Chapter 2. Black Iron

BLACK IRON

Black Iron is a magical metal ore found mainly in the Black Iron prefecture, but also in more isolated pockets worldwide, especially around and and at the sites of magical phenomena or near the remains of dragons, giants and similar ancient creatures.

Black Iron is so called because of its resemblance in appearance and workability to normal iron, but it is actually an entirely different material. Black Iron is about two-thirds the weight of the same volume of iron, and the metal requires far more work to form any kind of steel from. The resulting alloy is called Runesteel, regardless of carbon content.

The defining trait of Black Iron and its alloys, and the source of its value is the metal's exceptional ability to absorb and retain magical energy. This makes it especially receptive to enchanting, and effective in protecting anything it coats from magical interferences or damage. Hence, it is immensely sought after by battlemages, alchemists, mercenaries, sorcerers, rulers and armies alike.

It should be noted, however, that black iron is only resistant to magic, and not impervious to it. A suitably large amount of magical force can destroy black iron, as can attempting to channel too much power into it at once. Should this happen, the structure would shatter, making black iron weaponry a luxury reserved for only those who can control their magical energy output to a great degree of proficiency.

In addition, black iron does eventually "leak" if enchanted. While it holds magical energy better than any other metal, it is still subject to natural law. It can take anywhere from months to years to decades to happen, but the power of the enchantment will eventually wane. This is why graverobbing of ancient structures or cairns for magical artifacts is often a fruitless endeavor.

The Black Iron Prefecture's rolling hills laid before Dolorem, the land was stripped of all nearby trees, no doubt for the refinement of its namesake ore. The soil was waterlogged beneath his feet, and the grass cover often gave way to patches of bare limestone. The rains had done nothing to promote growth, rather stripped the land of nutrients entirely. Paddy fields dotted the landscape, providing the region with enough food to survive comfortably, at least it had done in the past.

Dolorem continued along the road, stopping only to tie a rag around his mouth and nose, and put on gloves. He knew better than to take chances, corpses carried an unknowable number of diseases, parasites too. Eventually, he reached a hanging-tree, outside town limits. He had a suspicion to confirm, but the process would be unpleasant. He activated his mark and began to swirl threads of shadow in his palm. Within a fraction of a second, he'd formed a wickedly sharp shuriken from condensed shadow, and launched it at one of the nooses. The blade severed the noose with ease and dissipated. A trail of shadowy wisps still scything through the air. The body collapsed to the ground with an unceremonious thud.

Next came the hard part. He drew his knife and flipped the body over. The corpse was fresh, given the maggots, less than 5 days. He cut open the body cavity, searching for the stomach among the viscera. He found it, and pulling away his face, opened it. After the putrid gas had escaped, he looked into it. As he had thought, it was nigh-empty, save for a few mushy grains of rough brown rice. A peasant, and one who was starving at the time of death. The town had been in the throes of famine. The revolt made sense now.

He looked at the nameless corpse, somewhat ashamed of his treatment of the body. He wove a set of hand seals over the body, whispering a prayer of purification. Then he wove a separate set of seals and held out his hand. Embers sprang from his outstretched fingers, igniting the body like kindling. Shinobi always learned fire spells, above all others, and this was one of the most common applications. Bodies were a hindrance, but could at least be afforded the dignity of cremation.

Dolorem moved on, reaching the town on schedule. The townspeople barely noticed him as he walked the streets. The air was thick with the smell of damp and smoke. It seemed like everyone there was working on something, be it bringing bags of grain around, or scrap iron in the direction of the forges.

Pained, hacking coughs rang out through the streets, and a smell of desperate poverty rose from the very cobbles, damp and rancid. What seemed to be an endless, makeshift cortege passed through the street. Carts piled high with corpses made their pilgrimage to the charnel house. Dolorem offered a prayer of remembrance to their souls as the groaning wagons passed.

Priests and healers milled about, offering help wherever they went. A thin column of smoke curled up from what remained of a manor house, now just a collection of blackened walls and beams. He approached one of the holy men, who shrank from his presence. He'd seen better days, Dolorem thought. The man was in his seventies, perhaps, with a wrinkled, rough face and dark circles under his eyes. "Sorry, father, you wouldn't tell a stranger in a strange land what happened here, would you? I came through here hoping for a night's lodgings." The priest relaxed somewhat. "Oh, don't worry, our town has just undergone a change in leadership. The old Earl was just removed from power. You're sure to find a hot meal and a bed now, should you need it." He whispered, his voice hoarse and shaky. "Things are looking up now. Ever since the earl was thrown out, I only wish all the souls we lost on the way look upon us with pride" Dolorem bowed, content with what he'd gathered. You have my thanks, Father".

Dolorem felt a familiar cold in his chest. The earl was one of them, the type of ruler Dolorem knew all too well. They were the kind who claimed to act for the good of the country, while letting the populus starve. They'd become slaves in all but name. Plague, famine and conscription, all were grim facts of life for those they ruled over.

He continued along the streets, carefully observing the people. Smiles adorned the haggard faces of the residents, and they chatted with one another as they worked. Indeed, the town was alive with the deconstruction of the Earl's power. It happened that the grain storehouses of the Earl were packed to the roof. Perhaps Johan had been caught up in the revolt, visiting the Earl.

In any case, the commoners had been starved while the pig iron and grain was being exported up North, no doubt to forge arms and armour. Not uncommon, to some extent in any mining town, but this was beyond extreme. He carefully listened in on their conversations, and noted the size of the families around. Given the average in the south was six children, as opposed to four here. The death toll was about a third of the town's residents, give or take. Those unable to work were first to die, children and the elderly, then the sick and the weak. Those who tried to make off with some of the grain were now dangling from a tree.

The town gaol was situated near the manor house, hidden from view by a stone wall and trees on the manor's side. I was an imposing structure of basalt, seeming to loom over the landscape, despite its relatively small size and squat nature. Dolorem carefully assessed the building, looking for entrances, exits, guard posts. Eventually, he found an entrance in the form of a waste pipe, perhaps a metre in a half in diameter. That would serve as his point of entry. He also found that the guards rotated posts every 3 hours, a process which made enough noise to mask any accidental sounds made by an infiltrator. Satisfied with his preparation, he found a spot in a nearby copse to sleep until nightfall. A sense of dread plagued his dreams for those few hours.

Night fell, and the plan was put into action. Dolorem, shrouded by the dark, made his way into the pipe, his boots sinking into the unspeakable filth, but not letting in, thankfully. He was accustomed to working in unpleasant conditions, but the dank, stinking confines of the pipe was something entirely different. The blackness in front of him seemed infinite, abyssal. Normally, a small flame in one's hand was an option, but Dolorem had heard horror stories of shinobi suffocated by fumes from the burning gas, or burned to the point of being unrecognisable. He would have to rely on touch and hearing to navigate.

His climb was exhausting, and his head was spinning from exertion and lack of air. The final ascent to the intake was achieved by means of an iron hook, fastened to hempen rope. It was nonetheless excruciating, his boots finding little purchase in the slick, mossy stones. He finally reached the top of the passage, and hauled himself over. He squatted, bent double and gasping. The relatively clean air filling his lungs. He had never been more grateful to breathe, after several minutes in the miasma of the sewer.

Seconds passed, and Dolorem composed himself, taking stock of his surroundings. It was dimly lit in the waste disposal chamber, with one entrance. Judging by the distance between the entrance and the chamber, he was probably near the centre of the gaol. High status prisoners were held near the entryway, they were the least likely to attempt escape. Dolorem took a piece of cloth from his pocket and put it in his mouth, between his lips and teeth, silencing his breathing. He crept along the central hall, undetectable by sound. A warden was on the block, walking up and down the hall. Slow, heavy footsteps. He was tired, his perception would be slowed. Dolorem had no desire to harm him, so instead, he stuck to the wall, motionless, on the side of the hall opposite to the warden. He activated his mark, darkening the guard's perception ever so slightly, just enough for him to miss seeing Dolorem.

The prison reeked of depravity, a sickening mix of human waste, blood and filth. The only sounds were the boots of wardens, and the sporadic groans and phlegmy coughs of a prisoner. A pervasive chill seemed to crawl into one's bones.

Once the warden passed, Dolorem moved on, the sound of footsteps fading away into the blackness. He made his way to the entrance, on the south wall. He found the double-doors leading outside. He made a hand sign with his right and a tiny flame sprung to life. He peered into the cells, most of which were open, unlocked. The prison was near vacant, which was to be expected, after an uprising. He found a closed door, behind which lay a chubby, crumpled figure. He didn't want to wake him, not yet. If he panicked, he'd make noise. If he made noise, he'd be detected. Dolorem produced a lockpick from within his bracer, and set about unlocking the door. He had picked plenty like it, but this lock was stiff, and rusty. The pick grated awkwardly on the mechanism, but after a painful chorus of screeches and rattles, the lock clicked open.

Dolorem stole into the cell waiting for the guards to change post. By his observation, he'd need to wait only a few minutes. Once the sound of footsteps began to intensify he woke Johan. In the half light, he saw his mop of greasy hair, and bulldog-like features. He pressed his hand to the man's mouth to prevent him from crying out. He began to flail about, before Dolorem restrained him. Once Johan stopped moving, Dolorem hauled him to his feet and escorted him out of the cell. He dragged the rotund little man through the prison, back in the direction of the waste disposal room.

He turned a corner, only to come face to face with a warden, a young fellow, barely able to grow a beard. Dolorem wasn't going to harm him, but he had to scare him. He activated his mark, his eyes glowing a poisonous vermillion. One the warden's gaze met his own, the illusion took effect. To the warden, snakes were wrapping all around his body, paralyzing him, constricting, crushing. In reality, he was standing unharmed, Dolorem had constructed the sensations of those snakes in the warden's mind, forcing those perceptions upon him, leaving him unharmed but immobile. Once he released the technique, the lad would be rattled, certainly, but no worse for wear. The warden's face paled in the torchlight, before it clattered to the floor, Johan stood gawking, before Dolorem yanked his collar, hissing "Move!" As he did.

They entered the disposal chamber, Dolorem barred the door and motioned into the pipe. Johan recoiled at the smell, before Dolorem's hand returned to the scruff of his neck. After a brief, one sided, shoving match, the pair was navigating the escape route, through the putrid sludge of the sewer pipe. Dolorem had to push Johan on every few seconds, and more than once he considered using his knife to do so, Dolorem growing tired of Johan's incessant whingeing.

After what felt like weeks, the pair emerged, Johan clumsily staggering and falling about in the quagmire surrounding the sewer's exit. Once he composed himself, his arrogance and entitlement returned. In the sickly moonlight, Dolorem could see the man properly, he had a somewhat handsome face ruined by love of food, and a stocky, heavyset build. His garb was that of a nobleman, high ranking too.

"Fuck!" Johan exclaimed, "That was some place, and the stink… Once you get me back to the Cranswell encampment out east, there'll be a reward for ya, let me tell you those savages won't know what hit 'em. You know, when I was given Earlship, I thought it'd be an easy job, you know…"

"You?" Dolorem growled. "You're the Earl?"

"Yes, Of course I am!" Johan proclaimed, "Why the bloody hell else would anyone bother saving me?"

"You're saying you're the one responsible for this? " Dolorem said, voice sharpened with anger.

"This? This is the fault of the natives! Black Iron's gaggle of savages, animals, all of them! They took our gift and threw it in our faces. We could have made this place a titan of industry." He went on in a way so self assured, so superior, Dolorem's hand closed into a fist.

"You're telling me, you, and your men justify the starvation of these people, the murder of their children, to make a few extra silvers?" He snarled, his eyes burning with hatred

"We're hardly to blame for their plight, the men who can work, should, the women, well, I'll let you figure that one out. The opportunities are there, my men need company after all." He continued, a lecherous grin creeping over his face.

"You really are the lowest kind of scum aren't you." Dolorem said quietly, interrupting him.

"Watch your tongue Five-Seals!" Johan snapped. "What gives the likes of you the right to…"

In an instant Dolorem took a step back, into a draw position. The flash of his sword barely registering with Johan. A deep gash had been opened in his gut, his shirt blossoming red. His eyes widened. He managed to put his arms between him and Dolorem's second sword stroke. Dolorem simply spun under his arm, slashing beneath his armpit, then once behind him, delivered the coup-de-grace. Johan's head rolled on the grass, lifeless eyes still wide with shock. The headless corpse fell to the ground unceremoniously, a crimson pool expanding beneath him. Dolorem cleaned off his blade, and sheathed it. "Mercy on your soul", he said under his breath as he left.

He didn't give Johan his last rites. He had been lied to, used to save someone who deserved his fate. He would see to it that the Cranswell invasion would fail. Ties to Solomon would have to be severed. It was what it was. There was an encampment posing a threat to Black Iron. If he hit it now, and hard, he could cripple, or at least somewhat delay the tide of steel-clad soldiers. Without him doing something, the town was not only strategically valuable, but scorned by the Archduke. Moreover, it was nigh-defenceless.