NOVEL FROG Blood and Copper
Claws dig into my chest, slicing my overalls apart. I scream and desperately try to block the hideous fanged face trying to bite into my neck. The beast’s wings—this is no salamander— beat up hot air. It hisses at me, a fell sound, like a cross between a snake and an overheating steam pump.
It grabs my good arm with one of its back feet, which are like hands, and tries to wrest the stalagmite spear from my grasp. I kick it under the ribs; it lets go of my arm and flaps up to hover above me for a few seconds.
It’s like a cross between a vampire bat and a monkey. Its wingspan is a good six feet. It hisses at me again, baring its long fangs, which are bright red.
I stand up, heart thudding, and guard myself with the stalagmite. It folds its wings and outstretches its clawed hands and feet. There’s no way for me to guard all four limbs, so I go for its head. We collide. I stab my stalagmite between its teeth, then scream in pain as a hand and foot grab hold of my broken arm. It throws me by it, and I land only a few yards from the magma. It’s going for me again, I see through tear-stained eyes.
But purple blood is running from its mouth. I’ve wounded it, and although its wingspan is large, its body is smaller than my own.
I brace myself. It tries to grab me by the face but I duck and ram the stalagmite up through its belly. It hiss-screams in pain and flaps back up into the air—a length of intestine is dangling from the wound, dripping more purple blood.
“Get away!” I scream. “Get away!”
It obliges, limply flapping away over the stalagmites. I curl up, clutching my broken wrist, which hurts as bad as when I broke it. Gradually the pain ebbs a little, and I bring myself to inspect my wounds—seems I’ve gotten away with only a few cuts and scratches. Those fangs of its looked like they were for sucking blood, but it didn't get them into my neck.
The thing lets out a final hiss and collapses in the distance. My stomach rumbles; it feels like there’s a hole in my belly. Meat! And I was nearly going to let it get away. I hurry after it through the stalagmites. By the time I reach it, it’s still as stone, but just to make sure I slam my hammer into its head.
The blow ruptures the flesh of its cheek, exposing its teeth in grisly fashion. They’re red, as I saw before, but not from blood. It’s a familiar red: copper.
Hunger momentarily forgotten in my fascination, I batter its head a few more times with the hammer until one of the teeth is loose enough to pull out. It’s not pure copper, I see as I hold it up to the light, but mixed with a kind of enamel framework.
Can it be turned into a rune? In absence of anything else suitable, I’ll have to try.
First I have to eat, though. I drag the dead bat-monkey nearer to the shore of the magma lake, find a sharp-edged rock and begin to hack it apart. Every meal I’ve had until now has been pre-prepared miner gruel, so my butchery is amateur work at best. Rather, it’s a total mess of guts, flayed skin, and pale bone. Purple blood runs down the gentle slope and hisses and bubbles to steam on contact with the magma.
I put a few strips of meat next to the glowing shore. They begin to sizzle. The armbones, I decide, will make a perfect splint, and while my meat cooks I replace the steel on my arm with them.
After quenching my thirst with some of the creature's blood—a risk but no more risky than any other source of water I might find—I try some of the meat.
It is far worse than miner gruel, squishy and stringy all at once. I have trouble keeping it down.
But I nearly have what I need, don't I? All that's left is just tongs and some fireproof gloves.
I look at the remains of the bat-monkey. Everything that lives down here has to be fireproof to some extent. I test its skin by hacking away a leathery patch and tossing it into the magma lake. It smokes for a full five seconds before disintegrating to ash.
Good enough. And tongs, well, the wing bones are long. If I tie them together...
It's done. Took longer than I thought, but I have what I need. I look upon my handiwork in pride and triumph.
The gloves are barely glove shaped and still drip with blood, and the tongs, two notched bones linked with a strip of skin, look like they might fall apart at any second.
They'll work though. They have to.
I look across the magma lake, and at the other shore, rippling violently in the heat-mirage, are some flat-topped boulders.
Hardrick lies in bed. His shoulder still burns with pain, but he knows he should be glad he got off lightly.
"You should be glad you got off so lightly," snaps his wife from the other end of the room. "I told you making that thing was a stupid idea."
"Shut up," Hardrick snaps back. "Was getting us plenty of cash until now, wasn't it? Show some gratitude for once."
"Us? Getting you cash more like, for your filthy habits!" A heap of washing, heavy and stinking of cheap soap, lands on Hardrick's legs. "Hang this up!"
"I'm injured, you miserable bitch!"
"Only one arm! Help out for once, I've got to go down to the bank for your medical expenses."
She stalks from the apartment. Hardrick swears loudly.
Why should he have to put up with this bullshit? Worked his ass off for thirty years, he has. Got them a real apartment. Who cares if he likes to make a little money on the side for a few drinks with his mates, a few whores?
Except it's not really enough money, is it? The beer is sour, the company bad, the women worse. Half of them are even uglier than his wife.
He can do better for himself. Why not? Those runeknights stomping around in their fancy armor—are they better than he is?
No.
And that knife he made... It really was shameful. He can do better. Something flares into life in his dwarvish heart. He can forge better than that.
He can live better than this.
"Washing!" he spits as he climbs out the bed. "Washing indeed. I've got something better to do."
My materials lie arrayed on the stone anvil. My hammer and tongs lay propped against it. My hands and wrists are wrapped in batskin, fireproof, ready to craft the first artifact of my legend.
It's time to forge.