Portents Revealed

Deep in the bowels of the mountain that housed the Order of the Sacred Blade, Prospector Dmitri stared at the surface of the obsidian anvil, its top polished to a black mirror. On the walls of the sanctum hung tools, some perfectly functional blacksmith’s gear, others, like the obsidian anvil, for the forging of far less material works. All had the patina of generations of use.

He had been scrying, and now meditated on the fuzzy images revealed in the depths of the anvil. The simple circle he had cast about the scrying anvil suddenly flared, energy shooting upward like a dancing fountain, something that had never happened in all the times he had gone through the motions of casting and consecrating his magic circle. But the abrupt pulse of magical energy went unseen, as Dmitri’s mind was suddenly filled with an image clearer than anything he’d scryed since he’d dedicated himself to the Prospectors.

He stood up and hastily turned away from the scrying anvil. Barely remembering that he should conclude the ritual before breaking the circle, he stopped short at the inner edge of his circle, muttered a hasty thanks to the spirits he’d invited, and quickly released the energy of the circle as a gift to the world.

He broke the circle, rushed over to a bookcase, took down a massive tome and set it on a library table, then pulled a pen several sheets of paper out from a drawer. Opening the copy of Jane’s Encyclopedia of Major Armorers and Models of the Armored Martial Combat Association, 32nd edition, he quickly began paging through the various designs, taking note of those that had resembled his vision.

The High Armorer’s chambers were several levels above those of the Prospectors, and Dmitri was not accustomed to exertion. He arrived in the chambers panting so hard it took him a moment to realize the individual he sought was absent. Instead, Master Armorers Drayden and Gaylord stood conferring over a table map.

“Where is the High Armorer?” Dmitri wheezed between gasps.

“A bit of decorum, please, Dmitiri,” Gaylord said.

Drayden, noting Dmitri’s agitation, made a gesture of calming, not at Dmitri, but at his fellow Armorer. “He is on sabbatical at present.” Sensing that Dmitri had momentous news to bestow, he turned from the table to give Dmitri his full attention. Folding his hands and cultivating the mindset of the Presiding Scholar, he nodded formally and intoned, “What news have the Prospectors for the Armorers?”

Dmitri took two deep, forceful breath, trying to get his panting under control, then adopted the Messenger’s Stance. “The gods have shown me the Path of the Champion. We must assemble the Forge and call the Search for the Chosen One.”

Although portents had been leading to this for several years, Drayden’s eyes still widened in surprise. “They have shown you the Chosen one.”

Dmitri nodded, finally recovering from his rush to the chambers enough to speak normally. “I have taken note of the most likely makes of armor.” He drew several sheets of hastily-scribbled notes from his robe.

Drayden glanced a the chicken-scratches, then set the papers on the table and placed his hands on Dmitri’s head. “Show me,” he said, closing his eyes.

As their minds touched, Drayden began to see the vision that had so agitated Dmitri. Though Dmitri was well-focused, Drayden’s impression of it was significantly cloudier than Dmitri’s memory. Through what matched the ancient texts descriptions of the Passage of the Passing of Worlds, Drayden saw a figure in armor glowing white, advancing toward the Otheren. He tried to focus on details that might tell him who the Chosen was. He couldn’t rely on color; the whiteness could be the color of the Chosen’s current plate, or an effect of the energies the Chosen was wielding. More likely a traditional European plate than Asian or fantasy plate. He concentrated to the probable build of the individual under the plate. The Chosen seemed more lithe than stocky...

Both remained immobile for some time. Gaylord picked up the papers, tried to figure out which way was up, then looked at Drayden’s face, which was getting more somber and serious by the second. Apparently Drayden was sharing Dmitri’s vision and finding it credible. He went to the High Armorer’s desk, selected several sheets of fine parchment and a calligrapher’s kit, and laid them on the table next to Dmitri’s chicken-scratch notes, then began the process of recalling members for the Forge.

When Drayden finally lowered his hands and stepped away from Dmitri, Gaylord was running through a calming mantra for the thirty-seventh time. He still hadn’t achieved the Presiding Scholar, but he had calmed enough that Drayden’s words, when they came, weren’t too upsetting.

“The Path of the Champion has been set,” Drayden agreed. “We shall recall the High Armorer from retreat and assemble the Forge.” He glanced at the table, noticing the papers Gaylord had prepared. Allowing himself a small smile, he told Dmitri, “And you shall prepare a legible description of the Chosen for the Search.”

Dmitri acknowledged the instruction with a brief grin and a moderate bow, then gathered the materials and sat in the chair Gaylord indicated and began copying his notes in a more careful hand.

Meanwhile, Drayden called the High Armorer.

The High Armorer was sitting at the nineteenth hole sipping a cocktail with the AMCA Eastern American Regional Commissioner James Earhaven and several other AMCA bigwigs when he got the call. He briefly excused himself while he concurred with the need to call a Forge and assured Drayden that he would be returning directly, then pocketed his phone and returned to the table to take his leave of his golfing buddies.

“I’m sorry, I won’t be able to take another round with you boys. But let me say, Jim, that I do think it there is justification for sponsoring another all-sword tournament. I think it would encourage several more benefactors to get involved in the sport.”