Asteria held her hand suspended in the air, fingers curled as if gripping an invisible thread. With a sharp downward pull, she ripped a rift in the fabric of space.
Unlike the last time he’d seen the spell, Orion was able to read much more into it, noticing how it operated through the special solutions of the Einstein field equations and, despite his mother never having studied physics at such a level, it was consistent with general relativity.
The Field itself served as a medium through which points in space could be joined, and the swirling lights he saw were merely a byproduct of all the power she’d employed to do so.
I might actually be able to cast it, he thought with a frisson of excitement. Spatial magic had grown more familiar to him over time, but he’d yet to attempt any form of teleportation since the disaster that had robbed him of his foot.
Perhaps it was time to look into it again. It was too useful a tool to ignore, and even though he doubted he’d be able to cast the spell with the same power and finesse as his mother anytime soon, he never would if he didn’t start working on it.
One thing at a time. First, the CC and my glasses. Once my tools are done, I can start playing with wormholes.
“The coordinates are set for the First Forge’s receiving hall,” Asteria said as the wind whipped her robes around her ankles. "I have sent a message ahead of you through the standard channels, but the dwarves are notoriously slow to respond. Tread carefully, Orion. You have friends in the mountains, but that doesn’t mean they will follow you.”
“I understand,” he replied as he shrugged his new coat on.
Unfortunately, his old one had been too damaged by the Silence and Verner’s betrayal. The current one was similar in make, though a bit too fancy for his liking. Silver instead of white, with royal purple embroidery at the hems.
Alas, he didn’t have time to request a new one, and the camp’s weavers were busy with more important projects, so the one his mother had commissioned would have to do until he could return to Silverpeak and have a new one made.
Garrick stepped up beside him, a new leather scabbard strapped to his back. Esmeralda, Jordan, and Erethemor filed in behind their leader.
They looked rested, their weapons polished and their stamina restored, yet the coiled tension of soldiers heading back into possibly hostile territory remained etched in their postures.
The dwarves were allies, but they’d been warned several times that it wouldn’t make their stay any more pleasant.
Hoping it wouldn’t be as bad as they feared, but prepared for the worst, Orion stepped through the tear.
The heat hit him first. It was a dry wall that drew the moisture from his skin, quickly followed by the smells of industry and the sulfuric gases released by the magma flows.
The Field changed abruptly, and this time he was even more aware of the difference, so attuned was he. Earth, fire, and steel replaced Nature’s song, welcoming him back to the lands below the Adamantine Ranges.
Shaking his head to clear it of the sudden flood of sensations, he stepped away from the portal to let the others through, then looked around.
They stood on a wide platform of polished basalt. Above them, the vaulted ceiling of the First Forge stretched into the smoky gloom, lit by the orange glare of flowing lava. Deep aqueducts carved directly into the stone walls carried molten rock through the city, providing both light, materials, and power to the foundries below.
The noise was even fiercer than when he’d last been there. Deep within the cavernous sprawl, runic trip-hammers struck anvils the size of houses. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud vibrated up through the ground, and he knew from experience that getting too close would be unpleasant.
“By the Light," Jordan muttered, holding a hand up to shield his eyes from the glare. "It feels like the mouth of a furnace.”
Esmeralda brushed a speck of gray soot from her dress, her lips pressed into a thin line, yet she managed to confine herself to a laconic “How quaint.”
Erethemor, however, stretched his scaled neck, his slit pupils dilating in the ambient heat. He rumbled in satisfaction and took a long breath, basking in the ambient temperature, which likely mirrored his own home, if what Orion had heard of the Dragonspire Dominion was any indication.
At the far end of the platform, past a squad of heavily armored dwarven guards wielding halberds, a set of two-hundred-foot stone doors stood sealed. Intricate runic arrays etched into the granite glowed pale blue, interlocking into a defensive ward that Orion estimated would require the firepower of more than a single tier-four mage to even dent.
“Halt! State your purpose for entry into the First Forge!" One of the guards barked, stepping forward. He wore enchanted plate armor, and his wickedly sharp halberd was something Orion had little interest in getting acquainted with.
Before he could speak, a familiar voice echoed across the floor.
"Lower your pikes, Brocky! These are the guests of the Lazuli line we’ve been expecting.”
Prince Daelin emerged from a side corridor, wiping grease from his hands with a stained rag. He wore a simple, soot-stained leather apron over a chainmail shirt, and his growing beard was bound with a crystal ring. A runic hammer hung at his belt.
All in all, he looked nothing like royalty.
Daelin, Orion knew, was a Runesmith, and he wore his trade like a second skin, preferring the forge's anonymity to the target painted on the back of a royal scion.
It was a testament to how great the danger the Iron State posed that he had been forced out of obscurity.
Still, the young prince closed the distance with a genuine grin splitting his face. He clasped Orion’s forearm in a bruising grip.
"Voidwalker," Daelin laughed, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. "I heard a rumor that the army had sent a suicide squad north to kick the Iron State in the teeth. When the message said it was you, I wagered Uncle Hothor ten gold on your survival.”
“Fool’s bet. You should have put twenty,” Orion said, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Daelin’s unabashed happiness was a welcome change from the stifling deference of the Alliance’s military camps.
Daelin looked past him, appraising the rest of the team. He nodded to Garrick, recognizing him as the leader of the lot, and took a moment to eye everyone else before returning his attention to Orion. "Good to see you alive and well, my friend. Though your team looks a bit short compared to the others we’ve seen.”
That was a bit of a surprise, but Orion remembered his mother telling him that every front would see more than one Team deployed. He was somewhat curious about these people, but there would be time to learn more.
"We lost two," Garrick grunted, resting his thumbs on his sword belt. "The Iron State is treacherous, and our missions are dangerous.”
Daelin’s smile faded, replaced by a solemn nod. “Aye, the bastards take their due. Come. The Matriarch is expecting you, but she is in the middle of a shouting match with the Stonebreaker clan elders over iron quotas. You have time to grab a drink if you’d like.”
Daelin led them off the receiving platform, navigating a labyrinth of wide, stone-carved corridors that Orion was pretty sure hadn’t been there last time and were likely a new addition meant to keep newcomers from getting too deep into the Forge. The architecture was brutally functional yet undeniably masterful. Every archway and every support pillar was cut with mathematical perfection.
“I can see you’ve put my hard work under considerable stress,” Daelin observed, pointing a thick finger at Orion’s glasses. "The hinges are damaged, and though I won’t know until I examine them in my forge, I’d be willing to bet you’ve fiddled with the runes. There seems to be an imbalance.”
Orion sighed but didn’t deny it, merely pulling off the SDGs and handing them over, ignoring his friend’s clucking. “They stopped working when I hit tier three, and I had to adapt on the fly to keep using them.”
Humming, Dealin turned them this and that way, before finally handing them back. “I have been putting some effort into my skills, so once your meeting is over, we’ll see what we can do.”
Nodding gratefully, Orion slid them back on. Daelin’s help would be invaluable, at least for the shaping and inscribing, and if he were lucky, he’d be able to use his connections to get a new crystal for the CC.
I’ll probably have to pay for them through the nose, but it’s a good thing we were paid handsomely for our mission’s success, and I never really had much to spend my coin on.
As promised, Daelin led them to a sitting room not too far from the Matriarch’s receiving chamber, where they could wait until she finished the current dispute.
Servants appeared soon after, bringing food and drinks of all kinds.
Despite having made an instant trip from the forest thanks to Asteria’s magic, Orion found himself surprisingly hungry and didn’t hesitate to dive into the sweet potato rolls.
Once everyone was satisfied, Daelin finally grew serious. “Now, will you tell me why the Speaker’s son is here?”
"We need your artillery," Orion replied, cutting straight to the point. There was no point in hiding their true intentions here. "The army is holding the Ironwood Forest, but the Iron State is fielding even more machines than we expected. Thousands of Centurions and Walkers, and new types are still emerging. Our casters are burning out just to keep the frontline where it is. We need magma projectors and explosive mortars to break their lines.”
Given that he’d significantly contributed to modernizing those very weapons, he felt it wasn’t too great a request. Without him, the dwarves would still be relying on their automatons to fight and would likely already have fallen.
Daelin sighed. He picked up a piece of wood and tossed it into the hearth.
"You picked a bad time to ask for guns, Orion," Daelin said. "The clans are hurting. We broke the siege at the Sunken Hold, but the Iron State’s naval fleet is still pounding the western coast. They are deploying amphibious Dreadnoughts, and only our weapons have prevented them from establishing a new beachhead.”
"The northern front is the primary staging ground for their land forces," Garrick argued. "If the Ironwood Forest falls, the machines will march straight into the heartlands. They will flank your mountains and attack you from the east, leaving you helpless.”
"I know that; I was there for the first siege,” Daelin snapped, eyes flashing. "But dwarven politics is driven by grudges, not maps. The clans still hold a grudge over the Standardization Treaty, and they don't want to bail out humans who spend peacetime trying to regulate our forges, much less elves, dragons, or vampires. That so many important decisions were made without the Forge’s input doesn’t help. More importantly, Matriarch Ragna will not commit the capital's reserves without the King's seal.”
“And where is the King?” Esmeralda asked.
"On the western coast," Daelin said. "Commanding the defense of the Sunken Hold. Ragna rules the First Forge in his stead, but she has to walk a fine line. She will not send artillery north without his explicit command.”
"Then we must convince her to grant us an audience with him," Orion said.
He’d heard surprisingly little about this King during his first visit here, but this time it seemed he’d get to meet him.
“Good luck,” Daelin snorted bitterly.
Yeah, I know something about absentee parents, my friend. Hopefully, this one will be more like my current father than the previous one.