Tempered Steel

by Paul J Bennett

  “Tell me,” said the prior, “is Ludwig betrothed? I understand it’s quite common these days to arrange such things early in life.”

  “It is, normally, but my son has shown little appetite for any lasting relationships.”

  “He’s certainly bedded his fair share of wenches,” offered Berthold.

  Prior Yannick turned crimson.

  “I’ll admit,” said the baron, casting his stepson a disapproving look, “that Ludwig does show a keen interest in the opposite sex, but nothing of a lasting manner.”

  “Perhaps he just hasn’t met the right lady?” suggested the prior.

  “Well,” offered Berthold, “he’s certainly not going to meet anyone around here that would be worthy. The only women in Malburg are whores and old maids.”

  “That’s enough out of you!” snapped Frederick. “I think you’ve had quite enough of that wine, Berthold. Perhaps it’s best if you retire for the evening.”

  Berthold stood, swaying slightly. “My apologies, Stepfather.” He turned to the prior. “I shall bid you a good evening, Your Grace.”

  The prior nodded at him. “Good evening, Berthold. Sleep well, and may the Saints guide you.”

  The young man made his way from the room, walking slowly while using the back of the chairs to steady himself as he went.

  “You must excuse my stepson,” said the baron. “He's not used to the strong wine of Hadenfeld.”

  “Might I ask how long ago he came here?” asked the prior.

  “Only a year and a half ago,” replied the baron. “I met his mother when I visited the Duchy of Reinwick some two years past.”

  “That’s a long way to travel. Might I enquire as to the nature of the visit?”

  “The king sent me on a diplomatic mission. Duke Wilfhelm is a distant cousin of our king, you see. I represented King Otto at the duke's instalment.”

  “Yes,” agreed Lady Astrid, “and I was at the duke’s court, that’s how we met.”

  “I understand you were previously widowed,” noted the prior.

  “I was,” she said. “My first husband was lost at sea, fighting the Kingdom of Eidolon.”

  “My condolences, madame.”

  “Thank you, but it was some time ago. I was lucky to have been visiting at court, or I would never have met Lord Frederick.”

  “Too bad,” muttered Ludwig.

  “Ludwig,” said the baron. “Do I need to ask you to leave as well?”

  “You may if you wish,” said Ludwig, “but I must say I’m getting a little old for that type of treatment.”

  “Then act your age,” warned the baron.

  Ludwig bowed his head. “My apologies, Father. I promise to be more polite in future.”

  “I’m afraid my son can be a little headstrong,” said Lord Frederick.

  “No apologies are needed,” said the prior. “I was once a young man myself. I understand completely.”

  “Where were you born, Your Grace?” asked Ludwig.

  “In the Duchy of Krieghoff."

  “I must confess I’m not familiar with it,” said Ludwig.

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” said the prior, “for it lies at the far-eastern extents of the Petty Kingdoms.”

  Ludwig’s interest suddenly peaked. “That’s near the Crusades, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose you might say so, but the Holy War is waged north of the Grey Spire Mountains, while Krieghoff lies to the south.”

  “I would love to fight in the Crusades,” said Ludwig, then looked at his father with a guilt-ridden face. “Though, of course, I know I am needed here.”

  Prior Yannick cast a knowing look at the baron. “It appears your son has learned some of that diplomacy that was mentioned earlier.”

  “Tell me, Your Grace,” pressed Ludwig, “have you any news from the Crusade?”

  “They are, I believe, referred to as ‘The Crusades’ since they flare up every few years, and as to news, I’m afraid there’s little more I can tell you. Are you familiar with the situation there?”

  “Not particularly, for they are a long way from here, and word is scarce. Is it true that the Church is fighting death worshippers?”

  “That's what I've heard,” replied the prior, "though I cannot, of course, talk with first-hand knowledge of such things. Perhaps I shall one day make the trip myself.”

  “Perhaps I’ll see you there,” offered Ludwig, “and together, we can bring glory to the Church of the Saints.”

  “I look forward to it. In the meantime, let us partake of some more of this glorious wine!”

  4

  The Delivery

  Summer 1094 SR

  * * *

  Charlaine splashed through the stream, guiding her horse up the far bank, past two elm trees. Ahead was the village of Verfeld, after which the barony was named. Beyond its modest huts stood the towering keep that Lord Frederick called home. It was square in shape, but two of the corners, opposite from each other, jutted up higher than the rest, giving an impressive view of the surrounding countryside.

  She halted briefly, taking it all in, imagining soldiers trying to storm the place. It would be tricky, she thought, for the entrance was raised up from the ground, only accessible by stairs where one warrior could hold back many.

  She shook her head, wondering at the mind of whoever had dreamed up such a defence. Urging her mount forward, she made her way through the village. Verfeld was small by most standards, boasting only about a dozen buildings. The villagers stared at her as she passed, no doubt thinking she was someone important, and why wouldn’t they? In these parts, only the wealthy could afford horses.

  The keep loomed overhead, and then she was at its base, dismounting. An alert servant, having seen her approach, bounded down the steps, taking the reins of her horse.

  Charlaine made her way up to the keep. Here, up close, she could see damage to the brickwork, likely from years of weathering, and she wondered if the deterioration might weaken the structure. Her thoughts were interrupted by another man, this one dressed in the finery of someone important.

  “I take it you’re from Malburg?” he said.

  “I am,” she replied. “From the smith, Tomas deShandria, to be exact.”

  “Excellent,” the man said. “My name is Kasper Piltz. I’ll show you to his lordship’s study, while your horse is looked after. Follow me.”

  He turned abruptly, not waiting for a reply. Caught by surprise, she was hard-pressed to catch up to him as he entered.

  “Is this the great hall?” she asked.

  “This?” said Piltz. “Saints, no, this is only the entrance. The great hall lies straight ahead, but we’ll be going upstairs.”

  He turned left, leading her through a door into a small, bare room, then into another, this one equipped with some tables and chairs. Three soldiers sat eating from bowls, their conversation dying as she made her entrance.

  “This is the guard room,” he explained, “but we're just passing through to the tower stairs.” He led her over to a small door, heavily reinforced with metal, though it was not locked. It opened into the base of the northwest tower, where the cramped space held only a narrow set of circular stairs that led upward to the right. Anyone attacking would have their shields against the outside wall, making them all but useless.

  The stairs continued on, but Kasper Piltz stopped on the second floor and ushered her through yet another door, into a room that boasted a table set up as a desk. Upon its surface were several pots of ink with some quills and parchment, while behind it sat a large, impressive-looking chair.

  “Wait here,” the man said, “and I shall inform his lordship of your arrival." He disappeared through a second door, leaving Charlaine alone in the room.

  She looked at the desk and was suddenly struck by the thought that it wouldn’t fit through the door, let alone down the staircase. How in the Saint's name had they managed to get it in here, she wondered?

  Light streamed in through an openin
g on the far side of the room, and she moved closer to take a look. It was small, really nothing more than an arrow slit, and yet it was enough to let through a gentle breeze. The wind was blowing in from the north today, and she gazed out to see the distant hills.

  When the door opened behind her, she turned to see a well-dressed man entering. There could be no doubt that this was the baron, for though Charlaine had never met the man, his clothing spoke of his station: the tunic, richly embroidered with gold thread, his beard and mustache immaculately groomed.

  “My lord,” she said, bowing slightly.

  “You have come from Master Tomas?” he asked.

  “I have. I am his daughter, Charlaine.” She held out the scabbarded weapon. “This is the sword you ordered, my lord.”

  Lord Frederick took it, pulling the blade free of its sheath as he moved closer to the window, the better to examine its quality. Charlaine backed up, giving him space.

  “A fine blade,” the lord said. “Your father has done himself proud this day.”

  She wanted to tell him that she had done the bulk of the work but decided against it. “Thank you, my lord,” she replied instead.

  “I had this sword commissioned for my son,” continued the baron. “Have you met him?”

  “No, my lord."

  “He’s quite a proficient swordsman, and I wanted to give him something suitable for his skills.”

  She watched him, unsure of how to respond, but the man’s attention was fixed firmly on the sword.

  “Kasper?” he called out.

  Moments later, the door opened, revealing his aide.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Where is my son?”

  “Ludwig?” said Kasper.

  “Of course, Ludwig, who else would I be referring to?”

  “You do have another son, now, my lord.”

  “Stepson, you mean,” said Lord Frederick. “And if I’d wanted HIM, I would have said so. Now answer my question, where is Ludwig?”

  “At sword practice, I should think. Shall I fetch him?”

  “Yes,” said the baron, “and bring him here. I have a little surprise for him.”

  Kasper grinned. “Aye, my lord.” He left the room, leaving Charlaine alone with the baron once more. The great man scabbarded the blade, handing it back to her.

  “You’d best hang on to this,” he said.

  She waited as the baron sat behind the desk. He picked out a quill, scratching it on the table to check its quality before dipping it in ink. Charlaine watched as he began writing, his steady hand penning an unusually ornate script.

  The only sound in the room was that of quill against parchment, and the occasional dipping of the quill as he required more ink. The baron, obviously finished, put down the quill and lifted his note to see it more clearly.

  Charlaine, unsure of what to do, simply stood there, continuing to watch him at his task. The noble looked to be smiling at his own words, then he set the paper back down. Taking up the quill once more, he dipped it in ink, then signed his name. Once complete, he looked around the room as if searching for something.

  “For Saint's sake,” he swore.

  “My lord?” she said.

  “What?” said the baron, looking up to see her still waiting. “Oh, not you. I appear to have misplaced my sealing wax. I don’t suppose you have a candle on you, perchance?”

  She looked at him in surprise. Did the man honestly think that she travelled around with candles? “I’m afraid not,” she managed to squeak out.

  Distant footsteps echoed from the stairwell, interrupting their odd exchange.

  “Ah,” said the baron. “That must be Kasper returning with my son.”

  The footsteps drew closer, and then the door groaned as it opened to reveal a young man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a fine linen shirt, though it was stained with sweat.

  “You wanted to see me, Father?”

  “Yes,” said the baron. “I have a present for you.” He pointed to Charlaine.

  Ludwig looked at her in surprise. She watched as his eyes slowly roamed over her body, and she felt immensely uncomfortable.

  “For Saint's sake, son,” said the baron. “The sword, man, not the girl.”

  Ludwig's eyes dropped to the weapon held in Charlaine's hands. When she presented it to him, he took it by the hilt, holding the scabbard in his left hand and withdrawing the blade.

  “Is this the sword you told me about?” Ludwig asked. “It’s quite light.”

  “Nothing but the best for my son,” preened the baron.

  “Did you make this?” asked Ludwig, his eyes looking at her with humour.

  “I helped forge the blade,” Charlaine replied, “but the finishing touches were all my father's.”

  “I find that hard to believe. You don’t look like a smith.”

  “What's a smith supposed to look like?” she asked, her face turning red with anger. She realized she must force her temper down. This was not the place to take offense.

  “I thought all smiths were men. I’ve never heard of a woman smith before.”

  “Then you should learn more about history,” Charlaine suggested.

  “This,” said the baron, “is the daughter of Tomas deShandria, the master swordsmith I was telling you about.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Ludwig. “You mentioned him earlier this week. Tell me, Miss deShandria, does your father not have a son to continue his work?”

  “I am a Calabrian,” she retorted. “Where my people come from, there are many female smiths. They serve in the army there as well, or at least did.”

  “Everyone knows that story,” said Ludwig. “They were conquered by Halvaria.”

  “Yes, they were,” agreed the baron. “Which only goes to prove that women don’t belong in the army.”

  “The Calabrian Light Horse were said to have been unrivalled, my lord,” offered Kasper Piltz.

  “They say the same thing about the Kurathians,” noted the baron, "but they are seldom seen in these parts.”

  Ludwig looked at Charlaine, noting the flush of her cheeks. “Come now,” he said. “I meant no offense.” He tossed the scabbard onto the table and held the blade in both hands, bringing it close to eye level to feel the weight of it. “It’s particularly well-balanced.”

  “As it should be,” said the baron. “I told you, Tomas is one of the finest sword makers in these parts.”

  “Remarkable,” said Ludwig. “How did he get it so light?”

  “The secret is in the forging,” said Charlaine.

  “Never mind the forging,” said the baron. “The real question is whether or not you like it?”

  Ludwig stepped back, swinging the sword experimentally.

  “It has a nice feeling to it,” he noted, “and the grip is easy on the hands. This is an exceptional weapon.”

  “It should be,” said Lord Frederick. “It cost enough.”

  “I trust your lordship is pleased?” said Charlaine.

  “Yes,” said Ludwig, “very much so.” He turned to the baron. “Thank you for this fine present, Father. I shall treasure it forever.”

  “It's not just a decoration, it's a warrior's weapon. See that you do it justice.”

  “I shall, Father, I promise.” Ludwig turned to look at Charlaine once more. “Have you more weapons like this at your foundry?”

  “It’s a smithy, not a foundry,” she corrected.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A foundry is where they cast metal."

  “Don’t you do that to make a sword?” he asked.

  “No, we use metals that have already been cast, then work it into a usable state.”

  “That sounds quite complicated,” said Ludwig.

  “It can be, but it’s largely dependent on the quality of the iron. My father tells me that back in Calabria, he would often work with his own bloom.”

  “Now you’re simply teasing me. I wasn’t talking about flowers.”


  “Neither was I. A bloom is a mass of iron and slag that’s produced in a type of primitive smelter.”

  “That sounds like a lot of work.”

  “It is,” Charlaine said.

  “What about you? Have you ever worked under such primitive conditions?”

  “I have,” she admitted. “It was part of my training.”

  “You must tell me more,” insisted Ludwig. “I find the entire topic quite interesting.”

  “I’m afraid that would take far more time than I have. It took me years to learn my trade.”

  “Still, I would very much like to see this metalworking you speak of.”

  “Smithing,” Charlaine said, “not metalworking. You make me sound like a worker of tin.”

  “I stand corrected,” said Ludwig. “I assume your workshop is in Malburg?”

  “Yes, just off of the main thoroughfare, on a little side street in the Artisans' Quarter.”

  “Ah, yes, I know of it,” said Ludwig. “I shall have to drop by and visit this smithy of yours sometime.”

  “It belongs to my father, not me.”

  “Still, it's the place where you work, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” she said.

  “Well then, it’s settled. Next time I’m in town, I’ll stop by to observe you at work.”

  “That’s not really necessary, my lord,” Charlaine said. “Smithing is a monotonous job with nothing much to occupy the mind of an observer.”

  “Nonsense. I look forward to it.”

  “Very well,” said the baron. “It seems we have completed our business here this day. Ludwig, you can return to your practice while Tomas’ daughter returns to Malburg.”

  “My lord?” she said.

  “Yes?” Lord Frederick replied.

  “My father told me to expect payment?”

  “I shall have the coins delivered on the morrow. Will that suffice?”

  Charlaine wanted to argue the point, but to speak out against the baron felt like an unwise decision. “Very well, my lord.”

  “I’ll deliver it, Father,” offered Ludwig. “I wanted to go into town anyway.”

  “Then it’s settled,” said the baron. “Now, can you show the young woman out, please, Kasper?”