The not-immortal Blacksmith

Meadows of Competition, Dwarven Kingdom.

33rd of Samue, the month of Planting;

2126 years since the new gods came.

Today was the first day of competition. I need to learn to aim better. Knocked out in the second round. Bjorn is going after the title again. I kinda hope he loses. The tents are comfortable enough, better than the ones in the army at least.

Tomorrow is the championship for the axe throwing. There will be a lot of betting going on. Saw an interesting axe. I will see what tomorrow holds.

*-*-*

33rd of Samue, Morning.

The world swam around Max, then spat him out. As he blinked to clear his eyes, he could see tents and pavilions in the distance, and around him tall mountain peaks. He looked over to Bjorn, “Where in the hells are we?”

“The meadows of competition.”

“But those are in the Dwarven kingdom!”

“Yup.”

Eyes finally clear, Max looked again at his surroundings, and took a breath. The air was warm, and the sun was maybe an hour over the peaks in the east. They were in a shallow, mostly level valley, filled with tents, pavilions, and semi permanent buildings. Smells of cooking food mixed with the nearby latrines, as people bustled about their business.

As he and Bjorn approached the encampment, the shapes of people turned into individuals. Gnolls, Orcs, Humans, Dwarves, all eating and laughing together, some trading insults, and others gearing up for some sort of competition.

“What's going on here, old friend?” Max asked Bjorn.

“We are entered into the axe throwing competition. I have to defend my championship title.” Bjorn replied.

“You compete with mortals? Where is that honor you keep talking about?” Max asked, the incredulity written across his face.

“Oh yes. I have actually lost more times than I have won.” Bjorn said. “As a matter of fact, last year I barely placed.”

“Really? Did you throw the competition for a nice piece of tail?” Max guffawed.

“Alas, no. I was terribly hung over, and the winds were bad. And some asshole gnoll was banging a drum.” Bjorn frowned.

A gnome stepped out of a tent ahead of them on the 'road' that wound through the tent city, “Ah! Master Bjorn! Back to try and regain your honor?”

“I don't know about that, but I may smack your sorry behind into the ground, if you try to convince me to drink that foul brew of yours again!” Bjorn laughed.

“I accept your offer! Now who is your friend? You have never brought a companion with you in the past.” The gnome asked, a twinkle in his green eyes.

“Well, you green eyed little bastard, this is my old friend, Maxwell.” Bjorn said, a matching twinkle in his eyes.

“Ah!” The gnome turned to Max, “A pleasure! You must be from Demonia. Maxwell is a popular name there at the moment. Especially after the Heretic apparently turned up in person and gave his blessing to the council of lords.”

“...”

The gnome continued, “Ah, but where are my manners?---”

“Stuck up your arse?” Bjorn interrupted.

“Shush you.” The gnome continued, “I am Adan, Gnome lord of Rockton, and head of the competition here in.” He gave a bow. “Welcome to the Meadows of Competition!”

*-*-*

More talking later, Max had a tasty breakfast, and was investigation the axe throwing grounds. The first set of targets were set up at a ten foot distance from the throwing line, and set so that only a strong hit to the center would knock them over. Directly behind the first target was a second, third, and fourth target, all at 10' increments. The competition was easy: knock each target over by sticking an axe in the center. You started with 5 axes. If you still had an axe left at the end of the course, you went on to the semi finals.

The semifinals required an axe to enter. At 30' you had to sink 3 bullseyes. Then repeat the performance at 50'.

Finally, the winners of that round went on to the final test. 5 target stations separated by 10-25', that had to be run between, with one throw at each target. If you missed the target you were eliminated. Best time for completion was the winner. In case of a tie, axes were thrown at a 30' distant target until one missed. Highest number oh hits winning the purse.

In the near distance a goat bleated, and Max saw Bjorn jump. “What's wrong? Goat got your tongue?”

Bjorn stared at the goat and then sighed in relief. “Thank me, it's not Him.”

“Not who?” Max looked at the goat, who was chewing on the wire fence that contained it. “Wait...The goat god? You? You are afraid of the goat god?!?” He started to laugh. “Seriously?”

Looking seriously at Max, Bjorn shook his head, then lowering his voice he said, “You know nothing of what you speak, Young Maxwell. Nothing.”

Max sobered up, “Seriously?”

“The Goat God is to be Feared, Maxwell. Not ridiculed, not mocked, Feared.” Bjorn answered. “How do you know of that creature?”

“Oh, Liam had a problem with him a while back. Something about cattle, chickens, and taking a dump on his office floor.” Max replied. “Met his priest too, at Liam's wedding. Pretty nice guy, for a priest. He looked resigned to his fate of chasing the creature around.”

Bjorn sighed, “Good. Let us never talk of him again. He is bad news. Very bad news.”

“Why?” Max asked.

Bjorn replied after a moment of thought, “Because...because he used to be one of the old gods, the dead gods. Of all of them, he is the only one who remains.”

Max shook his head, amusement no longer present on his face or in his bearing, “...ooh shit...”

*-*-*

The throwing competition had gone well well for the day, as both Max and Bjorn easily passed the first round. The second round saw most of the competition knocked out, leaving only thirty people for the championship on the morrow.

“Well, I'm out.” Max said to Bjorn after his last axe missed the center of the target by a scant half inch. “I should have spaced the first two farther apart.”

“That was my problem the first time I competed, as well.” Bjorn nodded his head. “We all live and learn. I wonder if I will make the run in good time this year. It looks like there won't be any rain this time. And I don't plan on drinking heavily tonight.”

“I am interested in the Orc's axe. The one with the double crescent blades.” Max said. “If I had known I could bring my own, I would have.”

“You would have been disqualified. There is a strict 'No Magic' policy in the games.” Bjorn said.

“Found that out the hard way, did you?” Max asked, half joking.

“No.” Bjorn said, “I saw several people kicked out the first year, complete with lifetime bans. I wisely sent my good axes home before the competition.”

“A lifetime ban? So elves... Wow.” Max looked into the distance.

“Yes.” Bjorn responded, “There were several complaints the first time an elf came back and was refused entry to the grounds. The lists are kept in the deep vault of the king, on enchanted paper. The first list is still available for view, as the elven king's name is still on it.”