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.