The Tempering

  * * *

  Groth awoke from a dark dream, a dream in which he felt as if he were being suffocated with one of the soft weakling pillows the human whores put on his bed. The night before, when he went to bed he threw the pillows into the fireplace, and last night when he returned from the forge they were replaced, and burned. How humans could be so soft and yet so deadly on the battlefield was one of the many idle things he reflected on when he wasn't directly working on his sword, but the thing he pondered most was the dreams he had each night, the same black, murmuring-haunted dreams.

  He awakened with the same alluring desire, though, a compelling overwhelming urge to work on his sword. As soon as he heartily tore through the contents of the tray some human wench or another had brought to him in his sleep, he shit in the chamberpot and returned to his work. The human assistants he was given already had the forge-fires burning bright and strong, and the mostly-completed blade was sitting in the corner just where he'd left it, next to the already finished hilt. If it had've been moved, he would've been very angry. He didn't understand why, but there it was. Not that any of them would've been stupid enough to do so. Their king had already made it very clear what would happen to them if Groth were disobeyed in any way.

  “Hotter," he grunted at the assistant working the bellows, and the thickly-muscled fellow's motions doubled in effort. As the man's muscles started to tighten and lose some of their endurance, the speed of the bellows slowed.

  Groth moved casually to the man's side, and kicked him soundly in his kidneys. "Keep it up, or I'll tell your ugly king you've displeased me." Groth's snort of pleasure was so hard when the man's eyes flared in fear and pain that the snot that flew from his snout sizzled in the fire. The man's movement sped up to such a comical speed that the sweat from his body rolled over his flesh in visible waves. Soon after the man collapsed in a feeble heaving heap, and Groth attempted to drag him from the edge of the flames, but the man was too muscle-heavy. Since the man was Groth's best assistant and he needed him, and since there was a strain of compassion in Groth that had kept him from being a proud orken warrior, he called his other two assistants over to help him drag the man to safety.

  "He's on break. You," Groth said, pointing to a skinny-wiry fellow, "man the bellows." The man bowed his blonde short-haired head low, and almost ran into the fire in his eagerness. These men had learned respect. Just like in his smithy at home, he was certainly held in high regard in the lair of the anvil if nowhere else. And it wasn't just his harsh discipline. The humans and his own brethren respected him mainly for his skill, which might have been impressive even by Dwarven standards.

  His thoughts of dwarves gave him a notion that made his eyes gleam. "Go tell that whiny Respin," he said to the short portly man who wasn't much taller than himself, "that I need his 'assistance' on a major quibble on this sword. Run!" The little hairy ball of a man had left the room tripping on his leather apron before Groth could turn to inspect the coals in the oven.

  When the coals were bright enough, Groth took the heavy tongs from the wall rack to place the blade in the coals. Groth didn't need to wear the heavy leather gloves or apron his assistants wore, his leathery hide was plenty thick for the job. The fire had already burned off the few hairs his arms and face had, but it would grow back as it always did. He had his assistant pump the bellows at a slower but still steady pace, while he put the final polish on the black hilt and wrapped it with a fine but very strong grade of light-brown leather.

  Groth was still inspecting the hilt when Respin seemed to float into the room. His assistant did not return with him. Respin still had that slight nauseating sneer he'd had since the day Groth had begun his work, and though he wasn't as brutal or violent as his fellow orcs he still wanted to smash the wizard's delicate face in.

  "You summoned me for a trifle, little stained leather one?" Respin almost slurred, his smooth words with but a trickle of venom, "I, of course, will assist you in any way your silly little brain can fathom. That does not include sexual gratification, of course. I've seen some of the handiwork of an orken ravage, and though I know you orcs like men more than women, I'm more than afraid the answer is no." And to finish with grace, he spit in Groth's face and smiled at him in a way which suggested that he should like it.

  Respin was slightly surprised at the speed Groth displayed when he threw the hilt at his head, and for a moment Groth's eyes seemed to blaze as a solid red whole when the hilt swirled around Respin's head with a taunting dance accompanied by silly tinkly music.

  "La ha ha and la he he, tried to brain me to get a piece, hmn? La ha ha and-woah!" Respin barely caught the handfuls of smoking coal as they cut through the air at him. He had them dance counterpoint in rhythm with an added bass line. Groth then dug two heavy handfuls of coals from the oven and rushed him with nothing but death in his heart. Groth hit an invisible wall and went spinning, the blood from his face dancing a new tune in Respin's growing symphony of silliness. Respin froze the coals that had went sprawling from Groth's blistered hands into sparkling clear blue balls of ice, and yet another flighty instrument insulted the senses of the still-conscious orc.

  "I see that you have all that you need here, orc, and I suggest you bother me no more. Oh, and if you happen to mention this little incident to our dearly beloved king, think of what might happen to you in your dreams, hmn?" Respin's smile was one that was just enough to cause Groth to suspect he knew more than any mortal should about his previous night's sleep. When Respin realized this by the crease in Groth's brow, his smile grew broader.

  "I think I'll give you a little taste tonight. Yes. Just a little nibble. He he! Get back to work." Respin turned to walk away, and his dancing toys fell to the floor at the same instant the music ceased.

  "He's your king, not mine, devil puppet," said Groth through blood and broken teeth.

  "Is that so. Believe what you must." He kicked Groth in his ribs, and though the kick had his full strength behind it, the orc barely noticed. Respin actually floated instead of seeming to as he left the room, leaving the heavy oaken door wide open.

  Groth sat up. "Get me a rag," Groth said politely to his assistant. Stunned by his lack of crude spartan cruelty, the assistant momentarily paused before pulling a somewhat clean cloth from his belt and wetting it in the cool water barrel.

  "Thank you," Groth said as he wiped the blood from his face. "Where'd that lazy fuzzy one go? There's work to be done. You send him off to. . . Do you hear that?"

  "Hear what?" asked the blonde one. He strained his ears, and from down the hall he could hear a sloshing rasp, a sound like something wet dragging itself down the hall and straining horribly to breathe. Groth and Blondie both walked to the open door, and the travesty they saw horrified even the human-hating orc. Brothers of the forge had a bond with one another, even if it was a gossamer thin one that existed between orc and human.

  "ED!" Blondie screamed as he rushed to the bloody almost-human thing his friend had become. Ed's skinless appendages left a trail of crimson and sickly yellow ichor in his wake on the rough stone floor.

  "Horad," Ed croaked through toothless gums, "What. . .did I do? What did I do. . ." His breath left him in a savage rippled rush, and his entire body flared into a grey-flamed black cloud. The cloud quickly dissipated, and all that was left was a dull red glow the shape Ed's misshapen torture had been. Just as quickly as the cloud did the glow faded away to be replaced by stone-cold nothing. A laugh was heard in the distance, and there was no mistaking whose it was.

  "Respin," said Groth. He sat against a wall with his head in his hands.

  "He wasn't even human anymore, he. . .he. . ." Horad's face hardened. As he walked back toward the forge room, the assistant that had passed out earlier stepped into the doorway.

  "What's goin' on out here, fellas? Did I miss -- " Horad shoved past him, a wild torment blazing in his saddened eyes. He went to where the sword lay in its fiery womb, removing it with the tongs he took from
the wall. With all his strength his throw smashed the yellow-red sword against the wall, bending the blade over backwards to form a crooked V. With the tongs he picked it up again and doused it in the fat barrel of water. Groth walked back into the forge room just when the steam from the violent combination of the elements was its thickest.

  Groth's red eyes seemed to glow through the man-made fog as he glared with hatred at his grief-maddened assistant.

  "What have you done? What have you done! The sword." Groth rushed to the barrel, pulled up the stool he needed to stand on, and an overwhelming emotion of obscure fury washed over him as he looked upon his ruined work.

  Horad released his grip on the tongs and the blade sank to the bottom of the barrel. Groth immediately lunged for it, and just as quickly fell in head-first, feet kicking. He tried to tilt the barrel over, but before he could even get a rhythm going good Horad grabbed him by his feet and held the barrel still. Groth's struggles were useless.

  "If it weren't for that stinkin' sword the king's forcin' us to help you make, you would've never had Ed go bring that Devil here and Ed would still be alive. Fuckin' orc. I know the king'll have my ass for this, but I'll have the satisfaction of drowning you to go with me to the grave."

  "Ed's dead?" Groth heard the musclebound assistant ask dimly through water and fading senses.

  "Ed's dead, you overgrown barbarian rat-faced dwarf-fucker. That bastard Respin killed him because of this stupid orc and our dear blind barbarian king."

  "Overgrown rat-faced dwarf-fucker, hmn? Tell me all about it in the infirmary. I have to take shit from the orc on pain of Death from the king himself, but I'm sure if I save the little orc's life, a little head-smashing at your expense won't even be noticed." With a feral grin he rushed Horad, smashing into his side with his hulking shoulder. The force of his charge broke Horad's ribs, and the force of his impact against the stone wall cracked open his skull. Horad fell hard, his cracked head kissing the floor with a hard heavy thump.

  Groth's last living assistant pulled him from the barrel, and though he hung on to life by a bare thread, his hands were clutched in a firm grip around the dull bent blade.

  Groth wasn't moving. The assistant lowered him to the floor, and gently pried his fingers from the unfinished sword. When his skin first made contact with the warm wet blade, a small spark of static discharge made the big man flinch. He finally finished removing the cold steel from the orc's grasp and pushed on his chest until the orc was choking on water and breathing free.

  Groth smiled up at the huge human that had saved his life. His eyes showed his gratitude, but the man's reasons for Groth living kept him from making it verbal. The man smiled, and the orc smiled back. It was then when a mocking laughter, very familiar to both of them, made the man smile, and Groth to curse his luck. Then he remembered the reason he had sent for Respin, and smiled. And he thought it was going to be one of those days.

  "Well, well, well. So the orc thinks he can forge a sword. Is that what you call that bent thing so casually lying over there on the floor? I had heard word that you were actually good at what you did. It seems someone's lied. You're still the dumb orc I've always known." His smile was the same cruel joke, his smell the same rancid stink of the dungeons, but one thing was different about the dirty dwarf.

  He didn't bring his axe was the happiest thought Groth had had in a while.

  "Hello Azul," said the human.

  "Poor Hathor. What kind of crime did you commit to gain such displeasure from our forthright and justly king? Poor Hathor. Poor, poor Hathor."

  "Orders are orders. Mine is not to disobey."

  Azul's mock-sad gaze returned to Groth. "What puzzles me, orc, is why our dearly beblinded king wants so poor a blacksmith as you, and an orc at that (Sarin fuck me), to forge a sword. Do you think you can fill me in, or do I have ta roast you over a nice big blazin' fire to quench my itch?"

  "I was going to send for you earlier," said Groth. "In chains. But it seems I didn't have a chance to enforce it. Complications. Hathor, close the door. It seems I and a certain dwarf have things to discuss." He stood on shaky legs, but he stood with pride.

  "So the big bad orc wants to fight. It seems to be my lucky day," said Azul with such malicious glee it seemed his head would explode.

  Hathor closed the door.

  "Hathor?" said Groth.

  "Yes Groth?"

  "I'm in no condition to fight this sorry excuse for a Motherfucker. Will you hit him a few times so it'll be a fair fight?"

  Hathor looked over at Azul, who had a slightly worried look in his eyes. He gazed over at Groth, who was on trembling legs. "I'm sorry Groth. I can't do that to Azul. He's a good friend of mine."

  "If you don't, Hathor, I'll have to tell the king it was you who attacked me and -- Groth looked to where part of Horad's blood-soaked brain lay on the floor next to the rest of him -- murdered Horad when he came to my defense. Oh, you could just kill me, but you know your king, and from what I hear, no matter the explaining you'll do you'll still litter the floor of his throne room, probably before you even get a chance to speak. Whatever you do besides what I tell you to do will get you killed. Hit him or he'll kill me, and you'll die as well."

  "I'll help no orc hurt a friend of mine! I'd rather die! Fight him yourself or not at all. If you -- "

  "Out of my way, barbarian! That orc is dead! I'll kill him with my bare hands!" Azul charged in, and both he and Groth fell to the hard floor. Claws tore at eyes, dirty nails dug deep into orc-flesh. In their fury they rolled toward the oven, its coals still blazing hot, and with a free hand Groth grabbed a handful and held them to the dwarf's face. Azul's raspy cry of agony was the gurgling screech of a dying rabid banshee. Hathor thundered over and gouged the two apart, carrying Azul to the barrel to dip his horribly burned head and neck into the lukewarm water.

  "I didn't need your help anyway, Hathor," Groth chuckled. "It seems I've won on my own. I wasn't finished with him, though."

  With speed that seemed impossible for one so big, Hathor was one moment laying the unconscious Azul to the floor and the next smashing a booted foot into the side of Groth's head. He said, with barely-controlled rage in his normally mild baritone voice, "I won't kill you orc, though I would love it more than you could ever know, but king Grathulus would hunt me until the end of my days if I killed you, the gods only know why. If I leave you alive, it's possible he won't bother with me or Azul at all, and it's the only chance we'll have. I'll admit I usually wouldn't care so much for a dwarf, but he's pulled my ass out of the fire too many times on the battlefield against your kind, and I owe him my life."

  "Go run away with your dwarf then. I never -- " A harsh kick silenced him, followed by another and another.

  Leaving the orc in his misery, Hathor picked the barely-living dwarf from the floor, opened the door with his foot. The door creaked shut slowly behind them. Groth slowly closed his eyes, and whether he passed out or simply fell into a deep sleep from sheer exhaustion, the world faded, for the moment.

  Groth awoke, but not to the world of consciousness. He knew immediately that Respin was true to his word, for the first thing he noticed in this world-not-his was the happy, macabre music he had earlier unwittingly helped Respin create. Groth was uncertain exactly how real Respin's dream world was compared to the waking one, but he was sure he didn't want to find out. He knew that if Respin's powers were half as good in a dream as they were in reality. . .

  “The dream begins in a world of fog!” a mad maniacal voice screamed. The sheer volume of the words assaulted his senses; crushed his brain, shattered his ears, weakening him to the point of collapse on the foggy, airy mist. The next moment his head was as clear as he guessed it had ever been, his senses sharp. The grey fog turned black in a small area above him, and coalesced into a large flat black disk.

  “Run away!” from the ear splitting voice was the only warning he got before he felt himself and the fog around him being sucked into the disk's deep gulfs. Groth
had no intention at all of running from the disk. After all, it was only a dream, but an odd compulsion not of his own will compelled him with an unreasoning fear to run with all his might, and having no choice in the matter, he ran.

  As he ran, with the disk getting no smaller behind him, the multicolored fog being sucked into the disk began to slowly form itself into distorted versions of things he knew, and things he'd heard described which he imagined he knew. In the dream, all known and unknown to him went spinning and twisting and inverting past him, in globs and pairs and stretched malformations, to be sucked into the black evernothing that didn't really seem to be trying that hard to suck him into its dark, unfathomable belly.

  Fear. Mad, unshakeable, his will could not break it. His body would not or could not respond to his unyielding hatred of being controlled by forces other than his own. Though such a phenomenon was not unknown to his world of dreams, Groth could somehow feel the icy cold subliminal tendrils of Respin's thoughts digging their dirty claws into his psyche. The temptation to give in and let the uncertainty float him to a safe place, where his will could rest and his mind soar free, was far stronger than seemed natural. But Groth knew that to give up would cost him his soul, and once buried beneath the waves he might never be able break free to the surface and breathe free again. Would the pressure of resistance eventually break him? He was determined to find out the hard way, the only way. He would not surrender his will to anyone or anything, especially not an odd magician whom he strongly suspected preferred to lay with his own sex.

  Broken man who wants to break others to make himself feel a little better, Groth thought. I'll bet he thought a mere orc would be easy prey. Heh. Heh heh. . .something. . .something. . .

  Ha ha!!! So simple. So simple! Perhaps some of our mad ones aren't as crazy as. . . Groth's laughter broke into a mad uncontrollable fit, and it seemed as if no time at all passed between the moment he had no control and the moment he'd turned running toward the black disk with his arms flung wide. He jumped at the disk and fell through to consciousness, lying almost dead next to a dull bent piece of metal. A dull, bent piece of metal. Well I'll be damned forever in a hell all my own. The water. The Damned water. I'll be damned and damned and damned again. We'll see. We'll just see. And all the time, in some dark corner of his mind, his laughter never ceased.

  Groth walked to where the bellows lay idle, and began to pump it as if he had enough energy to run full speed across the world.