Work Text:
Dammon had lost track of time; it was well past midnight as he hammered adjustments into a metal saddle frame against a weathered mandrel. Not that marking the hour mattered much here; the gears of Avernus ground eternally, with or without him. Even so, the tiefling blacksmith relished the dull thud of his mallet as he fine-tuned the piece; it was a rare day in Carixim’s forge when Dammon was required—or even allowed—to indulge in artistry. For months—had it really only been a few months since the Descent?—he had repaired a never-ending stream of damaged arms for Blood War soldiers: blunted swords, dented shields, split helmets. Yes, he had to do the work—under threat of grievous punishment—but in each broken weapon, he saw a chance to improve. If he ever did get out of here, very few others in Faerûn would be able to claim his mastery of infernal iron…
The thought stayed his hand. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a gloved forearm and heaved a sigh into the bandana protecting his mouth and nose. Faerûn . Would keeping his head down and his eyes forward be enough to keep him safe until he could get out of Avernus?— if he could get out of Avernus? Don’t dwell on it , he urged himself. Focus on what’s in front of you.
Dammon lifted his protective goggles to inspect his work—a few wrinkles still. He frowned, replaced his goggles, and reheated the saddle over a bed of hot coals. With some pliability restored, Dammon set to hammering again. The rhythm of his breathing in concert with the movement of his body eased his mind; his thoughts became a steady flow of background noise, and they drifted to other matters.
In recent tendays, Dammon’s apprentice-level drudgery had finally paid off, earning him the endorsement of a high-ranking fighter in the Blood War—an endorsement that had turned into the greatest opportunity of his career so far.
The forgemaster Carixim had been called away on the day when a captain in Zariel’s army had entered the forge. Grim-faced, scarred, and towering over Dammon, she had carried the pock-marked head of a battleaxe in one hand and its splintering haft in the other. Dammon had had the unhappy duty of informing her that Carixim was not available, but rather than incurring her wrath, she had insisted that the tiefling complete the repair himself.
Dammon had known for a long time how temperamental infernal metals could be, but the axe fought his fire and hammer with a viciousness the smith had never encountered. After hours of struggling against the will of the iron, he had broken its fight, reforming its surface and fitting it into a new, reinforced handle. When Dammon had returned the weapon to the captain, she had stared in disbelief, until her stony face cracked with appreciation and admiration (two emotions Dammon did not welcome from a devil). Unbeknownst to Dammon, he had just grappled with reforged Soul Coin metal and won.
He reemerged from his thoughts; even through gloves and goggles, his craftsman’s instinct could detect that the shaping phase of the saddle was complete. Dammon rotated the frame in the firelight to complete his due diligence. Satisfactory for now , he observed. The seat leatherwork would come later, when everything else passed inspection. Dammon ground his teeth at the idea; responsible for the comfort of a devil…unbelievable!
Dammon hauled the saddle over to the Infernal Steed; this was the ambitious prototype his superiors had tasked him with, a tool for Zariel’s new cavalry. After winning the captain’s favor, word had made it up the chain of command and back to Carixim that Dammon had conquered the highest-grade infernal iron, unprepared and unaided. The indentured smith had expected the forgemaster’s wrath for the crime of sticking his neck out, but instead, Carixim had clapped Dammon on the shoulder—it took all the stout tiefling’s strength not to collapse under Carixim’s titanic hand. “Make me look good in front of Zariel, boy,” he had sneered. “But that shouldn’t be a problem for the likes of you .”
Finally , the recognition he had been striving for: he would be assigned a project to prove his mastery and inventiveness…presented in the hands of a fiend .
Damon shook his head to banish the thought. He was so close to completing his crowning achievement. He shrugged the exhaustion out of his shoulders. Just keep going…
He climbed a wooden stepladder next to the imposing machine and slotted the frame into place. Socket wrench in hand, he bolted the frame to the Steed’s spine. He tested the hold; when he had confirmed a tight fit, he drew an arcane welder from his apron, spoke the well-practiced incantation, and fastened the components together permanently.
Dammon stepped down to examine the Steed in full. Slowly, numbly, he pulled off his goggles and bandana, and his mouth hung open. Forgelight cast the metal beast in a hellish, amber glow. As much as his creation’s ghastly aura unsettled him, he couldn’t look away; it was a masterpiece . The skeleton embodied his smithing fundamentals, perfected over thousands of hours, and the steel it was made of, the delicate chemistry of mixing alloys, practiced in Elturel. The joints and pistons were the fruits of his own experimentation, refined in the small hours of the night at his dining table.
Despite its steel composition, the Steed flexed with muscular, equine power—as dangerous as it was elegant. The entire construction—the sculpture , really—was an impressive imitation of the Hellrider horses Dammon had crafted shoes for. For the first time in Avernus, pride for his work swelled in Dammon’s chest…followed quickly by a stab of guilt. The Steed was perfect…a perfect instrument of death. And after what all those Hellriders had sacrificed…
As if summoned by the thought, tremors in the smithy floor and a gut-wrenching howling announced Carixim’s presence. Dammon tensed on instinct and quickly turned toward the forgemaster. He bowed low, careful not to look directly at the fiend; it made the tiefling nauseous to see the writhing mass of entrapped souls that strained against Carixim’s mottled skin.
“Greetings, sir.”
“ There’s my favorite smith…” Carixim called, in a voice as rocky and ancient as continents grinding together. “I hope you’re prepared to impress Zariel today, boy. I’ve taken an incredible risk on you.”
“Yes, sir.” Dammon dipped his chin in deference. “I’m deeply grateful sir. I’m certain you’ll be pleased.”
The forgemaster crossed his arms and glowered. “We’ll see.”
Dammon cleared his throat. “If I could…oblige you, for a moment…I need your assistance with the final piece…”
“Go on, then,” Carixim grunted.
“Yes, please, follow me…” Dammon swallowed hard as he directed Carixim to another corner of the forge. A building case of nerves had supplanted the self-assuredness the smith had felt only minutes before.
“The Soul Wheel, sir,” Dammon informed Carixim, indicating a large disc. “A perpetual motion engine—well, very nearly perpetual—cast from hundreds of melted Soul Coins.”
“ Hellrider Coins?” Carixim raised an eyebrow.
Dammon’s stomach lurched. “Yes…yes, sir. As requested…” He hardened his mind against the thought, sucked in a steadying breath, and continued.
“As the rider of the Infernal Steed…” Dammon searched for a euphemism that would sit right with him. “As the rider… dispatches each enemy, that enemy’s spirit feeds the engine, which powers the mechanisms of the Steed. The rider can jump-start it with a Soul Coin if need be, but unless they run out of living enemies, the Wheel can, in theory, run under its own power forever.”
Carixim was silent for a long moment. “ Incredible ,” he finally breathed, running his hand over the raised image decorating the disc—not the typical skull emblem, but the sun-shaped crest of Eltugard. Dammon dared not break Carixim’s reverence. “You managed to contain all these Hellriders…”
Dammon simply nodded and stayed silent. Their Soul Coins had put up an incredible fight when they went into the fire. He refused to give Carixim the satisfaction of that knowledge.
Carixim snapped his fingers next to Dammon’s ear, loud as a thunderclap. “Come now, boy, you must have your wits about you in the forge. What would you have me do?”
“Ap- apologies, sir,” Dammon stuttered. “L- long day. If you could just lift the Wheel into the Steed’s chest cavity…It should slot right in, and I can get it started.”
Carixim lifted the disc as easily as a dinner plate, carried it to the Steed, and rolled it with a clunk into its housing.
“Here.” Carixim pulled a Coin from his apron. “Let’s see it in action.”
Dammon accepted the token and turned it over in his clawed hand. A crest of Eltugard on one side, just like the… his Soul Wheel…and a horse skull on the other. Another Hellrider Coin. Electric tension crackled in the air like a coming storm. He could barely breathe. He stood on the precipice of his most soaring achievement or his deadliest failure.
Carixim grumbled and shifted next to Dammon. Even he seemed nervous. “I can sense her. Zariel’s almost here. It’s now or never, Infernal Mechanic.”
Dammon looked up sharply at the declaration: not just “apprentice” or “boy” but a title . Infernal Mechanic. His eyes fell back to the Coin. There would be a day when Dammon could allow himself to grapple with the price of his triumph, maybe in the safety of his own home, surrounded by the comfort of his own forge. But that day was not today.
Dammon pressed the Soul Coin into the Wheel, and the Infernal Steed blazed to life.