Chapter 129: Blades That Lie

Chapter 129: Blades That Lie

Florimund held a pure white—likely genuine ivory—chisel in his right hand, a hammer in the left. He turned them about in his hand, inspecting them for any flaws or deficiencies. The other warriors looked over his shoulder, leaning atop him to see the thing better.

They sat cross-legged on the floor in a rather strange place—a silk-crafting room. Above, there were innumerable cocoons, each made of black silk. It made Argrave quite uncomfortable, but he hoped Galamon, standing just behind him, would stop him from being hit by any dislodged bugs. There was a loom, too, and a female southron elf attendant, who paid loose attention to the many warriors and two outsiders in her building.

The conversation had gone passably, and Argrave had explained most of what he needed to the southron elves. They had agreed to communicate with Durran, though nothing more and nothing less. That was what Argrave needed.

The chisel and hammer were the items that Argrave had acquired in the southron elf tomb—though the Brumesingers had been the purpose of their visit then, in ‘Heroes of Berendar,’ the reason the player went was to obtain those items. It was a fetch quest to earn the southron elves’ trust. It wasn’t entirely dissimilar to how Argrave was using them now, yet different enough Argrave had some doubt.

“Been near a century since I’ve seen a complete set of these,” Florimund noted, and the other warriors in the room nodded, clearly impressed. “Do you know what these are?” he raised them up.

“They’re the tools for your illusion magic,” Argrave nodded.

Morvan No-Nose crossed his arms. “Don’t call it magic, you damned palm tree. It’s artisanship. The Way of Worldbending.”

“It’s magic,” Corentin shook his head. “Stop being a pretentious twat.”

Argrave might’ve been uneased by the banter bandied about, but he felt it was actually a good sign coming from these people. If the southron elves hated you, they acted polite. If they welcomed you, they always said what was on their mind, even if it was incredibly rude.

Florimund handed the tools off to the other warriors, who eagerly took them from his hands and examined them. “Why are you showing us these?”

“I’m giving them to you,” Argrave held his gaze.

They all cast a glance at Argrave in that moment—surprise and suspicion bundled together.

Argrave held his hand up. “They’re Gebicca’s, by right. She told me of the tomb. And I’m pretty certain she’d want to give it to you.”

“Don’t pull that noble nonsense,” Corentin waved his hand. “You can’t use it, so you’re giving it to us.”

Argrave laughed. “Even if I could use it, I’d give it to you. Not because I’m some saint, but because I don’t have a use for it.” The people bristled at him when he said that, like he was contesting some point of pride of theirs. Argrave quickly added, “They’re largely stationary things—entryways, traps. I very rarely sleep in the same place twice.”

“Hmph. Stationary,” Florimund chuckled. “You must never have seen our glaives at work.”

Think I’ve hooked them, Argrave thought, but feigned ignorance, shaking his head.

“Warriors have a hard time of things,” one of the veteran southron elves spoke—a one-handed man named Yann. “Compared to spellcasters like you… vastly different trajectory. Mages start off piss-weak—a militiaman with a spear could slaughter most mages up to D-rank. The spells are slow, then, lacking power, lacking control.”

Argrave nodded, agreeing with this assessment.

“But mages… they don’t have the same ceiling,” Yann continued. “There’s only so much a warrior can do with his body alone. The spellcasters keep getting stronger and stronger, and before long, they leave the warriors in the dust.”

“Of course, not everyone is cut out to be a spellcaster, elsewise we’d still have a few more eyeballs and limbs, I suspect. None of us can cast a spell for shit,” Florimund stood. “At some point, we warriors have to look for other ways to handle things. Ways to exceed the constraints of our bodies.”

Florimund walked to the corner of the room, retrieving a glaive. He turned back to Argrave and Galamon.

“Does the big one care to have a spar?”

Galamon placed his hand on the pommel of his greatsword, adjusting his position. He looked down to Argrave, who gave him a nod of approval.

“My blade is enchanted,” Galamon tapped his sword. “I’ll have to use my axe.”

“I’m too old for a real spar,” Florimund shook his head.

“Don’t listen to him,” Morvan interrupted. “He’s a damned force of nature.”

Florimund grinned, then shook his head. “I’ll use the blunt end of the glaive. All you have to do… is block or dodge a swing.”

“Do it outside,” the female loom worker chastised.

Florimund cleared his throat, and then stepped outside. Everyone rose to their feet, following. Galamon drew his axe and moved to stand opposite Florimund. The veteran southron elf twirled the glaive about before holding it in front of him, at the ready.

“If you’ve got enchanted weaponry, you’ve already realized the limits of your body,” Florimund called out.

“Hmm,” grunted Galamon.

“Let’s begin,” Florimund said. He stepped forward, swinging his glaive towards Galamon incredibly simply. Galamon pivoted, holding the axe out to intercept it.

Then, in a manner that made no visual sense at all, the back of Florimund’s glaive struck Galamon in the neck. Galamon twisted his body, moving with the blow, and stepped away. He stepped back, then raised his head, white brows furrowed in confusion.

The old southron elf smiled, while some of the veterans hooted and hollered. Florimund planted the bottom of the glaive in the ground. “You’ve got damned sharp instincts, quick reflexes. Had I been using the sharp side, I don’t think my blow would’ve killed you. You’d be bleeding bad, though, can guarantee you that.”

Galamon rubbed at his neck. He stepped forward, holding his axe out. “Again,” he commanded.

Florimund kicked the bottom of his glaive, setting it spinning about in his hand. With a final flourish, he held it at attention. “Once more, then,” he said, moving forward with a snarl.

The glaive moved once more. The blow was not exceptionally fancy or fast, and Galamon braced himself to receive it. Argrave paid special attention this time—the blade of the glaive seemed to move with a will of its own, and Galamon twisted the axe about, yet never caught it. Finally, it struck him squarely on the forehead.

“Ooh,” Florimund winced. “A bit worse this time. You get caught up in your own head, make a mistake. Seen it happen a thousand times before.”

Galamon stared at Florimund, unoffended. He hefted the Ebonice axe in his hand, and then took a step back. “Again,” he repeated.

“The man loves to get beat,” Corentin crossed his arms, one eye watching the spectacle.

Florimund took his stance, as serious as the first time. He stepped forward, swung, and Galamon waited. He did not move his axe about wildly. Instead, he calmly moved to receive the blow. It didn’t look like it would catch anything, but then, a ringing echoed out.

The distortion settled, and the axe had met the glaive. Galamon locked the beard of his axe around the blade and pulled forward. Florimund was pulled forward briefly but released the glaive. Galamon advanced, then held his hand out and flicked Florimund in the forehead.

The crowd erupted into cheers and laughter, and Florimund stopped himself from falling by placing his hand against the ground. He rose to his feet, rubbing his forehead, then took the glaive out of Galamon’s grasp.

Once the uproar had settled, Florimund called out, “I’m impressed.”

“Yeah, you’d better be!” Yann shouted, then broke off into laughter.

“It’s the blade that’s wrong. Had to follow the way your hand, your arm, your wrists moved,” Galamon noted, staring at the glaive. “That told me where the glaive really was.”

“Took Durran twenty tries to grasp that principle, and I thought he was fast at it,” Florimund shook his head. “Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe it wasn’t. But you get the point I was making, no? This is what we achieve with the Way of Worldbending.” Florimund held the glaive up into the air. “Blades that lie. Arrows that should miss. Outcomes that shouldn’t be.”

Argrave felt pride in his choice of companions, hearing that Galamon outperformed Durran.

“You didn’t see the blade, either,” Galamon claimed.

“Very sharp,” Florimund nodded. “We have to learn our weapons extensively. The sensation of the weight, the resistance—we have to use that instead of our eyes. But back in the day, when our empire rode against the tribals, Brumesingers leaving a melody of war in our wake, each swing uncontested, our charge relentless… nothing could stop us,” Florimund lowered his head, reminiscing.

“And what brought you here?” Galamon pressed. “What changed?”

“Everything. Everything except us,” Florimund shook his head.

“Not too late for you,” Argrave suggested. “Put aside your enmity, help Durran and his people wipe out the Vessels.”

“Hey, there’s a time and a place, huh?” Corentin reprimanded.

“The kid isn’t wrong,” Yann shook his head.

“We can’t afford to wage war,” Florimund stepped forward, using the glaive as a walking staff. “There’s maybe a hundred of us. We’re all trained, all dangerous, but… too few.”

“Maybe I’m wrong… but Durran wants equipment, no?” Argrave raised a brow. “I’m sure you’ve told him the same thing you just told me.”

“That’s right,” Florimund nodded. “You’re sharp, too, it seems, though in a different way from that one,” he pointed to Galamon. “I’ll work something out with Durran. Settling a thousand-year grudge… can’t be done with an outsider as a mediator,” he looked at Argrave deliberately. “But I will tell you this. You wipe out the Vessels from Sethia, as you claim… I can make your elven companion’s weapons like this glaive, here—the axe, the sword, the arrows, it matters not.”

Argrave raised a brow. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah, are you serious?” Corentin questioned. “We’re talking about our people’s secrets, Florimund.”

“Come off it,” Morvan interrupted. “Maybe our knowledge will live on. Look at us here—before long, we won’t have any choice but to inbreed. Population’s thin, thins every year. Can’t we see the writing on the wall?”

Florimund turned and half-shouted, “Let’s not have this conversation here, now,” he said pointedly, and that seemed to gather everyone’s thoughts.

Once everyone settled, Florimund directed his attention back to the two of them. “For now, you may consider yourselves to be welcome among us. We will spread word of you to our people… though I suspect everyone already knows of your presence. We will speak to Durran.”

“I was hoping you could stand as the point of contact between the two of us,” Argrave waved between them. “Difficult for me to do so, in my position.”

“Then we can do that. We will migrate, soon. Take the sword in the desert for us, when you leave—destroy it. That will sever the illusion magic. We will travel through the mountains, to Otraccia. Do you know of it?”

“I do,” Argrave nodded. “I’ll return in some days.”

“Then we will look forward to good news from you,” Florimund held out his hand. “I am sure the others will wish to say their goodbyes. Come, won’t you?”