MAGUS INFINITE

The Shades stepped forward together. One of them, Sil, Sen or Sef, it was so hard to tell them apart, added a strand of shadow to the bowl instead of hair. The shadow did not fall like a strand of hair would have; it drifted down like smoke and settled on the surface of the liquid.

Then he sliced his palm, and instead of blood, a dark fluid that was not quite liquid and not quite shadow dripped into the bowl. He spat, and it was a wisp of darkness that vanished into the depths, and finally, he reached into the folds of his cloak and withdrew a small cup that seemed to absorb the light around it.

”This is a memory of our home,” the Shade said. ”It is the only thing we have left of the place we were born. It is precious to us.”

While the other two Shades performed the same ritual, I found it fascinating that none of them brought out any other thing precious to them except that small cup... a cup of the sort that is given to children.

Coin was the last to step forward. She walked toward the bowl with a slow, deliberate grace, and I saw the shape of her beneath the coat that almost made no sense, as if she was a memory given form.

What would the mages of the present era think of someone like her? A lifeform that had seemingly transcended flesh.

”I have no hair to give,” she said. ”I have no blood to shed. I am the last of my kind, and my kind does not bleed.”

She paused, and I saw her frame tremble slightly. ”But I will give what I have. For my people. For the memory of Anhal.”

She leaned forward and spat into the bowl, a wisp of something that was not quite liquid, not quite solid. Then she reached into the folds of her coat. Her hand emerged holding a small, black stone that seemed to drink the light around it.

”This is the Heart of Anhal,” she said. ”It is the last remnant of my people’s civilization. It carries the memory of everything we lost.”

She placed it in the bowl, and I heard Dorrik’s voice resound in the air.

”All have given. The forge will receive them.”

The bowl vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, and I knew it had returned to Dorrik’s forge.

∞

I entered the darkness of Dorrik’s forge, and the bowl was beside him, its contents glowing faintly in the light of the Unending Flame.

He did not look up as I approached. ”You have returned.”

”I have,” I nodded. ”They gave willingly... This magic, is it the old ways of the gods?”

Dorrik reached into the bowl and pulled out Ruggah’s token, the worn piece of metal that had belonged to his father. He held it up to the invisible fire, and I saw the light of the flame reflected in his ancient eyes.

”A warrior’s token,” he said. ”Given by a father to a son, who carried it into battle and never let it go. This one is not complex. He is straightforward and loyal, and he carries the weight of his people on his shoulders. He will fight until his last breath, and he will never betray those who trust him.”

He set it aside and reached for Ogg’s stone. ”A wanderer’s stone,” he said. ”It has tasted the ashes of many fallen tribes. Ogg carries the memory of loss, and he heals because he cannot bear to watch others suffer the same fate. He is gentle, but he is not weak. He will protect those who cannot protect themselves.”

Dorrik reached for Thurrim’s figurine. ”A dwarf’s totem.” He chuckled. ”Carved by a father for a son, to remind him that he is never alone. He is stubborn, and proud, and he fights for the memory of his clan. He will hold the line when others would break, and he will never retreat.”

He took up Tam’s book of poems. ”A father’s gift.” He sighed. ”He is young and angry, and he has not yet learned to let go of the past. He wants to fight because he does not know what else to do with his grief. He will learn, in time, to channel that anger into purpose.”

Dorrik paused here for a moment, a brief frown crossing his face before he moved on and picked up Ines’s pressed flower. ”A flower from a childhood garden,” he said. ”She is quiet, but she is not fragile. She fights because she wants to build something new, something that the war cannot touch. She is the heart of this warband, and her weapon must be equally true.”

Setting it down, he took up the cup the Shades had given. ”A memory of a lost home,” he said. ”They are silent, and they are watchful, and they fight with the things that hide in the dark. They do not trust easily, but they have chosen to trust you. They will be your eyes in the shadows, and they will never falter.”

Finally, he reached for Coin’s black stone. He held it up to the fire, and I saw something flicker in his eyes.

”The Heart of Anhal,” he said. ”She carries the memory of a lost civilization, even older than Terra. She is ancient, and she is powerful, and she has been alone for a very long time. She follows you because she believes that you might give her people’s memory a future. She will carry the weight of that memory until the end, and she will never let it go.”

He set the stone down and looked at me. ”These are good souls,” he said. ”They have suffered, but they have not broken. They are worthy of what I am about to make.”

∞

I sat down beside the forge, and I watched him work. Finally I was able to see how Dorrik drew the metal from the head of his massive hammer, as if the weapon was a portal to a vault of materials, before he placed it inside the invisible flame, and he began to shape it.

He worked in silence, and I tried to follow what he was doing but his hands were covered by the flames, and even my new eyes could not discern much of the truth.

A glaive emerged from the flame first, its blade long and curved, its shaft wrapped in leather that seemed to glow with a faint inner light. Dorrik held it up, and I saw Ruggah’s father’s token embedded in the hilt, before it melted into the shaft and vanished.

”This blade is forged for the Beastkin,” he said. ”It will never dull, and it will never break. When he holds it, he will feel the strength of his ancestors flowing through his veins. It will answer his call, always.”

A mace emerged next, its head heavy and brutal, wrapped in the same golden light as the glaive. Dorrik set it aside and reached for the next piece of metal. A dwarven axe followed, its blade broad and sharp, its handle wrapped in leather that seemed to shimmer with the same inner light as the others.