Chapter 137: A Sudden Riot
"Mr. Percival, congratulations on winning the wager. These two blades are yours."
Despite holding two swords of near-limitless value, Hackshaw didn't hesitate for a second to present them to Percival. To the Mayor, the real battle had only just begun. Tallon's prestige had been gutted, but the Zigrin dwarves still held a stranglehold on the Blacksmiths' Guild. There would be plenty of fighting left to do.
However, the Mayor was confident he wouldn't be fighting alone. Knowing Percival's temperament, the City Hall's blatant display of support today would make many previously "impossible" reforms very much open for discussion.
"Percival, we are prepared to offer one thousand crowns to buy back Glacier."
A white-bearded master smith leaned in, his voice low as he attempted to open negotiations.
Arthur couldn't help but whistle. One thousand crowns—that was enough to buy the secret of the Gva'chir twice over.
Percival didn't even look up. He was busy turning the mithril longsword over and over in his hands, admiring the play of light on the fuller. "Ha! Now this is a masterpiece!"
Percival's eyes shone with unbridled pride. "I'm going to hang this in the most prominent spot in the shop. I want every soul who walks through the door to see it immediately!"
He gave Arthur a sharp, celebratory slap on the ribs and bellowed at the surrounding dwarves, "Look at him! This is my finest work! No matter what I teach the lad, he executes it to perfection!"
Arthur scratched his head, feeling a flush of embarrassment. He knew his own secret; with the System at his back, anything Percival explained became etched into his mind the moment he practiced it once. It was more permanent than a magical geas. A single hour's lesson from the gnome was truly worth ten years of labor.
"Percival, don't push it too far. We all have to work together for a long time yet. If things were to... sour..."
Seeing that the gnome wasn't biting, one of the more ill-tempered dwarven masters tried to exert some pressure. He was silenced instantly by a sharp crack from Tallon's cane across the crown of his head.
"If what?! If what?!"
The Guildmaster looked like a dying lion, struggling to maintain his dignity until the final breath.
"We are a Blacksmiths' Guild, not a street gang! They allowed us to change the stakes from the Sihil technique to Glacier just to save our collective faces. Don't you dare go making yourselves look even more pathetic!"
The old Guildmaster's roar echoed down the street. The aggressive posture of the dwarves began to soften as they lowered their hammers.
But then, an empty beer bottle soared over the crowd. It shattered with a sharp crack against Yarpin's forehead, followed by a vitriolic scream:
"It's your fault! If it wasn't for your clumsy, butter-fingered incompetence, we'd still have our heirloom!"
Tallon exploded in fury, pointing his cane at the sea of faces. "Who did that? Step forward and face me!"
But like an old lion who can no longer control the pride, a defeated Tallon could no longer restrain the mob. The shattered bottle had provided an outlet for their simmering resentment. The dam broke, and the emotions came pouring out like a flood.
Dwarven smiths began shouting and cursing. Some grabbed sledgehammers and steel gads, screaming about "Clan Law" and punishing the "scum" who had brought shame upon their kin.
"Have you no shame?! Pinning the blame on a lad!"
Tallon shrieked his rebukes, waving his cane and standing before the crowd like a praying mantis trying to halt a carriage with its forelegs.
Whoever pushed him first didn't matter. With a single shove, the physically and mentally exhausted Tallon collapsed like a dry reed in the wind.
The tide of angry dwarves surged forward.
"Stop them! Stop them at once!"
Hackshaw shouted the order, initially intending to bring in the perimeter guards to restore order. But as he looked at the dwarves, he hesitated.
These fellows had been drinking heavily since the start of the wager; their minds were far from clear. Now, with their blood up and hammers in hand, the only thing separating them from a "riotous mob" was the fact that they hadn't struck a soldier yet.
If some hothead swung a hammer at a guardsman, those professional soldiers wouldn't just take the blow. They'd retaliate with cold steel.
The City Hall had a grievance with the Zigrins, true, but Hackshaw only wanted to break the monopoly. If a massacre broke out and these master smiths were slaughtered, Cintra's entire military supply chain would be paralyzed by morning.
"Protect the gnome! Seal the streets! Don't let them scatter!"
Hackshaw retreated behind a soldier, shouting orders at the top of his lungs. Faced with a situation spiraling out of control, the best he could do was try to contain the scale of the chaos. As for Yarpin, he could only hope the lad had some gods looking out for him.
CLANG!
A thunderous boom erupted over the street, and the crowd, which had been teetering on the edge of a berserker rage, fell into a sudden, stunned silence.
Someone gasped, "You little bastard, you dared strike the Thunderfire Furnace!"
Yarpin gripped his hammer with both hands, his body shimmering like silver in the twilight. Beside him, the casing of the Thunderfire Furnace had been crushed inward by a massive, jagged dent.
"If anyone takes another step, I'll smash this gods-damned stove to scrap!" Yarpin snarled.
It was like poking a hornet's nest. A chaotic wave of outcries immediately rose from the crowd:
"Stop! The furnace is innocent!" "You miserable pup, do you want to be the eternal shame of the Zigrin clan?!" "Yarpin, don't be foolish! I'm your seventh-uncle-twice-removed! Put the hammer down and let's go home!"
The status of the Thunderfire Furnace among the dwarves was clearly paramount. Despite the frantic shouting, not a single soul dared move a muscle.
Yarpin watched the hesitating mob with cold eyes, leaning his hammer against the ground. Within his dizzy, reeling mind, a single thought flickered: I'll likely die here today. I just didn't expect it to be at the hands of my own people.
Grief and indignation burned in his heart. He looked at the crowd, wanting to scream, to curse them all. But fear and fury were like two warring tides crashing in his chest, leaving him with a thousand insults and not a single word to say.
Percival whispered from the side, prompting him: "Tell them to drop their gear! Tell them to back off!"
Fighting through the waves of vertigo, Yarpin gathered his strength and roared:
"Drop your weapons! Every last one of you!" "Back away! All of you!"
Under the weight of that primal roar, the dwarves began to drop their hammers and gads, shuffling backward.
Yarpin felt the pressure on his chest ease slightly; his voice came more fluidly now as he pointed his hammer handle at the clusters of dwarves still lingering. "Whoever doesn't disperse is forcing my hand to turn this furnace into kindling!"
As the crowd began to thin and drift away, the tension wire in Yarpin's mind finally snapped. His body swayed dangerously, nearly toppling over.
Fortunately, Arthur was sharp-eyed. He lunged forward, catching Yarpin by the back to steady him. "Hold on a little longer. Once they're gone, it's over."
On the other side, Hackshaw grabbed a few of the more clever soldiers and ordered them to "invite" the dispersed dwarves to City Hall for questioning. His instincts from years as Mayor told him that this riot had flared up far too conveniently; someone was almost certainly pulling the strings from the shadows.
As the street grew emptier, a cloaked dwarf suddenly "grew" a good deal taller. He bolted through a gap in the soldiers' line like a startled hare.
The transformation was so abrupt that the surrounding dwarves could only stare, bewildered, having no idea who—or what—the man had been doing among them.
"Seize him! Don't let him get away!" Hackshaw shouted, pointing at the fugitive with excitement.
He had been dreading the tedious investigation, but now the culprit had practically served himself up on a platter. No honest man spends his day crouching down to pass for a dwarf!
However, the fellow was remarkably agile. Several soldiers lunged for him, but they couldn't even snag a corner of his cloak.
Just as the man seemed poised to vanish into the distance, a streak of silver light cut through the air. The runner let out a muffled cry and pitched forward, crashing into the dirt before being pinned down by two soldiers.
It was Arthur. He had hurled the mithril sword Yarpin had just forged, the blade skewering the man's calf with surgical precision.
"Quick! Bring that piece of filth to the front!" Hackshaw yelled, his voice trembling with anticipation.