Blacksmith Drift Novels & Stories

Alexei The Foundry is a bodyguard’s nightmare wrapped in iron and steam. It sits on the eastern edge of the lower district, a sprawling, blackened cathedral of industry where Silvercrest turns raw ore into plowshares, horseshoes, and weapons. As we ride through the wide gates, the first thing that hits me is the noise. It is a rhythmic, deafening cacophony. The crash of drop hammers, the hiss of quenching troughs, the roar of the blast furnaces. It makes communication impossible. It masks the sound of footsteps. It masks the sound of a bowstring being drawn.

Drift states when we meet him half way in the middle of the compound. The Road Kings clubhouse is made up an old repair shop. There is a couple thousand square feet added onto it and has cement walls blocking the view. If they wanted to, they could easily take us out here and now, and no one would even know. "Drift. Thanks for meeting with us." Austin states as they stare each other down. Drift is practically a mystery to us all and as much as I hate that Torque couldn't find much on the fucker, I can read people well enough to know that he has a dark past that even the likes of us wouldn't comprehend.

The high, vaulting stone arches of the fortress smithy trapped the intense, suffocating heat of three massive blast furnaces, turning the subterranean chamber into a blazing cauldron of orange light and choking soot. Outside, the mountain wind howled against the crags, but inside, the air was thick, heavy, and pressurized by the rhythmic, deafening clang-clang-clang of heavy iron hammers striking hot metal. The floorboards vibrated continuously beneath my boots as the Bloodmoon smiths worked without pause, systematically destroying the tools of our oppressors.

"Harl, give me the heaviest hammer in the Great Forge. The one your father used to break the first obsidian vein." ​Harl nodded, returning minutes later with a massive, rusted sledgehammer that smelled of sweat, oil, and ancient iron. ​I took the hammer in my silver hands. I didn't use my strength; I used the connection I had with the mountain. I felt the pulse of the survivors, the fear of the lunar exiles, and the stubbornness of the smiths. I channeled it all into a single, massive strike against the primary intake valve of the silver engine.

The water was thick with black silt, dead hemlock needles, and the crushed bark of the baseline ridge. ​"The stove leg is clear," Arthur shouted, his hand shaking as he held the tallow candle three feet above the rush. The small yellow flame danced frantically in the wet draft, casting long, jerky shadows of the floating wood across the ceiling. "The drift is hitting the pantry door, Dante. If the frame blocks the hallway, the water won't go out the back."

So I endured everything for the bond. The lot roared with engines and voices. Rows of bikes waited in the dark, each one black and dangerous. Draven moved like thunder, all muscle and rage, his walk commanding. He didn’t look back once. He straddled the matte-black bike, silver claw marks scratched into the tank like battle scars. He revved once, the sound sharp enough to split the night in half. I stepped forward, rag clutched to my chest like it could steady my heart. He glanced at me. Barely. Cold. Helmet down. Kickstand up.

His presence was a constant source of steadiness, a reminder that they faced this challenge together. In the corner of the courtyard, a team of blacksmiths worked tirelessly at a line of anvils. Sparks flew as molten steel was hammered into shape, the glowing metal transforming into sleek blades, spearheads, and arrow tips. Lyra paused to observe a blacksmith as he inspected a freshly forged sword.

“Atlas.” Drifta purred, and the beats tilted his head to the side, slightly furrowing his brow before smiling the most dreadful smile I’d ever seen. Drifta, however, smiled back and didn’t seem at all affected by the bright smile that flashed hundreds of razor-sharp canines in his mouth. “The human mate may have been useless and dishonest, but his beast was a different story. And to answer your not-so-subtle question, he did it right!”

She closed her eyes and let out a sigh, she was done. The fight had ended. Timmy Stormblood (two hundred thousand perus) had defeated Deputy Officer Eithne Short-eye (two hundred thousand perus). ... Billy Drakens reached for his swords, Gravemaker and Ritual Warblade. Opposite him was the Deputy Officer Lothar Sun. Bill Drakens was an occasional dual blade weilder, his two swords were both cursed blades. Cursed weapons were told to harbour demons within them, or at least that was what the rumors told.

She shivered and looked away. As they turned down another street, the entire block was filled with blacksmiths. Everywhere flew anvils and hammers, and the ping of metal rang throughout the street, each blacksmith seeming to echo the other. There were also clay pits with large flames roasting slabs of red-hot metal, on which they were forging horseshoes, swords, and all sorts of metal work. Caitlin noticed the faces of children, black with soot, sitting by their father’s sides, watching them work. She felt badly that the children worked at such a young age. Caitlin looked everywhere for a sign of Scarlet, of her Dad, of any clue of why they were here—but she found none.