Larkin lifted himself up tirelessly from the limestone anvil, his head bowed in defeat, and threw the half-finished Stormshale blade against the wall. Mira heard the clang for the umpteenth time that night. She placed her hand gently on his.

  “I don’t like it any more than you do,” she said softly.

  “We can’t do it alone,” Larkin said, gritting his teeth.

  “But... can we trust them?” she whispered.

  “What choice do we have?” Larkin replied, meeting her eyes. “I want to protect my work, but the Iron Guild is -”

  “They won’t take your work, Larkin,” Mira said quickly, furrowing her brows, “I won’t let them.”

  The boy smiled, clasping her arm. “You’re a thief, Mira, not an enchanteress. They’ve got tools that can jam any rare material tracker for miles.”

  “But you need theirs?” Mira said, glancing at the corner of the chamber, which was drenched in darkness. Her eyes narrowed. Although she couldn’t see the enchanteress, she could smell her lavender perfume. Then her eyes shifted to the hulking outline of the warrior, and she snarled.

  “So, when are you going to give me the legendary sword you promised,” said the man, stepping forward into the light. He stretched. “Not that this doesn’t do the job,” he added with a huge grin, pointing to the greatsword on his back.

  “Who said you could talk?” replied Mira.

  “I’m not used to standing in the dark for so long,” he yawned, continuing to stretch his large arms. “This place smells better than most forges. But I expected more fire and less... mood lighting.”

  Larkin noticed that his hand remained hovering over the hilt of his sword, even when he had finished stretching his arms.

  “You must forgive Bram,” interrupted the enchantress in an alluring, foreign accent, “he is too much of a blockhead to entertain himself silently.”

  “Scrolls aren’t going to protect the boy from those damn occultists,” Bram said. “A giant sword, though... that’s what wins battles.”

  “And who enchants your sword?” the woman asked rhetorically, “without which your sword would break on the first impact?”

  “That’s beside the point,” grunted Bram with the roll of his eyes. “Once I get my hands on this legendary, though...” he said, clenching his fist, “there’ll be nothing standing in my way. All the magic in the world wouldn’t be able to hold me down!”

  Larkin looked at the warrior accusingly, but he held his tongue.

  “So, what exactly do you want us to do?” asked the woman.

  “Keep anyone from finding out that I’m crafting a rare sword,” said Larkin; “Whenever I get almost close to finishing, the Stormshale starts sending out some sort of signal.”

  “How do you know that it’s communicating with someone?”

  “I... I don’t,” admitted Larkin, “but I can’t afford to take chances. It hums.”

  The warrior laughed derisively. “Crafters are such wimps!”

  “But all mana-imbued metals hum,” said the enchanteress skeptically. “Surely this isn’t news to you.”

  “That’s what I said,” exclaimed Mira frustratedly, “but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “Crafters and their scrolls... they think they know best,” said Bram.

  “Because,” continued Larkin, “the humming was intermittent... I don’t know. Something felt off.”

  “I’m not entirely convinced,” admitted the enchantress.

  “Convinced?” repeated the warrior with a loud sneer, “who cares? The boy can obviously craft. Easiest job in the world. No offence, kid, but if you’re giving me a legendary sword for a day’s work then I’m going to take it regardless.”

  “How noble of you,” sighed the woman sarcastically.

  “Even against enforcers?” asked Mira, folding her arms.

  Bram laughed again. “Against those guys? Come on, lass, who do you think the guild calls when they need some actual battle experience?” Then he turned to his colleague, and said, “Don’t act like you wouldn’t do it, Anara. If there was a legendary scroll at stake, you’d jump at it like a pack of hungry gnomes.”

  Mira tilted her head to the side. “Why are you doing this?”

  Larkin glanced at the corner, and, at the same time, the fire behind him blazed as though he had commanded it. The whole chamber was now illuminated. Both orphans chalked it to coincidence, but the bemused expression on the enchanteress’ face told a different story.

  Anara was seated on a crate with one leg draped over the other, scanning the chamber with her piercing green eyes. Surrounding her beautiful head were small objects, no doubt held there by enchanted earrings. A red cloak, shimmering with runes, covered her slender body; and though she wore a hood, her silver hair lay at length exposed to the dim light of the forge.

  It reminded Larkin of his mother.

  “I enchant when I’m bored,” Anara said with a light, playful smile, and she narrowed her eyes as they met Mira’s, “or suspicious.”

  Larkin bowed his head. “Your expertise in enchantments could be crucial for the creation of this Stormshale blade,” he said.

  “Your face tells me otherwise,” Anara noted.

  “I resent the fact that I have to rely on others to protect my work,” Larkin explained hesitatingly, picking up another bar of steel and placing it in the fire, “but the reality of the situation is clear: I cannot advance to journeyman alone.”

  Anara leaned forward, raising her eyebrows. “Ordinarily, one would go through the guild...”

  “But I resent the guild as well,” said Larkin.

  Anara laughed. “Oh, well, aren’t you an interesting boy,” she said.

  For a moment, Larkin was distracted by the woman’s eyes, for they glinted like emeralds.

  “That’s a big hammer you got,” Bram said.

  “Sure is, big stuff,” said Mira, unsheathing her Soulrend and pointing it at him, “touch it and I’ll slit your throat.”

  “Woah, there,” Bram said with a smirk, “wouldn’t want you to cut yourself little girl.”

  Mira growled. “What did you just call me?”

  “Easy, Mira,” Larkin said. Then he turned back to Anara, and he saw that she was gazing at him curiously. “What is it that you want for your help?”

  The corners of her lips curved sharply. “Depends...”

  “On what?” Larkin said.

  “...Depends on how serious you are about breaking guild law,” interrupted Bram. “Trust is a two-way street. I’ve got a reputation to uphold with the Iron Guild. Doesn’t mean I don’t like ‘em; but you know how it is. Can’t do anything without a guild’s permission in Backwater... can’t even bloody eat without them breathing down your neck asking where you got it from... besides, I’ve got a personal beef with them anyway.”

  “Why? You’re a combat class,” said Larkin, “what have you got with a crafting guild? You told me they rely on you.”

  “That’s true. Doesn’t mean they pay me, though,” replied Bram. Then his cheshire cat grin returned, “A man’s gotta eat.”

  With a heavy sigh and a shrug, Larkin walked forward and held out his free hand to the battle-hardened warrior. Bram was about to take it when he asked:

  “You don’t do armor now, do you?”

  “Now that you mention it, I haven’t even tried. Find me a blueprint and maybe I can forge you some,” replied Larkin; “But first, get me to journeyman.”

  Anara frowned. “I’ve never heard a journeyman craft a legendary sword before.”

  Before Larkin could reply, Mira chuckled.

  “Then you haven’t known Larkin Forgeheart,” she said.

  Bram clasped the boy’s hand tightly, and he shook it. “Never made a deal with a Backwater orphan before,” he said; “first time for everything.”

  Larkin smiled weakly. He walked back to the steel, which, from the looks of it, was still hot enough to hammer, and started to forge a new blade. This time he wouldn’t be distracted by his fears of being caught by the guild enforcers. He broke a few pieces off the Stormshale ingot and levelled it upon the steel.

  “You’re going to hammer it in?” blinked Mira.

  Gripping the Hammer tightly, Larkin took a huge breath and meditated upon what he was about to do. At that moment, he thought of nothing but the blade. Sometimes, a fragment of an image of his mother would surface, appearing like a waterlily resting on an amber-coated pond, and then the smell of pepper...

  Larkin opened his eyes and saw Bram snacking on the red fruit.

  “Distracting?” the warrior quipped with a cheeky smile.

  As soon as the young blacksmith revealed the Hammer of the Eternal Forge, all eyes were upon him with astonishment; for when he held it up above his disheveled head it glinted like gold in the firelight. And with the swiftness of a whip, it struck the steel with a mighty clang.

  Anara and Bram did not speak at all during the forging; they had never seen something like it – an orphan diligently working on his craft; it was as though the boy was possessed by the Hammer, acting only to satisfy its desire. Anara drew closer, while her brutish, yet more jovial counterpart stayed back. She waited until Larkin paused to lean over his shoulder, her eyes narrowed, and whisper:

  “Stormshale’s forbidden for a reason. One wrong crack,” she smiled, “and it won’t just break – the explosion could level this forge.”

  For the first time Larkin saw the colour of the woman’s lips: they were bright red. Despite the heat of the forge, the colour quickly drained out of his cheeks; his heart raced, and his body, supporting the weight of the Hammer, shook slightly as though a great wind had bent him.

  “You’re...” he gulped, “you’re distracting me.”

  “Oh, am I?” said Anara with a smirk. She tapped the steel melodically.

  Larkin continued to tremble. “I’m trying to create a powerful, one-of-a-kind weapon, here,” he said, gritting his teeth; “if I need your expertise on enchanting the blade with the Stormshale I’ll let you know. But for now, please leave me alone to work.”

  “You heard the boy,” Bram said, slumping against the wall with his arms crossed, “he’s not the type to be distracted.”

  “Very well,” said Anara with a wave of her hand, her tone remaining lightful. “You’re an apprentice – obviously you’re taught how to work with rare materials...”

  “I’ve handled worse,” replied Larkin with a frown. He crossed his arms and glared at the enchanteress.

  “Well,” chuckled Bram; “he might not look like a warrior, but he talks like one!”

  The joke, however, did nothing to lighten the boy’s rigid expression. He rolled back his sleeves and hurled the Hammer against the steel blade. But no matter how many times he flattened the steel, the Stormshale refused to meld into the metal.

  “It needs to be hotter,” he muttered.

  “I knew a smith who tried this once – when I had just started my apprenticeship,” Anara said, her voice growing darker, “he disappeared. So did his forge... And the guild covered it up.”

  Larkin suddenly cast the blade into the fire. “You knew him?” he asked, watching the flames swallow the steel completely.

  The older woman lowered her eyes. “He," gulped the enchanteress, her voice darkening in tone, “was my brother... The Elysion name will die because of the guild.” She clenched her fists.

  “What did they do?” Larkin asked.

  For a moment, Anara was silent. Then, with a tender smile and scarlet cheeks, she raised her eyes and said, lightly, “It was a long time ago.”

  “Stormshale’s not the only thing that gets people disappeared,” said Bram, who had been shifting from foot to foot throughout their conversation, “sometimes it’s the company you keep.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Larkin, setting the blade down on the anvil. He narrowed his eyes, “What brought you to Backwater?”

  Bram’s eyes widened; the blade was no longer grey but a spectrum of colour reminiscent of a rainbow. He saw that Larkin was staring at him, and, quickly retreating a step or two, said, with a shrug, “I heard there was a blacksmith in Backwater who could forge weapons the guilds couldn’t touch. I figured I’d see if the rumours were true.”

  “Well,” said Larkin, putting the Stormshale to the fire, “you’ll find out soon enough if I can craft without the guild’s interference. I am determined to forge this Stormshale blade regardless of the dangers involved.”

  Mira, who had been on guard during this exchange, was snapped out of her sullen mood. “Have you not been listening?” she cried, staring at him incredulously. But she stopped short, remaining in the dark corner of the chamber. The words of alarm, however, lingered hopelessly on her lips. Although the metal did not pulse like the Veyrsteel from earlier, the feeling in her gut was the same.

  Larkin did not reply; he was bent over the anvil, too occupied with trying to fix the pieces of the enchantment metal into the blade. “It’s just not sinking in,” he muttered frustratedly.

  Mira saw the Stormshale begin to pulse quickly.

  “Stop it, Larkin,” cried Mira.

  This time Larkin raised his eyes to the thief in the corner. “Stop distracting me,” he said with a scowl. He then swung down the Hammer again.

  As soon as it made contact, the tiny fragment of Stormshale exploded; a bright, piercing white light filled the chamber; the thunderous clap following it shook each object tremendously; Anara, Bram, Mira and Larkin were thrown on their backs; and, though it lasted only a few seconds, the damage was terrible: the blade was fractured into two; the anvil was fissured; and the four walls were cratered. Worst of all, only Bram, being the biggest of the party, was spared the avalanche of rubble that descended from the ceiling.

  Nevertheless, he was the first to see that the entrance was now obstructed by debris. Ignoring his first instinct, however, Bram rushed to the pile of shattered limestone, which covered the boy, and fell onto his knees; with his bare hands, he dug away the slates earnestly, and saw, or hoped he saw, the youth’s hand. He attacked the pile suffocating the blacksmith. After two minutes of frantic digging, his arm was visible, and then half his body, and soon there was enough to pull him out. The spectral chain around Larkin’s wrist caught his eye. The Hammer, too, pulsed like a heartbeat, and he wondered about its significance. He quickly moved onto Anara.

  The enchanteress was seized with tremors; she struggled to her feet, clinging onto Bram’s arm in shock, she followed him to the crate she had been sitting on earlier, and allowed herself to be perched onto it again. Bram turned her face to his, and he saw only that they were glazed over. The woman’s eyes were a pale imitation of their original emerald.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Bram turned lastly to the young girl. She was the least buried, and so it did not take that long to recover her.

  “Can you feel your legs?” Bram asked as he pulled Mira out of the rubble.

  For a moment, she remained motionless, her eyes fixed on the unconscious boy a few feet from her. The thief sat up and turned pale.

  “Larkin!” she cried, crawling towards him, “are you okay?” She seized him by the shoulders and shook him; he didn’t wake. Then she lightly tapped his face; all the while tears streamed down hers. “Larkin,” she cried again. This time, she slapped him harder and uttered a series of words that were incomprehensible to those in the room.

  “Your gods won’t help him,” Bram said as he put his arm around Anara’s waist, “the boy went too far.” He lifted her up and helped her to the door.

  “Where are you going?” said Mira tearfully.

  “The guild is bound to discover us now,” Bram replied.

  Mira glanced down at her friend and then back at the warrior. “What about Larkin?” she said. “You have a contract.”

  Bram did not reply.

  “Wait, what?” Mira spluttered, rising from her friend, “you’re just going to leave? You’re a coward!”

  Bram stopped. Glancing over his shoulder, he scowled. “I am not a coward!” he snapped, clutching the hilt of his sword instinctively. “I saved his body, and yours!”

  “Yes, you are!” exclaimed Mira.

  “Careful,” replied the warrior, his nose flaring, “I have no qualms with maiming a little girl.”

  “Is that all you can do?” said the thief, placing her hand on her dagger. “Sounds just like your average Backwater soldier.”

  Bram growled. “I was once in the Imperial army!” he shouted, his steel-grey eyes darkening with vitriol. “I came to this pathetic outpost for a legendary sword – not to be blown up by a damn orphan! You lot may not have a future, but I sure as hell do.”

  “You’re a man of action,” Mira said, “not words.”

  “And?”

  “And you’re renegading on your contract!”

  “He’s blown the damn forge!” Bram exclaimed; he glanced at the boy, and said, “he’s out cold.”

  Mira pointed to the flames behind her. “The forge is still there,” she said breathlessly.

  “So?” Bram said.

  “That means that Larkin is still in the fight,” said Mira.

  Bram laughed scornfully. “I might have once been an imperial soldier... but now I am a mercenary. I work for pay, not ideology. If he cannot use the Hammer that was gifted to him by the gods, then what am I here for?”

  Mira unsheathed her Soulrend. “You’re not leaving,” she said.

  “Wait,” Anara said, looking at the boy curiously, “he has the Hammer of the Eternal Forge?... this is the Eternal Forge?”

  Mira turned even paler. “And what if it is?” she gulped.

  “Then he is cursed,” said Anara.

  “Cursed or not; he isn’t hammering anymore,” said Bram, nudging the enchanteress towards the exit.

  “Can’t you break it?” blurted Mira, her voice laden with desperation.

  Anara raised her head and glanced at the thief skeptically. “He wants to remove a gift from the gods?”

  “I just want him to be normal again,” said Mira exasperatedly, and she looked away.

  The enchanteress stood as though amused by the orphan’s request. A knowing smile spread across her lips. Suddenly, she started across the chamber. Bram did not even try to stop her.

  "I must do it; I must do it!” repeated Anara as she approached the unconscious boy. She saw how the flames of the forge illuminated his smooth, youthful face, and her expression softened.

  “Do what?” Mira asked.

  “I must save him,” Anara replied; she knelt beside the boy’s head and began stroking his sweat-stroked, ruffled hair. “This boy is too young for such a burden,” she added, her fingers lingering on his crimson cheek. The woman lowered her ear to his lips. “I can hear breathing,” she said, “which is good... The Hammer’s power must have kept his lungs from being crushed.”

  “Even so,” Mira said, “you can remove it?”

  Anara raised her eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course,” Mira said quickly, “why would I not want that? He’s going to destroy himself otherwise.”

  “Out of thousands of Enchanteress’, I pick the altruistic one,” scoffed Bram.

  “Don’t misjudge me,” Anara said as she hovered her hands over Larkin’s body, “I am primarily interested in showing the Realm that enchanteress’ are superior to the rest of the crafting professions.”

  “I’m sure that they’ll be pleased with your gallant effort to save a fugitive,” said Bram.

  “He’s not a fugitive!” growled Mira.

  “My work is a constant rebellion against the norms of my family and the crafting community as a whole... I believe that with my knowledge and skills of imbuing magical properties into physical objects, I can find a way to lift the curse that binds Larkin to this never-ending quest.”

  “I just want him to stop before he seriously hurts himself...,” said Mira.

  Suddenly, the boy’s eyes burst open.

  “He’s awake!” Anara exclaimed, jumping back in surprise.

  Larkin broke into a sudden laugh. He shot his fist into the air.

  “I will become the best blacksmith in the world!” he shouted exuberantly.

  “Oh, for the love of the gods!” groaned Mira frustratedly.

  Larkin sat up, looked around the chamber, and frowned. “What’s going on?”

  Before anyone else could reply, Mira said quickly, “Anara can remove the curse from you.”

  “What curse?” Larkin asked in disgust. He stood up and brushed the debris off his clothes. “Whatever it is, it can wait... the forge promises something that I can’t get without the Hammer.”

  “But you’ve just levelled the building,” Mira cried.

  “The forge is still standing,” Larkin replied with a shrug as he limped back to the cracked anvil. He leant against it for a moment, before reaching down and grabbing a steel rod that lay next to his feet.

  “What are you doing?” continued Mira.

  “I know that you’re worried about me,” said Larkin, “but I must finish what I started.”

  “But Larkin, don’t you... don’t you realise that this is part of the Forge’s curse?” Anara said.

  The boy remained silent and pensive as he heated the steel.

  “You’ll blow yourself up!” cried all three.

  Larkin, returning the steel to the anvil, paused for a moment. He tilted his head up, sagged his shoulders, and sighed heavily. “What about it? What about it?" he laughed, wrapping his fingers around the last remaining fragment of Stormshale. “Fine,” he cried, levelling his gaze onto Anara, “I’ll need your help stabilising the enchantment.” Then he turned to Mira, “And someone to keep an eye out for guild enforcers.”

  “I’ll keep the Stormshale from exploding again. Whether you can handle the rest is up to you,” Anara said with a raised eyebrow.

  “If a guild enforcer shows up, they’ll leave in pieces,” Bram said, grabbing the hilt of his greatsword.

  “I guess it wouldn’t be hard for them to spot you,” Mira said as she left the chamber.

  “At least it wouldn’t be hard for me to spot them,” Bram said with a large grin.

  Anara held her hand out over the Stormshale. Larkin gazed at her with wonder. He had never seen an enchanteress at work, and he was curious about what skills they possessed.

  As though she could read his mind, she smirked, and asked, “Do you know what I’m doing?”

  Larkin shook his head.

  “Enchanters and enchanteress’ work using runes. They can inscribe and activate them. There are thousands, if not thousands upon thousands of possible rune combinations out there to be learned. But most of them are locked behind guild walls.”

  As soon as she said this, Larkin saw that the tattoo on her arm began to glow yellow through her sleeve; previously obscured by the fabric of her dress, the process revealed the design to be intricate. Seconds after, the stormshale started to vibrate, and a web formed around it like a cocoon. Even Bram noticed it from across the chamber. He unsheathed his sword and perched himself on the crate in the other corner; and withdrawing a whetstone from his satchel, he started sharpening his weapon.

  “Of course,” Larkin gulped, eyeing the mysterious symbols on her arm. They reminded him of the blueprints etched on the walls.

  “This one that I’m using,” Anara said, focusing intently on the metal, "is called rune stabilisation.”

  When Anara had finished her explanation of the four levels of rune stabilisation, the three of them suddenly raised their heads and looked at the exit.

  “What’s that?” said Bram, jumping to his feet.

  Mira slipped into the chamber with her finger pressed against her lips. She saw Bram step forward, and she quickly shushed him.

  “There’s ten of them,” she whispered. “Warriors.”

  Bram readied his greatsword, prepared to swing it at the next one who walked through the entrance. He glanced at the enchanteress.

  Anora stiffened. “Don’t go outside,” she said quietly.

  “Who is it?” Larkin asked.

  “Obsidian Watch,” Anara answered.

  Despite the woman’s apparent nervousness, her hand remained over the stormshale. Larkin glanced at Bram and Mira.

  “Go,” said Larkin, “see what they want.”

  Bram nodded and left the chamber.

  “You too,” said Larkin, looking at Mira.

  “But someone needs to protect you,” the thief replied.

  “I can handle myself,” replied Larkin. He swung his Hammer on the stormshale again, further embedding it into the base of the blade.

  “Look after him,” Mira said, turning to Anara, before darting out of the chamber.

  The enchanteress breathed deeply. Larkin observed that she was visibly shaken by something.

  “Who are they?” he asked, “and what do they want?”

  Bram stepped out of the temple and was at once blinded by the sunlight. Shielding his eyes with his free hand, he scanned the line of trees surrounding the lost forge. Seeing nothing, he marched forward, emboldened by his giant frame and greatsword, as well as the numerous battle skills he possessed. Although he could not afford chain armour, his Iron Ward skill had proved invaluable as a defensive measure. But since it had a short duration effect, Bram was saving it for when he encountered the enemy.

  The sun beat down on his head, and the heat was such that it made the air wavy. At length, about five minutes from leaving the temple, a white flash caught Bram’s eye. It was coming from a pair of oversized silver gauntlets. As he approached, he saw that they belonged to a hooded, black-robed figure half his size. Although their face was covered in shadow, their eyes were intensely yellow.

  “We seek Anara,” the stranger said in a muffled voice, “the storm calls for her.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” replied Bram, raising his sword over his head, “but I suggest you leave because it isn’t safe around here.”

  The mysterious man remained silent, tilting his head slightly.

  “Who are you?” demanded Bram.

  “We are the Obsidian Watch. We come at the call of the storm. We seek her.”

  Bram glanced over his shoulder at the crumbling temple. “Anara?” he repeated with a frown. He stepped forward. “She’s not coming out,” he said.

  “She will. The storm leaves no room for denial.”

  There was a moment of silence. The back of his leather armour roasted in the sun. Bram’s fingers fidgeted around the hilt of his sword as it towered above them, the steel glinting with white streaks of light.

  Suddenly, ten more of these mysterious figures stepped out from behind the trees. All of them brandishing huge, shimmering gauntlets.

  Bram’s lips twisted into a smile. His sword crackled with white electricity. The members of the Obsidian Watch rushed him all at once.

  “Fools,” muttered Bram, his eyes glowing white. At the last moment, he stabbed the earth with his great sword. “Iron Ward, activate... Iron Dome!” he shouted animalistically.

  Instantly, a dome of energy formed around him just in time to intercept the tsunami of punches coming from every direction, hurling the aggressors back into the jungle. Bram had invested several points into Iron Dome’s knockback effect – just for this reason – and it was paying off. The Obsidian Watch had been propelled without wasting the durability of his enchanted greatsword.

  “See? Crafters don’t win fights, warriors do,” he said with a smirk, sheathing his greatsword.

  However, as he said this, his body suddenly started to sway to the left, and then to the right; he turned frighteningly pale. Placing a hand on his temple, his face convulsed, and an awful sensation passed through him like a great, winter chill. He fell onto his knees, gasping for air. Half his life points had depleted.

  Suddenly, a high-pitched scream came from behind. He turned but it was too late. One of the cloaked figures had not charged with the rest. Bram’s sword was half-way out of his sheath when the figure leapt into the air, retracting its humungous gauntlet and coming down upon the warrior like a javelin. All Bram could do was watch helplessly.

  At that moment, a shadow darted across his vision. In a blink, the attacker was gone. All that was left was the pale sky, and the trickles of white cloud dotting its wet canvas. He turned to his left and saw Mira standing over the body of his assailant. She was breathing heavily, her fist clenched around her dagger.

  “You owe me one,” said Mira, glancing over her shoulder at the warrior.

  Bram stared at her with surprise. “I did not expect you to save me,” he said in between raspy gasps; then, he grinned. “Does this make us friends?” he added.

  “Don’t get smart,” she replied with a scowl.

  “I over did it too early,” groaned Bram, rising to his feet. “Better throw him over there,” he said, nodding to a patch further into the jungle, “or they’ll come back to look for him.”

  “What makes you think they won’t do that anyway?”

  Bram laughed. “A small enemy like that? No way they’ll come back after being knocked back by my Iron Dome. It wouldn’t be a useful skill if it didn’t scare away the mobs.”

  “You are overconfident,” said Mira, peering into the stretch of palm trees and dangling vines which hid the dangers of the jungle from the sunlight.

  “Yada, yada, yada... has anyone ever told you that you’re too serious?”

  Mira frowned. “It pays to be serious,” she said, side eying Bram. “You don’t know when you’ll be ambushed.”

  “Only people who have done wrong need to be worried about being betrayed,” said Bram. He pointed to himself with his thumb, and, with a huge smile, he added, “That’s why I chose to be a warrior: I want to live a life of honour – not shame.”

  “Do you...do you think that I chose this life?” Mira asked with a constrained smile.

  Bram said nothing; he had learned over the years to keep his opinions to himself. However, seeing a young girl like Mira choose to be a thief irked him. Her short, brunette hair reminded him of a friend from the village of Eldermoor. As fast as the image of the girl flashed into his mind, he was brought back to reality by the girl in front of him. He saw Mira quickly lie down next to the unconscious body, concealing herself in the long, sharp blades of grass unique to this part of Backwater; and she urged him to do the same.

  Before he could ascertain the reason for this sudden movement, Bram heard the sound that had warned Mira seconds earlier: the screams that had haunted him earlier were approaching rapidly – this time in treble the volume. Bram sweated and started patting his leather breastplate frantically; his hand finally landed on his satchel, and he pulled out a red vial. With trembling hands, he opened it and downed its contents.

  Thirty hooded men rushed onto the plain and lined themselves in front of the palm trees as though they were an army. Together, they shimmered like a silver lake, for their gauntlets, which were at least double the size of their heads, flashed brilliantly in the midday sun. Bram gritted his teeth and unsheathed his sword, clasping its hilt with both hands. He dug his boots into the mud, his breath quick and hoarse.

  “We can’t take them all,” said Mira.

  “Oh, a soldier never retreats,” Bram replied calmly. “It looks like they want another round of my Iron Dome.”

  One of the members approached him. “Take us to meet Anara,” he said.

  “No,” Bram said. “Tell your men to go or I’ll slay them all.”

  “You may defeat us now, but you can’t kill us. We will keep coming back until we see her.”

  “Then, I will keep slaying you.”

  “You will slay all a thousand of us?”

  Bram blinked.

  “We know about Larkin Forgeheart,” continued the hooded figure; “we know about the stormshale.”

  Back in the forge, Anara’s attention had completely shifted to the exit. Larkin remained opposite her, struggling to concentrate on his own craft. He noted the stiffness of his companion’s posture, and the trembling of her hand over the stormshale.

  “Who are they?” Larkin asked, “What do they want with you?”

  Anara’s eyes flickered to the forge behind the boy, as though the answers to his question could be found in the never-ending flames started by the gods. She was plunged into thought, her jaw clenched; the woman sighed, and said, “They’ve come for me, and they’ll keep coming for me until I answer. Won’t they?”

  “What are you talking about?” Larkin cried, furrowing his brows.

  “The storm...” Anara said, her voice laden with hesitation, “it’s a calling, one I can’t ignore. The Obsidian Watch are the agents of that call. They don’t just come for anyone.”

  “Then why not go out there and face them?” Larkin asked exasperatedly.

  “Because they don’t stop; and if I go out there, they’ll make sure I follow them. I’ve spent my whole life running from them. And now they’ve found me.”

  “Ach, good grief!” cried Larkin, tilting his head back in annoyance, his grip loosening around the Hammer; “all I want to do is craft,” he groaned.

  Anara lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry, Larkin. I-”

  “No,” interrupted Larkin with the wave of his hand. He backed away from the anvil and moved beside her, his expression softening. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it together.”

  Anara gazed into the boy’s amber eyes. “But... but you’re just a boy – a blacksmith at that!” she exclaimed in alarm.

  “I do not run from danger. If I am going to be the best blacksmith in the realm, then I must not back down from any challenge. Even if that includes fighting,” Larkin replied, staring into the flickering forge. “After being overlooked all my life by them, I was finally chosen by the forge gods to wield their Hammer,” he added, raising the Hammer out in front of him like a valiant warrior, “Therefore, I believe that I have their divine protection.”

  Before Anara could respond, footsteps emerged from the corridor. Bram entered the chamber, a grim expression hardening his face. Saying nothing, his narrowed eyes locked onto the enchanteress. For several moments there was silence in the chamber. Mira was already there, waiting in the corner.

  “They want you, Anara; and they won’t leave until they get you,” Bram said.

  Anara did not answer. Bram gave her a guilty look.

  “You didn’t stop them?” said Larkin accusingly.

  “This is my battle,” Anara said with a heavy sigh.

  “Battles involve people dying,” snapped Bram. “I’ve dealt with wizard cults like these,” he continued, his voice hardening with concern, “if they’re after you, then you’ve got something they want. We deserve to know why.”

  Anara glared at the warrior. “I haven’t asked you to help me,” she said sharply.

  “But you’ve brought them to our doorstep,” hissed Mira, tightening her fists. “Whether you asked for our help or not, we’re a part of your mess now. No more secrets,” she shouted in fury.

  “I didn’t want to involve anyone in my past!” she cried, staggering back into the wall. “They mentioned a storm, right? It’s not just a natural phenomenon, but a metaphysical force connected to my heart.”

  The enchanteress waited for their reaction. When none came, she took a deep breath, and continued:

  “The Obsidian Watch want me because I have this connection. They think that I’m somehow marked by destiny – whatever that means.”

  Mira’s eyes bored into the older woman. “My level 2 Information Gathering skill isn’t telling me anything...”

  “What does that mean?” Larkin asked.

  “She’s probably telling the truth,” replied Mira, sighing.

  “You’re using a skill on me?” snapped Anara. She crossed her arms and looked at the thief with alarm and suspicion. “What strange orphans you are!”

  Larkin chuckled. “Give her a break; she’s learning to trust people,” he said.

  “And you’re learning to take a break from that damn forge!” retorted Mira with a laugh.

  It was Bram’s turn to be serious. “Hey,” he growled, and he pointed to the exit, “now’s not the time for jokes.”

  “Care to explain your cowardice, Bram?” Larkin asked, raising his head to look at the seven-foot warrior.

  Bram’s forehead creased, and he stamped his booted foot and cursed. But before he could reply, Mira interjected:

  “I didn’t like retreating either, but they know that you’re here, Larkin; and that you’ve got the stormshale.”

  “So?” Larkin said nonchalantly.

  “So?” Mira repeated, puzzled.

  “Why don’t we cut out their tongues?”

  All were silent. Then Anara glanced sheepishly at Bram. “The storm; the Obsidian Watch – it all has to be dealt with,” she muttered, her voice trembling slightly, “I’m just not sure that I’m ready to face what lies beyond that corridor.”

  “They’re not going to take no for an answer. We need a plan, Anara,” urged Bram.

  “I’ve been running away for a very long time, Bram. I can’t go back to that life,” replied Anara in distress, her mind churning for a way out.

  Larkin picked up his Hammer and pounded the final stormshale into the blade. “Then we’ll make sure you don’t have to,” he said after the dust cleared. He looked fiercely at her, and said, “We won’t let them take you.”

  Anara gazed at the boy for a few moments with a soft, pale, and slightly puzzled expression; her eyes twinkled with gratitude. Suddenly, however, they hardened into a stone-cold grey. Facing the Obsidian Watch together was a fool’s errand. She knew that, but the boy didn’t. The storm had come, and the fallout would be inevitable.

  “But your safety is paramount,” Mira hissed.

  “No,” Larkin said, “our safety is paramount. If you let everyone around you die to survive, then where will you belong?”

  Mira grimaced.

  “Get ready. We’ll face them together,” Anara said.

  “Is that what you want, boss?” Bram asked, glancing at Larkin.

  “Sure is,” replied the boy with a nod.

  Anara gazed down the long corridor ahead. Not a patch of light was present, yet it was filled with the hush of rain from outside. She gulped. The longer she stared into the darkness, the more she saw them in her mind’s eye: a legion of silver gauntlets waiting for her.

  Bram and Larkin stood next to her, each of them contemplating what they were about to face. Only Anara knew the truth.

  “Fine; but I think that you’re an idiot, Larkin,” Mira said, slipping out of the shadows and joining the party.

  “Chances they got bored and left?” Bram said with a grin, unsheathing his sword.

  For a moment, Larkin felt a presence behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, but he only saw the forge flickering.