The elf vanished.
In a flash, Tharion was behind him, and in a pincer movement, he wrapped his arms around the boy’s neck and slashed his throat. Immediately, Larkin clasped the wound, the blood spurting out between his fingers, showering the grass in front of him with crimson. He fell onto his knees, cold and frightened to the bone. But as quickly as his throat split, so did it stitch together, and he could begin to breathe after a few seconds of gasping.
“It isn’t personal, kid. Just business. You’re in the way,” Tharion said, “and no amount of healing magic will prevent me from getting that Hammer.”
“No,” wheezed Larkin as he struggled to rise from the dirt.
Tharion kicked him hard in the gut. Larkin collapsed with a heavy cry. Nevertheless, he continued to try to get up. The third time he propped himself up with his elbows sent Tharion into a rage.
“Stay down!” he yelled, drawing his dripping blades over the boy’s head. “Don’t make me end your career altogether,” he warned.
“I-I could make... you... legendary... weapons,” spluttered Larkin, coughing up blood and pushing himself up with his hands. He was certain his ribs were broken.
Tharion raised his eyebrows in surprise. Never before had he seen such resilience. He climbed onto the boy’s back. Once again, the thief slit the orphan’s throat. Larkin screamed in agony, tears bubbling in his eyes. Tharion’s face drew close to his ear.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” sneered Tharion, breathing heavily. “Stay down, or I’ll make you wish you were never created.”
“Created?” repeated the boy, puzzled by the word choice.
Tharion smirked. “There is much you don’t know about the Realm. There is a reason why guilds prevent the majority from ever ascending beyond novice level.”
Larkin’s mouth frothed with blood; he would have demanded the reason, otherwise.
“All I want is the Hammer,” continued Tharion, kneeling on the boy’s head.
With his hands now free, he restrained Larkin’s right arm, which held the Hammer, and started sawing his wrist vigorously; once his dagger met bone, he paused to catch his breath. Although Larkin was lean, cutting through his arm was no easy task. Tharion grew frustrated, for even though his blades were enchanted with additional piercing, it was like chopping down a tree. Nevertheless, the bone began to give after much trying; although it cost much of his dexterity. He should have dealt with the barbarian first, he thought, while he still had the energy. Thankfully, the shade regenerated his mana, and thus his attributes.
Tharion’s physical attributes were as follows:
- Strength (STR): 10 (+0)
- Dexterity (DEX): 18 (+4)
- Constitution (CON): 14 (+2)
- Intelligence (INT): 16 (+3)
- Wisdom (WIS): 12 (+1)
- Charisma (CHA): 14 (+2)
Every time he performed an action, not only did it cost mana, but it also reduced his attributes. Thus, the higher his attributes, the longer he could last outside of the shade. The thief class was notorious for their high damage output and were often seen as overpowered as a result; and that was a good reputation to have on the streets. But what was commonly unknown to many people was their reliance on darkness. After all, they were thieves – creatures of the night. They couldn’t be trusted, for they walked in darkness.
As much as Tharion wanted to take up the boy’s offer, he was after something specific, something which a Backwater orphan could not craft. And a job’s a job: he would never have risen through the ranks of the Thief Guild as quickly as he did if he didn’t complete jobs to his employer’s satisfaction. His mind wandered: he should have dispatched the warrior when he had the chance. No matter, he told himself, he’d use backstab before the brute could activate his impenetrable shield. He was virtually invincible in the shadows.
However, so seemed Larkin. He showed no signs of succumbing to his injuries. The fast healing kept him conscious. Tharion knew that no mere blacksmith could regenerate himself, and thus, he reasoned, it must be an enchantment. But where? Tharion could see no obvious article on his person. Overcome by the frustration of the boy’s constant screaming and flailing, the thief ceased his effort to remove the Hammer and searched him for the source of the enchantment.
“Where is it?” he pressed angrily.
Larkin knew that there was no reasoning with a thief. His prejudice against the class was well deserved. But so was his plight. Trying to talk his way out of a fight proved foolish; the thief had better charisma than him! If only he could see another person’s attributes... then he would better be able to plan. Where was his resolve? He clenched his fists and pushed against the elf’s knee. What made these creatures come into the empire and decide to become robbers and vandals? Larkin’s face contorted with misery and hatred. The very blades used against his father and grandfather crafted with their own hands. Where was the justice in that? Blacksmiths were the cornerstone of society. Without tools, without weapons, without armour – where is civilisation? A smirk came to Larkin’s lips.
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He knew now why he had chosen blacksmithing. Sure, he would never have been in this position had he become a warrior, or a thief, or any other combat class available to a Backwater orphan, but neither would he be on the path to greatness. For greatness wasn’t something one achieved through destruction... it was achieved through creation. Man tears down, gods, on the other hand, create out of nothing. And that is who Larkin wanted to be – a god.
Renewed with purpose, Larkin pushed upwards to the sky with an effort that would have rivalled even the burliest of warriors.
“Why won’t you quit?” seethed Tharion.
“I... will... be-”
“You will be nothing!”
“...a..great...”
“Shut-”
“.... Blacksmith!”
Larkin sat up, throwing the thief off of him. The wound was already half-restored, and Larkin could again feel the cold steel of the Hammer in his grip. The boy took it and swung it at Tharion’s right temple, but the latter leaned back at the last second, his movements a blur to Larkin’s eyes. His agility far exceeded the blacksmith’s. But Larkin knew that if he managed to hit him, the blow would be fatal, for a blacksmith by necessity of his profession required a high strength stat. Unless Tharion power-levelled his constitution, Larkin stood a fighting chance and this emboldened him greatly.
Tharion frowned. If he was the sentimental sort, like Calla, he would pity the youth, for he proved to possess a quality which would be hard to find in even a master-level thief. It made him snigger. Nevertheless, the boy had to be crippled severely. Tharion slashed Larkin’s arms in quick succession, as though his knives were paintbrushes and the boy the red canvas.
This did not stop Larkin, however. Pushing past the pain, the blacksmith swung his Hammer repeatedly at the thief. To the latter’s surprise, each strike was faster than the last, and Tharion’s cheeks soon seared. He couldn’t believe it: a blacksmith grazing his cheek was impossible. Who was this boy? His eyes... his eyes shone like a forge! At once, Tharion backflipped away, clearly unnerved that he was unable to find an opening for a counterattack. This had never happened to him. He was one of the best thieves in Backwater. An adept thief was nothing to joke about.
Larkin’s noticed that his Hammer was glowing. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t care. No one was taking it away from him. Not even the gods themselves could come down and wrestle it out of his grip. He pointed at Tharion, his muscular chest rising and falling rapidly. The energy he once felt in the ancient forge again intoxicated his veins; but this time he wasn’t crafting.
“This only ends badly for you,” said Tharion from across the shadow of the watch tower.
“No,” replied Larkin breathlessly, lowering his Hammer, “it ends with the destruction of the guild system.”
Tharion noted the boy’s sincerity. His average insight attribute told him that much. All the while, his eyes scanned for the best path of attack using his, admittedly average, perception attribute. He had concentrated most of his development in stealth and acrobatics: the woman that had suckled him taught him that it was better to avoid a fight altogether than be stuck trying to figure out an escape.
“You’re crazy!” exclaimed Tharion, stalling for time.
Tharion didn’t want to reveal all the cards that were under his sleeve, but he was running out of patience. The shadow underneath his feet shifted slightly forward, following the movement of the sun on the other side of the old watchtower. Tharion kept his movements small and light, keeping within the bounds of the shrinking shade. The elf wiped the beads of sweat which enveloped his brow, and he stroked back the wet strands of hair which had the tendency to stick up like a sore thumb; and he racked his brain for a solution. The boy appeared confident – too confident... The enchantment... what if he didn’t have it on himself?
Larkin coughed.
Suddenly, Tharion recalled the smoke and how it had entered the warrior; in the next moment, how he had shrugged off a backstab by Calla. Sure, Calla was not as high a level as he was, but he was no beginner. This stunk of rune enchantment, Tharion thought. He glanced over his shoulder, but he saw nothing. Where did that burly warrior go? There was no point in continuing the fight so as long as there was a rune in place. He had to stamp it out.
It was perfectly clear to Larkin what the thief was thinking: he had figured it out. Larkin was stalling for time. With a shrug, he slipped off his sandals and rushed towards the thief. Was he crazy? Probably. But he was willing to risk it all for a chance at greatness. The Hammer sparked in his hand as he ran, and a current of energy soared into his legs, bolstering his steps. All of his mana was being drained into this one movement, whether he liked it or not. He would have to deal with the consequences later, he couldn’t allow Tharion to find Anara. Like an arrow, he shot across the width of the watchtower.
The elf’s pointy ears pricked immediately in alarm. He would have activated Stealth to disappear into the shadow or used Backstab to neutralise the boy, but he needed to step out into the sunlight. Therefore, Tharion had no choice but to resort to his escape plan; with a smirk, he flicked his cloak and vanished into thin air. A rare blueprint well spent.
Because he had remained within the shadow before disappearing, Tharion hoped to trick Larkin into thinking that he had used one of his thief skills to keep him distracted. His deception attribute was +7. Regardless of what he ended up thinking, however, Tharion knew that it was over for the orphan. He had won. As casual as his opinion of the young blacksmith, he traversed the open plain, scanning the area for the enchanter. From what he knew of the class, novices could only maintain one rune at a time. Therefore, there was no chance of any surprises coming his way, for rune-etching was relatively limitless as far as he was concerned.
Behind him, Larkin stood in the shade gasping for breath. Where did he go? With great effort, he lifted his Hammer and swung it around him in a circle. But he struck nothing. Every few seconds, he was forced to stop to collect himself and wipe the sweat from his brow. Blacksmiths were never meant to fight, and he was starting to discover why. He could pound metal for hours on end, but in combat he was swimming against the tide. Because of his arrogance, Anara was in danger. If only he had allowed Bram to attack him after he had put down Calla. But then Anara would never have been able to write another rune...
Larkin could not restrain his smirk any longer. He hoped Tharion, wherever he was, wouldn’t be able to see it. But even if he did, it didn’t matter. Larkin had done his bit. Now it was Anara and Bram’s turn.