Chapter 535: Kindling For Fury (Part One)
Thus far, the Ancient Oak had only shown Virve memories from within the Vale of Mists. Now, however, Virve found herself in a vast lumber yard where scores of craftsmen stood around the rough-hewn remnants of an Ancient Oak.
The scent of sawdust and rough-hewn timber filled the air, and a cacophony of rasping saws and thudding hammers filled the air, mixing with the clank of chains as workmen hauled impossibly large logs from the wagons into the workshop.
The vast power of a tree that had endured for more than a thousand years could still be felt in the broken branches gathered to the side and the massive logs, each as thick as Virve was tall, felt like reservoirs of tremendous strength, slowly bleeding out along with the tree’s fragrant sap.
"What do you think of this one, my Lord?" an aged and withered craftsman said, tapping one of the giant logs with the cane he carried. "Thick as it is, there should be no problem ripping it into tables for your banquet hall. Every guest will marvel at the splendor of your victory each time you hold a feast, and they will endure for generations."
The craftsman said it like it would be easy, but already his men were learning just how hard it was to cut through the resilient timber of the ancient oak. In one corner, the grinding wheel spun constantly, emitting a high pitched whine and a shower of sparks as a workman sharpened blades that should have lasted for weeks that had worn out in just hours of use on oak that felt almost as tough as iron.
Already, some of the men had begun to mutter about taking up the tools of metal workers, using files intended to grind away steel and polish sword blades just to make some progress with the demonic tree, but the Lothian Lord cared nothing for their struggles as he considered the best way to use a treasure that had taken an entire summer of fierce fighting and the deaths of more than a hundred soldiers in order to claim.
"Banquet tables?" The powerfully built lord walking behind the craftsman said with a derisive snort. "No, the only tables cut from the corpse of this heathen god will belong to Dukes or the King himself. My banquets are filled with rough men of the frontier, battle-hardened soldiers, and gold-seeking profiteers. Such men don’t deserve this finery," he said, running a hand over the severed end of the great tree and rubbing its sap between his fingers.
"Carve me a throne from this," the lord commanded. "Make it from a single piece of wood, without seam or joint, and turn it into a seat that will remind everyone who sees the man sitting atop it that the Lothians are the greatest conquerors of the frontier," he damanded, gazing into the distance as though he could imagine the shape of the grand throne trapped within the simple log.