The Wonderworker by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

Author:Aaron Dembski-Bowden
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2023-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

V

I watched him work in the foundries aboard the Vengeful Spirit. A great many unspoken words lingered in the fire-touched air between myself and Chariz. I told him little of my journey past the Firetide, and in kind he told me little of which warbands had sought out his services. He considered me secretive and irritating. I considered him naive to the point of foolishness. In my eyes, he was fortunate not to have been captured and enslaved by a warband seeking to use him as a pet weaponsmith.

Chariz was that rarest of things: a true mercenary, supplying his craft to any warlord able to pay his price. Some of the work shamed him, I was sure of that. It emanated from his aura in occasional waves when the discussion turned too personal. At such points, he would fall silent and speak no more. I saw no benefit in challenging him.

We were brothers but not close, raised on the same but born into different cultural castes. His roots were ripe with the decadence and indulged ease of the wealthy artisan class. I was from the more philosophical, stargazing tiers of society.

The writings of Old Earth - the Terra That Was - tell us of three pillars in its primitive societies: Those Who Toil, Those Who Pray, and Those Who Lead. Peasants, priests and princes.

Tizca was similar without the same barbaric pretensions. Our code was Ixacalla teotich asta hicuan, meaning ‘All are equal beneath the shining sun’. The castes were free, even encouraged, to interact.

As one of the Thousand Sons, Chariz became one of the Legion’s finest forgewrights, blending sorcery and a smith’s skill into his own avenue of the Art. He pursued psychic mastery not for knowledge, war or power, but for its use in his craft. I admired the practicality of it, even as I recognised he was fortunate to have escaped the Rubric. When Ahriman’s folly devastated the Legion and slew those with the weakest sixth senses, I would have expected Chariz - and those like him - to end their lives among the ashen dead.

He used my blood in the weapon’s forging. He used my breath, my emotions, and my memories. The blade was attuned to me, to my soul, before I ever touched it. It was shaped perfectly for my grip before my fingers ever closed around its hilt.

Chariz never asked what weapon I desired, nor did he ask about the specifics of weight and shape. His skill was in forging a weapon to match its wielder’s needs, twinned with the owner’s soul. That was his gift, and his insight. He did not cater to the whims of warlords that demanded ornate flourishes and specific daemons bound into unholy iron. Supplicants brought him the materials and remained outside the artisan’s decisions. Trusting in his judgement was not just an aspect of his craft, it was the beginning and end of it.

‘Hold this,’ he told me at one point.

To my knowledge, he had not slept in six days when he ladled the molten orange metal onto my gauntlets.

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