this position. Her eyes were aching with an unfamiliar feeling. Was this what others felt when tears threatened? She would never, never let them show, however.

"Nothing to say?" he goaded. "I'm sure they hang on your every word."

She glanced past him at the assembled crowd. There was a deadly hush. She could see Galeo and Pera at the front, both of them looking equal parts horrified and heartbroken. Her eyes focused on Laenus again. "You always did have a terrible swing," she hissed out through the pain.

Laenus was not amused. He hit her other leg with an enraged strength, snapping the bone. The agony was met by that strange rush of pleasure that kept her from succumbing to unconsciousness. "I will go down in memory as the one who did the impossible," he said. "I broke the Invicta."

"Better have tried and failed," she said. If she was going to die, she was taking his pride with her.

She was conscious for the break of every single bone. Her jaw was the last to be cracked, probably because he wanted to give her the opportunity to scream or beg. She accepted it without a sound, stopping herself from crying out by biting her own lip until it bled down her chin. Laenus leaned in. "Any last words?" he said.

She parted bloody lips, pushing through the pain. "Remember that you will die," she whispered. She could feel them cut her down and knew that the sea was in her future. They would leave no tomb for her to be mourned at, but neither would they give her the honor of a pyre, by command of the Divine Prince himself. She found herself looking forward to the cold, dark embrace of the ocean...

Holland opened her eyes. She was standing in front of the forge and the flickering figure within, the lights still glimmering around her. The sounds of a struggle were coming from behind her, so she turned. There was Rust, being beaten into the ground by a furious Olon. The crippled dwarf couldn't really defend himself, so he curled to protect himself from the blows.

Stop, the Heartforge commanded, its displeasure felt as a terrifying ripple through their bodies that was actually painful.

Olon immediately dropped the pair of tongs he had picked up to use as a weapon. "This wretch brought—"

As we asked, the figure said, sounding as though it was many voices speaking at once in a perfect unison. We see beyond time through the eyes of this one.

Holland felt her body shiver as the forge released her. She collapsed to the ground when the tendrils of light vanished, but only for a moment. Then she was pulling her oddly weak body up from the ground to go over and check on Rust.

"I've had worse," the dwarf reassured her, though the contusion on his forehead looked bad. It was bleeding and swelling.

Holland wished in that moment that she had any aptitude for healing. She helped him to sit up, ignoring Olon's infuriated gaze. The Forge-Tender had stopped his assault and was clearly waiting for the Heartforge to speak again.

You have erred, Olon Drunaast.

Olon's face went pale and the other dwarves backed away from him. No one knew what the displeasure of the Heartforge might mean, but they didn't want to stand too closely in case it was something truly unpleasant. "I am doing what is necessary for our survival," Olon said.

You have forgotten what it is to be a dwarf, the Heartforge said. We who once served will serve never again.

"What this woman brings is no better!" the Forge-Tender insisted.

This one is no ruler. This one knows what it is to serve. We have seen what its mettle is made of. This one is a fire that lights the way. The Heartforge did not seem interested in debating the point with Olon. Now a mastercraft will be made.

The Forge-Tender looked defeated as he went over and picked up the gleaming silver hammer that waited next to the anvil. The flickering figure in the fire seemed to shake its head.

Not by you. Taafr Thir will strike the blows.

"He is a cripple!" Olon said, looking horrified by even the idea. He looked over at Rust. "He could not craft perfection even if he was trained a thousand years."

The world does not need perfection. The Heartforge's hum was still powerful, but it softened welcomingly. Approach, Taafr Thir. From now until the end of your days, you will be known as Forge-Tender.

Holland helped Rust up off the floor with a smile creeping across her face when she saw the awe and gratitude in the crippled dwarf's eyes. He hobbled forward towards the anvil. "I am honored," Rust said roughly, supporting himself against the anvil. "But I am not worthy of the task."

That decision is not yours to make, Taafr Thir. It is ours, the Heartforge said. Now craft your masterwork. The rest of you, withdraw. It will be done as we have seen it.

Holland followed Olon and the other dwarves out of the forge, unfazed by the murmuring. "I'd like my companions back," she said to the former Forge-Tender.

He glared up at her. "You did this. You deceived the Forge," he said, reaching for his axe.

The penitent moved before he could even pull it free of his belt, grabbing his wrist in one hand and his throat in the other. She slammed him against the wall, scattering the other dwarves. The creeping cold was back in her chest after those visions. The old Ilex was too close to the surface. "You will find that I am an unwise enemy to make," she whispered to the dwarf, lips close to his ear.

Olon nodded as much as he could with the tight grip on his throat, going still rather than struggling. He seemed to understand the magnitude of her anger with him.

Holland dropped him. "Take me to them," she said. "And for your sake, they had better be unharmed."

The dwarf nodded again. "This way, Lady Penitent," he said as he massaged his neck.