9

441 years from the founding of the kingdom of Magoria

Toward midnight, a thick fog filled the valleys of Myrkhold, rolled over the hills and climbed the coastal cliffs. Soon the whole island was covered with a whitish veil, from which the peaks of mountain ranges protruded like spears. The port of Gotford at this time resembled a ditch in flames, thanks to the scattered light of the torches in the hands of the militia. Dozens of people lined up on the pier, watching the ships gliding through the haze.

The first to enter the bay was a two-masted ship. By the wooden figure on the bow, depicting a lady with a snake tail instead of legs, any inhabitant could recognize the Astrid caravel. Passing a rocky island at the edge of the bay, the caravel lay down to drift. The bell sounded. As soon as the ship froze near the shallows, a signal was given from the shore to board the boats. On board, they began to prepare for the descent of goods, but before starting, the team took care of the sea wanderers.

In this raid, there were few third-party people, and they looked different. When the boats approached the shore, four people climbed onto the stone pier. The hooded wanderers quickly left the harbor, disappearing into the slums of the lower reaches. There, a lean man with a pale face stepped forward. Passing the crowds of fishermen's shacks, he led his comrades-in-arms into a wide street and approached a signpost. On wooden planks darkened the inscriptions: "Temple Square," "Gray Tower," "Double Bottom," "Dyers' Workshop," and "Green Tower."

Pointing a dry finger at the bottom plank, the guide turned towards the hills. The spot of the moon in the fog and its position above the horizon worried him greatly. Often looking up into the sky, he watched a star shining above an oval depression that crossed the right edge of the night star. The night was waning, and with it time was running out.

Rounding the east of the poor, they climbed the paved road to the base of the dilapidated tower. Two-story houses with billboard signs stretched from here all the way to the market square at the south gate. The drawbridge has been raised. Braziers blazed on the walls of the brick bastion. The hooded man looked around and walked towards a half-timbered house with a sloping roof under which hung a plank in the shape of an anvil.

After a long knock on the door, a light flashed between the shutters. As soon as the blacksmith removed the bolt, the tallest wanderer burst inside. The second rushed to the bed, on which lay a young man in a long shirt. Noticing the intruder, he grabbed the poker, but a blow from his fist brought him back to his place.

When the dust settled, the ringleader entered the forge. It was a middle-aged man with pale skin. To the horror of the inhabitants of the house, one of the warriors locked the door behind him, after which he took out the blade from the scabbard.

“ We will not kill you,” the stranger said in a soft voice, taking off his travel pack from his shoulder, then tearing off his cloak.

The inhabitants of the forge held their breath, looking at his outlandish outfit. It was a black robe studded with magical symbols. Two leather baldrics with precious stones crossed across the chest. The waist was pulled together by a wide belt with a buckle in the shape of a spider. On it, in ten flat cases with rivets, spell stones were kept. It didn't take much intelligence to figure out who had entered the forge. The necromancer, and it was he who served Nirgal, ruled the dead and did as much evil as a hundred witches could not do.

Face to face with the enemy of all things, the elderly blacksmith was not afraid, but only snorted contemptuously. The sorcerer signaled to his companions and they dropped their cloaks.

- Gamelans! the young man exclaimed.

The armored trio straightened up, as if before a battle, and turned their gazes on the necromancer. The body of each from heel to neck was clad in silver armor. On the cuirasses inlaid with gold threads, the symbol of Satutvitanism flaunted - a solar disk with fireflower petals and black pillars at their ends. Triangular visors were painted with floral patterns; each piece of armor is expertly fitted, allowing the warrior to move freely. Other knights put on armor before battle, but the Gamelans devoted themselves entirely to military affairs, according to the ancient code, removing their armor only at bedtime.

Yes , Groys. These people are Gamelans,” the necromancer replied, sitting down on a chest by the window. “They fought the Nikts in the north, just like you.

– Do we know each other?

“ I have everyone’s name in the palm of my hand,” the sorcerer smiled through his bushy beard. “I know that you fought in the 12th Battalion, were wounded at Crindale, and even received a good blade as a gift from Lord Volkwyn for your bravery. Too bad you had to give it to a pawnbroker to pay off your father's debts.

“ You said you lost that sword,” the blacksmith said in a low voice.

The son did not hear, looking fascinated at the weapon in the hand of the black-bearded warrior. The straight blade, without a single notch, almost touched the floor and gleamed like the surface of a watchroom. Any Magorian would easily recognize a Vergal blade. The legendary swords of the Meandrians were forged from an unknown metal, similar to that which fell from the heavens in fireballs. In the vast desert of Suran they were called "mirror". By the middle of the Intermediate Cycle, there were one hundred and thirty-seven Vergal blades throughout Gamelan. No one knew who and how forged them. Usually swords were found by chance or beaten off in battle. The tall warrior, apparently, was one of those lucky ones.

– What do you need? the blacksmith's son said in a whisper.

- Your help. People speak highly of you, Groys. I believe that you will not refuse me and my friends.

The young man nodded in the affirmative, not surprised how the stranger knew about a long-standing deal with a local moneylender.

“ You came with a necromancer. You are apostates! You need to be led not to the forge, but to the fire, - the blacksmith growled.

The bearded Gamelanian raised his spiked gauntlet for a blow that would almost certainly have killed the old man, but the sorcerer shook his finger.

“ What is the use of violence, Lord Einhart, if it does not bring benefits?

“ I won’t allow anyone to slander me,” the knight replied, slapping the blacksmith on the back of the head.

“ But you are apostates,” the necromancer retorted. “Your father is right, Groys. These Gamelans made a kymir right before the altar of Nismass, and then, according to the rite of reinitiation, defecated on the holy offerings.

- Do you have to tell them? whispered the young Gamelan.

– Of course. Let them know that even among the servants of their beloved Nismass, there are resourceful people who are ready to wrest from themselves ... the fruits of true faith.

We spit on you and your faith! the blacksmith barked, rolling his eyes wildly. “Even for a whole island of gold, we won’t forge even a nail.” You are an insidious and deceitful despot, like that spider that you wear on your belt and whose heels you lick!

The blacksmith began to talk, choking on foam from his mouth with rage. At some point, the old man pushed the warrior away and reached for the axe. Lord Einhart twisted his arm and cracked his forehead against the wall as the young man screamed desperately.

“ Pull yourself together, Groys,” the necromancer said in an indifferent voice. “I came for a favor, not for your blood.

The blacksmith's son was silent, casting predatory glances at the sorcerer.

- Groys, I can make your beloved father lose the ability to walk and talk until the end of his days.

" Banglador, he's not worth it," Einhart said. “The captain said there is a real blacksmith in the Robert Valley. Why the hell do we need this morel?

- Shut up! I told you not to call me by my first name,” the sorcerer hissed through his teeth.

After listening to the mean apologies, the necromancer turned his questioning gaze on the young man, demanding an answer right now.

“ What can I do for you… sir?”

“ Wonderful, wonderful,” the sorcerer was inspired, bringing his father back from oblivion with a gesture.

Einhart lifted the limp body of the old man and threw him onto the bed. There, the master of the forge rolled over on his stomach and dozed off into a magical dream. At least, so it seemed to Groys, since Banglador waved his hand at that moment for some reason.

“ His life will be my wages. - With these words, the necromancer took out an oblong black bar from the bag. “I want you to forge a blade.

The workpiece lay on the table. The flame of the candle flickered, but instead of the usual dance, the golden glare seemed to dissolve into the black surface. Groys looked in amazement at the outlandish steel, more like polished hematite.

“ Black ore is not easy to mine these days, and even more difficult to process. Do you know what metal is?

Groys nodded, touching the workpiece. Black ore in Magoria was mined only by the inhabitants of Coldharbour, and sold only within the Fordtulen Duchy. The metal extracted from it turned out to be brittle, and was only suitable for making home tools.

- I'm an ordinary blacksmith. I make nails and arrowheads. To make weapons from this, you need to be a real master. Your overgrown friend is right, take him to the valley.

The word "overgrowth" hung in the air. Einhart gripped his steel gloves with a creak, but only took a step before he caught the sorcerer's gaze.

Do n't be shy, Groys. I already knew who I was going to. The star of Pura shines brightly, but you have little time. There is no need for any decorations, a hilt, and even more so a stigma. Blade only. I'll give you the dimensions.

Groys helplessly spread his hands, noticing that even after hardening the forged sword would crumble from several blows, but the necromancer did not even look at him.

No longer understanding what was happening, the young man hurried into the yard to kindle the furnace. Until dawn, the street was filled with knocking and the sound of flames. Outraged neighbors threw open the shutters, but, noticing the Gamelans helping the blacksmith, they returned in bed. Bangladore watched the work from the shade under a canopy. Sitting on a high barrel, the sorcerer smoked a pipe and watched with pleasure how the blade was formed under the blows of hammers.

The forging continued until dawn. The young blacksmith was barely on his feet when the brightest star in the sky vanished into a white haze. The work was done. His father woke up early in the morning and, as if nothing had happened, went to fetch water. With the first rays of the sun, evil left the house on the street of the masters. Bangladore and his Gamelans left the city through the eastern gate. The father and son never saw them again.