Sword Witch Book One

(5)

Dakunaito always hated coming into the city. It was nothing like human cities, with their sunlight and flat, paved surfaces, green trees and fresh air. No, here, everything was sulfur and obsidian. Where light didn’t come from lava pools or lichen, there were post lamps filled with orange flames.

There was never enough lighting, either. Everyone seemed to like keeping it too dark to make out clear details more than two dozen yards without resorting to special vision. Perhaps they didn’t like it here, either, and they didn’t appreciate the reminder of actually seeing it.

Yet the city was a necessity. Not all demons could be greater forces, suited for major roles in war, and any war, even a demonic one, required supplies and resources. It required skilled professionals to turn those supplies and resources into usable items, from weapons and armor to rations and tools.

All souls who were not noteworthy enough to live in the Imperial Palace or the noble estates on choice surrounding land lived within the city’s walls. Those who were artisans or otherwise skilled labor lived a comfortable enough life in the closest thing to a competitive meritocracy outside of the military. All others spent their existences slaving away in dangerous, unrewarding but absolutely essential fields, mostly mining.

Of course, it was common wisdom that the greatest artisans in a given field were found in the palace, where they served the demon emperor and his entourage personally. It was his own firm belief, however, that at least some of those handpicked to live in such luxury in exchange for personal service were chosen from various degrees of nepotism, and he normally preferred to take his business to the gloomy but less entitled city instead.

Even if that weren’t the case, however, the project that had been occupying his mind was not one he wanted palace gossip about.

“Master Dakunaito! Master Dakunaito!” It was a small voice from a small figure that came running from a side street toward him.

Long before the figure got close enough, the knight was able to identify it as an imp. Deceptively childlike in appearance, but ultimately harmless to a greater demon, most people had trouble telling them apart or recalling specific individuals.

The imps clogged the slums of the city, as they were too weak for most manual labor and were as effective at escaping purges as rats, able to disappear from even some of the best of demonic trackers. However, they had extremely subservient personalities and would often lord even the smallest of attentions from a greater demon over other imps as if it made them special.

The best fates they could hope for would be as minor servants in some lesser lord’s home, but their love of gossip often made them undesirable even for this. Fortunately, they were simple creatures with little individual drive, and were content with even the basest of living conditions.

This one was a male, the swordsman noted as he turned to face the imp. Or at least it was wearing shorts. It could be a bit hard to tell without such signifiers. Females tended to like wearing skirts and tying ribbons in their hair or on their horns, but it wasn’t a hard and fast rule.

“Speak,” he commanded it, letting his hand rest on his hilt as an unspoken threat that it had better not be a waste of his time.

“Is it true?” The question made it very obvious this was going to be about gossip. “Word around town is that you beat up that crazy kabuki couple!”

News always could be counted on to travel fast, if not accurately, among the imps, and it was no surprise that they already heard of that. “It is true,” Dakunaito confirmed. “They got in my way and suffered the consequences.”

“Wowee, that’s great, Master,” the imp praised, very nearly with actual stars in its eyes.

It was no particular secret among greater demons that imps held a particular dislike for those two jesters, and delighted in their slightest misfortune. Dakunaito was not one for gossip, but even he had heard tales of how the two had lured imps into their manor with promises of comfort and employment, only to experiment on them like costumed mannequins and dolls.

“And is it true it was over a future Missus Master?!”

At that, the warrior’s eyes flashed a furious red, bright enough to cast light on the imp’s youthful face. “No,” he vehemently growled, fist clenching at his side. He raised his hand and pointed back down the alley the imp had hailed him from. “And let it be known that I will kill any I discover spreading that lie.”

Instead of being intimidated, the imp took it as instruction, snapping to a salute. “You got it, Master! I’ll make sure to tell anyone I hear it from they’ll answer to you!” And the childlike demon turned on its heel and darted back into the shadows of the alley.

This was one of the most valuable roles imps served, and they did it almost without thinking. One could use them to counter misinformation as easily as one could use them to spread it. If it is on imp lips, it will be about the city by day’s end, and having first hand information from a greater demon meant that this one would be riding high among its peers for some time. There was no doubt it would do exactly as it said and threaten on his behalf anyone who uttered that rumor.

Still, that such a foul and insulting gossip would already be floating about infuriated him to his very marrow, and even as he began walking toward the merchant district, he couldn’t help suspecting those two had something to do with it. How long would it have circulated and how many important ears might it have reached if he hadn’t happened to come into the city so promptly and unexpectedly? Yes, this stank of their doing.

Dakunaito hated politics. It flew in the face of the pure virtue of proving one’s worth through actions, favoring meaningless words over the weight of results. In his mind, politics was the practice of raising one’s position by dragging others down, rather than improving oneself to become worthy of the position.

Its most insidious trait, however, was that, despite its blatant uselessness, so long as any were concerned with such banalities, all were required to play the game. Those two were quite fond of it, one more stage on which they could act a part without ever actually having to follow through. Though he would much rather spend his time in self-improvement, he would have to divert some of his attention to determining how best to discourage them from continuing this particular charade.

That was for another time, however. For now, he brushed open the curtain to a sizable establishment and stepped in, ducking nearly habitually to clear the upper frame. The level of light inside was even dimmer than on the street, and it took a moment for his eldritch sight to take over and reveal the low display cases in front of racks of products, sorted by both material and classification.

By that time, the owner had noticed him, and he couldn’t claim to be surprised to see it was an old naga woman. The serpent tongue served their kind well in mercantile, and they knew it. She did not, however, know him. The imps, as hard as they were to distinguish, always seemed to never have the same problem, immediately identifying anyone of importance. This old snake, however, only recognized him as a greater demon.

“Ah, m’lord,” she greeted him, her tongue darting out as if to taste his presence, and her old voice like pebbles grinding against one another. She bowed her head with stiffness that he suspected was more act than arthritis. “My humble store is blessed by your visitation.”

“Your best weapons, merchant,” he replied, not interested in having his ego rubbed for a few more coins. “I will see them immediately.”

“Of course, m’lord, of course!” she assured him. “All of my wares are of the best quality you will find short of the palace itself. Ah, perhaps you could be more specific in what you seek, hmm? Then old Garilda can help you filter down where we need to look.”

He nearly snapped at her, but had enough self control to realize the error was his. “I want your most arcane-capable weapons.” Being in error didn’t make him like having to take the extra time to clarify any more. “The greatest conduits with the highest capacitance.”

She gave a slow nod, almost appearing to doze off, but it was a sorting process she was going through, and soon, she led the way toward the far end of the building, separated from the main floor by a raised platform. “And do you know what type of weapons you desire, m’lord?”

“I will decide when I see what you have in stock.”

That slow, dozing nod again. “Very well, I’ll start with the popular choices, then.”

She led him to a primary display of bladed weapons. Swords, knives, axes, every bladed weapon of war known to man spread out before him from this central point. All looked as if they were crafted from polished obsidian inlaid with pools and rivulets of liquid ruby.

Dakunaito looked over the array of weapons and lifted from the racks above the display cases a single longsword, the ruby running down the blade in place of a fuller. He ran a gauntleted finger down the blade’s length and tested its balance in his grip.

The merchant had only just begun to smile, pleased that the greater demon that had visited her shop seemed to be finding no complaint with her wares. Unfortunately, it was promptly shocked off of her face as the warrior brought the weapon down and cleaved directly through the display, sundering many of the weapons with the strike and completely snapping the blade off of the one he had used.

“M-m-m-m’lord!” The old snake’s startled stutter accompanied her rapid toppling backward, hands raised in supplication. “Please! What error have I made?! I shall make it right!”

Dakunaito raised the remains of the broken weapon before his ember eyes, turning it back and forth in examination. “I am in remarkably little mood for plays of stupidity, Garilda,” he replied, then tossed the weapon to the ground in front of her, causing the old merchant to flinch away as if expecting it to have been aimed at her. “I demanded your best, and you offer mass-produced trash!”

His gauntleted hand that had held the weapon clenched all but one finger to point at her. “If you wish to take me for a gullible fool, I shall bring this building down about your wretched shoulders!”

“M’lord,” she pleaded, “I meant no offense! I swear it! I would never attempt to take advantage of a greater demon! I know my place, m’lord!”

He stepped forward and hauled her off of the ground by her neck, holding her up above his own head level. Despite the height, a naga was so long that still a foot of the old woman’s tail trailed on the ground. That did not seem to be any comfort to her terror-filled eyes.

“Evangelium and hordestadt, serpent,” he demanded, his barrel voice bellowing off of the store’s walls. “Nothing less!”

“E-Evang--?” the shook snake stuttered. “M’lord, I stock no such thing!”

“Who does?!” he demanded, pulling her in close to his face again. “Tell me!”

“No one does, m’lord!”

His eyes of burning coal stared closely into her face inches away from the blank darkness within his helmet for several long moments. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, but no less furious. “Explain, merchant, and do not consider lying.”

She again held her hands up to either side in supplication. “M’lord, if I may be so bold, it seems the palace has skewed your perception of supply and demand. You are correct that it would certainly be capable of handling any level of arcana, no matter how great, but that isn’t enough.

”Evangelium and hordestadt are both exceedingly expensive to acquire, and few blacksmiths are skilled enough to produce anything of value from them. Demons who are capable of utilizing such a weapon’s full potential are rare outside of the emperor’s own house, and the number of them who care for the style in which such weapons are shaped are scarcer still.

”Quite simply, m’lord, there is no business in stocking evangelium and hordestadt equipment. The investment would not be worth the scant sales. The only way to acquire such things in the city would be to commission them directly.”

Another long moment passed, then he dropped her unceremoniously, simply releasing his grip and letting her fall. “I will need to know where to find a qualified blacksmith.” Despite the phrasing, his tone made it obvious it was another demand.

“You are in luck, m’lord!” The old merchant was rubbing out her neck without yet returning to her equivalent of standing. “My granddaughter is one such skilled blacksmith.”

The coals within his helmet narrowed. “A naga blacksmith? I warned you against taking me for a fool, hag.”

“And I swore I would never do such a thing, m’lord!” she insisted in return. Then, more hesitantly, “I admit that she is … the black sheep of the family, as humans say, but she is capable of crafting what you desire.”

Dakunaito’s stare glowered down on her for a bit longer as he decided whether or not to believe her.

* * *

The heat of magma slammed into their faces as the old snake led the way down the carved stone stairs. The cavern had no artificial lighting; all necessary light came from the molten lake it bordered. At the base of the stairs, the cavern became an artificially flat plane raising a foot above the magma the size of an entire workshop. Tools were stored in black iron braces bolted to the wall, skirted by the complete features of a blacksmith’s craft.

The one exception was the forge, which was not against the wall, but on the edge of the stone beach. A pump pulled magma up from the lake into the forge, itself, to provide heat for the metal as it cycled through channels and pooled in a basin deep enough to submerge an indeterminate length of material. For convenience, the anvil was attached to the forge, to easily allow a project to be quickly moved between the two.

The whole way down, the sound of impacts rebounded off of the stone around them, but not until they reached the bottom could they circle the forge and see the source.

Her flesh was burnt umber and her scales were cinnabar, as if both had been toasted to their hue in the heat of this cavern. She wore little in the oppressive heat but a thick apron to protect her front from the worst of the shrapnel and molten slag, and each blow from her hammer drew sparks that reflected off of her body and the sweat that oiled her muscles.

Extremely toned, they were larger than a woman’s would be in any other profession, but not bulky, her race’s preponderance of form developing them into sinewy cables that visibly bulged as she would heft the hammer, then released as she brought it back down, over and over again in a hypnotic cycle that never wavered.

She apparently eschewed gloves, and despite the heat it must have possessed, she gripped the end she wasn’t pounding in an unhesitating vice grip. Scars of her labor were visible across her knuckles and the back of her hands in testament to her dedication to her craft.

Her bangs were kept out of her almond eyes with a leather headband, while the eyes, themselves, fiercely focused on the steel-like substance she sought to subdue. The rest of her ebony hair was secured in a french braid that swung with every impact back and forth across her bare back.

Her tail pooled beneath and behind her, taking up an impressive amount of the workroom floor, though it would be an impediment only to those who intruded on her work. A naga had no need to “step” around their own tail, able to move any part of it at will to relocate their upper body as needed.

She wasn’t the only one who found herself called back to the world around her when the old snake announced their visitor. “Narhia,” the name had a hard sound to the R that was almost a roll, “you have a customer! This lord desires your services for a commission!”

The endless repetition of the hammer came to a halt and the blacksmith moved the blade to a nearby oil bath before turning those eyes first on her grandmother, then on the warrior.

For a moment, they seemed to penetrate him, but the gaze was broken when she bowed in greeting to him. In its wake, he recalled the trait was common, not just of naga, but of all known serpent species as predators, and was unlikely to actually be any noteworthy trait of hers, or even something of which she was conscious.

“M’lord,” the blacksmith spoke, and if her grandmother’s voice could be compared to grinding pebbles, her stones were moving smoothly through a river. That was, however, the end of her courtesies, and she pulled herself back straight once more. “I will see your sword.”

He cocked his head slightly. “No.”

Sensing conflict, Garilda moved inward toward her granddaughter. “He’s not here about his sword, Narhia.”

“I did not assume he was,” she replied, though her gaze was still on him, and she put her hand out as if still expecting to be obeyed. “I can take no commission of any sort from any demon I do not know before I have seen his weapon.”

Garilda’s eyes widened, and she moved toward Dakunaito in turn. “Mercy, m’lord, mercy! I warned you she was a black sheep, she is not good with people, but she is--”

“Silence, hag!” the warrior barked, and the old woman recoiled and obeyed.

The two maintained their staring contest for nearly half a minute as if it were a contest of wills. Then he began to draw his sword, and the old woman began babbling fearful pleas, clearly believing he intended to strike her down for her insolence, but neither of them paid her any mind.

He held the sword ready for another stretch as if he were really weighing the option. And finally, in one swift motion that drew a scream from the merchant, but didn’t even draw a flinch from her granddaughter, he flipped it around to present the hilt to her.

She took the weapon in hand and hefted it, tested its balance in either hand, gauged its length relative to the span of her arms. She set the pommel against the ground and put her finger on the very tip of the blade to check its balance. She pulled it up close before her eyes, which she narrowed and focused them on its edge, slowly pulling it across her vision, then repeating it for the other side.

Finally, she turned, took it in a two-handed stance and made several practice strikes. She frowned slightly in thought as she brought it up in front of her gaze again. “This is the most well-maintained training sword I have ever seen.”

“I did not request your opinion, smith,” was his unwavering response.

“You did,” she disagreed as she returned the weapon to him. “When you requested my services. What do you want?”

“Evangelium and hordestadt.”

“Ingots or ores?”

If he had eyebrows, one of them was surely elevated. She was quite brazen to barb him so many times. Was it possible she truly did not see them as barbs, as her grandmother claimed?

“Weapons,” he decided to answer her directly and see where she was going with it. “A paired set of memetic weapons, primarily sword and firearm. They need to conceal themselves when not in use, perhaps as bracelets.”

“Bracelets?” It was the old woman, perhaps emboldened by the progress of negotiations. “M’lord, I had no idea you had your eyes on courting some lucky lass!”

Unlike with Narhia, he let out a low growl without looking toward her.

“Grandmama,” the smith told her, “go upstairs, in case more customers come.”

Her eyes widened at that. “Wha- but-”

“You said this was my commission,” the raven-haired young woman reminded her. “I will handle it.”

“… Yes,” Garilda agreed, giving a sideways glance of trepidation to the greater demon in their midst. “Yes, dear, perhaps you are right. I’ll be upstairs if I’m needed.” She gave another stiff bow to Dakunaito. “M’lord.”

He dismissed her with a nod, still not deigning to look at her.

With that, she turned and made her slow way up the stairs.

Narhia waited until the old woman was well on her way up, then crossed her arms in front of her. “It does not sound like you are courting to me,” she noted instead, in criticism of the old woman’s previous intrusion. “It sounds like you are taking an apprentice.”

Though he hadn’t looked away from her, he had allowed himself to simply stand there, and his embers now focused firmly on her sharp face. “Is what I do any of your business?”

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “The more I understand your intent, the better the end result will be. Is there something wrong with her?”

“Who?”

“Your apprentice,” she insisted. “She can’t shape the weapons, herself.”

“You are so certain I am taking an apprentice,” he observed, almost dismissively, though in fact, he was choosing his words carefully. “And now, you have concluded a female?”

“You did not ask for bracers,” was her easy retort.

Again, he found his eyes narrowing. Was she truly getting all of this from this one-sided conversation?

She did not wait, however, apparently already gathering the information she required. “I will take your commission.”

“I have answered none of your questions, blacksmith.”

“You have answered every one,” she calmly countered.

He was finding himself doing much more staring than he was normally accustomed to on this trip. He took in her full measure before him, measuring what she seemed to know and if it were a threat.

“I do not speak of any of my commissions to any soul,” she said, he thought, unprovoked. “Not even to my grandmother. All of your answers and all other details of your commission will be held only between you, myself and my anvil.”

He stared at her a moment longer at such a remark, then deposited a bag heavy with coin on a worktable. “If you require more for supplies, call upon me at my estate. Otherwise, do so when your work is complete.”

It was her turn to tilt her head slightly, though she did not seem to do so in any sort of surprise. “What name should I call upon?”

“Dakunaito.”

She showed no reaction to the name, only bowing once more, as if in conclusion. But when he turned to leave, she spoke again. “M’lord, I must ask you one more question. This is a critical one that will have a profound impact on the final product.”

Well, that was the most hesitation she had shown this entire time, the warrior reflected as he turned halfway back toward her. “Speak.”

“An unproven youth with enough power to utilize evangelium and hordestadt, yet she knows no spells. Any demon family would have taught basic spells to their children. Only humans do not hold such a practice, but they do not possess the arcana for the materials.”

Dakunaito turned fully toward her once more, and danger bounced in his chest as he growled, “You said you had a question, smith.”

And she dove right into that question without any sense of self-preservation. “Is your apprentice a new witch?”