Chapter 138: First Contact with a Rune Blade
The mysterious figure was lean and tall; as two soldiers hoisted him up, half of his lower legs dragged uselessly against the cobblestones.
The soldiers, having no sympathy for an instigator, showed not a shred of gentleness. They gripped his arms in a rough lock and dragged him toward Hackshaw.
"Hmm?"
Hackshaw's brow furrowed deeper with every step they took. It wasn't the soldiers' brutality that bothered him it was a visceral, instinctive feeling that something was wrong.
Scrape...
As the agitator was dragged to within a dozen paces, a faint, rhythmic sound reached Hackshaw's ears, and he finally realized what was unsettling him.
The mithril sword Arthur had thrown earlier had completely skewered the man's calf. Being dragged along the ground meant the blade was constantly grinding against the stones, inevitably wrenching the wound open further.
Yet the fellow hadn't uttered so much as a whimper.
Was he truly that iron-willed?
"Off with the hood!" Hackshaw barked, stepping forward.
The soldiers looked at the Mayor in confusion but complied, yanking back the fabric to reveal a delicate, pale face. Blood was beginning to seep from his nose and mouth.
It was an elf.
"Dammit, he's trying to kill himself!"
Hackshaw lunged forward, prying the elf's jaws open with a vice-like grip. Ignoring the filth, he reached inside and fumbled along the rows of fine teeth until snap he broke one off.
"Agh!"
This time, the elf, who had maintained a facade of stoic defiance, let out a gut-wrenching howl. "You vile humans... one day, we will drive you all back into the sea!"
"Think you can start a riot and then scurry off to the afterlife with a bit of poison? Dream on!"
Hackshaw opened his palm, revealing a hollowed-out tooth containing traces of a dark substance. "Get this to the court mages. Have them reverse-engineer an antidote immediately. As for this elf..."
He looked at the cursing Aen Seidhe, a predatory smile spreading across his face. "Find the nearest privy and pump his stomach!"
"A man of action, that Mayor," Arthur remarked, watching the street clear.
In the mere fifteen minutes since the wager ended, the instigator had been carted off for "resuscitation," the dwarven smiths had been forcibly separated to cool their tempers, and even the Thunderfire Furnace was being hauled back to the Guildhall.
"With a Queen as short-fused as ours, you can't expect her officials to be gentle," Percival muttered. He poked Yarpin in the ribs. "Oi, dwarf-lad. You're likely persona non grata at the Guild now. Any plans for the future?"
Yarpin didn't answer. His body tilted sharply to the side, and he slumped into a dead faint.
"Well, suppose we'd better stash him at my place for now."
Percival nudged Arthur's elbow, gesturing for him to heave Yarpin onto the workbench.
"Is that wise? You just made the dwarves look like absolute fools," Arthur said, grabbing a damp towel. He began scrubbing the mirror-finish off Yarpin the coating was a dense film of dust and magic; fine for an emergency, but it would clog the pores and cause a nasty skin rot if left too long.
"Stop overthinking. The lad strikes me as the type who can look after himself. We just need to worry about the 'right now.'"
Percival's tone carried the easy confidence of one who had seen it all. "The real question is, what are you going to do? That sword, Glacier... it's a genuine Sihil. The only runic blade of its kind outside of Mahakam."
Arthur looked at him, genuinely puzzled. "What's there to worry about? You're the one who made the wager, not me. Their craft was inferior. Are they really going to come looking for trouble with me?"
Percival let out a low, mischievous chuckle.
"The Zigrin clan is vast; they wouldn't stoop so low as to harass you over a wager. But what if I told you I intend to give Glacier to you?"
"Give it to me?"
Arthur was momentarily stunned. "You're the one who placed the bet. The prize belongs to you."
Percival wore a sly, knowing grin. "No. I put up the stakes, but we won because of your skill. It's only right you take a share of the spoils. Don't go thinking I'm getting the short end of the stick, either I've already secured the most valuable thing: the secrets of the Sihil's forging. For a gnome like me, keeping a blade like that would bring nothing but headaches."
Arthur opened his mouth to protest further, but the words died in his throat as Percival unceremoniously shoved Glacier into his arms.
It was a sword of excessive length and weight more a ceremonial masterpiece than a practical battlefield weapon. Yet, for someone like Arthur, whose strength far eclipsed that of ordinary men, the balance felt perfect.
The rosewood scabbard featured intricate bas-relief carvings depicting a dwarven hero's quest to slay a dragon. But it wasn't the artistry that caught Arthur's eye; it was something far more subtle.
The moment his fingers gripped the hilt, he felt a faint ripple of magical energy. This wasn't just a masterwork it was a magical artifact.
He traced the source of the fluctuations. Hidden within the lines of the dragon-slaying scenes were several arcane symbols. They were constantly drawing in ambient magical particles from the air, channeling them into a steady, persistent effect.
This is...
Arthur's eyes lit up. He had seen references to this in Triss Merigold's Book of Illusions.
These were Magical Runes symbols etched into metal or wood that operated independently of a caster, manipulating Chaos through their very geometry.
Arthur's breath hitched. His excitement wasn't just for the discovery of a new branch of magic, but for the familiar prompt flickering before his eyes:
[Enchanting Proficiency Unlocked. Current Level: Uninitiated]
Talk about finding it when you least expect it!
He had spent so much effort searching, half-expecting he'd have to pry the secrets of enchanting out of the hands of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers. To think it would be handed to him by a gnome.
Compared to mages who lived in the shadows and toyed with conspiracies, dwarves were much easier to handle. Those "stunted stone-munchers" were stubborn, yes, but they had a redeeming quality: greed. As long as one was willing to drop enough coin, someone would eventually be tempted to trade runic knowledge for gold.
"Don't just stare at the scabbard! The blade is the true soul of the thing!" Percival raised an eyebrow, offering a pointed hint.
With a flick of his wrist, Arthur drew the sword. A crisp, melodic ring echoed through the room, and the ambient temperature seemed to drop instantly.
Compared to the ornate scabbard, the blade itself was deceptively plain. The forty-inch steel shimmered with an eerie blue tint under the light, looking so keen that merely standing near it felt like an invitation to bleed.
Along the central ridge of the blade, runes stretched all the way to the crossguard, glowing with a faint, ghostly azure light. As Arthur focused his gaze, translated text began to materialize over the symbols:
This blade's edge is as the White Frost that ends the world. It shall reap the foe like winter wind through withered grass.
"A bit dramatic, isn't it? What does it actually do?" Arthur muttered, swinging the blade toward a training dummy in the corner.
Swish.
The blade encountered almost zero resistance. The dummy's arm was severed instantly, the sensation as effortless as slicing through a soft tallow candle.
"Gods, that's sharp!" Arthur marveled. He had heard tales of blades so keen they could split a silk veil falling through the air, but this was on another level entirely.