The Dark Lord of Crafting

Gastard didn’t typically use shields, but when I made one for myself from a Durak shell, there was no reason not to present him with the duplicate. It was an odd-looking piece of equipment, pinkish white, basically just a giant clam shell with straps for your arm, and you definitely could not use a two-handed weapon with one of these hanging from your arm. It wasn’t exactly a tower shield, but it was as heavy as one.

I added runes of protection to both of them.

Gastard hefted the glossy shell unhappily. “Its appearance is not satisfying.”

“It’s made from monsters, your favorite.”

“That is not my favorite.”

I smiled. At least he wasn’t doubting my identity. “Using the power of the enemy against them is a good thing, right?”

His frown was as deep as a canyon. “It is not. The power of the enemy naturally corrupts the wielder, as we have discussed.”

It had only been a day since he told me he was taking Astaroth with him to Henterfell. The idea had surprised me, but I could understand his perspective. He wanted to keep the demon away from me, as well as get to know him better. Though, “get to know him better” was not the phrase he had used, of course. Gastard would monitor Astaroth. Closely.

While I’d initially had a flicker of concern that my Knight of the Realm would use this as an opportunity to send Astaroth back to Bedlam on the end of a sword, I didn’t think that was the intention. Astaroth would be a significant ally against the pair of demons supporting Godwod, and despite so recently declaring that he would never walk at the side of a demon, it suited his ideal of honor to be the one to take up the burden of that sin in my place.

“Fair enough, but it’s a good shield. At least take it with you. I’ve got potions for you too, and this,” I grabbed a stick out of a pile of coins on a nearby table and tossed it to him. It was covered in a spiral of arcane markings. “Check it out.”

I found its partner, another wooden rod with identical markings and an extra notch at the top, and spoke into its end.

“Can you hear me now?”

Gatard stared at me blankly. “Of course I can hear you.”

“No. I mean, through the stick, take yours and put it up to your face.”

After a bit more coaxing from me, my friend and I were on opposite sides of the forge, testing my Speaking Sticks. It was Kevin’s cup and string setup, except the strings had never been necessary. It had taken me a few attempts, and some lost experience, to get it to work. Speaking runes first, then Fixation, applied to both sticks at once at the crafting table. It would be easier once my Artisan skill was high enough for me to carve these out instead of having to burn through bags of material coins to turn them into runed items.

They didn’t come with volume controls, but the sticks would get the job done. Being a foot long, the situation reminded me of the original cellphones, plastic bricks with antennas. It was silly, but communication at a distance was a huge deal. Harpies would be taking Speaking Sticks to Torgudai and Nargul. And I was going to ask Boffin to collect the tin cans from the Eternal Engine and see if we could get them to work the same way. The process was too essence-intensive to lead to mass production, so every extra pair would count.

Once Gastard was burdened with enough new equipment to give his old horse a backache, we said goodbye. Zareth insisted on a hint of ceremony, given that Gastard was heading off on both a diplomatic and military mission, so the entire garrison turned out to see him off. Horns blew as the outer gates of Mount Doom groaned open.

Trolls were no longer required to turn the wheels of the great gates. We’d added some pulleys, and they were turned by oxen now, which were altogether more friendly and less smelly than the monsters they’d replaced.

Astaroth circled above the templars, three were going with him, all new additions. Esmelda had been handing out titles since I left, which unlocked the second option, Castellan, that she had given to Zareth. The benefits of his title were less straightforward than that of the templars. It increased his Presence, and for some reason, seemed to help his memory. He rarely carried his scrolls for reference anymore.

Leto cheered at our side as we stood atop the ramparts of the outer wall. Harpies called overhead. A handful would be following to keep an eye on the party, though now that we had Speaking Sticks, they weren’t as important for communication. They would still do reconnaissance for Gastard.

I felt the warmth of the sun on my back and smelled baking bread wafting through the air. Neither sensation would normally be associated with Mount Doom, but things were changing here.

“I don’t like this,” Esmelda said, standing close enough that her arm grazed mine. Maybe I should have gone back to my habit of being fully armored at all times, after all, the walls were no deterrent to demons. With the sun out, though, I felt relatively secure in my fortress.

“It’s what he wants.”

“We could have gone with him.”

“There’s too much to do here. Henterfell isn’t a priority right now.”

“It’s a priority to him.” She sent me a questioning look. “You understand that, don’t you?”

“Sure.” I wondered if Gastard’s death and rebirth had anything to do with his immediate need to solve the problem of Godwod and Egard. He never mentioned Johanna unless someone else brought her up, which we seldom did. But he was still in love with her, and Henterfell was in the weakest position it had been in years. No support from Dargoth, and the king of Drom sensed blood in the water. Maybe our trip to Bedlam had highlighted for him how quickly things could change.

“Is Gastard going to get married?” Leto asked. It was a complete non sequitur, I hadn’t even thought he knew about Johanna. And regardless, deposing a girl’s father was a pretty awkward way to start a proposal.

“I’m sure he will,” Esmelda said, warm affection in her voice.

I hoped he did. They weren’t taking an army with them, just official seals from me and a demon that, under the right conditions, could wipe out an entire battalion by himself. We watched them shrink into the distance. Astaroth was forced to use his wings to fly, as the sun dampened his magic. That was a quandary all its own. Should they act during the day when Asmodeus and Vual would be weakest, or at night, when Astaroth would be strongest? That was a decision I’d leave to Gastard.

He’d refused to take an army with him and had barely accepted the templars as an escort. They all had atreanum. Arrows and daggers. It would be enough.

The following days were unusually pleasant. I spent most of my time in the forge crafting equipment or our rooms, training my Artisan skill. Esmelda had been fighting monsters every evening with a group of templars to grind experience. It had allowed her to hand out a total of ten titles, including Zareth’s, without losing any progress in her overall level. Another month like that, if she stopped spending essence on titles, and she’d have nearly completed her “tutorial.”

It was almost sickening to think about how long it had taken me to reach that milestone. Of course, I’d had a lot more things to spend experience points on, and a lot more deaths to make up for. Gastard had to start back at the beginning of his advancement. Everything he’d put into his sword was still there, however, so it had been a good investment. I should have counseled him to dump as much essence as he wanted into it, banking on the likelihood that something would go wrong before he reached level thirty. It had. But it might not have.

You never knew.

When I commented that Esmelda fighting monsters without me or Gastard around felt reckless, all I got in response was a raised eyebrow.

Fair enough.

Letters went out to my demon suitors, so we would soon see how many of them would be stupid enough to show up at my doorstep, and Gastard gave me regular updates on their progress. The group was small enough to make good time, and once they hit the Wastes, it was a straight shot across Redroad to get to the mountains at the border. He was in good spirits, oddly good spirits.

“This is something he’s been thinking about for a long time,” Esmelda said. “Henterfell has been weighing on him, in one way or another, since he left it.”

That was a lot of years to have something eating at you. “It’s going to work out,” I said, trying not to consider how many ways his journey could go horribly wrong.

Leto would take the stick from me so he could talk about his day with Gastard in the evenings. It was cute, and a little sad. My son and I got along, but he was still closer to Gastard than to me. I made us a fresh pair of wooden swords to practice with while his primary sword tutor was away to give us something to do together.

It was a week after his departure that I got a stick call from the Orkhan. I carried them in my belt at all times, it wasn’t as if they came with a way to leave messages, and when I heard a voice speaking in the Atlan language, I briefly thought I was imagining things.

“Lord of Dargoth, many greetings.”

“It’s good to hear from you, Torgudai. Thanks for not shooting down my harpy.”

“It was a near thing, but the dark-winged ones have shown themselves to be an enemy of my enemy. As have you.” The reception on the sticks was fantastic. His voice was quiet, but as clear as if he was standing beside me.

“I do my best. Can you tell me how things are going on your side of the map?”

“We raid again. There have been no words from the Great Eagle Dragon to guide us, but all of us who touch the weave of the world can sense that darkness gathers in the city of the demons.”

He had to mean the shamans sensing what was being built in Gundurgon. My mastery of his language wasn’t perfect, and also, it was a bit more poetic than English.

“Do you know what they are constructing?”

“If Salenus is a shield, this is a knife. We fear it will cut the veil too deeply to be healed. Will you fight with us?”

I looked across the forge to a growing pile of diamond equipment, armor, and weapons. Mount Doom's supply of diamond, even with a machine that could produce it from coal, wasn’t technically infinite, but it was close enough. While I didn’t want equipment like this to be looted by our enemies and reused, my plan wasn’t to send a few well-armored guys and hope for the best. When we marched, it was going to be big, and it was going to be in style.

“I will. But I need more time. Gastard is in the West, trying to get us on the good side of the king of Drom.”

“Gastard? Your swordsman?”

“Yeah.”

“He will be missed on the field. But I do not think there is such time to wait. Their monument grows by the night, and the beasts of the Shadow multiply.”

“They’re still coming through? With no heroes around?”

“Not everywhere, but near the city of demons, near their knife against the veil, the sky fills with the screams of the winged ones.”

“Could those be leftover monsters?”

“Some. But their numbers grow. All my scouts say so.”

The compass didn’t show another hero. Was someone hiding their Presence, or did the demons have another way of bringing lesser entities through? Either way was bad. My harpies hadn’t mentioned increasing spawns, but I wouldn’t be getting a new update for another day or two. They had to do a lot of flying to make a round trip.

“Any idea when the monument will be finished?”

“I can not speak for the shadow. I only know that it rises. Will you join us?”

“Give me a week.” Even that wasn’t enough, there was still so much to do, so many things to test. “You can give me updates if we need to move faster, but I’m bringing an army, so it won’t be that fast even when we do come.”

“A week may be too long to begin your ride.”

“I’ll try to be quicker.” Zareth and Esmelda were handling most of the logistics, and we hadn’t been rushing, working on the assumption we wouldn’t move until Gastard got back anyway. We were gathering soldiers from Nargul while trying to figure out how many we needed to leave behind to keep our strongholds sage. If the demons came in force, no amount of regular people would be enough, even if they were all dressed in diamonds.

“We will speak again soon.” He sounded disapproving. “May the sky watch over you.”

On the bright side, I’d finally made a potion of Turtle Mastery. The Baresh shells were my missing ingredient. The resulting elixir was pale green, Mountain Dew green. In the game, as far as I could remember, these potions made you super tough super slow. That didn’t seem to be the case here.

Both the System description and my eye were in agreement.

Potion of Turtle Mastery: Imbibing this single-use item will result in the user becoming the Master of Turtles.

Zooming in on the definitions of the individual words was no help. Master meant, “one who has control over another.” Turtles got me: “A common advanced species, found in a majority of stable realms in the local cluster. Cold-blooded reptilians protected by dense exoskeletons, turtles are beloved by Harmony and Discord alike. The Bearers of All Burdens.”

The potion meant controlling turtles. And turtles were special.

Wild.

Footsteps sounded in the hall outside the forge, and a fist hammered on the doors. I hurried to open them. It was one of the templars, stocky and ruddy…Yent? Yeah, Yent.

“My lord,” the words spilled out before I could say anything, “there are demons at the gates.”

“How many?”

“Five.”

“Let me get dressed.”

Getting my armor on took only seconds, all I had to do was slam the medallions against the appropriate part of my body to summon each part of the suit. Organizing my inventory took a little longer. Five was more than I’d been expecting at one time. It made sense, they were wary. They hadn’t simply come over the wall and started slaughtering people though, so these couldn’t be from Gundurgon. These were some of the wild cards who had written me.

The guards were naturally on edge, but no one had fired any shots yet. The demons had paused a quarter of a mile out from the outer wall and sent an old man in to speak for them. For a single, terrifying instant, I thought it was Fladnag. White bushy hair, a peaked cap, and brown robes with a tall walking staff. He was a contender for the Gandalf lookalike contest, but not the same man. My eye assured me of it.

Furcas

Entity Rank: E

Alignment: Discord

Affinity: Fire

A demon without monstrous features. He couldn’t hide his identity from Calcion’s gift. Even without the help, I could sense something off about his Presence. Though his spirit was partially concealed, it didn’t feel human. An oilcloth concealing a burning coal.

Instead of having them open the gates, I floated down from the rampart on the wings of a fresh Elytron. Esmelda was already underground with a few of her templars preparing for the nightly spawn slaughter. She hadn’t heard about the demons yet. Otherwise, she would have tried to stop me. This wasn’t being rash. It wasn’t going into a fight unprepared, I assured myself. It was simply confidence. Besides, night hadn’t quite fallen. They wouldn’t be at full strength.

“Hey there,” I said. “You looking for me?”

The old man narrowed his eyes as he took in my armor.

“We are, indeed. I am Furcas, Knight of the Fallen, and we seek an understanding with the master of the mountain.” His voice was as rough as a lifetime smoker’s.

“We can talk out here,” I said. “I won’t welcome you into my home until we know each other better.”

He looked confused, and even more so when I walked past him toward his companions, but he tried to get ahead of me by fast walking so it seemed like the move was his idea.

“Where’d you guys come from?” I asked.

“The Fallen travel far and wide, delivering the justice of the Dark Lord…,” he glanced at me, “of Dargoth. We were in the East, occupied with the meddling of Thalassos, when it became clear to us that a new hero had come to sit upon the Throne of Shadows.”

“Yeah, that’s me. So why aren’t you trying to kill me?”

“I believe our letters made that clear.”

“Sorry, didn’t read them. But I take it you were one of the groups that was fine with delaying Calcion’s entrance into Plana?”

He blanched at my use of the name. I’d been curious whether the demons knew the One Who Knocks by his title only.

“We are…open to negotiation.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Pale orange light gave warmth to the scene, but Furcas wasn’t showing any skin, and the other demons were in a canopied vehicle. Not exactly a wagon, a platform with five wheels on each side and curtains around three walls. Only the front face was open.

As we approached, my eye gave me the cliff notes.

Alloces

Entity Rank: E

Alignment: Discord

Affinity: Flesh

Vine

Entity Rank: E

Alignment: Discord

Affinity: Crystal

Sabnock

Entity Rank: E

Alignment: Discord

Affinity: Metal

Murmur

Entity Rank: E

Alignment: Discord

Affinity: Metal

An unusual group of affinities. Two with metal. That could get annoying fast, considering what I was encased in. They were all E-Rank though, so nothing to worry about. The timers for multiple potions were ticking down in the corner of my vision. I might not even need them.

Three lions and a griffon. Were the animal heads random or did they get to pick? Had all these guys bonded over their manes?

“Brothers of the Fallen,” Furcas said as we reached the vehicle. “I present you with the new Lord of Dargoth.”

I selected the bomb in my inventory. What a perfect opportunity for a test.