The first blow had been thunder. The second, an earthquake. The third made the wood of the door give way with a sharp crack that sliced through the air like a blade. Arteo saw a long splinter detach and fly off, briefly revealing faces distorted by greed and rage in the darkness outside. Torvin's men were not stealthy thieves; they were a living battering ram, driven by the desperation of their dying lord.
"Back!" yelled Borgo, brandishing his knotted club. His face was contorted in a mask of determination that Arteo would never have imagined him capable of. "They are organizing for a breakthrough!"
Roric, in the center of the room, did not turn around. His world had narrowed to the crucible of molten silver, that liquid, luminous metal that seemed to absorb all the light of the forge only to return it multiplied. "Just a few more minutes," he muttered, more to himself than to the others. "It must reach perfect purity."
Lyn, instead of cowering in a corner as Arteo expected, ran toward a pile of tools. "The tongs!" she cried. "If they break through, we can try to block their weapons!" Her voice was sharp with fear, but her movements were precise, determined. Fear, for her, was transforming into action.
Arteo felt the Ink in his mind pulse in sync with the blows to the door. 85/100. Eighty-five points of possibility against brute force. But how to use them? The previous intervention, the reinforcement of the door, seemed to have worked, but not enough. The door was yielding. Perhaps he needed to be more direct.
A fourth blow, more violent than the others, bent the heavy iron bars they had placed. One of the wooden crossbars, a piece of wood as thick as Arteo's arm, snapped with a desolate sound. Through the widened crack, Arteo saw the hungry, glossy eye of one of the assailants.
At that moment, a cold, unnatural wind sneaked into the forge from a crack in the roof, extinguishing two of the three oil lamps. Shadows danced, and for a moment, on the opposite wall, Arteo saw not words, but the image of a door swinging wide open, and dark figures bursting inside. The Proofreader was not just observing. It was anticipating the tragedy, showing it to him, almost exulting.
Desperation tightened his throat. He closed his eyes and focused on the inkwell. He had to do something. Something immediate, physical. He thought of the floor in front of the door. He thought of the concept of "slipperiness," of "obstacle." He imagined an invisible patch of oil, a film of impossible footing that would make the first assailants slip, create confusion, and buy them precious seconds.
He dipped the mental pen. The pain was immediate and blinding, like a nail driven into his forehead. Nausea doubled him over. When he reopened his eyes, the number was 70/100. Fifteen points. A huge cost.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the fifth blow. Instead of the usual dull thud, there was a clamor of curses, a thump of falling bodies, the metallic sound of an axe sliding away. "What the hell?!" a voice yelled from outside. "The floor is slick as ice!"
It had worked. Patently, visibly. Borgo glanced quickly and confusedly at the floor, then at Arteo, a flash of understanding in his eyes. He said nothing, but his look spoke volumes: What did you do, Scribbler?
The success, however, was short-lived. Torvin's men were not stupid. Someone brought straw and scattered it over the slippery floor, restoring traction. The siege resumed, more furious than before. The Proofreader, Arteo felt, was satisfied. His intervention had only delayed the inevitable, and at a very high price.
"The door won't hold!" shouted Borgo, parrying an axe blow that had managed to penetrate through a widened crack. His club collided with the metal with a sinister clang.
It was then that Lyn had an idea. "The chimney!" she yelled, over the din. "The forger's chimney! It's narrow, but I can fit! I can go out and get help!"
Roric finally turned, his face illuminated by the infernal glow of the silver. "No! It's too dangerous!"
"It's more dangerous to stay here!" she retorted, already heading toward the darkest corner of the forge, where a secondary chimney, used for ventilation, snaked upward toward the outside. It was narrow, smoke-blackened, but wide enough for her small body.
Arteo watched her slip into the darkness with a knot in his throat. Was it the right choice? Or was he just sending another character toward their tragedy? He couldn't know. He could only hope.
As Lyn disappeared up the chimney, a particularly violent blow caused the main latch to give way. The door, now battered, burst open, slamming against the inner wall with a crash. In the doorway, illuminated by the forge's flames, stood four men armed with axes and iron clubs. Their faces were hard, their eyes fixed on the molten silver.
Borgo did not hesitate. With a roar Arteo would never have thought him capable of, he lunged forward, his club describing a wide arc to keep the doorway occupied. "Roric, for all the gods, finish that bell!"
Roric, with one last, desperate look at the door, turned and grabbed the crucible with his huge tongs. The molten metal shimmered, a pool of liquid, incandescent moonlight. It was ready. He just needed to pour it into the mold.
Arteo remained stuck, paralyzed. What could he do? Use the Ink again? At what cost? He already felt the world slightly wavering at the edges of his vision, a side effect of the previous interventions. And then, what could he do? Blind all the attackers? Make them fall asleep? Power had limits, he felt it in his bones, in his weary mind.
He saw Borgo strike a man on the shoulder, heard the cry of pain, but also saw two other men bypass him, reaching toward Roric. One of them raised an axe, not to strike the blacksmith, but to strike the crucible. To spill the silver, to destroy the dream and, perhaps, to kill everyone with a splash of molten metal.
At that moment, a new sound joined the chaos. It wasn't a scream, it wasn't a blow. It was a high-pitched, desperate sound, rising from the village. Lyn's voice. "Fire! Fire! The forge is burning! Everyone to the fire!"
Her cunning worked. The announcement of a fire, the worst nightmare of a village of wood and straw, created a moment of hesitation in the assailants. Their faces turned outward, uncertain. It was the second of respite that Borgo needed. With a low, precise blow, he knocked down the man with the axe, who lost his balance and dropped the weapon.
Roric, taking advantage of the chaos, overturned the crucible. A river of molten silver, white and dazzling, poured into the prepared clay mold, filling the shape of the bell with a hiss and an acrid smoke. He had done it. The bell had been poured.
But the victory was bitter. The door was open. Borgo was struggling, surrounded. Lyn was outside, in danger. And Torvin's men, realizing the deception, were reorganizing, their rage renewed by being fooled by a child.
Arteo looked at the inkwell in his mind. 70/100. Seventy points. And a weariness that weighed on him like a millstone. The Proofreader, he was certain, was smiling in the shadows. They had won a battle, perhaps. But the war for the ending of this story was far from over. And the price to pay was getting higher and higher.