THE SMITHY’S HEAVY main door stood open wide enough to allow fresh air inside. The rhythmic sounds of a hammer hitting an anvil drifted out. Gareth stood with his back against the door, listening. His frown of concern deepened, hearing within the nuances of sound what Doom spoke of so vaguely. Before walking inside, he knocked on the door. He repeated the gesture until he earned a distracted response. “Enter.”

Intent on the tangle of metal and leather in her hands, Tiwaz did not look up right away. When she did, her frown of intense focus melted into one of surprise. “Gareth?”

He smiled, inclining his head in greeting. “I told you I would come find you.” He sat on a bench near her, staying out of her way as she returned to her work. “You and Doom had crossed the border just in time. Some people I recognized from the Dramaden arena were trying to convince him you were both alive. His searching spells found nothing, of course.”

He shrugged at her scowl. “Alimar well and truly believes you both dead and anyone telling him otherwise is trying to gain his favor or his gold. I doubt many will be trying after what he did to those poor bastards who tried to lay hands on him when he spurned their attempts to convince him.”

She paused, staring sightlessly at the anvil, then closed her eyes, hands closing into tight fists. “We don’t have to run anymore.”

“No,” Gareth assured with firm gentility. “So long as you continue wearing those pendants I had given you, you don’t have to run from him even if he comes to the north.” He looked away to allow her a modicum of privacy for her emotions and noticed the sword near her. “Nice sword. Did you make it yourself?”

She awarded him a sour expression. “You are funny. Can’t you smell the magic in it? I have none to put into a weapon and no skill to do so even if I wished.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied in vast amusement. He continued before she could demand an explanation for his quip. “But I was teasing. I can see that thing is ancient. It looks like one I had heard stories about.” The hammer stopped mid-fall. He frowned when she remained motionless. The hammer hovering over her work. “What is the matter?”

“Do you know who this sword belonged to? Do you know if their family yet lives?” she asked without inflection, putting the hammer down and setting aside the harness and sheath she had been making for it. “I must return it to them.”

“Whyever for?” He held up his hands defensively when she shot a hateful glare at him. “You are the one that found it. Why not keep it for yourself?”

She snorted in disgust. “You always speak with such confidence and wisdom, I forgot you are not a real warrior.” He frowned at the underlying insult. She explained with the tones of an adult speaking to a naive child. “You do not understand what a weapon is to a true warrior. It is not a thing or a trinket. It is no prize to be won or lost or carelessly tossed aside and replaced whimsically.”

She touched the hilt with her fingertips in a manner that reminded Gareth how a mother might touch the cheek of her infant. “For the true artisan who crafts a weapon, it is their child, a small piece of them sent out into the world. It speaks of their skill, their pride in their work. Their heart and soul are forged into the metal, wrapped in the hilt, set in every edge and plane. A great artisan would only allow a great warrior to bear such workmanship, because how it is wielded reflects upon their craftsmanship.

“For the warrior, their weapon is a part of them. It is different than one they use because it is what is available. Their weapon is an extension of them. It is their friend, their lover, their child, their everything. They wield it, care for it, and in turn, it protects them.

“The weapon and the warrior become a part of each other. When the warrior succumbs to their final enemy, their weapon is all their family has left of them. To be given the weapon of an ancestor or someone deeply admired is like having them by your side, fighting with you. No matter how alone you are, you never walk alone when you carry their companion.” She closed her eyes, pulling her hand away from the sword. “It should be returned to the family of its warrior. Everyone deserves their family, even a lost warrior’s sword.”

By the time she had finished speaking, Gareth stared at her, both in awe and admiration. His voice was soft with humility. “Truly, I had no idea. It seems I allowed myself to fall into the thinking that warriors were shallow, thoughtless oafs. Forgive me for my ignorance.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Some are thoughtless oafs. Like the man I fought in Dramaden. They are still dangerous, perhaps more so because they do not fight with honor. They are just idiots and I have little respect or patience for idiots.”

“Point taken.” He got to his feet and held his hands out. “Let me see it. There are many stories of many legendary warriors and their weapons. Sadly, the most notable stories are those who left no one behind in their passing.” She hesitated, then lifted the blade and rested in his hands. He walked to the door to use the brighter outdoor light to examine it. His expression changed from neutral to blank shock. “Well, now, this is unexpected.”

Tiwaz remained where she had been standing, but crossed her arms. “What is unexpected?” she demanded when he did not continue speaking.

“I have never seen it, only heard stories,” he warned. “But if I am right, this sword is named Ghalnecha. It is legendary not for its wielder, but for its forging.” He returned, reversing the blade to offer it back to her. She took it, studying it as he spoke. “How much do you know about the war that broke the world?”

“I know that high elves used magic on all the races to keep them enslaved. When all the races rebelled at one time, it created a backlash that broke the land like cracked glass.” She rested the sword on the table with the same reverence she had used earlier with it. “Alimar liked to tell me he was stronger than any high elf.” A small, feral smile touched her lips. “It is probably why he was so furious when I fought his spell and won.”

“No argument there,” he agreed. “What few talk about anymore are the years afterward while the world remained in turmoil. There are different realms of existence that overlap one another. The ones most closely tied to this world are the heavens and hells.” She looked confused. “Think of it like the ocean versus the land versus the sky. There are things that live only in the water, on the land, or in the air. There are things that can move between both, though native to only one. Normally, the barriers are not easily broken. But when the magic energy of the world shattered, many things spilled between these separate realms.”

Tiwaz frowned. “That sounds…bad.”

“Very bad,” he agreed grimly. “It took decades for the barriers to mend themselves. The borders between the various lands are the scars left behind. But before then, powerful creatures foreign to this plane terrorized the land. People were neither prepared for nor capable of fighting such monsters.” He paused a moment. “To make a long, elaborate story short, a master weapon smith forged the blade with the soul of a priest within it and quenched it in the blood of a god to drive the demons back into the hells.” She stared blankly at him. “Well. That is the story. It’s a very old story, so it is likely exaggerated in the retelling.”

“So, the story does not speak of who wielded it?”

Gareth chuckled. “My friend, the story says it chooses its wielder. At least, that’s how the stories would go. Ghalnecha would be lost, eventually found by another, and lost again.” He looked at the sword. “If this is the true Ghalnecha, I think it chose you.” He smiled warmly at her. “It only chooses someone truly special.”

“Feh. I am not special. I’m just a gladiator,” she stated, picking up the leather work and focusing on it. “A flawed gladiator at that.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Gareth stated in gentle tones bordering patronizing. “Everyone has flaws—” He winced at the painful ring of the hammer brought down hard on the anvil. The man felt the stirrings of fear when he met her dark look.

“You think you know me? You think you understand?” she seethed. “Is it because I was trained to be a gladiator, I am the mindless oaf you see all who train in combat? Because I was a slave, I cannot comprehend anything of the world beyond my shackles?” She slammed the hammer on the anvil again, the painful ring echoing. “Maybe because I am female, that I cannot possibly understand anything about what is or is not within me?”

“Ti, please.” His attempt to calm her only infuriated her more. She forced him to take hasty steps back when she took one towards him, her knuckles white clenching the hammer.

“Only Doom can call me that!” She pointed the hammer at him. “To you, I am Tiwaz. Only Tiwaz!” Hands held up, he nodded, saying nothing to avoid provoking her more. “You think to judge me? You think my pain is merely ignorance born of a feeble mind?! Get out.” She stalked towards him. “Get out! I do not need you reminding me how broken I am. Out!”

He backed towards the door and several feet away from the building in haste. Once he was certain she was not going to follow him outside, he went back to peer in the door. She had returned to her work on the sword’s harness, her intense focus blocking the rest of the world out. With a sigh, he leaned against the building, keeping well out of the woman’s line of sight.

Flinching, he pulled out the dragon medallion he wore. The blue diamond eye glittered in the sunlight. He looked upwards in exasperation as he held it. “Don’t go blaming me for this. You didn’t warn me—” He frowned. “How am I supposed to know what to ask you?” He sighed heavily closing his eyes. “Fine. I will get them there.” He looked back inside. “If I can figure out how. And if I haven’t gotten her to completely distrust me now.” He slanted a skeptical look skyward, then rolled his eyes and shook his head.