Thani's Spear and Hjokir's Sword

Excerpt from the play Natural Order, a series of plays by the aasimar bard Skanek. The play is presented as told by the goddess Kraga, who takes the role of a chorus.

KRAGA: Because of Hjokir's wagging tongue

Hjokir and Thani were soon to come to blows

Ere the brilliant Sun traced its accustomed path

Hjokir desired to crush their blood-brother's favored son

And seeking a noble blade to blacken, found Volm's armor stash.

Exit KRAGA. Enter HJOKIR.

HJOKIR: How now, a neatly sorted armory!

Methinks the soldiers of Volm, who

Careless enough to let flickering Hjokir into their camp

Shall not despair the loss of their finest burnished blade.

But hark! A clatter approaches, as of some cart,

Piled high with well-forged wares. Into this

Captain's mail I'll slip, and trust my fate to silver tongue.

HJOKIR quickly dons a captain's uniform, and pulls the visor down. They pretend to examine the equipment as HROTHA enters, carrying a pile of swords.

HROTHA: A captain, here? In the armory, instead

As is the captain's task, bent over charts of

Dismal Acheron, plotting cunning strikes?

Or has some ignoble imp of the Hells erred greatly

And besmirched the noble work of my hands for

Volm's great army?

HJOKIR: No imp, wise blacksmith, but a captain indeed.

Though your vigilance is commendable, I confess

Your stock is wanting for Great Volm's needs.

HROTHA: Lacking, captain? Not so, for

E'ry tool of civilized war that solid steel is prone to make

Lies here, on rack and stand, and by my hand

I've assured their most excellent quality.

HJOKIR: I besmirch not your craft, blacksmith

But Volm has need of a blade of a special sort

A greater sword than any that lies here.

For the second High General, combat nears

They must do battle with a foul pit fiend of Hell

By end of Godweave's day.

HROTHA: Your story has a ring of truth, captain.

'Tis true that, on matters of purest honor, I am not

As attentive as Volm requests. But your tale of a

Challenge between a High General and a duke of Hell

Sounds, to mine unwise ear, like a cause worthy of my art.

Tell me then, captain, what manner of blade would suit

That Highest General best?

HJOKIR: A sword they desire, blacksmith

But not such a common blade as these - indeed,

The pit fiend's hellish blood runs cold

And they have need of a mighty blade of Hjokir's

Flickering flame.

HROTHA: Then a blade of flame they'll have!

Captain, leave me to my work, attend my forge

In an hour's time, and the blade shall be

Mightily made.

HJOKIR: What! A god's blade, in less than an hour smith'd?

By my troth, present Volm not with half-done work.

HROTHA: I am Volm's greatest blacksmith, captain

Indeed, the greatest renown Volm grants to blacksmiths

In its service, I have earned tenfold. The General shall

Have their perfect blade.

HJOKIR: Fail us not, then. Farewell.

HJOKIR and HROTHA exit.

Scene 2: HROTHA's forge. HROTHA labors over HJOKIR's blade. Enter an OLD MAN.

OLD MAN: Art thou the blacksmith that have earned

The highest honors Volm deigns to give thee? And even

Now, labors over a wicked blade

Sculpted from flame itself?

HROTHA: I am. Pray tell, stranger, for what reason you

Interrupt my labor? The hour is halfway up.

OLD MAN: I have more work for you, good woman.

By commission, I need a weapon of your flame-blade's

Equal. The pay is very fine - The weapon's holder

Will surely raise you from under Volm's heel, make of you

A blacksmith divine.

HROTHA: Tempt me while I labor, imp, I have not time to crush you.

But I'll tell the guard; they'll be here shortly to dispatch you

Back to the Hells.

OLD MAN: Very well, good woman, I will show my hand.

I come on behalf of Thani the Thunderer

He must do battle this eve with a fearsome foe. He needs

A piercing spear, hewn from lightning's bolt - on the

Ineffable All-Father, your pay will be divinity.

Your rank will far exceed Volm's lowly blacksmith

You will be the artificer of the Northern Gods.

HROTHA: Ah, your tongue is gilded, be you imp or true

For 'tis also true that I do chafe making merely breastplates

And blades for marching Volm! Very well, I'll make your spear

But I'll only yield it to a god themself. Cheat me not

Of promised divinity.

OLD MAN: The pact is made.

HROTHA: Return in an hour and a half, old man,

Bringing the Thunderer with you!

OLD MAN exits.

HROTHA: By my forge, Hrotha, what fine mess

Have you gotten yourself into? Surely the captain

Spoke true, when they commanded I make

This fine blade, but my greed doth conspire to bring

Me to ruin! I should trifle not with strange beings in my forge,

But my fool's pact is made. The spear I'll make.