by Resa Nelson
From the sparkle in Randim's eye, Astrid realized he recognized its unusual value.
"You do yourself good, working for Randim Forster," Lumpy advised Astrid in a confidential tone. "He don't work with none but the best."
From what Astrid had observed from the camp, it would be much easier to escape from here than from her brigands. She’d merely have to convince Randim she was worth whatever price the brigands wanted.
She remembered a trick DiStephan had shown her, long before she'd learned it from working with Temple.
The cool morning air meant the sword would be cool to the touch.
"Blow on it," Astrid said.
Randim looked up at her in surprise. "What?"
Astrid nodded toward the sword in his hands, wincing as the collar around her neck rubbed against her already-raw skin. "Breathe close to the metal, down the center of the blade."
Broken Nose frowned at Astrid, shaking his finger at her. "Don't you go trying any of your tricks..."
"No troubles," Randim said, still looking at Astrid. "I understand."
Randim turned his full attention to the sword in his hands while Broken Nose and Lumpy gathered around him. Randim held the blade up close to his face. He breathed hard and close down its center.
Astrid smiled when the men sighed in wonder.
"It's like a snake," Broken Nose murmured. "Crawling right down the middle of the sword, isn't it?"
Lumpy looked at Astrid with admiration. "Like a pretty blue snake hidden inside! Like magic!"
Randim examined the sword even closer. "It's a special type of welding. Few blacksmiths know how to do it, because blacksmithing families keep it secret. It makes the sword stronger, less likely to bend or break.” He gave Astrid a quick glance. "And you made this?"
"I did," Astrid said.
Randim turned toward Broken Nose. "Does the sword come with the blacksmith?"
"Depends on what you're willing to pay."
It took every bit of willpower Astrid could muster to keep from shouting for joy. She kept still and quiet while Randim haggled over the price with the brigands.
Randim tucked Astrid's sword under one arm as he reached inside a small leather pouch tied to his belt, pulling out a large pinch of green, leafy herbs. Randim stuffed the herbs into his mouth, in between his teeth and bulging cheek. From time to time, Randim chewed on the herbs, shifting them from one cheek to the other when he talked.
They agreed on a price. Randim glanced at Astrid again. He jumped as if startled.
But his eyes seemed unfocused. He didn't gaze into her eyes as he had before—he appeared to be looking past her. He looked like a child sick with fever. Randim's voice shook when he spoke, "Why is she in chains?"
"There was some trouble before," Lumpy said.
Broken Nose clamped his hand over Lumpy's mouth, behind Randim's back. "She's a bit feisty, is all.” Broken Nose spoke as if to comfort a small child. "And she doesn't like us. But she likes you just fine. She'll cause you no problems. Guaranteed."
While the brigands were speaking, Randim kept looking past Astrid with the same unfocused expression. Even after the brigands were quiet, Randim kept looking, nodding thoughtfully. "I see," he said. "Right. I agree to that."
Randim snapped out of his reverie. "Take her out of her bonds, and then you'll get paid."
Astrid couldn't help but grin as the brigands freed her. She wanted to thank this blacksmith.
But when the chain fell away, Randim turned his back to her, examining the blade once more.
* * *
Astrid bided her time, following Randim into the maze of the gigantic smithery, while Broken Nose and Lumpy collected their payment.
Randim explained the layout of the smithery, the working hours, the rules, and what he expected of her. As Randim talked, any blacksmith within glancing distance cast an occasional look her way, some curious, some disapproving, some hostile.
Astrid understood. She knew blacksmithing to be a craft that required years of dedication, practice, and hard work. It wasn't for anyone with an idle or passing interest. Instead, blacksmithing was meant for the few with fire in their hearts and strength in their souls. It took a love of heat and sweat and physicality.
She didn't blame the dozens of men surrounding her for their doubt.
Right now she appeared in her everyday body. But soon enough she'd change shape and look more like her powerful blacksmith self.
They'd understand when they saw her blacksmithing body. They'd understand when they saw her working at an anvil.
Astrid cried out when she noticed one of the blacksmith's pant legs had caught fire. She pointed at the tall, fair man, his fine blond hair braided and twisted into a long ponytail. "Fire!" Astrid shouted.
None of the blacksmiths looked up from their work.
Randim laughed to see Astrid squirm as the blacksmith's pant leg kept flaming. "Trep!" Randim shouted over the din of striking hammers. "You've caught fire again."
Trep ignored Randim's words, hammering hard and fast, bright white-hot sparks the size of fists flying all around him.
"Sometimes he catches a flying ember in his cuff," Randim said, watching his flaming blacksmith with amusement. "I tell him not to roll up his pants, but he won't listen. And he hates to lose a good welding heat."
Astrid understood.
Welding meant the iron had to be brought to a strong and even heat. It was a heat that took a long time to reach and was quickly lost.
Moments later, while the flames climbed up to Trep's knee, he put the iron back in the fire and plunged his flaming leg into the nearest quenching barrel. Steam rose from the water in the waist-high barrel, and Trep pulled his leg out as if it were iron he held in a pair of tongs.
Across the blacksmithing camp, Astrid saw the brigands ride away on their two newly-acquired horses.
She'd been thinking about her next step. Chances were, Astrid was located far closer to Mauri than to the dragonslayers, and Mauri was more likely to need help.
She interrupted Randim when he described the routine for taking care of the smithery's tools.
"Please help me," Astrid said. "I'm looking for a woman with blonde hair. Her name is Mauri."
"No one here called Mauri," Randim said. "Now, once the tools are cleaned, they're stored according to owner. Until you have time to make your own tools, you can borrow anything I'm not using."
"You don't understand," Astrid said. "She's my friend. She's disappeared. I have to find her."
For the first time, Randim's serious expression relaxed and the corners of his mouth turned up. It was as if he had to think about smiling before committing to it. "I just paid a pretty sum for you. And you want to go traipsing off with your friends?"
"I was kidnapped," Astrid explained.
"And here I thought those pretty chains and shackles you wore were the latest fashion," Randim said. His forehead creased in furrows as he frowned, his smoky eyes looking even more dark and serious than usual. "Of course you were kidnapped. I bought you, fair trade."
"But—"
"People get kidnapped and sold all the time."
The blacksmiths stopped working and gathered around Astrid and Randim as they argued.
"This is my camp. My camp, my blacksmiths, my smithery, my rules.” Randim crossed his arms and stood his ground. "Have you no honor?"
Astrid looked at the dozens of blacksmiths surrounding them, men of different sizes and shapes, different looks and temperaments, but with one thing in common. Being a blacksmith meant putting your best effort into any piece of work until it was done right. Everyone needed a dependable blacksmith. A blacksmith without honor could cost a town its crops if a plough blade broke when it needed to be solid and sharp. Lost crops could starve an entire town.
Every time Astrid picked up a tool, she put her heart and soul into her work, knowing the value of good work.
"How dare you question my honor?” Astrid's anger stirred up inside like a newly lit
fire.
"What am I supposed to do while you run off looking for your friend? Absorb the loss of the price I just paid for you? Ask my men to work longer hours because you don't want to work at all? Ask my men to give more because you give nothing?"
His words were like a bucketful of sand, poured over a fire to smother the flame.
And the men—they glared at her.
"We have too much work to complete in too little time," Randim continued. "I bought you because I need another reliable blacksmith. I need to relieve the pressure my men are under. I trusted you could help us."
A lump rose in the back of Astrid's throat. She longed to be one of them, to work in this smithery, the most beautiful place she'd ever seen. She'd never known any blacksmith other than Temple, and now each of these men reminded her of him. Especially Randim.
When Astrid spoke, she kept her voice calm and reasonable. "So you're saying my being kidnapped was my own dumb luck?"
"If you don't want to be sold," Randim said, "then don't get kidnapped."
A tall, lanky blacksmith piped up from the surrounding crowd. "Next time, try using your hammers to fight back. Works like a charm."
"I'm afraid for my friend, Mauri," Astrid said. "Can I buy my freedom? Can we strike a deal?"
Randim's expression softened. "She's been kidnapped, too?"
"We escaped, and she disappeared. I don't know—"
Randim shrugged the information off. "Sounds like she's in no immediate danger. I'm assuming you've no money or goods to buy yourself back."
Astrid pointed toward her sword, leaning against a tool bench.
"I paid for that," Randim said. "It's not yours anymore."
Astrid thought of one thing she could offer. A sure thing.
Temple had cautioned her to keep the secret. She'd balked at taking Donel on as an apprentice because she knew the technique was a secret she had to guard with her life—only dragonslayers could be trusted with swords that wouldn't bend or break. But now Mauri's life depended on it. "I can make a sword like this one."
The blacksmiths broke into conversation, debating the possibilities among themselves.
"I'll show you and your men how it's done," Astrid said.
Randim stood unmoved. "All I have is the word of brigands that you're the one that made the sword. For all I know, you may be the worst blacksmith I ever met."
"Let me work. Judge for yourself.”
Randim looked long and hard into Astrid's eyes. "You're quite serious?"
Astrid smiled. "My word of honor."
Randim mulled it over. "Spend this week at the anvil. If your work is as good as ours, teach us this technique and work in the smithery for 40 days. That'll earn your freedom."
Astrid extended her hand, and they shook on the deal.
CHAPTER 16
The following week, Astrid gathered the blacksmiths for the sword-making lesson. Within the hour, Astrid had taught them how to choose the materials. She set teams of blacksmiths to work, shaping narrow long billets from blooms of iron. While they worked, she toured the smithery, searching for tools to fit her hands, beginning at Randim's work bench.
She picked up a hammer, balancing it in the palm of her hand.
"Randim's tools are the best in the smithery," the lanky blacksmith said. "But all his handles are too short."
"Too short for your overgrown paws," Randim said in response. "Perfect for their maker's."
As Astrid gripped the hammer's handle, the blacksmiths not working—the ones following her around the smithery—began arguing passionately.
"If you want a perfect handle, it's got to measure half the distance between the tip of your littlest finger and your elbow," Trep said.
"Listen to you, giving advice!" said a grinning and bold boy, no older than Donel. "Just last week the head came flying off your hammer and nearly put my eye out!"
"You're one to talk,” A little man, no taller than Astrid, crossed his massive arms. The little hair left on his head circled it like a champion's wreath of victory. "The last hammer head you made split right down the middle not two weeks after you made it."
"The metal was too hard.” The boy stood tall, ready to defend his words. "That's the only way you ever find out, is afterwards. It's better than the soft metal you use. Your hammer heads spread out and wear thinner than your balding head."
Astrid looked up, expecting a fistfight to break out at any moment. She was surprised to see all the blacksmiths smiling good naturedly.
While the teams continued to hammer their iron billets to Astrid's specifications, she stood at Randim's anvil, ready to shape the heated lump of iron into a hammer head.
As Randim and the other blacksmiths circled her, watching, Astrid realized she didn't mind changing her body in front of them. She'd become used to it in the week since Randim had bought her.
Just like Lumpy had suggested, Astrid felt as if she were with her own kind. She felt as safe and secure with them as she had with Temple.
Astrid relaxed when she shifted her shape into her blacksmithing body.
She scanned the faces of the men surrounding her. Like always, they acted as if nothing had happened. She assumed they were being kind.
Astrid couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this happy.
The teams of blacksmiths completed their work. Astrid gathered the ten long, narrow billets from them. She tested each billet for strength and kept the two strongest for herself. "I'll make the edges while you make the center."
Half of the blacksmiths worked on the billets. Randim and the other blacksmiths followed close on her heels, watching her every move.
"Why make edges?” Randim said when she submerged the two strongest billets into the fire by his anvil.
"My technique, my sword.” Astrid smiled sweetly. "My rules."
Trep laughed until Randim's sullen look cut him short.
Randim turned his stern gaze toward Astrid. "Have mercy, woman," he said. "There's no need to be as insufferable as every man who works for me."
Trep laughed again, harder this time. "Face it, Randim. Girly's a true blacksmith, after all."
While the other blacksmiths encircling Astrid and Randim laughed, Randim shook it off.
Astrid's smile widened. "We can make one sword that's nothing but patterns.” When Randim looked at her hopefully, she winked in response. "But today we forge edges."
When the first billet glowed bright yellow, Astrid removed it from the fire with tongs, and picked up her hammer.
"Wait," Randim said, picking up a much larger, heavier hammer with both hands. "I'll be your striker."
His offer surprised and flustered her. "I've never used a striker."
Randim's jaw slackened in shock, but the blacksmiths clustered around Astrid laughed hard and long.
At the other end of the smithery, the loud ringing of hammer on metal stopped. Someone shouted, "Stop that laughing! Get to work like the rest of us."
Still chuckling, Trep called back in response, "Girly's never used a striker before!"
In the distance, everyone laughed uproariously.
Astrid stood up straight and proud. "I've always done all my own smithing. Never even had an apprentice."
Randim rested his heavy hammer on one shoulder. "Say good-bye to those days. No man works alone in my smithery, including you. Tap your hammer lightly where you want me to strike. Tap harder, I strike harder. Tap in a different place, I strike there. I strike where you tap, how you tap. Let your hammer head bounce on the anvil until it stops, I stop."
Randim waited, watching her. All the blacksmiths surrounding her were waiting, watching.
Astrid glanced at the billet, already cooling, its glow changed to bright orange. If she didn't decide soon, she'd lose this chance to strike, and it would have to go back into the fire.
She tapped on the billet, and Randim hit the exact spot cleanly and powerful with his hammer, swinging it back with rhythm and grace, keeping his eye on the spot where Ast
rid had tapped. When the iron cooled to cherry red, Astrid let her hammer bounce on the anvil, and Randim stopped. She put the iron back into the heart of the fire and removed its brother billet, glowing as yellow as the bright coals. She put the second billet on the anvil and tapped her directions to Randim.
After a few minutes, Astrid found her rhythm with Randim. It was like dancing, Astrid's tap and Randim's strike. The moment one billet cooled too much to shape easily, Astrid put it back in the fire, pulling out the other and shaping it in the same fashion, keeping the two pieces on an identical path.
The world melted away until there was nothing left but Astrid and Randim and the rhythm between them, the soft ring of Astrid's tap on the iron and the intense clang of Randim's forceful blow. She felt the heat from his body, like the comforting heat of a smithery fire. Sweat flew from his drenched face with every strike, drops of it landing on Astrid's hands and arms and face, mixing with her own sweat. The more they worked, the more Randim grunted as he struck.
Astrid steadied herself, trying to keep her concentration on the iron. She resisted the temptation to look up, no matter how much she wanted to look at his face.
All of it—Randim's heat and sweat and voice—all of it intoxicated her, unlike anything Astrid had ever known before.
By the end of the day, they had welded the edges to the patterned center to form a single blade. Astrid then shaped a narrow trench down the center on each side of the blade.
"Ah," a blacksmith said knowingly, as all the blacksmiths in the smithery watched her. "She's making the blood channel."
Astrid shook her head. "Don't believe the stories you hear. It's called a fuller. It makes the blade strong and light. It's got nothing to do with blood."
Once the blade had cooled, she ground and filed it until it was smooth and its edges sharp.
"What will you name it?” The young blacksmith who reminded her of Donel grinned. "There's lots of good names: Serpent of the Wound, Widow Maker, Sea-King's Fire..."
"Those are names that brigands use," said Trep. "This Girly's no brigand."
"I just make swords," Astrid said. "I don't name them.” She gazed at Randim. "Besides, it's your sword. You did the work. You should name it."