Introduction

The two men dressed in formal black robes stared through the disused room’s surprisingly clear air. One settled onto a throne of black obsidian darker than any void and the other on marble of the purest white. “Have you ever heard tell of Mendax the Darkheart?” Issuing from the black throne, the dual resonance in the man’s voice brought images of incredible strength, natural power, and unearthly awareness.

A deep voice that held equal if not greater power replied, “Only the whisperings and writings of depraved men.”

The smile did not touch the man’s pure black eyes when he acknowledged the response, “Of all people, you must learn his story, the tale of Death.”

Chapter 1 – A Taste of Darkness

The echo of his deeds still haunted him, but of course they did. A few short minutes ago Mendax slew both of his parents in cold blood. The waxen corpses still leaked thick dark red blood on the previously spotless kitchen floor. The smell of viscera tainting the air was not the worst. It wasn’t as easy to smell as the stench of death, but another terrible stench was still there. If anyone but Mendax remained, and if they were truly in tune with the world, they would have smelled his innocence die.

No longer did a child, or more accurately a preteen, have the youthful innocence of his age. The exuberance that should have lit his eyes was dead and replaced with a blank mask of numb acceptance. There was nothing left inside the boy at all, and if there was, it could only be a heart of darkness.

* * *

The chair was rather plush and comfortable, or rather it would have been if Mendax’s awareness extended beyond the vital functions that kept him alive. As it were, Mendax did not have enough wherewithal to know his own name. Something broke inside of him when he murdered his parents. All was evident to the older man sitting across the desk from him. When Bas heard of the murder it was concerning.

As far as Power users went, neither Mendax nor his slain parents were anything special. In fact, they were quite the opposite. Peasants, nobodies as far as Bas was concerned. However, something about the boy intrigued him. Was it the violence of the crime? Or maybe it was the tender age of the shabbily dressed child. Could it be both, or maybe neither?

No, Bas knew why he had to see the child when the reports of his crimes came. The child was an empty vessel, the child could be built and molded however Bas needed. Times were going to become difficult in the near future, times were already difficult. This was perfect. This was a tool Bas could use.

He sat back in his chair and focused on the child’s dead eyes. There was no point in trying to have the child talk. Instead, he was going to use an infinitely more efficient and accurate manner of learning the truth.

Bas focused, and then called forth the Power from deep within himself. Staring into the child’s eyes, he cast forth his consciousness into the mind of the child. To a less adept man, the maelstrom in Mendax’s mind might have overwhelmed. Bas was far more than adept, Bas was the reason the Power existed on Earth. He taught humans to use the cosmic energy and was a master with no equal.

What he saw was fascinating. Mendax fought with his parents the night before their deaths. The young Mendax wanted to join the military, but his parents rejected the idea for one so young. Bas inwardly laughed. The child would have been accepted into the youth academy even with his low pedigree, but he was too young for the army. Even though peace currently ruled, Bas couldn’t help but appreciate their insight. Though the Shepherds were not at war, Bas knew one waited over the horizon.

After their fight, the child brooded for hours in his sparse room, hate building with each passing minute. For one so young he had quite the anger problem, or maybe it was because he was young. Mendax was poor and his parents shouldn’t have had a child at their age either. Child, parents, they couldn’t relate to one another in any capacity and that was what led Mendax to snap. The next day while his parents were making a humble breakfast in their small kitchen, the child snuck up behind them without a sound and slit their throats.

To Bas the act was magnificent, the cold conviction of Mendax, the remorselessness as the blade severed arteries with ease, and the steady hand as the hot sticky blood spouted into the youth’s face. Oh yes, he would teach the child everything he needed to know. Mendax was quite the natural in the art of death.

Then Bas frowned. He had gotten ahead of himself. Mendax’s mind shattered once the anger faded and the truth became apparent. Though he could not understand his parents, he had loved them. Their deaths were dark stains on his soul, a tortured, flayed, and broken soul. Bas sighed loudly. He could be fixed, and it would take time, but the pieces would be put back together again. They would be remolded, and the weakness that broke Mendax would be made his strength.

“Stand up.” Bas said in a commanding voice.

Mendax moved as a puppet with its strings jerked about.

“You are moving to a private set of chambers at my home. I will make you whole again and take away the pain. Does that sound good to you?” Bas asked in a gentle voice. The child looked ready to break again or maybe that was just the old set of robes and disheveled air to the child clouding his judgement.

There was an almost imperceptible nod from the child in response.

“Good.” Bas called to an attendant. “Take the child to my estate.”

The child and attendant disappeared a moment later. Oh yes. This was splendid. Bas needed this child as a backup if his plans did not come to fruition, and it was possible he might need the child anyway. He settled down into his chair again, adjusting his formal white robes, and looked at the crystalline office he enjoined. Oh yes indeed, this was his time, finally his time. He would teach the child, and in doing so, the child would become death for Bas’ enemies.

Chapter 2 – Through the Mist

How long had the fog of madness reigned supreme in Mendax’s mind? A day, week, or maybe months? How long had it been? All Mendax could remember were flashes of insanity. He could clearly see the blade sliding across the smooth skin of his mother’s and rough skin of his father’s throats. He remembered the smell of death, the thick gooey consistency of congealing blood covering his face and hands. Mendax even remembered sitting down at the kitchen table to watch the scene of horror with rapt fascination. Then the mist of madness set in and the world clouded.

Mendax realized what he had done, and it rend his soul apart. He felt the white-hot tearing as the unforgivable blackness of the deed spread its pollution. Then obliteration. Fragments of memory would creep out of the storm and torment his maddened mind with fresh horror. After an unknowable time, there was a light. It was small at first. He could tell it had not come to heal him, at least not yet. The light was searching, burning through the chaos to see the truth.

It dug into his memories, sorted through the pain, and forced him to relive the horrors he committed again and again. Mendax wanted to recede back into the chaos, where at least he was only occasionally beset by his own madness. This light would not let him go. He had to experience the depravity of his own soul again and again. Every second that passed pushed him a little further into the darkness beyond saving.

When the light finally diminished and withdrew, Mendax was at an even greater loss for stability. The light was substance, but now the darkness loomed even larger than before. Surrounded by insanity within and without, whatever remained of Mendax struggled to hold onto his last fleeting shred of identity.

* * *

Mendax opened his eyes and smirked at his immediate train of thought. Looking back through the mist to those first dark days was still trying. It had only been a few weeks since Bas helped him reform his mind into a semblance of functionality. There were still pieces missing, both in his mind and his soul, but Bas offered answers to fill those gaps. Things were not as difficult as before but neither were, they perfect. He could now close his eyes at night without being constantly tormented by flashes of memory from another life.

That was truly what it was, another life. Mendax could not remember most of the events that transpired before his parents’ deaths. In fact, other than knowing his parents died, and he was responsible, Mendax knew little. It was better that way, or at least that was what Bas claimed.

Though he wasn’t sure, Mendax believed Bas. After all, Bas was the strongest Power user to ever live. He was thousands, if not tens of thousands of years old. No one, not even Bas’ own kin could rival his Power or knowledge. Plus, he was also the leader of the Shepherds.

Mendax looked around his austere room. It only contained a simple bed and plain chest of drawers. The floors were bare stone, the window was shuttered so not a single ray of light could glint through to illuminate the spotless surfaces. The only source of light was an iridescent glow coming from a crystal formed into the ceiling by a craft unknown to Mendax.

It was forbidden for Mendax to leave his chamber without an escort, and when he did leave it was always blindfolded. Bas told him safety demanded the precaution. No matter what Bas thought and knew, the public at large claimed Mendax a killer and so must be hidden. It seemed logical to Mendax, well even if it didn’t in wasn’t his place to have an opinion.

The only bothersome part was Mendax’s innocence. According to Bas, the murders had been righteous. They were self-defense, they were needed in order to protect the population. Hadn’t Bas just told him that Mendax was a guardian of sorts? He had, but Bas hadn’t explained it.

At that moment his door cracked open and Bas walked into the chamber.

“What troubles you?” Bas asked.

The mist still clung to the outer reaches of Mendax’s mind, causing pain and a delay in answering. “What am I again?” He asked confused.

“Please, sit.” Bas motioned to Mendax’s bed. When Mendax looked back, Bas had a chair of his own. Where had that come from?

“You were weak Mendax. Before you came to me you were weak, but you saw what needed to be done and did it anyway. In that moment you became strong.”

“I became strong?” The child fumbled.

“Yes. Before you were a victim to others, but now you are strong.” Bas hesitated, “Well, you are going to become strong.” Mendax fidgeted with the fringe of his black robe before correcting the action a moment later.

Bas could see the gears turning inside the youth’s head. “So, killing made me strong?” But the boy seemed even more confused. “But I thought it was the killing that caused…this.” He pointed to his head indicating the mist and confusion.

Patiently, “We have been over this Mendax. You simply were not ready, but I will prepare you and then when enough time and training has passed, you will be strong.” He smiled and then added, “When I am done with you, no one will stand in your way.”

Mendax liked the sound of that. In a society of Power users, where people could instantly teleport, where they wielded energy on their fingertips like gods, where a single flick of a thought could move mountains, being unbeatable was quite the thing. Something nagged at the back of Mendax’s mind though. He couldn’t tell what it was, and with every passing second it slipped further away.

“I can tell you are bothered Mendax.” Bas said with a fatherly smile.

“Yes.” Mendax admitted. “I wish I could remember more from before the accident. I wish I knew who I was then.”

Bas frowned for the first time in the course of the conversation. The mere downward twitch of Bas’ lips sent a shiver up Mendax’s spine. No one angered Bas, not if they wanted to survive long.

Bas answered coolly, “It doesn’t matter who you were. I care, and the only thing you should care about, is who you will become.”

Mendax bowed his head in shame. “Yes, Master.”

Bas smiled once more. “Good. The mist that clouds your mind will recede as the training continues. We will begin in earnest tomorrow so sleep now. The trials ahead are difficult, and you may not survive them.”

It was Mendax’s turn to frown. “I will pass whatever test you might devise. You said I was weak and therefore I broke, I will not be weak again.” The vehemence in the child’s voice brought a delighted light to Bas’ cold black eyes as he left the room, robes flaring in his wake.

Chapter 3 – Demons Die

He looked down at the sticky red blood congealing on his hands, smelled the viscera staining the floor, and then glanced up at the dead bodies of his parents. They were lifeless corpses, dead and devoid of meaning. But wait, no, he looked at the blood on his hands again and then back at his parents. This wasn’t right. Something deep in Mendax’s mind shifted and everything became clear.

Those weren’t his parents lying on the cold ground. They might have been someone’s parents, but not his. The blood quickly solidifying on his hands belonged to them. He just killed them a moment before because it was his task, one of many in the weeks since Bas had taken him.

Mendax turned away from the bodies and sat down on a comfortable blue leather chair in the room’s far corner. Yes, it was all clear once again. In fact, Mendax was quite annoyed with the flashback. That problem hadn’t surfaced since Bas reprimanded him the last time with pain and torment he knew he deserved. This time, Mendax thought back on purpose of the flashback.

He remembered how eagerly he sought Bas’ instruction, to become an instrument of death. Then the first trial came. It was simple. Bas handed him a puppy and ordered it killed. Without blinking, the youth snapped its neck in two.

The next task called for the death of a dog found in the city. Bas told him, “You are ready for the next stage. You are not to be a simple executioner. Mendax, I need you to be the greatest hunter to ever live. Therefore, you must learn to hunt.”

Bas sent him into the city with the instructions to hunt down a dog and kill it. The catch, Mendax had to kill the dog without being seen, and it had to be in front of its owner. When Mendax went to accomplish the task, he failed. The child playing with his dog in the yard saw the attack. Mendax, not yet grown to his full stature, was easily concealed behind a clump of bushes where waited since dusk. The wait did not bother him as night was claimed by day and the air cooled, grass moistening as dew condensed. Being a hunter took patience most lacked; Mendax knew that lesson without anyone telling him.

Later in the day when the child finally came out to play with his dog, Mendax instinctively acted. The small throwing knife hidden up a sleeve slid into his hand and flew across the yard. The Power would have killed just as easily, but the Power could also be detected by others. A knife? A knife was silent, deadly, and didn’t leave a trail to follow.

With a practiced flick of his wrist, the slender five-inch blade flew from the bushes. It was supposed to hit the dog a fraction of an inch behind its left ear, but it didn’t. A sudden gust of wind blew the blade off course, causing it to thud into the ground several feet beyond the boy. Instead of looking at the dog and trying to save it, which would have given Mendax the time he needed to escape, the child turned and looked at the bushes.

The jig was up. He had been caught. As the child opened his mouth to call for his parents, Mendax froze with uncertainty. What should he do? This was not a part of Bas’ training as so far. Mendax never came to an answer. Bas suddenly appeared, clamping his hand over the child’s mouth. He called to Mendax as the child was froze fear bright in his pale blue eyes, panic stricken and unable to scream.

Reluctantly, Mendax came out of the damp bushes with fear welling at the coming reprisal. Using the Power, Bas somehow made it so no one could see or hear them. The dog growled low at Bas and Mendax, the child whimpered in fear.

“You have failed.” Surprisingly the statement did not hold a note of reprisal. It was a plain statement of fact.

“Yes, Master.” Mendax bowed his head.

“Kill the dog.” Bas said without inflection.

Mendax pulled the knife from the dry ground and slit the dog’s throat a moment later. It was done. Mission complete. He looked up a Bas ready to leave.

“Now, since you have failed, and this child knows what you look like, and he definitely knows who I am, you must kill him too.”

The breath caught in Mendax’s throat. Kill a person? Another child? He hesitated.

In that split second, his body suddenly became taught and crushed from all angles by a tremendous invisible force. He could see the shimmer of Power encasing his body and knew death was near.

“I told you to kill him.” Bas said. “You hesitated. A hunter does not hesitate. He studies, plans, and then acts. You were told to act and did not. This hesitation will result in your death.” Again, the tones of a teacher lecturing a wayward student were all that came out.

The pressure became greater, as if his whole body were in a vice.

“Now kill him.”

As soon as the pressure was gone, Mendax lashed forward, the knife struck the boy in the chest with a slight scrapping noise as the blade nicked ribs on its passage to the heart. He smelled the stench of death a moment later and tasted the metallic mist of his quarry’s blood. It was done.

Bas dropped the dead child and looked at him with cold contempt. “Go home.” The venom finally coming into Bas’ voice chilled Mendax’s blood.

That night Bas tortured Mendax for the failures using disgusting methods that would turn anyone’s stomach with revulsion. He did the terrible things again, and again, and again. The entire time Bas reminded Mendax that he was a hunter, that he did not hesitate, that nothing stood in his way. He existed to kill, and nothing else. There would be no remorse, no sorrow, no emotion at all when he killed. Killing was methodical, cold, and unconcerned. It was his purpose and reason for existence. If he was to take some satisfaction from doing his job well, then fine, but that was it.

By the end of the lesson Mendax was bloody, a few bones were probably broken, but the message seared his mind permanently. He killed twenty times since then without so much as batting an eye at the death he wrought. What made these two ordinary people different? Why did killing this pair in their own home cause the flashback to the deaths of his parents?

Was it the similarity of the situations? Possibly. Or was he slipping? No, he wasn’t slipping. Each time Mendax killed his skill increased. He stalked, he evaded, he planned, gained entry, and did the deed without detection. Mendax learned to conceal his Power from any who might detect his unique signature. What was it then?

Mendax shrugged. It was time to go. Bas would be waiting for the report and then lessons. The lessons were always intense, they hurt, they caused him mental and physical pain, but they crafted the hunter into an ever more lethal beast. Mendax had yet to hunt anyone with real Power, meaning a strong connection to the universal energy. These past twenty-two kills had all been average nobodies. That was to change though. Bas said the real lessons would begin today.

He looked down at the bodies as he stood up and had another flashback. His lips formed a grim line and darkened the light of Mendax’s youthful complexion. There was only one option available to banish the mental nuisance. He opened his mind and thought back to the day of his parents’ death. He forced himself to look at all the horrid details, the blood staining his fingers, the gore squishing underneath leather boots, and the tacky consistency of the blood as it dried and coagulated, and the smell, the fetid smell of death.

He again remembered sneaking into the kitchen without a sound, the feeling of the knife splitting skin on one throat then another. There was the horror of realizing his deed and fear of the repercussions. That was it, right there. He felt horror, he was scared. Foolishness. The memories haunted him because of his weakness, the weakness of his emotions roiling through the disturbed child at the time of the event.

It took a week for the fog to leave his mind after their deaths. In that time Mendax purposely avoided confronting the day he slaughtered his only connection to the world. Now that he did, he realized the problem. Laughing at himself, he brushed aside the fear and horror and instead reveled in his ability to master death. No one had trained him then, and yet he still managed to stealthily slay his parents. Yes, if any lesson resulted from the deaths that day it was appreciation and admiration for his natural abilities. In that moment the demons haunting Mendax silently slid into the darkness of his soul where nothing could ever rise again.

With his demons dead, Mendax threw back his head and laughed with more than a tinge of madness. Oh yes, he was a natural and it was time to learn how to hunt the big game.

However, when Mendax returned the victor Bas did not offer congratulations or any of the praise he thought was deserved for the mental revelation. Bas motioned to the young assassin with a single finger and beckoned him to follow. They travelled through the opulent corridors of Bas’ mansion, the red carpets changing into hues of blue, black and many others until they stopped outside of a solid oak door. It was thick and heavy, studded with iron, cast an aroma of age, and clearly made to keep people in as well as out if the over built lock was any indication.

“What is this?” Mendax asked.

He immediately shrunk in fear of reprisal at his impertinent question. Mendax could speak openly in most situations, but his tone had been that of a bratty teenager bored with the activity at hand when he should have been waiting on his master’s every word. The cold fire in Bas’ black eyes was enough to quell any further questions for the time being.

The master pushed open the imposing door. It slid on its well-greased hinges without making a sound, nor did so much as a whisper reply as the door came to a rest against the inner wall. Bas stood aside and let Mendax gaze past into the black void of the unlit room. A nod of Bas’s head told Mendax to enter first. If he was about to receive another lesson in obedience, he would take it in silence. The merciless torture sessions Bas used on his pupil served one purpose, to strip Mendax of any identity and enslave him to his will. Mendax was not a person in Bas’s eyes, but a tool, and a tool needed sharpening. In the case of a human tool, it also needed molding and shaping until it understood that it was not human. Tools were not people, they were things, and Bas had ensured Mendax knew that on many occasions.

Knowing mind altering pain was only moments away, Mendax did the opposite of most, he smiled at Bas and welcomed it. He was a tool, and if his master thought he needed pain, then that must be what was in order. Mendax, if nothing else enjoyed doing what he was meant to do, and so he would enjoy the pain that was destined for him.

Stepping into the unknown room, Mendax was ready for anything, or at least he had thought so. When Bas turned on the lights to reveal a worktable, forge, and tools of the iron working trade, he didn’t know what to think. Bas alleviated any potential awkwardness by stepping around Mendax and sitting on the table.

“Do you know what this room is?”

Mendax indicated that he did not.

“This is where magnificent works of iron, steel, and other beautiful medals were once molded into works of beauty and death. It has sat unused for nearly ten thousand years.”

Mendax looked around at the spotless room. The tools hung neatly, well oiled, and ready for use. The floors were clean and unmarred, the forge waiting to be coaxed to life with a fuel supply sitting at the ready. Ten thousand years and if it was a day. Then thought of the home around the forge. Bas had not lived a normal span of years, but to think his abode might be equally as ancient never crossed the youth’s mind.

“And?” Mendax led respectfully.

“And I want you to use it once more.”

Mendax didn’t know how to work metal. He had never been given any training in the delicate craft. There were artisans that labored their entire lives perfecting weaponry, jewelry, and all of the other nuanced areas a smith might delve into. It was impossible for a young man to instantly learn the complexities of the craft.

“But how? I do not understand.”

Bas smiled, which was terrifying in its own vindictive way. “I will see that you have the appropriate tutors.”

“But what am I to make?”

Bas stood and walked to the forge where he toyed with the bellows. “You are to craft a set of armor of your own design.”

Mendax frowned as his mind instantly rejected the task. He was a hunter, an assassin, and as such had no need of the bulky war armor worn in the armies. Armor was the antithesis of what he represented. He was not brute force and heavy-handed tactics. Mendax was the subtle whisper, the breeze in the night, and the shadow prowling the dark places the masses refused to venture. He was not, nor would ever be a soldier.

“I do not understand. This is not my purpose.”

Bas laughed at his pupil’s confusion with glee. “You need not understand why, and your purpose is as I say it is. Do not claim to know your future. I have said that you will design and craft armor with the assistance of my finest smiths, and so you shall.”

Mendax had no recourse other than to nod silently.

“Good. You will begin your training tomorrow.”

“Yes, Master.” Mendax followed Bas from the room and sought his own quarters.

Mendax may have been a youth, but he was far from ignorant of the ways of the world. Bas might have given him reprieve from a beating that night, but it would not be stayed forever. The astute youth also knew it was not likely that Bas would deliver it and instead the lesson would come from a smith. Creating the armor would not be enjoyable, it would take something from him as all his training did, but something was always given in turn. What would that be? Mendax didn’t know, yet he looked forward to the inevitable with excitement. Mendax was a hunter, the hunter, he would do anything in order to perfect his purpose even if the rationale remained beyond his sight.

* * *

“Again” the words were pronounced with the same precision as the man who uttered them.

“Again.” The ring of steel on steel split the air.

“Again.” Another peel of metal on metal.

Mendax swung the hammer only when told, and with measured pressure he learned through pain. When he first began the apprenticeship under Master Smith Guines, Mendax thought he knew what to expect, but as frequently happened to the youth, came to understand the error in that assumption.

The Master Smith did not punish him cruelly for amusement as Mendax thought Bas directed. Guines was a true Master of his craft, nothing more, nothing less. He instructed Mendax in the various instruments of the trade, and after demonstrating the techniques used in forging metal, began practical instruction.

“Again.” The metal reshaped with another ping.

It had not been as simple as hitting red hot metal with a hammer until it passed as a useable instrument. Strikes varied in force, there were different hammers, and the metal had to be prepared, folded, reheated, and tempered all according to a plan that lay in the Master Smith’s subtle mind. As always, Mendax drank in every drop of knowledge with ease, but he was not perfect.

Each time Mendax erred he knew a red-hot strip of iron would lash across his back. It wasn’t out of malice the smith burned his apprentice. Guines was a warrior as well as a smith and knew the weapons and armor he crafted were used in the Shepherds’ wars. If soldier were harmed due to a flaw in the Smith’s work a dark stain would mar the man’s soul. Mendax needed to understand that every action had a reaction, an effect, and that the result might take years to come into fruition.

“Again.”

Mendax learned in the past five months that an ill-tempered blade would become brittle and break, or it might be too soft and give way under stress. A poorly linked piece of mail could let a broad head arrow through killing the wearer. Even a piece seemingly flawless on the surface might contain an internal flaw that would only come to light when stressed. Their work must be perfect, was required to be perfect. Master Smith Guines would accept no less, and refused to tell Bas that Mendax was ready until perfection became the norm.

“Again.” The clang of metal filled the room but this time the Master Smith frowned.

Mendax knew the flexible metal switch was coming before Master Smith Guines plucked it from the fire and lashed his exposed back. The hunter made nary a sound as his skin turned red and began to swell and sting with sweat caused by the inferno of the forge. This was not the first time he’d been burned and it would not be the last.

“What did you do incorrectly?” The Master Smith asked his pupil while somehow managing to stand in the heat of the forge without sweating.

Mendax looked at the metal he’d just struck with a studied eye. “I struck a quarter inch off mark and without enough force to sufficiently round the edge.”

“Yes.”

“It shall not happen again.” Mendax replied with certainty.

“I know.” Came the equally confident reply.

Master Smith Guines had seen Mendax hunt, seen him make mistakes, but he had never observed him make the same more than once. It was the same with the smithing. Mendax might err, but no two errors were ever alike.

The smith put the bar of steel back into the forge then pulled it free when the metal sang with a red glow. He placed it back on the anvil and tapped out a rhythm with a small hammer meant for the task. Two taps on the anvil, and the third was a strike from Mendax on the near molten metal. The pattern continued as the bar of steel flattened, folded over, flattened, reheated, flattened, and folded over and over again.

Sweat poured down Mendax’s bare back and stung at his eyes but he did nothing to alleviate the discomfort. Not even the burning strip of flesh across his spine could distract him from the work. It took perfection to complete the sword, and so he would become perfect.

“Enough” Master Guines held up the now cold bar of steel to reveal the rough outline of a sword. He plunged it back into the roiling forge fire and let it grow bright red, and then plunged the rough instrument into his secret liquid mixture. A hissing cloud of steam bellowed forth from the bucket and filled the air with a burning smell. The dark length of steel that emerged from the bucket glistened with beading moisture that dripped to the floor.

Mendax looked at the sword he had helped create. It was rough, without edge, hilt, or polish, but it was beautiful. The steel swirled where folds made time after time until he’d lost count glistened in the light of the fire. Even Master Guines stopped to admire his budding creation, but he was a master and quickly moved on to other matters.

“Mendax.”

“Yes, Master.”

The smith’s voice held something akin to appreciation, “You have learned much in our time together, but your knowledge lies only on the surface of the craft. I now believe it time you delve deeper into the lore of metallurgy. You are to find a source of raw material and bring it to me. Then you shall craft something of your own mind and I will watch and evaluate. When you are done, I will teach you the rest of what I know.”

“Can it be that simple and easy?” Mendax asked wary of a trap. The Smith was straightforward, but Mendax knew to always be wary.

“No, it is not. However, I do not have the requisite time to properly teach you all I know in a satisfactory manner.”

“Then why are we doing this?” Mendax was beginning to grow angry that his time had possibly been wasted. He spent months learning from the Smith only to discover mastery was beyond his grasp.

“Because our master commanded that I teach you. Now go, find your metal and bring it to the forge.”

Mendax took a calming breath and remembered that he must not disappoint Master Guines even if Bas wasted his time. His creation would be perfect, that was the only way for the time not have been lost in folly.

The young hunter left the forge soaked in sweat and with several angry red bands across his bare flesh. He would go and find the ore, but it would do him no good to leave when he was bare to the chest and needing a thorough shower. It wasn’t for his sake that he cleansed the grim and changed into a new set of inconspicuous clothing. The people he encountered would not have taken of a rough shod teenager with obvious signs of abuse into their shops. Clothed, cleaned, and determined, no one would notice Mendax as he wound his way through the streets of Tytos in an effort to secure steel from a local vendor.

As expected, the bulk retailers scoffed at Mendax. Not even his deadly gaze could persuade the merchants to sell him a small quantity of their metal. They thought themselves important, they thought that the child before them was nothing but at errant brat stirring up trouble. They were wrong. Unfortunately, their mistake would ultimately lead to untimely deaths as Mendax noted each and every man and woman to turn him away.

It took a second day of searching before Mendax found suitable material at a junk yard on the outskirts of the metropolis. The owner of the scrap yard had no qualms about selling a hunk of metal so beaten and misshapen that it was impossible to tell its original purpose. To him, Mendax was a way to make a profit. After melting it down, he would have sold the metal in bulk and for a lower price, but the youth before him didn’t know that. A few minutes after he walked in, Mendax left with his metal, having paid double its market price and not caring one iota about it. He had a purpose and a mission. If he failed pain would result, but pain did not bother the hunter. He relished pain, bathed in it, because it made him stronger. Instead, Mendax was motivated by an unquenchable desire for perfection.

He knew Bas wanted him to make armor, but he was not ready for that. Master Smith Guines instructed him to make whatever he wanted. Mendax wanted to make something useful, a knife of his own for hunting. Eventually he’d make the armor, mainly because he did not have a choice if it was what Bas decreed.

Returning to the forge at the end of the second day, Mendax immediately began to heat the coals and work the bellows until the forge raised the temperature of the room to an uncomfortable level. Only after the fire burned hot enough to melt steel did Mendax stop and place the metal into a crucible. There he melted the steel in the ceramic container until it was completely liquefied. After, he poured the glowing metal into a form the shape of a twelve-inch bar. He let the silver liquid cool, all the while preparing his tools for the task at hand.

Master Smith Guines entered the room at some point but Mendax was too preoccupied with his work to give more than a superficial nod of recognition. He had already broken the steel from its form and began to fold the metal. The more folds, the stronger the blade would be, or at least that was his nascent understanding of the complicated craft. He worked for a day, then another, and on the third he finally stopped to inspect his work.

The entire three days flashed by without even the smallest of passage of time. Mendax had been completely and utterly absorbed in his task. Each strike was considered before the hammer shaped the molten rod. Master Smith Guines taught Mendax perfection, and Mendax would settle for no less. Not a single wayward blow landed, and the results were marvelous. The bar of steel stretched fifteen inches long, ten of which would become the blade once sharpened. At the other end, the metal narrowed where Mendax had yet to affix the hilt and small cross guard he had in mind.

A cloud of steam rose into the air as Mendax quenched the red-hot metal in the Master Smith’s secret mixture that would temper the blade. He pulled the blade out of the liquid and wiped the sweat from his brow with a free hand. His chest was bare, sweat rolling down to soak the tops of the black trousers Mendax wore. Three days since he started, and now it was mostly finished.

Mendax turned toward Master Smith Guines. The artisan had never left for the duration of Mendax’s work. He observed every blow, each time Mendax made a change, and watched to see what the young man would create. Now it was time to pass judgement on Mendax’s work. The pupil bowed his head in respect as he passed the tongs to his master.

Master Smith Guines remained silent for a minute, then two, five, ten, and then finally looked up as Mendax began to wonder what the punishment for this failure would entail. He had thought his actions perfect, but he was a novice at best and might not have known he erred. Instead of the reprimand Mendax believed awaited him, Master Guines smiled for the first time.

“This is passable work for a novice.”

Mendax frowned, “Passable. Perfection or nothing.” His voice held disdain and self-reproach. If the Smith didn’t punish him, he would do so of his own accord.

The Master put his hand on his pupil’s shoulder, “For one such as yourself, this is perfection.”

Confused, Mendax looked into the Master Smith’s eyes. How could it be perfection?

“Calm yourself Mendax. You have done as you should have and your success will be noted to Bas.”

“There is only perfection. It does not vary by degrees.” Mendax replied as if he had never heard anything past the first comment.

The Master Smith sighed heavily and lay down the knife. “You have done what you were tasked with to the best of your ability. In doing so, every expectation was surpassed.”

“I will not stop until I am perfect in the eyes of the same standards as yours.”

Shaking his head, the smith smiled, “I have no doubt you will perfect whatever it is you put your mind to.” His voice growing stern once more, “Now finish this and I will teach you everything it is that I know.”

Five months later Mendax held a crystal that comprised everything the Master Smith knew. It was impossible to learn it all in such a short time, but Bas had grown impatient for Mendax to complete his tutelage. Such as things were, Mendax was to start crafting his armor the next day. Until then, he retired to his sparse room and meditated on the design in his mind’s eye. The additional five months of practice resulted in a level of attention to detail previously lacking in Mendax. He might not have known all the Smith knew, but he had become flawless in his creations. Perfection, maybe it was only for the small things, the easy projects, but it was perfection. Mendax knew with work he could and would master everything the world had to offer. It was his purpose. He was a weapon, a tool, and Bas needed someone who was the perfect tool. Eventually, Mendax drifted off to sleep, the design of the armor fresh in his mind.