That raider started to raise his hands, no doubt readying another spell. Aric swung his iron rod at shoulder height. It caught the raider at the jawline. Bone crunched and flesh tore, and when the raider fell to the dusty street, blood from a head nearly severed ran into the dirt.
“Now,” Aric cried. “Cut them!”
The villagers with swords did as he said. This time, the vipers died instead of multiplying.
The last viper to die was the one that bit Hotak.
Hotak was chopping another in half, and didn’t see the serpent eyeing his exposed calf. By the time Mazzax saw it and shouted a warning, it was too late—the snake had buried its fangs in Hotak’s leg. The big man screamed once, then froze in place and collapsed.
Mazzax attacked the snake with his maul, not quitting until it was pulverized into the earth.
The raiders had been turning away, hoping to go around to some other road, but by running through them and leaping into the wagon, Aric had wound up behind those who still stood.
One of these was Ceadrin.
“Out of the way, half-elf,” Ceadrin said. Hatred dripped from his voice, the kind of hatred Aric had grown up knowing from full elves.
“You’ll go through me, or you’ll die here, elf,” Aric replied, trying to put the same sort of bitterness into that last word.
“Through you, then.” Ceadrin had a long sword with a slight curve to the blade. He took three steps toward Aric and swung it. Aric deflected it with the rod. Ceadrin swung again and again, bringing the sharp blade toward him at every opportunity. Aric defended, but couldn’t find a chance to attack. He was sure his iron rod was dulling Ceadrin’s blade, which would be scant comfort if the blade struck him.
Sweat coated Aric’s brow, stinging his eyes. He wiped his hands on his shirt, left first, then right, switching the rod as he did. Ceadrin swung again. His sword, with its pommel and guard, was far easier to hang onto. The rod wore blisters in Aric’s hand, and his palm cramped from using it.
Aric worked his way back toward the wagon. He wasn’t even sure why yet, just had a vague hope that it would provide cover or a chance to jump up, to change his elevation, give him some advantage.
Ceadrin kept up the attack, striking and striking and striking. With each swing parried, Aric felt the vibration all the way up to his shoulder. And still Ceadrin came.
Finally, the wagon was at Aric’s back. He parried two more swings, but let his weariness show. That was no act; he was growing tired of all this. A gleam showed in Ceadrin’s eye as he sensed his opponent’s weakness. He brought his sword up and down in a slashing arc, straight toward Aric’s head.
Instead of blocking it, Aric ducked.
Ceadrin’s sword bit deeply into the wooden side of the wagon.
It only stuck for a fraction of a second, but that was time enough. Aric came out of his crouch, thrusting with the rod. It caught Ceadrin in the gut, and the elf bent over, air blowing out of him. Aric swung the rod again, first down, smashing it into Ceadrin’s knee and hearing the satisfying sound of the joint popping, then up into Ceadrin’s throat.
Finally, Ceadrin fell to the ground, and Aric lifted the rod high and drove it straight down, through his heart, pinning the elf to the road.
The few remaining raiders ran past Aric as fast as they could. The defenders followed, picking raiders off as they went. Only Mazzax stayed with Aric, who was breathing heavily, still leaning on the iron rod that pierced the elf’s chest.
“He’s dead,” Mazzax said.
“He had damn well better be.”
“Not him,” Mazzax said. “Him. Hotak.”
Aric released the rod and straightened up, although it pained him to do it. “I’m sorry. I never meant for that to happen.”
“You tried. You slew those who slew him.”
“I did, at that.”
“And you saved me.”
“Likewise true.”
“You have my thanks, stranger.”
“Are we still strangers, Mazzax?”
A broad smile creased the dwarf’s tanned face. “No,” he said. “We’re smiths!”
The raiders retreated.
The villagers, as Mazzax had warned, had lost much of their enthusiasm for having strangers in their midst. There were many dead to bury, and more wounded to tend.
They shot the visitors angry glares, and more than once Aric and the others heard muttered conversations that ceased abruptly when they came near. But no one told them to leave, and when they raised the idea themselves, villagers pointed out that their scouts saw signs of raiders still in the area.
Then Mazzax invited Aric into the shop.
“You’re a smith,” the dwarf said. “I’m only apprentice. A smithy needs a smith.”
“I can’t stay here, Mazzax,” Aric explained. “I have to get home. Soon.”
“You leave now, raiders will kill you.”
“That is a distinct possibility.”
“So stay. For a while. Work in the shop.”
“Well …” Aric said.
“Ha! See? You want to. It’s in the blood.”
That was, Aric thought, probably true of every smith. With as many times as they were cut, there was probably nearly as much metal as blood flowing in their veins. “I have been wanting to craft a sword.”
“Good.”
“For myself. A fine steel sword.”
“Good,” Mazzax said again.
“But I really can’t stay here.”
“We’ll work night and day, make it fast.”
“Just the two of us?”
“That’s not enough?”
“If Ruhm helped us …”
“The goliath?”
“Yes. He works in my shop, back home.”
“Apprentice?”
“Journeyman.”
“Lucky.”
“I’m sure you’ll be a journeyman one day, Mazzax.”
“Not if I stay here. No more master.”
“Well, someone else will come, perhaps.”
“You came.”
“Yes, but …” Aric was reaching the conclusion that arguing with a dwarf was a pointless pursuit. With this dwarf, anyway.
And they couldn’t leave yet. They had to get to Nibenay, but if they were slain by raiders on the way then their message would never get through. If they took a few days, let the raiders tire of waiting for them, the result might be better.
“Very well,” Aric said. “I’ll get Ruhm. We’ll make a sword.”
Mazzax clapped his thick hands together once. “Good!”
They began the following morning. Mazzax stoked the fire high while Ruhm gathered materials and tools. Aric worked through Hotak’s stores of metal, pulling out each piece of promising size and holding it in his hands, letting it speak to him. He saw mines and smelters, and he saw bits of Hotak’s life, as well as Mazzax’s. The dwarf had been married for a time, and had a child. His wife and daughter were both killed by a gaj, and after taking his revenge on the creature, Mazzax had come to the village, where Hotak took him in and taught him a trade.
After a few hours, Aric had the combination of metals he wanted. He wanted strength and elasticity in his blade, and he wanted it to hold a keen edge. He settled on a mixture of long bars of iron, bronze, and silver, stacked them together, and put them into the forge. While they heated, he looked for the materials he wanted for the furniture—the grip, the guard, and the pommel.
After some time, he looked into the forge. Hot, but not hot enough. “Bellows!” he called. “More coal!”
Mazzax scrambled. Ruhm pumped the bellows while Mazzax fetched charcoal. Aric worked on designing the hilt while the forge heated up. He checked again, withdrew the metal, sprinkled it with flux, a powdery substance Mazzax had collected from an ancient lake bed. Then he put it back in. “Hotter!”