Sheillene: Choosing Fate

by Wil Ogden

THE SMITH

  Morris Smithslayer, the master blacksmith for the village of Oregalt, walked slowly along the workbench. He examined, but did not touch, the three knives displayed on the bench. The forge was quiet that day. For the past week the ring of hammers slamming into anvils had filled the air from dawn to long after nightfall. He glanced over his shoulder at his three apprentices and stared at them just long enough to see how they squirmed.

  Today, he would pick two to renew their contracts. The third would never work metal at his forge again. He didn't want to send one away, but he knew he'd have to. The three were his first apprentices, they only knew he was sending one away. He hadn’t told them it was not a punishment, but a reward.

  Joanna seemed the most worried. She faced downward as if she were watching her own hands fumble with each other, but her eyes watched him. Randal bounced back and forth rapidly from one foot to the other. Every few bounces, he stumbled slightly. He met Morris's gaze and smiled weakly. Kenneth did not seem worried at all. He stood there with a confident grin on his face and stared straight ahead.

  Morris stepped to the side, but Kenneth's eyes did not follow him. Morris smiled, realizing that the confidence was a facade that would be easily shattered if Kenneth actually had to focus on anything.

  Apprentices should not be overconfident and none of his were. “I noticed that none of you marked your work,” Morris said. “Did you all lose your stamps or did you conspire to hide your work from me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Randal stammered. “We just want to make sure you are judging the work and not the craftsman.”

  “Or craftswoman.” Joanna added.

  Morris couldn't help but chuckle. “It won't work. I know all of your work too well.”

  “Oh?” Joanna asked. “Which is mine?”

  “This one.” Morris picked a knife from the table. “All three of you made ebony handled butcher knives. I'd blame Kenneth for the practical choice rather than trying to make fancy daggers. The steel is the same, all cut from the same bar, I'd bet. Not the hardest steel, but more flexible than tool stock. You all used my signature thumb ridge on the back of the blade, but your thumb ridge is closer to the handle. Your hands are the smallest of the three of you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you temper this well?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Which method?”

  “You tell me.” Joanna said. He'd been waiting for her to loosen up and let her usual cutely defiant attitude out.

  “Fine.” Morris took the knife and set it on the floor leaning against the leg of the workbench. With a single practiced kick with his heal; he snapped the blade an inch from the hilt. He picked up the pieces and examined the cross-section. “With the large crystal structures in the middle and the tight ones on the outside, I can see that you just heated it up and did a rapid cool. Judging by the only sleight color difference between the inner steel and outer layer, I’d say you used water.”

  “We are running low on oil and I knew you'd break the blade. I know oil is preferred to avoid a brittle edge.”

  “I'll accept that, very practical of you.” Morris set the two parts of the knife on the table. Though the handle shape carried slightly, both were within the styles he used frequently. He picked up the next knife and ran the edge across a wooden block. The blade made a deep cut. Morris looked closely at the shape of the cut. “Kenneth, this is yours.”

  “Yessir.”

  “You still make the blade too sharp for the purpose. A wider wedge will last longer. You have a very steady hand when it comes time to whet the blade; it is a very smooth, very sharp edge.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Kenneth's voice belied that he knew there was a 'but' coming.

  Morris did not disappoint him. “But, a bump against a good bone and the blade will chip. Now let's see how strong the blade is.” Again he set the knife against the workbench leg and snapped it. He noted that it took a little less kick to snap, but not horribly so. Examining the pieces he nodded approvingly. “Good temper, this may have lasted a year or two before getting a nick from a bone. It just might have lasted forever if you'd used oil instead of water.”

  “We all used water,” Kenneth said, “We agreed to do everything as much the same as we could.”

  “You are conniving bastards.” Morris mocked affront. “Ok, let's see how Randal’s did.” Morris set the last blade against the bench leg.

  “Wait.” Randal said.

  “What?” Morris asked, stepping away from the table.

  “I can't watch you destroy that.” Randal said. “I put my best work into that, I know the temper is almost but not quite as perfect as Kenneth’s. But I can't watch you destroy my work. If you insist, I will leave and ask you to hide the pieces so that I may never see my creation in other than its perfect condition.”

  “If you leave, I cannot let you back.”

  “So, I'm the one who fails,” Randal said, stepping up and picking his knife off of the floor.

  “Put the knife down if you are going to throw a fit,” Morris said, his voice steady. Angry people with weapons in their hands made people nervous. Nervous people made stupid decisions. He knew Randal wouldn’t become aggressive, but wasn’t sure how Joanna would react.

  “I'm leaving and taking this,” Randal said, “I know I failed.”

  “I am not failing anyone.” Morris said. “But you will never be a master if you cannot submit your creations for destruction. You are a skilled blacksmith but I have to say that you will never work in my shop again.”

  Randal’s voice had calmed when he said, “I accept that. I don't know what I will do, but I accept that I cannot stay here.”

  Morris placed his hands on Randal’s shoulders. “You cannot stay because I am promoting you to journeyman. You are not ready in as many ways as I would prefer, but you will not progress to master. As a journeyman you will take over the Southern Route and rotate your time between three very small villages. When someone brings you work you cannot handle, you send it up here to me.”

  “I fail but I am becoming an independent smith?”

  “Right,” Morris said.

  “If I had let you break my blade?” Randal asked.

  “I'd have sent Kenneth. It’s going to take me years to get him to stop making his blades too thin. This time he got a little lucky with the temper.”

  “I'll miss you all.” Randal said.

  “We are blacksmiths, not dress makers. Don't make this mushy.” Morris walked towards the door, opening it for the new journeyman. As Randal left, Morris felt very proud of his former apprentice. A smith who cared about their work did better work.

  About this story:

  Emily, the main character from “Of Maia’s Mist”, had brothers. Morris was one of them. One of the things about this story that makes it unlikely to see individual publication is the technical details of smithing. It’s frowned upon when writers show off their knowledge as I did here.