Randall’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”
The smith gestured toward the blade, “Star metal’s poison for a human. Carrying it for a short while would bring me no harm, but the vapors given off by working it would cost me months—if not years—off my life. I’m sorry; I can’t do it.”
It is true, Dan’Moread said after a moment of shocked silence. Perhaps we should go, Randall. We will find no help here.
“No,” Randall blurted in outrage, “hang on a minute. Maybe I should speak to your master?”
“I am the bloody master,” the man spat, “and I’ll not share my forge with that blade. I’ve children to feed, as do the other licensed smiths of this house.” The smith turned abruptly and after replacing the cloth around his nose and mouth, returned to working on the piece of armor he had been shaping.
Feeling himself go red with anger, Randall decided to head outside. “There’s bound to be another forge in this city that can do the job,” he grated as he stomped out into the street. He was just about to sheath Dan’Moread when he heard a whistle from behind him.
He turned as one of the soot-covered smiths approached—this one smaller than the rest—having followed him out onto the street. “You’ll not find another house what can heat the forge enough to work star metal, my lord,” said the man as he removed the cloth around his nose and mouth, revealing pale skin below the soot-covered upper half of his face.
“You’re a half-elf?” Randall said warily.
The smith’s look turned hard and Randall realized his error too late. “Perhaps you’ve no wish to see the job done after all,” he snapped before turning on his heel and heading back toward the Dragon’s Tooth. “Good day, milord.”
“Wait, wait,” Randall pleaded as he pursued the man. The smith stopped and turned slowly, regarding him with narrowed eyes as he did so. “I’m sorry; I’m not from here—“
“Clearly,” the smith spat before his features relaxed fractionally, and Randall decided to try again.
“Where I come from, our kind,” he gestured back and forth between them, “aren’t granted licenses to be smiths. We’re more or less second class ‘citizens,’ you might say.”
The smith considered Randall’s apology for a moment before wiping his hands on his apron and thrusting one out between them. “The name’s Yorys, and I’m not licensed, milord.”
Randall sighed and a look of resignation came across his face. Is it really any different here? he wondered silently. “I’m not your ‘lord’,” Randall muttered, “I’m just a man, same as you. I’d thought our kind was treated as equals here, but I should have known better.”
Yorys gave him a puzzled look and laughed shortly. “No, you misunderstand me,” he said with a lopsided grin, “I’m in my final period of apprenticeship to the Tooth.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the imposing portal to the forge. “Master Hostettler’s been training me these past six years, and I’ve not yet earned forge rights of my own,” he said with a pointed look, “unless it’s so I can fashion my first work, to present to Greystone’s Armorer’s Guild as my signature piece.”
Randall had known plenty of tradesmen during his time in Three Rivers, and what Yorys was describing was a part of completing his apprenticeship and becoming an independent smith in his own right. “Of course,” Randall nodded slowly before gesturing at the sword’s poorly-wrapped tang, “but all I’m looking for is some repair work.”
Yorys cocked his head and gave Randall a searching look. “On the contrary,” he said guardedly, “what you require is a pommel, a crosspiece, and some not insignificant work to the tang so it can properly fit your hand—which is to say nothing of a grip.”
“Fit my hand,” Randall repeated, looking down at Dan’Moread’s hilt, “what do you mean? It’s fine the way it is,” he protested before catching the other man’s eye, “…isn’t it?”
Yorys shook his head and held his hand out expectantly. “If I may?” he prompted.
“Is it alright?” Randall muttered under his breath.
Of course, Dan’Moread replied promptly, the sooner this business is concluded, the better.
“Hostettler is a touch dramatic,” Yorys assured him, clearly believing he had been the target of Randall’s query, “I assure you the blade is harmless in its current state—as blades go, of course.”
“Ok,” Randall allowed, giving the sword to the other man, who wrapped his fingers around its loosely-wrapped tang.
“You see?” the smith said, gesturing to his knuckles. At first, Randall did not understand, but then Yorys flexed his fingers demonstrably and he believed he did see. “My hands are a touch bigger than yours, and even they don’t curl ‘round the hilt as they should. Removing the leather and replacing it with something less bulky will help, but even then we’ve still got to shave nearly a quarter of this metal down.”
“A quarter?” Randall blurted. “That seems…extreme.”
The smith shook his head reassuringly. “It will not compromise the weapon’s strength, I guarantee that,” he said confidently. “In fact…” he looked at the broken end of the sword’s tang critically, “interesting…”
“What is it?” Randall asked, looking down at the area the man was inspecting. “Is something wrong?”
Yorys shook his head. “No, nothing is wrong,” the smith assured him, “but I’ve only ever seen old sketches of weapons like this. It will make pinning the grip more difficult, and I’ll have to design the pommel entirely from scratch,” he mused as his eyes veritably lit up with excitement.
“What are you talking about?” Randall asked warily.
He means my internal Titansand ballast, the sword interjected quickly. I am both surprised and relieved that he recognized the presence of the sand veins beneath the damage. He is indeed skilled at his craft.
“Titansand?” Randall repeated, completely confused.
“Of course,” Yorys replied, tearing his eyes away from the sword long enough to nod agreeably. “We have a modest supply on hand, but judging by the weight of this weapon most of it is still inside. I’ll have to take some careful measurements but if my calculations are correct, I should be able to add a few grains and even out this terrible balance.”
He gave the sword a few practice chops to demonstrate, and immediately Yorys’ arm spasmed and he nearly dropped Dan’Moread to the ground as he yelped in surprise.
Trying to keep from snickering, Randall did his best to keep his features even. “When can you begin?” he asked as the smith eyed the sword warily.
Yorys offered Dan’Moread, hilt-first, to Randall and after he had relinquished the weapon looked inside the forge thoughtfully. “I’d say we can get started next week, which should give you enough time to come up with a general idea of what you want for the crosspiece and grip—assuming you’ve got the star metal,” he added, visibly catching himself for overlooking such an important detail. “You do have the star metal, yes?”
Randall nodded and produced the pouch. “I do; but the Ghaevlian Ambassador said the work must be done before tomorrow’s nightfall.”
The smith weighed the pouch in his hands and nodded. “It should be ample,” he agreed absently, “but I’ll have to grease a few palms to secure the forge for the night; Kahl has a commission he’s nearly finished and is anxious to make delivery.”
“The Ambassador said she would stand for double whatever the costs were if you can expedite the job,” Randall said, more than a little grateful to Phinjo for her apparent generosity.
“That’ll make it easier, for sure,” Yorys agreed, “but I’ll still need something tangible to persuade Kahl; he’s got his son’s twelfth birthday coming up and wants to finish the commission so he can find a short sword for his boy’s first weapon. Kahl’s great fashioning armor, but shit with anything what needs to hold an edge—unless it’s the carving knife for one of his wife’s cakes,” he confided with a snort.
Randall thought about the dil
emma and remembered the dirk taken from the Fleshmongers. “What if I told you I had a dirk,” he said with a slow grin, “that’s finer than anything a bona fide knight would take into battle?”
“Then I’d say you let me show it to Kahl, and we’ll probably have the forge to ourselves for the next day,” Yorys said with an approving nod. “The boys have been itching to get me out of there for some time; I doubt they’ll need much convincing to take tomorrow off if it speeds my departure.”
Randall sheathed Dan’Moread and reached into his bundle—which contents were significantly diminished since leaving Three Rivers—to withdraw the dirk. It felt hot to his hand for some reason, and though he tried to give it to the smith quickly, it burned his fingers and he dropped it to the stones where it landed with a clatter.
“Careful,” Randall warned as he nursed his fingers.
But Yorys had already picked the weapon up and turned it over in his hands. “A little scuff to the scabbard, but the fall doesn’t seem to have hurt the hilt,” he mused. “A fine weapon; I’ve no doubt Kahl will accept.”
More than a little confused, Randall looked to the hilt of the weapon and then to his reddened fingers. “Well…good,” he managed to offer. “So, when do we begin?”
Yorys tucked the dirk into his belt and folded his arms. “We’ll need a choice of material, as well as a design, for your grip,” he explained after a moment’s thought, “and we’ll need a design for the crosspiece as well. I think I’ve seen a weapon like this one in an old book; if you like, I can show you what I had in mind at dusk?”
“Dusk it is, then,” Randall agreed as he looked up at the sun, which was in its last quarter of the day. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Nodding wordlessly, Yorys headed back inside the forge. Randall chuckled for a moment before muttering under his breath, “Did you really need to shock him like that?”
There was a brief pause before the sword replied, Did he really need to insult me in that fashion? I wonder how good his balance would be if he lost a foot?
Unable to contain himself, Randall gave a hearty laugh as he turned down the street as he went for a long walk through Greystone.
Chapter XXXVII: …Deserves Another
Late Afternoon 17-0-6-659
A few hours later, after a surprisingly pleasant stroll through the streets of Greystone, Randall made his way inside the forge and found Yorys waiting expectantly by a small pile of books and papers.
“Good,” the smith said, “we should begin. Take a look at these and see if anything suits you.”
Randall drew Dan’Moread and went to the table to look at what Yorys had laid out. There was a large book with a weapon that was strikingly similar to Dan’Moread—at least, in dimensions. It was clearly made of a more mundane material, and had no Godstone gems set in the blade, but aside from a slightly longer handle—which to Randall looked absolutely absurd on a sword of this length—it was quite similar.
“I knew I had seen this type of weapon before,” Yorys began, pointing at the diagram triumphantly. “It’s either Ghaevlian or Yirvukanian; these records don’t make the distinction between one kind of ‘elven’ weapon and another,” he said bitterly. “But that’s your sword…except for the tang,” he said in disappointment as he looked at Dan’Moread’s damaged handle. “Oh well; this is the closest thing I can find. The pommel design will work with the Titansand, and I think I’ve got the calculations right to ideal balance.”
Randall looked at the diagram and muttered under his breath, “What do you think?”
It appears to be a reasonable facsimile, Dan’Moread replied, although I wonder about the lack of a crosspiece.
“What’s your plan for the crosspiece?” Randall asked almost reflexively.
Yarys nodded as he brought a small stack of diagrams to the table, which appeared to have been penned by hand. “I could not find a match in the records, but I took the liberty of sketching some personal ideas,” he said, gesturing to a trio of pictures.
Randall looked at the three, wondering how to weigh the pros and cons of the very different pieces. The first was little more than a disk which looked to be an inch thick and three inches across, which sat at the joint between the blade and the grip. The second was a more traditional, broad crosspiece that spanned eight inches from tip to tip, curling gently forward on one side and backward on the other. It seemed the most attractive of the three, at least to Randall’s eye.
That one, he heard Dan’Moread urge, and he felt his right hand move toward the third diagram. The sight of this one had Randall’s eyebrows climbing for the ceiling.
It was unlike anything he had ever seen on a weapon of any kind. It was a quartet of blades which were each nearly four inches long and sharpened to deadly points on both the front and back. Each radiated outward from the top of the hilt on its own arm, each of which was fused into a ring at the base of the blade.
Randall gulped as he saw that not only were the tips sharp, but it seemed that every single edge was intended to be as well. He shuddered at the thought of losing his grip during battle, and quietly urged, “The second one looks pretty good too, though.”
I am a weapon, Dan’Moread retorted in its atonal voice, not a piece of art to be hung on a wall. The sight of me should evoke fear; I should not express vanity.
“Yes,” Yorys said, taking on a somewhat crestfallen look, “that is the traditional cross-guard of the kingdoms across the sea. A fine design, to be sure.”
A fine waste of material, Dan’Moread interjected before Randall could agree with the smith. This one, Randall felt his hand move back toward the third diagram, will make our enemies think twice before engaging us. The other will have them wondering if I am even a real weapon, or just some wall-hanging chunk pig iron finished with a fancy coat of polish—
“Ok, ok,” Randall sighed, “let’s talk about the third one.”
Yorys’ eyes lit up and he nodded rapidly. “I could not find a proper diagram,” he explained, sweeping the other two diagrams far to the side and Randall gave a final, wistful look at the elegant crosspiece before turning his attention back to the smith’s gesticulations, “but upon reading some very old texts belonging to the Nation, I believe this closely resembles the proper cross-piece of this particular style of weapon.”
“Well, that makes sense,” Randall muttered, and he felt his hand begin to tingle. “But it just looks so…I don’t know…dangerous.”
A finer compliment could never be had, Dan’Moread said promptly.
Taking a deep breath and casting a baleful look at the sword, Randall gestured with his free, left hand toward the backward-facing tips of the guard. “I mean, these are more likely to cause me harm than my enemies, right?”
Yorys’ brow furrowed in confusion as he cast a look down at the diagram before a sheepish grin spread across his face. “Well…I suppose I might have gotten a bit carried away,” he admitted. “But we could remove those and still have the most of this design’s value intact.”
Why not blunt my tip as well, the sword interjected. I thought this was for me; do I get any say in the matter of my form—let alone function?
“Of course,” Randall said hastily, “it’s just…I mean, don’t get me wrong; I think it’s a totally dangerous—even terrifying—look. But if I’m going to wield a weapon, the point is to be dangerous to my enemies, not myself, right? What happens if we lose the use of my hand?” he argued, catching himself at the smith’s look of confusion.
There was a long silence, during which Randall pretended to consider the deadly-looking crosspiece. Very well, Dan’Moread said, we can remove the hilt-ward tips.
“And the…hilt-ward,” he said somewhat awkwardly, “edges.”
Randall—the sword began, but Randall interrupted.
“What possible purpose does a hilt-ward blade—even a small one—set in the crosspiece even serve?!” he nearly shouted. “It’s more likely to touch me than the enemy; and in case you haven’
t noticed, I’m not made of metal!”
“I already admitted to it being an oversight,” the smith said irritably, gathering up the diagram in his hand and scrawling out some adjustments. “We can blunt the edge, flatten the tips…” he trailed off, and just a few seconds later he placed it on the table and gestured, “Is this more to your liking?”
Randall looked over it and felt a wave of relief, but dared not speak as he stood in silence, waiting for Dan’Moread’s approval. When no such approval came, he looked at the sword and asked, “I don’t know…is it?”
A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, Dan’Moread eventually replied. Very well; these modifications are acceptable.
Breathing a pent-up sigh of relief, Randall nodded rapidly as he ignored what he suspected was a jab at his fighting ability. “Yes, this will do quite nicely,” he agreed, grateful to have that particular part of the process completed.
“Excellent,” Yorys said, sweeping up the parchment and going to a nearby bench, on which were arrayed all manner of metalworking devices.
“How long will this take?” Randall asked as the smith arranged his implements. “And what can I do to help?”
Yorys looked up from his task with a puzzled expression. “You’ve experience in a forge?”
Randall shook his head in negation. “No, but I’d like to help out if I can.”
“Probably best if you just let me do the hammering,” Yorys said, “but with star metal, that part doesn’t take long. It doesn’t need to be folded or tempered before it’s molded into its final shape, you see.”
Randall knew he very much did not see, but decided not to relay that fact. “And after the metal’s molded…what comes next?”
“Well,” Yorys said, having completed his task of arranging his materials, “I’ll need to open that ragged weld on the butt of the tang and drain out the Titansand—to make sure we have the proper amount inside before we close up the veins, of course.”
“Does that sound right?” Randall asked warily.
It does, the sword replied promptly, although I admit I do not look forward to the experience.
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 40