Chapter 430: The Forging of Purpose (1)

There must have been a part of these soldiers who may not have believed what I was saying about giving them god weapons, and I saw the surprise flicker across their faces.

One way to spot a lie is the detail that is missing from it. If I had claimed to give them weapons and did not ask what sort of weapons they wanted, a seed of doubt would be placed inside their heads about the claims I was making.

Ruggah was the first to speak, and I expected it. This warband seemed to put him forward in most things... I would have to look out for that. "I have used a glaive for as long as I can remember. It suits my reach and my strength."

I nodded, committing the information to memory. "And you, Ogg?"

The troll considered for a moment. "I am a healer, but I can fight when I must. A mace, perhaps. Something that can crush armor and bone."

Thurrim grunted. "An axe. A proper dwarven axe, not one of those delicate things that are found on the surface. It is so hard to find good weapons outside the forge of the dwarves."

Tam spoke up, his voice hesitant. "I... I have used a sword before. Nothing special, just a standard blade. It would take a while to entirely master more weapons, and I am not done with the blade."

Ines nodded. "I prefer a bow... I can shoot from a distance, and I have good aim."

I looked at the Shades, who had not spoken. "And you three? What do you fight with?"

Sef was the one who answered. "We do not fight with weapons," he said. "We fight with shadows and silence."

I cocked my head to the side as I considered his words, and he elaborated, "We fight with the things that hide in the dark."

I nodded slowly. "Then I will make sure you have what you need to fight in your own way."

Finally, I looked at Coin, and I could not see her face beneath her hood. "And you, Coin? What do you fight with?"

For a long moment, she did not answer. Then she spoke, her voice soft and distant. "I fight with the weight of what I carry. That weight is the memory of my people, and they are all I need to fight."

I looked at her, not understanding how this sort of power was supposed to work. "Then I will make sure you have what you need to carry that weight."

I was about to turn and walk back toward the camp to explain what Dorrik may require of them when the air around the campfire shifted. The fire flickered, and a deep voice echoed from the mountain itself, rolling across the clearing like distant thunder.

"Survivors of Serrath."

The voice was Dorrik’s, and it was not loud, but it carried the weight of stone and fire. The warband froze, their heads turning toward the mountain. Even the Shades stirred, their shadowy forms rippling.

A bowl materialized in the center of their camp, appearing from nothing as if it had always been there. It was simple and unadorned, made of the same grey stone as the mountain itself.

"I am the God of the Unending Flame," Dorrik’s voice continued. "You came to my mountain seeking purpose, and I offer you weapons forged in my fire. I am an old god, and the weapon I forge is not just a tool of slaughter. It is an extension of the one who wields it, and must be bound to you in a way that no ordinary weapon can be."

The bowl sat in the center of the camp, and I saw the warriors looking at it with a mixture of awe and wariness.

"You will place four things into this bowl," Dorrik said. "Your saliva, blood, hair, and something you consider precious. It can be a memory, a trinket, a token. Something that defines a part of who you are... And be warned: whatever you give cannot be returned."

Thurrim grunted, a haunted look flashing across his eyes. "And if we do not have anything precious?"

"Everyone has something precious. You can choose to give less, but the weapon that emerges from this sacrifice would never be fully bound to you."

Tam’s jaw tightened. "Every human god is dead, and this sounds like a trap to place our souls in the domain of another god."

Ogg shrugged, "Then you would be a fool not to take this trap... if the gods of humans are weak, then this god is better."

Ruggah looked at the warband, and some invisible communication took place between them, and then he stepped toward the bowl. He reached up and pulled a length of golden hair from his mane, then drew a small knife from his belt and sliced his palm, allowing his blood to flow freely into the bowl, before he spat into it, twice. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, worn token that I could not quite see, hesitated a moment and placed it in the bowl.

"My father gave me this before he died," he said, his voice steady. "It is all I have left of him before corruption took him from this world. It is precious to me."

The bowl glowed faintly as his offerings settled into it, and everything he placed into the bowl vanished, and he stepped back.

Ogg was next. With his blade, he cut off a large clump of his grey hair, and then he spun the knife and made a deep cut across his wrist that reached the bone, and he held his arm over the bowl where he bled for a few seconds and then his wound slowly sealed shut.

Grunting, he spat into the bowl and reached into his pack and pulled out a small, smooth stone that seemed to glow with a faint inner light.

"I found this stone when I was a child," he said. "It is the only thing that has remained with me after six hundred years of life. Everything else is gone, but she remains with me... I think it is the right time for her to take a new form, every troll knows the importance of transformation."

Thurrim grunted and stepped forward. He added his saliva, his hair and his blood, and then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden figurine of a dwarf holding an axe.

"My father carved this for me when I was a child," he said. "He told me that as long as I held it, I would never be alone. It is the last thing he ever gave me."

Tam and Ines stepped forward together. They added their saliva, hair and blood, and then they looked at each other. Ines reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, pressed flower that had been carefully preserved.

"This is from the garden of my childhood home," she said. "It is the only thing I have left of the life I had before the war."

Tam hesitated, then reached into his coat and pulled out a small, worn book. "This is a book of poems," he said. "My father used to read them to me before he died. It is the only thing I have left of him."