Path of Dragons 17 - Chapter 18 - The Star Forge (Patreon)

“Carmen needs to see this immediately.”

Ok’tarik narrowed his eyes. “Carmen?”

“My sister-in-law.  She’s a Blacksmith,” Elijah replied to Ok’tarik’s question.  He pointed at the star-strewn anvil.  “And that is the most advanced piece of smithing equipment I’ve ever seen.  Was it here when you settled Agmar?”

“It has always been here,” Ok’tarik answered.  “We have always been here.”

Elijah didn’t miss that he’d put extra emphasis on the second statement, which implied that he resented the implication that the orcs hadn’t built the city-within-a-cliff.  Of course, it was obvious that they hadn’t, so maybe what he actually found offensive was his own people’s inability to create something lasting. 

All of their other creations were temporary in nature.  Sure, the engines they had developed were ingenious – in their own way – but Earth’s Engineers had made it abundantly clear that they lacked quite a bit in terms of quality.  Given a little hard use, they would all fall apart.

And the cannons?  They were even worse.  Often, they exploded after only a few uses.  For orcs, that probably wasn’t much of a problem. After all, with their numbers, a few dead work-slaves wasn’t much of an issue.

Still, Ok’tarik seemed to be constantly at war with his people’s nature.  He desperately wanted them to be something that, in their current incarnation, simply wasn’t possible.  Changing that was one of his priorities, but he clearly didn’t like being reminded of their deficiencies.

Pride.

Elijah was well-acquainted with the trait.  Often, he’d succumbed to it himself, and dragons seemed fundamentally incapable of resisting it.  Some did a better job than others, but even the best among them were afflicted with that often-detrimental attribute. 

Not that it was always a bad thing.  A  healthy amount of pride could drive a person to great heights.  So, perhaps the secret wasn’t to deny it altogether, but to use it constructively.

Either way, that wasn’t the case with Ok’tarik, who let it blind him to his people’s obvious deficiencies.  That would need to change if he ever expected to guide them into the future.  Until then, he wouldn’t see them clearly enough to show them the proper path.

A depressing thought.

“What is a sister-in-law?” asked the old work-slave.  For a moment, Elijah had forgotten he existed, which shouldn’t have been possible.  After all, he was fairly certain that the orc was sapient.  Or close enough that the distinction didn’t matter.  By all rights, Elijah should have been celebrating, if only because it was proof that Ok’tarik wasn’t the only orc who could achieve such a thing.

But instead, he’d forgotten the creature altogether, at least until he spoke in a raspy, aged voice that sounded like crinkling paper.

It only took Elijah a few moments of careful study to recognize that the old work-slave had developed something akin to a mantle of authority.  It was thin and barely extended past his skin, but it was there all the same.  However, it seemed obvious that the orc had no control over it.  What’s more, it was only a few more seconds before Elijah recognized its purpose.

And it made perfect sense, too.

Work-slaves were invisible to other orcs.  Or at least they endeavored to be, and for good reason.  The attention of the wrong orc could end with them utterly destroyed.  And this work-slave had probably survived as long as he had only because he’d learned to manipulate his crude mantle to avoid said attention.

It was incredible.

Weak.  Limited in scope.  But its existence was both surprising and extraordinarily exciting – because it told him that the orcs had potential.  Maybe only a few qualified for that label, but their existence could change everything.  He just needed to help them tap into their inherent promise. 

Elijah was so stunned that he didn’t respond to the orc until he realized that both the work-slave and Ok’tarik were staring at him.  He cleared his throat, but stopped himself before his hand found the back of his neck.  His position with the orcs was better than he could have expected, but showing weakness or indecision was still a very bad idea. 

“Do you understand the concept of siblings?” Elijah asked.

“Litter mates,” Ok’tarik supplied when he saw that the work-slave was confused.

“Ah.”

Then, Ok’tarik helpfully explained that orcs put no stock in familial ties.  They could recognize members of their own litter, but it didn’t go further than that.  Partly, because orcish childhood was a cutthroat business where only the strongest survived.  In that way, it reminded Elijah a little of the dragon’s culling, though young orcs were forced to worry about adults as well as one another. 

But that brutality helped them develop collective strength.  If only the strongest survived, then the weak never made it far enough to become a drain on the orcs as a whole.  Of course, the populations’ subdivisions meant that even among those survivors, some were destined to become work-slaves. 

And of those, some became rowers.  Others, the orcish equivalent of Tradesmen.  Or laborers good for nothing more than manual work.  And dozens of other specializations that seemed as ingrained in their being as a sapient person’s archetype or class became fundamental to their identity.

Was that what the system did?  Simply codify something that was already present?  Or did it add something of its own to bridge the gap between the orcs’ rigid hierarchy and what had developed among races like humanity.

Elijah didn’t know.  Perhaps no one did, given that the system was an ancient construct that predated even the oldest transcendents.

Either way, Elijah found the questions that followed his discovery to be quite fascinating.  Maybe he would discover some answers along the way. 

Soon enough, he found himself explaining the concept of marriage.  For orcs, it was an alien idea.  They rarely formed lasting connections with one another, especially when it came to mates.  Once the deed was done, they went their separate ways.  If there were children, they were seen to by the female, and only long enough for the infant to get their feet under them.

That usually took a week.

After that, they were just other, smaller orcs.  Parental affection never even came into it.

Elijah found the whole arrangement both fascinating and horrifying, especially when he tried to apply it to human children.  Of course, orcish development was much quicker than what he was accustomed to.  It reminded him a little of sea turtle or amphibian life cycles – both of which hatched plenty of offspring and left them to their own devices.

The big difference was that orcs were social creatures as adults, which seemed like a contradiction of priorities.

Clearly, the two orcs found Elijah’s description of human civilization even more fascinating than how he saw theirs.  The old work-slave had plenty of questions, but he didn’t unleash them until Ok’tarik gave him the go-ahead. 

Despite the fact that they were both sapient, the hierarchy between the two was obvious.  Combat strength counted far more than anything else. 

However, they also soon revealed that the older orc wasn’t some random work-slave.  Instead, he was the eldest crafter in their entire civilization.  Given his appearance and his obvious level of development, he must’ve been incredibly old indeed.  Even if he was a few thousand years old, he would’ve looked no more decrepit than Ok’tarik.  That he appeared on the verge of death from old age meant that he was ancient beyond Elijah’s understanding.

Perhaps that was why he, among all the other work-slaves Elijah had seen, had attained something akin to sapience.

Once they’d exhausted those various topics of conversation, the work-slave asked Elijah to reveal the trophy.  He’d obviously heard about it.  Maybe he’d even been present when Elijah had initially taken it from the Arcane Loop.  Either way, he seemed extremely excited by it.

That was nothing compared to how he reacted when Elijah finally retrieved it from his storage space. 

The brain looked identical to how it had appeared before, meaning that it was like a ball of crystal worms, some of which had tried to escape the mass.  However, it pulsed with more power than Elijah had felt in the past.

But the work-slave looked at it with the kind of awe usually reserved for seeing a true work of art.  Elijah had witnessed it often enough, especially when friends from the mainland had seen some of Hawaii’s magnificent vistas.  He’d felt it himself when he played witness to artistic masterpieces, be they architecture, sculpture, or paintings.  He’d even experienced it after reading good books or watching classic films.

He hadn’t felt it for the brain, though.  Perhaps because he knew what it had cost to acquire it.  He was well aware of what it represented, and he wanted very little to do with it.

Still, it was a powerful item, and as the work-slave took hold, he did so with trembling reverence. 

“What can you do with it?” Elijah asked.

“I…I do not know,” admitted the crafter, leaning so close that Elijah worried he might poke out an eye.  His hunched shoulders shook with excitement.  Or maybe fear.

“A weapon,” Ok’tarik said without question.  “Something to –”

Elijah interrupted, “I don’t need another weapon.  I want something useful for building bridges.”

“A tool?” asked Ok’tarik, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.  “A mallet?”

“Metaphorical bridges,” Elijah responded.  “I’m no Builder.  But I do want this alliance to last.  Whatever this becomes could become the foundation of our mutual prosperity.”  Then, he turned to the old work-slave and asked, “What do you think?”

“Prosperity…”

He stepped forward and placed his hand on Elijah’s head.  Ok’tarik clearly wanted to stop him, but he held back.  If Elijah couldn’t protect himself, then he didn’t deserve the alliance on offer.

Despite being smaller than a warrior and hunched with age, the old crafter was still taller than Elijah.  And his hand was large enough to envelop most of Elijah’s head.  He close his eyes, sending a thread of ethera into Elijah’s skull.

The connection only lasted for a split second before the orc pulled away, almost as if he’d been burned.  He writhed as a wave of pain swept through him.  It was over in a moment, but that brief instant of contact was enough to send a surge of fear coursing through the orc’s mind.

When he opened his eyes, they were wide and wild. 

He gasped, then found his voice. “I knew I felt it.  There is a taste of prosperity about you.  Subservient to the wildness in you, but still there.  Yes.  In the core.  I felt it.”

Elijah nodded along.  It wasn’t surprising, considering that his dragon core had originated with Kirlissa, who was known in the Empire of Scale by her title – Prosperity.  That some of her attunement had taken root inside Elijah was to be expected.

What’s more, it explained quite a bit. 

Elijah knew he’d done most of the work himself.  He’d survived horrible things and endured more pain than most people could imagine.  And yet, he was well aware that he had benefited greatly from Kirlissa’s gift. Most of that came from the core itself, which, as an elder core, was more powerful than any other he could have developed.  However, some of his success had come from her powerful attunement.

As a transcendent, her nature was enough to bend reality itself.

Moving the needle for a mortal wasn’t out of the question.

“My…mother’s gift,” Elijah acknowledged.

“Powerful.”

“She is.”

“What does this mean?” asked Ok’tarik.

“It means that I know precisely what to make,” the work-slave stated. “I need a week.  Please leave me to my work.”

He didn’t wait for an acknowledgement.  Instead, he turned and reverently placed the brain atop the starry anvil.  The celestial bodies glittered even more strongly before tendrils of ethera erupted from the mostly-black surface to connect to the crystalline structure of the brain.

When it became obvious that their presence was no longer needed, Ok’tarik offered, “You may sleep on my ship.  Come.  We must plan.”

With that, he strode away, fully expecting Elijah to follow.  Such was his nature.  Elijah just shook his head and played along.  Even as he traversed Agmar, he wondered what the old craftsman would create.

Only when they’d reached the ship did he realized he had never even asked the orc his name.  When he asked Ok’tarik about it, the warchief simply said, “Work-slaves have no names.”

“Your mate does.  The other work-slave I met did.  Makit and Farouk.”

At that, Ok’tarik only grunted.  Pointedly, he provided no explanation, which only furthered the mystery.