City Under the Sand

XVI The Smithy on the Square

In the distance, across a flat plain, a small village sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine. “Look!” Myrana called. “We’re saved!”

“We hope,” Aric corrected. “Until we know whose village that is, though, we can’t be sure.”

“Any village is better than none,” Myrana said.

“True enough,” Ruhm added. He touched his stomach. He didn’t need to—Aric was as hungry as the rest of them. Since they’d escaped from the ambush site, they hadn’t dared spend any time hunting or gathering food. They had ridden the erdlus until the birds almost fell over from exhaustion. Aric decided to give his a break, and ran alongside, until hunger weakened him so much that he could do so no longer.

They didn’t know if they were pursued, and if so, by whom, so they set their sites on the village, and crossed the plain as fast as they were able.

Behind high stone-and-mortar village walls were tall trees, indicating that a spring or oasis lay within. As the five weary travelers approached, they saw villagers appear at those walls, standing on platforms no doubt, holding bows.

“They’re alert,” Sellis said. “How do we look like we’re friendly?”

Myrana laughed. “Maybe inside there is a pond, and if there is, we can all take a look at our own reflections. If I look as bad as the rest of you, then I’m sure there’s nothing we can do to appear friendly.”

“We could not kill anybody,” Aric suggested. “That would be a start.”

“If they don’t hurt us …” Ruhm said.

“We’ve no reason to hurt anyone,” Amoni said. “Do we?”

“No reason,” Myrana said. “Let’s just ride up to the gate and let them know that.”

A few minutes later, a large blond man with a light, curly beard, hailed them from the wall. “Ho!” he called. “What is your business here?”

“We’re hungry,” Aric replied. “We would like to purchase food. And someone might be chasing us. Raiders or thri-kreen, we’re not sure which.”

For a long, difficult moment, the man at the wall, and the men and women around him, stared blankly at their uninvited guests. Then the big man broke out in laughter, and the others joined in. “You’ve interesting lives, it appears! Have you currency to pay for that food, or do you expect us to extend credit to five bedraggled strangers?”

Aric still had some coins in his purse from selling the sword to Tunsall of Thrace. For the last several weeks he’d had nowhere to spend it. “We have currency,” he said. “And we’d appreciate shelter.”

“Protection from those raiders? Or thri-kreen?”

“Yes,” Aric said. “We … we sort of tricked them into battling each other. Whoever survived the fight might be angry.”

The big man laughed again. “It seems I was mistaken. You’re not just interesting. You’re pure trouble.”

Aric spread his hands. “I wish I could deny that.”

“Enter,” the man said. “Gate!”

The village gate, Aric noted, was made of iron, and in good repair. Two men swung it open, and the five travelers rode their stolen erdlus through. Inside were orderly rows of buildings, constructed of mud bricks or a similar stone and mortar construction to the outer wall. The big man jumped down from a platform that ran along behind the inside of the wall, about halfway up.

“Welcome to the village of Yarri,” he said. He was a handsome fellow, with pale green eyes and a ready grin. “I am called Hotak Hedessi, once of Urik but no longer.”

“We appreciate your hospitality, Hotak,” Myrana said. “Are you the …”

“I’m the village smith,” Hotak said.

Aric’s head snapped around. “You’ve a smithy here?”

“We do.”

“I would like to see that.”

“That can be arranged,” Hotak offered. “But first … these raiders. Did they say anything about Fort Dunnat?”

“Yes!” Myrana said. “They did,”

“Hmm …” A shadow seemed to pass over the smith’s face. “Then we’d better begin our preparations right away. That’s a bad bunch. They leave us alone, for the most part, but if they’re after you …”

“Perhaps we ought not let them in,” a burly, dark-haired older woman said, scowling at the newcomers. “Why antagonize raiders over these we don’t even know?”

“Because they’ve coins to spend, Maja, and the raiders never give, only take.”

“Aye, true enough. But—”

“But nothing. You’re welcome, strangers. There’s a small tavern right down that road, on the village square,” Hotak said, pointing. “You’ll find food and beds there. There’s a livery nearby as well. I’ll be busy here for a while.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Aric said. He hopped off the erdlu, revitalized by the unexpectedly gracious reception and the prospect of a real meal and an actual bed. “We’ll go there, and we’ll spend some coins in your village, with pleasure.”

He led the bird and his companions down the road Hotak had indicated. A few people emerged from buildings along the way, greeting them with reserved politeness. Others spread the word that raiders might be coming, and people rushed to the walls to lend their support. There were probably a hundred permanent structures in the village, Aric calculated. It wasn’t on any major trading routes, but with its contained oasis, it probably catered to travelers, which was why it had a tavern with rooms in the first place. He supposed it had some other industry as well: a quarry, a mine, or something. If it was like many villages he’d heard about, he would never be allowed to see that, and it might not even be spoken of in the presence of outsiders.

The tavern was a single-story building that sprawled out in three directions, with smaller buildings tacked on after the original had been erected. Beside it was the livery, which was more or less a single barn with a few outside stables for hardier beasts. Both were quiet, but when they took the erdlus into the barn, a stable boy showed up, struck a deal for the care of the creatures, and took them to be fed and watered.

Inside the tavern, an old married couple, he with a belly that looked like he was concealing several small animals under his shirt, she stooped over almost double, with but one tooth in her head and long, stringy white hair, agreed to feed them and offered them beds in a single room or several.

Aric was more than happy to eat. The meal was almost silent, since they’d all had plenty of each other’s company but not enough, these last several days, to fill their stomachs. During it, his gaze kept drifting out the window to the smith’s shop across the square. It was bigger than his, with ironwork out front and someone moving about inside, even though he knew Hotak was at the wall.

When they had finished eating, the old man showed them to two rooms, one Aric would share with Sellis and Ruhm, and one for Amoni and Myrana. The woman was preparing a hot bath, which would cost another two bits of his dwindling supply, but sounded well worth the price. Aric left the others to relax and walked across the square to the smithy.

The familiar smells struck him first, the tang of molten iron and the underlying aroma of the charcoal burned to heat the forge. These smells got into a smithy’s walls, and into the clothing and skin of the smith. Smelling them made Aric homesick for Nibenay, though at the trip’s start he’d been glad for the chance to see new sights and have new adventures.

The doorway of Hotak’s shop was covered in a fine layer of black dust, as was the shop’s single window. Aric tried to see through it, but all he could make out were vague shapes, and back in one corner, the red glow of the forge. Evening was coming on, but warmth radiated from the smithy and standing outside it was comfortable.

He didn’t know how long they would remain in this village. Not long, he hoped, but if the raiders or the thri-kreen were tracking them here, he didn’t want to go back out into the desert until they’d been dispatched.

And the fact that he had lost his steel sword bothered him. The weapon had been too old, and too heavy for him, but for all that it felt better in his hand than any agafari-wood sword Nibenay could provide. He wondered it Hotak would mind if he used the shop to craft his own sword, something custom-made just for him, as he had made so many for others over the years.

He was staring into the window, inhaling the pleasant smells and feeling the warmth, when suddenly a face appeared on the other side. It belonged to a man, short and heavily muscled, with a head completely bald but for a sprig of hair growing from the top, like a tuft of weeds in an otherwise bare field, and a few strands of sparse beard on his chin. His features were thick, with a low brow, a wide, flat nose, and full lips framing a wide mouth. A dwarf.

“What do you want?” the dwarf demanded, his voice gruff. “Shop’s closed.”

Aric stepped closer to the window, looking down as well as he could through the grime-coated glass. The dwarf held a shovel full of charcoal. “But you’re working,” he said. “Best get that in the fire, lest the forge cool.”

The dwarf’s eyes widened and something akin to a smile danced on his lips for an instant. “You know the smith’s ways?”

“I am a smith,” Aric said. “And I’ve met Hotak, who told me this is his shop.”

The dwarf disappeared from the window. A moment later, Aric heard the sound of charcoal being shoveled into the fire, then the pumping of a big bellows. Aric stood there wondering if he should come back another time, when the door opened. “I’m Mazzax,” the dwarf said. “Hotak’s apprentice.”

“I am Aric, of Nibenay. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mazzax. I’ve been too long from my own forge, and didn’t realize until just now how I miss it.”

“I couldn’t be away from it for a day,” Mazzax said. “Everything about it … the heat, the sparks, the clang of the sledge against iron on the anvil. It’s in my blood. But … you can’t come in. Shop’s closed. When Hotak returns …”

“That could be a while,” Aric said. “He’s at the wall.”

“I know. Preparing for attack. You’re one of the strangers?”

“I am.”

“If we’re attacked because of you … if anyone’s hurt … you’d best not stay long, that’s all I’ll say.”

“I don’t know that anyone followed our path here. If they did, well, it sounds as if the raiders from Fort Dunnat have been troubling your village too long anyway.”

“True enough.”

“Believe me, I’d as soon never see those raiders again. And I hope to stay in your village only a short while, then to leave it in peace, as I found it.”

The dwarf was sizing him up. He seemed satisfied by what he saw. “And you are a smith.”

“I am indeed.”

“All right, then. I won’t hate you. Not for now.”

“That’s good,” Aric said.

“But you still must leave. Shop’s closed!” Mazzax slammed the door, and Aric heard him shoot the bolt. Then he heard the rhythmic pumping of the bellows once again. So Hotak had a project going, even though he wasn’t here to supervise it. Or the dwarf worked on one of his own. Otherwise he’d let the fire cool, and not bother feeding air into it.

He walked away from the shop, reluctantly, as it had given him the flavor of home. He let out a long yawn, stretching his arms at the same time. He would speak with Hotak. But perhaps in the morning, after a few hours sleep …

The raiders came at first light, with the rising sun at their backs. Aric was deeply immersed in a dream. He was the master of a huge smithy, with a dozen forges and even more anvils. The place was crowded with journeymen, working at each forge and anvil, and apprentices doing nothing but working the bellows and stoking the fires. Ruhm was there, and Myrana and Rieve and even Damaric, the barbarian soldier-slave, all of them journeymen, and Aric paced around the shop checking their work, barking out orders. It was a strange dream, but somehow satisfying. When shouts from outside threatened to tear him from it, he tried to hang on.

Finally, Ruhm shook him. “They’re here,” Ruhm said.

“Who’s here?” Aric rubbed his eyes. Gradually he understood the sounds coming through the window—sounds of a village under attack. “The thri-kreen?”

Sellis stood at the window, looking out. “I think it’s raiders,” he said.

“I thought sure the thri-kreen would finish them.”

“Perhaps they did. But if others went out looking for their comrades, they’d still have been able to follow our tracks.”

“We should help,” Ruhm said.

“Aye,” Sellis agreed.

Aric dressed quickly. He had no weapon but that short spear he had taken. If there were many raiders, he wanted something better than that. “I’ll meet you at the wall,” he said. He dashed from the tavern, and across the square.

The forge’s heat still seeped through the walls and window of the blacksmith’s shop. Aric pounded on the door. No one answered, so he went to the window. Through the filmed glass, he could see Mazzax moving about. “Mazzax!” he cried. “It’s me, Aric! Open up!”

“Shop’s closed.”

“I know it’s closed! Just open the door!”

Mazzax did as he asked, opening it a few inches and blocking the way with his squat, solid bulk. “What?”

“The raiders. They’ve attacked the village.”

“And if they come here they’ll find the shop closed.”

His response confused Aric for a moment. Best not try to think like a dwarf, he decided. That will get me nowhere. “I need a weapon,” Aric said. He showed the dwarf his spear, a simple wooden shaft with a chipped obsidian head. The dwarf eyed it with disdain. “I want to go fight at the wall, alongside Hotak and the others. But I need a real weapon, not this paltry thing.”

“Shop’s closed.”

“There must be something!”

“Wait here.” The dwarf slammed the door, shot the bolt. Aric wondered if he’d be left waiting all day. A minute later, the bolt slid back and the door opened, and again Mazzax stood there. “Here,” he said.

He handed Aric an iron rod, a half-inch in diameter and three feet long. “That’s it?” Aric asked. “That’s all you’ve got? I’m willing to pay—”

“Shop’s closed.” The door slammed again.

This time it wouldn’t be re-opening, Aric knew.

He hefted the iron rod. For a moment, images filled his mind, of Hotak and Mazzax working side by side, of Mazzax obeying the big man’s instructions, copying everything Hotak did, learning the craft from the bottom up. He forced those aside. No time for that now. Still, contact with the metal brought him comfort. It was heavy and it was strong.

It would, he decided, make a better weapon than this stupid spear.

Holding both, the spear in his left hand and the rod in his right, he ran toward the wall.

Most of the villagers had taken up positions on the platforms that ran the length of the village walls. Men and women alike fired bows and crossbows over the wall, ducking behind its protection when similar missiles flew at them. The attackers were screaming threats and warning of what they’d do if the villagers didn’t surrender, and the villagers responded in kind. Several had already fallen, and others worked to move their bodies away from the foot of the wall and to patch the wounded.

Aric saw Ruhm, Amoni and Sellis up on the wall, and he climbed a ladder to join them. Raiders, dozens of them—more than had initially captured them—swarmed around the village on kanks, on erdlus, and on foot. Most carried shields and weapons, some even wore helms and armor of chitin or bone.

Sellis glanced at him. “What’s that?”

“It’s a piece of iron.”

“What’s it for?”

A raider leapt from a kank’s back, grabbing onto the wall nearby and starting to haul himself up. Aric raised the rod and slammed it down on the man’s head, cracking his helmet and knocking him from the wall. “That.”

“Good enough.”

An arrow clattered against the wall right beneath Aric. Aric ducked away from it, then rose again. The archer was far out of range for him, but others were approaching, including a couple of elves running toward the wall at full speed. When they reached it, they would launch themselves over it and land inside. Aric rested the rod on top of the wall and shifted the spear to his right hand. He waited another few heartbeats, until he could see the elves’ eyes, their parted lips, drawing in air as they ran. One had a pink triangle of tongue showing at the corner of his mouth. Aric aimed at that and hurled his spear.

The obsidian point sank into the meaty area near the elf’s shoulder. The elf slowed, cursed, and yanked it out. He threw it back over the wall, without taking aim, and kept running. Blood poured down his chest and arm.

That’s why I don’t like spears, Aric thought. He hoped his hadn’t hit any villagers, but didn’t dare take his eyes off the approaching elves to check.

The unwounded elf jumped first. His leap carried him to the top of the wall. He had a mace in his hand, and he swung it, trying to clear a path. But defenders stabbed him with swords and a pike, and he fell backward, landing on the ground below with a loud thump. The second elf sprang over his comrade’s body and, in spite of his wound, landed on top of the wall with momentum to spare. His right foot barely touched the wall, and it flexed, giving him enough spring to keep going into the village. Aric swung his rod up. It struck the elf square in the face. The speed of the elf’s forward motion combined with Aric’s powerful swing was sufficient to flatten the elf’s nose and crush his skull. He howled as his face collapsed. Blood spurted everywhere. The elf fell, inside the wall—the first raider to make it that far. But he would be no threat.

The raiders retreated, regrouped, and attacked again.

More villagers fell under this second assault. The raiders were less anxious to rush the walls this time, but fanned out around the village, pelting it with arrows and bolts. Every time a villager fell, another took his or her place.

There was, however, a limited number of villagers. Soon there wouldn’t be enough to replace the dead and wounded. Aric and his companions had brought this on the village, and that certainty sat on Aric’s shoulders like a horrible weight.

When the raiders again charged the wall, some carrying crude ladders, he and his friends fought with all the urgency of any villager. Again, they beat back the assault.

But in another place, at the back of the village the wall was breached.

Word spread quickly around the platforms. Raiders had made their way through, and were even now working toward the front, where they hoped to fling open the village’s only gate. Some defenders had to leave the wall to stop them, but most had to stay at their posts to prevent more breaches.

Hotak jumped down from the platform and ran down the street his shop was on. Aric clapped Ruhm once on the back and did the same. If the raiders got behind the defenders on the wall, they’d bring them down quickly, and then there would be no one to keep the walls from being breached or the gates opened.

A party of raiders had reached the town square. Most villagers were at one wall or another, so defenders were sparse here, but Hotak and a few others blocked their way. Even Mazzax emerged from Hotak’s shop, holding a maul with a blunt, heavy steel head.

When Aric joined them, a raider shouted, “You!”

It was Ceadrin, the elf. “I thought you were dead,” Aric said.

“No thanks to you that I’m not. He’s the reason we’re here,” Ceadrin told the villagers. “Turn over him and his friends and we’ll leave you be.”

“It’s too late for that, elf,” Hotak said. “You’ve slain too many of ours, and you’ve been a bother too many times. We’ll end this today.”

“Very well,” Ceadrin said. “Though you won’t like the ending.” He turned to his fellow raiders. “Kill them all, then we’ll burn this village to the ground.”

The raiders rushed the villagers. Steel flashed and blood flew, and first one villager died, then another, and a third. Raiders fell too, but more came in from the breached wall. Aric used his iron rod like a sword and a club, striking with it, swinging it, jabbing. Hotak battled with a fine sword he had doubtless made himself. Mazzax wielded his maul with ferocity and determination.

It began to seem as if they would repel the raiders.

Until one of them used sorcery.

Aric should have seen it coming.

The raiders were fighting the villagers with every weapon at their disposal. Then, as if at a prearranged signal, they drew back. The pretended to be merely catching their breath, and the villagers took advantage of the moment to do the same.

But one of the raiders was standing back from the others, partially obscured by a wagon parked in the road. He was, Aric realized, performing a spell. As that raider finished a series of wild gestures, Ceadrin tossed a small bundle of sticks toward the defenders. The sticks landed on the ground and the bundle broke apart.

The scattered sticks transformed into vipers, writhing toward the villagers, venom dripping from long, sharp fangs. Two of the villagers were bit right away. Hotak swung his sword into a serpent, cutting it in half, but the two halves each grew longer, the back half sporting a new, snapping head.

“This is magic most foul!” he cried.

The villagers defended themselves against the snakes, no longer paying the raiders any mind.

Hotak was right, foul magic indeed was at work. The handful of trees and the small patches of grass decorating the square were already drying out, turning black. Dying.

Mazzax bludgeoned one of the vipers with his maul. This one didn’t come back to life or split into two. But while he was doing so, another one reached him, slithering up his stubby leg. He saw it and screamed. If he used the maul on it, he would cripple himself.

Aric rushed to the dwarf’s side. His iron rod had no point, but many magical creatures, he’d heard, disliked iron. He thrust an end between the snake and Mazzax’s leg, scooped the snake off him, and then ran forward and hurled the serpent back at the raiders. It landed at one’s foot, sinking its fangs into her, and the woman wailed until the venom had paralyzed and killed her.

So they weren’t safe from their own vipers. Aric swept up another on his rod and threw it, then one more. Raiders darted away from the snakes. Aric caught one more and, making sure to keep it from climbing up the rod toward him, ran right into their midst. No raider challenged him. Finally, he tossed it at one standing between him and the wagon, then he leapt into the wagon’s bed, and off that, coming down behind the raider who had made the vipers in the first place.

That raider started to raise his hands, no doubt readying another spell. Aric swung his iron rod at shoulder height. It caught the raider at the jawline. Bone crunched and flesh tore, and when the raider fell to the dusty street, blood from a head nearly severed ran into the dirt.

“Now,” Aric cried. “Cut them!”

The villagers with swords did as he said. This time, the vipers died instead of multiplying.

The last viper to die was the one that bit Hotak.

Hotak was chopping another in half, and didn’t see the serpent eyeing his exposed calf. By the time Mazzax saw it and shouted a warning, it was too late—the snake had buried its fangs in Hotak’s leg. The big man screamed once, then froze in place and collapsed.

Mazzax attacked the snake with his maul, not quitting until it was pulverized into the earth.

The raiders had been turning away, hoping to go around to some other road, but by running through them and leaping into the wagon, Aric had wound up behind those who still stood.

One of these was Ceadrin.

“Out of the way, half-elf,” Ceadrin said. Hatred dripped from his voice, the kind of hatred Aric had grown up knowing from full elves.

“You’ll go through me, or you’ll die here, elf,” Aric replied, trying to put the same sort of bitterness into that last word.

“Through you, then.” Ceadrin had a long sword with a slight curve to the blade. He took three steps toward Aric and swung it. Aric deflected it with the rod. Ceadrin swung again and again, bringing the sharp blade toward him at every opportunity. Aric defended, but couldn’t find a chance to attack. He was sure his iron rod was dulling Ceadrin’s blade, which would be scant comfort if the blade struck him.

Sweat coated Aric’s brow, stinging his eyes. He wiped his hands on his shirt, left first, then right, switching the rod as he did. Ceadrin swung again. His sword, with its pommel and guard, was far easier to hang onto. The rod wore blisters in Aric’s hand, and his palm cramped from using it.

Aric worked his way back toward the wagon. He wasn’t even sure why yet, just had a vague hope that it would provide cover or a chance to jump up, to change his elevation, give him some advantage.

Ceadrin kept up the attack, striking and striking and striking. With each swing parried, Aric felt the vibration all the way up to his shoulder. And still Ceadrin came.

Finally, the wagon was at Aric’s back. He parried two more swings, but let his weariness show. That was no act; he was growing tired of all this. A gleam showed in Ceadrin’s eye as he sensed his opponent’s weakness. He brought his sword up and down in a slashing arc, straight toward Aric’s head.

Instead of blocking it, Aric ducked.

Ceadrin’s sword bit deeply into the wooden side of the wagon.

It only stuck for a fraction of a second, but that was time enough. Aric came out of his crouch, thrusting with the rod. It caught Ceadrin in the gut, and the elf bent over, air blowing out of him. Aric swung the rod again, first down, smashing it into Ceadrin’s knee and hearing the satisfying sound of the joint popping, then up into Ceadrin’s throat.

Finally, Ceadrin fell to the ground, and Aric lifted the rod high and drove it straight down, through his heart, pinning the elf to the road.

The few remaining raiders ran past Aric as fast as they could. The defenders followed, picking raiders off as they went. Only Mazzax stayed with Aric, who was breathing heavily, still leaning on the iron rod that pierced the elf’s chest.

“He’s dead,” Mazzax said.

“He had damn well better be.”

“Not him,” Mazzax said. “Him. Hotak.”

Aric released the rod and straightened up, although it pained him to do it. “I’m sorry. I never meant for that to happen.”

“You tried. You slew those who slew him.”

“I did, at that.”

“And you saved me.”

“Likewise true.”

“You have my thanks, stranger.”

“Are we still strangers, Mazzax?”

A broad smile creased the dwarf’s tanned face. “No,” he said. “We’re smiths!”

The raiders retreated.

The villagers, as Mazzax had warned, had lost much of their enthusiasm for having strangers in their midst. There were many dead to bury, and more wounded to tend.

They shot the visitors angry glares, and more than once Aric and the others heard muttered conversations that ceased abruptly when they came near. But no one told them to leave, and when they raised the idea themselves, villagers pointed out that their scouts saw signs of raiders still in the area.

Then Mazzax invited Aric into the shop.

“You’re a smith,” the dwarf said. “I’m only apprentice. A smithy needs a smith.”

“I can’t stay here, Mazzax,” Aric explained. “I have to get home. Soon.”

“You leave now, raiders will kill you.”

“That is a distinct possibility.”

“So stay. For a while. Work in the shop.”

“Well …” Aric said.

“Ha! See? You want to. It’s in the blood.”

That was, Aric thought, probably true of every smith. With as many times as they were cut, there was probably nearly as much metal as blood flowing in their veins. “I have been wanting to craft a sword.”

“Good.”

“For myself. A fine steel sword.”

“Good,” Mazzax said again.

“But I really can’t stay here.”

“We’ll work night and day, make it fast.”

“Just the two of us?”

“That’s not enough?”

“If Ruhm helped us …”

“The goliath?”

“Yes. He works in my shop, back home.”

“Apprentice?”

“Journeyman.”

“Lucky.”

“I’m sure you’ll be a journeyman one day, Mazzax.”

“Not if I stay here. No more master.”

“Well, someone else will come, perhaps.”

“You came.”

“Yes, but …” Aric was reaching the conclusion that arguing with a dwarf was a pointless pursuit. With this dwarf, anyway.

And they couldn’t leave yet. They had to get to Nibenay, but if they were slain by raiders on the way then their message would never get through. If they took a few days, let the raiders tire of waiting for them, the result might be better.

“Very well,” Aric said. “I’ll get Ruhm. We’ll make a sword.”

Mazzax clapped his thick hands together once. “Good!”

They began the following morning. Mazzax stoked the fire high while Ruhm gathered materials and tools. Aric worked through Hotak’s stores of metal, pulling out each piece of promising size and holding it in his hands, letting it speak to him. He saw mines and smelters, and he saw bits of Hotak’s life, as well as Mazzax’s. The dwarf had been married for a time, and had a child. His wife and daughter were both killed by a gaj, and after taking his revenge on the creature, Mazzax had come to the village, where Hotak took him in and taught him a trade.

After a few hours, Aric had the combination of metals he wanted. He wanted strength and elasticity in his blade, and he wanted it to hold a keen edge. He settled on a mixture of long bars of iron, bronze, and silver, stacked them together, and put them into the forge. While they heated, he looked for the materials he wanted for the furniture—the grip, the guard, and the pommel.

After some time, he looked into the forge. Hot, but not hot enough. “Bellows!” he called. “More coal!”

Mazzax scrambled. Ruhm pumped the bellows while Mazzax fetched charcoal. Aric worked on designing the hilt while the forge heated up. He checked again, withdrew the metal, sprinkled it with flux, a powdery substance Mazzax had collected from an ancient lake bed. Then he put it back in. “Hotter!”

Aric measured his own hand, made some calculations, checked again. The metal bars were the same color as the forge’s interior. “Here we go!” he said. He and Ruhm drew the hot bars from the fire, folded them, and did it again. More times in and out of the fire, folding and welding. More time passed. Aric removed the bars, now seemingly a single piece, and worked them on the anvil, he and Ruhm each with a hammer, one striking and then the next in a steady cadence. This way they welded the metals together in the sequence that Aric wanted. They sprinkled on more flux, put it back in the fire, brought it out later and did it again, working from the other end.

When he was finally satisfied that the different metals were joined permanently, Aric and Ruhm used a hot cutter, striking the chisel end with a hammer to shave off the unwanted metal. They heated it again, then brought it out and pounded it flat. More heat, and they held it at an angle against the anvil while they gave it edges and a point. More heat, and quenching in clay.

Night had long since fallen by the time they had crafted a blade the shape and size Aric wanted, with a long tang at the end that would run through the grip to a threaded pommel. They left Mazzax in the shop, filing the edges.

In bed that night, Aric could still hear the ringing of the hammer in his head, still taste the metal filings in his teeth, feel the minute burns on his arms from the sparks.

But he thought he had a good start on his sword. It would, he knew, be the best he had ever made.

The steel told him that, and he always listened to steel.