Reaper of Iron and Blood

As dawn broke, Doran stirred, brushing the last of the night's chill from his shoulders as he strapped Skarnvalk to his back. The fire had died to faint embers, and with no food left to cook, he packed up quickly. He adjusted his belt, making sure the scavenged knife sat snugly at his side, and tested the waterskin again. It was barely a third full, but it would have to do until he found another source.

The hills sloped downward into a dense thicket that stretched as far as the eye could see. The air was damp, and the smell of fresh moss and running water hinted at a stream not far off. Doran followed the sound of trickling water, picking his way carefully through the trees. His boots squelched in the soft, mossy ground, and after a short walk, he found the stream. The water was clear, flowing over smooth stones, and it tasted crisp and clean when he knelt down to refill his waterskin.

He lingered a moment, the rush of the water steadying his mind. Dwarves had an affinity for stone and earth, but flowing water had its own appeal—clean, constant, and dependable. As he drank, he noticed faint tracks in the mud along the bank. Deer, maybe, or something smaller. If he were lucky, he might be able to set a snare, or at least spot a trail leading to a game trail nearby.

But luck wasn't on his side that morning. The tracks led into deeper brush, and the thick vegetation made hunting more trouble than it was worth. Instead, Doran pressed on, heading east, keeping the stream at his left as he climbed the gradual slope toward the distant mountains.

By mid-afternoon, he caught sight of smoke rising faintly in the distance—thin, dark, and controlled, not the billowing chaos of burning ruins. He adjusted Skarnvalk's position on his back and set a steady pace. Smoke meant people, and people meant supplies, or at least information. After days of solitude, even a conversation, no matter how brief, might be worth the detour.

The terrain opened into a wide, rocky plain dotted with low shrubs and jagged outcroppings. The source of the smoke revealed itself: a small, well-worn camp nestled in a natural hollow. A group of travellers had gathered around the fire, their clothing patched and their faces weathered. They looked like a mix of merchants and mercenaries—no uniform, no banners, just tired, armed people sharing a meal.

Doran slowed his approach, his steps deliberate. The travelers noticed him immediately. A stocky woman with a short blade at her hip stood, narrowing her eyes. A wiry man carrying a spear shifted his grip, his knuckles whitening. They weren't openly hostile, but they were on edge. He couldn't blame them—anyone wandering the wilds knew better than to trust a stranger right away.

"Afternoon," Doran said, keeping his voice level and his hands visible. "I'm just passing through. Thought I'd see if you had news about what's up ahead."

The woman tilted her head, her dark eyes scanning him from boots to beard. "You're a long way from any roads, dwarf. What kind of news are you looking for?"

"Anything worth knowing," Doran replied. "I've been running into trouble lately. Bandits, scavengers… worse. If there's a town up ahead, I'd like to know if it's safe to stop in."

The group exchanged glances. The woman relaxed slightly, though her hand didn't stray far from her blade. "There's a trading post about half a day's walk east, near the base of the mountains. Nothing fancy, just a few stalls and a tavern. You'll find food and a forge there, if you need it."

A forge. That got Doran's attention. "Thanks," he said. "I appreciate it."

The woman nodded, and the group settled back around the fire. They didn't invite him to join, but they didn't tell him to leave either. It was enough. He turned and kept walking, his eyes on the horizon. A forge, even a small one, would be a good place to resupply—and maybe, finally, to start crafting something new.

The walk to the trading post was slow, my legs heavy from days of travel, but the thought of a forge—any forge—kept me going. Skarnvalk's weight was familiar on my back, though the hammer wasn't the issue. It was the grinding fatigue in my thighs, the ache in my feet, and the constant, gnawing emptiness in my stomach. I'd been surviving on scraps, and though the stream had provided water, the lack of proper food was starting to show.

As the trading post came into view, my first thought was to keep my head down. The place wasn't much—just a few ramshackle stalls clustered around a central building that was part tavern, part general store. Smoke curled lazily from a chimney at the back, and I could hear the unmistakable ring of a hammer on steel. A forge. My forge, if I played this right.

But this wasn't Karaz Tarul. There were no open forges for wandering smiths to claim. The sound of iron striking iron didn't mean I could just walk in and start working. Someone owned that forge, and if I wanted to use it, I'd need permission—or coin. And coin was a problem. I hadn't had any proper gold or silver since leaving Karaz Tarul, and the Path's outposts I'd destroyed hadn't exactly been overflowing with loot. What little I'd taken from the last cell—a half-rusted blade, a few small ingots—was hardly enough to barter for much.

I paused before entering the cluster of buildings, scanning the scene. The people here didn't look well-off. Most were rugged mountain folk, dressed in patched tunics and threadbare cloaks, with worn leather boots that had seen too many winters. The few merchants present were clearly struggling, their wares limited to dried roots, crude iron tools, and a few battered knives. This wasn't the kind of place where coin flowed freely. If I had anything of value to offer, it would need to be something these people couldn't make themselves.

Skarnvalk hummed softly against my back. No, not that. I wasn't parting with my hammer, no matter how desperate I got. But maybe I could offer a service. Fixing their broken tools. Sharpening blades. If the local smith wasn't too proud—or too protective of his forge—I could make myself useful and earn some coin or supplies in return.

I stepped into the trading post's courtyard, my boots stirring up dust that settled quickly in the still air. The forge was set into a low, squat building at the edge of the clearing, smoke curling out of the stone chimney. The blacksmith—a stout man with arms like tree trunks—was hammering a red-hot horseshoe on an anvil. He didn't look up as I approached.

I wasn't going to just barge in. Dwarves might be known for their stubbornness, but I wasn't about to pick a fight over a forge I didn't own. Instead, I stood off to the side, waiting until the blacksmith finally glanced up from his work. His eyes narrowed when he saw me, then widened slightly when they flicked to Skarnvalk's runes.

"Not from around here," he said gruffly.

"Just passing through," I replied. "Heard you had a forge. Thought I'd see if you needed an extra hand."

The blacksmith grunted, setting down his hammer and inspecting the horseshoe before tossing it into a bucket of water. The hiss of steam filled the air. "I don't need charity," he said. "And I don't let strangers touch my tools."

"Fair enough," I said, my tone calm. "But I'm not asking for charity. I can pay for time at the forge. Or trade work for it."

He squinted at me, his thick fingers rubbing his stubbled chin. "What kind of work?"

"Sharpening. Repairs. Maybe something more intricate, if you've got the materials." I gestured toward Skarnvalk. "I'm no apprentice."

His gaze lingered on the hammer, then shifted back to me. "Hmph. Don't see many dwarves this far out. You're a long way from home, forge master."

"I am," I said evenly. "But I don't need a lecture. I need a place to work. You'll find I'm fair. And fast."

He held my gaze for a moment longer, then nodded toward the forge. "You can use it for an hour. After that, we'll talk."

It wasn't exactly a warm welcome, but it was better than nothing. I stepped inside and surveyed the tools and materials. The forge was simple but functional, with a sturdy anvil, a bellows that looked newly repaired, and a decent assortment of hammers and tongs. The raw materials were limited—mostly scrap iron and a few lengths of mild steel—but it was enough to start.

I shrugged off my pack and laid out what I'd gathered from the Path's outposts. A few pieces of warped steel, some misshapen iron spikes, and a crude dagger that had been left behind by one of the cultists. It wasn't much, but I wasn't aiming to forge a masterpiece here. I needed something practical. Something that could help me in the field.

The idea of throwing axes still lingered in my mind, but I was realistic enough to know my limits. I hadn't thrown an axe since my training days, and even then it was nothing more than a passing lesson. No sense forging something I couldn't use. Instead, I decided on something simpler: a weighted dart—heavy enough to be thrown at close range, but small enough to carry several. I'd seen other dwarves use them before, and though I hadn't trained extensively with them, I knew enough to make a usable set. And with practice, they could become another tool in my arsenal.

I stoked the forge and got to work, the heat enveloping me like an old friend. Skarnvalk hummed from where it leaned against the wall, its runes flickering faintly as if watching my progress. I hammered and shaped the steel, heating it to just the right temperature before hammering out a series of small, balanced darts. The repetitive rhythm of forging felt right, grounding me in a way I hadn't felt in weeks. By the time I quenched the final dart and inspected the edge, the blacksmith was watching from the doorway, his arms crossed.

"Not bad," he said. "You've got skill."

"I told you," I said, setting the dart down. "Now, about that trade—"

"We'll talk," he interrupted. "You're not going to make a fortune here, but I can give you a meal. And maybe a little coin, if you're willing to take on more work."

I nodded, wiping sweat from my brow. It wasn't much, but it was a start. I had tools now, and a few darts to test. Tomorrow, I'd find a clear space to practice throwing them, refine my technique, and see if these new weapons were worth the effort. For the first time in days, I felt more like a forge master and less like a wandering vagrant. The fire in my veins matched the fire in the forge, and I knew that as long as I could keep working, I'd find a way forward.

The meal wasn't much—stew made from the kind of cuts you'd normally throw away, thickened with what might have been barley if you were generous. But it was hot, and more importantly, it was filling. I sat at the far end of the tavern's long table, finishing off the last mouthful as the blacksmith came back in, a small pouch of coins in his hand.

"Not much," he said, tossing it onto the table. "But you've earned it."

I hefted the pouch and felt the weight. It wasn't heavy, but it would be enough for a few more days of supplies—bread, dried meat, maybe even a new waterskin. It would also give me a bit of breathing room for my next steps. I nodded my thanks, then rose, Skarnvalk's haft thudding lightly against my back as I stood.

Before I left, the blacksmith stepped closer, lowering his voice. "One thing, dwarf. I hear you're heading east."

"Word travels fast," I said, tightening my belt.

"Some of the traders have been talking. That you're the one cutting through those Path cells."

I paused, my hand brushing against Skarnvalk's grip. I hadn't exactly been subtle, but I hadn't expected rumours to spread this quickly, especially in a place as remote as this.

"Why do you care?" I asked.

"Because if you're going after the Path, you're walking into a storm," he said, his tone serious. "You've done well so far, but the closer you get to their strongholds, the harder they'll push back. They'll send more than fanatics. They'll send fighters. Professionals."

"I'll deal with them when they come," I said, adjusting Skarnvalk. "It's what I do."

He shook his head. "What you've done is make them mad. And when the Path gets mad, they start breaking things that don't heal. Just remember that before you go charging into the next ruin."

I didn't answer. The blacksmith meant well, but I wasn't about to turn back now. The Path's corruption ran deep, and if I stopped now, their work would continue unchecked. I thanked him for the meal and stepped outside into the cool mountain air. The path ahead was still hazy, but at least I wasn't starving. I had coin, tools, and a bit more food than before. It wasn't much, but it would get me through the next few days.

As I set off, the thought lingered—what the blacksmith had said about professionals. If the Path was sending trained fighters, I'd need to be ready for them. My time at the forge had reminded me of what I could do, but it wasn't just about the tools. If they sent swordsmen, if they sent spearmen, I'd need more than just Skarnvalk and a few darts. I'd need to train, to refine my martial skills the same way I refined my weapons. The old man's teachings came to mind again—sharp, brutal movements, meant to disable opponents quickly. But that was years ago. Could I still match the skill I'd learned under his tutelage?

I stopped at the edge of a low ridge, looking out over the valley ahead. It was dotted with dark patches of forest, the kind that promised good hunting if you had the patience. Perhaps the next stop would be one of those shadowy groves, where I could practice. Not just with my hammer, but with my balance, my speed. If I had to face hardened warriors, I couldn't just rely on heavy strikes. I'd have to remember what it meant to move, to strike fast and hard and not get hit.

The thought was sobering. I had made Skarnvalk a weapon of legend, but a weapon was only as strong as the hand that wielded it. It was time to make sure I wasn't just swinging blind.

As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, Doran paused at the edge of a ridge. The valley below stretched out before him, a mix of thick forest and rocky crags, with a faint river snaking through the middle. If the trading post was any indication, he wasn't far from more settled territory, and possibly the kind of supplies and rest he desperately needed. But as he stood there, the weight of what lay ahead began to settle on him more heavily than the hammer at his back.

Behind him, days off his trail, Lisett knelt beside a brook, filling her waterskin and washing the grime from her face. The forest around her was silent, save for the soft gurgle of the water and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. The last village she had passed had been abandoned, the kind of empty that spoke of fear, not disinterest. The Path's corruption was spreading farther than she'd thought. She tightened her cloak and pressed forward, her pace steady but not hurried. The rumours she'd followed painted a picture of a dwarven forge master—deadly, driven, and with a hammer that glowed in battle like a shard of the sun itself. She'd picked up traces of his trail from passing travellers—talk of a dwarf heading east, of dead Path agents left in his wake. He wasn't far ahead, and every step brought her closer to finding out if the stories were true.

Further north, Karvek Ironhand stood in a freezing wind atop a narrow pass, his mercenaries lined up behind him. The worn mountain trail stretched before them, leading toward a path cell they'd been hired to scout. The client was nervous, jumpy—clearly worried about what might be lurking ahead. Karvek grunted, tightening the straps on his battered armor. He wasn't paid enough to care about the politics of the Path or the stories of some forge-wielding dwarf cutting his way through their ranks. But the jobs had grown riskier lately, and the clients were more desperate. Karvek had heard the stories too. If this dwarf was out there, he was shaking the Path hard enough that people thought twice before dealing with them. That made Karvek's life more complicated, and he wasn't one for complications.

He waved his men forward, gruffly reminding them to watch their footing on the narrow trail. As they pressed on, he kept one hand on his sword, the other holding the reins of his mule. The mountain wind bit at his face, but his thoughts stayed sharp. He wasn't looking for trouble, but if it found him, he'd be ready. One way or another, he knew this story wasn't over. Whether he met the dwarf himself or just the aftermath, he could feel the ripple spreading through these mountains.

Doran, meanwhile, took a moment to settle himself on the ridge, pulling out the darts he'd made at the trading post. He still hadn't had time to properly practice with them. His old mentor had always told him to train with what he made before trusting it in battle. A dwarf's craft was his word, his bond. But there had been little time to stop and refine his aim. Now, as he looked out over the valley, he realised he couldn't afford to go into another fight half-prepared.

He found a sturdy tree at the edge of the ridge, set one of the darts into his hand, and aimed. The balance was close to what he'd intended, but the throw was off—it hit the bark at an angle and bounced off with a dull thud. He frowned, retrieving it and trying again. The second throw was better—closer to the mark—but still not true. The third struck solidly, but the weight still didn't feel quite right. As he kept practicing, adjusting his stance and grip, the memories of his old mentor's training began to surface.

The old dwarf had been nothing if not relentless. His training wasn't just about brute strength—it was about control, efficiency, and precision. Every swing, every throw, every strike had to count. Doran could still hear the gruff voice in his head: "You don't get second chances in a real fight. If you're throwing steel, make it stick."

He trained until the sun dipped below the horizon, his arms aching but his aim improving. When he finally stopped, he felt a little more like the forge master he once was—not just a wandering dwarf with a big hammer, but someone who could wield more than brute force. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start.

And as he packed his things and began to descend the ridge into the valley, a quiet voice in the back of his mind wondered if his old mentor might be out there somewhere—still alive, still waiting to pass on the rest of his knowledge before it was too late. But that thought was fleeting. For now, he had a valley to cross, a trail to follow, and more work to do before the real fight began.