Fiction Within the Forge (Jan-Feb 2026 Short Story Competition Entry)

[Y'ttar Scaletail]

Within the Forge

The air of the forge was acrid. The sticky stench of poisoned ash clung cruelly to everything it could reach. The forge itself radiated infernal heat that snarled and twisted the already vile air into shimmering waves. If the Daemonsmith was bothered by the air or the heat, he gave little sign as he studied again the precious metal taken from the distant lands of the dead old gods.

There was a rattling rasp from his chained prisoner, of whom the poison of the air did visibly affect. It was a Skink, one who had led a foolhardy attack across continents to reclaim what the Dawi Zharr had wrested from their weak claws. Feathered ornamentation and trappings of gold and arcane might had been stripped away. A band of dark iron covered in sigils to sever one’s connection to the Winds of Magic had been cruelly bonded to the Skink’s wrist, the Daemonsmith having made sure it was still hot from the furnace for that.

“Well, my little friend?” the Daemonsmith laughed in response to the rasp of the prisoner, a collection of dark metal wind chimes caught his voice and the souls and daemons bound to them echoed back his words in every conceivable language, albeit with the edge of the wail of the damned. “Is my humble forge not to your liking? Dear Ikkred’s home not as pampered as a soft scaled whelp like you would be used to?”

The Skink hissed back and the chimes echoed back the response.

Ikkred’s tusked smile grew larger and nastier at the show of defiance, and he lifted what appeared to be a long golden spear coated in gems and glyphs of the Old Ones.

“This was what you thought you could reclaim, hm?” his glowering red eyes darting from the arcane relic to the chained Skink. “I quite agree, it is…exquisite for all its unnecessary ornamentation…whoever, no…whatever crafted this was a master of their craft. The power within this pretty thing could sunder cities…or much…much more…”

The Skink glared with a deep venomous hatred but did not reply.

The Daemonsmith shrugged.

“Regardless, the means to use such a weapon is beyond any of my kin…”

The Skink began to hiss a response but the Chaos Dwarf spat a wad of sickly saliva to the ground and stopped the prisoner short.

“You think me that much of a fool? That I would keep you alive to torture the knowledge from you? I know well of your weak-scaled kind that you would sooner die from any agonies I or my torturers could inflict than tell me what I wanted.” He wagged a heavily gloved finger, “besides, I very much doubt you or your kin even know how to truly unlock this weapon. You are children left in the dark, your parents having abandoned you. Where your kind scrabble to keep half-remembered plans and edifices of your parents…my kind moved forwards. That is why your realm will crumble and fall and why mine will endure and will rise.”

He turned away, his legs stiff from petrification that the curse of his sorcery wrought upon all of his kind, and signalled to his silent armoured guards.

“No, my little guest,” he chuckled, “I wanted you to witness me improve upon your Old Ones’ legacy, to unlock the power for the use by the Dawi Zhar…or more accurately…for me.”

Nine robed and blank iron masked acolytes dragged in nine chained prisoners of a myriad of races of the Old World. Ikkred moved to each one, grumbling in a foul tongue that even the infernal chimes would not translate. To each prisoner, the Daemonsmith drew a bead of blood with a small cruel blade of obsidian and with it daubed a sigil upon the face plates of each acolyte. Each sigil seemed to catch fire, a burning hue of many colours. As the last acolyte was anointed, Ikkred moved back to his dais, the Skink prisoner shivered and sweated as the furnace grew both uncomfortably cold and hot at the same time. The grumbling of the Daemonsmith’s words turned from a growl and into shout. As one the acolytes raised rune-cursed knives and as the Daemonsmith howled the last syllables, a final intonement to Hashut, they brought their knives down.

All light within the forge was extinguished at once, an unnatural blackness that tore at reality. A cackle came from the dark, then the sound of sobbing, then a cry of fury, a sigh of love, and more and more until the forge was a surging rush of conflicting sound. A wall of noise that tore at the mind and at the soul.

Then silence.

One by one the lights within the forge, natural or not, reignited. Ikkred stood, the Lustrian relic held aloft and surrounded by the steaming corpses of the sacrifices. A nimbus of foul energy swirled about the golden spear, the Daemonsmith’s free gloved hand seemingly weaving and twisting the essence of the Daemon. Slowly, the energy flowed into the device of the Old Ones and each of the inlaid precious stones began to glow with an internal light.

Ikkred’s glowering eyes turned to the chained Skink, a gleam of savage triumph playing across them. The relic shook suddenly and the Daemonsmith’s air of victory turned into a deep frown. From the Old One device came a keening wail as the Daemonic essence was burned away and utterly extinguished. The precious stones turned dark once more and the artefact became inert in Ikkred’s grasp, its power remained locked within and beyond his reach.

The Skink let out a hissing sound that Ikkred recognised as laughter.

“You fool…” the Skink spoke, the chimes swirling its words into a hundred tongues, “you are slaves to darkness and your freedom…your grasping for power will always remain out of reach. Slave of a slave.”

The Daemonsmith’s jaw worked, granite-like teeth snarling across each other. Slowly he placed the golden rod back to the anvil. As the masked acolytes dragged the corpses of the sacrifices from the forge, Ikkred stood. Thoughts and plans swirling and connecting in his dark mind. Stiffly he turned and the anger in his eyes was eclipsed by the cruel smile on his lips.

He appraised his prisoner and gave a laugh like the crumbling of a castle.

“That remains to be seen, my little guest.”

 

[Y'ttar Scaletail]

After the crazy train that was Story 2, here's a much more classic one.
You can feel the heat and the pain that soak that forge our poor protagonist is imprisoned in. The scheme is pretty classic: a galoer-torturer, a captive dude with a secret to be discovered, magic, rituals and not-so-human sacrifices.
It's a really beautiful scene, a story condensed in just a single scenery and it works perfectly this way.
The CD sorcerer is not a fool, he knows too well the spirit of the cold blooded ones cannot be broken by mundane ways, so the skink is merely a spectator to the tries of the daemonsmith to uncover the secrets of an ancient artefact: the prize is high, a fragment of the immense power of the Old Ones... too great a temptation to let it go.
The plan of the demonsmith goew wrong (as expected, silly warmblood) but this is just a minor drawback, and the future still holds many possibilities, and not all of them will be so harmless for the poor lizard...

the Theme: up til now, this is the story that encapsulates it better. Cruel but not sadistic, merciless but not wrathful, greedy for power but calculator and patient. a perfect portrait of a classic Chaos Dwarf.

It's SO classic that gives me to options:
1) not going to vote for it because it gives me no more
2) i'm going to vote for it because it gives me what was expected, and in a good way

Many thanks for the kind word-things. I am glad I seemed to nail down the character of the Chaos Dwarf and make someone very vile but at the same time more than just a monster. And well...I really do have a thing for just writing two characters in a room.

A story about asserting dominance. The Chaos Dwarf in this story is a powerful sorcerer hungry for even more power. Dominating all races and searching for even more powerful artifacts to hone its strength. The unfortunate skink held captive portraits a well characterized stoïcity facing certain demise.
Great story telling, but quite straightforward.

My thanks for the review. I did find it funny how the two characters made a point of mocking the other's people for their perceived weakness. In the end it is a struggle of those that cling to the past and the Great Plan and those that push forwards but through destruction (a lot upon themselves as well.) As far as stories go, it's really just two opposing characters in a room. Not much gets truly resolved or even changed. There's no big action scenes other than maybe the ritual and even then... It is very straightforward I agree, though there's mayhaps a lot more going on beneath.

Story Three: A classic Old World tale that follows the theme without any twist. Quite impressive to boot given that it seems to take place within a single room and technically not a lot happens…and yet I was never bored or distracted for a moment. The descriptions were very evocative with a few little bits of alliteration without it being too overbearing. The Chaos Dwarf himself was so deliciously wicked, he’d make an awesome Saturday Morning Cartoon villain but in all the good ways.

There were a few issues I feel with this piece. The Skink was too much a passive observer to my mind, they were unnamed and only had one real moment to shine at the end, and even that I feel could have been handled a little better and more cutting of why the Chaos Dwarfs will fail as a race. I also raised a furry…I mean scaly eyebrow at the part where the Skink apparently sweats, despite lizards not having the capability to do so…maybe it was part of the magic? But it took me out of the story a bit.

Thanks, Ratty! He would really make a fun bwahahah SatAm villain...though as I said earlier...there is a curious nuance to him than just the evils. The passive nature of the Skink is something I wrestled with. I wasn't sure if I gave him more limelight it would detract from the scene and the daemonsmith, in the end I kept it as was. I agree that maybe I could have worded his refuting of the Dawi Zharr as a people a bit better, but oh well. Erm...yeah...so I wrote that without thinking that lizards don't sweat and then realised on re-reading in the competition that I had messed up. It probably wasn't as detracting to other reader-meat as it was to me...I guess you can argue that the magical nature of the ritual made something that couldn't normally sweat do so? Chaos does do stuff like that...

Story Three "Within the Forge": This piece hit the short story formula. There are still stories to be told. The Skink a still a prisoner and has neither escaped nor has been broken, but the introduction, conflict, and resolution was not about the Skink's prisoner dilemma, this story was about the Chaos Dwarf's magical ritual attempting to unlock a piece of Old Ones magic.

We had a complete story, excellent characterization, good pacing, and as a bonus, this set up potential for future continuation stories. It also demonstrates core aspects of Chaos Dwarves and Lizardmen very well. No major complaints but I wouldn't have minded more details on the prisoners of "myriad races".

Many thanks for the review as always! It's good to know I did get the balance right of it being a closed story enough for a competition but keeping enough of an opening for more stories. Something that I have gotten wrong before. I agree that I probably could/should have detailed a bit more of the prisoners, especially given how much time I gave to the scenery and ritual descriptions. They were but a footnote and point of reminder that the Chaos Dwarfs take from all races, but more detail would have given that an extra shine maybe.


This was a challenging piece to write after my previously mentioned hiatus from short story writing, but largely was enjoyable to pen. It's quite possible the rpg writing i've been doing has meant I am more moved to look into how something works. For example, the chimes as a means for the two to converse together despite not likely sharing a language or the iron band suppressing what was likely a Skink Priest from using magic whilst the Daemonsmith's own would be unaffected. I did toy with the idea of the chimes being damaged in the ritual but found my attempt to write that in a bit too wordy and slowed the pace too much.

Will I write a sequel? Probably not i'm afraid. There's no plan-thing kicking around my head-meat for what the Daemonsmith would do next and if he would succeed. But never say never and all that!

 

[Killer Angel]

Many thanks for the kind word-things.

You've earned them!