The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Soul Alloy

1 — A Fair Price

The warlock Por’tak was the most malicious ever to inherit the sorcerous powers of the tribe of Bien. Many warriors of the tribe vowed to take down his mage-run empire, and to restore the honour of their people. But fighters could not swim a moat made of fire, and no other magic user could bring their powers to bear against the master of the tribe’s power. The ancestors would simply not permit it.

Azonia had thought outside the teachings of her people’s elders, and sought the help of the elves in a far distant land. She was a fighter, as much as a woman was permitted to be, but she also liked to use the power of her mind to solve problems rather than just punching them. The elves, it was said, could form all kinds of machines, their lore competing even with the power of magic.

The first thing she learned when she met the elves was that they worship money. Not that they were greedy, but that their coins were cut from the corpses of their gods. So every transaction is sacred, and cheating in trade was the worst possible blasphemy, punishable by death. They used different coin for different trades. Silver and copper could buy bread or meat, but a night in one of their crystal inns could only be bought with coins of brass or gold. The human money changers on the surface didn’t see the distinction as any more than a difference in value, so an outsider coming to Medparchen could trade in whichever currency they needed, just so long as they could afford it.

The next thing Azonia learned about was mithril. The soul alloy, the divine metal, the one pure substance that no nuclear or alchemical process could manufacture. When she said she had travelled all across the known world to trade, the mayor of the smiths here pressed a single mithril coin into her palm. It was small, a disc barely as wide as her thumb with a circle cut out from the centre so it could be threaded onto a cord. But even this small ring of the soul alloy was heavier than seemed possible.

“Feel it,” the mayor commanded, and Azonia held the coin out, closed her eyes, and tried to understand the demand. Money was sacred, right? So holding the highest denomination coin was an act of devotion, a prayer, and a communion. And with the metal cool against her skin, she thought she could feel it, the touch of divinity. When she gently tapped the coin with one nail, it rang out like a bell and she was sure she could feel her own soul shaking in harmony. Peace, respect, harmony. The emotions rushed through her soul, and she felt a tightness in her chest where it seemed the vibrations that ran through her were coming from somewhere deep inside.

“Mithril is the soul alloy, the metal that cannot be tarnished or damaged. It is impossibly precious, it is the most holy, and even your ‘money changers’,” he spat the word as if it was a curse, “know it is worth so many times more than gold. There are very few trades which are worthy of payment in the holy metal, you must understand. Any miner or factory worker may request his wage in mithril if he works without rest days for one year; and the holy coins may also be used as the reward of an artist or scientist if he creates something both unique and perfect.”

Azonia nodded with understanding. She must hope that the technologies she needed to breach Por’tak á Bien’s wall of flame did not have its price in mithril coin, because there was very little chance of her earning even one. The money changers would offer a mithril coin for twelve hundred gold, or nearly twenty thousand Imperial Merks; but that was if they had the coin to offer. The elves hated seeing their holy money degraded by the assumption that a coin was worth some number of a different type of coin, that wealth was a single quantity. A human might earn one or two of these coins that felt so natural in her hand, but a human who passed one to the changers would immediately be persona non grata in this city, and in all the underground halls of the elves.

The mayor’s stern tone softened as she went to hand back the coin. It felt so good to hold, to feel that sense of inner peace, but she didn’t want to disrespect its holiness by taking what she hadn’t earned.

“Keep it,” he said, “You have travelled a thousand miles, across mountains, desert, and swamp, in order to trade with us. And I say that makes your quest blessed in the eyes of the Great Engine.” She bowed to show her gratitude, knees bent and arms crossed behind her back in the style of the elves. Not for the first time, she wondered if there was any kind of anatomical difference that could make this pose less painful for them.

She had been in the city for a week, talking to armourers and tacticians, when she finally found an elf who was convinced by a few discs of gold to introduce her to a friend who knew someone who could put her in touch with Dennery, the master smith. She explained the problem, a sphere of sorcerous fire that enclosed the warlock’s tower.

“What kind of fire?” was his first question. And one she wished she had a simpler answer to.

“Dragon fire.” The old smith simply nodded. Magical fire could be extinguished by magical water or wind, if you knew how to target it, but dragon fire was eternal even before sorcery was involved.

He stared at the candle on the table for ten minutes, watching the flame. Then he stared at Azonia, weighing her up and judging her as he might have evaluated a vambrace in need of repair. Eventually, he made his judgement. He strode to the back of the shop and returned with a fine bracelet around his wrist. Then without explanation, he pushed it into the candle flame. Azoia winced in sympathy, but then opened her eyes and stared at the flame dancing around the band of metal.

“Entirely proof against flame,” the old elf explained, “Even dragonfire cannot burn through this. And I have the skills necessary to make one for you. Is that the help you were looking for?”

“Yes, thank you, yes,” she exclaimed, proud of her progress until the next thought brought her down to earth: “But how much will it cost?

“As I believe in your quest, I will offer this service for only two hundred gold. I believe that is a fair transaction. However,” as he removed his hand from the fire and took off the bracelet to show her, she caught sight of the inside of the band. Underneath an ornate heraldic seal, a coin was mounted on the inside of the bracelet, to keep it in contact with the wearer’s skin. A mithril coin, tiny silvery ring. “Mithril resonates with the soul of the man who touches it. It can make your skin fireproof for a few inches around the point of contact, rather than just protecting you from direct exposure.”

“How many inches?”

“A good question. I think that to protect your body and allow you to walk through fire would require armour made with one hundred and twelve coins.” And from there, the discussion only went downhill.

At their second meeting, Dennery brought a necklace. It was a fine silver chain, but every fifth or sixth link was a mithril coin. Her eyes widened when she saw it, and she held the chain with her hand around the smith’s, unable to bring herself to let go of her chance while she asked: “Can I afford this?”

“I will offer you credit,” his voice was simple and matter-of-fact, “Because I approve of your quest. I’m both a jeweller, an artificer, and an armourer in this trade, so I can ask for my fee in copper, brass or gold.” He clicked a number of syllables in the impossibly fast numbering system of this city’s language. Azonia couldn’t translate, didn’t know how much she was committing to, but the number of seconds he took to pronounce it told her that she’d be working six months or more to cover that debt. To save her people, she would do whatever it took; that was not in question.

“Though I can’t find the soul alloy in any form but coin, and I cannot risk my soul by trading coin. You must earn the mithril yourself, performing a task for which soul is acceptable currency.”

“How can I do that?” her elation quickly changed to dejection again, “I’m no inventor, or artist. I’ve got one mithril coin, and I can’t get any more. Isn’t there some other way?”

“There’s soul work you could do. You could be a model, and I need a model to help me size a suit of maille I’m working on, to ensure it fits perfectly.” For a moment, she wondered if the man wasn’t making her a gift of the coins out of respect for her, or for her quest. But then she saw the lecherous gleam in his eyes, and realised that saving her people would cost her more than she had ever thought. Just how far was she willing to go?