Smell of burning firewood and spiced meat whiffed the area. In waves people spilled and mixed on to the streets. They shouted, pushed and bargained with one another, as merchants, artisans and performers worked their guts out in hope of attracting the already busy populace. Butchers actually flailed those around as they stuffed sausages, while cobblers knocked soles and showed off their merchandise. Among other smells like dairy and ale, roamed the strong scent of herbs and mushrooms.

Small figures whom had two nibs for horns, red skin, and deep dark eye sockets, ran around the streets. White-dressed children ran after them, toppling and tumbling on one another. Quite a few carts and baskets were thrown down by them, spilling potatoes and tomatoes, among other weird things like purple or black fruit. Humans did not seem bothered by the chaos, some even laughed as if they were having the time of their life in the mess of the little ones.

“What’s with the demons,” asked Magus.

His red robe swayed in the wind, revealing bags and pouches tied around the thin waist covered by a black material. What he saw contradicted the immense hatred humans always depicted to have for demons. Chasing was nowhere near to being tortured or nailed to a pyre.

“Those are children,” answered Iphis. She wore a white dress this time, wherever she got it from even Magus did not know, nor care. “It’s part of human tradition before Vita’s eve for them to dress like this. Pay it no heed.”

The undead did not know what Vita or her eve was, but even the castle was bustling with festivity. A large, wooden human, if you can call it like that, was built in the courtyard. Various bards and even a circus came. They sang, danced, did stunts, or just acted stupidly. Some perhaps weren’t acting though, as they inhaled smoke and ate fire or swords.

Unfortunately, the undead had little time to investigate the famous freak show, as the Duke’s son had returned a couple days ago, forcing the undead to up its game. That human’s existence was bothersome, but killing him was also equally irritating. He never seemed to leave the small group of soldiers, nobles and fragranced women that swarmed him. They fooled him, sucking out gold and favors like leeches did blood. It was usual human behavior as far as the undead cared, but the constant presence of theirs was incredibly vexing, not to mention all the eyes that already followed it’s every move.

Then came the daily bother of his ‘tutoring’, which was nothing more than him showing by example. Not a lot of use was in the silver grimoire to actually learn magic, it was more of a book about magic, than on it. Knowledge was useful though, and it managed to answer a few questions… but a lot more popped up afterwards.

“Have you never celebrated this?” Suddenly spoke Lucy, the Duke’s daughter. She was like a thorn in the undead’s spine for the past few days, glued and not letting go.

After the incident where she almost died from loss of mana, he expected for the little girl to have mentally exhausted herself or at least become fearful of repeating the event again. He was wrong, she did not give up. In fact, she visited him even more. Every morning, midday and evening she would come, be it his room or anywhere else. Like a dog after it’s master she always sniffed him out.

It seems that she learned how to ignite mana on her own and was diligent enough to stop before her body crumbled again, so it was relatively safe for her to play around with it, but the main bother still remained – that cursed power.

The undead could feel it since the time she healed herself. It was sickening and poisonous, as if made to reject everything he came to be. After snooping around and interrogating the few white robed men in the chapel, his worries were confirmed. It was not magic, but a different power. A complete opposite of his own – hatred, he first called it – that reanimated the dead. Humans called her power holy, or positive, energy. How conceited their naming sense was, making the power of the dead – negative energy – sound so bad.

Thankfully the girl was still inefficient in her magic and the private lessons didn’t last for long. Though, just like now, she started to follow him even in the little free time from everyone’s eyes he had.

Finding such time, he left the castle with the goal of scouting out the city and human activity, as well to prepare a few bits and pieces for his future plans. Though, with the worst timing ever, as it was usual of humans to ruin his mood, the little girl decided to tag along with him. She even brought ten guards and a knight this time, or perhaps her father has ordered them to look after her.

What a bother, he thought, seeing the festivity drain from people’s faces as they scuffled to the side to give way for the large group.

The walking chunks of metal, their clanging, the girl’s giggling, and everything else, seemingly took over the whole street in an invisible, yet noticeable, space normal peasants could not intrude.

Their fake everyday life in face of nobility was sickening and ruined the undead’s study. He wanted to see their ‘natural’ state, how they think and behave, not an exhibit of lowered eyes and hushed murmurs. Only the small devils didn’t care and ran around streets unimpeded, the larger group disappearing behind the faraway corner on their own little adventure.

“Never.” “We have.” Answered Iphis and Magus at once.

It was hard to synergize with her lies. He figured that it made little difference on the overall scale, but from her look it may as well have been a stab in the heart.

The golden accessories dangled with an annoying chink as she pulled and twisted on his robe. In some kind of weird ritual her black eyebrows wiggled and jumped around on the spotless skin, while the blue eyes rolled in circles like a sped up clock.

Blue…?

Only now did he notice that their color had changed. Was it illusions at work?

“Oh…? Is Sir Magus not from this continent?” Lucy clutched her hands in some kind of weird gesture. “To not have heard of Vita’s eve…”

It seems the occasion was something more than just dressing up and running around like idiots. Magus had a feeling that this Vita was perhaps someone quite important, so him not knowing of her would definitely feel unusual…

“Do not assume. I’ve heard of it.”

“Really?” She skipped along the cobble, relaxing in the free space given to her. “What event is your favorite? Mine’s the feast of fools.”

“Yes, yes, feasts are fun,” he said, looking around and feigning understanding to whatever she said. Everywhere he looked was confusing as the city was a sprawling mess of buildings and humans. Had they not suddenly relocated to the sidelines and blocked the view he relied on, it would’ve been easier to navigate in this jungle of stone and wood. “I like axe throwing.”

“Axe throwing?”

“Yes.” He had seen it a few times in the castle. The circus would tie someone to a pole and taunt them with an apple on top of their head. The thrower would then juggle the axes and speak gibberish in some foreign tongue. Finally, he’d start throwing them at the bound man, sometimes tying their eyes as to make it more random. “It’d be better if they hit though.”

“Hmm… I’m not sure I’ve seen that. I prefer social gatherings to shows of might…”

“Is that so.” It was a fact that humans preferred sticking to groups, just like her nuisance-of-a-brother. They always spoke about nonsense, which mostly revolved around petty nitpicking, gossip and pointless what-if’s. “I’m sure there’s more ‘might’ in dialogue than anywhere else.”

The little girl suddenly stopped and turned to face Magus, her guards following suit. A beaming smile shone on her petite face.

“I see. I see,” she giggled. “Is that why you choose your words wisely?”

The undead had no idea what she was talking about. Wasn’t that natural when speaking?

“Yes.”

Satisfied, the girl continued on with her skipping while Iphis watched the interaction, speechless. It was impossible to comprehend how the undead got so close with the Duke’s daughter. Maybe she was just that naïve, or stupid, to not see through the undead’s act. The way he spoke, acted, reacted and even walked was so mechanical, awkward and… inhuman, his true self should’ve been exposed ages ago.

How none had done so the succubus could not wrap her head around, but the fact was – the undead was up to something. Why bother with the girl if she was the one to have the power in the end? Maybe it’s a back-up plan in case humans found out about her demonic blood?

Isn’t my usefulness at risk?

***

Soon the party reached the location Magus was eager to see - the blacksmith. There were a handful of them in the city, but only this place had a master of their craft.

The unique building, its bricks being red and glass colored, was surprisingly close to one of the city’s gates, where a few guards lazed around or played cards. Above the building’s door hung a large sign saying ‘Jaws of Jahr’s’ and something else in mysterious letters. The undead seen them somewhere, perhaps even during one of the language lessons he had with Iphis ages ago. They belonged to a rare race that inhabited the far south - dwarves.

The front door was unlocked and Magus entered into what seemed like a private house. A small table and an equally small chair were stowed away in the left corner, a few pots of withered plants hung in front of the glossy windows, wooden bowls and papers littered the floor and the bed on the opposite side of the table. Loud clanging came from further inside, where a thick metal door stood. An orange light escaped through the gap underneath.

“Hm? Where did the pest go?”

“She’s waiting outside,” answered Iphis. Her icy eyes looked around the room. “Why are you here anyways?”

The undead didn’t answer and walked straight for the door. He turned the metal knob and the door pushed open. Singing heat escaped immediately, forcing the demon behind him to jump back.

“Oy, what th’ hell?!”

In the center of the room, by a blinding forge, stood a man. He was small, old and grumpy. A pair of tongs was in his hand, clutching onto a piece of metal that radiated a blue light.

“Ye’r lettin’ the heat oot, ye perfumed stalactite!”

He shoved the blue metal inside the forge and grumpily jumped off the stool he was standing on. As he approached, beyond the smell of burning coal and the tinge of unknown sweetness, came the earthy smell of the dwarf and his burnt hair.

“Ah shite,” he said, revealing the tiniest of brown eyes behind the black goggles. “Who are ye and what do ye want. Can’t ye see I’m workin’ ‘ere?”

“Are you the blacksmith?”

“Shite, ye sound like me sharpenin’ stone. . .” He slammed the door shut. “Aye, I’m Jahr, a blacksmith. Didn’t ye see th’ sign?”

“I need armor. Full plate.”

“Aye, aye,” he walked off and continued stirring the piece of metal inside the forge. “A'body needs armor thes’ days. A’ve already git nuff work.” He pulled out the blue metal and proped it against the anvil, ignoring the undead and Iphis as if they weren’t there. The hammer pounded as he began to ramble. “Thir’s this twat, some pampered laddie. ‘Mythril plate’ he says. Paid up front – ‘n’ ‘ere ah am, workin’ me ass off. A’maist slave labor wi’ thes’ conditions… Damn pixie ain’t even that much higher than me.”

“Does height matter that much?”

“Nay, it ain’t th’ height, but th’ weight! One good swing ‘n’ ye’r gonners – up wi’ th’ birds as ah say. Weel, depends on th’ swi-”

“I’ll pay up front,” Magus cut him off.

The dwarf stopped, examining the blue piece. It shimmered in the air, slowly turning whiter and whiter as it lost its heat. He feigned ignorance at the offer, as all good merchants do, but the large sweat drop above his brow and the excited movements of his ears told a different tale.

“Full plate – not somethin’ a’d recommend fur a mage, or ‘r ye a clown? . . . either wey, suit yourself,” he chuckled at the play of words. “Kin ye write? If so, write th’ dimensions. Ah will measure ye efter.”

Magus went to the side, where on a low workbench rested papers and ink. Various schematics also were thrown around haphazardly. He took an empty, brownish sheet and started sketching with a long green quill. It was the second time he used ink.

“Ah hawp tis nay childish scribble ye’r scrapin’ up. Most throw that mah wey ‘n’ run aff, leavin’ me most o’ th’ work…”

The piece of metal slowly turned more and more into a singular plate as it came in and out of the forge. Magus focused on the task at hand, but couldn’t help but glance at the dwarf and his hammering. The usually hard metal gave way to each swing, as if it was as soft as cheese.

“Why does it get softer after heating?”

“Huh? Ye’r still talkin’ to me, laddie?” He gave the metal a few more taps and left it on the anvil to cool. “Tis hard to explain. Not many folk ask me this stuff efter all. They just want something done ‘n’ that’s a’ a’m ‘ere fur. . .” He pulled a jug from behind the anvil and took a sip. “Tis th’ good stuff. . . Anyway, it softens because, how do ah say this… It melts. That’s it, basically. Just lik’ good cheese over a campfire it turns droopy, easy to shape. If ah raised th’ temperature even more it would turn intae liquid. Don’t do that wi’ mythril though – ye’ll die.”

That didn’t answer the question, or perhaps the undead just didn’t understand the thick accent of the dwarf. Many words jumbled together, few making sense, and all he got was – the dwarf had no explanation. The metal did so because that’s how the world meant for it to be.

“Anyway, how’s th’ scribble…” Jahr walked up to the workbench and looked at the parchment. “What th’ hell. Tis so detailed…” He grabbed the page, looking at it from weird angles, even going as far as turning it upside down. “Ur mages taught this stuff?”

“Yes.”

The dwarf pondered for a moment, putting his thumb in front of it and staring at the sketch a few more times.

“Git to say, tis some good stuff. Th’ proportions ‘r wack though. Or am ah makin’ it fur a giant?” He laughed loudly for a moment before returning to his serious face.

“Something like that.”

“Uh-uh. Fine, ah will do it, seems lik’ an interesting job anyways.”

He sipped from the jug once more and the sweet smell of wine reached Iphis. She stood with her back to the door, as if an enormous drop was in front of her.

“Th’ lassie might want to leave if she wants her brows to stay,” laughed the dwarf again, pointing at his burnt facial hair as he chugged on the red liquid.

“You may go.”

As if waiting for these words she escaped through the door.

“Wis that yer wife? Quite th’ feisty one to remain so calm in this heat,” he pointed at the sketch. “What should ah mak’ th’ armor from?”

“I need it tough so that no magic could cut through.”

“Ah, damn sorcery, th’ bane o’ a’ smiths ‘n’ their arms…” The dwarf smiled to himself and the small joke only few of his vocation understood. “Whit kind o’ power we’re talkin’ ‘ere?”

Magus pulled out a metal piece from under his robe. It’s cylinder shape was cut off in a precise slash. The part used to shield zombie’s flesh, but during the village incident the magical axe cut through it as if it was nothing. Jahr gently took it and inspected the cut.

“Th’ vambrace is completely fucked. Just lik’ thro’ butter it must’ve went, better than a saw… What a waste, who cuts thro’ steel lik’ this…?”

“Can you make something that can withstand such a strike?”

“Nay magic but a strike? Whit kind o’ beast were ye fightin’ that did this? A drake, mayhaps? Nay, they shred to pieces…” The dwarf’s face changed repeatedly as he fiddled with the piece of metal. At first it was wonder, interest, then confusion and finally concern. “Whitevur ‘twas ah hawp ye beat it. Sorcery sure is a pain in th’ ass,” he sighed. “Best ah kin offer is orichalcum, but that will cost ye a lofty sum.”

“Is this enough?” He dropped a bag on the workbench. The undead did not know how valuable money was in human society, but about two kilograms in golden coins should cover the tab.

“A’d rather have gold than silver, ye kno’…” Jahr took the bag, his eyes widening at the unexpected weight of it. “Whit a rich ass. Ah will have it done in a split – three months to be exact.”

“Too long, do it faster.”

Another bag dropped on the table.

“Oy, oy. Don’t speak shite, now. Yer human fellows would tak’ half a year!”

After a slight ponder and a large drop of sweat from the dwarvish side, Magus stood up, nodded, and walked to the door.

“Three months,” he said and pointed at the second bag. “For that extra – enchant it.”

“Eh? Enchant? Where did that come from?! I can’t do that!”

“Find someone that can.”

The metal door slammed as the dwarf was left with the calm humming of his forge.

“Shite…”

***

When Magus exited the blacksmith’s house a confusing sight met him. On the wide road stood a wooden cart and, ignoring the already large guard of Lucy, five other soldiers. They were dressed lightly, in simple gambeson or just thick clothing, and only had spears for weapons. With horror they surrounded the cart as the Duke’s daughter screamed her lungs out, throwing orders left right and center to bring this or that.

Magus came closer, but stayed at a distance in case of some human trap. Few guards turned to look at him while the girl didn’t pay attention to anything but the cart and whatever was on it.

“What is going on?”

“I don’t know. They just came here…” Answered Iphis, also standing slightly further away. Her arms were crossed and her face told a story of indifference. “Something about goblins?”

Pushing through the guards he quickly came up to the cart and saw what lied within. Three people – all farmers from the looks of it – lied motionless. Their legs were crushed flat. Through the open wounds bones stuck out, hidden all this time behind the ground mess of meat that now remained.

Before he could ask the little girl, she was franticly checking for any bleeding and other wounds, one of the men squirmed and spoke.

“An. . . an angel. . . save. . . please. . .”

“What is it? What happened!” Screamed Lucy as the sickening power rushed through her in hope of healing the man. Wounds closed in seconds, blood seemingly halted, and soon the flat flesh turned into a different mess – one that was scarred beyond belief, almost like a tree, as bone still basked in the light of day.

“Greenskins. . . they came, at night. . . oh. . . god,” tears trickled down the man’s dirty face. “It ate my wife, bit her head off!” He spat blood as the feeling in his legs left him, not even pain remained. “Avenge her, please. . . We simple folk work for that, do we not. . . I beg. . .”

The girl, furious with a face of increasing redness, ordered for water to be brought and a message to be sent. It seems she was eager to fulfill the farmer’s wish.

Magus watched with interest. He loved seeing human emotion spill out. These moments forced it to be pure, with no secrets or hope for personal gain.

“Sir Magus,” spoke Lucy, turning to him sharply. It seems she finally noticed him. The undead already could guess what she wanted. “Please, lend me your power. Help me rid the land of such evil!”

“No.”