Book 7: Chapter 13 - Fresh Armaments (RAW) (Patreon)

Chapter 13 - Fresh Armaments

"For the grace of your hospitality, I offer you this: If it is gold and silver you require, bring me your sick and dying, and by my hand, they will be saved for the price that you dictate. If total rule is your desire, give me lives to feed upon, and I will turn their deaths into strength. Man or great beast, it matters not. The stronger and more violent, the better. Deliver unto me a river of it, and by all that is true, I will deliver this city to you."

- Attributed to Gilgamesh of Uruk, First Tamkar of Al-Lazar.

With matters arranged, we agreed to meet back at the inn later. I left Larynda and the girls to their errands after withdrawing a respectable sum in promissory notes and a few gold pieces in hard currency. Once, such an amount would have represented a fortune in this world and in my last. By my current reckoning, it was a trivial sum. It was proof of my progress, of a sort at least.

Without a guide, I decided to wander the streets, heading in the general direction of the crafting quarter. Time was not of the essence, and the best way to get familiar with a city is first to get lost in it. I also needed a main weapon, something equal to, or near enough to equal, the swords at my hip. More importantly, I needed something that would not shatter the moment I brought it against one of the many horrors this world insisted upon throwing before me.

As I moved through the clean and prosperous streets of Meridian, I could not help but feel that I was being followed. It was a tingling at the back of the neck, a tightening beneath the skin, and the faint rise of hairs at my nape. Unfortunate proof, perhaps, that I was coming into closer alignment with this barbaric world, learning its instincts as surely as a dog learned the smell of meat.

Fine, I thought. I’ll give them something to watch.

I cast Sage’s Sight, letting its wisdom guide my steps away from the bright canals and fashionable avenues, into the poorer arteries of the city. Meridian did not change all at once for civilization rarely showed its rot so honestly to soceity. First the stonework grew older, and here and there the paint peeled. Then doors stouter, the windows narrower, boarded up, or simply broken, the doors thicker, and the faces more watchful. The place darkened in its very, as if a lack of wealth naturally invited violence to take up residence.

Something stirred in me then, low and anticipatory. That premonition of violence, lust’s perverted sister. Soon enough, I heard it: a shouted threat, coarse laughter, the scrape of boots, and beneath it all the scent of fear. Fear was one of the few delicacies this world had never failed to provide.

There it was.

A young woman, poor by the look of her clothes, bent over an old crate in a narrow alley, her garments in disarray. A young street tough stood behind her with his breeches down, while his friends encouraged him with the ugly enthusiasm of men eager to make themselves smaller than beasts.

Even here, I thought. Even in this bastion of civilization. Such barbarity.

“I would stop,” I stated lightly, stepping fully into view, a thing of black Adamantium edged in gold, “if I were you.”

“Who the—” began one of the toughs, stupidly.

“Do you believe in karma?” I asked, taking another step closer. “A balancing of the scales? Did you know I speak to them, the so-called gods? The Divines? Technically, that might make me one of their prophets.”

The toughs bristled. The one who had been moments from becoming a rapist began struggling to pull up his breeches, while the others reached for their motley weapons; knives, cudgels, and a short rusted blade that had seen better days. They all looked to be around my age, perhaps younger. Old enough to choose, but young enough to think consequence was a thing that happened only to others.

“I would not bother,” I continued. “Your talons cannot reach me now. And I, well, I have a thousand and one ways to cut the threads of your lives. The only thing stopping me is the effort required.”

I smiled. “We have only so many words in our lives. You will have quite a few fewer unless you relent.”

“You high on Dust there, mate?” one of them asked, a sniveling thing who looked as though he had only recently crawled out of the gutter and regretted the climb.

Yet despite that token resistance, I could see them begin to retreat by inches. A glance back. A shifting foot. A weapon lowered just enough to pretend it had never truly been raised. Now it was only a matter of saving face, that most fragile shield of bruised male pride.

“Go,” I ordered.

Delight warmed me as they continued to step away from me and the woman.

I watched them struggle to hold on to dignity and ward off panic. I waited for the messages. The holy script that would inform me I had succeeded. That I had gained in Charisma, the little label the world wished to apply to the art of making pathetic vermin remember they were pathetic vermin.

Nothing came, so I decided to deploy the minimal effort. I reached to my waist and threw Zariyah the Dancing Blade.

The wind-crazed vessel weapon spun from my hand, cutting a jagged path through the alley air. She did not fly straight, but instead, she danced in sharp, impossible turns, a silver thought given edge and malice. One throat opened. Then another. Then another. Crimson spilled across the dirty stones as the fleeing would-be criminals dropped in silence, their faces frozen in raw surprise, as if they had not expected the universe to correct itself. Or to be corrected.

A small notice informed me of the trivial amount of experience I had just gained. 

Zariyah returned to my hand clean of blood and grime despite the violence she had unleashed. Smiling faintly, a thin thing that held little satisfaction, I sheathed my vessel weapon and let her rest a while. I felt the weapon stir, my once-lover succumbing to the sleep of the sheathe.

Then I turned to the woman.

She stood frozen as stiffly as the corpses, clutching her clothes closed with trembling hands, eyes wide with the particular terror of one who had been rescued from wolves by something she did not understand. I noticed she was pretty if one could look past her experience.

“Where is the crafting district?” I asked, as if I were a tourist on holiday asking for directions.

The woman stared at me, her savior, though the words seemed not to make sense in her mind. As if she had expected something else, some impossible demand. Then slowly, understanding returned. She lifted one shaking hand and pointed.

“That way, milord,” she said, teeth chattering. “Follow Market Street, the main street. You’ll find it on your left soon enough.”

“Thank you. A swift answer deserves a good turn.”

I went to the dead men and sifted through their corpses for money and valuables. There were coins, a few pieces of jewelry, and a fine bejeweled dagger with a ruby set into its hilt. More wealth than gutter filth deserved to possess, though perhaps that was always the way of things. Predators accumulated trophies until a larger predator came along.

I returned to the woman and held out the spoils.

“This is for you. I doubt those poor fools will be needing them. You may get a few copper pieces for the rest of their weapons as scrap metal.”

By then she had returned to some semblance of modesty. “You are too kind, milord…” she stammered.

I could almost hear the but forming behind her teeth.

“Good. Now it is best that I do a little for the public health. Corpses have such a habit of inviting disease,” I added blithely as if talking about the weather. I spoke performatively, for the benefit of whatever secret watchers still trailed me, rather than for her. 

Then I raised one hand with theatrical deliberation. My fingers formed the words of a spell I had few occasions to use. The morbid art of Decay. My armored hand traced the silent chant until the spell swiftly took shape, an invisible sinking sludge that settled over the corpses.

A foul, sweet smell filled the alley as weeks and months of decomposition were reduced to mere moments. Flesh sloughed from bone in wet sheets. Eyes collapsed into dark jelly. Teeth loosened and spilled from empty mouths. Then the bones themselves softened, rotted, and crumbled into gray dust, until nothing remained of my attackers but stains upon the stones and what the wind could scatter.

I looked upon my work and saw that it was good.

You have learned Decay (lvl.5).You have learned Corruption (lvl.1).You have gained 1 Intelligence.

Fantastic, came my gleeful thoughts. The men, at least, had found some meaning in their lives, even if that meaning had more to do with their ends. I smiled. A genuine one this time, even as Enkidu, my old friend, kicked one of the piles of dust and sent it drifting across the stones.

I turned back to see what had become of the woman, but it seemed she had fled in the manner of rats or cockroaches when the light came too suddenly. But, such, it seemed, was life.

Shrugging to myself, armor clanging with the motion, I followed the directions she had given me.

***

My feet carried me to the Craft District, a place crowded with workshops of every persuasion. The finer, more delicate establishments clustered closer to the uninspiredly named Market Street. By delicate, I meant those places that sold jewelry, porcelain cups, and other fragile little treasures for those in higher society.

So I pushed deeper.

Directions were given readily enough by people wise enough to offer me the deference I deserved, until at last I found spoor of the particular flavor I sought. After all, a polite, armored individual carries with him a certain menace: the menace of a blade perpetually half drawn.

And so it was that I found myself inside a smithy, its once-white walls long since stained by smoke, soot, and the labor of a man who had devoted his life to the noble art of turning rocks and fire into instruments of slaughter. The craftsman within was a man two heads taller than I, bearded, muscled, and strong, with gray hair, scarred forearms, and another hard line of old violence cutting across his forehead.

I was not given a welcome as I crossed the threshold and entered.

The smith ignored me with remarkable decisiveness, his attention fixed upon the shape he was beating into existence upon the anvil. Each strike rang out like a dull bell, metal answering metal, while I stood there being treated as though I were smoke.

It irked me immediately. This was an artiste, I concluded.

“You there…” I began, my annoyance growing as the craftsman continued to ignore me without so much as a grunt of acknowledgment.

But nothing answered me.

Some things, I decided, required a more personal touch. Craft could be fueled by passion, professionalism, and pride. But it could also be fueled by fear. And fear was an old and faithful acquaintance of mine. So I simply walked up to the anvil he was working upon, lifted it easily with one hand, and threw it at the wall with a grunt.

It crashed through the back of the shop like a sentence from a god, smashing shelves, scattering tools, and destroying what must have been commissioned work before punching through the wall itself. Stone and timber gave way together in one ugly burst.

Gilgamesh of Uruk would not be denied.

“Good day, master smith. I trust I finally have your attention,” I greeted sweetly.

Like the woman in the alley before him, the smith simply stared. He remained frozen in place, the tools of his trade still clutched in his hands, as though his body had accepted what his mind could not. From the second floor, a youth scrambled down the stairs at the back and, like his master, could only stare agape at the ruin before him.

Perhaps the rude craftsman’s apprentice, I surmised with a wolf’s grin growing on my face.

Taking a small breath, I began, “You may be thinking that you will call the Watch, or whatever serves in their stead. You will not. Instead, you will remain silent until I give you leave to speak. First, if anyone asks, you will tell them you had an accident while working with something volatile, which is close enough to the truth. Next, you will make something for me with all the skill at your disposal. You came recommended by the general public of this good city…”

“I…” croaked the smith weakly.

In response to this defiance, I used Improved Dash.

To their mortal eyes, I must have simply vanished and reappeared before the apprentice. I took him by the throat with one hand and lifted him gently. Gently for me, at least. His legs kicked feebly beneath him, hands clawing at my gauntlet as the air was cut from his throat.

Turning back, I faced the smith again. “I did not give you leave to speak.”

I waited until he nodded. Then I threw the apprentice onto the ruined remains of some armor. He shrieked like a girl as he flew, landing in a clatter.

“As I was saying, I require you to make something for me. A halberd or poleaxe. Something bladed. Spiked at the tip. With a hammer, or something like it, on one end. Adamantium or Mithril. I leave the particulars to you. It should be balanced with a heavy counterweight. The total weight of the piece does not matter much, as you can see.” I gestured with one armored hand. “Now, any questions? You may speak.”

“That much Sinner’s Shackles, let alone Mithril, is beyond my means…” the grey-haired man complained.

“Then you will beg, borrow, or steal. Whatever it takes. Sell your firstborn for all I care. Whore your wife. It matters not to me. But this you will do, or I will find you, and I will break your hands. Then I will tear your family limb from limb and shower you in their blood,” I demanded, hating myself as I spoke the vocabulary of this world.

Fear threaded through the air in thick tendrils. A heady thing that was warm, sweet, and most familiar.

“But…”

“You will use all of your vaunted skill,” I said softly, “and should you succeed to my satisfaction in making a weapon fit for a hero, you will be rewarded. All of this will be seen as a bad dream. Do I make myself clear?”

He gulped, staring into my dark eyes. Staring into the abyss.

“Who are…” he began before correcting himself, “To whom am I addressing?” he quaked.

“You may call me Gilgamesh of Uruk,” I answered, my smile widening by the moment even as madness danced in my eyes. “And when you are done, deliver it to the Bowl of Plenty to await my judgment. I expect you to be finished within the week.”