The air was still, hot and heavy.

  Beside me my companions stood stiff. I supposed meatin' such a renown people as the Scaras, the oldest race known to exist in this world was but much.

  We each broke the shake and the Scaras dipped in a bow, still far taller than us, it's facade of a face ripplin' and twistin' like water disturbed.

  "We will test this, but we love bravado, Mister Roche. In our experience it means either a fool, or a hero."

  "Holy shit..." Shorty muttered, "they're bugs. Bugs!"

  "Shh!" Raph said, his voice strained and his eyes bulging, "I'm trying to stay calm. Be polite."

  The Scaras stood and looked over me and down at them.

  "Ah, we see you share the fear that so many in this New World do. Be assured we are the same as the local people, the difference is only superficial."

  "Huh?" I asked spinnin' on my heel to address my so-called friends. If there was one thing that'd get under my skin it was judgin' folk based on appearance. I made it a damn point to assess a man based on merit, not his looks.

  "What's that now?" I asked, givin' a scowl and a glare.

  "Roche, please," Raph said, the man's hands outstretched like he was talkin' to a rabid dog, "it's not- not, personal. But you must understand, the Scaras, they're, they bear a striking resemblance to another species quite common on Terra Nova."

  "The Unmind." Snapped the master smith, hissing in chorus as the flowed into their workshop, the door left wide, "we are not of that cursed and forgotten line. We left them long ago. And yet," he turned his featureless, insectoid head back to me and the others, "their legacy haunts us here. Do not, Son-of-Two-Worlds, accuse us of the sins of another. Or your worth will not matter to our eyes."

  "Hey," I called out, "hold on. I apologize for Raph. He and Shorty apparently don't Scripture, damn sure not the old Sagas. I know well who ya'll are," I said drawing down the hem of my trousers to expose the tattoo on the outside of my thigh.

  Shorty gave me a concerned look, then leaned in.

  So did Raph.

  On the scarred flesh of my left leg was the visage of a Serpent coilin' around the muscle, it's head lost closer to my crotch. It was an old tattoo, but well kept, the scales shimmering, the fangs a pale white.

  "Ah. You are of a Storied Clan, Lorcan Roche. We see the mark of the Grass people and we fondly recall Relics we forged for your line."

  "Yeah," I said with a nod, "Grass clan on my mama's side. Devoted enough to the old ways that I got the Serpent done just before I, uh..." I shrugged, "got thrown in the clink." I admitted.

  There was never any sense in lyin' to the Scaras. The legends were clear that the bugs read minds. And the way their hive mind worked was, well, they didn't have secrets. They couldn't keep them so they had not mind for keepin' others. Either you were honest to the Scaras, or you weren't worth their time.

  "Hmm," the hive hummed, a deep, low vibration that sent shivers up my spine, "we will consider this. For now, we forgive the indiscretions of your companions, though..."

  They turned their mass toward Raph and Shorty, their face deforming in a utterly alien frown, "we will not, forget."

  Shorty gulped and stepped forward, "Sorry, didn't mean anything by it. Just a shock is all. I've, uh, seen the Unmind. In person. Lost a few associates to some on a University expedition."

  The moment Shorty mentioned the University some of the tension and heat in the air seemed to lift a touch.

  "Ah, we can taste the scars, Daughter-of-Fire-and-Innovation." The Scaras' voice changed, became softer, more feminine, "come. We relish the presence of Scholars in our midst. Come, watch us work while we evaluate the Green-Knight."

  "Um," I said, unsure of exactly what was goin' on, "who is that?"

  The hive gave a low chuckle and gestured broadly.

  "Forgive us. We often name the Lonely Races for our own amusement. It is not meant to mock. But you, Lorcan Roche, have been called as such before, no?"

  I frowned. Hadn't the Outcast kids called me something like that? Some trickster spirit I supposedly resembled. Cute, but what did I care? If that was the name the smith liked, that was fine by me.

  "Uh, pardon me, but may I wait outside? No offense but I too have had some experience with this... Unmind. I am afraid your presence disturbs me, and I would prefer to not relive that encounter."

  I frowned. I expected better of Raph, but then, I guess I knew a little of how he felt. If it were a snakeman on the other side of the door I might've felt a touch of aversion myself. The Anasisi had left a sour taste in my mouth, and not just from the venom and mind control.

  "Yes. Go. We would not craft for you anyway," said the Scaras with a dismissive wave, "you do not need it. Your Path will lead you to other means."

  "Thank you," Raph said with a polite bow, "I am most honored to meet you. I hope Roche is, hmm, up to your standards."

  "Oh," the hive rumbled, "we will see."

  And with that Raph half fled from the room, closing the heavy iron door behind us.

  For her part, Shorty only looked a might less uncomfortable, her eyes roving about the smithy, eyes flicking from the mighty forge, to the breathin' bellows, and to the myriad arms and armor hung up on the wall.

  The Scaras seemed to have an affinity for anything made from good steel or monster's parts.

  I saw a spear cast from bronze and tipped with a suspiciously Moxie sized tusk. A long gun whose barrel glittered like gold, while the dark wood of the stock seemed to eat the orange light all around. In the corner hung a full set of plate armor, the helmet sporting twin horns, the sigil of the Heretic engraved upon the wide breast.

  "We are working on another commission just now, please sit, Roche and 'Shorty', while we work."

  "Xoxoctic, Roche just calls me that because his tongue is slow," Shorty blurted before she seemed to think better of it, "but you can call me that, I guess."

  The Scaras didn't answer, and instead began to work, moving as a single entity, a million legs carryin' their mass toward the mighty forge.

  They grabbed up a hammer as big as my head as they opened the iron hatch into the forge's inferno. The Scaras began to work, and for a moment, I lost myself in the spectacle.

  Every swing seemed to compress that great aura into a single point, infusing the mundane iron in a way that left it anything but. It was like their entire body was a tool. Not just the arms, and the hammer, and the hands. They were a living, breathing forge, a master craftsman whose every aspect was devoted to transformation of one thing into another.

  It made me think about how some insects grew. Worms became moths, caterpillars turned into butterflies, bees went from soft little larvae into industrious, stinging workers.

  I had always admired that. Change was a pillar of the Old Ways, of the Chantry practice my sister Alice loved. Such Scripture was heretical still, even after the Divine compact broke, and the Gods were forced to listen their leash on mortal power.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  It was an inspiring sight, the Scaras at their work.

  And much like when I watched Miss Dot work, I could almost feel my Arcane Eye becomin' more. It seemed that the novelty of experience was key to growin' those Abilities, and as long as I stayed vigilant and observant, I would continue to improve.

  When they were done Shorty was leaned over, elbows on knees, scaled lips agape as the Scaras quenched the axe head they had created from a nameless bar of iron.

  "Wow, um, that was, wow..." Shorty muttered, blinking and shaking her head, "how do they, I mean, how?"

  "Dunno," I admitted, "you're the scholar. Why not ask? Maybe they'd be willing to share their knowledge."

  "What? Really? Do you think they'd tell me? Even though I'm, well, an Outcast?"

  I scoffed, "I don't think anyone worth a spit cares about that Shorty. I sure don't."

  She frowned and looked down at her feet.

  "Well, thanks, Roche. I guess. I guess I forget sometimes how little you know, or care to know, how things usually work. That's a nice perspective to have, actually."

  I gave her a lopsided smile, "Thanks. I never based on what's usual. Not in my nature."

  She gave a firm nod, but before her question could be asked the Scaras spoke.

  "We infuse our works with the memories, skills, and experiences of our kind. It is not just mana that makes our work sublime, it is the memories of a people. We would trade that knowledge, Daughter-of-Innovation, for something only you can provide us. We see the value in aiding your Path. But we do not wish to share with someone who cannot understand the ritual of gift."

  "Oh," Shorty said, "okay. Um, what's the ritual?"

  "Simple. Equivalent exchange. Tell us a secret as mighty as our knowledge. Give us a memory and we will give you the same."

  Shorty froze, then blinked a few times, "Oh, um, okay, that's a bit, intense. What kind of, uh, memory, and secret?"

  "Can I pay on her behalf?" I cut in, "I got plenty of secrets."

  The Scaras laughed, a high pitched, almost chirpin' noise.

  "Yes. But it will make proving yourself worthy of our craft harder, Lorcan Roche."

  I nodded and turned back to Shorty.

  "I got you girl," I cleared my throat and then started in telling most of what happened to us both. I told the Scaras about the Vault, the Anasisi and the dead Dragon they guarded. Technically it was a big 'ol breach of the contracts I'd signed, and I could tell Shorty didn't much appreciate my candidness, but it was a good secret, one I guess the Scaras would mightily enjoy.

  When I was done they were quiet for a moment. Then, "We can see you tell the truth. Good. This is a good start. You give this knowing the risk, and we thank you."

  "You're welcome. I figure if the Saints can trust your like, well, why can't I? So, what's your deal then?"

  "Very well. We teach Xoxoctic in time. For now, know this, Daughter-of-Fire. You are but half-step from the revelation you seek. Cross this threshold of discovery on your own, and we will reveal as much as your companion has paid, and more..."

  I watched Shorty's face. I'd seen the woman excited, scared, happy and terrified. But I'd never seen her so dumbstruck as she was right then. Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened, and she gave a slow nod.

  "How did you-"

  "We guessed." Said the Scaras, and if a million beetles could be smug, they surely were.

  Shorty looked up at me, and there was something there, a sort of, I dunno, determination, a desire to prove herself. And... Gods was that respect?

  Oof.

  "Alright. Me next. What kind of great beast must I slay? I know the stories. I'm prepared to hunt anythin' you want. Bring back the horn of a Wyrm. Cut the scales from a Manticores balls, whatever. So long as you boys have the gear for it."

  The Scaras seemed to laugh, each chittering and shifting with the motion, "We appreciate your bravery. We will not task you with the impossible. In truth, we had a task in mind for our next customer already. Sadly the last few have declined the challenge. The people of this New World are much less inclined to heroics and often try to send slaves, servants and champions in their stead. We do not allow such substitution."

  I nodded, of course the soft handed noble above would shy from the legendary tests the swarm so often imposed.

  "Well, I'm too stupid for fear, and too damn good to die. Tell me."

  "Good. Here then. Your test is simple," the moved to the back of the forge, to a hatch covered by a stack of wooden crates. They pushed the containers aside with ease and tore the rusted iron lock from the floor.

  "Down here," said the Scaras as they gestured down the long, spiraling staircase revealed by the forgelight, "this leads into the remains of the City-Before. Deep in its halls dwell a beast. We do not know of its like, but we know it feasts upon those in the Cellar, and above. It is a thorn in our myriad sides. The deaths are blamed upon our kind. And the Merchants Guild has threatened to end our contract."

  I looked down the hole and into the black.

  "Huh, and this beastie, how'd it get down there? What kind of monster is it?"

  "One that drinks the blood from men, one that fears the light. It came to nest only recently, but it has done much damage since."

  Shorty cleared her throat and spoke up, "Uh, I guess that makes sense. So you know Roche, the others..." she flicked her eyes to the Scaras, "The ones that look like them? They too, um, feed on blood."

  "Yes." the Scaras hissed, "the Unmind feasts upon the mana in blood. We have not missed this, but we do not suspect our cousin's presence. We cannot sense the void they make. No, it is the work of another, we assure."

  "Alright," I said, nodding, "well, what's the bounty then?"

  "Bring us the beast's head, and it's heart, and we will forge an arm of peerless craftsmanship. Take its hide, and we will furnish good armor and a coat. Take its fangs and we will craft a dagger worthy of your skill."

  I nodded slowly. That was a lot, and no mention of a price in gold.

  "Why are you so eager for this thing's head?"

  "In truth, we are not," The Scaras intoned, moving toward a broad chair near the forge where they sat and scattered. In a much smaller voice they clarified, "we just wish for the death to end the accusations and the threats. We are wounded by such words, tired of our recent dearth of clientele. Do as you must Green Knight, but consider this Our Test."

  I chewed on my lip and looked down the dark stairs.

  It was a hell of a risk. I could be walkin' into the jaws of a Wyrm. A den of ghouls or worse. And for what? To make a new gun or some armor.

  No.

  This wasn't about that.

  This was, hmm, about honor. I guessed. I supposed this was about makin' on that image I saw in the mirror.

  My daddy had never been a monster hunter, and in truth I done killed more men than he ever did, but still, I felt like I needed to prove myself to him. If only in spirit. And more than that, here before me was a chance to help the Scaras.

  A sacred people in the Old Faith. My sister would shit her smock if she knew I hesitated even for a bit.

  "Alright. I'm on it. What kind of supplies can ya give me?"

  "Ah." The Scaras said, something like respect present in the unison hiss, "you do know our ways. Yes, we will supply the quest, just as our forebearers did." They moved and grabbed a cylinder of steel from the wall, and then a queer lookin' belt of ammunition, "the first is a torch, made with the same flame used in our forge, it will last as long as it is fed mana. The second is an experiment on your part," they held out the belt, "ammunition, crafted from light crystal and a steel pixie's dust. We think the projectiles will be suitable against anything that dwells in the dark."

  My jaw dropped.

  Dust from a steel pix? I'd heard of the little things, six inch gods of war. A lineage of Wilderfolk so storied in violence and blood that everyone-

  "What's a steel pix?" Shorty asked.

  I stared at her.

  She was fuckin' with me.

  She had to be.

  "Steel Pixies," I spat, utterly incredulous at her ignorance, "they're, they're, godsdamnit, ain't you ever read the damn Chant girl?! I ain't even devout and I know what those things are! They're the guide of all Great Northmen.That’s just gods damned history-”

  I stopped.

  My chest heaved.

  The Scaras, for their part, nodded placidly, as if my outburst were just a small inconvenience.

  "Yes," they hummed, "the steel pix are a powerful line. Fine companions.”

  My guts about dropped out.

  "You- You’ve met one? Like, actually in the flesh?"

  The Scaras coalesced into a smile, pressing two glittering masses of mock hands together.

  "Of course. But that secret, Lorcan Roche, is one you will never afford. Not unless you one day find the same Path... For now, our request?"

  Shorty stared between us, shaking her scaled head, "Yeah, I guess I need to brush up on my theology. It's weird that you're so well versed, Roche. I assumed you were an apatheist but..."

  I shook my head slowly, "Yeah well, no point in talkin' about that right now. I've got a job, as the Scaras has said," I accepted the offered items, stashing the torch in my new belt and hangin' the ammunition over my shoulder, "see you soon Shorty. Stay safe."

  I gave a polite bow to the master smiths and started down the stairs, a smile plastered across my face.

  This was gonna be a hell of a fight.

  "Nah." Said the girl behind me as she stepped into the stairwell and grabbed for the scattergun on my back, her fast hands undoing the clasp before I could stop her, "we're going together." She proclaimed, slammin' a shell into the breach and snappin' the gun shut, "I told you already, Roche. I'm your new partner."

  The Scaras laughed, "Yes, go and help him, Daughter-of-Fire-and-Innovation, and prove that you too are worth the time and effort of a legend. We await your return. And your victory."