by Anthony Ryan
Vaelin nodded. “I do, Aspect.”
“It does you credit that you decided to stay, when you could have left with no stain on your character. Your devotion to the Faith will be remembered.”
For no apparent reason Vaelin felt these words to be a threat, a threat the Aspect didn’t even know he was making. But he forced himself to say, “Thank you, Aspect.”
Outside he closed the door softly behind him, resting his back to it, exhaling explosively in relief. He didn’t notice the others staring for a few seconds. They looked worried, especially Dentos.
“Faith help me,” Dentos breathed softly, clearly appalled at Vaelin’s countenance.
Vaelin straightened, fixed what he knew to be a weak smile on his face and walked away, trying not to hurry.
With the exception of Dentos, the Test of Knowledge left a cloud of depression over them all. Caenis was silent, Barkus monosyllabic, Nortah aggressively truculent and Vaelin so preoccupied with memories of his mother that he found himself wandering through the rest of the day in a miserable daze, tossing scraps to Scratch and fending off his attempts at play, before joining the others for a desultory game of knives on the practice field.
“What a piece of piss that was,” Dentos said, the only one of them to retain any semblance of good humour, sending a knife skyward to connect with the board Barkus had tossed into the air. His cheerfulness was made more annoying by his apparent ignorance of the mood of his companions. “I mean they didn’t ask me anything about the Order, just kept going on about my mum and where I grew up. The lady Aspect, Elera whatsername, asked if I was homesick. Homesick? Like I’d want to go back to that shit pit.”
He retrieved the board, working his knife loose and casting it upwards for Nortah’s throw. The knife went wide, in fact it went so wide it nearly caught Dentos on the head.
“Watch it!”
“Stop talking about the test,” Nortah said in a tone heavy with dark promise.
“What’s the problem?” Dentos laughed, genuinely puzzled. “I mean we all passed didn’t we? We’re all still here, and we get to go to the Summertide Fair.”
Vaelin wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him before that they had all passed the test. Because it doesn’t feel like a success, he realised.
“We just don’t want to talk about it, Dentos,” he said. “We didn’t find it as easy as you did. Best if we don’t mention it again.”
Altogether six boys from other groups failed the test and had to leave. They watched them go the next morning, dark huddled shapes in the mist, walking silently through the gate bearing their meagre possessions in the packs they had been allowed to keep. Sobbing could be heard echoing through the courtyard. It was impossible to tell which of the boys was crying, whether it was one or all. It seems to go on for a long time, even after they had faded from view.
“I wouldn’t be shedding any tears, that’s for sure,” Nortah said. They were on the wall, wrapped tightly in their cloaks, waiting for the sun to burn the mist away and breakfast to appear in the dining hall.
“Wonder where they’ll go,” Barkus said. “Wonder if they’ve got anywhere to go.”
“The Realm Guard,” Nortah replied. “It’s full of rejects from the Order. May be why they hate us so much.”
“Sod that,” Dentos grunted. “I know where I’d be headed. Straight for the docks. Get me a berth on one of them big trader ships that go west. Uncle Fantis went to the far west on a ship, came back rich as stink. Silks and medicines. The only rich man in our village's history. Didn’t do him any good, dropped dead a year after coming back, a black pox he picked up from some harbour doxy.”
“Life on a ship’s no life, what I hear,” Barkus said. “Bad food, floggings, work from morn to night. Like being in the Order I s’pose, except for the food. Reckon I’d take to the woods, make myself a famous outlaw. I’d have my own band of cut-throats, but we wouldn’t cut anyone’s throat. We’d just steal their gold and jewels, only rich folk though. Poor folk’ve got nothing worth stealing.”
“Clearly, you’ve put a lot of thought into it, brother,” Nortah commented dryly.
“Man needs a plan in this life. What about you? Where’d you go?”
Nortah turned back to the gate, still shrouded in the morning mist, his face drawn in a depth of longing Vaelin hadn’t seen before. “Home,” he said softly. “I’d just go home.”
Chapter 5
A week or so after the Test of Knowledge Master Sollis took them to a cavernous chamber off the courtyard, thick with heat and the stench of smoke and metal. Waiting inside was Master Jestin, the Order’s rarely seen principal blacksmith. He was a large man, emanating strength and confidence, brawny arms crossed in front of his chest, his hairy body marked with numerous pink scars where splashes of molten metal had escaped the forge. Struck by the evident power of the man Vaelin wondered if he had even felt it.
“Master Jestin will forge your swords,” Sollis informed them. “For the next two weeks you will work under his guidance and assist in the forging. By the time you leave the smithy you will each have a sword you will carry for the rest of your time in the Order. You should remember that Master Jestin does not share my generous and forgiving nature, mind him well.”
Alone with the blacksmith they stood in silence as he surveyed them, his bright blue eyes scanning each in turn.
“You,” he pointed a thick, blackened finger at Barkus who was looking at a stack of freshly made pole-axes. “You’ve been in a smithy before.”
Barkus hesitated. “My f-… I grew up near a smithy in Nilsael, master.”
Vaelin raised an eyebrow at Caenis. Given that Barkus adhered strictly to the rules and said little or nothing about his upbringing it was a surprise to find his father had been a craftsman. Boys with fathers in trade tended not to end up in the Order, a boy with a future had no need to seek a life elsewhere.
“Ever see a sword forged?” Master Jestin asked him.
“No, master. Knives, plough blades, many horseshoes, a weather vane or two.” He laughed a little. Master Jestin didn’t.
“Weather vane’s a difficult thing to forge,” he said. “Not all smiths can do it. Only master smiths are allowed to forge such a thing. It’s a rule of the Guild, shaping metal to read the song of the wind is a rare skill. Know that, did you?”
Barkus looked away and Vaelin realised he was chastened, shamed somehow. Something had passed between them, he knew, something the rest of them couldn’t understand. It had to do with this place and the art practised here, but he knew Barkus wouldn’t talk of it. In his own way he had as many secrets as the rest of them. “No, master,” was all he said.
“This place,” Master Jestin said, spreading his arms, encompassing the smithy. “This place is of the Order but it belongs to me. I am King, Aspect, Commander, Lord and Master of this place. This is not a place for games. It is not a place for japes. It is a place for work and learning. The Order requires that you know the art of working metal. To truly wield a weapon with skill it is necessary that you understand the nature of its fashioning, to be part of the craft that brought it into being. The swords you will make here will keep you alive and defend the Faith in the years to come. Work well and you will have a sword to rely on, a blade of strength with an edge keen enough to cut steel plate. Work poorly and your swords will break in your first battle and you will die.”
Once more he turned his gaze on Barkus, his cold stare seeming to contain a question. “The Faith is the source of all our strength, but our service to the Faith requires steel. Steel is the instrument by which we honour the Faith. Steel and blood is the whole of your future. Do you understand?”
They all murmured their agreement, but Vaelin knew Barkus was the only one to whom the question had been addressed.
The rest of the day was spent shovelling coke into the furnace and lifting stacks of iron rods into the smithy from a heavily laden cart in the courtyard. Master Jestin spent his time at the anvil, his hammer a c
onstant, singing rhythm of metal on metal, glancing up occasionally to issue instructions amidst a fountain of sparks. Vaelin found it grim, monotonous work, his throat raw with smoke and his ears dulled from the endless din of the hammer.
“I can see why you didn’t relish a life in the smithy, Barkus,” he commented as they trudged wearily back to their room at the end of the day.
“I’ll say,” Dentos agreed, massaging his aching arm. “Give me a day of bow practice anytime.”
Barkus said nothing, staying silent for the rest of the night amidst their tired grumbling. Vaelin knew he barely heard them, his mind was still fixed on Master Jestin’s questions, the one in his words and the one in his eyes.
The next day saw them back at the smithy, once more lifting and carrying, lugging sacks of coke into the large chamber that served as a fuel store. Master Jestin said little, concentrating on inspecting every one of the iron rods they had carried inside the day before, holding each one up to the light, running his fingers along them and either grunting in satisfaction and setting it back on the pile or tutting in annoyance and adding it to a small but growing stack of rejects.
“What’s he looking for?” Vaelin wondered, groaning with effort as he heaved another sack into the store room. “One piece of iron’s the same as another isn’t it?”
“Impurities,” Barkus answered, glancing over at Master Jestin. “The rods have been forged by another smith before they get here, most likely by less skilled hands that our Master. He’s checking to see if the smith who made them put too much poor iron in the mix.”
“How can he tell?”
“Touch mostly. The rods are made of many layers of iron hammered together then twisted and flattened. The forging leaves a pattern on the metal. A good smith can tell quality rods from bad by the pattern. I’ve heard tales of some that could even smell quality.”
“Could you do it? The touching thing I mean, not the smelling.”
Barkus laughed, Vaelin sensing a note of bitterness in the sound. “Not in a thousand years.”
At noon Master Sollis appeared and ordered them onto the practice field for sword work, saying they needed to keep their skills sharp. They were sluggish from the hard labour in the smithy and his cane fell more frequently than usual, although Vaelin found it didn’t sting as much as it once did. He wondered briefly if Master Sollis was lightening his blows and dismissed the idea immediately. Master Sollis wasn’t going soft, they were growing hard. He’s beaten us into shape, he realised. He’s our smith.
“It’s time to fire the forge,” Master Jestin told them when they returned to the smithy after a hastily consumed afternoon meal. “There is only one thing to remember about the forge.” He held his arms up displaying the numerous scars that marked the thickly muscled flesh. “It’s hot.”
He had them empty several sacks of coke into the brick circle that formed the forge then told Caenis to fire it, a task that involved crawling underneath and setting light to the oak wood tinder in the gap beneath. Vaelin would have balked at it but Caenis scrambled to it without any hesitation, flaming taper in hand. He emerged a few moments later, blackened but undamaged. “Seems well alight Master,” he reported.
Master Jestin ignored him and crouched down to inspect the growing blaze. “You,” he nodded at Vaelin, he never called them by name, seemingly recalling names was a pointless distraction. “On the bellows. You too,” he flicked a finger at Nortah. Barkus, Dentos and Caenis were told to stand and wait for instructions.
Hefting his heavy, blunt headed hammer Master Jestin lifted one of the iron rods from the stack next to the anvil. “A sword blade of the Asraelin pattern is fashioned from three rods,” he told them. “A thick central rod and two thinner rods for the edge. This,” he held up the rod in his hand, “is one of the edge rods. It must be shaped before it is melded with the others. The edge is the hardest part of the sword to forge, it must be fine but strong, it must cut but also withstand a blow from another blade. Look at the metal, look closely.” He held the rod out to each of them in turn, his rough, uneven voice oddly hypnotic. “See the flecks of black there?”
Vaelin peered at the rod, picking out the small black fragments amidst the dark grey of the iron.
“It’s called star silver because it glows brighter than the heavens when it’s put to the flame,” Jestin went on. “But it’s not silver, it’s a form of iron, rare iron that comes from the earth like all metals, there’s nothing Dark about it. But it’s this that makes swords of the Order stronger than others. With this your blades will withstand blows that would shatter others and, if wielded with skill, will cut through mail and armour. This is our secret. Guard it well.”
He motioned for Vaelin and Nortah to begin pumping the bellows and watched as their efforts were rewarded by the gradual appearance of a deep red-orange glow in the mass of coke. “Now,” he said, hefting his hammer. “Watch closely, try and learn.”
Vaelin and Nortah started to sweat profusely as they heaved at the heavy wooden handle of the bellows, the heat in the smithy rising with every flush of air they forced into the forge. The atmosphere seemed to thicken with it, drawing a breath becoming an effort in itself.
Get on with it for Faith’s sake, Vaelin groaned inwardly, his sweat slicked arms aching, as Master Jestin waited… and waited.
Finally satisfied the smith took hold of the rod with a pair of iron tongs and plunged it into the forge, waiting until the red-orange glow flowed into the metal and along its length before taking it out and placing it on the anvil. The first blow was light, little more than a tap, scattering a small cloud of sparks. Then he began to work in earnest, the hammer rising and falling with drumbeat precision, sparks fountaining around him, the hammer sometimes blurring with the speed of his swing. Oddly there seemed to be scant change in the glowing rod at first, although it may have got a little longer by the time Master Jestin plunged it into the forge again, gesturing irritably for Vaelin and Nortah to pump harder.
It wore on for what seemed like an hour but could only have been about ten minutes, Master Jestin hammering at the rod, returning it to the forge, hammering again. Vaelin found himself longing for the bruising comforts of the practice field, hand to hand combat on icy ground was better than this. When Master Jestin signalled them to stop they both staggered away from the bellows and leaned their heads out of the door, heaving great gulps of sweet tasting air into their lungs.
“The bastard’s trying to kill us,” Nortah gasped.
“Get back here,” Master Jestin growled and they hurried inside. “You need to get used to real work. Look here.” He held up the rod, its original rounded shape had changed to a three sided strip of metal about a yard long. “This is an edge. It seems rough now, but melded with it’s brothers it will be keen and bright with purpose.”
Dentos and Caenis were told to take over the bellows and Master Jestin started on the other edge, the toll of the hammer a ringing counterpoint to the rasp of their breath as they worked. When the second edge was complete he began on the thick central rod, his blows becoming harder and more rapid, extending the rod’s length to match the edges then tempering the blade to form a raised spine along the middle. By the time he was finished Caenis and Dentos were ready to drop and Barkus partnered Vaelin at the bellows. The smith took a bracket to bind the three rods together at the base and made ready to meld them.
“The melding is the test of a sword smith,” he informed them. “It is the hardest skill to learn. Too hard a blow will spoil the blade, too light and the rods won’t meld.” He glanced over at Vaelin and Barkus. “Heave hard, keep the fire hot. No slacking.”
As they worked, Vaelin praying for an end, he noticed Barkus’s gaze was fixed on Master Jestin, his arms rising and falling without pause, seeming oblivious to the pain, his whole attention riveted on the process unfolding on the anvil. At first Vaelin wondered what was so interesting, it was a man hitting a piece of metal with a hammer. He saw no spectacle in it, no mystery. But a
s he followed Barkus's gaze he found himself increasingly absorbed by the sight of the blade taking shape, the three rods fusing together under the force of the hammer. Occasionally the flecks of star silver in the edge rods would flare as Master Jestin took the blade from the forge, glowing so brightly he had to look away. He believed what the smith had said about the star silver being just another metal but still it was unnerving.
“You,” Master Jestin nodded at Nortah as he finished shaping the point. “Fetch the bucket closer.”
Nortah obediently dragged the heavy wooden bucket closer to the anvil, it was nearly full to the brim and water sloshed over his feet as he heaved it into place. “This is salt water,” Jestin told them. “A blade quenched in brine will always be stronger than one quenched in fresh water. Stand back, it’ll boil.”
He took a firm grip on the tang at the base of the blade and plunged it into the bucket, making it steam and roil as the heat seeped into the water. He held it there until the boil subsided then withdrew the steaming blade, holding it up for inspection. It was black, the metal stained with soot, but Master Jestin seemed content with it. The edges were straight and the point perfectly symmetrical.
“Now,” he said. “The real work begins. You,” he turned to Caenis. “Since you lit the forge you can have this one.”
“Um,” Caenis said, clearly wondering if this was an honour or a curse. “Thank you master.”
Jestin carried the blade to the far end of the smithy, laying it on a bench next to a large pedal-driven grindstone. “A new forged blade is only half born,” he informed them. “It must be sharpened, polished, honed.” He had Caenis stand at the grindstone and set it turning with the pedal, demonstrating how to get a good rhythm going by counting “one two, one two” before telling him to increase the speed and hold the blade to the stone. The instant fountain of sparks made Caenis step back in alarm but Jestin ordered him to keep at it, guiding his hands to get the correct angle then showing him how to move the blade across the stone so that its whole length was honed. “That’s it,” he grunted after a while when Caenis grew confident enough to move the blade on his own. “Ten minutes for each edge then show me what you’ve done. The rest of you back to the forge. You and you on the bellows…”