There were a few new faces now, the call for the Gathering had gone out and some had responded. He heard their whispers. A Closing was a rare ceremony. He could see the worried looks on their brows, the nervousness of their movements.
Not a single smile was made in his direction. They sat, faces down, refusing to acknowledge him. It was as if they hated him. He choked back a tear, not understanding how they could be so cruel. He hadn’t done anything to any of them. He remembered his mother’s words that the wizards of the Keep would not easily be won over, because she had broken one of their rules. Fine, then be mad at her, but don’t punish him for something his mother did! That was just wrong.
He wove his way between the aisles of benches and eventually reached the arch to the kitchen.
Gretta stood behind the food-laden table and greeted him with a big smile.
“Hello Gretta,” he said stoically, grabbing a clean pewter plate from the long wooden table at the edge of the kitchen.
Gretta looked him up and down. “What’s wrong with you today, lad?”
Bal’kor stared at the floor. “N-nothing.”
“Nothing?” Gretta put her hands on her hips and bent at the waist meeting him eye to eye. “Don’t look like nothin’ to me!”
“They treat me like I’m the enemy.”
“Them wizards? Bah! Don’t ye be paying them no never mind. Them scruffy, wool-headed wizards is set in their ways, they is. Stupid sometimes. Can’t see their own noses or get outta their own ways.”
Bal’kor snorted.
Gretta saw him crack a smile.
“Ye see, ye knows the truth of the matter,” she said, putting a big pile of hot sausages on his plate.
She grabbed an oversized wedge of cheese and a loaf of braided bread and placed them on top of the sausages. She spotted a plate of honey cakes off to the side, rushed over, and grabbed three of the largest cakes Bal’kor had ever seen. She held them in crooked fingers and carefully balanced them on the top of his already unstable, overfilled plate.
“I-I-can’t eat that much,” he grinned.
“Pfft! Yer a growing boy. You’ll eat it all and probably come back for more,” she replied, waving a hand at him, shooing him back to the dining room.
“Remember what I said,” she yelled after him. “Don’t pay them no never mind.”
Gretta watched him go and grumbled under her breath, “Stupid wizards, treating a boy like that. A good boy too. Has a good heart he does ... Give them a piece of my mind I should.”
Bal’kor nodded as he walked across the room. His uncle wasn’t there; neither was Zedd’aki, so he sat off to one side by himself and ate in silence.
After he finished eating, he licked his fingers clean of the clover honey, set his plate to the side and left the dining room, off to see Brink. He found his way to Brink’s room, after getting lost and wandering the hallways for a good long time. The laboratory was nestled off to the side of the Keep, well away from the others. Brink was busy preparing herbs and plants he had just finished cutting from his garden for his potions.
Brink had a long apron on and had spectacles dangling from his nose as he held the herbs up to the light and examined them with a critical eye.
Brink looked up, “What have we here? Ah, student Bal’kor.”
Bal’kor stood at the door, hesitant to enter.
“Well, just don’t stand there gawking. Come on in and make yourself useful.”
Bal’kor stepped into the room and moved to the high counter where Brink was working. He picked up a twig that had fine hairs growing on it and pulled a single leaf off, smelled it and put it on his tongue.
Brink watched the boy’s actions.
Bal’kor’s face puckered up, the herb was bitter. “Isn’t this Artemisia?
Brink smiled widely. “Yes, it is. It’s also called Wormwood.”
“I thought so,” Bal’kor said. “It can be used for a lot of things, like getting rid of internal parasites, or ...” he paused, “to see visions.”
Brink’s head shot up. Very few knew of that ability. It was a guarded secret. “Are you sure, boy?”
“Pretty sure!’ he replied, bobbing his head up and down.
Brink pressed, “And how would you prepare that potion do you imagine?”
Bal’kor looked up with a bright smile on his face. “I’d use Mucgwyrt, Attorlaðe, Stune, Wegbrade, Mægðe, Stiðe, Wergulu, Fille and Finule, crush them to dust, and then mix them with old soap and the juice of an apple.”
Brink’s mouth dropped open, “In what proportions?”
“One to one, except the Finule and Wegrade. I’d double those up!”
Brink began to sweat. The boy had just recited the Nine Herbs Charm and had even known the proportions. Proportions he hadn’t figured out until after centuries of experimentation.”
“It’s good for drawing out poisons from snake bites, if you apply it as a paste to the wound,” Bal’kor added. “I suppose it would work for poisoned arrows too.”
Brink tried to calm his nerves. The ancient pagan writ was a closely guarded secret. He knew that To’paz didn’t know it. He wondered where the boy came by his knowledge. The fact that he knew it was enough to raise suspicion.
Brink gabbed a handful of herbs and held it in front of the boy. “Can you identify this?”
“Ulmaria, also called Meadowsweet.”
“Uses?”
“Headaches, diarrhea, stomach cramps, the shivers.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, you can make a black dye out of it if you use a copper mordant.”
Brinks eyes narrowed, “And what is a copper mordant?”
“The furry stuff that grows on copper when you leave it out in the rain and expose it to sulfur fire.”
Brink was beside himself.
He quizzed the boy for the next hour and was shocked at all the knowledge he knew, almost as much as Brink himself. As a final test, he asked the boy to brew up a sleeping potion. He watched Bal’kor grind his herbs, make tinctures of valerian, skullcap, and chamomile with a drop or two of chamomile flower essence. He added his salts and then decanted the liquid and filtered it through fine cheesecloth. His technique was something to behold. When he added the Kava-kava, Brink was stupefied. It made perfect sense, and he was surprised that he had never thought of it himself. He pulled out his journal and jotted down a note to himself.
Bal’kor handed the finished potion to Brink. “I’d like to add some Ardisia, but it doesn’t grow around here.”
“Ardisia?”
“My mom called it Spiceberry. She said she got some from a trader once, and that it was best for sleeping potions. Mom treated lots of people with herbs and potions. She was an apothecary.”
Brink blinked twice, shocked at the boys admission because he had no idea that To’paz knew anything about herbs. Apparently she taught the boy well.
“I have to go now,” Bal’kor said. “It’s time for my lessons with Uncle Zedd’aki. Can I come back tomorrow?”
Brink set his hand on the lad’s shoulder. “You are welcome any time. See you tomorrow then?”
Bal’kor grinned and excused himself, leaving the old apothecary standing in wonder. Brink wasn’t so sure that everything Bal’kor knew was taught to him by his mother. There was something strange about the boy, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it. He quickly forgot about it and returned to his work.
Bal’kor finished up his lessons just past noon and had some free time on his hands. He walked out the back of the Keep toward the smithy to watch the man work his magic on iron and metals. The giant forge was back behind the Keep, nestled under a giant elm tree. The tree towered over the haphazardly built shed and the dense canopy made the smoke from the furnace drift in thin layers.
Hammergrip was covered in sweat, and the muscles in his massive arms bulged under the strain as he stood over the glowing coals and hefted his hefty hammer to strike another blow. He was in the middle of making a set of hi
nges to replace the ones that had been damaged on the great door. He pumped the bellows with one foot while his hammer rang out on the white hot metal. The rhythmic clank, clank, clank shook the air.
Hammergrip quenched his work in the bucket at the side of the furnace pit and listened to it hiss as he plunged it deep into the bath. He held it out for inspection, putting it right up under his nose as he squinted hard and grumbled to himself.
He noticed the lad standing across the pit, wiped his brow with the back of his arm and shouted out, “What‘er ye about boy?”
Bal’kor staggered backwards, caught by surprise and the low rumbling bellow of the dwarf’s voice. “Uh ... just watching sir.”
“Well, don’t jess stand there, come over here and make yerself useful. Grab them bellows and pump like yer life depended on it!”
Bal’kor’s face broke into a huge grin as he ran around the pit, grabbed the handle of the giant leather bellows, and began moving it up and down.
“Steady there lad, don’t ye be jerking it around. Smooth strokes up and down”
“Yes, sir!” he replied.
Hammergrip went back to work and before long, Bal’kor was covered in sweat from both the heat of the furnace and the strain of working the bellows. His hands were getting sore, but he was afraid to stop. After a good twenty minutes, the dwarf shoved the other hinge of the matched pair into the water.
Bal’kor’s arms dropped like lead bricks to his sides. He massaged his aching biceps and looked down at his blistered hands. His hands were cramped and burned.
Hammergrip looked up, “What’s wrong with yer hands?”
Bal’kor held them up for the old dwarf to see.
“That ain’t nothin’ to be fretting over. Fix those up in a jiffy.”
He grabbed the lad’s hands and spit on them, then dug in his pocket and pulled out a riggen-sized tin. He pulled the cork from the top, dug out some cream, and rubbed it on the lad’s palms.
“What’s that?” Bal’kor asked.
“Just the puss off of an ox’s eye. It’ll kill the pain and toughen the skin up by morning.”
Bal’kor looked down at the yellow goop on his palm and felt his stomach churn.
The old dwarf held his hand out and chanted over it for a few seconds. Bal’kor felt his skin heal and felt the thickening of the calluses on his palms.
“There! That’ll take care of ye!”
“Yer that lad that Ja’tar brought around the other day ...”
“Yes sir, I’m Bal’kor. Ja’tar is my uncle.”
Hammergrip grumbled and looked the lad in the eye studying him. “Would you like to try yer hand at forging?”
Bal’kor nodded vigorously.
Hammergrip went over to his scrap pile, which was nothing more than a big wooden barrel filled with bars, ingots and assorted scrap metal. He bent over and rummaged around. After some grunting and swearing, he pulled out a couple ingots, and after looking at each one, tossed the smaller one back and handed the other to the boy. After staring at the boy and sizing him up, he reached over to a wall filled with tools and found a hammer more suited to the lad. He handed Bal’kor the tools and the metal.
Bal’kor looked up into the dwarf’s face, “What’ll I make with it?”
Hammergrip rubbed his chin. “That’ll depend on what the metal wants. Every piece of metal wants to be something, ye just have to listen to it, find out what it is, and then help the metal along. Be warned though, if ye try to force it to be something it don’t want no part of, you’ll be struggling a long time. The metal can be pretty suborn when it wants.”
Bal’kor didn’t have a clue what the dwarf was talking about.
“Here, let me show ye. Hammersmith grabbed the lad’s hand and shoved some tongs into it. As soon as Hammergrip touched Bal’kor, Bal’kor’s his eyes shot open. It was as if he could see into his mind and feel the metal.
“The metal wants to be a knife,” Bal’kor shouted out loud.
Hammergrip’s mouth broke into a grin. “That’s right lad, it does. How did you know?”
Bal’kor shrugged. “I just saw a knife in my head.”
Hammergrip harrumphed, rolling his eyes, figuring a boy is a boy. “Well then, ye need to heat it up and hammer out the knife.”
Bal’kor looked up into Hammergrip’s eyes, confused.
Listen to me words lad. I’m not speaking Torren! “Ye need to get the metal white hot, and then fold it in on itself several times; pounding it out each time ye fold it. All those layers yer making will help the knife hold its edge. Folding metal and pounding it out makes it stronger. It’s called tempering. Now get to it!”
Bal’kor pushed the metal into the coals and began pumping the bellows. As soon as the metal was white hot, he pulled it free, set it on the anvil, and began hammering. His second swing caused the metal to fly off the anvil and out of the grip of the tongs.
It landed in the grass, which burst into fire. Bal’kor’s eyes grew wide and he began stomping the flames, trying to put it out. Hammergrip grinned, shook his head, grabbed the big ladle in the quench barrel, and threw the water over the flames, causing them to hiss as they winked out.
“Ye have to hold the tongs tightly, boy! Make sure you have the metal tight to the anvil where yer striking her.”
Bal’kor’s face turned red. He grabbed the tongs, picked up the still hot ingot, and pushed it back into the coals. Hammergrip watched on as the boy continued to work. Bal’kor’s tongue hung out the side of his mouth as he concentrated on his work. After he had folded the iron twelve times, he looked up at Hammergrip.
“The iron says it is ready! It says forty-one-hundred layers is enough”
Hammergrip’s eyes narrowed skeptically and he arched his brows. He picked up the iron and smiled. The boy was right. The metal was ready, although most knives he had ever made were plenty done at a couple hundred layers. Elves, now they used more layers, but their knives were something special to behold!
“Well then, now you are ready to make your blade. You need to hammer a thin edge on one side. Hammer it, heat it up white hot, and then quench it, working it thinner a little at a time. Remember, a knife has a point, so I’d make that first if I were you.”
Bal’kor nodded and pumped the bellows frantically while he listened to the metal.
“Hotter, hotter,” it yelled at him.
“Hit the tip.”
Heat me! Hotter.”
“Hit the top edge.”
“Hit me softer when I’m hot.”
“In the bath.”
“Harder ... not there ... down.”
Soon he was hammering it flat. The metal slowly gave way to his hammer. He alternated, hammering and quenching when the metal told him. All the while, Hammergrip stood back and watched in amazement. The boy was a natural. Hammergrip rubbed his long red burly beard and shook his head.
When the metal said it was done, he heated it white hot and plunged it into the water one last time.
“It’s done!” he announced.
Hammergrip grabbed the newly formed blade and inspected it with a critical eye. The boy was right; the edge was thin and even. The blade was as fine as any he had ever seen made by a round-ears.
He clapped the boy on his back, sending him sprawling to the floor. “You ain’t done yet. Ye still need to grind and stone yer blade.”
Bal’kor looked at him with a puzzled grin.
Hammergrip took the boy over to the round wheel with the foot pumps and sat him down on the stool. He showed him how to get the wheel turning using the two foot pedals and then how to edge his blade. Bal’kor watched as the dwarf demonstrated the technique. Sparks flew off the metal, and he heard the metal singing.
“Ye want to grind off all the lumps and rough spots before you begin thinning the edge, you understand me?” Hammer grip stood up and handed the boy his knife. “Ready to try?”
Bal’kor grabbed the knife, juggling it hand to hand because it was hot. Hammergrip smiled an
d tossed a pair of oversized leather gloves to the boy. Bal’kor slid them on. His fingers didn’t even half fill the gloves that were sized for the big stubby fingers of the dwarf, but he didn’t complain. He adjusted his stool, and after getting the wheel turning steadily, began to shape the edge.
Bal’kor was so deep in concentration; he didn’t notice the stocky dwarf watching over his shoulder. He started humming an ancient song, an homage to steel. Hammergrip raised his brows. It was a very old Dwarven song. He hadn’t heard it since his mother sang it when he was a wee lad. How the Ten did the boy know it?
Bal’kor listened to the blade as it told him what to do. When he did something wrong, the blade yelled at him, hurting his ears. When he had rounded the top edge and ground the blade as best he could on the wheel, he looked up at Hammergrip.
“The blade says it is ready to be honed.”
Hammergrip handed the boy a fine honing stone and some oil and showed the boy how to hone the blade with even, long strokes.
Bal’kor worked the blade, completely forgetting about time. By the time he had finished, it was well past the evening meal. Hammergrip handed the boy two blanks of oak and showed him how to place them on either side of the shank. Hammergrip let the boy rivet the grips to the shank, and then using a rasp, shape the wood to fit his hand. He used a fine draw blade and scraper to plane off the final shape and smooth the wood, remembering to always work with the grain. He used the scraper to take off the thin slivers at the very end. When he was done, the old dwarf handed him some walnut oil to rub into the wood and a soft cloth to buff it out
“Do you wish to stamp the knife?” Hammergrip asked.
“The knife says yes,” Bal’kor replied, without even looking up.
The dwarf walked across the shop and left the boy rubbing the oil into his blade. He pulled a giant key from his belt and used it to unlock the heavy iron box that he had hidden under the bed. When he returned, he held a box of metal stamps, which he opened and set on the table in front of the lad. Bal’kor picked them up one by one and examined each. He set them all to the side and opened up the second box. He grinned widely when the metal told him these were the ones to use.
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