Soulweaver 49: Flashpoints (Patreon)

Rogar just stood there, glowering at me like I’d just killed his mother. I took a reflexive step back, newly-forged sword still in hand. 

My mind immediately went into overdrive, desperately searching for a way out of this. 

What could I say? Why was he here? Rogar never returned to the forge in the middle of the night. I’d watched out the first few nights for this exact situation. I’d just grown complacent. No, that wasn’t the issue. The issue was the loud hammering. He must’ve been nearby and heard the sounds. But wait, that wasn’t unusual—my recycling work involved a bunch of hammering, too.

My thoughts screeched to a halt when I realized I was panicking. I panicked because the reality of my situation was obvious. I’d been caught red-handed. There was no way out.

“Mind telling me what you’re doing there, Grug?” Rogar’s voice was slow and calm, and his lack of aggression terrified me in a way his outbursts never could.

“I was using the blanks,” I stuttered, mouth running on autopilot. 

“And?”

“And I was, uh…” I clenched my teeth. Talking back would only be playing into his hand. “I was practicing forging.”

“Tell me, Grug. Did I ever ask you to do that?”

I sighed. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t. Did I give you permission to use my forge?”

“You didn’t.”

I did my best not to hang my head, but I figured talking back would only make him angrier. Better to weather the storm as best I could.

“No, I didn’t. I did give you a quota to fulfill, which you never once have.”

Okay, yeah, there was no way I was weathering this one.

“Oh, that’s rich,” I snapped. “We both know your stupid quotas are impossible. Even with Philip and I working together, we only sometimes do that much. You never intended to pay me from the start. Ever thought about why nobody works for you? I bet I’m just the last in a long line of hired hands.”

I threw the sword onto a workbench and stormed my way past Rogar.

“Oi. The hell do you think you’re going?” Rogar said, grabbing my wrist as I passed.

I shook free from his grasp, meeting his gaze before replying. “It’s obvious I’m fired. Hell, if you can even call it that. You haven’t paid me a single coin yet.”

“You used my forge. You used my material. How will you compensate me for this?”

“Compensate?” I said, incredulous. “You want me to compensate you? Well, how about all those blanks I forged for you? Free labor and all.”

“You think a few worthless blanks is enough to fix what you did here? I’ve half a mind to call the city guard and have you thrown in prison!”

“Pretty sure they’d take my side,” I said. It was an empty threat—I had no idea how well the justice system operated here. For all I knew, a bribe was all that was needed to seal me away. “Alright, you know what? Here.”

I picked up the sword I’d been working on and threw it at Rogar’s feet. “Consider that reparation for whatever ‘damages’ I incurred."

I didn’t even wait for the asshole to reply before storming out.

“Wait,” Rogar called. I almost ignored him, but there was something in his voice that made me hesitate. There was only a hint of anger in it. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was reconsidering.

I stopped and turned, waiting for him to say more.

The forge master picked up the blade and examined it.

“You made this?” he asked, flipping it over in his hand.

“Yeah?” I asked, unsure what he meant.

“It’s trash,” Rogar spat, still looking it over.

“Well, obviously. What do you expect from someone like—”

“You have any training forging, boy?”

“Uh, no? Just what I learned from Philip from the recycling stuff, and what I’ve learned by uh, practicing. I hadn’t been anywhere near a forge before that.”

“You’re telling me that you, a layman with no prior experience, made this with just a few days of practice?”

“I thought you said it was trash…” I said, frowning.

“Oh, it’s trash, alright.” He paused, looking like his next words physically hurt him to utter. He relented in the end, though. “It also takes years to start making anything even resembling a proper sword,” he said in a lower voice.

I bet it did. I’d Initialized that blade just moments before Rogar arrived. In fact, I was in the process of hammering it to see if working the blade after Initialization improved it, or just decreased the Condition. It seemed to be the latter.

But the act of Initializing things improved them. For the weapons I’d been making, it usually made the edge a bit sharper and made the steel a little shinier—which I assumed strengthened it. Just like the ability itself, there was no obvious pattern to what it enhanced. Armor was different from weapons, and Aerion hadn’t really gotten a glow-up at all when I’d Initialized her. At least, none that I could tell.

“Thank you?” I said, completely unsure how to reply. “Does this mean—”

“You fucking wish,” Rogar replied, eyeing the blade. “Now, here’s what’ll happen. You’re gonna work for me without pay. You’ll put in extra hours, and you’ll do it without complaint.”

“If you honestly—”

“In return,” Rogar said, finally looking from the blade to me, “I won’t report you to the authorities.”

I felt my restraint coming undone when Rogar continued.

“You’ve got a problem with your ego, boy, so let me spell this out for you, nice and simple. I’d be well within my rights to see you lashed. Pay or not. One word from me to the guards and your future’s kaput. Gone. Vanished. Hell, I bet I could chop off your right hand without anyone batting an eye.”

I moved my left foot back, bracing myself to fight. With all the armor I wore bestowing stats, I was pretty sure I could take Rogar on. Or at least escape. What then, though? If Rogar was right, I’d be a fugitive. I’d have to flee the city. Maybe even the country—who knew?

Not the best way to start off my life in another world.

At the same time, I wasn’t about to let myself be exploited. Allowing Rogar to trample over me like this would not only destroy whatever control I had over my life, I’d hate myself. I needed another way out.

Luckily, Rogar’s next words offered an exit.

“So as I said, I’m already doing you a favor by not reporting you. But… It’d be a crying shame to waste such talent on recycling. From this day forth, you’ll be my apprentice. You’ll do as I say, and you’ll do it well. I’ll teach you everything I know about smithing. And maybe one day, we’ll make a smith out of you.”

That was an unexpectedly decent offer, but I didn’t like this forced indenture. I needed to bargain for better terms. Plus, I couldn’t look like a pushover. If I did, Rogar would continue to trample over me, and every day would be a waking nightmare.

“Look, I admit I shouldn’t have done that. I should’ve asked permission, but let’s face it—there’s no way you’d ever have given it to me. Not without seeing what I can do, first. So I’ll accept your terms. One month. I’ll give you one month of free labor. After that, you pay the going rate. I don’t need room and board, so you’ll pay me whatever that’s worth.”

“You’re in no position to make demands, boy,” Rogar snarled.

My words were clearly not getting through. People like Rogar only knew one thing. 

“No,” I said, stepping forward to get in Rogar’s face. The smith hadn’t expected that. Even if he had, he wasn’t a Boonworthy. He was just a middle-aged, muscular forgemaster, and there was no way he could’ve dodged.

Rogar went very still, and in the next moment, the sword blade he’d been holding was now in my hands. I raised it high and threw it on the ground. It clanged to a stop a few feet away.

“I’m not looking for a fight. But I need you to know I’m not some pushover you can manipulate,” I muttered, just inches away from his face—which had turned a half-dozen shades lighter. “So if you think even once that you can exploit me or treat me like slave labor, think again.”

I turned and walked out. 

This time, I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. Because it took everything I had to keep my hands from trembling.

— — 

Aerion tugged at her hood for the dozenth time as she stole through Basecrest’s outer district. Elves were rare enough in Basecrest, and this was a neighborhood even humans would be wary of. An elf? That was far worse, and an elf carrying as much coin as she was? 

She had no doubt she’d be mugged, lynched, or worse if anyone ever discovered her. She took an awful risk coming even within a mile of this place, and while she’d have loved nothing more than to send her friend in her stead, she’d refused, forcing Aerion’s hand.

It’d been far too long, and the thought of leaving her Soulkeeper in Tarquin’s hands for even a moment longer made her skin crawl. Filth like him should never even lay eyes on such a sacred item, let alone keep it as collateral.

If Aerion didn’t right this wrong, she’d never find peace.

She turned onto a grungy street before entering an even grimier alley—the sort of place where people were stabbed and killed. It stank, too, with the stench of piss and unwashed bodies, and though Aerion breathed through her handkerchief, it did little to help.

She finally arrived at a nondescript wooden door and knocked thrice, then twice, then four times.

A long moment passed before a peephole opened and a pair of cold, hard eyes peered through. “State your business.”

“It’s me, Aerion. I’m here to repay my debts.”

The peephole shut, and the door swung open, the dangerous-looking man behind it gesturing for her to enter.

Aerion followed the man through a dimly-lit hall, ignoring the sounds of moans and pained groans that came through the walls. 

Though she’d only visited once before, this place haunted her. It took all her grit to not startle in fright when a rat scurried across the damp stone floor.

The man arrived at a heavy wooden door and knocked. “Boss. It’s her. The elf.”

“Well, it’s about damned time,” came a muffled voice from behind the door. “Enter!” 

Her guide opened the door and shoved Aerion into the room, and if it weren’t for her recent experience in combat, she might’ve tripped. As it was, she caught herself just as the door slammed behind her with a slam, leaving her alone with Tarquin and two towering brutes in brigandine armor.

Aerion passed her gaze over them—one Boonworthy and one Blessed, as Tarquin had so courteously informed her on her previous visit.

“Aerion! A pleasure, as always!” the skinny, finely-dressed man with an enormous handlebar mustache said. His feet were propped up on a mahogany desk, and he lounged lazily in his chair. “We were getting worried, you know? I was about to put out a search warrant.”

Aerion approached his table without a word. She pulled out her heavy bag of coins—everything she had—and dumped it on his table.

“I’m taking back my collateral.”

Tarquin replied with the most condescending grin Aerion had ever seen. “Come now, Aerion. You’re late! And being late means interest. I’m afraid that sum just won’t cut it, anymore.”

Aerion paled, clutching her bag. “That wasn’t what we’d agreed to.”

“My dear friend, there isn’t a shark in town who’d let you off the hook for nonpayment.”

“I brought it back. Just as I said,” Aerion replied, knuckles white.

“Yes. Weeks after you said you would.”

“But—”

“Listen. Listen. I’m not unreasonable,” Tarquin said, finally taking his feet off the table and leaning forward. “In fact, there just happens to be an opportunity. One that a Boonworthy like yourself will find well within their means.”

Aerion raised a brow. “What makes you think I’m a—”

“Oh, come now,” Tarquin replied easily. “Don’t you think I’d have someone monitoring the temple? We saw all those weapons you brought out. Weapons you undoubtedly sold to come up with this sum, here.”

Aerion didn’t bother to correct the man. Given that she’d registered on the Celestial Ranking as Emma, it’d have been nigh impossible for him to find her among the sea of names. “And?”

“And as I said. That makes you far more valuable than before. In fact, do this for me, and you can even keep your money. Now, come. No harm in hearing me out, yes?”

Aerion hesitated before finally nodding.

“I’m listening.”