Prophecy
Destiny is a bitch.
The child of woe, the daughter of sorrow, the queen of loneliness.
It’s a whisper that echoes through the sands of time.
Long forgotten, often unkind.
It’s a thunderous roar,
a proclamation of inescapable lore.
A shockwave of power rippling through the wild,
At the first keening wail of a newborn girl-child.
Cursed by the burden of whispered fate,
A destiny dark and lonely, a destiny filled with hate.
The Skaði Maga, from the shadows of hate, arise once more.
They won’t rest, won’t stop, as they seek the daughter of fate and lore.
The echoes of Destiny’s whispers paved the path,
A time at last for Destiny’s wrath.
Beneath the earth, ancient songs awake.
A resonance that defies the curse of Fate.
A promise made, a line unbroken.
A darkness ahead, a destiny unspoken.
The chosen one who hears the earth,
Forgotten doors will open for a queen of worth.
Etched on crystalline facets of light-green amethyst,
Destiny’s pawn becomes the catalyst.
A blade will rise, a queen reborn.
Blood will flow; Shadows will scorn.
Destiny is a bitch, a fickle, meddlesome crone of torment and hate.
But in the heart of the earth await, Destiny’s undoing and unwritten fate.
—Jazmin, Seer & Guardian of the Silver Threads, servant and slave to Destiny, her irksome wrath, and inconveniently timed annoying visions. [Excerpt from Jazmin’s diary, dated C.2876 A.ToC]
Chapter 1
The echoes of Ioke’s hammer rang through the smithy like the tormented cries of her own heart. No one aware of them but herself. Normally, each strike of metal against metal would ring with the resonance of life—the earthsong. Drowning out the past and giving her a sense of calm within the dark thoughts which always raged within her mind. But today, each strike was a resounding echo of death and pain. A reminder of what she stood to lose, what she could become, should she fail.
The forge cast the room in a warm red glow, cutting mercilessly through the cool morning light filtering in through the small windows. Sweat trickled down her temples as she raised the hammer; desperately seeking the usual soothing resonance of the earthsong against the violent thoughts within. She struck the battle axe blade in front of her. It vibrated through her arm with a clang. Each strike blurred the lines between dream and memory.
It’s not my fault! She clenched her teeth, striking again. Sparks flew as the song cried out, fueled by her own internal torment.
I had no choice!
She closed her eyes, taking a shaky inhale to steady her trembling hand. Visions of her past flashed vividly through her mind. The taste of rich, life-giving iron filled her mouth. Blood covered her face, coated her hands, soaked into every pore as her heart hammered faster. She shook her heard furiously; the dream threatening to suffocate her. A red haze of anger and regret clouded her vision as she glared at the axe-head glowing warmly upon the grey stone anvil. It cast its own light in the dim room, resonating with the song of life as if it weren’t an instrument of death.
Ioke’s jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. She took a deep inhale through her mouth as she listened to the metal sing. The earthsong weaving its secrets through each grain of metal, each fiber of her soul. And yet the turmoil still raged within her.
Is this all I’m good for? Creating destruction and crafting tools of death?
She loved working with metal, most of it coming naturally to her. Yet it was in crafting weapons that she truly excelled. Even in her art, she was a bringer of pain. A composer of death, despite the beauty of her work.
Tightening her grip, she pounded the blade of the battle axe on the anvil. The blood of her lingering nightmare dragging her under with its invisible weight. Not even the sparks of each powerful strike could burn away the memory, the terror.
Why wasn’t the earthsong working today? She grunted as her hand rebounded from each powerful strike.
Picking up the axe-head with her callipers, she walked to the cooling barrel. The metal hissed as she dipped it in the icy water. Ioke wished that she could beat the pain out of her own life as easily as she could the impurities from the dwarven steel which sung to her.
Removing the axe-head, she placed it back on the anvil to inspect her handiwork. The metalwork was some of her finest. Ioke sneered at the blade, the irony that her greatest work of art would also become the greatest yoke to her nightmares, not lost on her. She ran her fingers over the dwarven runes she had inscribed into the metal. Her parent’s names among them.
A shiver ran through Ioke as she thought of what the day would bring. Grinding her teeth, she fought back the stinging tears of injustice. All she wanted was to be a normal dwarf. To complete her apprenticeship under master Thurdron Hammerstrike, a master blacksmith among the Blackforge clan, and to be accepted as one of them.
But now that the chance came to finally be accepted into the clan, the price was more than she wanted to pay.
Ioke cursed, throwing her hammer across the room with a scream of frustration. It banged loudly against some of the chains which hung from the ceiling in the far corner, echoing through the room as it crashed against the floor.
Her pounding heart drowned out the crackle of embers in the forge as the smithy was suddenly too quiet. Too lonely.
“Ioke?” came the sleepy voice of her younger sister, who peered past the curtain which served as a door between their room and the smithy.
“Valerie. Sorry I woke you.” Ioke mumbled as she went to retrieve her hammer. She cursed under her breath as she walked into a weapon rack, hitting her hip against the sharp corner.
“What’s bothering you?” Val asked, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.
“Nothing. Why do you think something’s wrong?” Ioke stomped back to the anvil, the hammer clenched in her fist.
“Aside from the fact you’re throwing tools before anyone has any right to be awake. Especially someone who doesn’t like mornings. You only call me Valerie when you are worried about something or stressed.” Val joined Ioke beside the anvil and picked up the axe-head Ioke had finished to examine it, turning it around in her hands. “Plus, you have a scowl carved so deeply between your brows, I’m afraid I might fall in.” She teased, her words simply deepening Ioke’s frown as she pressed her lips together.
An ember popped in the forge, the crackling fire the only sound as Val put the axe-head down and studied Ioke instead. The scent of freshly smelted metal filled the small space, the heat almost oppressive without the open doors and windows.
Ioke leaned over the anvil with her head hanging as both hands pressed against the hard stone. The faint vibrations of the earthsong tingled against her skin as she paused, lowering her gaze away from her sister and the forge which had become her sanctuary for the past nineteen years. A place where she could create instead of destroy. A place where she belonged in a world hells bent to cast her out and turn her into a monster.
How did she tell Val the truth of her fears? Val counted on her to do the right thing—to bring honour to their family-name and play the part the clan had decided for her. But Ioke was afraid. She couldn’t tell that to Val, though; she’d have to admit her greatest regret and shame.
She’s never told Val the truth of their father—the truth of the curse which thickened the blood in their veins. Val was too young when it happened, no more than a toddling babe. And Ioke had always protected her from their past and the pain it would bring if anyone knew what happened that day. Knew what she did. As the sole survivors of their clan, only Ioke knew the truth of that dreadful day.
Ioke looked down at her hands, the blood of her nightmare a sordid reminder of who she was…of what she was. Even now, she imagined the crimson stain her hands left against the pale grey anvil, like an invisible wound only she could see. Everything she touched was tainted by her past. She reached for her left cheek where a wicked, ridged scar ran from her cheekbone to her nose and crossed just below her eye to her lip. A scar given to her by her father on that fateful day.
Val must never find out.
Val came to stand behind Ioke, placing her hand on her shoulder. “Ioke, you are doing that thing again where you withdraw into yourself. What’s wrong? You know you can talk to me, right? I’m your sister. Nothing you can tell me can change that or my love for you.”
“What if we ran away?” Ioke blurted out, turning to face Val, her brows furrowed in an earnest expression as she gestured widely with her arms. “What if we started our own clan or searched out mother’s clan in the mountains? Or…or I can find work as a smith’s apprentice in one of the smaller villages and you can be…I don’t know…anything you want—”
“Ioke!” Val interrupted her with a scowl as she squeezed her shoulder. “We would be branded as outcasts. Clanless dwarves with no home. Not even our mother’s people will accept us then. We would be casteless wanderers. You don’t really want that. What’s really bothering you?”
Ioke took a deep breath as she glanced to where the axe-head lay, taunting her with both its perfection and the promise of death. The promise of more blood and suffering—by her hand. “I…I can’t do it, Val. I can’t go through the ritual. If they make me Blôdkin, I could become Býsn—I will become cursed, a monster li—” She stopped herself before she blurted ‘like father’. She shook her head to clear him from her memory, and instead added, “I’ll lose you, and I’ll become a branded outcast anyways.”
“You don’t know that. It’s exceptionally rare for the Blôdkin to become Býsn. No one here has ever met anyone who didn’t resonate with the witches’ battle song.” Val’s tone softened as she reached for Ioke, taking Ioke’s calloused hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Her own much softer and unscarred—free of the same hard labour Ioke endured to provide for her. “If it was so dangerous, the purple witches wouldn’t keep doing the ritual and taking our most promising warriors. The clan needs you, Ioke. I need you. There’s talk of raiders plaguing the miners. The mountain tribes are gathering in forces unseen for decades. And you are one of the best candidates in the Vigil. It’s why they picked you. It’s an honour to be chosen as one of the Blôdkin, you know that. It would mean we’ll have a permanent place here with the clan. We’ll finally belong somewhere.”
It didn’t feel like an honour. Ioke hugged herself as she looked into Val’s pleading eyes. The same shade of light green amethyst their mother used to wear on a necklace their father had given her because it had reminded him of their shared eye colour. A prasiolite, a rare gem found in the mountains of their mother’s homeland in the northern Dragon Claws. The only thing both she and Val had in common. Even Val’s vibrant red hair, like their father’s, was a stark contrast to Ioke’s ash blond streaked with gold.
Ioke was rough, sharp-edged in both manner and wit, like a raw, newly mined gem. But Val was the image of refinement and softness. A polished jewel among the worthless ore. Her sunny disposition made anyone who met her instantly love her. She only just entered young adulthood, yet it was clear she was destined to be a great beauty among her people—already the males clamored for her attentions. Her kindness and propensity to read people had won her a place at Nyakah—the clan’s sage and leader’s side. A place of comfort and safety, one Ioke would put in jeopardy if they ran.
Ioke pressed her lips together as she exhaled forcefully through her nose in resignation. Ever since that horrible day when they had lost the Silveraxe clan—their family and kin—she vowed to find a place of safety for her baby sister. A place where Val would find happiness, no matter the cost to herself. She ran her fingers over the ridged scar on her cheek; a reminder of what she had done. An ugly scar as hideous as the scar which marks my soul. Bitterness rose like bile in her throat. I don’t deserve happiness. But I can pay the price for Val’s if I do this.
Ioke began pacing the narrow isle between the forge and the anvil as memories of the past assaulted her, her shoulders weighed down by regret and responsibility.
I did everything they asked to give Val a safe home. Why wasn’t it enough? When the Blackforge warriors had found them in the foothills of the Dragon Claws, they had received word from the purple witches themselves about what was to be done with the two orphans. They insisted Ioke join the Vigil—a military unit that trains young dwarves in weaponry and defense—in addition to earning their keep as the metal smith’s apprentice.
Master Thurdron had taught her all there was to know about metal and how to forge it. Pressing a hammer into her tiny fist as soon as she was healed enough to lift it, starting with menial tasks befit an almost ten-year-old. She only took breaks to do the expected martial training once a day, even though she was younger than any other trainee by at least four years. They wanted to forge her into a warrior, a weapon to be called upon when they needed her. She didn’t mind the training at first. It meant she would be strong enough to protect Val if raiders ever found them again, and so she had given her all in both. She worked long hours, never taking a moment for herself, even when the other dwarves her age called her boring with a heart of stone, among other more hurtful names.
I don’t need friends as long as Val is safe and happy. She reminded herself as she stared into the furnace, her fist clenched at her side. A hollowness tore open a cavity within her very soul. She fought against the sudden rush of loneliness which threatened to crush her chest. She didn’t want to be alone, not really. But for Val, she would.
The earthsong sang softly from the axe-head on the anvil. She turned to look at it, finding its song calming and reassuring. Master Thurdron said her ability to hear the earthsong in the ore was a rare gift she inherited from her mother’s line. It made her a natural when it came to intricate metalwork. She understood their unique songs as no other could. The earthsong was her companion. Her only friend who didn’t judge her, whether by her scarred face, which often made people uncomfortable or downright rude, nor her dark past.
Master Thurdron’s smithy—the Black Hammer—and by extension, the clan, profited greatly as travellers came from far and wide to purchase her weapons. He told her once she became a master smith, she could take credit for her work. But until such time, she still needed to learn from him. The truth was, if he hadn’t insisted that she needed more time to master her craft and help him in the forge, she would have already been expected to undergo the Blôdkin ritual.
There was only a short window when the ritual would imprint upon a warrior; between the age of twenty-five and thirty just after dwarves entered full adulthood. With her twenty-ninth birthday coming up, she had counted the days until the window had passed. She’d been so close to escaping this fate, this burden. Why did the witches have to come for her?
“Why me?” She whined. “Why not take someone who wants this? Why can’t they just forget about me? Everyone else does! I’m unimportant, why recruit me at all? Heck, even Hamal—,” that coward, “wants the honour of training as a Blôdkin. Why can’t they take him instead?” At least then I’d be free of his cruelty and bullying. Tears stung the corners of her eyes as she looked at Val, who watched her as she put away her hammer.
“They see great potential in you, as I do.” Val said encouragingly as she came to stand by Ioke’s side. Val had always looked up to her. The weight of that expectation tightened around Ioke’s neck like a noose cutting off her air.
“What if my heartsong doesn’t resonate with the witches? We’re not true Blackforge dwarves. What if the witches can’t control the rage…what if—” Ioke couldn’t finish her sentence. Her throat tightened with emotion, threatening to choke her.
Val wrapped her arms around Ioke. “You are Ioke, you won’t fail in this. You never fail. If anyone can control their rage, it is you. I believe in you, Ioke. You haven’t let us down yet. Plus, wasn’t mother the resonance for father even though she was from a different clan?”
Ioke nodded weakly. The fear not lessening its hold. It is true their mother had been their father’s resonance…until she died and left him in a blood-rage he couldn’t escape.
“I—”
The door to the smithy opened and Val stepped away from Ioke with a huge grin on her face as master Thurdron entered the room.
“Ioke, Val! Yer up early lasses.” His gaze swept to the abandoned axe-head on the anvil. He hobbled over to examine it. Picking it up, he turned it over in his large, calloused hands, the light from the forge catching on the sharp edges.
Ioke held her breath. Master Thurdron had been as close to a father as she had, and his approval meant more to her than she cared to admit. He was a good man, a dwarf in his late four hundreds. He had seen many things in his long life, and he had always treated them with as much care as blood-kin ever could. He had been the first to take them in and offer them shelter and a home in the smithy.
“Well done, Ioke!” he praised, giving her one of his biggest smiles, revealing white teeth hidden beneath the braided red-and-grey-streaked bushy beard, which he kept tugged into his thick leather belt around his sturdy waist.
Heat touched her cheeks as she stood slightly taller, a small smile teasing the corners of her mouth. It had taken years to earn his praise, and he never gave it lightly.
Placing the axe-head on the anvil, he hobbled to a closet near the back of the smithy and pulled out a branch of Spiritwood he had been working on for the past few months.
“I’d hoped to wait till after the ceremony when ye passed the ritual, but methinks a masterpiece like this deserves a masterwork shaft, do ye not? Master smith, Ioke.” He grinned from ear to ear as he placed the handle beside the axe-head.
Ioke stared in shock, gaping at him. She ran her hand over the Spiritwood handle. It sung beneath her hands as she closed her eyes and listened to its resonance. It was one of the most sought-after materials because of its strength and ability to enhance the innate magic which resonates through all metal and stone. It was a treasure beyond any means which Ioke could ever repay. “I can’t master—”
“Shush.” He held up his large hand, a move she knew meant he would not take ‘no’ for an answer. “Ye’ve worked fer me fer near twenty years now. Ye earned it and more.” He sniffled and wiped at tears. “I’ll be missing yer hammering and grumbling in the early morns.” He lamented with a snort. “But it’s time I acknowledge yer skill as Master. Ye’ve far surpassed my own skill years ago. And it be selfishness t’ try an’ keep ye fer meself. I’d hoped that the witches would let ye be if I kept ye on as an apprentice.” His voice choked up, wiping at the tears that fell down his wrinkled face.
Ioke took a step toward him, but he waved her off.
“Off with ye. Ye should be getting ready. They’ll expect ye soon. And I know ye haven’t even eaten breakfast yet.” He wagged his large finger admonishingly at her. “Go, I’ll finish yer axe and ye can name ‘er when ye hold her fer the first time.” Master Thurdron’s eyes sparkled with pride. “I’ll see ye when it’s all done, lass. And when ye return, The Black Hammer will officially be yers.” He gestured to the forge around them.
Emotion choked Ioke as she ran around the anvil and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest as words failed her.
He pulled her in for a hug. “Aw shucks lil pebble. Ye’ll make this old dwarf all blubbery. Go now, they be waiting fer ye.”
She pulled wordlessly away from him. For what could she say? He’d given her what she had always wanted. A home, master of her trade, her own forge—freedom to create. Yet, until she survived the witches’ trials, it would remain no more than an empty promise and a wishful dream.
“And Ioke.” he wiped his tears with the back of his hand as he pressed his large hand over her shoulder. “The gods of earth and metal protect ye.”
Ioke met Val’s expectant gaze, and her shoulders slumped. Everyone expected her to undergo the ritual. Depended on her to succeed. If she failed, she wouldn’t just lose her home and the only family she had left, but she would lose her very soul.
Strengthening her resolve, she glanced at the axe-head she had crafted for the past four months during the quiet hours after the smithy closed, pouring her blood, sweat, and tears into it. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she stepped out the door and into the unknown future.
