The Forge of Gramarye

"So we get paid now, yes?" Malgran asked. He was stretching his wounded arm as he studied the walls with concern.

"In time," answered Ilytha offhandedly. "I must explore. I must determine that what I seek does indeed rest here."

"We were paid to bring you to the forge," protested Malgran. "What you seek wasn't part of the deal."

"Do you intend to quibble over terms now? Still yourself and wait. You'll get your money, mercenary."

Malgran shot a look to Aranthir, who merely shrugged. The elven loremaster ignored them, instead walking slowly along the walls as she inspected the stonework. Malgran rolled his eyes with impatience. "Smells like a troll's ass in here," he muttered.

Aranthir could not disagree. Even with its occupant dead, the cave's foul odor was undiminished. He looked to the darkened opening of the tunnel. Moving deeper into the earth was sure to bring them closer to the source of the stench, but somewhere beyond the troll's den they would have to pass into cleaner air. Or so he hoped. Perhaps it will be just another one of the lies I tell myself, he sighed.

The three of them waited impatiently as the loremaster studied the walls, seemingly oblivious to the stench. Aranthir tried to occupy the time by reloading and rewinding his pistols, but the task only took so long and he was soon reduced to standing at the far end of the cave and looking down into the darkness below.

The builders of this ruin had carved a stone staircase into the floor of the tunnel, but it was worn away by time and water, leaving many parts cracked or outright missing. Where the stone had been broken away the soft dirt floor beneath was pitted by the troll's heavy footsteps. The air that floated up from below was thick with the troll's heavy stench, and Aranthir fought down the urge to throw up.

At last, Ilytha stopped her scrutinizing. "Down we go," she declared, and Aranthir heard Malgran stifle a groan.

"Down?" Janguld asked. "Toward the stench?"

"Down toward the forge," she answered. "Surely you've smelled worse smells."

Janguld groaned, but the three mercenaries shouldered their packs, lit their torches, and started down the tunnel. Aranthir took the lead, pistol and sword at the ready while behind him Janguld carried a torch for light. The tunnel wound its way into the earth, the stench of troll growing ever stronger until they debouched into a cavern before a massive door of engraved bronze. High overhead, he could make out murder holes in the flickering torchlight.

To one side sat a rude hut, crafted from bone and rotting wood and surrounded by refuse and carrion. Here the stench of troll was strongest, but Aranthir found he had grown inured to the smell, and his stomach no longer rebelled against him. His companions, however, lacked his fortitude. Janguld looked pale, one hand on his stomach as he wavered on his feet. Malgran had wrapped a cloth around his face, soaked with wine, but when he spoke his voice betrayed his illness.

"Gods above and below, the stench is strong! Is this enough for you, elf?"

"Enough?" Ilytha retorted, her voice as clear as it had always been. "We are at the gates of an ancient ruin, and you want to turn around and return to town?"

"I want not to drown in my own sick," Malgran replied, stifling a gag. "Haven't you got a charm for this, half-blood? How is it that the two of you are not dying on your feet?"

"Elves are made of sterner stuff," Janguld replied, and Aranthir turned away from them to study the gate.

"How do you intend to get the door open?" Aranthir asked Ilytha quietly. The loremaster was studying the graven runes without a concern for the two men behind her. In her hand was her open book, one finger tracing the lines of text as she examined the door.

"I thought I'd knock," she replied offhandedly. "Do you think anyone will answer?"

"I hope not. If anything is left alive in there, we wouldn't want to meet it."

Ilytha turned to him from her book and smiled. "That is what I brought you for. You don't mean to run on me now, do you?"

"Run? No, but those too might gag themselves to death if we take too long."

"Well then, stop bothering me and wait."

Aranthir turned away with a sigh and looked to the others. Janguld had taken after Malgran in wrapping a cloth around his face, but judging by his posture it was not having the desired effect. Aranthir looked upward into the gloomy recesses of the cavern. High above his head where the rock hung in uncarved vaults, he could see the dark eyes of the murder holes staring down at him. They were arranged in rows above him, affording the long-dead defenders the opportunity to hurl rocks, arrows, naphtha or other weapons down at those battering their heads against the gates. Each hole was almost perfectly round, though some sported shallow grooves on the side nearest the gate. Aranthir squinted into the darkness at them, trying to discern their purpose.

Ilytha interrupted him. She spoke suddenly in a strong, clear voice. While Aranthir did not recognize her words, he recognized her tone as that of a sorcerer. The smell of spice was at once thick in the cave, drowning out the stench of troll and carrion for a welcome moment. Her alien words rang out loud and clear, echoing off the cavern walls and the great bronze gate in front of her. Ilytha raised an imperious hand, palm outstretched, and delivered her command.

The chamber fell silent. Aranthir waited, the hairs rising on his neck. For an interminable moment, he could hear nothing but the breathing of himself and his companions and the faintly audible trickle of distant flowing water.

The bronze doors creaked. Groaning under their own enormous weight, they scraped across the worn stones. Centuries of dust cascaded from the doors' crevices to the floor, where clouds billowed forth. Aranthri hastened to cover his face with cloth as the other men had done, but Ilytha stood unperturbed. Her eyes and mouth were instead wide with triumphant wonder. She clutched the book close to her breast, staring through the widening crack between the doors into the ruin beyond.

With a bang, the doors came to a halt. The yawning portal between them was open and, as the dust began to settle, Aranthir could see through it and into a wide promenade with an expertly cut stone floor. A cold wind blew forth, rustling their hair and scarves and banishing with it the stench of troll. Aranthir raised up his pistol.

"In we go," breathed Ilytha, and she stepped through the doors without waiting for a reply. Shaking his head, Aranthir followed and the other two trailed slowly behind him.

The promenade was lined with stone buildings that would not have been out of place in many of the towns on the surface. Empty sockets where signposts may have hung stared out at Aranthir as he passed before the empty doorways.

"What was this place?" breathed Janguld. "A dwarfhold?'

"A settlement of smiths," the elf answered unhelpfully. "They built their forge where the fire runs hot and the water runs cold, then a settlement sprang up around it."

"Does fire run cold some places?" Janguld asked wryly.

"It does," Ilytha answered, "There are places where things fall up, water burns and fire freezes. Though they are not places where a mercenary such as yourself would go."

"What does that mean?" Janguld challenged, but Ilytha merely shrugged without looking back.

"Ask Aranthir. He has been beyond the reach of night and into the land of eternal sun. These things are known to him."

"I have gone north, to Hyperborea," Aranthir answered, "But I have never seen fire freeze or water burn. You must be mistaken, loremaster."

"Am I?" she mused. "Perhaps the tales are tall, or perhaps you have reason for keeping to yourself."

"I dislike being called a liar," he said darkly. Ilytha merely laughed.

"I understand your reasons for keeping silent, Aranthir. I will not hold them against you."

"You've been to Hyperborea?" Janguld asked. "I should like to hear that tale."

"Not now," Aranthir retorted. "There are enough ghosts around us already." He looked into the gaping doorway of one house they passed by. The room inside was empty but for fallen stones and dust covering the floor. Where did the people go? He wondered. There were no bones about, no signs of war or flood. Perhaps a famine killed them all? There would be precious little food down here.

The wind died down, and the smells of the deep earth returned to him. He smelled refuse, the troll's miasma, and now a newer scent. Not as rank as the troll's, this new scent still smell foul and spelled trouble. It was familiar to his nose, but try as he might, he could not place it. Instead, his mind conjured images of a frozen swamp and distant, dancing lights.

In addition to the foul smells, somewhere nearby he could both smell and hear running water. The scent was deep and earthy, like that of a cold mountain river that ran through fertile fields. The music of water on rocks was dimly audible in the depths of the ruined city, always to one side and never ahead of him. Also in the distance were faint chitters. Rats? he wondered. Or worse?

"This place is haunted," Malgran muttered. The mercenary clutched his sword in a white-knuckled grip, his eyes searching the open doorways on either side of the promenade for an ambush. Janguld walked behind him, pistol and sword ready for battle.

"Not ghosts," Ilytha called softly. "Vermin. Keep your blade ready, for it will be of use."

Ahead of them loomed an archway of carved stone. Ilytha stopped before it to continue her studies, which made the mercenaries anxious. With his sword at the ready, Aranthir stepped through the archway to the street on the other side. The street ran in both directions, curving inwardly as it did. The buildings that lined it were indistinguishable from those that lined the main street, but the interior of the looping road was a single great tower that rose all the way to the roof of the cavern. It was windowless near the ground and only a single entrance presented itself, a tall set of double doors made from more of the bronze that he had seen at the entrance.

The sound of running water was louder here, though still muffled. He took a few steps closer to the tower's great door, and the sound of water seemed to grow louder. Yet that was not what brought him to a halt. Instead, his eyes went to a pile of animal bones left in the street's gutter. They were piled together, clearly not the result of an animal having died. Beside it was a pile of ashes and a makeshift spit. He stepped closer to examine them and saw small teeth marks on the creature's skull. He knelt and picked it up.

The scent of death was still near, the teeth marks fresh. He set the skull aside.

"What have you got there?" Janguld asked. Aranthir turned to his companion, who was standing just on the near side of the arch with his weapons at the ready. He looked from Aranthir to the gloomy darkness above them and seemed to suppress a shiver. "This place is evil, I can feel it."

"Bones, a fire," answered Aranthir. "A recent kill. Something lives here."

"Something that makes fires," Janguld added, and Aranthir nodded.

"Be on your guard."

Ilytha stepped through the archway and Malgran hurried up behind her. "This place is fascinating," she breathed as she looked up toward the tower. Malgran shifted uncomfortably behind her, casting a wary glance back the way they had come. "That must be the forging tower. Come on!"

"There are things about," Aranthir declared, rising from the pile of bones. "Things that lurk in the darkness, chittering. They are intelligent." He pointed to the small firepit.

"They cook their meat," Ilytha scoffed. "That does not make them intelligent, or a danger."

"They have been watching us since we passed beneath the gate," Aranthir replied. "I can hear their voices. I can feel their eyes."

"They are intelligent enough not to trouble us," Ilytha replied. "They will not stop us from reaching the forge."

"You do not know what things live down here, loremaster. Your book is centuries old. What might have changed between its writing and now?"

"I know that I've hired three of the deadliest mercenaries in Taralan to protect me. What cause have I to fear?"

Aranthir pointed past her toward a trail of footprints that lead through the dust and into one of the open-doored houses. "There. Goblins, no doubt."

"Then I have even less cause to fear. It would take many goblins to overcome the four of us."

"Goblins travel in groups," Aranthir warned. "And are cunning little devils. We had best be cautious."

"And so we will. But first, we should get the door to the tower open."

Seeing no point to further arguing, Aranthir left the bones behind and headed for the tower door. He reached it ahead of Ilytha and called for a torch, which Janguld brought to him. By its light, he examined the runes engraved in the bronze facing. They were old, and of a script he did not know. But Ilytha stepped up beside him and began to read.

"Another spell of warding," she said. She touched a pensive finger to her lips. "Do you know your charms of opening, Aranthir?"

He looked at her skeptically. "Has this door defeated you?" She laughed.

"Hardly, for I count you among my tools. There are many ways to open a warded door. How many of them do you know, I wonder?"

"Enough to get by. What kind of spell is this?"

"An ancient one. It is of an old lineage of spells long dead, I would struggle to categorize it according to our ways. But it depends on graven runes and a silver layer beneath."

"Defacing the runes will take too much time," Aranthir mused.

"And I wish to preserve them all the same. There is much that could be learned from this ruin."

"Then I must be careful. This spell is applied merely to the door, not the tower as a whole," he mused. "Careless, perhaps. But it makes my task easier. I say I must for I presume you will not be offering assistance?"

Ilytha smirked at him. "You are the studied sorcerer here, are you not?"

"I thought as much." Aranthir sighed. He set down his pack, stowed his weapons and ran a hand over the door. The script seemed to run from top to bottom, an oddity among the local languages.

"Come on, Aranthir," urged Janguld. "I've seen you crack tougher spells than this."

"Have you?" he replied. "You do not know what sort of spells this is."

Janguld shrugged. "I merely assume."

"I have not a clue what sort of spell this is. I cannot even read it."

"Can you not surmise enough to know the important parts of the spell? Like the margrave's chest you opened."

"Perhaps, but this script is too alien. It does not even read sideways."

"What do you mean?" Janguld asked. Aranthir waved his hands up and down the door.

"Clathi is written right to left, Elvish left to right," Aranthir explained. "This script goes from top to bottom."

"Elvish is written right to left?" Janguld echoed in mild surprise. Aranthir raised an eyebrow.

"That is what surprises you?" His companion shrugged.

"I thought I had seen enough Elvish to know how it was written." Aranthir shook his head with a wry smile. He turned to the loremaster.

"What sort of people lived here?" Aranthir asked Ilytha. "The spell likely allows for its masters to pass. Perhaps I could disguise us as its masters."

"I am not sure," she replied. "the Forge is ancient, but its builders remain shrouded in myth."              "Have you any idea at all?"

"I've heard they were elves," Janguld offered.

"Mortals think that all the other kindreds were elves," Ilytha scoffed. "They were not elves."

"Your confidence may be warranted, but it brings us no closer to your goal," Aranthir remarked sourly. He looked to her with slight annoyance, but her sapphire eyes dancing gaily in the torchlight stole his anger. He sighed.

"If I cannot fool the ward, and I cannot deface the runes, then I must pierce the spell. Have you any silver?"

Ilytha rummaged through her packs for a moment before producing a silver pen. "Here," she pronounced. "But be careful with it. It was a gift from my first teacher."

"I always am," Aranthir muttered. He turned the pen over in his hand and cast upon himself a seeing spell. Slowly, the glimmering strands of magic began to form in his vision. These were unlike those he had seen before. While most mortal magic appeared as thin, gossamer strands, these strands were thick, nearly rigid, and pulsed with a dull glow. Aranthir squinted at them, momentarily wondering if his seeing spell was playing a trick on him.

No, he decided, this is ancient magic indeed. There are likely none alive who could cast a spell like this. He spared a moment's thought for the sorcerers in Ildranon who would give their colleagues' lives to study this. But the woman with the silver said she wanted through, so he would cut her a path. He studied the strands for the opportune place to strike. Behind him, he could feel the loremaster's eagerness, and the growing impatience of Malgran. There is no time like the present, he thought.

With fresh spice from his pack, he cast an enchantment over the pen that he hoped would allow it to pierce the warding spell. "Alright," he said with a deep breath. "Stand back. This might spark a bit."

The others dutifully retreated, and Aranthir readied the enchanted pen in his hand. He studied the strange lettering and took a deep breath. Raising a hand to shield his eyes, he muttered a prayer to Felitharna and thrust the needle forward.

The silver struck the bronze, and there was a piercing shriek like a sword blade dragged over plate armor, though the needle did not scratch. The beaten bronze seemed to ripple away from the point of impact, and the strands of magic shuddered, then went dark.

"Did it work?" Ilytha whispered, and as if in answer the door rang out in a heavy, mournful tolling. The strands flared to life, so bright that Aranthir covered his eyes with a hand. It was of little use, for the baleful light even pierced his closed eyelids and seared the orbs beneath. He heard Malgran and Janguld cry out, and Aranthir staggered back. The door tolled again and there was an awful creaking of metal.

A spray of sparks erupted forth, stinging and scorching Aranthir's hair and skin. One spark struck inside his ear, the hissing and cracking so painfully loud. Another struck his throat and danced its way down his collar, burning its way down his chest as he yelped and slapped at his armor in a vain attempt to get at it. Sunspots danced in his eyes as he opened them and he gasped as he looked out. Malgran and Janguld were dancing and slapping at themselves, sparks still thick about them. But Ilytha stood undisturbed, he eyes on the door.

Aranthir turned to face the bronze portal. The magical strands were gone, and the door had opened just a crack.

"Well done," she breathed, and stepped forward. Janguld and Malgran had staved off the sparks at last, but her lack of concern for them was clearly stinging as well. Ilytha stood before the door and raised a hand. "We are so close now," she whispered. Aranthir scowled as he straightened himself and shook off the stinging sparks. Ilytha touched her hand to the door and he held his breath.

But the wards lay silent. Aranthir raised his hand, which he suddenly remembered still held the borrowed pen. Its tip was slightly scorched, but otherwise it was unharmed by the ordeal. He held it forward and tapped Ilytha on the shoulder, but she could not tear her attention from the door. She put her other hand on it and smiled to herself. "Here we go," she murmured in Elvish, the familiar accent of Ildranon's aristocracy summoning a surge of memories in Aranthir's mind.