The Black Hellblade

Chapter 12: Memento Mori

Ronan straightened his back, yet Farrier still towered over him.

Looking up at Farrier and the man's perfectly parted wavy red hair, Ronan said, “Yes sir. I'm a hard worker looking to earn my keep."

Farrier stood like a giant with his arms crossed. He assessed Ronan for a second, bellowed out a big laugh, then replied, “Follow me."

Ronan walked behind the large man as Farrier led him to an open area past the tactician stall. In Farrier's apron pockets were an assortment of iron tools that jangled like bells with each obtrusive step he took. The back of Farrier's black shirt hung open by his shoulder blades, and Ronan saw that Farrier, like Maritza, was a Master Nightblade, though Farrier was a Rank 10.

Interacting with two Nightblades so powerful made Ronan want to see their magic firsthand. He didn't know what those with the Mark of the Butterfly were capable of, and he was eager to find out. More than that, he wanted to learn whatever powers he could from Maritza and Farrier— no matter what the Nightblade abilities were, they would put Ronan closer to defeating the Hellsworn.

When Farrier stopped at his destination on the outskirts of the Training Grounds, the tools in his apron all gave one synchronized clatter.

Before Farrier and Ronan was a grey brick forge that billowed thick black smoke. Surrounding the fiery forge were short stone walls lined with shelves of halberds, maces, and the thin swords used by the Butterfly Trainees. The coals on the forges glowed a bright orange, and heaps of steel ingots rested at the forge's side, ready to be smelted into weapons and armor.

“Tell me, Ronan," Farrier said, sliding a burly hand into a thick, padded glove. He pulled open the metal door to the forge. “How are you with heat?"

Smoke wafted before Ronan's eyes, and Farrier expected the young Nightblade to have a coughing fit. But after the siege on the Temple of the Serpent, fires, flames, and smoke didn't bother Ronan as much as they had in the past.

“I grew up in the cold and the snow," Ronan chuckled. “So I don't shy from an open flame."

Farrier waved smoke from his face with his thick glove, then reached into the forge with a set of iron tongs. He retrieved a thin sword and held it outright. The blade was a strong red from being surrounded by the forge's flames.

Farrier set the sword down on an anvil, and the scorching blade made a small screeching sound as it touched the anvil's cold metal.

“Let's see if there's any muscle to that tall frame of yours," Farrier said, waving Ronan over. Farrier pulled an iron hammer from his apron and handed it to Ronan.

“Pound down on the sword's blade while it's still red with heat," Farrier commanded, hovering his index finger over the sword.

Ronan gripped the hammer and smashed down on the blade by its hilt, where Farrier was pointing.

“That's good!" Farrier said, holding the sword in place. “Now put your back into it! Don't be afraid!"

Ronan slammed the hammer down upon the sword again, and sparks flew up near his face. Determined, Ronan continued to hammer the blade wherever Farrier instructed.

“Really show me your strength, Ronan!" Farrier shouted on Ronan's fifth strike. “Focus on the hammer. Become one with it!"

Ronan took a deep breath. He sharpened his sight on the scorching blade, pulled the hammer back behind his head, then felt the Mark of the Serpent begin to sizzle on his forearm.

With all his might, Ronan struck the sword in a booming clash of metal. Smoke rose not only from the open forge, but from Ronan's tattoo as well.

The sword split clean in half, and the part that Farrier hadn't held down flew across the room in a flurry of sparks. By the sword's tip, the fractured blade lodged itself through a brick wall near the forge, and slowly lost its red hue.

Farrier lifted the hilt of the broken sword to his eyes, then smirked.

“I'm sorry Master Farrier!" Ronan exclaimed. He bowed his head. “I hadn't meant to destroy it! Please forgive—"

“Shut it, Ronan!" Farrier laughed. He tossed the hilt to the dirt as if it were trash. “Do you have any idea how refreshing it is to see some real strength around here? When I've got to train a bunch of fools focused on buttons and expensive breeches!"

Farrier inspected his anvil, then rubbed an index finger along a c***k running down its center that Ronan had made. Farrier smiled ear to ear.

Ronan's forearm was burning, but in a way that reminded him of when he'd killed the Slaug on the streets with Habbot. Beneath the stomach of Ronan's Mark of the Serpent, half a tally mark began to etch its way into his skin.

Ronan lost his breath.

He felt the Essence in his veins begin to throb in his arm, and he felt powerful. Even so, the tally frizzled and fried and faded away, leaving Ronan without even a single rank, still.

Farrier stood over him, running a large hand through the left wave of his red hair and smoothing out any loose strands.

“Interesting," Farrier declared. “You didn't receive your full Rank just now, but I felt the magic in this room when you struck that sword. Anybody else would've gained a Rank."

Farrier's eyes sharpened quizzically.

Still looking at his tattoo and hoping the tally might form, Ronan said, “A sorceress told me that I've been cursed by The Shroud."

Farrier stopped petting his hair but kept his hand still on his head. He blinked roughly, swallowed, and mumbled, “So there is another like Maritza?"

Ronan couldn't believe what he was hearing. Maritza was affected by The Shroud as well? But she was a Rank 8 Master, well-respected, and made no indication of being unable to access her Essence.

Ronan grinned.

If she truly was cursed by The Shroud and had discovered a way to overcome it, that meant there was hope for him too.

Ronan looked to Farrier and said, “Maritza is also cursed—"

Farrier leaned in and grabbed Ronan firmly by the shoulder. Farrier set a sturdy finger in front of Ronan's nose and said, “That was not my secret to share, and it stays between you and me."

Ronan saw how deadly serious the Master was.

“I understand completely," Ronan said, intimidated by Farrier but maintaining eye contact nonetheless.

Farrier checked over his shoulder and darted his head to all corners of the forge. When he was sure nobody was around, he told Ronan, “If you're afflicted by The Shroud, then I must bring out your potential as I did with her."

Like a jolly little kid, Ronan asked, “Does this mean I've gotten the apprenticeship?"

“Indeed," Farrier whispered. “Though if anybody asks you, it's because you are from the streets like myself, and I want to teach you how to be formal and fit in here."

“Are you really from the streets?" Ronan asked.

“I was slipping through the cracks of caves to mine steel and iron when I was your age. A Nightblade Elder saw the long hours I'd work, and he invited me to smith under him. Decades later and here I am, trying to do right by the man who did right by me."

Ronan's heart pounded. He'd found a mentor who shared similar values as he did.

Thrilled, Ronan said, “It'll be an honor to serve under you, Master Farrier."

With another loud laugh Farrier slapped Ronan's shoulder and said, “We'll see if you think the same tomorrow morning in the Training Grounds. Tomorrow I run the lessons. If I can't bring that first rank out on your forearm, then nobody can."

“Does this mean you can tell me more about The Shroud?" Ronan asked.

Farrier pressed a finger to his rosy lips and hushed the young Nightblade. “Not so loud! This is not the place to discuss such things. Don't worry about that now. Worry about getting a good rest for the morning."

Formal as could be, Ronan said, “As you wish, Master Farrier."

Ronan began to make his way back to the hospital ward.

“Ronan!" Farrier exclaimed. “I almost forgot."

Instinctively, Ronan caught the object Farrier tossed his direction. It was a smooth black piece of metal clasped into a thick leather string.

“That's the metal we extracted from you," Farrier said. “It's not like anything I've seen before. But if it's all that remains of your temple, then you deserve to hold onto that memento. You'll see that every Nightblade here carries a memory of the moment that made them."

Again, Ronan's forearm burned as he clenched the black metal.

“I appreciate this," Ronan said, a tear forming in his eye. He slid the necklace over his head. The black metal fell right above his heart.

“I'll fight for everybody that I lost that day," Ronan said.