Author's notes:

Chapter X: Reunion

The old wooden boards of the bed creaked under the weight of the barbarian as he lazily tried to stand up. As he wore the dirty overalls that were laying in the simple chair next to his bed, he stretched his arms towards the ceiling and creaked his joints, trying to dispel his sleepiness. With his arms stretched he nearly reached the ceiling of the cramped little room, and even with just his bed, a trunk, and a chair, the room had little space to spare, just enough to navigate towards the sturdy, old, door. But as Martyn opened the door a smile showed on his face as he took in the all familliar view once again.

His eyes wandered over the silent machinery, the neat piles of coal, the dusty sacks of material, the doused forge, and finally the trusty anvil with the heavy hammer laying on top of it. It wasn't much, but he was grateful that the headsmith had allowed him to spend his nights here, it made him feel like he was back at home, and the door would open soon, allowing his Master to enter with that big grin of his and his shouts about why isn't the forge lit yet.

He went outside, picked a bucket of water, and washed his face, waking up for good. He refilled the bucket with water, grabbed another one, and went back in, using them to fill up the canister for dousing the forged metal. He grabbed the shovel and started filling up the forge with coal, before finally litting it up. It was sunday today, and that meant that the forge was officially closed, and since he spend almost the whole day yesterday with Kat, he was sure to have a little bit of peace of mind and alone time today. It was the perfect opportunity to work a bit with his own side project.

He picked up the half-formed massive blade and threw it in the fire as he worked the bellows to fuel the ravaging flames. As the metal heated and started glowing the engraved runes became visible, a red color deeper than the outside blade, sign that the heat didn't distribute evenly. He picked the blade with the long clamps and doused it into the hissing water, only to throw it back in. At times, he would put it on the forge, hammering the tough steel into submission, avoiding to harm the etched runes, before, once again, he would throw it back in.

His mind was racing, images of the runes flashing with his mana as it cleaved his opponents to half, visions of fierce battles that his blade helped him through, strong as a beast, fast as the wind, light as a feather. This was why enchanting came easily to him, it wasn't any different than actually forging the weapon. His Master had taught him to envision what he wanted to craft, and his hands would surely follow behind. This time around it was even easier, he had purposedly engraved permanent runes, akin to how the ragers' blades were forged, but only this time, he was using the glyphs that corresponded to the effects he wanted the blade to reproduce. So, his own imagination was only reproducing, with glee, what he knew the blade could do in reality.

It was a risky method. On one hand, the runes being there made it much easier for a single spell to be activated, since you had the etchings to follow and you didn't have to carefully make the runes just out of your mind. But simultaneously, every imperfection on the metal was now hard written on spell, and so your magic was only as precise as the engraved runes would allow, never more, never less. The second, and most grievious problem, was that once a spell was engraved, it was all but impossible to use a different kind of magic on the item. The runes interfered with the creation of a different set of runes.

Martyn had weighted the two negatives against the only positive, and he still found it worth it to at least try to make it work. His speed was his biggest downfall, so it didn't really matter if he could only use one spell on his sword, a 'weighten' spell in this particular occasion, since in a real fight, his awful speed usually meant that he didn't have the time to cast any spell at all either way. As for the accuracy and effect of the spell, he was dead set to make the runes as perfect as he would otherwise make if he used just his mana.

This of course meant that it would take him quite a bit of time, forging and reforging the blade till it's perfect, and then, using very fine tools, reengraving and fixing any kind of wavering on the runes themselves every time he was finished with the day's forging.

By the time he was done he could already see through his windows that the sun was setting. He quenched the forge, cleaned his tools, and moved over to the, hastily put together, bathroom to wash his dripping sweat and tiredness away.

There was still plenty of light around, still early in the fall, and the sounds over the plaza made him drift towards the assembled knights. As he approached, he could clearly see the pairings sparring with zeal, never a rest day for the military.

"Well, well, well, look who honored us with his precense, if it's not a damned barbarian in our midst!" A bulky, ironclad knight, his silver insignia proudly visible in his tabard, shouted towards Martyn.

"So, kid, what do you say, ready to get your ass whooped once again?" He finished as he was already throwing a wooden sword towards Martyn.

"Evening Captain Gait," Martyn nodded towards the middle aged veteran. The wounds of old skirmishes visible on the grey haired man on his arms and face, his white, blind, left eye, a memento from when he fought Martyn's people back in his glory days. "I would appreciate if you didn't say such stuff... some of the people around may take them seriously."

As the old man broke into a hearty laugh, his smile cracked on his face, revealing his missing front tooth.

"Heh, those wusses? They should be honored to spar with someone who knows how to fight for his life. Those peaceful times do me no favor in training their sorry asses into shape. I'm pretty sure that half of them would pee their pants if they ever encounter a demon, never mind a raging barbarian. No kid, you are a blessing and a sight for this old man's sore eyes. Now, get your ass here before I have to drag you here myself."

The captain turned towards the sparring knights, and yelled, loud enough to be heard clearly on top of the clanging noises of wood hitting metal "And as far as I am concerned, you are a student here, and if anyone of my men decide to cause you trouble, they will have to go through me."

Martyn looked around at the people who had stopped fighting for a second, to look around at what their captain was yelling at, but as they saw Martyn, they shrugged and returned to their training. As far as he was concerned, apart from Kat and Donnie, he had spent most of his time since he moved to the smithy with those people rather than his actual classmates. As normal, non magic wielding, fighters, they were a lot more grounded than the rest of the people walking around in the campus. So far, he knew most of them by their small name, and found it easier to talk to them than any other person he has met in this place. Clashing swords is an easy way to really get to know one another, he thought as he took position to fight his first opponent.

As he was casually cleaving the legs of his fifth adversary, throwing him, bottom first, to the the ground, his mind calm and still, wandered into the cheering crowd around him. He wasn't sure if it was the abudance of magic in the southerners, or if this was a mark of the peaceful, inner cities of their empire, but he found the actual fighting quality of the non-mages here abysmally low. For his tribe's, for any barbarian's tribe, standards, he wasn't a warrior by any stretch. But here, the apprentice knights were at the level he was as a child, and he could even steal a win against some of the bronze dragons as well. Only the captain, and another silver dragon he had fought once, were able to easily defeat him, only they were, according to his evaluation, at the level of a barbarian warrior, and, naturally, miles behind even a young rager.

The captain had quickly catch on what was happenning the first time that Martyn asked if he could spar with his knights, and his quick wits instantly saw the opportunity to use Martyn to train his crew. And for Martyn that worked as well, fighting against live people, and not the air of his room, was a much better exercise and kept him at his feet, even if the level wasn't as high as he hoped. But after this warmup against the apprentices, he knew that there was always the chance for a bronze dragon to be nearby and grant him a real duel. Those felt nice, they reminded him of home, and it was the best way to put his mind, and body, at ease. And if not, Gait would fight him. He would always lose, but this felt like home as well.

A voice from behind interrupted his thoughts.

"Fight me"

He instantly froze as he heard the voice, dripping with pure malice, behind him. It was a voice he had etched into his memory even after hearing only once in the past. He turned around and looked at the short, blonde boy that was standing, training blade in hand, behind him.

Captain Gait was already standing in between the two people.

"Only if he wishes Evan, and I won't allow any sort of permanent injuries, accidents, or underhanded methods in my watch." He finished as he looked, clearly displeased, towards both of the growling men.

"Oh... don't worry captain, I don't need to use cheap tricks to win against an ox." The boy said smilling

"I won't back down from a fight Gait." Martyn said calmly as a slight smile appeared on his face.

Time to see if my theories work in actual combat. Time for revenge. He reassured himself.