General Cracked Hammer's Arc

Chapter 1 of 6

Captain Cracked Hammer spat into the open hide case and slammed the lid shut. Inside lay decades of failure: dull nuggets, cracked shards, brittle flakes, each tagged in his cramped hand as unworthy. The mound had grown into a small grave of metals. None of them could meet the Cursed Anvil without shattering the rite. He buckled the case, shouldered his pack, and gathered his tools. He rode hard for the sandstone cliff carved with endless stacks of books. The Bookmen pulled maps of the Sun Hole from their hidden passages and traced thin lines toward old mining notes on Musk-vein ore. The pages spoke of mystic veins that hummed beneath the soil. It was half an answer. The other half, he knew, waited in a place he did not like to enter. He mounted his striped buffalo, a horned beast packed with crates and hammers, and turned its broad head toward the swirling shell of the magic merchant. Mudcrusher snorted at the bright door but pushed on. Inside the giant snail shell, Claus smiled too wide and named a price that made the war-smith's jaw lock. A dowsing rod for finding veins of a mystic nature. Cracked Hammer counted out coin after coin. He paid. He did not argue. Bad craft, to haggle over a tool meant for sacred work. Half a day he walked the rod across damp ground. It twitched, then pulled, then yanked his wrists down hard behind a tree split by old lightning. He knelt and brushed back the moss. Dark stone split with brilliant green cores, pink veins crackling across its faces. He laid one bare hand on it. Power climbed his arm like a living thing. He breathed out slow. At last, an ore worthy of the Anvil. The rite could begin.