Unforged

Chapter 16: The Sword

Tristan

Outside, a large gathering of townsfolk had surrounded a man at the central crossroads. He was leading a pack mule by what remained of a few torn straps. He looked scared, and his voice cracked as he tried to explain himself.

“But they came out of nowhere! I couldn’t get an [Identify] level on any of them, so they were clearly higher tier!”

Tristan didn’t recognize the man, but the signs of banditry were beyond question. Whatever the mule had been carrying was long gone. The straps along its back and sides were cut clean, leaving nothing but the man’s loud claims at whatever treasure might have been there before.

Dennit Copperbeard, the bakery owner, stepped forward. Despite his shorter stature, which was actually quite average for a dwarf, his loud voice commanded attention. So did his immaculate red beard that was so long it touched his boots. “If they threatened you, and they’re higher-level as you say, you need to report it immediately!”

“They didn’t exactly threaten me though,” the original man said, shuffling his feet. “They just stopped Bertie here and... well, mostly asked, but..."

Dinnit shook his head. “But the threat was clear, right?”

An older woman started scolding him. “What you should have done was run! If they didn’t even threaten you properly, then--"

“I’m not going to risk my life when a whole band of tier 3s just want my wares! I can always tan more hides as long as mine’s intact!”

“How many were there this time, Ronald?” a new, worried voice asked. Tristan immediately recognized Chessa’s mother, Sasha, who was wringing her hands.

Ronald turned toward her, still keeping a hand on his mule’s cut harness. “I counted eight, but I’m sure there were more in the forest. Or at least they acted like there were.”

“That’s even more than what stopped Tomas a few days ago,” Sasha replied.

Tristan balked at hearing something similar had happened to Chessa’s father and that he hadn’t known. I guess I haven’t really been available as a friend lately...

The older woman spoke up again, steaming as she stepped forward. “You have to report it. If these bandits are out there striking down-tier, the Tier Guard will come and clean them off the roads!”

Ronald regarded her with disappointment. “That’s not how it works.” He turned toward Chessa’s mother. “Didn’t Tomas report his incident?”

Sasha nodded, voicelessly.

“And yet here I am, days later, and still nothing’s been done. All I see are more problems.”

There were general grumblings after that, but no one seemed to disagree with the point he hadn’t needed to state.

Tristan knew the Tier Guard was only truly supposed to respond to the worst cases of higher tiers ‘striking down’ at lower tiers. Officially, their justice was limited to murder, rape, enslavement, and the like. But sometimes they could be convinced to help with lesser incidents... Sometimes. If the Tier Guard hadn’t responded in days to Tomas’s claim, then that absence of action was pretty telling. With Brightshield and his party gone, there was effectively no other organization policing their region.

Tristan quietly made his way over to Chessa’s mother. “Hey, is Mister Klimenta all right? I’m sorry I’ve been so busy, but I didn’t know something like this had happened. Ms. Klimenta, if there‘s anything at all my family or I can do to help, please let me know!”

The woman recognized Tristan immediately and her face brightened slightly, her frown vanishing almost entirely. “Oh, Tristan! Bless you, but no. We’re all fine, thank you.” She patted his arm gently. “But it’s sweet of you to offer. From what I’ve heard you’re doing pretty well yourself, eh? Is your father finally letting you out of the forge? Or maybe your mother’s convinced him that you’ve got other skills to level up, too? She was talking prospects just the other day, you know. But gods only know, you can’t get a tan without seeing the sun!” She winked at him.

Tristan decided it would be easier not to correct her, so he just just chuckled uncomfortably. “Yeah, leveling has been a bit of a grind so far, but definitely worth it! I’m making a lot of progress.”

The woman’s eyes unfocused momentarily as she no-doubt used [Identify] on him, and then her smile grew wider. “I can see that! May the gods continue to send you their blessings! Bless you and all the rest of Chessa’s friends! You’re all doing so well I can hardly believe it. The next generation of our little town will be the strongest yet!”

Tristan straightened a little with pride. “What level are they now? I haven’t really... seen anyone in a while.” Tristan grimaced at the admission, not entirely sure how long it had been. He had become a bit of a workaholic.

“Oh, don’t I know it!” The woman laughed. “But yeah, Chessa and Opie both just hit level 8 recently, so it looks like you’ve actually caught up to them. That should make your next adventure together that much better.” She paused, looking back at the slowly dispersing crowd around Ronald. “Assuming we can leave the town anytime soon without being hassled.”

“When did all this start?” Tristan asked.

Sasha sighed, shaking her head. “It’s been building up ever since the Brightshield..." But then she looked away from Tristan, which made him wonder if she somehow knew. “...You know. All those weeks ago. You’d think more people would try to live up to his ideals, but... without any heroes left to deter the more selfish Paths, too many of that type are going unpunished. I hope the rest of the realm isn’t going this mad.”

Tristan swallowed slowly, repeating the words his father had drilled into him all those weeks ago. His death was not my fault. Neither are these events. He turned the conversation toward the dispersing crowd. “Is it just bandits on the road, then? What else is happening? If the Tier Guards aren’t getting involved...”

“Who knows. No one’s been hurt yet, that I’ve heard of at least. I just hope things don’t get any worse.”

Tristan dreaded the thought. If things continued getting worse, it wouldn’t just be supplies getting taken. And if the roads became that unsafe, it would put his plans in jeopardy.

He bade Chessa’s mother farewell and returned home where he shared his concerns with his own mother. She listened attentively while she prepared a beautiful beef stew for dinner. Accompanying it, as always, was mouth-watering garlic bread.

“Then it’s a good thing we don’t need to go out,” she said once Tristan had finished his telling. “But don’t think that means you can keep spending all your time in that forge! You need to spend some time with us, and your friends, too!” She took a moment to check on the bread in the oven. “And maybe even some girls, hmm? You’re becoming quite the eligible young man, you know! That is assuming you don’t get yourself killed in a dungeon.”

Tristan sighed, “Mom, again? I already spend all day with dad, and you’re here any time I want to talk. I know that. But I’m definitely not ready for the whole dating distraction.” He quickly added, seeing her lips purse, “At least not until after I tier up.”

“Well, just don’t make it too long after. I don’t want to be sixty before you start dating. Though with as fast as you’ve been leveling since you’ve been home again, maybe I’ll have grandkids before too long.”

Tristan knew better than to engage her further with that delusion, but there was another conversation he knew they needed to have. He looked over his shoulder toward the forge, debating on whether he could wait for his father to emerge. That could end up taking another hour, he worried, or longer.

“But after I tier up,” he began, taking her hand, “you do realize things are going to change, right? I’m planning--eventually--to find more teachers, which means I’ll need to leave for a while.”

His mother looked at him with the same sadness she had shown the last few times something similar had come up. “Of course I know things will change. That’s the only certainty we ever get in life. You’ll just have to excuse me for not being thrilled about watching my only son run off on his own.” She sliced off a thick slice of garlic bread, its smell working its magic on Tristan’s stomach, which immediately growled. “I’m not blind; I see you growing up. And I’m as proud of you now, with every level you’ve gained, as I was before you had any. I just... love my little boy, too.” She handed the warm slice of bread to him with a smile. “Even if you’re not so little any more.”

Tristan hugged his mother--while obviously making sure that not a single crumb of the mouthwatering bread dropped to the floor. In between bites, he managed to say, “As good as always.”

“It’s baked with rare-quality love!” she affirmed with her usual affection. “Now, have you thought about what you’re going to say to your father?”

“I’ve still got a couple levels before--"

“What do you need to say to me?”

Marrik Hammerson was standing in the doorway, just in from the forge. In spite of his tone, he was sweaty and grinning, which told Tristan the man had made progress on his current project.

“Oh, Dad!” were the words that thankfully escaped his lips, instead of the Oh, shit! that screamed in his head. He hadn’t expected his father to finish in the forge this quickly, and yet there he stood.

“That’s me. Anyways, what is it you need to tell me?”

Tristan swallowed. He’ll understand. He’s been pushing me as hard as I’ve pushed myself. He cleared his throat. “My plans for the future. After I tier up.”

His old man crossed his arms, still filling the whole doorway. “You’ve decided, then? You only have a couple more levels. That’s what, a couple months at your pace?”

Tristan tried to hide his satisfied smile. It felt good to hear his father acknowledge his hard work. “Hopefully even less than that. Which is why I’ve been thinking about what I want to do.”

There was silence for a moment before his father said, “And? Spit it out. What’s with the sudden anxiety?”

“After I hit level 10 and get to tier 2,” Tristan began, growing more nervous than he’d been in ages, “I want to go out on my own a bit. I still want to make things, but...” He trailed off, not really sure how to say what needed to be said to his father.

“You want to make swords,” his father finished for him. “While there’s still a few things I can teach you about that, I understand you want more.”

Tristan wasn't surprised his father had guessed that much. He had been grinding swords on and off for three levels. Tristan sighed. “Yes, but there’s more to it.”

“You want to learn the sword,” his father continued. “Go adventuring, delve some dungeons, explore the Frontier, and eventually see the world like Hesden did.”

Tristan stood straighter as he met his old man's eyes. “Yes sir.”

His father started chuckling. “Then what’s the problem, son? What is it that’s so hard to tell me?”

“I..." He looked at both of them, and he realized they were trying to make this as simple for him as possible. He lowered his eyes, trying to hide the tears that were starting to form. “Nothing, I guess. Other than I love you both,” he said. “Thank you.”

Tristan’s mother walked over and embraced him gently, ignoring the way he sniffled slightly in embarrassment. Then his father’s arms encompassed them both.

“We love you, too, Tristan,” his mother said, tousling his hair, “which is why we keep pushing you, so that when you’re on your own we won’t have to worry.”

“No matter where you go or what you choose to do,” his father added. “Even if it ends up foolish and dangerous sometimes. If it’s your Path, then we will be here to help you walk it.”

“Thank you both,” Tristan repeated in a whisper, not knowing what else to say, just squeezing them tighter.

“With a grip like that, those monsters aren’t going to stand a chance!” his mother said.

“Pah.” His father lifted them off the ground. “He’s still got some work to do!”

As soon as he was set back down and could breathe normally again, Tristan asked his father for one final favor: “I do need one thing, actually. I know I could go get my Secondary myself, but I want to be good at it. Could you help me find a trainer?”

“I know just the dwarf! I assume you want a sword and shield guy?”

Tristan chuckled at his father’s first miscue. “Not really, no. I tried that, and it's fine for getting into dungeon groups I suppose. So, I wouldn’t hate it, but I want more. I really want to learn to wield my greatsword.”

His father’s eyebrows rose briefly, and he looked at his wife. “That is actually less dangerous,” he reassured her, “especially if someone else can tank for you. And I do know a guy that could teach you. He owes me a favor after I replaced that ragged claymore he brought in years ago and upgraded his bracers.”

Despite his initial confusion, Tristan felt his pulse quicken. “Wait, when did you make a sword?” He’d been waiting and watching for his father to take on literally any type of weapon craft, but it just hadn’t happened. “And who do you know that’s a greatsword master?”

“It has been a while,” his father admitted. “Could have been ten, maybe twenty years ago? Doesn't matter. You worry about leveling up, and within the month I’ll have his confirmation for you. Only then will I tell you his name.”

“Great! I’ve got some projects to hold me over,” Tristan said, rushing straight back to the forge, even before his mother could stop him.

“But it’s nearly dinner time!”

“It’s alright. Let the boy go,” the older smith said with overflowing pride. “He’s earned it for tonight. Let him work his heart out.”

- - - - -

It was almost four weeks later, as they were sitting down to dinner, when Tristan’s father received a letter delivered by courier. Tristan couldn’t help but stare as his father slowly read the correspondence. It was two full pages rolled into a scroll. The outer edges were clearly weathered, and Tristan thought he saw flecks of reddish-brown on one side, which he worried could have been blood. Everyone talked about how much worse the roads were getting after all. It seemed like half the suppliers arrived with reduced stock these days, when they weren’t missing it altogether. Luckily, no one had been killed yet. It was clear the banditry in the countryside was only worsening. Still, this letter had made it through.

Tristan studied his father’s face, trying to read something from each miniscule twitch, or from how long it took his old man to scan each line. But, honestly, Tristan was completely lacking in skills like that, and his father’s face remained basically blank throughout the entire first page.

Tristan thought back to their conversation and especially his father's promise. He had pushed even harder than normal, knowing he had his father's support, and now he could feel he was on the cusp of level 10. No more than a week or two at this pace and he would break through, getting his tier 2 Class choice.

With his blistering pace, Tristan knew it would be a monumental achievement, one he should be proud of.

But if he was going to take his Path the way he planned, Tristan was going to need a teacher. This letter needed to contain good news.

His old man flipped to the second page, eyebrows tightening slightly. His eyes scanned back and forth, line by line.

Then they stopped.

Tristan’s throat got dry. He wanted desperately to ask what the letter said, but he also knew that his father would tell him, when he wanted to.

His father set the letter down on the table beside his untouched spoon and seemed to stare at nothing. Tristan felt his mother silently take his hand, squeezing gently, below the table. They were both curious but not willing to break the silence of the moment.

His father cleared his throat. “When you hit level 10,” he began, lowering the pages, “Jamal has agreed to take you on.”

To Tristan, the whole world seemed to shift out of focus the moment he heard Jamal’s name. It seemed as if every part of his Path was coming together now. It just felt right. Totally overcome with excitement, he could barely formulate a reply.

“You got me Jamal, {The Unerring Blade},” he whispered, still in a daze. Almost doubting it could be true. “Olson’s actual apprentice.”

His father nodded. “It will fulfill his Oath.”

Tristan’s eyes went wide at the thought of learning from such a renowned swordsman. The man has been the only student of Olson, the swordmaster in Brightshield's legendary party. It would be an incredible honor to continue that tradition. But Tristan had never heard of the man taking students of his own.

His mother carefully placed her utensils on her plate. “He made you call in his Oath?”

“In all honesty, I suggested it,” his father replied. “The man tries to live in isolation, and this would ruin his whole hermit mystique. For my boy, I had to make sure he’d accept.”

Tristan’s mother tsked. “He has never been a hermit. He’s had more servants than the Longblooms, several of which double as mistresses! Do we really want Tristan around that? The man’s reputation--”

“As a swordsman is unrivaled,” his father said sternly, giving a nod in Tristan’s direction, reminding her what they were considering him for in the first place. “He's a master, and like all masters, he’s earned the right to be eccentric.”

Tristan saw his mother glare at her husband with one eyebrow raised. “You want to surround our son with that?”

Which made Tristan wonder: Just how eccentric is he?

His father tried to reassure her. “Some leniency is going to be necessary when working with Jamal. But this apprenticeship will be a good thing, Christa. Trust me. There is no one better, and with the Oath involved, no greater certainty.”

The woman looked doubtful, but she held back any further criticism.

Tristan jumped at the opening in the conversation. “Will it be a true apprenticeship? Will he take me on as his protege?”

His father lifted the letter. “His only student, or so he says. Apparently he wants to continue on with Olson’s method.”

Tristan wondered at what Olson’s method might mean. Will I be his only student ever?

That suddenly felt like a lot of pressure. “Then I’ll have to work harder than ever to prove I'm good enough.”

His father smiled and moved the paper off of the table. “I’d expect nothing less from you. You're driven, you're clever. You’re an excellent student. Just remember: he is a master, so take his word as if it were mine.”

“Doesn't Jamal live halfway across the Embrace’s realm? How is Tristan supposed to get there with all the bandits about?”

“I have a plan for that, too,” Tristan's father said, throwing on the grin he only used when he knew he needed to overcome his wife's disapproval.

- - - - -

Tristan stood before the grinding block and withdrew the blade. The very passing of it slit the bottom of his apron clean off. He was suddenly even more careful as he set the blade on the anvil.

He controlled his breathing. One final step.

He’d really been pushing hard ever since hitting level 9 and gaining [Endurance Up I]. It had seemed perfectly suited to the grind:

[Endurance Up I] A passive skill that grants the user a 10% increase to Endurance. Skills that scale exclusively off of Endurance receive double this bonus.

From within his workbench, he removed a small but heavy bundle. Basic, rough cloth wrapped around something far too precious for words. He peeled back one layer at a time, being careful as he exposed the no-longer-warm weight within.

The talisman from the Brightshield.

Much of its magic seemed to have faded months ago, if the temperature was any indication, yet it still held its shape and weight. To house such magic, Tristan had used the best material he had available: the brilliant ingots from his dungeon boss loot. He’d shaped them into a cradle of sorts, making a spot for the talisman in the center of his crossguard, where the metal would flow around and embrace it. He hated that he couldn’t use the talisman on its own, but turning it into a component had felt like a way for his Core to potentially allow some of that power through. It would be a shame not to even try. So he had integrated it into the design, where he hoped it would become Soulbound.

As he placed the talisman in the center of his crossguard, bending the surrounding metal with the utmost care, he breathed a sigh of relief. It fit perfectly. A blink later, his hands began to resonate with the sword. The vibrations spread, as his entire body seemed possessed with a certainty--he knew exactly what to do.

His Path craved the sword’s completion.

Tristan had felt something like it before with the creation of his hammer. Now he felt that energy again, but expanded. Flashes of inspiration showed tiny adjustments and improvements that his Core was making automatically in these final moments. The blade was not just extending but improving qualitatively. His smithing had never gone like this before, with every iteration and adjustment happening on their own in front of him, as his soul poured in and mimicked the best effort he’d ever done before. It was his talent made manifest. His confidence only grew in tandem with the certainty of his success.

He took one last look at what was about to become his greatest creation so far.

The blade was glorious, longer than his arm, with an edge sharp enough to cut a passing whisper. The balance was so perfect that even his untrained hands could swing it cleanly.

It was as beautiful as any sword he’d ever seen, too. The patterning and folding of the billet his father had made all those months ago were still there, but somehow they'd been enhanced in color and design. The heating, and reheating, and working had swirled the layers into a pattern of lines and colors that could never be reproduced.

Now it glinted in the reddish glow of the forge. Beautiful, deadly, and utterly unique.

His sword.

Or nearly so. One final touch remained.

With a focused breath, he placed his hand over the talisman and pushed a bit of himself into the weapon. He didn’t exactly understand what he was doing or why, but he knew it was right.

A sound like the purest hammer strike he’d ever heard filled the air.

His sword was done.

Tristan beamed with pride, even as the familiar Ding! surrounded him with a brilliant golden halo. But that was not the extent of it.

Once again, he was transported to the gray place that wasn’t a place, where time itself felt malleable and he could practically touch his Path. A blank voice permeated the clouds tinged with the reds of the forge. It may have been the same voice, but he could not be sure, though its message certainly felt familiar.

“Tristan Hammerson, with your foundation set in the fires of the forge, you stand before a branch in your Path.

Will you hold firm to the Path you’ve tread, or chase new horizons?

Will your core focus grow, be refined, or shift?

It is time for a new Class.

You have a choice.”