Larian sighed fondly. “So anyway, we can’t let him down after all that, right?”
From the lands all around the valley, war-bands of the Eight-Man Empire raised their banners. Not crude constructions of cloth and wood, but projections of symbols made of Forged madra. Ghost-Blade, Nine-Hands, Flame-Gift, Blood-Chorus…each of the eight wandering mercenary armies that made up the Eight-Man Empire’s workforce was arrayed against her.
Malice had sensed them already, but without closer inspection, had taken them to be the forces of House Shen. The war-bands averaged one Archlord, a handful of Overlords, and two or three dozen Underlords apiece, so only when they were gathered in one place could they possibly face down a Monarch’s forces. Just like the Eight-Man Empire themselves.
But this only stoked her rage hotter, because the presence of the Empire’s armies meant two things. First, that Reigan Shen had devoted staggering resources to bring so many people so far. Second, that House Shen was still unaccounted for.
He had presumably kept his own forces in reserve to defend his territory, but she would know soon. Her subordinates were on their way to the Rosegold continent already.
Malice gave the gathered horde an icy once-over. “To think he would empty his treasury to bring such an army here.”
“I told you! He’s invested.” Larian pulled her bow from the ground and gestured with it. “So are you going to let this happen, or do you want to make us earn our keep?”
Miles behind Malice, the unaffiliated experts of the Wasteland received her transmitted message and removed their veils. Three Heralds, a Sage, and five ancient Archlords. From the other side of Sacred Valley, Charity cycled her own madra, and several Herald-level spirits shone like bonfires as well—living weapons of the Akura clan.
At a glance, Malice’s own forces were lacking. She had fewer Sages and fewer Heralds.
Then again, the Eight-Man Empire couldn’t really be counted as a collection of Sages and Heralds, but as one Monarch. And these were Malice’s lands. Not only could she draw upon more forces than the enemy, she had other resources to play.
And she could call Northstrider.
Larian sighed. “I don’t suppose you’d consider settling our differences with a series of duels, would you?”
Malice tapped her bloodline legacy so that her eyes shone, and she radiated shadow aura to blacken the sky. “Invaders, hear me! You have trespassed on Akura lands. Withdraw, or your blood will flow like water.”
“Guess the fight will come down to Golds, then,” Larian said. “At least it is a good cause, in the end.” Then she shed her casual appearance and adopted a manner more befitting a self-respecting Sage. “Long-Sight!”
The Long-Sight war-band, beneath their banner of a bow and an eye, gave a shout and a pulse of spiritual power that shook the ground.
Far away, a different voice shouted. “Ghost-Blade!”
The Ghost-Blade war-band answered their leader, and another cry went up from another member of the Eight-Man Empire.
“Blood-Chorus!”
“Flame-Gift!”
“Green-Stride!”
The war-bands of the Eight-Man Empire sounded like the footsteps of the Wandering Titan as they answered their leaders.
And soon, if Malice didn’t stop them, they would hear the Titan’s actual footsteps once again. Reigan Shen had often claimed he wanted to call the Dreadgods together to destroy them and make them into weapons. Even if that were true, it would ruin her lands.
So she would crack open this formation and destroy Shen’s plans, even if she had to drown them in blood.
10
Lindon could best describe the next room as a “hall of hammers.”
It was a stone cellar, and very recently, the walls had been lined with wooden shelves and racks. He had to piece that together, because now the room was strewn with splinters. Someone had clearly done battle here, and recently, though the stone of the walls was unharmed.
Before that battle, the racks and walls of the room had been filled with hammers. Lindon was certain only because some pieces remained.
As they entered, he had to step over a hammer with a head that looked like it was made of dark purple glass. It still leaked sparks of pink essence from a crack. A pile of broken hammers lay in the corners, where they had been discarded, and a few had been crushed while still strapped to a rack.
Those same racks were all over the room, empty, and Lindon noticed evidence that they had been occupied recently.
“Dross,” Lindon said aloud.
[Yes?]
“…what do you think about this situation?” Lindon had thought that question would go without asking.
[This room was recently the repository for sacred instruments. All, or most, hammers. Most likely the intact instruments were looted after the battle.]
Yerin nudged a pile of rubble aside with her foot. “Wake me when we find a room like this for swords.”
Orthos had already hopped off of Lindon’s shoulder and started munching at a defunct hammer.
“Stop that,” Lindon said. “That could be a thousand years old.”
Orthos met Lindon’s eyes and deliberately took another bite.
Eithan skipped to the middle of the room, then twirled in place. “Ah, I see, I see. Well, this is a disappointment. This is all quite ancient by modern standards, of course, but none of it dates back to our first Patriarch. They must have removed any of his relics when they first arrived.”
[I know little about the Arelius founder. You should tell me more, so that I may form a more accurate picture of our situation.]
Lindon knelt for one of the hammers and ran his fingers across it. He could sense its madra composition just as easily standing, but there was something more immediate about feeling it himself.
“These aren’t hunger madra,” he noted. He had hoped to find some materials to upgrade his arm here. As it was, he was reluctant to use the Consume technique at all, since the binding was always on the verge of breaking again.
Eithan slapped his forehead. “Ah, that’s right! I forgot we had neglected that aspect of your education. You see, these are Soulsmith hammers.”
Lindon stared blankly around the room. He had used hammers in Soulsmithing before. They were only used to physically batter certain stubborn types of dead matter into place, or to crack open a Remnant’s carapace.
There didn’t seem to be any reason to store a massive variety of sacred instruments for such a simple task. And all those that remained were broken, so there wasn’t much else to learn.
“Oh,” Lindon said. He stood, ready to move on.
“I hear from your lack of enthusiasm that you don’t know what that means. Well, ahem, you see, there is a reason why hammers are often associated with Soulsmiths besides the use of hammers in more mundane smithing.”
Mercy hopped from one foot to another. She looked between the three exits in the room. “Yes, this is fascinating, but don’t you think we could scoop everything into a void key and move on?”
Ziel jerked a thumb toward her. “We can have the history lesson on the way. I don’t know why we would…what do you have there?”
Orthos had pulled a huge pile of wood and debris away from the wall, then ignited a smoky red flame so he could examine something around the base of the wall.
Ziel edged closer, and they both examined what appeared to be a barely visible line of inactive script.
“So this goes to the outer boundary of the room…” Ziel murmured, tracing a line of script with his finger.
“What does it do?” Orthos asked.
Lindon longed to go over and take a look for himself, but Eithan was gesturing him over to the other side of the room to show him a mostly intact hammer.
“Once upon a time,” Eithan said, “the tool you used for your Soulsmithing was as important as the material you used. It was said that our Patriarch could make a weapon fit for a Sage with just his hammer and a Gold Remnant. The hammer is used to inject your will into an object, shaping its function according to your intentions. And each hammer has its own specialty, some being better for crafting weapons, some made for altering dream tablets, and so on.”