The heat of the forge was oppressive, but Chote's eyes glimmered with wonder. The perspiration soaked face was glowing not because of the heat--though it was intense, deep within him awe was dancing at the magic and metal intertwining before him. Inside the heart of the forge was a massive forge fire roaring which danced over the dazzling forms of enchanted weapons. But Chote's eyes were fixed on the deep blue blade being cradled in the forge--its faint glow was almost unreal, a blade forged of the finest metal, the rarest metal--skyshard steel.
Beside him was Grumbrik, the head dwarf or at least head of every dwarf that existed--stout and rotund with a beard that could be described liquid iron, his face was hard and seeming chiseled from time and solid material. First, he looked at the blade and back down at Chote. And then finally spoke, "Skyshard steel. Tempered not with flame but with the mana. You see lad, you don't just melt this stuff, you also got to 'peak' to it and sing it together."
Chote nodded, and furiously wiped the sweat off his brow, struggling to not allow his nerves to get the better of him, the forge was hot but hotter than anything he ever experienced, and yet he was able to maintain his focus.
The dwarfs had taken raw sky shard ore and heated this in the furious fire until it flared with a deep cyan color. When the ore was almost molten they immersed it into a basin of mana, a liquid that shimmered like dancing stars in liquid form. The transition from one to the other created a wave of energy and an explosion of both fire and magic. Sparks erupted from the basin and ranes etched into the surrounding anvils glowed with an ethereal light. The water in the basin hissed and crackled; Chote felt the ground shake as if the forge were alive, breathing.
The mana flowed into the metal, combined, created something completely new. The iron was no longer iron, metal, it was something greater and only could be possible through an extraordinary combination of magic and skill.
When the blade was finally raised from the basin, it was for the most part finished. But not completely. One of the dwarves, an older craftsman with a deft hand took a crystal etched knife began to carve veins of mana into the steel. After each stroke of the knife the blade seemed to hum to response as if alive, waiting for the final addition. The veins glimmered with a pulsating light and emitted a soft, calming glow.
Chote's mind was spinning. "Can't you just hammer it? Why is there all this chanting and magic?" he asked, disbelief peppered with wonder.
Grumbrik made a sneer and narrowed his eyes as he looked down at Chote. His voice sounded half grumpy, like he was both annoyed and proud. "Because this isn't iron, you brat. This is skyfire made solid. You hammer it and you shatter it. You coax it."
Chote furrowed his brow and thought about it. It made sense; hammering it would break the blade and destroy the mana bonds. He looked back at the in-progress glaive. The blade was spectacular. A perfect union of raw, untamed power mixed with exotic magic. Then, he caught himself thinking some thoughts.
"What if you changed the type of mana in the water? Might it affect the blade's properties? Change its strength or elemental affinity?"
Grumbrik paused for a moment, scrutinizing him closely, his mouth compressed into a thin line as he mulled the idea over. The forge crackled, the only sound in the still day. For a moment, it seemed as if the dwarven master craftsman would dismiss the idea altogether but eventually nodded slowly and reluctantly.
"You're not as dumb as you look."
Chote felt his heart swell with pride, but as soon as he realized it, Grumbrik barked, "For now, just the basics, lad. We'll see about tomorrow for your idea."
Meanwhile, out at the forge, Hunter stood solidly behind steel-reinforced doors. His immense figure filled the entry to the forge, and his eyes narrowed as he stood there. He did not even need to speak; he was a wall that sent a clear message: Do NOT test me.
The tension behind the doors was unbearable. Hunter felt the quiet hum of the forge, the magic thrumming as it drifted in the air outside. But most importantly, he could feel the sweat trickling down his back. The Marquess's crowd was closing in fast, and soon the doors would be blown open again, and there would be no hiding it.
Hunter's voice, deep and rumbling, pierced through the air like a stone dropped in still water: "Move we the skinny dwarf! Learn quick!"
Hunter realized time was short for them. The longer they stayed in the forge, the closer the enemy was becoming. If the forge fell, they would have no escape, and he needed to ensure they had more time.
Back at the entrance, which to his disbelief was a nearly perfect disguise, Luenor was now racing as fast as he could through the corridors of the forge, wearing the customized guard uniform. The forge was confusing; it twisted and turned with stone bridges, molten channels, and echoing chambers that produced the bizarre experience of steel meeting spell. No matter what way he turned, it seemed more mind-bending than the last, but Luenor was astute, every step impacting precisely how his paths of escape were going to happen; every movement planned ahead of time as he was sure to remember the maze from earlier.
Luenor's eyes wandered between the darkness as urgency filled his chest. He was getting close to the side passage that he had previously secured; then as he turned a corner he was suddenly met with the horrific sight of a patrol of knights. He almost stopped breathing.
In his deep concentration to not break character, he dove into another corridor, hoping that they were unsuccessful in recognizing him. Unfortunately for Luenor, he was not honing his character well enough, nor his appearance, and it was apparent that the knights had seen through his disguise.
"That is not Mark!" one of the knights exclaimed with a high pitched, and now afraid voice. "Grab him!"