26. The City of Victory
The City of Victory
The city cascaded down the peaks in a fortress of sandstone and dark volcanic glass, its towering ramparts bound together by thick veins of raw amethyst that pulsed with a slow, purple heartbeat.
Colossal metal statues of legendary warlords stood guard over the plazas, their polished surfaces reflecting the forge-fire below.
As they drew closer, the heavy air vibrated with a deafening symphony.
The rhythmic, earth shaking clang of blacksmiths’ hammers ringing against metal echoed off the stone, blending with the sound of blasting of furnaces.
It was a hauntingly beautiful song of creation and violence.
Higher up the tiers, the roaring shouts of warriors drifted down as they moved through training drills, the sharp clash of steel swords cutting through the thick air.
At the very heart of the mountain, a citadel of obsidian and gold pierced the sky.
Its sharp spires reached toward the heavy clouds like a cluster of raised spears, Goibnius Forge.
As they stepped into the forge, heat washing over them in waves, thick with the scent of molten metal and burning coal.
Golden light flickered across the walls, illuminating rows of anvils, tools, and carefully laid out metals of every kind.
The cavernous space filled with the crackling of fire, its glow reflecting off blades in various stages of completion. At the center of it all stood Goibniu.
He was a towering presence, his muscles shifting beneath his bronzed skin. His presence was powerful, but there was warmth to it. His leather apron, worn and singed at the edges and his hands still stained with soot.
Sorcha stepped forward, shoulders squared. “We were sent by the Dagda.”
Goibniu nodded, his gaze sweeping over them. “You don’t say” He gestured to the array of materials before them. “I offered to allow you to make yourselves armor or weapons, or both, if you need.”
They stood there, silent as the fire spit sparks into the air. Sorcha’s brows furrowed slightly, unsure if she had misunderstood. The Dagda had sent them here to receive weapons not forge them.
Goibniu, as if reading her thoughts, smiled. He moved then, stepping forward as the forge responded to his presence, flames flickering to the ceiling.
“You need steel first,” he said, his deep voice rolling over them like distant thunder, “It’ll bend with the right touch, learning to listen to it is the hard part.
” He flipped the blade effortlessly, folding the metal as if it were silk, his strikes a perfect rhythm.
“And if you do not listen, it’ll fight you. ”
He turned to them, placing the hammer down. “Now You.”
The forge fell into stillness again as Sorcha reached for the hammer. Taking a breath, she mimicked the god’s movement, lifting it high and striking down. The metal split beneath her hands, the heat having escaped before she could shape it.
Goibniu tilted his head. “It was too cold, it wasn’t in the forge long enough. Let’s try it again.”
She reset the metal by reheating it, and tried again.
This time, she bent it too far, warping the shape beyond repair.
A frustration rose in her but she forced it down.
Try after try she raised and lowered the anvil.
And then she missed entirely. The hammer slipped from her grasp and came crashing down onto Kyron’s foot.
He let out a curse, stumbling back as he gripped his boot, glaring at her.
From behind, Maelan burst into laughter, nearly doubling over, his whole body shaking. “That ” he gasped, “was beautiful.”
Still laughing, he raised his own hammer, only for his grip to slip completely. His half-formed sword snapped in two, the broken piece tumbling onto the floor.
Kyron, still wincing, smirked. “That was even better.”
Goibniu chuckled. “You’ll get it…. eventually.”
And so it went. Hours passed in fire and frustration, the forge filled with the constant ring of failed strikes, muttered curses, and occasional yelps when the metal refused to cooperate.
Eventually, Goibniu called for a break. He brought them an array of food. Roasted meats, warm bread, and thick stews. Alongside the food, cots had been laid out near the forge.
“You will need to eat and rest,” Goibniu instructed. “And in the morning, we’ll begin again.”
Goibniu sat alongside them, eating in silence as exhaustion crept its way in.
One by one, they collapsed onto the cots, sleep dragging them down almost instantly.
Except for Sorcha, her mind wouldn’t allow it.
She slept on and off the night long before she rose, her limbs aching, But still, she moved to the forge, gripping the hammer once more.
She worked with precision and speed, finally beginning to understand.
From the shadows, Goibniu watched her determination and refusal to quit despite the tremble in her hands, the sweat dripping down her back and still she pushed forward. He crossed his arms, and a grin began to form on his lips.
By the time Kyron and Maelan woke, she was still at it. Maelan groaned, rubbing his face. “You’re already going?”
Sorcha ignored him, hammering another strike.
They eventually joined her, picking up their own tools.
frustration bubbled over, Maelan, muttering, threw a dirty cloth hitting Kyron’s face.
Kyron, already exhausted, snapped at him.
Sorcha rolled her eyes, she had seen this way too many times now.
It always started the same way. One of them said something stupid, the other one reacted, and suddenly it was war.
Sure enough, one moment they were bickering and the next, weapons were drawn.
They raced to pick up broken swords, discarded staffs, anything within reach.
They lunged at each other over the workbenches, knocking over tools, dodging between chairs and tables and smoldering coals, cursing at each other as if the other was the source of all their problems.
Sorcha slammed her hammer down on the anvil, the clang silencing them instantly.
“Would you two stop!?” she snapped, eyes burning. “We don’t have time for this! You’re acting like children!”
And then from the shadows came booming laughter. Goibniu leaned against the forge, arms crossed, his expression alight with mirth.
“This,” he said, still chuckling, “is the most entertainment I’ve had in ages.”
Kyron and Maelan glared at each other, still breathless from their impromptu battle.
Goibniu pushed off the forge, rolling his massive shoulders. “If you wish to fight, then I will teach you to fight.”
He cracked his knuckles, stepping forward, towering over them both. Kyron and Maelan exchanged a wary glance. Sorcha sighed, rubbing her temples.
This was going to be a long morning. Without another word, the God strode forward, his presence alone commanding the space. He gestured to the scattered weapons still strewn across the forge from their earlier fight. “Pick them up. Let’s see what you can do.”
Maelan groaned, kicking at a discarded staff. “Is this really necessary?”
Goibniu raised a brow. “Only if you want to survive someone like me trying to kill you.”
That was enough to shut him up. Maelan bent down, retrieving a practice sword from the pile. Kyron did the same, testing the balance of the blade in his grip. They faced each other once again, but this time, under Goibniu’s watch.
Kyron didn’t hesitate. He lunged, but before his blade could touch Goibniu, he moved.
In a single, fluid motion, he intercepted the strike with the flat of his palm, barely exerting effort as he shoved Kyron’s arm off course. Kyron staggered, caught off guard.
“Your stance is weak and you’re slow,” Goibniu remarked, stepping past him. “Strike like that again, and you’ll be dead before you land a hit.”
Kyron gritted his teeth, resetting his position.
Maelan, seeing an opportunity, went for an attack of his own, bringing on his own misfortune.
Goibniu barely looked at him before sidestepping effortlessly and catching Maelan’s wrist mid swing.
He twisted it just enough to send the sword clattering to the ground.
“You’re too slow, too,” Goibniu noted, his tone almost bored.
Maelan scowled. “I’d be faster if I some more rest.”
Goibniu let out a laugh. “Then consider this your wake up call.”
Without warning, he swept a leg out, knocking Maelan completely off balance. He hit the ground with a loud thud.
Kyron snorted. Maelan shot him a glare. “Shut up.”
Goibniu folded his arms, regarding them both. “If this is what you’re bringing to battle, then you’re already dead.”
Kyron clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around the sword hilt. “Then teach us.”
Goibniu grinned. “Gladly.”
For the next hour, Goibniu drilled the two men relentlessly. Every sluggish stance, every movement, and every failed parry was met with a scathing critique. Kyron fought with brutal reckless aggression. Maelan relied too heavily on flashy, overly confident maneuvers.
Sorcha blocked out their grunts of pain, turning her back to the training floor to focus entirely on her anvil.
The steady, hypnotic rhythm of her hammer meeting glowing metal drowned out the rest of the world.
She had failed more times than she could count.
Her muscles screamed, a deep and heavy exhaustion threatened to slow her arms, but she refused to let the hammer drop.
Finally, with one heavy blow, the metal yielded.
The blade took its true shape beneath her hands, the raw steel gleaming orange in the forge’s glow.
Her breath caught in her throat as she lifted it using the heavy iron tongs, turning it over to inspect her work.
It wasn’t perfect, the edges were slightly uneven, and the spine bore the messy marks of her strikes but it was hers.