Tales of the Vangen: The Siege of Middengard (Book 2)

Chapter 11: Black Iron

{There are only two ways one can wield magick effectively. The first is through natural selection, where one is born naturally with the Talent; A chance of one in a million with the odds stacked against your favor. The other is far more unnatural. To have the magick artificially imbued within you, turning your body into a sort of tuning fork, honing in on the frequency. The Stelecasters were made from the latter and not the former, having discovered the secret of magickal attainment many years ago. My father tells me I am lucky to be born the way I am. That I will never have to experience the horrors of becoming a Stelecaster. Sometimes I think otherwise.}

-An excerpt from the published journals of Brand, heir to house Golbegger

"Remember not to slouch," said Brand's father. "Stand straight. Eyes forward. And for the Forgefather's sake, try to act with some dignity when we walk in."

"Yes, father," said Brand obediently. A trickle of sweat cascaded down his temples. Whether from his nerves or the stifling heat radiating from the iron doors before him, he did not know.

The poorly illuminated passage deep within Ferrus Keep was like the inside of an oven. The air was uncomfortably dry and scorching, the metal walls practically rippling with heat. Brand's eyes stung the moment they'd stepped through the door leading in, his tongue soon a fat ball of cotton sticking to the roof of his mouth.

"You are not to speak unless directly addressed by the Stelecasters. Understood?" Brand's father held a nervous tone to his voice.

Brand nodded, his mask clanking gently against the iron gorget fastened around his neck. "Yes, father."

"And remember, we'll only have the one chance to impress them, so let me do the talking." Brand opened his mouth to reply but was quickly hushed over the iron doors slowly beginning to open. They slid back under the cacophony of grinding metal and clanking gears, disappearing into the walls, revealing their contents beyond.

Forge light spilled out into the corridor, blinding Brand temporarily as he blinked away the stars in his eyes. From beyond, he made out the silhouette of a narrow bridge, a circular platform standing beyond it.

"Walk." Brand's father commanded. They stepped onto the bridge, a long, intricate piece of metal forged entirely of Star Steel. The same as the platform. The intense warmth from the passage behind them was like a cool breeze compared to the even greater heat washing over Brand. Smoke billowed up in great vexing clouds carrying the scent of ash and char, stinging at his eyes and nose.

Brand soon realized why. They were in the very heart of Mount Callisto. As his vision slowly returned, he noticed the sheer obsidian rock walls surrounded him on all sides, vaulting up towards a pale open skyline. Lava poured from molten cracks in the walls and cascaded down in incredible volcanic waterfalls, roiling and bubbling towards the base of the mountain where the sounds of forge work could be heard.

Brand reached the rounded platform with his father and dared to peek over the edge. Through the hazy shimmer of smoke, he watched the darkened outlines of Jotuns, native giants of the Medial, working metal over anvils, pouring molten steel into ingot molds. Every clang and clamor followed close with the rattling of chains, the snapping of whips, the horrid din of forced labor down in the mother of all forges. It made his stomach sick simply watching the dreadful affair.

The sound of squealing metal pulled Brand away from the edge as more of the iron doors with the enormous cavern opened nearby—Figures dressed in similar attire as he stepped forth from their own bridge towards their own platform. He counted five in total, including his own, the entire structure forming a semi-circle around an intricately raised balcony.

Brand's father tensed up, grabbing hold of his son for support. "Here they come. Do as I said. Stand straight. Eyes forward."

Brand did so as heavy footsteps echoed in the balcony's direction, its metal finery like burnished gold vines twisting into a solid form. Metal clanked in uniformed procession alongside the slapping of armored boots, the jingle of chain, the clatter of mail.