The Forge of Gramarye

Pushing gently moved the door back on its hinges. The portal swung open on silent hinges to reveal an antechamber of bare stone. What appeared to be the remains of wooden benches lay along the walls, long since rotted into little more than splinters. Checking the floor for any wards, Aranthir stepped cautiously into the antechamber and drew his weapons again.

Ilytha was less cautious. She swept past him into the tower, snatching the pen from his grasp at last, book in hand again as she ran a hand over the carvings on the wall. They were geometric patterns, flecked with paint, that did nothing to illuminate who had built the place. Yet the loremaster leaned in close, somehow able to find meaning in them. She quickly inscribed notes in the margins of her tome in a flowing script Aranthir had not seen her use before. He knew it from his time in the Colleges of Ildranon, where many princelings and royals had sought out an education.

He frowned. The running water was louder here, and he knew the source of it was close. The halls curled away from the foyer to either side, the running water echoing toward him from both directions. Aranthir cracked the door to a hall opened just a hair, and he heard Ilytha perk up behind him.

"The Forge sits beside a running stream," she said. "It must be within these walls. Come along, we are near our goal!"

Without waiting for her guardians, she pushed past him into the hall. It was dark, illuminated only by their torches that played long, dancing shadows down the curving hall. The loremaster pressed ahead and Aranthir could only sigh to himself as he followed. They wrapped around the central chamber to the far side of the tower, where they came to another door. This one was again made of bronze, but they would need no charm of opening here for the door stood partly open. Ilytha stopped before it, torch in hand. Aranthir heard her inhale.

"This must be it," she whispered. "My long search is nearly over. I feel it in the air. Do you?"

Aranthir nodded wordlessly. The air was excited with arcane energy. He could feel it in his skin and hair, as if he had swallowed a fistful of raw spice. Something nearby was positively coursing with power and the open door could not contain it.

Ilytha pushed open the bronze door and gasped with wonder. Here at last lay the forge. The chamber was circular, with a domed ceiling broken by a clear stream of rushing water that fell into a carven stone trough and ran out the side of the room and into a tunnel that plunged into the earth below them. At the center of the room lay the forge, its ancient bellows dusty and cold, but otherwise seemingly in working order despite its age. It was roofed in silver, untarnished by its long disuse, and the base of it was banded in gold. In the flickering torchlight, Aranthir saw that the gold leaf was engraved with more of the strange script he had seen elsewhere in the lost city. Around the edge of the room was a wide stone ledge serving as a workbench. Old tools, the wood nearly rotted away and the iron rusted, lay where their makers had left them uncounted centuries ago.

Piled below the forge was a mound of assorted objects. Most of it was junk, broken tools, weapons, shards of pottery, and animal bones, but scattered around were baubles of copper, silver, and the rare gold. Aranthir spied a pile of golden coins and a dented silver goblet studded with emeralds.

"That's some treasure," breathed Malgran from behind him. "That can be my share."

"Stay your hand, mercenary," the elf replied. "Some of this may have value to my studies. I'll not part with anything that might shed light on the origins and loss of the forge."

Aranthir could hear Malgran frown. Ilytha paid him little mind and went instead to the forge. She opened her book again and knelt to read the inscription carved into the golden bands. Behind her, Malgran and Janguld eyed the pile of loot.

"Strange," Aranthir muttered. "Everything else in here is neat, like it was carefully arranged before the place's builders disappeared. But this pile is something else."

"It's mostly junk," Malgran complained. "But there's enough gold and silver in here to make this all worth it. Even if the elf doesn't pay."

Ilytha doubtlessly heard them, but made no response. Janguld picked up a golden bracelet and set it on his wrist. "Whoever these builders were, they were human-sized," he said. Aranthir inspected a pair of silver rings. Unlike the silver forge roof, these were beginning to tarnish.

"These items are not from the forge's builders," he said, understanding coming to him now. "This is an offering pile left by the goblins."

"Offering? To what?"

"To the spirit of the forge," Ilytha replied. "This golden plaque is engraved with a spell of binding. A mighty spirit is bound here, powering the forge with its energies and infusing its products with magical power. That is the secret of the legends."

"A spirit?" Aranthir asked. "A demon, or a djinn?"

"Perhaps. It is not malevolent, or at least these spells of binding are not spells of protection. We have nothing to fear from it, I should think."

"That is not as definitive as I have hoped," Janguld replied cautiously. "I am no sorcerer, but even I can tell that the air here crackles with power."

"Indeed." Ilytha looked from the forge to the stone ledge around the room. Ingots of iron and other metals sat stacked neatly against the outer wall. "If I can figure out how to activate it, I may be able to have it forge a weapon for you."

"A weapon?" Malgran was suddenly suspicious. "What kind of weapon?"

"Perhaps a sword," Ilytha replied, her thoughts elsewhere. "Warriors always want a magic sword. Never an axe or spear, I can only wonder why."

"I've heard legends of sorcerers' weapons," Malgran went on. "Spells that can lay waste to an entire town in a day. We should stay well clear of that."

"It is a forge, Malgran," Aranthir replied. "Forges make weapons for soldiers, not sorcerers."

"It is a magic forge," Malgran replied.

"Right now, it is just a forge," Ilytha cut in. "It will only be a magic forge if I can determine how to call upon the forge spirit within. The plaque speaks of a way to summon the spirit, but I do not know the way. Just give me a few moment's peace to figure it out." She looked to the ledge on the far side of the room, where it was empty of tools or ingots, then with annoyance she looked to where the water plunged into the chamber from above and ran through a stone trough into the earth below. "And don't touch anything."

With an annoyed roll of his eyes, Malgran took a seat on the stone, staring avariciously at the pile of loot before the forge. Ilytha laid her book out before the forge and began leafing through it. The mercenaries waited impatiently while she worked. The loremaster paid them no mind, instead searching her book for insights into the spells. Aranthir heard her muttering to herself a few times as she tried to determine the name and proper calling of the bound spirit, but to no avail. His companions were growing restless, their eyes ever on the pile of loot that she would not let them touch.

At last, Malgran stood up from his seat and crossed to pick up the silver goblet. The pile rattled as he did, and Ilytha at last turned from the inscription.

"I said not to touch anything."

"It's a fine goblet in a pile of junk," Malgran retorted, his eyes only on the goblet. "There is nothing to worry about."

"I had not examined the goblet," she said testily, "it might have clues about the builders of this place and their fate. Put it back, you will get your pay soon enough."

Malgran lowered the goblet and fixed her with a stare. "You promised us a share of the loot."

"I promised a share of what we found that was not pertinent to my studies. I have not yet ascertained whether the goblet is."

"Then examine it now," Aranthir put in, "so that he might claim it or choose something else. We cannot spend forever down here. The depths of the earth quickly prove inhospitable to the good folk of the surface."

"Goblins," the loremaster said with disdain. "We have nothing to fear from them. We are prepared to camp down here for a time. You must have patience. I am close to unlocking the power of this forge."

Malgran defiantly thrust the goblet into his pack. "I've had enough patience. Three weeks we've wasted on this, and with nothing to show for it until now."

"Put it back," she snapped, but Malgran remained unmoved. Aranthir slowly rose from his seat, sword in hand. Malgran fixed Ilytha with a stare, and her mouth twisted with anger. "I will not repeat myself," she warned.

"Good," he shot back. "I grow tired of hearing your voice."

Ilytha took a menacing step forward. Her blade sprang into her hand and Malgran took a step back, drawing his mace from his belt. Aranthir raised a hand.

"Calm down, there's no need for violence."

"Then put the goblet back," Ilytha commanded. Malgran spat at her.

"Come take it, elf. I'll not be cheated by you! Go back to your books, scholar."

"Curse you!" she spat back. "Your refusal to abide by our contract shows the falsehood of your profession."

"You curse me as false when you withhold my payment?" Malgran shouted back. "I ought to remind you why I was hired in the first place."

He took a step forward, mace raised above his shoulder, but stopped when he found Aranthir's blade at his throat.

"There will be none of that," Aranthir said quietly. "Lower your weapon. I will still honor my contract, and I suggest you do the same."

Malgran smiled a grim smile. "I should have expected this. What swayed you, her pretty face or her pointy ears?"

"Her purse," Aranthir lied. "Now set down your mace and return the goblet."

Malgran stared hard at him. His eyes flicked over Aranthir's shoulder toward Janguld and his sneer fell.

"Very well," he sighed. His arm dropped, and his mace fell to his side. But his glare toward Aranthir did not abate. "Though if I'm not paid, there will be blood."

"Oh, there will be blood," said a new voice from the door. Aranthir grimaced, and turned half toward the door even as he withdrew his swordpoint from Malgran's neck. In the door to the forge chamber stood a giant of a man, and behind him an archer in a green cloak. The tall man stood a head over Aranthir, and carried a long broadsword in one hand. The newcomer stepped boldly into the room, and from behind him a procession of other men emerged from the hall.

"Unless of course," the tall man continued, "you just hand over your valuables now and save us the trouble."

Aranthir's free hand fell to the pistol at his belt, and he looked to Janguld by the wall. The red-haired mercenary had the same thought, one hand on a pistol and the other on his own broadsword.

"You're going to need more than this to take anything from me," Aranthir warned. "Leave now and I'll spare your life."

The giant laughed. Beside him, a wiry man with a necklace of severed ears stepped forward, a vicious sneer beneath his barbute. "There's ten of us," the giant said, sweeping his free hand across the assemblage of bandits.

"Aye," Aranthir agreed. "Hardly seems fair. Should I wait while you find some more friends?"

"You've got quite the mouth on you, elf," the wiry man snarled. "I can't wait to add your ears to my collection. I've never killed an elf before, and now I'm going to kill two."

"You won't be killing anyone today, I can promise you that," Aranthir replied. He thrust his swordpoint at the man. "If this comes to blows, you will be the first to die."

Ilytha pushed past him to stand before the bandits. "Lower your weapons," she commanded. "I am Ilytha ar Kantalias, a scholar from the colleges at Ildranon. My interest here is entirely academic. We have no quarrel with you."

"Quarrel?" the giant echoed. "Perhaps not, but there's a lot of valuable things in this room. And on your person. We like valuable things. They let us buy all the wine and whores we want, and we're a thirty, lusty lot."

"These three men with me are the finest blades I could hire in Bruscair." Ilytha went on. "And I myself am trained by the colleges' swordmaster. If we come to blows, you stand to lose many drinking companions today. Do you see enough gold in here to drown that grief in drink and women?"

The giant seemed to consider her words a moment, but then scoffed. "You stand to lose your lives over this gold, scholar. Perhaps you should weigh that before asking anything of us."

Aranthir cast a look over his shoulder at a sound from behind. Malgran had drawn his mace again and now held it at the ready. His eyes were narrowed with determination. The silver goblet glinted from within the pack on his shoulder. He caught Aranthir's eye and nodded grimly. Ilytha continued.

"I won't give up anything I have found here without a fight. So turn around and leave, or else make your peace with Kanaron."

"Bold words," sneered the giant man. "Let's see if you've the steel to match them!"

He lunged at them, and Aranthir's blade leapt forward to meet him. Steel rang on steel, echoing about the chamber, and all those arrayed against each other joined the battle.

Their foes had them outnumbered ten against four, and Aranthir determined to strike hard and fast to even the odds. He parried the giant's following stroke, then cut beneath the man's blade to appear at his side, where Aranthir's left hand tore a poignard from his belt and thrust it into the giant's flank. The big man cried out in pain, staggered, and nearly dropped his sword, but Aranthir paid him no more mind for he had other prey.

A spell of ironskin shimmered into existence over him and he turned to face the wiry man with a string of ears about his neck. The battle swirled around him, and Aranthir dodged two more sword blows from other bandits before he clashed with the wiry man. The bandit snarled and cut down at him with his sword. Aranthir batted the blade away and thrust a riposte at the man's throat. The bandit fell back on his heels, retreating before the deadly swordpoint, and Aranthir came on.

He sensed motion behind him, another bandit rearing for a strike. He could have turned to deflect the blow, but his ironskin spell would hold. The blow clanged off his shoulders harmlessly, and he drove on against the wiry bandit instead. Their blades rang together again, and the man's sneer of contempt began to give way to genuine fear as Aranthir defeated each of his strokes with ease, even stopping to parry the strike of his companion. His foe was quickly tiring, and well off balance. The wiry man could tell his end was near.

Somewhere behind him, he heard Malgran cry out in pain. Time to put the fear in them, he told himself. He feinted against the wiry man, who fell for it easily. Aranthir stepped to the side, shrugged off another blow to his ironskin, then slashed the man's underprotected legs out from under him. The wiry bandit fell to one knee, his injured leg stretched out wide. Aranthir rotated to face another bandit descending on him, a wild-haired man with red hair, and parried the man's sword up high. Blades locked above their heads, Aranthir plunged his poignard into the man's throat.

His eyes went wide, blood bubbled up from his mouth, and Aranthir tore the blade out. The man toppled to the floor. Another bandit made to move on Aranthir, but froze in fear at the sight of his dying companion. Aranthir seized the moment, and plunged the bloody poignard into the wiry man's neck. The man slumped to the ground.

Wasting little time, Aranthir discarded the poignard and drew a wheellock pistol. The man frozen in fear, started, raising a useless hand to shield his face, and Aranthir fired. The sharp crack echoed about the room, and his target sprawled to the floor, smoke filling the room.

"Halt!" the giant man cried. Aranthir turned to face him, spent pistol in one hand and his longsword in the other. The man held Malgran by the hair with a messer to his neck. Around them, the battle slowed to a halt. "Give up the treasure, or your man dies!"

"You think you can cut his throat," Aranthir asked. "Before I shoot you?"

"Aye," the man answered, though the tremor in his voice betrayed the weakness of his position. "I'm quick with a blade."

"Not as quick as an elf," Aranthir warned him. "You've already lost three men. Leave before your day gets any worse. Go and bury your dead while you still have men to do it."

The giant man hesitated. His eyes darted about the darkened room where discarded torches lay strewn about the floor. Malgran grimaced in his grasp, blood running from a wound to his swordarm. The surviving bandits stood uneasily.

"Aye," he breathed softly. "Aye. We'll leave. There's nought much more to be won here today. Here, take your man." He shoved Malgran back toward Janguld and lowered his blade. "Gather up our dead. Alvard, you poor bastard..."

Aranthir holstered his spent pistol and felt himself relax. Janguld and Malgran retreated toward Ilytha, and he kicked a dropped torch toward the bandits' archer. The young man considered him a moment, dagger in hand, and cautiously picked up the torch. Aranthir backed away from them toward Ilytha and the others, his hand on his other pistol and his eyes sharp.

"Hurry up," he snapped. "And don't let us see you again, or there will be trouble."

The archer fixed Aranthir with a murderous glare, but made no reply. The giant picked up a dead bandit and slung him over his shoulder.

"You've won this time," he warned. "But out there is our territory. Stay on your toes when you come back out, for we'll be waiting."

"Let's not let them get back out then," Janguld whispered. "Come on, Aranthir, we've got Malgran back. Let's finish them off."

Aranthir saw the wisdom in his proposal, and made to draw his pistol when he heard a sound from above.

"What was that?" he asked, turning his head to look up.

"What was what?" the giant sneered. "You playing a trick?"

In answer there came a sudden screeching. It sounded from all around them, terrible and piercing like the wail of a dying animal. But it was no death cry, for Aranthir right away recognized a goblin warcry.

"Goblins!" he shouted, drawing his pistol. As if summoned, they burst into the forge chamber from all sides. They swarmed through the doorway, from holes in the floor and ceiling, and from a loose stone in the wall. More than a dozen of them were in the room before Aranthir's companions realized their danger. Naked, snarling, and wielding ropes and knives, they burst from their hidden tunnels like a swarm of hungry insects.

Aranthir snatched his second pistol from its holster and fired into the mass of swarming green monsters. He heard a scream of pain, but the billowing smoke denied him confirmation of the kill. Stowing his pistol, he locked eyes with an approaching goblin and swung his long sword with both hands.

The blow struck a goblin in its neck, and the ugly creature's severed head flew away to bounce off the stone wall. The other goblins who swarmed toward him hissed in fury, baring yellowed fangs dripping with bile. Aranthir swept his longsword in front of him in a wide arc, fending off the attack of three vicious little creatures holding jagged knives.

A pair of goblins tackled one of the bandits to the floor, bludgeoning him in the face and chest with the pommels of their crude knives as another goblin tried to bind his feet with rope. Janguld shot dead another goblin, letting Malgran stand on his own. The wounded mercenary staggered, holding his mace in his offhand. He ducked to avoid a goblin's hurled spear, and the silver goblet fell from his pack to roll across the floor.

Aranthir wasted little time in splitting the skull of another goblin with an overhead blow. The little monster's companion fell back with a terrified cry, and he let the creature go. Behind him, he heard Ilytha cry out. She had hewn down an attacking goblin, but then turned to retrieve the rolling goblet. She snatched it up off the floor, but a pair of goblins then dropped onto her back from above. They pinioned her arms and beat at her with simple clubs as she tried to shake them off.