Chapter 352: Talented

"Haven’t seen ye in a while. What brings ye here?"

Andre did not look up when he asked.

The gruff dwarf stood behind his forge with one boot planted on a raised block, hammering away at what looked like a sword meant for a mid-range climber. Nothing particularly special. Good steel, decent balance, enough enchantment channels carved along the fuller to survive a few floors before its owner inevitably replaced it with something shinier.

The hammer came down again.

Clang.

Sparks scattered across Andre’s beard.

The enormous man standing near the entrance laughed. His shoulders were wide enough that he had needed to turn slightly to fit through the workshop door, and even then the wooden frame had complained when he passed beneath it.

"When did I ever announce myself?"

"That’s yer problem. Ye never do."

Andre continued hammering.

Clang.

The Fist King looked around the forge. "You could at least pretend you’re happy to see me."

"I am happy."

Clang.

"You don’t look happy."

"I’m a dwarf holdin’ a hammer. This is what happy looks like."

The Fist King laughed again.

He crossed the workshop and placed something heavy on the table beside the wall.

The sound finally made Andre pause.

The dwarf glanced over.

A large clay pot now sat in the middle of the table.

The Fist King pulled out one of the reinforced chairs nearby and sat. The furniture groaned beneath his weight, which was impressive considering Andre built most things in his forge with the expectation that an armored climber might eventually fall on them.

"Put that down, Andre. I’ve got drinks."

Andre looked at the sword.

Then the pot.

Then the sword again.

"Aye."

The decision took less than a second.

He tossed the hammer onto the workbench, set the half-finished blade aside, and wiped his hands against the thick leather apron covering his chest.

"Poor bastard can wait."

"The customer?"

"The sword."

Andre dragged another chair across the floor and sat opposite the Fist King. He pulled two cups from beneath the table without asking whether they were clean, placed them down, and broke the wax seal around the clay pot.

He sniffed.

His expression immediately soured.

"Didn’t bring the good stuff this time, did ye?"

"I can see your hospitality hasn’t improved."

"I save me hospitality for folk that bring good wine, so I do."

The Fist King leaned back.

"Wasn’t in the mood to go far enough for it."

Andre glanced across the table.

"Why? Ye broke?"

"No."

The Fist King rolled one enormous shoulder. Muscles shifted beneath his shirt like something alive.

"Just haven’t moved these muscles in a bit."

Andre stared at him for a moment.

That explanation meant something very different when spoken by the Fist King.

Most people said they had not moved in a while when they meant they had spent too much time sitting around.

For him, it usually meant he had not crossed half a continent on foot or punched something large enough to be classified as a regional disaster.

Andre poured himself a cup.

"Sounds tragic, that does."

"Deeply."

The dwarf drank.

He paused.

Then drank again.

His eyebrows rose slightly.

"For not bein’ the good stuff, this is some damn fine wine."

The Fist King smiled.

"Glad you like it."

"Where’d ye steal it?"

"Bought it."

"Even more suspicious."

"I do own money, Andre."

"Never seen ye use it right proper."

"Drinking with an old friend sounds responsible enough."

Andre grunted and refilled his cup.

The workshop settled into a comfortable rhythm around them. The forge continued crackling behind Andre. Heated metal clicked as it cooled on the workbench, while the occasional sound of distant hammering carried through the surrounding smithing district.

The Fist King poured himself a drink.

He took one sip before getting to the real reason he had come.

"So. Tell me."

Andre glanced at him over the rim of his cup.

"You’ve met the kid."

"Aye."

"And?"

Andre leaned back.

"Quite impressive, I have to say." The Fist King’s smile widened slightly.

"That coming from you?"

"Don’t get excited. I said impressive, not brilliant."

"You don’t call anyone impressive."

"I call meself impressive."

"You’re proving my point."

Andre scratched at his beard.

"Didn’t think he’d survive yer training."

"Neither did I."

That made Andre stop.

The Fist King turned his cup slowly between two enormous fingers.

"Quite talented too."

Andre stared at him.

Silence stretched between them.

The dwarf slowly lowered his drink.

"Now that’s praise I never thought I’d hear from ye."

The Fist King looked amused.

"Don’t make it strange."

"I’ve known ye long enough to know ye barely praise yerself, let alone some brat." Andre narrowed his eyes. "Got somethin’ special going on with him?"

"No."

"Ye sure?"

"Yes."

"Adopted him?"

"No."

"Secret son?"

"Andre."

"Grandson?"

The Fist King pointed toward the forge.

"I can still throw you into that."

Andre laughed into his cup.

"Worth askin’."

The Fist King shook his head.

"I honestly believed he’d need at least five years before he could move on."

Andre’s amusement faded.

"Five?"

"At minimum."

"And?"

"He finished my training in one."

Andre stared at him.

This time, the silence was genuine.

"One year? When he came over I thought ya kicked him."

"One."

"All of it?"

"All that I gave him for now."

Andre leaned forward, both forearms resting against the table.

"That’s high praise, alright."

"It isn’t praise. It happened."

"That’s even worse comin’ from ye."

The dwarf drank again, slower this time.

"Ye think he could help ye?"

The Fist King’s expression changed.

Only slightly.

His smile remained, but some of the ease behind it disappeared.

"I don’t have my hopes up."

Andre waited.

The Fist King looked into his cup.

"But he is up there."

That was enough.

Andre understood what he meant.

"The Leonard bastard will make it first."

"Maybe."

"He’s closer."

"Many made it to where I was."

Andre’s fingers tightened faintly around his cup.

"None lived, though."

The Fist King nodded.

"Yeah."

For a moment, neither spoke.

Andre looked toward the forge instead.

"It’s a brutal floor."

"One of the worst."

"Still don’t know how ye survived it."

"I nearly didn’t."

Andre snorted.

"Closest thing to modesty I’ve heard from ye all day."

The Fist King ignored him and drank.