The Blacksmith's Reaper Page 3

  *****

  In what Gorbel can only describe as a dream state, he travels from his hidden cavern to the Halls of Bundelcahl in a mere twelve days. Would that he needed to eat, sleep, or cater to any other bothersome mortal need, it would have taken at least twice as long. Were he able to laugh, he would do so. Instead, his body just takes yet another step, then another.

  It is a strange thing, to see life moving from sunup to sundown, day in and day out. When you are alive, when you participate in the living world, you are not able to watch it go round. You do not see the stars line up for mere seconds as night turns to day. You do not see the madness in people’s eyes during the day that shines so bright when the darkness cannot cover or hide it. You do not catch the infinite systems that are in place to keep all things in a relatively simple cycle. Gorbel sees this, and what’s more, understands his world better in twelve days than he ever did in three hundred and fifty-two mortal years.

  Coming up on Bundelcahl, Gorbel marvels at the artisanship that has gone on for ten generations, cutting these halls straight into the Hygridan Mountains instead of building on top and around it. Twin ivory doors with a gold metal inset, depicting the god Tollin’s birth, stand sentinel against red, polished mountain-rock walls and pillars. An absolute marvel of architecture, the Hall manages to look freshly carved even as it gives off an atmosphere of primordial mystery. In essence, the Hall is the Dwarf Nation’s greatest work as a people.

  Gorbel tries to stop or at least slow his feet so he may appreciate this advancement appropriately, but once again, his puppeteer proves to be in some kind of hurry. Could Preithis StormIron be nervous to be walking into the very lair of his rival, Arthurn Tollin?

  Reaching black marble steps that lead up to those ivory doors, seven armored dwarfs position themselves before Gorbel, allowing not even one more step towards Bundelcahl. Gorbel pulls his blade from its sheath at his side and presents it to the guards with both hands. When the guard nearest him goes to grab the blade, Gorbel snatches it back quickly.

  “I apologize, good fellows. I am to deliver this, personal like, to the King. A gift of sorts, from Preithis StormIron and myself. I have…very specific directions about its delivery.”

  One of the guards in the back steps forward, “Your god and ours have been at odds for many centuries. Why would he edict you to grant us such a finely made weapon?”

  “Such matters are not for those such as me to consider. Would you have me refuse my god based on old principles of state?”

  “Not at all,” a much older dwarf steps forward, though no less gruff than his counterpart, “You understand if I go to speak with our King on this matter before allowing a mere…blacksmith into his residence, yes?”

  At this point, Gorbel knows, protocol is merely being followed, “Of course. Please let him know I had no choice in the timing of this matter, so if I am interrupting anything…”

  “You will wait until he has had time to think the matter over. Are you willing to wait, Blacksmith?”

  “Believe me, sir…I have no choice in that matter either. Yes, I shall be here.”

  With a quick whistle, the older guard calls the other six to return to their previous stations. The first guard lingers a moment longer than the rest, the threat quite clear to Gorbel: move forward or blink wrong, and I shall kill you myself. A dedicated boy be sure, but at quite the disadvantage. Gorbel is not controlling this body anymore. Whatever the guard may choose to do, Gorbel doubts the damage will matter until this drama is fully played out.

  One shade goes by before the aged guard returns to Gorbel, “It would appear his Majesty requests your audience immediately. Follow me after sheathing your weapon.”

  Gorbel’s body never lifted out of the presentation stance after the guard left the first time. Expecting to grunt or otherwise show exhaustion of the muscles, Gorbel finds he does not even have the first twinges of overextension, much less a need to stretch or rub his arms. His body stands and sheathes the black blade in one easy motion. If only he could have been this smooth during life, Gorbel thinks as he is led into the Hall for the first, and last, time.

  Inspiration does not stop at the ivory doors either. As Gorbel is led through Bundelcahl, he sees that his brethren spared no effort whatsoever in this endeavor. All the pillars are actual mountain rock, the material creating the pillars were once the solid mountain. Formed by cutting the excess rock around the pillars and removing it, the pillars will prove to be the most durable ever created. Here, also, the fine hands of master carvers created scenes of innate beauty, and Gorbel tries to gasp at the many intricate patterns and detailed depictions of the Dwarf Nation in some of its greatest moments.

  The floor is one of the few articles not pronounced by the mountain rock. Instead, huge plates of marble cover the center, leading into ever-smaller plates towards the walls of the mountain. The sharp black-and-white contrast to the red mountain rock is stunning and exquisite. Light from multiple windows allows the marble to reflect the mountain, creating a certain sense of vertigo to the uninitiated.

  If the main hall is impressive, then the throne room of King Devrum NightFist must be extraordinary. Singular tiles of marble form dwarven letters, which spell out all the tenets of the Dwarf Nation on the floor. Once again, Gorbel experiences a certain vertigo with the mountain walls being reflected in the marble. An exotic, black velvet carpet leads up to the king’s throne which is also carved from the mountain rock, but made plush with pillows and velvet. A great chandelier hangs from the glass ceiling, made of solid gold with small diamonds and emeralds encrusted within.

  Guards outline the great room, which does not surprise Gorbel in the least. They allowed him in with a weapon in his hands, and that was lucky. They sure as hells would not allow him to come in without being capable of taking him out. Once again, Gorbel wishes he could laugh. Preithis StormIron would not allow Gorbel to die until his work is done. All their precaution is in vain.

  Looking upon Devrum NightFist’s face, however, Gorbel loses some of his assuredness. The dwarf king looks hard enough to slay a dragon - were they in existence - with his bare hands. Fires hotter than Gorbel’s forge light Devrum’s eyes from within. His face is set in lines more ancient than this very mountain. His beard is gray but unfuzzled, greased and braided by practiced, distinguished hands. Gorbel suddenly realizes that he is truly afraid of the dwarf he stands before, now able to imagine how the Hall was built so worthily. Devrum NightFist does not appear to be one to accept second-rate work from anybody.

  Seeing that his visitor is properly anxious to please him, Devrum NightFist allows a smile to cross his lips. Immediately, his visage turns from that of infallible hero to a warm and welcoming executive. The blacksmith before him does not change stature however, and it occurs to the king that something is wrong with his visitor.

  “Welcome to the Halls of Bundelcahl, Blacksmith,” Devrum roars as he spreads open his arms, “what think thee of it?”

  “Beyond astounding, my King. I wish only that I had been available to help in its construction; however, I have not been wasting my time in idleness.”

  Once again, Devrum finds something not right with the blacksmith. His mouth moves of its own accord, but his eyes do not move with it, or his head. The blacksmith seems able only to stare at him, not even blinking.

  “Give me your name, Blacksmith, and then tell me why you stare at me so.”

  “My King, I am Gorbel Metallon. Please give your permission so I may tell you a story.”

  Gorbel relates the entire tale to Devrum. All about Purge, of Smokesteel, of his abandoning his life as a leading blacksmith, and losing the ability to control his body. The king stares back at him as he speaks - whether intent on catching every detail or trying to catch the blacksmith in a lie, Gorbel is unable to tell. Two shades pass before he finishes. Looking upon King Devrum, he finds he has left quite an impression.

  “Is all you say true, Gorbel Metallon, on your honor as a dwarf and all th
at being such stands for?”

  Gorbel wishes he could bow to ascertain his answer, “Yes, my King. On my honor and all it stands for, I mean every word as it was spoke.”

  “Do you know why Preithis StormIron demanded this of you?”

  “Only that this blade belongs to someone other than you, but you shall be the one who finds her true owner. Other than that, no, not at all, my King.”

  “You understand that StormIron’s schemes are different than Tollin’s, correct?”

  “Yes, my King; however, the god’s schemes are not my concern. I only do as bidden. I can only hope you keep your end of this bargain when I am gone.”

  “Should I agree to do this, then I shall keep my word. But I need some reason, some incentive to agree to a god’s whims who is not my own.”

  “Is my life not enough then, my King? Am I truly so small that you would ignore my case?”

  The earnest reply strikes a chord in Devrum. Is he so proud that he could disregard this dwarf and his obvious commitment? Tollin demands hard work and an honest life from his followers, which Devrum in turn demands of himself and his people. Tollin holds no place for destiny, fate, or outcome aside from righteousness begetting righteousness. Preithis StormIron screams of violence to his followers, or creating the ability to deliver violence. What is StormIron’s goal here? Is something coming that, should Devrum ignore it, may destroy all he has worked towards? The answer, then, is simple.

  “You have made your point clear, Gorbel Metallon,” Devrum begins, “and I shall hold this weapon for whomever it may belong. Know I do this with some trepidation; however, you believe in what you have done. I cannot ignore that, nor can I believe it righteous to leave you in your current state.”

  “Thank you, my King. I have held my own apprehension over these years, but I also could not ignore what brought before me this here blade. I wish I could tell you more, explain why this is necessary. Alas, I ain’t meant to give you that. I do not know if anybody else can or will. Thank you for taking on this responsibility in my stead.”

  Devrum nods. The dwarf is clearly in pain inside over being ignorant of the ramifications. Deciding he will not blame the blacksmith for any happenings after this, he speaks, “Are you ready to hand over your life to me then, Gorbel Metallon?”

  Gorbel does not speak. He shall never speak again. His body stands and walks boldly up to the king, which he would not have been able to do of his own accord. His left arm crosses his broad chest to grab hold of his blade’s handle. Unsheathing it, Gorbel hears a hundred other weapons unsheathing in anticipation of an attack.

  Devrum watches in wonder as the blacksmith walks up to him, no fear in stance or eye, and unsheathes his weapon. Across one side of the black blade, in silvered letters, dwarven words: Reaper’s Tear. He looks again at Gorbel Metallon, quite possibly the bravest dwarf to grace the grounds of Bundelcahl. There is a sense of acceptance in the dwarf’s eyes, a sense of anticipation of what lays beyond. Devrum wonders if that is what shall be in his eyes when death comes upon him. Would fear overshadow that wonder?

  Gorbel’s legs bend, at the same time his arms raise the black-blade with its skeletal handle up towards the king. As he reaches his knees, control comes back to Gorbel, but all he does with that control is finally bow his head to his King for the first, and last, time.

  With two hands, Devrum carefully lifts Reaper’s Tear from Gorbel’s outstretched grasp with a hint of reluctance. Even as the blade leaves Gorbel’s touch, his hands fall to his sides. A slight breeze whips upward from his body though only Devrum can feel it. Gorbel Metallon dies upon his knees before his king. His body does not fall, a last testament to Gorbel’s dedication to seeing his final moments through with every ounce of dignity allowed him. Without realizing it, Devrum spills a tear for the passing of this dwarf. He does not wipe it away. No, he will allow it to leave a streak upon his face, absorbing into his graying beard.

  *****

  Gorbel Metallon is buried in the crypts below the Halls of Bundelcahl - his tomb engraved by the hand of King Devrum himself, for the dwarf left a mark on Devrum’s soul. Vowing never to forget the lesson this one dwarf taught him, Devrum watches over the blade with fanatical obsession. Do nothing in part. If you must do something, put everything you are into completing the task. Don't waste time with useless gestures.

  A century passes, Devrum NightFist awaiting the soul who would claim the blacksmith's reaper…

  About the Author

  James Neal is a self-published author with three titles (okay, now four) under his belt. You can find links to his other stories below. He is also a father, gamer, and former YouTuber who plays far too much Minecraft.

  In his early twenties, James embarked on what he calls "Greyhound Therapy." Riding Greyhound buses from city to city, staying in each location for up to three weeks, James learned much about race, rich vs poor, and exactly how much people don't trust a wanderer when he doesn't carry a guitar. It is from these experiences he bases many of his characters, motives, and stories.

  Now more or less settled in mid-Missouri, James hatches his world domination plans while juggling a keyboard, controller, phone, and fatherly duties in orderly fashion. Yes, 'in orderly fashion' is an outright lie.

  Click the images below to learn more about James' other stories:

  Ten Cards of Chaos are sprawled across mystical Derisma. Seven Voices, people of different races, are destined to find them. When they do, they will be forced to decide the fate of their world. 

  A theatrical usurper and a warrior prince clash for the throne to Priis, just as a stranger enters them into a game that will test everything they believe in. An elf discovers that his mother's death and the sickness of the Wood are connected. Each will learn the heavy burden of destiny, and some may discover that the price is far too steep. The Cards of Chaos hold only one promise...

  A mythic Crimson Knight visits Ben Hhand as a dragon threatens his small village. Ben's adventure is only starting as he follows the Crimson Knight, Carghen, into a dangerous situation where he must utilize his new-found power to "paint" his imagination into the real world. Between his anger, the shock awaiting him at the end of his journey, and his power, will Ben decide to become a hero? Or will he succumb to the seduction of power? Everything brought into the world, and everything taken out, paints the invisible eye.

  Jon Carghen, part of an Order who dispenses justice against the immoral and supernatural, learns he is in danger by order of his leaders. Should he refuse to give up his Divine Right, he will be pursued, hunted down by his own brothers and sisters. What will Jon's decision be, and can he live with it once it's made?

  This short story is a sequel to the novella, Paints the Invisible Eye.

  Thank you for reading books on Archive.BookFrom.Net
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