The stone-faced mouth of the forge structure stood sealed and blanketed in moss and enchantments. Only the slightest glimmer of luck would give away the faded remnants of its magic. Hunter kneeled before it and rested his palm on the surface while squinting hard at it. The subtle movements of energy felt back at him—some sort of bar. A barrier laid by a five-star mage.
"This isn't merely a locked front door," he said under his breath.
Chote reached nervously for his beard. "Can you open it?" he asked cautiously.
Hunter said nothing. Instead, he drew a sigil with his finger and pushed his own mana into the seams. He watched as the rune glimmered, twinkling, and then a low rumble echoed into the corridor as the seal hissed open.
"You're a little better than you look," Chote said in awe.
Luenor reluctantly offered a nod and said, "We mustn't waste time."
They came into the building like shadows, and as they crossed the threshold, the entrance closed behind them. The interior was quiet; but amid the still walls of stone, there was an absent noise of forging hammers and the bellows of furnaces resounding way down the long stone corridor.
They slipped inside like shadows, the door frothing shut behind them. The sound was still inside, but the rhythmic echo of forging hammers and the hum of furnace bellows echoed faintly down the long stone corridor.
Just then, a guard turned the corner at the worst possible moment. Luenor ducked as Hunter aimed for him; the man already on his feet before he could shout. Before the guard could get situated, Hunter had seized the man by the throat. With one clean blow, he slumped over, unconscious.
"We are going to have to work faster," Luenor muttered to no one in particular. "Hunter, take Chote. Get him in the forge chambers and don't get engaged if you don't have to. I will find the main office. There has to be a map or something."
Hunter nodded, gripping Chote by the shoulder. "Stay behind me dwarf."
They split.
_____
High above in the Marquess' castle, somber energy governed the space.
Marquess Mellon gazed at the parchment, frowning in deep thought. The official stamp of the city knights burned magenta along the borders. The specifics of this report were damning: a mana explosion—fully confirmed, no-doubt, to be the work of the cult of Alofonso. The same cult that had disintegrated Hryval in a single night nearly a decade ago.
"What do they want now?" Mellon mused aloud, putting down the report and folding his hands. "What do they gain by doing this now? What could compel them to strike here?"
Bobby Venhart entered the room momentarily later, his armor not fully fastened, exhaustion pulling the corners of his eyes.
"Well?" Mellon remarked without lowering his gaze.
"We arrested Robert Maynard. But he won't talk. He keeps insisting he wants to talk to you or that the Duke is involved."
"Well of course he does," Mellon retorted, bitterly.
"Sir...if I may," Bobby chimed, "we found one of his insignias at the scene of the ambush on the knight convoy. We lost good men."
Mellon got up slowly. "And?"
"And..." Bobby paused again before continuing, "The Fangbangs have taken over the streets. Every gang in Carrowhelm is aligned with the Fangbangs under one banner, except for Ryker's remnants. The Fangbang base is now operating from the Lowlands."
"The Lowlands?" Mellon repeated. "Why there?"
Bobby just shook his head.
_____
In another part of the deep and narrow subterranean halls beneath the complex of the forge, Luenor was going unseen as he wore an oversized guard's kit. The sleeves were too big, the helmet was too low on his face and, naturally, none of it fit. But, under the conditions of heat, noise, and manual processes, the guards would not be inclined to stop and stare too long.
He stepped over a narrow stone bridge which connected two levels of the structure. The sharp smell of molten metal and burning coal delightfully pierced his nostrils. The gargantuan scale of the entire forge complex was easily incarnate—jetting up through the mountain like a cathedral, hugging the good earth, and descending deep into the mountain "the belly of the beast." There were fires consuming themselves in controlled anger while smithies manned their beats, either dwarven or human, never bothered except to cast the fervor of details in a slack-jawed trance.
Luenor was headed for a possible side corridor on the way to the administrative corridor. Just as he placed the last step on the tiled floor and started to turn, the sound of hurried boots woke behind him.
A hand! A rough large hand, grabbed his shoulder.
"Hey, Mark, why the rush?" a guard asked, "and not to doubt you, but why do you look....squashed?"
Luenor turned slowly, a polite chuckle forming on his lips—until they saw his face.
"He's not Mark!" the second one shouted, drawing a short blade.
Before they could get any further, Luenor had his knife out. He dove at the first man, slashing across his thigh. The guard howled, and shuffled backward into a barrel of coal.
The second guard slashed for Luenor's midsection, but he ducked forward and rolled, coming up beneath the guard's hands. Luenor smashed the hilt of his dagger into the guard's jaw with a bone-snapping crack.
The first guard started to get to his feet, but Luenor twisted his blade and knocked him out cold with a quick jab to the back of the neck.
Heaving, Luenor dragged the two bodies into a small maintenance alcove and checked himself over for blood. A little.
"Get it together," he mumbled, wiping his forehead. He turned back to where he had come from, determined to make it to the main office before someone smarter than those two men caught him.
Meanwhile, in the forge's heart, Hunter and Chote crept around on the catwalks. Below them, a bank of Skyshard blades sparkled, still simmering from the infusion of mana-heat.
Hunter raised a hand for silence. "That's the furnace," he whispered. "What does it look like to you?"
Chote leaned deeper over the rail. His eyes widened as he looked at the complex architecture below. "Dwarven influence. The mana channels, the triple-coal vent thermal exhausts, the actual steel casting — it all reeks of the upper-tier stuff, probably all humans screwing around with it a little."
"You'll be able to copy the design?"
"No," he replied flatly, "but I can understand it. That's what you were after, aye?"
Hunter nodded. "Good. Try to remember as much as you can. We won't be staying."
Then they moved deeper, searching for the mana reservoirs for stabilizing the blade cores.
Returning inside the castle, Marquess Mellon stood before a stained glass window that overlooked Carrowhelm. Though the sparks of violence in the streets had not extinguished yet, the mana explosion a few days earlier had already put a pall on the city.
Mellon turned and saw Bobby seemingly disturbed. "Keep Maynard alive. For the moment. But if the Duke comes asking questions, we need a scapegoat."
"And what of the Fangbangs?" Bobby asked.
Mellon's lips twisted to become a humorless smile. "I want to know the heads of them."