Chapter 133: The Chosen Contenders
"I heard it all, naturally. Get your terms in order; my office is ready to issue the notarized documents at a moment's notice."
A familiar voice boomed from behind, prompting the dwarves to spin around in unison.
Three tall figures stood at the edge of the crowd, their silhouettes carving the morning light into jagged fragments of shadow across the heads of the gathered smiths. Flanking the central figure were two clerks clutching quills and shorthand boards. In the middle stood a man of considerable girth who else but Haxoe, the Mayor of Cintra?
"Mr. Mayor, this was merely a verbal agreement. I don't believe there's any need to make it so... formal," the Guildmaster said, a forced smile plastered on his face as he tried to wave the Mayor away. He was confident in his victory, but with the Town Hall looming over the proceedings, his room for maneuver vanished instantly.
"Blacksmiths are the skeleton of this city. We cannot have them conducting business like hucksters haggling over cabbages in a market. Hurry your deliberations; I am ready to sign the decree."
The Guildmaster's heart skipped a beat. Those words had a hauntingly familiar ring to them. He squinted at the Mayor, and memories of twenty years ago surfaced the same posture, the same rhetoric. The only difference was that the roles and the speakers had been reversed.
Tarun Zigrin had held the seat of Guildmaster for the Cintra Blacksmiths' Guild for nearly fifty years. Back then, he wasn't quite as weathered, but he had already begun raising the bar for Guild membership under the noble guise of "advancing the standards of craftsmanship."
Anyone who couldn't pass the Guild's rigorous testing was barred from becoming a master smith, relegated forever to the rank of apprentice. At first glance, it seemed a meritocratic boon. The problem, however, was that a dwarf could spend a decade as an apprentice without feeling the sting of time; humans did not have such a vast expanse of years to squander.
In just thirty years, the number of new human smiths in the Guild had plummeted at a staggering rate. Even dwarven smiths who didn't belong to the Zigrin clan found themselves marginalized and pushed out.
Successive mayors of Cintra had attempted to negotiate with Tarun Zigrin, only to be rebuffed by an endless stream of excuses. The smithing industry in Cintra was sliding rapidly into becoming the private garden of the Zigrin dwarves, and voices within the court calling for a "purge" of dwarven influence were growing louder by the day.
Fortunately, Cintra had just emerged victorious from its war with Nazair and desperately needed rest and recovery. Calanthe had opted for the softer touch of bringing in Percival Schuttenbach rather than resorting to more forceful measures.
The Mayor gave Tarun Zigrin no chance to stall. He cleared his throat and declared:
"We've been standing aside long enough to hear the gist of it. Let's set this in stone."
The two clerks beside the Mayor raised their shorthand boards simultaneously, presenting the terms to the dwarves and Percival's party:
[Contract Terms: The Rising Smith Competition]
[Parties]: The Blacksmiths' Guild (represented by the Dwarves) vs. Percival Schuttenbach and Arthur.
[Format]: The Guild shall appoint one 'Rising Smith' to compete against Arthur. Both shall use identical materials to forge the same type of weapon within a set time limit. The one with the higher overall evaluation shall claim all stakes.
[Stakes]: The Dwarven faction provides the craft of the Sihil; Percival provides the craft of the Gwyhyr.
[Judging]: Evaluation standards shall be agreed upon by both parties, but the Town Hall shall serve as the final arbiter and judge.
"No objections from me," Percival said, crossing his arms and speaking first.
"If this is the will of the Queen, the Zigrin dwarves shall naturally comply," Tarun Zigrin said, gritting his teeth in a final, futile attempt at posturing.
"Oh? Are you suggesting I should inform Her Majesty that the dwarven smiths are willfully sabotaging a Royal commission?" Haxoe crossed his massive, fleshy arms over his chest, effectively blocking the dwarf's line of sight.
The Guildmaster was forced to take a step back just to look up and meet the Mayor's gaze, which held an undisguised threat.
"That... We are willing to abide by the Town Hall's oversight."
Under the weight of the political climate, Tarun Zigrin finally, and most reluctantly, bowed his head.
"If there are no other objections, let us begin."
Haxoe was about to seal the matter when an unexpected voice cut through the air.
"Wait a moment. I think the dwarven stake should be changed."
It was Percival. He was, surprisingly, speaking up for the dwarves. "If the other clans find out the craft of the Sihil leaked through the Guildmaster's hands, he'll be hacked into mincemeat with greataxes. I'll settle for the Glacial Longsword hanging in the Guild Hall instead."
Haxoe had come specifically to back the gnome; he wasn't about to snub him now. The Mayor waved a hand toward the end of the street. "Send a squad. Fetch the sword hanging in the Blacksmiths' Guild Hall."
"Ah, now wait "
Seeing a squad of soldiers march off with disciplined strides, Tarun Zigrin panicked. The Guild Hall wasn't just for receptions; it served as a gallery, lined with the masterworks of generations of legendary smiths. If a pack of soldiers went charging in there, what would be left?
But then he remembered the purges dwarven communities had suffered in other kingdoms. Tarun's lips trembled, but the protest died in his throat.
"Which of you will compete against this human?"
When Tarun turned back to his own kind, a heavy, stifling atmosphere had settled over the dwarven smiths. The Guildmaster had sworn Arthur was just a young human with no experience to speak of, but the weight of "victory is mandatory, failure is unacceptable" was a crushing burden. No one wanted to carry it.
Silence stretched for a long time. No one stepped forward. Tarun let out a weary sigh and pointed toward a dwarf at the very back of the crowd.
"You. You shall be his opponent."
Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the dwarves scrambled to either side of the Guildmaster's pointing finger, revealing the young dwarf designated to walk through the fire.
"And what right have I to represent the Blacksmiths' Guild?"
Stared down by a dozen pairs of eyes, the young dwarf showed neither nerves nor excitement; instead, he frowned deeply. "If we're talking schools and styles, the Guild has Verne, Cosette, and Austin any one of them looks down their nose at even a Sihil. If we're talking seniority, everyone here is my elder. You lot are either cornering the markets or carving out territories, and even the lowliest among you has his own private forge. It shouldn't fall to a newcomer like me!"
Thump!
Hearing Yarpen refuse, Tarun slammed his heavy wooden cane against the ground. "This is a matter of the Guild's honor! We Zigrins might enjoy a bit of scheme and polish in our spare time, but when it comes to the craft, we've never feared a soul!"
"Aye! The Guildmaster's right!" someone shouted from the back.
Tarun glared at Yarpen and continued, "Today, we've been backed into a corner. We can't play the coward. Isn't that right?!"
Amidst a chorus of agreement, Tarun jabbed a finger into Yarpen's chest and spoke with absolute finality:
"It's you. No more talk!"