Twisted Shadows (1)
In the old quarter of Damascus, the blacksmith guild's secret chamber—where even light struggled to penetrate—was thick with the acrid stench of charcoal and the musty reek of the elders' festering envy. Their flimsy pride, built on centuries of dominating the city's ironwork, had stagnated into something rotten, like foul standing water emitting a rancid odor.
"Do you really think this makes any sense? Some outsider rolls in, sets up a fortress-sized workshop in less than half a year, and now he's cornering the market on the Malik's standing army gear!"
Guildmaster Omar slammed his wrinkled fist on the table. Before him lay a single scale fragment of Sirion, secretly picked up by one of the guild's artisans near the industrial complex just days ago. Under the lantern light, the flawless steel gleamed without a single bubble or imperfection—a massive insult and utter mystery to these old-timers who had spent lifetimes swinging hammers in front of decrepit forges.
"No hammer marks, not even a trace of forging. Is this really human work? This has to be devilish sorcery!"
The elder raising his voice over the press-forged scale was echoed by a groan from the one beside him, who swallowed dryly. "But what can we do about it...?"
To the guild members, who had entrenched themselves in the city for centuries following Western guild models, Baraka was no mere hammer-swinger. He was a thief stripping away their livelihoods, a catastrophe uprooting the hierarchies and traditions they had built. Since his arrival, orders had halved, mercenaries ignored the guild's crude armor, and sharp-eyed young artisans were defecting one by one, lured by the industrial complex's overwhelming efficiency.
"The Malik's gone blind for that sly outsider. The order we've bled for over centuries in this city is crumbling."
Omar's fury-glazed eyes turned to the man sitting quietly in the corner: Jamal, the youngest and most pragmatic among the elders.
"Jamal, what was the response from the Western envoys we contacted earlier? That knight Justus and his conditions."
Jamal's eyes twitched faintly. He knew better than anyone how reckless the madness these old men harbored truly was. And he had felt bone-deep the yawning gap between their side and the fire-belching industrial complex across the river.
"They're like a pack of starving wolves. Especially Justus, who handles the envoys' muscle—he's got Sirion's value pegged exactly. He's itching to swallow Baraka's tech whole."
"No surprise there! It's the kind of thing that'd make those brute Western knights who can't tell good steel from shit drool. So, what conditions did they offer?"
"If we hand over the complex's blueprints and a finished Sirion sample, they'll guarantee our guild exclusive rights when the Crusaders enter Damascus. And if we flee to the County of Edessa, they'll fund a new guild setup with massive backing."
No sooner had Jamal finished than greedy smiles spread across Omar and the elders' wrinkled lips. National secrets sold to enemies? No guilt there. As long as they could lord it as masters and elders, whether the city's ruler was the Malik or the Crusaders didn't matter—a monstrous selfishness.
While the old men chattered gleefully about glories to come, only Jamal clenched his fist under the table.
'These senile fools. You think you can steal that monster complex's core by hopping a few walls?'
He recalled the roar of the massive waterwheels he'd watched from afar across the river by day, and the man's gaze commanding hundreds of workers with a mere gesture. These tradition-bound dinosaurs, who recoiled at change, utterly failed to grasp they were poking not a mere craftsman, but a tidal wave poised to overturn the era.
* * *
A week later, the elders reconvened in the secret chamber, their faces ashen with despair. One of the infiltrator lackeys had returned pale as a ghost.
"What? It takes over two months just to get inside the factory? And half a year more to reach the core?!"
Omar's voice cracked like grinding metal. The reporting artisan mopped cold sweat nonstop.
"Y-yes, Guildmaster. That Baraka's system is devilishly tight. New hires are quarantined across the river in holding facilities for basic training. Only after that brute instructor Rashid soul-searches them for ideology do they get tossed into the lowest processes."
By his account, the complex's security rivaled the palace—surpassing it in info lockdown. Simple assembly lines never got near the hydraulic hammers crucial for scales; Malik's elite guards glared from every zone, making it hard to even glance around.
"To see core tech, you need half a year grinding at the bottom proving loyalty. Our plants are stuck punching holes in steel plates all week! Nowhere near blueprints or forges!"
"Useless idiots!"
Omar hurled his teacup in rage. Hot tea splashed everywhere off the wall.
"That Justus is hounding us daily like a lackey! If we don't deliver a sample this month, he'll not only cut support—he might rat us out to the Malik for colluding with Crusaders!"
The elders panicked fully. When the clockless and skillless let greed blind them, they always picked the dumbest path—a universal truth across eras. Greed dulling wits was just a bonus.
Omar, eyes bloodshot, scanned the room before glaring at Jamal.
"Can't steal from inside? Then intercept outside."
"Guildmaster, you can't mean..."
Jamal tried to protest, but Omar was beyond reason.
"Every dawn, test Sirion prototypes ship out to Zaid's caravan. We hit that."
"You're insane! That's Malik's military supplies. Touch it, and the whole guild gets drawn and quartered for treason!"
"That's why we don't dirty our hands. Buy off some money-mad mercenary scum as cutouts. Get the route from the failed infiltrators, ambush. Grab the goods, wipe the mercs clean—no traces. If tails wag, pin it on those idiot artisans as a solo greed job."
A vile, throat-choking tail-cut scheme. Omar gripped Jamal's shoulder hard.
"Jamal, hit the back alleys now. Round up reliable mercs. Fat upfront gold—ones who'll finish the job."
Faced with this elder shoving him to the wolves so casually—since it wasn't his neck—Jamal tasted bitter blood from bitten lips. This wasn't even a gamble. More like moths diving into flames. Worst: when it blew up and blame flew, these geezers would sacrifice the youngest, easiest mark—himself. They saw mutual cover among elders as virtue.
* * *
In a dingy tavern alley on Damascus's outskirts, Jamal endured the nose-stinging stench, facing a rag-clad mercenary captain.
"This cart really loaded with that monster Sirion?"
The scar-faced captain grinned yellow-toothed and foul. Jamal handed a trembling note.
"Tomorrow dawn, third cart down the Barada River lowlands. Escort's a third normal—light arms to avoid notice, confirmed. Secure the goods, triple the balance."
The mercs pocketed the fat pouch, cackling into shadows. Watching their backs, Jamal slumped against the wall in deep despair, sighing. Failed artisan infiltrators turned divine-less frontmen; this shady sacrifice of underlings yielded only one knight's promise. How could that sketch a bright future?
'Is this really the right path?'
The cold touch of the hidden Sirion scale in his bosom stabbed his heart. Baraka's gaze from afar by day—that arrogantly serene look piercing all worldly schemes—haunted him. If that monster already knew this clumsy plot? No, given his meticulousness, impossible not to. Chills raced his spine.
A guild drowning in tradition and greed's trap; unreliable, shallow knight Justus scheming to steal tech. And Baraka, eyes unwavering, lording the massive complex. The scale of desperate survival weighed quick. Bloodshot-eyed, Jamal bolted toward the complex—opposite the mercs' vanish.
The dice were cast.
***
Same hour, the complex's waterwheels churned tirelessly into the night, grinding out cart-wheel song. I lounged by the office window, gazing leisurely at the thick darkness.
"Complex Lord."
Rashid approached silently, bowing politely.
"As expected, the rats bit the bait. The old fogeys hired mercs to hit tomorrow's dawn transport cart."
I chuckled, tapping the sill lightly. As if I'd miss the shifty eyes lurking Zaid's caravans or the clumsy plants in low processes.
"Worth the loose route setup. Rashid, the 'gift' they're grabbing—properly wrapped?"
"Of course. Looks fine, but overheated to brittleness in quenching—dead brittle. Battle-ready? Nah. Direct mace hit, and it'll chain-crack surrounding scales like glass."
"Perfect. Let 'em raid success, parade fake trophies to their masters. Can't wait to see that arrogant knight hugging trash in glee."
As I nodded satisfied, Hasim burst in urgently from door guard.
"Complex Lord! Intruder. Says he's a guild elder with life-or-death intel, prostrating at the gate. Name's Jamal."
My eyes met Rashid's. A thick curve hooked my lips.
"Smarter and quicker than expected—one good egg left. Bring him in."
Moments later, sweat-and-dust-caked Jamal was shoved inside like baggage. Panting, he looked up solemnly.
"B-Baraka, Complex Lord! I come with a major deal! Tomorrow dawn, your transport cart gets hit! I know the full plot—if you guarantee my life and guild status, all the details...!"
"The third cart heading down Barada lowlands?"
My cool, low voice ballooned his pupils to rupture.
"Escort cut to a third, ordered to flee on hit—that bait cart you're talking about?"
"Y-you... how the hell did you..."
Jamal's lips quivered. Realization dawned: his lifeline was mere chameleon tongue or bored spider silk.
Of course, I was generous—planned to give him a shot. Leaning over the desk, I peered down at the terror-collapsed man.
"Hunter tosses bait, watches which dumb beast bites—common sense, right, Elder Jamal?"
A beastly groan leaked from his throat. I snapped fingers at Rashid.
"Rashid, guest here and skimping hospitality? Trembling elder needs warming. Fetch hot qatarmizat. Nothing better for scared rat pups than sweets."
Sweet lemon-honey brew steamed before Jamal's nose. But he shook aspen-like, couldn't touch it.
"Now, listen up proper."
My voice froze the office colder than Damascus night winds.
"Tomorrow dawn, mercs snag fake Sirion as planned. You deliver it pristine to Justus. From now on, every scheme by guild geezers or Western scum comes straight to my desk—through your mouth."
No room for rebuttal—an overwhelming edict. Jamal, realizing he'd come to deal but handed his leash, slowly forehead-smashed the floor. His eyes, finding use, soaked in faint relief.
Like the ceaseless night waterwheels, the sound of smashing petty plots rang like gunfire trampling change-resisters. Overkill? Anyway, smooth success curved my lips naturally.
The true hunt had only just begun encircling them.