Bram was too ashamed to even meet the woman’s eye. He stood hesitating at the precipice of the broken chamber, gazing longingly at the row of tiny houses in the distance.

  “Well?” Anara asked, raising her eyebrow.

  “I’ll do anything to complete my mission,” Bram sighed, “but maybe I’m not the mercenary Larkin needs.”

  “Nonsense,” Larkin said. “It is I who has failed you, Bram.”

  Bram grimaced. “My greatsword is too slow to hit thieves,” he explained with frustration.

  “Leave the thieves to Mira,” said Anara, “you’re best at crowd control.”

  “That should be my job,” said Larkin bitterly, “strategising... else what good am I?”

  “What are friends for, but to carry you when you are hurt?” Anara said.

  Larkin sighed, and he raised his head to the sunlight which poured into the chamber. “We could chase after these thieves,” he said with a sigh, “or we could go to direct to the source.”

  “What’s it going to be, boss?” Bram asked.

  “No, I’m leaving it up to you, my friends,” Larkin said, meeting the woman’s warm gaze.

  Anara smiled. She glanced at Bram and nodded.

  “Well, we need to teach everyone who goes against us a lesson,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Lead the way, soldier,” Larkin said.

  The only notable landmark in this southern direction was the old watchtower. They hurried along the river which ran up to it, only stopping to drink and splash their faces every so often. Larkin wondered about the enchanteress’ healing ability – a skill which would be useful for a boy rebelling against an empire. He supposed that there were other runes the woman had at her disposal; but he would seek that information after he vanquished his saboteurs.

  They saw them on the horizon, sprinting between the odd shack or barn dotted about on the farmland, slipping in and out of shadows, which their class most depended on to function effectively. For the first time, Larkin thought of a potential weakness he could exploit, rather than look upon others as simply his superior. He silently cursed himself, for he realised the missed opportunity of learning about his enemy from his friend, Mira. He had no knowledge of the thief class, no way to be certain how to defeat them as a crafter. Up to now, he just assumed that he could rely on others to fight for him. But as he looked upon Bram, he realised that it would take more than a single warrior to assert his claim as an independent crafter.

  “Do you think it will work?” Anara asked suddenly, breaking the boy’s train of thought.

  Larkin turned around and shielded his eyes from the sun with his hands. She appeared nervous.

  “If you manage to persuade the Iron Guild to let you continue, will you be also able to advance to adept?” Anara wondered.

  “Won’t you teach me that rune skill?” Larkin blurted, sidestepping the question entirely.

  Anara was taken off guard, but she didn’t let it show. “The healing rune? You’re a blacksmith-”

  “And you’re an enchanteress. I thought crafters couldn’t learn combat skills,” interrupted Larkin.

  “Healing isn’t exactly combat-”

  “You know what I mean."

  Anara’s cheeks reddened. “I told you that I was working on a fusion of enchantment magic and craftsmanship...”

  “But I thought enchantment was simply another form of imbuing mana into objects. Is that not so?”

  “You are half-right, Larkin,” replied Anara.

  “And?” Larkin said, walking backwards to continue the conversation with the woman.

  Anara sighed. “Ever wondered why my class is called, ‘Enchanteress’, and not the more common, ‘Enchantress’?”

  Larkin looked at her dumbly and shrugged.

  “Maybe you ought to learn Realm history,” said Anara with a smirk.

  “But you could just tell me, right now!” cried Larkin exasperatedly, pointing a finger at her.

  Anara placed a hand on her chest, feigned shock, and then laughed exuberantly. She thought the boy looked cute when he acted the tyrant. Perhaps one day, she mused, the orphan would be useful to her as an ally. But for now, she must make do with being the babysitter. She caught the boy looking at her, and she smiled. Her teeth sparkled in the sunlight, much like the waters beside them, and she knew the effect she had on young boys plenty.

  Larkin, however, lacked the self-awareness to even consider that the woman knew that there was a battle in his heart. It seemed like it was only five minutes ago when he saw her as another conspirator after his Hammer. Now, it was as though Larkin would have willingly handed over his prized tool if the woman merely parted her lips. But before any of that could have happened, a strong gust of wind blew from the south. Larkin glanced over his shoulder. They were closing in on the old watchtower.

  As they neared it, Bram saw the thieves resting in the shade, and he pointed them out to Larkin. The party crouched behind a rose bush and discussed their next move. Bram wanted to rush in and take them by surprise, but Anara advised caution, for she saw how easily the warrior was struck down at the forge. Bram argued that it was the small, confined space which played to the thieves’ advantage, and now that they were out in the open it was a different story altogether. Larkin was inspired by this reasoning but reluctantly agreed with the older woman. This time, they had to have a plan. Both turned to Larkin with expectation.

  “Bram’s right; even though I had smashed holes in the walls, the forge was still heavily shaded. It was a perfect environment for a thief to use their skills,” Larkin reasoned out loud, placing a finger on his lip. “Now that they are out in the open, we have the advantage.”

  “Only if we can draw them out of the shade,” noted Anara, peeking through the foliage.

  “Time to put my big size to use,” Bram chuckled.

  Anara and Larkin laughed.

  “Ssh, we’ll give ourselves away,” whispered Anara, unable to suppress her large grin.

  For a second or two, Larkin lowered his guard, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a long time since he had felt comfortable in the company of other people. For many years, since being ostrasised by his peer group, he had forgotten the simple, natural pleasure of companionship.

  “So,” coughed Larkin, drawing an invisible battleplan with his finger on the grass, “Bram will attempt to draw them out, here... what will we do?”

  “While they are out in the sun, they won’t be able to use their skills. Or if they are, they’ll be severely limited because of mana-limitations,” Anara explained.

  “How do you know this?” Larkin inquired.

  “I read books. You should try it sometime,” she replied.

  Larkin’s nostrils flared as he drew in a large breath, suppressing his embarrassment at being intellectually bested by a city-dwelling enchanteress. He swore then and there that he would read more books if he survived the next encounter. Larkin saw that the pair were looking at him, expecting him to suggest something based on this new piece of information, which made him only feel more anxious and fraudulent. How could he lead men into battle, when he was so weak?

  “I’m no commander,” he said guiltily.

  Bram grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close enough that Larkin could smell what he had for dinner the night before. “A leader never shows weakness in front of his men. Got it?” he said.

  Larkin gulped and turned pale; he then nodded his head. Bram let him go.

  “All this talk is just wasting time,” said Bram, shaking his head. He stood up and stretched.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Sit down!” hissed Anara.

  Bram looked down at the enchanteress, flashed his signature grin, and, placing his large hands comfortably on his hips, he said, bombastically, “There’s time for sitting, and then there’s time for action. Now is the time for action!”

  At that, he unsheathed his greatsword and thrust it into the air. His mana had been restored; within a matter of seconds, his blade shone white with skill. Immediately, his body was covered by a transparent dome of energy, visible intermittently only by the sheer lucidity of the sun weighing upon the back of his neck. There was no time to waste on further deliberation. He charged onto the field, instantly drawing the attention of the two thieves.

  There was no turning back now. Larkin wished that he was in Haldar’s forge.

  Anara glanced at Larkin and saw that he was troubled. Her hand hovered over his, which held the Hammer, and remained there for some time; she, too, was hesitant to do battle. They were both crafters, after all. Sure, she was highly adept at enchanting, but she had always been under the protection of her spellcasting family, and so, now that she was on her own, the terror was all too real. It was not her intention to reveal how much skill she knew, for she had learned from her mother to keep one’s cards close to the breast, but necessity dictated another use of Rune Etching. Anara started pulling at the weeds hastily.

  Larkin noted the determined expression on the woman’s face, and, with evident surprise, asked, “What are you doing?”

  But the enchanteress ignored him. Larkin took this as an affront to his level of competence as a leader, and he admonished himself for his own sensitive nature. His heart was manic in his chest, and he shook like one of the leaves of the shrub scratching his back. Perhaps Mira was right, he would never be able to shake the Backwater out of him no matter how hard he tried.

  After flattening the soil underneath, Anara began drawing a shield with her finger. It was the sigil of the warrior class. Larkin had seen it plenty of times adorning the guild buildings when he was considering his apprenticeship. But why was she drawing it in the soil? Before he could ask that question, Anara, as though she could easily read the boy’s thoughts, explained:

  “My mother taught me how to draw runes. She didn’t want to, but I begged her, and she finally relented after I threatened to run away. In hindsight, I wasn’t a very good child... I think that she was afraid other people would look down on her for having a child who preferred to imbue their mana into objects rather than channel it using their body.”

  Larkin frowned. He couldn’t imagine turning down the opportunity to learn a traditional magic system. Even though crafting was a far more lucrative profession, having the skill to defend oneself with fireballs and lightning appealed to him. Haldar’s shop would have never been robbed had he known a few combat skills of his own...

  As soon as the sigil was drawn and Anara had imbued her mana into it, it began to flash rapidly, popping and sizzling as though it was on fire. In fact, there were sparks dancing up and down the lines. Larkin was both distressed and intrigued by the show of light. Smoke rose quickly beyond the shrub, tickling the boy’s throat as it passed, and raced towards Bram, who, having already engaged in battle with the thieves, showed that he was an experienced swordsman. No dagger could penetrate the Iron Warden, whilst his greatsword grew closer to hacking their limbs off with every swing. The battle seemed nearly over. Perhaps Bram was right in that fighting in daylight was in their favour.

  But that happy thought soon came to an end. The smoke, having traversed the short distance relatively quickly, snuffed out the sun like one does a candle. For a moment, everything was dark, and only the sound was his and Anara’s coughing. Larkin could not distinguish one object from another, but so brief was this absence of vision that he nevertheless continued in the belief that the battle was one swing away from victory. He stood up, his heart in his throat. Then, the smoke entered Bram.

  Suddenly, the Iron Warden shattered, and the warrior fell to his knees. While he was croaking, a thief blinked onto his back and stabbed his neck. Blood spurted from the wound instantly. Bram shook him off, but staggeringly so, and he himself was thrown to the ground. He heaved like an overworked mule, half his lifeforce drained as soon as the Iron Warden expired. Larkin angrily wondered why he bothered with the skill if it left him gasping each time for air afterwards; but he supposed that there was nothing like the feeling of being on death ground to excite oneself for battle, for the warrior never looked as excited as he did when he was in a bout. It almost made Larkin want to join in.

  “What did you do?” snapped Larkin anxiously, his eyes accusingly wavering over the enchanteress. He tightened his grip around the Hammer.

  “Just wait, won’t you?” coughed Anara.

  Larkin turned back to the fight. Within a few seconds, Bram’s gaping wound closed seamlessly, as though a pair of invisible hands worked tirelessly to stitch the folds of skin together. Simultaneously, the emboldened expression Bram had when he first entered the field returned. It was the same rune she had employed earlier. Larkin was astonished.

  “Teach me this power,” he said.

  “It’ll buy us some time,” she replied, her face wrecked by anxiety, “but now it’s your turn.”

  This made Larkin nervous too. He glanced at the warrior and the two thieves with hesitation. Silently, he cursed the situation. Without runes, he had no way of defeating his enemies in hand-to-hand combat. But to give up now would be a humiliation. He glanced back at Anara; suddenly, he was reminded of the one book he had read in his relatively short lifetime – or at least, was read to him when he was in the orphanage – which was the story of the High General of the Allied Kingdoms’, General Aranith Dovaris.

  Long ago, before the Realm was united under the empire, there existed on the continent the Allied Kingdoms. In its southern outskirts, the village in which the promising young blacksmith, Aranith was born and raised, was one day attacked by a raiding warlord of a neighbouring tribe. Since Aranith descended from a family which placed high value on being able to craft enchanted weapons and armor, he was unable to protect those whose possessions were carried off in front of their very eyes. Embittered but not defeated, the young blacksmith was said to have, upon seeing his younger sister being among the plunder, tear off his leather apron, pick up the half-finished sword from his anvil, and charge at the bandit.

  At this recollection, Larkin trembled with hesitation. His apron was as part of him as his Hammer. Nevertheless, he gripped the leather, pulled it over his head, and threw it in the shrub. The Hammer was chained to his wrist, but there was no stopping him from using it as a weapon – even if the weapon was a poor one.

  “Why haven’t I crafted myself a Soulrend?” he bemoaned.

  Anara grabbed his arm and tried to pull him to the ground, but the boy had made his mind up. Larkin launched onto the field. Bram and the two thieves looked at him curiously, and one of the thieves turned to face him. But the warrior got to his feet and slashed at him while he was not looking. The latter only dodged at the last second, reappearing behind the warrior in a flash. This time, however, Bram was expecting it: he swiveled at the waist and chopped the thief in half. The torso plopped next to the pair of legs. The man lay there screaming.

  His companion quickly backflipped several metres away. Larkin couldn’t pull his eyes away from the severed man, whose arms flailed about like a newborn. His uneasiness was easily apparent to the warrior, who half-expected it, having mentored plenty of young men on their first campaign. Bram looked at the boy, his face painted crimson. If the Warrior Guild allowed its members to progress beyond Novice level, he would surely have been a master by now. But as things stood, he had to be content with his class’ basic abilities: Iron Warden and Power Strike.

  “You okay?” he asked, catching his breath.

  Larkin could hardly breathe. His chest felt tight, and his knees buckled. He was deathly pale. He had never seen so much blood before. Very quickly the coppery smell overwhelmed him, and he felt his stomach churn. At his feet squirmed what was left of the man, and it was this sight which made Larkin unable to hold himself together. He bent over and vomited.

  Bram turned to the remaining thief and saw that his hood was down.

  “Calla!” shouted the white-haired elf as he retreated backwards.

  “Don’t play with knives if you don’t want to get cut,” said Bram, whose face and blade simultaneously dripped blood.

  “You’ll pay for this you big brute,” he snarled, “the Iron Guild will have your heads!”

  Bram roared and readied himself for another charge. The thief lifted his cloak with his free hand and revealed another dagger. He now wielded two, and he slashed at the air threateningly, his speed extraordinary. Bram laughed as he thrust his blade into the air, drawing the energy of the sun to its steel.

  Just before he activated his Iron Warden, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Confused, Bram saw Larkin’s eyes gaze icily into his own.

  “No,” he said firmly, “this fight is mine.”

  And at that, Bram lowered his greatsword reluctantly. With a quick glance of confusion over at Anara in the bush, he conceded to the boy’s wishes and threw his weapon onto the ground. Why he wanted the warrior to abandon his sword, he could not fathom. But if the boy was going to become a great blacksmith one day, he would have to learn how to fight his own battles. Regardless, Bram struggled with the idea of just letting the thief hack the orphan to pieces in front of his eyes. It reminded him of a similar event which happened many moons ago...

  “Let me go with you, at least,” Bram urged.

  After wiping his mouth with his apron, Larkin covered the decapitated body with it. Still, he moved underneath like a worm, and Larkin, unable to bare the sight any longer lest he throw up again, turned away and started towards the thief. He held his hand up, signaling for the burly warrior to halt. The smell of blood was thick in the air, almost congealing in their nostrils. He walked with an air of dignity, as though he was not a mere orphan but a son of a god. In fact, the sunlight shone upon his bare skin, bronzing it into an alloy of sorts.

  For a second or two, the thief was taken aback, and the sharp, elvish corners of his lips turned down. But then when he saw that the boy only carried with him his Hammer, they returned to their upright position. Tharion couldn’t believe it: the troublemaker was practically handing it over.

  “You don’t belong here, Forgeheart,” spat the elf, glancing over his shoulder at the shade of the watchtower, “you think you can go against the guild and survive?”

  “Just give up F-Forge-!” screamed Calla, his voice muffled by the leather of the apron.

  “Shut up!” demanded Bram angrily, pressing his boot on his entails.

  Calla howled in pain.

  “Bram!” snapped Larkin with a scowl, “Stop!”

  The warrior clenched his fists and did as he was told, albeit with much hesitation. Larkin, satisfied that the wounded man was safe from further distress, continued his approach of Tharion. His stomach was eating itself, and it took all his strength not to capitulate to this feeling. He had to get to Tharion before he reached the watchtower, for once he was in the shade his mana would replenish, and it would all be over. Larkin picked up his pace.

  Tharion pointed the blade at him. “Stay back, or I’ll cut your head off,” he said. The shade was near. Just a few more steps...

  “If you wanted my head, you would have done it already,” replied Larkin calmly.

  “You’re a blacksmith, not a fighter,” said Tharion, “why do you think you can go against me in combat? You’ve seen how your friend fared without his shield.”

  “Who says I’m going to fight you?” smirked Larkin.

  The thief stopped and stared at the boy. “Huh?” he said confusedly. His back foot was at the precipice of the large shadow of the watchtower.

  “With this Hammer I can craft anything,” Larkin said.

  Tharion snorted, “You think the Hammer’s yours to keep? You have no idea what it really is, do you? Or what it means for the rest of us...”

  Larkin reached out his hand. “Join me,” he said, “and I’ll craft you a dagger fit for a king.”