The village woke up as if coming out of a nightmare.
Smoke still clung to the air from the funeral pyres up the hill. The repaired gate stood raw and pale where new wood met old stone. A few houses leaned at angles they had never leaned before, propped up with whatever beams people could find.
No one wasted breath complaining; they just picked up hammers and other tools and got to work fixing the mess.
By midmorning, the whole place was moving. Builders shouted for lumber. Children ran water and messages. Old men straightened bent nails on whatever flat rock was nearby. Hunters hauled the last of the monster carcasses to Cecil and Grom, who were already elbow deep in turning horror into meat and trade goods.
Mark walked up from the outskirts at first light and got dragged straight to the East Gate by Foreman Jerrik.
"Here. Here. Here." The builder jabbed with a stick at shattered braces and cracked plates. "All of this gets your metal. Every part that thought about moving yesterday, I want it to remember that mistake for the rest of its life."
Phill stood nearby with a slate, noting measurements, voice hoarse from too many orders and too little sleep.
Mark ran his hands along the damaged supports, feeling where the impacts had gone, where the grain had given way. He could see the shapes in his head already. How the plates had to bite into the stone. Where the anchor bars needed to sit so the next wave of monsters broke themselves on the wall instead of the other way around.
"I can do it," he said. "First set of brackets by tomorrow, if the ore keeps coming. Bring me real measurements. If you guess, that is on you. My metal will not be the thing that fails."
Jerrik grunted. That was as close to a compliment as he gave.
Then Mark walked back down the slope to his forge and made the village's worry into steel.
The smithy sat where it always had, tucked near the big elder tree and the creek that cut along the base of the hill where the noise from the main square didn't reach.
Up there, people lived close together. Down here, it was stone, water, and work.
The forge had dried from the madness of the night before. The elder wood walls still showed dark stains where steam had forced its way out, but they held. The midnight black sword rested in its place that he had chosen for it, quiet and imposing on its rack.
Mark lit the coals and began.
Ore came in sacks from the hunters, purple and green lumps clanking together. He smelted it in small batches and poured it into molds Jerrik had sketched out in charcoal. Bars for gate braces. Plates for the anchor points. Between heats, he drew out nails for house frames, strap iron for door hinges, new tips for shovels that had broken when the ground tried to roll under them.
He fixed dented armor when guards showed up at his door with sheepish looks and helmets shaped like kicked pots. He straightened spears and replaced snapped shafts. No one came down here without something in their hands. No one left without something made stronger than when it arrived.
The weapons and armor were reinforced, using the fifth step. His armor was not going to be the reason these men died.
The days slid past.
Up in the core of the village, people rebuilt. Down in his corner, Mark fed the fire and answered every knock with "leave it there, I will see what I can do."
The work was a kind of mercy. It did not ask questions about why fifty-two bodies had gone onto the pyres. It just wanted heat and time.
On the seventh day after the Growth, the Glass Road caravan finally arrived.
Mark saw the first hint from his forge as the sky above the West side filled with a faint haze of dust and a brighter line of wagons. He wiped his hands on a rag and stepped outside long enough to watch them move along the road, past the patched wall, and into the village proper.
The bells on the harnesses jingled. The sun hit painted canvas and colored it briefly. Then the train vanished up and over the swell of the hill toward the main gate and the square.
The Glass Road caravan.
They brought tools, gossip, strange sweets that made children's teeth ache, and, most importantly, alcohol in more shapes than Mark had words for. Kegs. Jugs. Bottles from lands he had never seen.
The traders are mostly just people. The guards who walk beside those wagons seem to be more in the eyes of the villagers. They never seem to struggle when they climb the mountain, but they never seem to show off that strength in the village. They always seem to be wearing their restraint like armor.
Most days, that armor holds.
The village didn't know that. It just knew that when the Glass Road caravan came, there would be drink enough to soften any edge, and stories enough to make a week disappear.
Before long, the hum from up the hill thickened into something more like a roar.
Mark did not hear words from his forge, only the change in tone. The difference between people working around each other and people leaning into distraction as hard as they could.
That evening, Annabel came down from the main part of the village with flour still on her arms and the tired glow of someone who had been standing in front of the ovens all day.
"The caravan is here," she said. "They brought half a mountain of barrels. We are doing a wake. Or ending up doing one, at least."
He could smell bread on her, and sugar, and smoke.
"You helping your parents?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Apparently, grief makes people hungry, too," she said. "We have been baking since dawn. You should come up for a while. Eat something that didn't start its life with claws."
He went that night.
The square was a riot of lanterns and noise, too crowded for his taste but warm in its own way. Barrels had been rolled into place. Caravan tables set up. The mood was strange, a mix of laughter and tears that tipped from one to the other without warning.
He raised a cup with Phill and the other guards. He drank enough to feel his shoulders loosen, enough that the weight in his chest shifted a little, then stopped. The press of bodies and noise scraped at his temper.
The people and the noises pressed in from every side. Too many voices, each one clear enough to pick out, but all of them layering into a single roar that scraped at his skull. It happened every time he stood in a packed crowd, and he'd never gotten used to it.
"I have metal to finish in the morning," he said to Annabel. "If I stay, I will drink too much and hit something that does not deserve it."
She made a face at him, but her eyes understood.
"Go, then," she said. "Some of us choose bread and bad music to cope. Some of us choose fire."
He kissed her and walked back down the hill toward the outskirts.
The party up the slope rolled through the next days like thunder that refused to leave the valley. Not constant, but always there behind everything else. People still showed up to work at their posts, but hours got shorter, and there were more red eyes in the morning.
For a lot of them, that was the only way they stayed upright.
Mark stuck to the smithy. The sound from the village reached him only as a low murmur when the wind bent right. Most of the time, all he heard was his own hammer and the creek outside talking to itself over the stones.
He ate whatever Annabel brought down between baking shifts. Stews, half-burnt crusts, and a precious slice of jam tart that had not sold. When he had a lull between orders, he would stand in the doorway and watch the glow of lanterns up the hill. It painted the underside of the low clouds in soft colors, like a distant storm.
On the fifth night of the caravan's stay, the storm turned.
He was at the anvil, drawing a bar into a new hinge strap, when the door banged open so hard it jumped on its hinges.
"Mark!"
Annabel almost fell through.
Her hair had come loose from its ties, flour and soot smeared along one cheek. She had run hard, breath tearing in and out of her chest, sandals slapping the floorboards.
He set the hammer down at once.
"What happened?" he asked.
"The party got out of hand," she said. "One of the caravan guards, the tall one with the braided hair and the scar on his right arm, he snapped. People said he just kept drinking, and then he started throwing villagers. The local guards are too drunk to make sense of what is going on. Some of them tried to tackle him and bounced off. People are getting hurt."
Her eyes were wide with a kind of fear that had not been there during the Growth.
"And Phill?" Mark asked.
"Trying to stop it," she said. "He sent me for you. He said if anyone in this cursed mountain can wrestle a caravan guard, it is you. Mark, this man is strong. But he looks wrong. His skin is red, his eyes are... "
She shook her head once, unable to find the word she wanted.
"Where?" Mark asked.
"The main square, by the old well."
That was all he needed.
He grabbed his shirt from the peg and did not bother putting it on. He kicked off his leather apron, left the coals banked and safe, and was out the door before she had finished pulling in a breath.
She could only see a blur.
The slope up to the main village that always felt long during the day became short when he ran it in the dark. His feet knew each dip and turn. The mountain air cut into his lungs, cool and thin compared to the forge, but his legs did not slow.
The beast blood and monster meat sat in his muscles like hidden springs. Ever since that witch woman had fed him that spongy mix, his body had been a little too much. The fight at the gate and the meat he had wolfed down after had only increased that feeling of unnatural strength.
He took the hill in long, ground-eating strides.
Down below, in the little park with the younger elder tree, a few families were still sitting with lanterns and blankets, away from the worst of the drink. Their voices were soft, unclear. Mark ran past, heard someone call his name, and did not stop.
As he crested the rise toward the main square, the sound hit him full.
Shouting. Glass breaking. The ugly thud of bodies striking wood.
He rounded the last corner.
The square that had been a relief a few nights ago now looked like a brawl in the middle of a festival. Lanterns swung wildly from their lines. Tables lay overturned. Tankards and jugs had spilled their contents into a sticky mud underfoot.
In the open space near the old stone well, one man stood out from the rest.
Caravan guard. Mark recognized him through the mess. Tall, braided hair, heavy arms corded from too many miles under the weight of steel and leather. He had laughed by a barrel earlier in the week, telling a story about a bridge that collapsed under a wagon and three kinds of sheep.
He did not look like that man now.
His skin was an angry, blotchy red from neck to wrist, as if someone had set him too close to a fire and left him there. Veins stood out along his arms in cords.
His eyes were wrong. There seemed to be a flat, pale film that had spread across the whites of his eyes, thinning his iris to a ring.
He moved like someone who had forgotten his own body with wild, short bursts, then stumbling as if the ground were shifting under him, as one would expect to see during a Growth, although the mountain was not shaking.
One village guard lunged at him from the side, trying to pin his arms. The caravan guard twisted without even looking, shrugged him off, and flung him away. The local guard hit the side of a wagon and dropped like a sack.
Another tried to sweep his legs.
The caravan guard kicked him in the chest. The man left the ground and hit the dirt two body lengths back, air driven out of him in a wheeze.
The villagers had pulled back. Men and women who had been laughing with cups in hand minutes ago now clustered at the edges of the square, holding one another upright, staring.
Phill stood close, sword still sheathed, face set in a hard line.
"Stand down," he shouted. "Guard, stand down. You are drunk, and you are done."
The caravan guard roared wordlessly and swung an open hand that would have driven Phill's head sideways if he had been half a step closer.
Phill swayed back, toes almost losing purchase. Another inch and the conversation would have been over.
Enough.
Mark stepped out into the gap.
He did not waste his breath on a warning. He did not have the patience left for talk.
He walked straight at the caravan guard, bare-chested, feet solid in the churned dirt.
The guard's head snapped toward him. Some instinct registered a new threat. He drove his fist toward Mark's face, faster than any normal drunk had a right to move.
His hidden training had been let loose due to the drink. The villagers didn't know and Mark had no clue what was going on. All he could see was a man hitting harder than he should have been capable of.
The fist slammed into Mark's chest, just above the heart.
The pain he felt flared white in his vision. His ribs protested and groaned from the impact while his spine felt the jolt shooting all the way into his skull, but his feet did not move.
He let the force travel through him and down instead of away. He had taken worse from a gate beam in motion. That had taught him how to root when something heavy hit.
The guard was a bit shocked, even in his stupor, as his hand bounced off the blacksmith. He was looking at this throbbing fist in that moment.
Mark did not wait; his hand snapped up and caught the guard's wrist.
The bones there felt like iron under his fingers, thick and dense. The power behind them was solid. It just did not matter.
He twisted, stepped in, and clamped his other hand around the back of the man's neck.
The square seemed to hold its breath.
"You are done," Mark said, voice flat.
The guard snarled and tried to wrench free.
He might as well have tried to drag the elder tree out of the ground.
Mark turned him, dragging his arm in against his body, and began to walk.
"Out of the way," he said.
People moved. They did not argue with that tone.
He hauled the caravan guard out of the square and into the street that led toward the lower slope. The man fought every step, boots sliding, knees buckling, teeth bared. Drunk strength, and possibly something deeper, surged in his muscles, but it was wasted without proper leverage.
When the guard tried to twist free, Mark simply yanked his head down by the braid, throwing him off balance.
"Where are you taking him?" someone yelled behind them.
"Cold water," Mark said. "You want him alive, let me work."
No one tried to stop him.
The nearest stream that had not been turned into a trough sat along the edge of the path leading to the park with the younger elder tree. The main creek fed it through a stone channel that ran bare for several strides before dropping back underground. The water there was mountain cold, straight from the rocks.
Mark dragged the caravan guard to the edge of the channel and did not slow.
He lifted him.
The man was taller and broader than Mark, wrapped in leather and chain, but in Mark's hands, he came up like a sack of ore.
"Cool off," Mark said.
Then he dropped him into the water.
The stream took him in a splash that soaked Mark from knees to boots. The cold wrapped the man instantly, dragging heat from his flushed skin.
He came up roaring.
Mark put a hand on the top of his head and shoved.
The channel was not deep, but it did not have to be. The water covered his face and chest. He thrashed, fists hammering at Mark's legs, heels kicking stone. The current rushed past his ears.
Mark counted silently.
He knew how far you could go. You learned things like that when quenching red-hot metal and watching it scream in the water. Steel could crack if you shocked it incorrectly. Men could break if you pushed them too far. There was a line, and he knew how to tread it.
He pulled the guard up.
The man dragged in a ragged breath, coughing, eyes wild. The red of his skin had shifted, splotchy now, not uniform. The pale film across his eyes had spiderwebbed, cracks showing real color beneath.
"What," he gasped. "What is . . ."
Mark pushed him back under.
The second dunk was shorter.
When he came up again, the rage had started to drain out of him along with the color in his face. He sagged in Mark's grip, sputtering, blinking against water and cold air.
His eyes cleared.
For a moment, he looked like a man who had just woken from a nightmare and could still feel the teeth in his throat.
He focused on Mark.
"I... what did I do?" he asked. His voice broke on the question.
"Threw people," Mark said. "Hit guards. Scared half the village. You were not yourself. Whatever was in those barrels bit you wrong."
The guard's expression collapsed inward.
He tried to pull away, not in a wild struggle this time but in a small, miserable recoil. Mark loosened his grip enough for him to stand in the stream under his own power.
Phill caught up then, breathing hard, one of the other local guards with him. Behind them, two caravan guards had arrived at a run, faces sobered by what they had seen.
One of them, a scarred woman with a trader's badge sewn to her sleeve, took in the scene with a single sweep of her eyes.
"Lorin," she said.
So that was his name.
He flinched.
"Captain," he said, voice faint. "I do not know what happened. I was drinking, and then I was on fire and then... "
"And then you nearly put our contracts in a ditch," she snapped. There was anger there, but under it, concern. "You think this mountain forgets when someone starts throwing villagers?"
She nodded once to Mark.
"We will take him from here," she said. "We will check every barrel he and his friends drank from. If something made him spike like that, we need to know. If it was just his own stupidity, I'll deal with that personally."
Phill's jaw flexed.
"He will answer to me for the hits he landed," Phill said. "If he is still here in the morning."
"He will be," the caravan captain said. "There is no profit in running from this kind of trouble."
The two caravan guards stepped into the channel and took Lorin by the arms, lifting him out of the water. He shivered now, cold finally catching up with him, strength leaking out of him as fast as the heat had earlier.
He looked at Mark again, shame carved deep into his features.
"Thank you," he said, low enough that only the few of them heard it.
"Drink water, not spirits," Mark said. "You do not wear this mountain as well as you think you do."
The caravan guards hauled him away toward their wagons.
Phill watched them go for a moment, then scrubbed a hand over his face.
"I am too sober for this," he muttered. "And too drunk, somehow, at the same time."
His gaze moved to Mark's chest, where the first punch had landed. A bruise was already blooming, a dark smear against skin still flushed from the forge.
"You alright?" Phill asked.
"I will be," Mark said. "My father hit harder. He had a hammer in his hand at the time, though."
Phill snorted despite himself.
"Go back to your forge," he said. "The village will be quieter in a while. Or louder. I don't know. Either way, you have done enough for one night."
Mark nodded.
He turned and started back down the slope.
Annabel fell in at his side halfway, having waited at the edge of the park with the younger elder tree. The lanterns there were gentler, voices softer, a little pocket of sanity below the square.
"Is it over?" she asked.
"For tonight," he said. "He was a caravan guard, not one of ours. They will handle him."
She blew out a breath.
"I hate that kind of surprise," she said. "People are used to the ground trying to kill them. Not each other."
"They will sleep it off," he said. "Or talk it out. Or both."
"That is not how you cope," she said.
"No," he agreed. "It is not."
When they reached the smithy, she put a hand on his arm.
"You are really alright?" she asked.
"I will bruise," he said. "I will hurt in the morning. But that's all."
She studied his face for a moment, then nodded.
"I'm going back to help clean up before people start lying about what happened," she said. "Do not stay up until dawn."
"I will work until the metal tells me to stop," he said.
She rolled her eyes, but there was a tiny smile there.
"Of course you will," she said. "Good night, Mark."
"Good night, An."
She headed back up the hill, lantern swinging at her side.
He stepped into the forge.
The world narrowed again in a way he could handle. Stone underfoot. Elder wood walls around him. The smell of ash and iron and oil. The coals still glowed where he had banked them.
He fed the fire.
He set a bar on the anvil.
He picked up his hammer.
Outside, the last sour echoes of the party drifted across the hill. Up at the wagons, a caravan captain was having a very private, very serious conversation with a guard who had forgotten his limits. In the park, someone hummed a half-remembered lullaby under the smaller elder tree.
In the smithy, Mark drew in a breath, let it out, and began to strike.
The rhythm took him.
Lift.
Strike.
Lift.
Strike.
The sound rang out into the night, steady and clean, cutting through everything else until all that was left was heat, steel, and the sure, simple truth of work.