Baneck stood before the forge, his hammer and chisel at the ready.  In the wider world, smiths would find it difficult to smelt the orgite.  The furnaces of the Coast were specially made, with hot-fired bricks of the unique clay of the land, containing the greater heat produced by the driftwood.

The resulting blaze was hot enough to melt the orgite, even if it was so scorching to work around.

Just as their warriors were strong in battle, though, Coastal smiths were strong before the flames.  Toughened by working with such temperatures, they withstood the heat to craft what was needed.  As the old joke went, if there were enough smithies on one street in a Coastal town, one could walk down it in winter without a cloak.

He stood up to the heat now, as the smelted orgite, joined with the silver flakes, and the family’s own signature steel mix – with a bit of his own personal touch here and there – sat in the shape he desired.  He looked from Tungstil, to the tattoo on his body, to the new blade.

He vigilantly stood, ready for inspiration to come.

Nothing came to mind.

Staring at the warm glow of the new blade, and his Mark, he was doing the things that had led to the creation of the runes he had originally etched into Tungstil.

He stood patiently.  The need to quickly get this done nagged at him, tempting him, for fear of it being too late to do any good.  With an effort he stayed patient and steady, not daring to mark the surface until the right rune came to mind.  He calmly thought of a favorite bit of advice from his father:  ‘Let the world end, waiting for you to get the job done, son; but get it done right’.

It had been so much easier to recognize the magical marks in his tattoo when he had first forged Tungstil.  Now, even they were hidden from him.  He kept focusing on his need, and the need for this sword to fulfill a mission.  Trying to remember those same marks escaped him; and even trying to copy the runes on Tungstil was denied him.

Eventually he straightened up.  Three weeks ago, he could be looking at this formed piece of steel, and grieving over the loss of the expensive components.  Now, the fear that hammered along the base of his skull, was that his Wintermore power was gone for some reason.

He put his tools down in frustration, and reached for his shirt.  There was no need to look at his clearly visible tattoo, if it was not going to give anything useful.  His spectacular and powerful Mark of Wintermore was suddenly useless.

An hour later, he sat in the Watchlight, nursing an ale.

As was her habit, Honee silently appeared next to his stool; but this time she had Nepta with her.

“Well?” Honee asked.

He looked at her.  “Haven’t you been watching me all day?”

“Of course.  But I wonder why you’re in here instead of at the forge.  That’s a nice blade sitting in the coals.  Why didn’t you mark it?”

“There’s nothing to carve.”

The girls looked at each other.  Honee sidled back just a little, as Nepta leaned a little closer.

She tapped the sheathed Tungstil belted to his hip.  “What about these?”

“It’s no good.  I can’t carve the same runes twice.”

He silently took a few swigs of his drink.

<*>                                                          <*>                                                      <*>

The government house had not been palatial from the outside, but the room where Melbourne led her was adorned with brightness, thanks to the crystal-chimney lanterns.

Fawnlum entered to a fully-seated long-table of the city’s leaders.  Like everyone else in this new land, they took notice of her larger size compared to other women.

Let them come to Khostead sometime, she thought to herself.  Then they would get an eyeful.

Melbourne indicated the straight-postured, middle-aged, and somewhat heavy man sitting at the front.  “Fawnlum Lichner, warrior of the Coast of Storms, and servant of King Dregor, may I present Mayor Ajev Byrnem.”

The mayor nodded politely.

“His wife, Lady Vansra, minister of farm affairs.”

He motioned with his hand as he went around the table.

“Mettrals, minister of foreign affairs; Emirs, minister of trade; Armstrun, minister of public affairs, Chennai, administrator of districts; Lady Andgia, commerce minister; Claptic, foreign finance representative; Cuiverve, second trade minister; and Lurton, minister of defense and the military.”

Of those seated, only Lurton had the look of a fighter.  A dark and combed-back mustache did little to hide skin that had seen too many suns, to believe he had spent his life behind a desk.  Fawnlum concluded he must be a retired soldier, as he sat with scar-crossed hands.

Melbourn’s hand completed the circuit, indicating the chair on the final corner.  “And this is Trejur, representative of the elf kingdom of Castletree.”

The handsome and blonde-haired elf gave his own nod of greeting.

Melbourne looked with a nod to Fawnlum, and she stepped forward.

Why a city needed all these people – ‘bureaucrats’, as they were called – was beyond her.

Besides Lurton, the members who caught her interest were Andgia, a woman with a slightly darker complexion, similar to Klingger’s, and eyes that were expectantly fixed on her.  The elf Trejur looked at her with a close but very subtle scrutiny, as if he was waiting to hear a specific thing from her.

“Greetings, lords and ladies,” she said.  “Thank you for your audience.

“I’ve walked in your forest, for the simple purpose of killing your enemies for money.  But now I bring grim tidings.  From what I’ve seen, there are hundreds of tri-cleorps walking around in there, enough to march right over the farming villages to the north.  Mind you, based on your history, that would only be a prelude to an attack on the city itself.”

Mettrals, with his thumbs hooked in his vest, was the first to respond. “How do you know?  Did you count them?”

“No.  Aside from the three dozen I killed close to the northern border, I went deeper into the forest itself, and saw their glowing eyes, just looking at me.  But they didn’t attack.  I saw enough sets of tracks to know that just in the area I scouted, there are dozens more.”

“So you’re saying that the rest of the forest has the same number, telling you there are ‘hundreds’, even though you didn’t see them.”

“Yes.  But I have it on good authority that a tribe of tri-cleorps tends to have over two thousand fighters.  I’ve seen personal evidence of two tribes myself.  And as you know better than I, for different tribes to cooperate is unheard of.  They’re planning something big.  For that, you need to guard that forest.”

“We’ve faced tri-clerops before.  They’re a brutal, violent bunch.  If there were dozens around you in the forest, you would be dead.”

Fawnlum kept her manner cool and her expression neutral.  If he was trying to get a response by saying she was a liar, she would not take the bait.

“Not that the minister is doubting your story,” Cuiverve said.  “We heard similar accounts from reliable sources.”

“That makes it more than just a story,” Andgia suddenly cut in.  “Between the areas with those more numerous tracks,” she asked Fawnlum, “how much distance was there?”

“Not more than 75 yards.”

“See!” she snapped at Mettrals.  “This is enough to warrant action.  We can’t have any more of our people carried off to who knows what fate.  We need those farmers who are still working their land, to feel safe enough to stay, especially in the weakening daylight.  Otherwise, the crop that feeds this city and the kingdoms to the north will be lost.”  She lowered her head and fixed a beady stare on him.  “We need to protect them.”