Siege State

Soon enough, they were being handed steaming bowls by Val. She joined them sitting on their stools a moment later. Sesame stayed where he was, but his nose was twitching at the smells. Smitten curled up against Val’s feet, and Scorn sat in his usual spot, looking supremely disinterested with everything. Mice were scattered all about the room; some kept popping up in places that Tom had no idea how they’d managed to get to.

“I think you’ll be interested in this one,” Val said to Scriber while nodding her head at Tom.

Suffering, Silence and Survival.”

Scriber unhurriedly finished his mouthful of stew, then carefully set his spoon in his bowl and his bowl on the ground.

“That’s three Ideals that I’ve never gotten to use in my work. Survival, eh? Now that is interesting. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of that before. Tell me, what skills have you manifested under it?” He turned slightly to face Tom.

Tom explained his two skills he’d manifested so far for Survival. Scriber asked him more and more detailed questions, and Tom did his best to answer. He wondered why the enchanter didn’t simply send him a party request, but then, he may not have wanted Tom nosing through his skillset, or if he was already in a party, it might have been full. Eight, for some unknown reason, was the most any given party link could sustain.

Scriber was by far the most interested in Survival. It seemed strange to Tom, but he explained that several of the Hunters had Ideals similar to Suffering, and Silence, even if he’d never met someone with it, had been around in years gone by. The enchanter had apparently gotten to tinker with several Silence-imbued enchantments before.

Survival, however, was completely new to him. He’d dealt with all manner of adjacent Ideals, things like: Life, Endurance, Woodscraft, Fighting, Animals - even Killing - but his Survival was unique in that it contained hints of all the above concepts.

Eventually, the questions trailed off. Scriber appeared to be deep in thought, and returned to his meal. Val gave Tom a small smile, and gestured to him for patience. They ate the rest of their stew and Tom cleaned up for them, and when he returned to his seat, the enchanter spoke. Val gave him a knowing look.

“I would like to extend an offer to you. The same I have extended to every Hunter out here. I would like to make use of your mana for imbuing, and in return, I will provide you with enchanted gear.”

He paused, looking at Tom. Tom gave him a small nod to indicate he should continue.

“The terms are simple. You provide me mana whenever I ask, and will not ask if it would endanger your life. You get enchantments. I can only provide so much, though; my time is limited.”

It was a staggeringly good deal, one which Tom immediately accepted. Any enchantments, even very basic ones merely altering the material properties of an item, usually done by apprentice enchanters, came with exorbitant costs. Tom’s mana would refill; Scriber was essentially offering his work more or less for free. And yet, the expression on his face when Tom accepted made it seem as though he was the one who had made out like a bandit from the deal. The happiness and satisfaction were the strongest emotions the man had shown, so far.

“First, I would be grateful if you could imbue some mana from each of your Ideals into these.” He handed Tom three curious, rusty looking balls, scrawled all over with runes.

Tom had never tried imbuing before, but he figured it out easily enough. Each Idealist only had a single mana pool, and their skills created automatic channels for it through their Ideals. Imbuing was similar, except instead of activating a skill, you simply pushed the mana towards one of your Ideals and then out through your body, and that Ideal would aspect it. Doing it without an object inscribed with imbuing runes would do absolutely nothing but waste mana.

In short order, Tom had filled the balls with mana. One glowed a very soft pink, the next radiated a thin-looking, dark light, and the third glowed brown. Scriber grinned as the three balls were passed back to him.

“Now, what kind of enchantments would you like?” Scriber asked.

Tom’s brow furrowed in thought. He had never really expected to be able to afford enchantments, and had never considered what ones he might want to use.

Val broke in gently, then. “He’s fresh as a daisy, Scriber. He could use some wardpoles, I’d say. A good knife wouldn’t go amiss either. And, if you’ve got any handy, something with one of your life-glyphs would be much appreciated.”

Scriber stood and retrieved his pack from near the door. He sat down again, umming and ahhing as he fossicked through it. He drew six bronze poles from it, one after the other, and laid them in the middle of their circle. A second later, he’d fished out a sheathed knife, just too small to be called a dagger. The last of the three items took the longest to produce, and when he did, it was in the form of a small, carved, wooden mouse. The mouse had a single, large rune on its back, and a series of smaller runes linking together with it around its middle.

Glyphs, like the large rune on the mouse’s back, were runes designed for only a single use. They were, in a lot of ways, like surge skills were to regular skills, providing an exaggerated effect for marked drawbacks. In the case of glyphs, that drawback was that they could only be used once.

“If you’re injured, no matter how badly, you only need to push even a trickle of mana into that mouse. If you’re not hearty and hale a second after, I’ll give up enchanting forever,” Scriber said, placing the wooden mouse gently on top of his new knife.

“Now, what weapons do you use?” he continued. “I’ve only got so many stored mana types, so you’ll have to pick from them if you want closed runes.”

Tom had come to a decision whilst Scriber had been ferreting the items out of his bag.

“I use a spear-” he gestured behind him to where it lay next to his bedroll “-and a short sword. At the moment, that is, anyway.”

Val cocked a curious eyebrow at him. Scriber just waited with a patient expression on his face.

“I want to keep the spear, I think. The range it provides is nice; it helps me keep enough distance for my damage over time to do its work.

“The sword though, I’m not sure about. I need something for close work, so I need something shorter, but I’ve found that when my spear can’t punch through something’s defence, my sword can’t either. The slashing is nice, but what I’m really lacking is something with a bit more …heft, I guess,” he finished, somewhat lamely.

Val gave him a pleased look. She’d obviously identified the deficiency as well, and was waiting to see how he would try to address it. The short, leaf-bladed sword he’d brought with him was excellent for slashing, but Tom had been fighting increasingly tough enemies as of late. He needed something that could damage a tough hide, or scales, or bark, or stone, even.

After a moment’s thought, Scriber began searching through his pack again. As he rummaged, Tom noticed the lack of noise emanating from it. The incongruity of it puzzled him, until he decided it was likely spatially enchanted. Finally, Scriber began to draw a handle from the bag, longer than should realistically fit in.

The handle, slightly curved, and slightly wider at the end, was all of a dark metal, matte, bound at the end with dark brown leather. Scriber pulled the rest of the weapon free, and presented Tom with an axe.

“Enchanted this for a Hunter almost …six years ago now. He died before I could return it. He was not a pleasant man, so I don’t mind passing it on.” He passed the axe to Tom, offering him its grip.

He tested the weight of it, and found it heavier than he expected. It was longer than a regular hatchet, but definitely not so long as a full axe. The single head was of the same dark metal as the handle, the cutting edge a strip of shiny, sharp silver. Runes ran up the handle, covered the head, curved along the bearded cutting edge. Even the leather grip was enchanted, the seam on the strip of leather that wound around the handle was stitched in the form of tiny runes.

It was a beautiful weapon. Tom almost refused it, until he saw Val frowning at him, having guessed his mind. It would cost a Guard captain a year’s pay or more to buy this though. It was likely the most valuable thing he’d ever touched.

“Thank you, Scriber. I’ll make sure it’s used well,” Tom said, trying his best to show how much he appreciated it. Words weren’t enough.

“I’m less worried about you using it well, than treating it well. Not that you’d be able to break it. It has material enhancements. The metal is soulsteel, taken from a murdered trader by the previous owner of this axe, given to Bear to forge before he passed, and then to me to enchant.”

Tom’s eyes went wide. Soulsteel was supposed to be the best possible metal for enchanting. Enchantments inscribed on it never faded, never lost potency, and the metal, once forged, was so strong a dragon could use it for a chew toy and not so much as scratch it. He revised his mental estimate of the cost of the weapon by a factor of ten.

“This is too much,” he told Scriber immediately. I can’t accept something this valuable for nothing.”

“You’ll pay it back. Don’t worry about that. At a preliminary guess, the enchantments I might make with Survival could save hundreds of lives. Thousands, even. Imagine if every Hunter, every Guard, every Watchman, all had armour that was not only more durable itself, but could make them tougher? Possibly even heal them? They’d be the first enchantments of their kind The World has ever seen. Well worth one tiny bar of soulsteel, if you ask me.”

Tom nodded, accepting that the gift was genuinely made.

“Now, that’s sand-attuned drake leather on the handle. Should stick to your palm like glue. Material runes, sharpness mainly, all along the edge. Weight stabilising and self-repair on the handle and head. There’s a series of open runes linked throughout. Essentially, all they do is allow the axe to channel your mana to its edge.

“The axe is simple, overall.” Scriber sounded almost offended at the notion. “But it was what he requested. ‘No closed runes; none of that fancy shit’,” he recited in a mocking tone.

Tom was a little disappointed. He had already been daydreaming about running into battle with a burning axe, or one that could shoot lightning, or something equally fantastical.

“No, it’s perfect,” said Tom, and he meant it. Even though he wouldn’t have minded some elemental abilities. “Thank you again, Scriber. Anything you need, any time.”

Scriber just nodded absently at him, and turned to Val.

“I’ll be heading off in the morning. The Lord’s called a Gathering, two months from now,” he told her. “You’re not the only one who’s seen myths and legends walking the Deep. He wants us organised to do something about it.”

“I understand,” said Val, her eyebrows pinched together in a thoughtful frown. “What’s he planning?”

“You know what he’s like, Val. No one knows.” Scriber let out a sigh. “Equal odds on him declaring war on the orcs, or marching us all back to Wayrest and demanding they let us in.”

“The fool,” Val said, more venom in her voice than Tom had ever heard. “He’ll get us all killed. I bet the Hangman’s all for it. Honeyfield must be positively gleeful. And the Hag, stirring the pot too, I wager.”

“Right on all counts,” he said. “We need more calm heads. Jace and I won’t be enough. We need your support, Val.”

“You’ll have it, you lump!” Val said, offended. “Of course you’ll have it. When have I ever gone with the Lord?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he waved his hands at her in a conciliatory gesture. “Times are strange, is all. Things are changing. Ever since Bear died, that bloodthirsty bunch have held the power. Now… I don’t know what might happen.”

Val reached over and patted Scriber’s knee. “We will carry Bear’s torch. They’ll listen to a more reasonable plan. They can’t be that far gone.”

“I hope you’re right, Val. For all our sakes, I hope you’re right.”

Tom was confused. He’d never heard of any of these people before. He assumed ‘the Lord’ they were talking about was the infamous Lord of Blood, but aside from that, he had no clue who those they spoke of were. He guessed he’d find out at this so-called Gathering, if not before.

Tom’s eyes began to grow heavy, and he excused himself, thanking Scriber again, before retreating to his bedroll.

He fell asleep to thoughts of orcs prowling the Deep.