Chapter 139: Take It, It's My Last Crown
"Hmph, that's nothing. You haven't even glimpsed the true power of a Sihil."
Percival stepped forward and spun the dummy, turning the severed edge toward Arthur. A thick layer of frost crystals had already crusted over the wood.
"See these? This is the true soul of Glacier!"
Frost...?
For a moment, Arthur couldn't fathom why a bit of frost was so impressive. Generally speaking, a sword wound's lethality boiled down to three things: disablement, blood loss, and—if the victim was unlucky—infection. The low temperature brought by these crystals would actually slow the blood flow, inhibit bacterial activity, and even act as a local anesthetic.
In short, if frost was all this runic blade had to offer, one would be better off coating a regular sharp sword with necrophage oil or common poison.
Faced with Arthur's skepticism, Percival didn't rush to explain. Instead, he pressed a finger to his lips, signaling for silence.
Crack... snap...
Faint, crystalline sounds pierced the workshop's clutter, reaching Arthur's ears. He squinted at the source—the stump of the dummy's arm. He realized with a start that the ice crystals were growing larger than they had been a moment ago.
"Hey, don't get too close! Mind your eyes!"
Arthur had barely leaned in for a better look before Percival pulled him back with theatrical urgency. A second later, the wood at the severance point suddenly shattered. Splinters of timber sprayed in every direction.
"What in the—?!"
Arthur stared at the dummy. Its arm now looked like a cucumber that had been smashed with a mallet, the jagged cracks filled with burgeoning ice.
"The dwarves call it the 'Coalesced Calamity.' It allows the blade to release energy stored within the runes upon impact, dealing continuous, internal damage," Percival explained, pointing at the shards. "If that had been a man instead of a wooden post, the growth and speed of those crystals would be tenfold. After all, the water content in a human body is on a completely different level than seasoned timber."
Arthur visualized the effect on a living target and felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine. Imagine a towering warrior, his torso shredded from the inside out by icy spikes, all because of a single, seemingly minor laceration on the skin...
There was only one word for it: brutal.
Small wonder these are so rare. And the only one to ever leave Mahakam is now in my hands.
When viewed in that light, a runic blade was truly one of the most formidable weapons in the known world. Arthur leveled the sword, studying the runes as their glow began to dim.
"How many of those strikes can it deliver?"
Percival stroked his beard, a reflective look crossing his face. "Tallon Zigrin would show off the blade every few years, but he'd only ever make one or two cuts. No one actually knows its limit. You'll have to find out for yourself—the blade is yours now, after all."
Arthur nodded. With a series of rapid-fire sweeps, he reduced the dummy to a heap of kindling. By the fifth strike, though the dummy's head fell, Arthur felt a distinct resistance in the metal.
It seemed the limit was four "Calamities."
The effect was undeniably powerful, but the fact that it triggered automatically on every strike was a drawback. It was perfect for dueling, but in a chaotic fray against multiple foes, the charges would be wasted on mere cannon fodder.
Furthermore, now that the charges were spent, had the blade's preternatural sharpness diminished as well?
Arthur picked up his own newly forged mithril sword and delivered a matching blow, cleaving the dummy's torso in half. He confirmed his suspicion.
"Without the magical frost, the mithril blade is actually the sharper of the two."
Percival clapped his hands in approval. "Sharp eyes! The magic of a runic blade lies in the arcane effects it unleashes during a strike. As for the smithing itself? It's top-tier work, certainly, but it can't hold a candle to a proper mithril alloy."
He let out a low, mischievous chuckle, his eyes darting toward the blade-core commissioned by the King.
"Once you finish that piece using the Gva'chir technique... only then will you understand the true meaning of 'ultimate sharpness.'"
Arthur rubbed his hands together, his gaze burning with anticipation. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's get back to it!"
But the gnome shook his head, speaking with uncharacteristic deliberation. "Forging requires absolute focus. You've just won a major wager; your blood is up and your mind is racing. That is no time to swing a forge hammer. Rest well tonight. We've made excellent time; there's no need to fear a delay."
Arthur was puzzled. In the time he'd known him, Percival had always been a whirlwind of activity, buzzing around like a spinning top. Why the sudden change of pace?
A faint groan from across the room provided the answer. He turned, joining Percival in looking toward the workbench—Yarpin had finally come to.
"Where... where am I?"
At first, the dwarf didn't notice the human and the gnome. His iron-grey eyes stared fixedly at the soot-stained ceiling, hollow and vacant as a marionette's. After a long moment, he let out a heavy sigh and tried to sit up to survey his surroundings.
But the arm that had swung an eight-pound hammer for four grueling hours was now as limp as boiled leath, the bone seemingly turned to jelly. Halfway through the motion, his strength failed. His body slumped back down, rolling precariously toward the edge of the workbench.
"Where am I? You—"
Yarpin expected to meet the floor face-first, likely losing a few teeth in the process, but a pair of powerful hands caught him. It was Arthur.
The dwarf muttered a word of thanks, then recognized both Arthur and Percival. The reality of the situation flooded back to him in an instant.
"So, it was you two who saved me. How can I ever repay the debt?"
"I merely gave you a slab to sleep on," Percival said. "You saved your own life, lad—remember that hammer blow you landed on the Thunderfire Furnace? You've gone and stirred up a mountain of trouble for yourself."
Percival's words sounded dire, but the grin on his face suggested he didn't find the predicament particularly tragic.
Yarpin fell silent for a moment, then looked up. "Dwarves hold their forges sacred. I'm finished in Cintra. I suppose I'll head to Kaedwen and try my luck with some old friends. Could either of you... lend me a bit of coin for the road?"
Seeing Yarpin's composure, Arthur felt a surge of genuine respect.
From a purely logical standpoint, Yarpin's ruin was brought about by the bullying of his kin and the interference of elven spies. But emotionally, a smaller-minded person would see Arthur and Percival as the root cause; without their wager, Yarpin would never have been the scapegoat. Yet Yarpin held no grudge. Instead, he reached out for help with remarkable candor.
Arthur intended to hand him a hundred crowns, but as he reached into his tunic, he realized something alarming. Between compensating the stablemaster for the mare, the costs of smithing, and paying for his apprenticeship, the hoard of crowns he thought would last forever had become... quite countable.
I need to find a contract soon, he thought, suppressing a flash of embarrassment.
He palmed a few stray coins for himself and handed the rest of the pouch to Yarpin.
"There are fifty Novigrad crowns in here. Use them sparingly, and they should see you across the border. And... keep your wits about you when you cross the Yaruga. If you see a ship flying a tattered saltire flag, don't board it."
Yarpin gave Arthur a strange, lingering look. He hadn't expected this young human, who had outclassed him in every possible way, to be such a chatterbox.
He accepted the pouch with both hands, his expression solemn.
"This is more than enough. I hope the path brings us together again, so I may repay your kindness."