He had no teacher to guide him, but he held the small mallet with confidence, carefully and patiently forming the symbols, one tap at a time.

Honee had been right – it was better to do something for someone else.  But she had given him more guidance than she would ever know.  He had believed he was thinking of the need to accomplish something.  But his belief had been selfish, placing himself on high, as the only means to bring about that goal.

In doing something for the long-dead but noble dragon, who left behind her essence in her cast-off scales, he was empowering her to accomplish a great work.  And his mind was not muddled by the promise of reward.

And behold the boon, unlocking more than just paying an honor to her.  The rune that formed her name never hid from him; he could see it in his Mark whenever he looked.  Nor was he blinded when he needed to find the runes – given proper study – to bring under her command, and enable her to create the abilities within an item.

It was the dragon’s awakened spirit that wrote the runes from his Mark, onto his heart, as she lifted the veil from his eyes.  The finishing touch of a piece, so simple as etching the final rune, ritualistically prompted her to imbue the great power of Wintermore, from him into the completed item, using a small portion of his life-force to do so.

But he recovered from each bout of fatigue quickly.  He actually looked forward to the draining sensation, for then he knew he had accomplished his goal.  Fearlessly, he held his chisel steady on the enchanted metal.  He was a young and strong man, and was himself empowered by the joy of creating.  Self-assured in his own resilience, he could not contain his annoyance, as he turned at the third clearing of a throat behind him.

One, two, three people – Nepta, his own father Granholm, and Morgy – were standing behind him.

“Yes?”

Morgy held up the purple bottle of vitality potion.

“You can put it over there,” he told her.

“No.”

“What?”

She stepped over to the shelf cubby, and lifted a couple of similar, empty bottles to make her point.  “It’s time for you to rest.”

He put his tools down, and hooked his thumbs in his leather apron.  “What are you talking about?”

“You need to rest from your work.  You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Are you listening to yourself, fool?  You’re wearing yourself out.  Not to mention, your stench is enough to kill someone.  It’s time for a respite.”

“I’ve seen the runes I need to carve,” he answered, with just a hint of argument.  “And I need to get them carved.”

“Do you think your recent success changes the role of Wintermore, or your part in wielding it?  You must treat it with respect.”

“I would not be able to carve the runes, unless I was doing it right.”

“You can’t do it right, if you can’t hold yourself up, Baneck,” Nepta calmly but steadfastly pointed out.  “I’ve seen it.  You start to waver; and then have to steady yourself.  You’re becoming exhausted.”

“That’s what the healing potions are for,” he said, with a little more hostility than he had intended.

Morgy angrily spat, “It’s true they sustained you, while you made Troujur in so short a time.  But they’re no substitute for real food and rest!  You’re not on a death-march!  Do you want the magic to fail the girls, like it failed against Felldrake?”

He snapped at her, his pride doing more talking than his brain.  “That was an imperfect work!  I learned from that experience, and it won’t happen again!”

She held up the purple bottle.  “You can’t coerce the magic to work, just because you’re pushing your body.  The risk is too great.”

He felt the intimidating aura of her draconic presence, as her emotions grew.  Then, she purposefully put the bottle back in her basket.  “You don’t get any more of this.”

But he kept eye contact, and stood against her harangue.

“I could not have carved the marks, if they were not true.,” he re-emphasized.

“If you’re not using the magic at your best, then you’re not respecting it, son,” Granholm grimly said.  “You would never work like this, when using the Starpool Chalice runes to complete a sword.  You’ve been taught better than that.  And you’ve done better than that.”

“And you all could do better, than to come all at once, just to tell me I’m doing wrong.”

“Otherwise, you can’t say you’ve done right by Fawnlum?”  Nepta calmly asked.  “What price is your conscience willing to pay, just to say a piece was finished?”

“It won’t get done, as long as you keep pestering me.”

“What makes you think I’m trying to take your craft from you?”

“I know you’re not!  But I know what I’m doing!”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.  You’re just afraid to admit it, because you want to hide behind a mask of strength.  When Fawnlum holds what you want to give her, then you’ll be worthy of her.  But that’s simply not true.”

Baneck froze.  He stood, suddenly vulnerable, with empty hands hanging at his sides.  His wish to see a hostile look on her face, so he could give a justified and angry answer, fell short, for her fixed eyes stayed calm and peaceful.  Her quiet and composed aura held steady, not flashing with need of ranting and raving, to prove her own point of view.

The proud set of his visage drooped, as he stayed quiet.

“Feeling shame-faced yet?” Morgenferrin asked.  “You’ve made yourself a fool again.”

“No,” he said at length, as he forced himself to look Nepta in the eye.  “I’ve made an island of myself.  And there I sat, alone as a fool.”

“You need no such island to take refuge,” Nepta replied.  “Those who love you are here for you, for guidance as well as strength.”

Guiltily, he nodded.  Slowly, he said to Morgy, “Sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“I know it’s a marvelous metal to work with, son,” Granholm said.  “And that’s part of what’s driving you.”  He took a long look at the fiery shine, of Baneck’s current piece sitting on the coals.  “But Fawnlum is not going to die while waiting for your gift.”

Again, Baneck was silent, until he broke through his loss of words, and became honest with himself.

“I could give of myself, and justify myself, through the thing I created.  I could be known for such good things,” he admitted.  “And, I’ve felt I had catching up to do, for all the years others told me I wasn’t good enough for her.”  He squared his shoulders, with a little bit stronger measure.  “Frost-steel becomes unworkable if it cools.  I have to keep at this one piece, while the metal is hot.”

“Son.  Enough.  Torsar and I will keep the fire going.”

He shrugged, and with a wipe of his brow, untied his apron and put it over a peg.  Then, without the impulse of work distracting him, his hunger and depletion caught up to him, and he sat down to slouch back in the chair.

“Can I have a sip now?”

“No,” Morgy answered.

“Real food and rest,” Granholm told him.  “You take three days.”

Baneck looked up with incredulity.

“Yes!” his father stressed.  “Three!  Take a good breather, for all work you still have to do.  And go take a bath, before I throw you in the river myself.”

<*>                                                          <*>                                                      <*>

Fawnlum could not think of defeat, as more tri-cleorps gathered around her.  Her eyes only saw more to kill.

“Diergon!” she shouted, her heady battle-cry breaking above the noise of the fighting all around her, as her saber clashed against an enemy’s weapon.  The moment when a perfect battle-spirit could awaken was almost upon her, as the song of her warrior-god rose amid the clamor.

The beasts were numerous, and still coming for her.

She bounded up on the mound of bodies, and set upon the next pair trying to come at Halrick and Caitlyn, quick-switched her step, and lopped off the arm of one, and parried the weapon of the other.

A nasty blow from an iron cudgel landed on her arm, as she came together with Sienna in back-to-back fighting again.  It did not matter; nothing was going to stop her now.

She only paused, when she looked around, and no more enemies were in front of her.  Sienna, Halrick, Dreighton, and Caitlyn were all standing, all bruised and nicked.  With such few numbers they stood, victorious and glorious, amid the bodies of so many foes.  But there was no next wave.  No more came.

Cautiously, as her group held their position, Halrick put a couple of the wounded monsters out of their misery.

“Curses,” Sienna muttered, finally breaking the silence, looking daggers at the piles of bodies.  “We’ll have to dig in there to get all the ears.”

“Oi,” Dreighton said.  “Did they all just stop at once?”

There was nothing else stirring around them, except the flicker of the fire.

Lucas, having come out of the nest when the sounds of battle stopped, looked around tentatively.

“Check the trees,” Fawnlum said.  “Lucas, you stay here.”

“Wait,” Caitlyn called.  “Look.”

Following her pointing finger, they all saw it – – a black-shafted arrow sticking out of one of the dead.

Fawnlum nodded, and pointed outward.

They slowly walked out into the forest around their battleground.

Dreighton and Caitlyn returned, each holding an arrow with a shiny black tip.

“There’s a few more bodies out there,” Dreighton told her.

“It’s not just an archer,” Caitlyn said.  “A couple over this way were slain with fine blades and skilled cuts.”

“Elves,” Halrick muttered.

“Or Melbourne or his fellow rangers,” Fawnlum guessed.  “But let’s not waste time on theories.  Get the ears.  Sienna, Halrick, start taking their heads.  Caitlyn, watch from the north side.  Lucas, take the south.”