Forging Tempest

by HeideKnight

Chapter 2

Howling awoke Tempest. And rumbling reminiscent of an earthquake. The wagon creaked and groaned as it rattled along craggy road. They were in a rocky pass, high cliffs on either side. The sparse brush swayed whenever a dry wind blew. It kicked up dust like a million needles on her face. She turned aside and let it pelt her cloak instead. Between gusts, Tempest scanned the cliffs. She detected movement, but only caught moonlit shadows.

Sheldon glanced between her and the road. “This part’s always been a bit of an adventure,” he said. “But don’t worry. Scuzz knows this path like the back of his… Well, like the back of his eyelids.”

Tempest looked at Scuzz. His eyes privileged silver over road. She sat upright and squinted. If Scuzz knew the trail, it was by some sense other than sight. What was untouched by moonlight was impenetrable.

They came to a bend. It hugged a chasm. Sheldon twisted the reins and Scuzz brushed the wall as he squeezed around it. The wagon tilted, and kissed the precipice every bump. Tempest looked into the depths. The moon illuminated a rocky outcropping. She tucked her snout into her cloak hem. Wood scraped stone, like claws on a tree. Sheldon grumbled about varnish, then flicked the reins.

“C’mon, Scuzz. Almost there,” he said. He leaned forward. Tempest mirrored him. The wagon hit a large stone and jolted and snapped. Tempest pressed her hooves against the perch. She looked back; one of the axels now scraped along chasm’s edge, wheel missing. “Bah,” Sheldon said. He whipped the reins. Scuzz growled and hugged the wall. The wagon dragged, then arighted on its remaining wheels like a three-legged chair. Scuzz continued pulling off-center until the path cricked, snaked, then straightened.

They exited the bend. Sheldon pulled Scuzz’s reins. “Woah!” He lifted the silver from Scuzz’s nose. The latter halted, and the wagon lopsided toward its missing wheel. “Surf take me. Hold on there.” Sheldon hopped from the perch. He inspected the broken wheel. After a few minutes, he disappeared into the wagon. Tempest heard disgruntled clattering; pots, drawers, cabinets, glass. Sheldon reemerged, hammer and iron rod in one claw, spare wagon wheel in the other. “Give me a bit of time and I’ll have the old girl rolling like new.” He set to work, splintering away what of the old wheel remained.

Tempest rolled her eyes. She looked skyward. The moon was well established; it was past midnight. She watched the cliff-top shadows. One moved. Tempest frowned. “Can you work faster?” she said.

“Never rush a craftsman,” Sheldon said. With a rock, his iron rod, and the law of the lever, he lifted his wagon.

Tempest left her seat and walked ahead of Scuzz. The basilisk clicked. His attention was on the cliffs too. Tempest swiveled her ears. A crunch. A rustle. Padding echoed on stone like an army of paws. And then loud pounding. Tempest jumped. She rounded on Sheldon; he was hammering the spare wheel in place. “Quiet!” she hissed.

“What?” yelled Sheldon. He stopped hammering. Tempest raised her hoof and listened. Scuzz shifted, still watching the cliffs. A silent minute passed and then Tempest lowered her hoof.

“We need to get moving,” Tempest said. “Now.”

“What’s the fuss? It’s only a little—”

Three, snarling masses leapt from the stone onto Scuzz. Sheldon yelped. Tempest cursed. Her horn crackled; the light revealed a stone wolf. And then she kicked its head. It flew from Scuzz, but its companions remained. They clawed and gnashed. Much of their assault glanced from Scuzz’s spikey shell, but some tore into his neck, his abdomen, his legs. Scuzz flailed and snapped, and the wagon rocked with him.

Tempest jumped over Scuzz and brought her hindleg down atop the second beast. Its head cracked and it detached from Scuzz’s side. The third snarled, then pounced at her. Tempest’s forehoof met its lower jaw. It reeled backward and smacked the cliff wall. Scuzz made a high-pitched noise, somewhere between a squeal and a hiss, and darted forward.

“H-hey, wait!” Sheldon said. He scooped up his materials and pursued. Tempest made to follow, then stopped. The wolves melded into stone. Then they wrenched from the ground like corpses from graves and intercepted her.

Tempest dropped her hood. They lunged.

Fizzle screamed. The ursa’s claw shattered stone, missing her by inches. Her hornlight wavered—fear fogged her concentration. The cave floor was slick. Fizzle slipped and slid into the wall. She winced, rubbing the back of her head.

Rowrooo!

Fizzle’s eyes shot wide. She hopped aside a second before the ursa’s claws took a chunk from the wall. She scurried past the creature and gasped. Glitter’s ball was wedged between two stalagmites. Fizzle ran for it, but a claw slammed before her. She looked up. The ursa stood above her, its starry hide illuminated by hornlight. It lifted its claw again. Fizzle dove through the stalagmites and freed the ball. The beast’s wide swipe splintered stone behind her. She rolled to a halt, pelted by fragments. She looked at the ball clutched between her forehooves, then to the cave entrance.

Raarooo!

Fizzle took the ball in her aura and bulleted. The ursa flailed, shaking the cave. She held the ball aloft. She avoided the ursa’s claws again, and then a third time, looking over her shoulder. Then her forehoof snagged a stone and she tumbled. Away bounced Glitter’s ball. Fizzle cried out, then relit her horn. She caught the ball when it bounded from the wall. And then she was smacked. Hard. The world cartwheeled. Her body numbed. She hit the ground, but the cave continued rotating. Her right eye stung, as though somepony were scrubbing it with soap.

Fizzle rolled to her hooves. She wobbled as she stood. She tried to open her right eye, but air was a razor blade against her cornea. She squeezed it shut. She looked for Glitter’s ball; it was at the cave mouth. Fizzle tried to lift it with her aura, but it was like lifting a mountain. She tried again, straining. Sparks showered her muzzle. She wobbled, confused, dizzy, then collapsed. Warm, wet air bathed her back. She froze.

The ursa pressed its nose into her spine. It was sniffing her, like a dog to a dead squirrel. Tears streamed down her face. Fizzle tried to be still. She tried to clench her chattering teeth, to relax her trembling muscles, to slow her frantic breathing. She tried pretending she was dead, but she was too afraid of dying. And when she felt its teeth graze her coat, she screamed.

The ursa recoiled, then raised its paw. Head aside, Fizzle saw it in slow motion. It was going to crush her. She closed her eyes, panicked, and channeled magic, begged her horn to work. Then she felt a force, free and indescribable. It flooded her head like sinuses ready to burst. Blinding light penetrated her lids. The ursa cried, and she heard it stumble and stomp and flee deeper into the cave. And then the light faded.

The wolves escaped into stone. Sparks fell from Tempest’s horn stump like snowflakes. She spit blood, then readjusted her cloak. She waited. When sure they’d departed, she ran after Scuzz and Sheldon.

She found them where the cliffs parted for open desert, about fifteen minutes down the path. Sheldon was on a rock, pipe in jaw. Scuzz loosed a clicking hiss as Tempest approached. Sheldon raised his eye to her.

“You live,” he said.

Tempest nodded.

“That’s more than I can say for my wagon.” He gestured toward it. The sides were like stripped trees, the replacement wheel was gone, and one of the remaining wheels was missing spokes. “I expected better when I hired you.”

“You… What?” Tempest said, muscles tightening.

“You’re supposed to guard me and my property.”

“I have.”

“And a poor job at that,” he scoffed.

Tempest raised her brow. She moved to the wagon, stroked the wood panel and then touched the bare axel. “Do you have another spare?”

Sheldon stood, grumbled, and picked up his tools. “Sure don’t.”

Tempest entered the wagon. She grabbed an old hub, a few spokes, and some felloes.

“I’d have been better off traveling alone,” Sheldon continued as Tempest returned and began aligning spokes to the hub. “All the same with youth: Complain about everything, only want handouts, but have no drive. Back in my day we knew how to get things done.”

Tempest slid a few spokes in place.

“And what do I get for being generous?” He threw up his claws. “Boiled seaweed.”

Tempest sized up a felloe.

“That’ll teach me. Next time it’s gold only! You won’t take advantage of Sheldon P. Kappa, not on my—”

Tempest hammered in the first spoke.

“Eh? What are you up to?” Sheldon asked.

Then she hammered in the second.

Tap Tap Tap.

Fizzle followed the sound up the rocky mountain pass. It wound past a cottage tucked beneath the ridge and what looked like an open shack beside it. The land around the cottage was sloped scree.

Tap Tap Tap.

There was a creature squatted in front of a wagon wheel, hammering a thin metal tire to its felloes. Fizzle paused, fixed her hood, then paced forward. The creature was larger than the average pony, wrapped in some kind of white robe and sandal shod. Its mane and beard were salt-and-pepper, and it held its hammer in flexible claws. It was facing her, but its eyes were on its work.

Tap Tap… Clink.

It dropped its hammer and peered along the rim. Then its eyes fell on her. It showed cool consideration, then lifted its hammer, rotated the wheel and began on the next section.

Fizzle approached, ears back. It continued hammering.

“Excuse me,” she squeaked. “A-are you…”

It paused, then looked at her. Her voice caught.

“Uh… um,” she stammered.

It stretched its claw toward her. She shut her eyes.

“Plane,” he said, voice like rumbling earth.

She opened one. “What?”

He pointed. Fizzle followed his claw to the knob-topped flat tool by her hooves. She passed it to him. He began smoothing the felloes.

“You can fix anything?” Fizzle asked.

He blew wood shavings and rotated the wheel.

Fizzled widened her stance. “I need you to fix my horn,” she blurted.

He paused. His eyes gripped her. He studied her a moment, then returned to his work. “Don’t be a fool.”

Fizzle gaped. He flipped the wheel and set his plane to the obverse.

Fizzle looked at her hooves. She sat, then lowered her hood, exposing her horn stump to mountain air. “I came from the valley.”

He stood the wheel and examined it. “Land o’ fools.”

“They said you can help me.”

“Nay.”

“But they said—"

He turned to her, expression hard. “Your hearin’ broke too?”

Fizzle clinched her jaw. “You have to!” she snapped, meeting his eyes. She held them, willed herself steady. His gaze was a fading fire. Moments passed. He broke eye contact first. He returned to his wheel.

“If you don’t…” Fizzle continued and dropped her eyes. “A unicorn without a horn is…”

“Can’t be me. You got t’fix yerself,” he said.

“I-I can’t…”

He was silent. He rose. He lifted his wheel and disappeared into his cottage.

Fizzle lowered her head. She waited.

The day crested; the night came. Wind whipped through her cloak and the mountain whistled. Smoke puffed from the cabin’s stone chimney. Then the door opened. Fizzle lifted her eyes.

“You ought t’be gettin home,” he said. He held a wooden bowl.

Fizzle lifted her hood. She remained.

“Parents are likely worried about y’”

Fizzle shook her head.

He approached and then set the bowl beside her. The soup smelled of vegetables and spices. Then he went inside and shut the door.

Fizzle drank the soup. It tasted like tomato and basil. It warmed her. And then she found fitful sleep. And when the sun rose the next morning, she was still there. She awoke when he exited his cottage. His sleeves were rolled up.

He walked toward the shack, then stopped. “Well. This way.” Then he entered.

Fizzle followed him. The shack was a smithy. Hammers and tongs lined the wall beside a coal bin, and there was an anvil and a stool near the room’s center, behind which was a wide clay forge. And beside the forge were stacked shelves lined with ingots and rods arranged higgledy-piggledy.

He shoveled coal atop the forge then set it alight with a striker. Then he took a skinny iron rod and examined it.

Fizzle stood by the anvil until he called her closer. She approached the forge.

“Pump the bellows,” he said and indicated dual wind bags at its base. Then he buried half the rod in coal near forge center.

Fizzle pressed the bellows in alternation, both forehooves engaged. Coals flared and heat prickled her face like an open oven.

“That’ll do,” he said, then gripped the rod with tongs. The front half glowed bright orange. He rested it on the anvil, gripped a hammer, and pounded it into a spike. Then when the orange dulled, he returned it to the coals. Fizzle pumped the bellows. He nodded.

They rotated twice more. Then he tapered the rod against anvil’s edge, weakened the neck, and snapped off the pointed end. He plunged it into the water.

Fizzle put her nose over the bucket. When he withdrew it, she looked askance. “What is it?”

“Nail,” he said, examining the point.

“What does that have to do with my horn?”

He gave her a curious look. “S’got nothing to do with that.”

“W-what?” Fizzle gawked.

He pointed at the bellows. “Payment for the soup.”

“WHAT?” Fizzle yelled.

“Shishō?”

Both looked to the entrance. Peeking in was a pony, although an odd one. She had a blue coat, and snowy mane that looked like it belonged on a lion. Her muzzle bridge and her back had dark blue scales, and her horn was split like a tree branch. She was young; maybe a few years older than Fizzle.

“Who is this?” she pointed at Fizzle. Her accent was heavy.

He took another iron rod and placed it in the coals. “New apprentice.”

“Huh?” Fizzle protested.

Then the new pony was in her face. “She’s strong?”

He withdrew the iron rod and placed it to the anvil. Then he gave Fizzle the hammer. She hesitated, gripping it between her hooves. She looked to him, then to the new pony. The latter tilted her head. Then Fizzle gripped the handle between her teeth. She hopped on the stool, eyed the orange glow, and swung.

The last hit secured hub to axel. The wheel was in place.

Sheldon lowered the wagon on his makeshift lever. He wiped sweat from his brow. He was sweaty for a turtle. He grunted. “Where did you learn to do that?”

Tempest pressed her hoof to the wheel. It was steady. She gave Sheldon his hammer. Then she approached Scuzz. His neck craned toward her. He hissed. She put her hoof on his back. And then his serpentine tongue was against her cheek. She pet him, then looked toward Sheldon.

She was quiet a moment. Then she lowered her head.

“My father.”

Tempest climbed into the perch and pulled her cloak taught around her armor.

Sheldon scratched his scalp beneath his hat, then sat beside her.

“Yah!” He whipped Scuzz’s reins. And then they rode into the desert.

Comments

[Lets Do This]

This is nice! Very strong writing, very realistic. Showing Tempest as a former street-rat herself, using her old skills to try to fend off street-rats, is a great idea. And I'm guessing you're going to use working the forge as a reason for Tempest's unusual strength and buld for a unicorn? That works, it would be a reasonable and organic explanation, and a good intermediate step between the loss of her horn and when she meets up with the Storm King.

The one weak spot so far is in the confrontation with the Ursa: the actual breaking of her horn itself is almost completely glossed over, and it stands out because you've described the rest of the action so well. It really needs to be more of a shocking, debilitating moment, and a key focus of the flashback scene, since this is the event that defines her entire future path in life.

Otherwise, this is working well, and I'm looking forward to seeing where you go with this!

[HeideKnight]

9596134
Thanks for your feedback. I'll add that to the final draft fixes list.

[Wolfsong6913]

This is a lovely story! I'm afraid I don't have very much time to talk a lot about it, but I am truly enjoying your interpretation of Tempest.

[Wolfsong6913]

This is a lovely story! I'm afraid I don't have very much time to talk a lot about it, but I am truly enjoying your interpretation of Tempest.

[HeideKnight]

9603170
Thanks, I appreciate that.

[Doomgooey]

This is really good. I like what you're doing with Tempest and it reads quite well. I hope you continue on this story.

[HeideKnight]

9680150
This story is hard to write. The prose has to be tighter than a bear hug in a straight jacket because of the way I imagine Tempest's thoughts: bare bones, no frills, efficient and direct.

It will continue. I just can't say how long it will take. The joke about Pascal rings true. He once said to a friend, "Je n’ai fait celle-ci plus longue que parce que je n’ai pas eu le loisir de la faire plus courte;" "I have made this longer than usual because I have not had time to make it shorter."

This entire story is a tale of me taking extra time to make it short.

[Maple Draft]

That's a nice story you got there! My only complaint is that it took me a while to understand that the sectioning off was meant to represent memories—maybe consider italicizing it?

[HeideKnight]

9696241
Thanks. I'll try that, or something similar at least. Was unsure how to handle it without a big signpost.

But maybe I'll just use a big signpost...