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Declan nodded to Jusan. ‘Bellows,’ he said quietly.
Jusan stepped away while the other two smiths picked up their hammers. Edvalt handed the tongs to Declan while Jusan pumped the bellows to encourage the fire back to its hottest point.
Declan thrust the block into the flames and watched as the paper caught and the clay quickly hardened around the steel. He waited for the perfect moment, then returned the glowing mass to the anvil.
The steel they produced was called ‘jewel steel’, or ‘precious steel’, in the secret language of the smiths. It was a mixture of iron sand and carbon dust that produced a steel of remarkable strength and durability. This part of the process was not a secret – any competent smith could create respectable steel – but the forging of jewel steel required an artistry that few smiths possessed. Edvalt was one of those few, and Declan was determined to become his equal.
‘Jusan, tongs,’ Declan instructed.
Jusan hurried to take the tongs from Declan, who glanced at Edvalt and then brought his hammer down on the cube, causing steel, clay, and paper to erupt in a burst of brilliant sparks. Declan slammed his hammer with the precise tempo of a bass drummer as Jusan deftly turned the long ash-covered metal bar with the tongs. Declan alternated blows in perfect counterpoint: crash, turn, crash, turn; the timing was critical, for this was steel for a sword of rare quality, worth the price of a hundred lesser weapons.
Edvalt watched Declan’s every move. This was the sixth time the young journeyman had participated in the creation of such a weapon, but the first time Edvalt had given Declan responsibility for every step. From judging materials to the final polish, Declan alone would determine the success or failure of his first jewel-steel sword. If successful, it would be his masterpiece, and the weapon that would elevate him from the rank of journeyman to the rank of master smith. If he made one mistake, the forging would begin again from the very start.
‘Good,’ muttered Edvalt, the only encouragement he would give Declan in his decision-making. Baron Bartholomy, the future owner of this blade, had given Edvalt ample time to fashion the weapon, and if Declan made any misstep, the old smith had enough time to fashion another.
Edvalt and Declan shared a bond closer than that of father and son. Fathers and their sons often disagreed, but masters and journeymen had one purpose: to ensure that the knowledge never died. Declan was the son Edvalt had never had; his daughter was now grown and married, and except for a stillborn son, there had been no other offspring.
They pounded and folded the steel, until Declan indicated with a nod that Jusan needed to insert the lengthened blank into the furnace. With one long stride, the young apprentice thrust the blade deep into the coals and began to turn it.
Declan watched every glimmer and spark on the hot metal, then put his hand on Jusan’s shoulder. ‘Now,’ he whispered, as if speaking loudly might imperil the process.
The young apprentice returned the blank to the anvil. Again their hammers landed powerful blows, and the heavy lump of red-hot metal slowly lengthened into a long flat blank of steel.
Declan said, ‘Tongs,’ and Jusan gave him the long handles.
As Edvalt took a step back to watch, Declan flipped the steel over at an angle and struck hard, then he folded the still-glowing metal over on itself, beating the oblong into a square. Edvalt could fold steel in half the time, but Declan’s speed would come with practice. All that mattered now was the quality of the steel.
This was crucial in the creation of the great blades. Declan would double this steel a dozen times; hours of deft hammering and heating lay ahead of him, but with each fold the process continued until hundreds of layers of metal would be created. When he was finished, this blade would hold at least five thousand, each strengthening the sword.
When Declan was satisfied with the square, he plunged it back into the forge, and Jusan pulled down the remaining clay walls of the steel furnace. No one outside the smithy would witness the manner of this sword’s construction, from how the clay was moulded into the furnace, every piece crushed to dust, to preparing the coal bed and stoking the ashes, and how the bellows would be repositioned above the open forge when they were finally finished: the special steel required for the commission was one of the most closely guarded secrets in all of Garn. Even Jusan was allowed to see only part of the process; most of the finishing work had been done by Edvalt alone or with Declan as he mastered the craft.
Jusan would be Edvalt’s last apprentice and Declan’s first, and one day he too would move on and establish his own forge somewhere. Good smiths were always in demand, and often among the most important commoners in the world, particularly those who forged weapons for the barons. Smiths and millers could also rise in position, accruing wealth enough to challenge the barons. They might never command armies, or live in castles, but they could live a life of decadence only dreamed of by other commoners.
Declan was driven by two desires: to forge his masterpiece and to make no mistake that would reflect badly on his master. He was an orphaned child, the son of a murdered tavern wench and a nameless father, who had been taken in by Edvalt and his wife, Mila. His master was as close to a father as Declan would ever know. The smith was a taciturn man who rarely showed emotion, but he had always tempered his stern nature with kindness, and Declan had a fierce desire to please him.
The young journeyman pulled the blade close to his face for the briefest instant, a habit he had learned from Edvalt as a means of testing the metal’s readiness for the next step. Declan judged the combination of colours in the metal and the level of heat rising from the steel. The young smith pushed the blade back into the coals.
Declan nodded, and Edvalt looked at Jusan and said, ‘You did well, too. Depart. Eat and rest.’
The younger apprentice needed no urging as he was hungry and tired, and he exited through the smaller door to the hall outside. Jusan knew that his lesson was over; the secrets now passed between master and journeyman might be his to learn one day, but it was not to be today.
Declan was to be shown the final step for the first time: the secret key to mastering the art of creating the blade.
‘Bellows?’ asked Declan.
Edvalt nodded agreement and put down his hammer to seize the massive arms of the bellows.
Suspended by thick chains, each wooden arm was the length of a cart trace and as thick as a man’s forearm, the large bellows bag fashioned from toughened leather. The old smith threw his considerable strength into pulling the arms apart, and the intake of air was like a giant’s gasp; then he pushed hard, sending a fountain of embers upwards into the copper and iron hood above the forge that kept them from igniting thatched roofs in the village.
Declan studied the hue of the blank and found the perfect spot within the embers. Then, without a word, Edvalt released the bellows, stooped to pick up a shuttle of coals, and deftly sprinkled them at the edge of the fire. Declan put down the hammer, picked up an iron, and, as Edvalt watched, began placing the new coals into the furnace, selecting spots where the new fuel would not lower the heat under the metal.
Then within seconds, Declan moved to the bellows. As he worked, the heat washed over master and journeyman in waves, but they ignored the discomfort, their attention focused completely. ‘Perfect,’ Edvalt muttered.
Years of patient training only manifested when the steel reached the proper temperature. Declan suddenly dropped the bellows handles and ducked underneath them. Seizing a pair of heavy tongs, he grabbed the near-flaming metal as Edvalt released the coal shuttle and reached for his heavy hammer. Declan grabbed another hammer and, without any instruction, struck down. As soon as his hammer cleared the steel, Edvalt’s smashed into the now-malleable metal.
Perspiration poured from their brows, backs, and arms, yet the men continued to hammer in a rhythmic pattern born only from years of working together; the steel flattened out. ‘Now we make magic,’ said Edvalt in the single most poetic statement Declan had ever heard from the smith. He had assisted Edvalt before in making this sort of rare blade, but until now had never been permitted to witness the final step.
Edvalt went to a tool chest and lifted out a modest wooden box. Declan had noticed it on the first day of his apprenticeship and had often wondered about its contents, but he had never voiced that curiosity.
Edvalt opened the box and inside it Declan saw fine grains of something that looked like salt, glowing red-orange in the forge’s light.
‘Sand from the Burning Lands,’ said the master smith. ‘You need to learn to do this alone, so come and stand where I am. This is the last secret of our craft that I can teach you.’
Declan moved to the other side of the forge, the tongs and hammer ready. ‘Flatten,’ Edvalt commanded, and Declan started to beat the red-hot metal, making it thinner on every blow.
‘Be ready,’ said the old smith as he placed the box next to Declan. ‘When I say now, you must do three things very quickly: first, judge the colour of the steel. Then take a handful of sand from this box and sprinkle it down the very centre of the blade. When the sand sparkles like stars in the heavens, you must then fold the steel one last time.’
Perspiration flowed in sheets down Declan’s face and chest, from both the heat and the concentration. He studied the metal, moving the blade around as he struck, then just as he judged it ready to fold, he heard Edvalt say, ‘Now!’
Declan put his hammer down and pulled the blade towards him as he grabbed a handful of fine sand; he felt the weight of it, measuring the amount he needed, and sprinkled the sand onto the flaming metal.
Smoke and flame erupted. Sand sparkled and flared into tiny bright pinpoints of white, and some stuck to the surface. ‘More along the right edge!’ instructed Edvalt at exactly the same moment Declan decided he needed more on that side. The young journeyman felt exhilarated: he was creating the soul of the sword.
‘Now! Edges only!’ said Edvalt, and suddenly Declan understood the secret: the sand hardened the steel with each blow. The slightly softer, more resilient centre prevented the sword from shattering, while the extra sand at the edge created a harder steel that could be honed razor sharp.
He knew!
Without hesitation or a second thought, Declan started to beat the steel until it began to look like the weapon the baron had commissioned: a stout sword of moderate length, long enough to reach over a horse’s neck, to use against men on foot without being a hindrance in the saddle. When he reached the end of the blade, he took it back to the furnace and inserted the tip into the coals. Declan tried not to show any excitement as he neared the end of his task, but he was almost light-headed with the anticipation of reaching this milestone. He forced himself to calm. When the colour deepened in the butt end of the blade, he pulled it from the coals, returned to the anvil, and deftly flipped the blade around so he could shape the blank, where the tongs had gripped, into a proper tang. Quickly he hammered the steel into submission.
Then it was done.
Declan looked at Edvalt. The smith held a bucket of water ready. Most smiths would plunge the rough blade straight into the water, quenching the heat and setting the steel’s hardness fast, but Edvalt preferred to hold his blade out as his apprentice poured water from the large wooden bucket across the metal. He claimed it was easier for him to judge the cooling process, to watch the colour of the blade change as the steam exploded on contact. Declan didn’t care what other smiths did; he knew the quality of his master’s work and was determined to be his equal.
This time it was the student who held the blade and the teacher who quenched it. When the blade had cooled enough, Edvalt gave his journeyman a quick nod of approval.
Declan used a heavy cloth and gripped the still-hot blade. He selected a guard and slipped it over the tang, ramming it down hard into a hole at the end of the anvil cut specifically for this purpose. Guards did occasionally break and need to be replaced, but Declan believed his sword would serve years without the slightest problem.
He retrieved a roll of thin bull hide, cut an inch wide, and quickly wrapped the tang to form the grip. When that was finished, he held the blade for a moment, testing its balance. He could hardly believe how perfect it felt. Hefting the sword, he glanced at his master.
Both men felt tears welling at the beauty of what they had created, and words between them were not necessary.
Edvalt moved to the large smithy doors and unlatched them, sliding them aside. Brilliant afternoon sunlight blinded both men for a moment; then a relatively cool wave of air refreshed them. It was a hot summer day, but the air inside the smithy when forging a sword was hotter still.
Declan asked, ‘Pommel?’
Edvalt shook his head. ‘If his lordship wished some fancy stone or metal, he failed to mention such. I will offer him the choice when he arrives.’
Declan tossed the blade hilt first and Edvalt deftly caught it. Declan went to the well and hauled up a bucket, unhooked it, and carried it back. Edvalt tucked the blade under his arm and took the bucket between large muscular hands, lifted it to his lips, and drank heavily, then allowed his student to follow suit.
Edvalt held up the sword and inspected it in the sunlight. He looked down its length and finally tossed it back to Declan.
The young man caught it and wielded it as a swordsman might. The sword was bluish-grey and needed to be ground to an edge with a fine finishing stone, then polished, first with foundation polish, then fine polish, then at last silk cloth. In another few days the blade would be ready and gleam a brilliant silver-grey in the sun. He glanced at his master, who looked on expectantly, and finally Declan handed it back and said, ‘I find no flaw.’
‘Because there is none,’ said Edvalt, and with an unexpected show of affection, he reached out with his free hand to give Declan’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘It is a fitting masterpiece. You did well.’
‘I was taught well,’ said Declan, emotions threatening to rise up.
Glancing around against being overheard, even by someone as trusted as his wife or apprentice, Edvalt spoke softly, just above a whisper. ‘The sand comes from the north side of an island. From the port city of Abala, on the edge of the Burning Lands, you ride a day eastwards along the shore until you come to bluffs. Follow the beach until you come to a jutting headland, and look up. You will see above you three massive trees, like dark sisters of cursed legend. Look due south, and if the day is clear, you will see the island. A strong man can swim there in an hour; do not rent a boat lest someone divine your purpose. Gather what you need from the deep sand above the high-water line; this box has served me for ten years. You know how much is needed for the blade, and in all your years here I have made but five such. One box should last you a lifetime.
‘Once safely hidden from curious eyes, sift the sand, many times, taking out all impurities, then boil it to a slurry and filter that. Cover the sand as you let the slurry dry, protected from impurities – even dust – then sift it again. That sand will be salt white, without blemish, and it is what sets this blade apart from other blades, even those made with jewel steel. This is what gives the blade a sharpness none can match. No other sand will do this. This sand is a perfect mix, put there by the old gods for smiths, for this secret goes back before the coming of the One God.’ He paused, then concluded: ‘You now possess the secret of king’s steel.’
Declan was astonished. Until this moment he had believed king’s steel was a legend, spoken of by smiths to amaze their apprentices, for it had been said in ancient times skills in armour and arms surpassed what was known today, that through war and time arts had been lost.
‘Five such blades have I made.’
‘But you never named the steel—’ began Declan.
Gripping his former apprentice’s shoulder, Edvalt stopped him. ‘And you must never give its name, until you have an apprentice you prize as highly as I prize you. Then you may share it, but with none other. Few smiths know it is not legend, and fewer still would recognise it.’ He smiled. ‘Most would judge it jewel steel, accomplishment enough by their lights, but those few who would see it for what it is … they would hold silent with that name as well.
‘This is the most valued secret of our craft and only a handful of us know it. Now you are the newest to that secret. Guard it with your life. For it is what will some day earn you a fortune. Teach it to your son, or another you love as a son.’
Declan nodded, fearful to speak lest his voice crack. Edvalt had been a father to him, though for his entire life the subject was never openly spoken upon by either man. Moisture gathered in his eyes and he nodded again.
Edvalt returned the nod, swallowing hard. Then he smiled slightly. ‘If Baron Bartholomy pays the agreed-upon price, I shall never again worry about the future, even if you do not buy this smithy from me.
‘One more caution: should you be approached to make such a weapon, do not even admit you possess the skill until you have a sworn oath that such a thing’ – he indicated the sword Declan held – ‘will never be spoken of to another; you are sharing in this secret with Baron Bartholomy because he is the buyer.’ Edvalt paused, looking deep into Declan’s eyes. ‘This is your masterpiece. Not even your apprentice must know of the difference between jewel steel and king’s steel until you name him master of the craft. You may never have such, so do not let your fear of the secret being lost cause you to give this gift to a lesser smith. There will always be a few.’ He put his hand on Declan’s shoulder, his eyes glistening; softly he added, ‘I was ready to take this to my grave, save that you appeared.’ He swallowed hard and returned to his brisk manner. ‘Aye, and should you have cause to even admit to another master your knowledge, it is done thus.
‘When asked, “This is a rare blade. It’s a jewel of a thing.” Then if you do not trust to answer or the other smith does not know of such a thing as king’s steel, you give thanks for the generous appraisal. But if the man is a master like yourself and you need to speak of this, the answer is, “Thank you; I think it a jewel fit for a king.” Then you will know you speak to your equal.’
Edvalt stopped speaking. After a moment, as if anticipating something remarkable in his life, he looked around slowly. Declan followed the sweep of his vision and saw what Edvalt saw.
The smithy was located at the west end of the village of Oncon. Their location kept them downwind most of the time from the other inhabitants, so the smoke, soot, and noise was less bothersome. That was a happy accident of terrain and weather; the location of the smithy had been chosen because of the ample supply of water from the well and easy access to the road above.
Edvalt continued to look into the distance, and Declan tried to guess what Edvalt was seeing. Declan recalled little of his life before coming here at roughly live years old. Still, he paused and took in what Edvalt was watching, because something about this moment seemed vital to the smith.
The ancient village of Oncon lay on Covenant lands near the kingdom of Ilcomen and was typical of many of the Covenant communities. So close to the border, it fared poorly in bounty from travellers; most continued on eastwards to the village of Bashe, or westwards to Ilagan, the first town of Ilcomen. It was an unfortunate traveller who timed his journey such that he needed to spend the night at Oncon’s excuse for an inn; there were no rooms and guests would sleep on the floor, even under the tables. The town survived on trade with local farms, mostly sheep destined for Ilagan’s spring fair, and there were enough fish from the sea to feed everyone. No one was rich in Oncon, but no one starved.
The local area, called the Narrows, was a bottleneck between the Western and Eastern Realms, and the fast route for travelling between North and South Tembria. It had changed over the years, slowly at first, but lately things seemed to be getting more dangerous. The Covenant was still being observed for the most part, but rumours of troubles in the east heading their way had caused Edvalt to caution the rest of the villagers to keep alert to strangers and be ready in case of trouble.
Declan occasionally wondered about that larger world away from his home village. He could see the occasional ship pass by if he was outside the smithy, and sometimes wondered where it was from.
This village, in the small area known as the Covenant, bridging North and South Tembria, was Declan’s world. The rest of Garn consisted of five smaller continents. The two closest, Alastor and Enast, were populated by barbarians and warlords, some self-proclaimed kings, gathered in city-states and holdfasts, but they were considered unworthy of mention by civilized men. Only traders and outlaws risked travelling there. Or that was what he had been told as a boy by those who stopped to have horses shod, or their wheel band or yoke repaired, and took a moment to speak to a curious boy. One man had actually claimed to have travelled to Alastor, where he met men who had been to the other side of the world.
All that was known of the other three continents was their names; their locations were often contested by mapmakers, and they were reputed to be home to monsters, malignant spirits, practitioners of the darkest magic, and a multitude of horrors and wonders. Declan had always doubted those claims. He had met enough travellers and overheard enough boasting at the little inn in Oncon to know stories grew with time and ale.
But he only knew Oncon.
Declan thought it wasn’t a bad place to live. He enjoyed the weather, for the seasons along the shores of the Narrows were clement: summers warm, winters mild. There was always ample food and ale. The sea breeze picked up, as it did this time of day, and Declan drank in its cool freshness; he realised he was tired to his bones and parched.
Taking a drink from the bucket, Declan looked up to see Edvalt watching him. Just loud enough to be heard, the old smith softly asked, ‘What do you see, boy?’
Declan smiled. ‘Home.’
Edvalt nodded. ‘Aye, and not a bad one as such things go.’ He put his hand on Declan’s shoulder. ‘When you came here, you travelled with a family that wasn’t your own. They apprenticed you to me in exchange for repairing their wagon …’ His voice fell away. ‘It took only one glance to see their story was true, for you were a large boy, with eager eyes, and their children were all small, frightened things.’ He chuckled. ‘Mila was so angry that I’d taken in a lad who would be no help to us for years, for you were so young. Yet from the start you sought to earn your keep, struggling to haul the big coal scuttle, or bravely holding the fractious horses while I shod them.
‘But you won her over, lad.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You’re the best I’ve trained, Declan, and if I had a son of my own, I would want him to be like you. Should you wish to start out on your own, I understand, but if you’ve a mind to agree, I would be pleased for you to take this forge as your own.’
‘You’ve a lot of good years left, Edvalt, and I don’t know if … I don’t know.’ Declan hesitated. He wasn’t entirely sure how Edvalt’s offer made him feel. ‘I’ve been of a mind to set out and find my own way, settle down with a good woman, start my own family.’
‘Not a bad choice. Think on it. For today I pronounce you a master smith and my equal.’
‘Never that, master.’
Edvalt’s eyes showed his feelings, but being a man of few words, he could only put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly before he turned and headed into his home.
Declan remained alone for a while, as fatigue and emotion threatened to overwhelm him. Then after a few minutes, he followed Edvalt into the house.
• CHAPTER THREE • (#ulink_1144623c-1860-526c-a1a0-48c9f4244ac2)
Dangerous Discovery (#ulink_1144623c-1860-526c-a1a0-48c9f4244ac2)
Dockworkers hauled the ship into its berth in the north dock of the city of Sandura. Seven men pulled on a thick hawser, while two youngsters quickly arranged the wooden fenders between its hull and the dock, so that the tidal motion of the sea wouldn’t damage the ship as it rubbed against the stone. It had arrived in port on the morning tide, but by the time a harbour boat with a hawser had rowed out and tossed lines to the crew in the prow, it was nearing noon.
Hatu finished reefing the sails and slid down a rope to the railing, jumped over it, and made for the sailors’ deck, where his go-bag was stored. The deck crew made fast everything that needed to be tied down, while Hatu and the rest of the aloft crew headed belowdecks.
As Hatu wended his way through the clutter of sailors to his hammock, he saw many of the men removing leather neck thongs and untying small objects from their belt loops. He recognised them as various icons of Othan, goddess of the sea and weather, and realised the crew were hiding them in various spots on the sailors’ deck. Hatu understood that meant they were now somewhere the Church of the One held sway and to be seen with any item associated with an old god could land a man on top of a heretic’s pyre.
On reaching the main deck, Hatu spied Master Bodai. Seeing the boy, he motioned for him to come stand at his side. When the youngster reached the man playing the part of a mendicant friar, Bodai said, ‘We wait.’ He leaned on a shoulder-high walking stick, almost a battle staff but not as conspicuous, though Hatu was certain Master Bodai could employ it as such with lethal effect should the occasion warrant.
It took Hatu a moment to realise that the play had begun; as one of the most important masters in Coaltachin, Bodai would usually be first off the ship, but here, as an impoverished monk, he would be among the last passengers to leave.
When the passenger before them had departed, Bodai put his hand on Hatu’s shoulder. ‘Be ready,’ he instructed.
Hatu nodded. He had questions but knew they would keep until a more private moment; until then, he would simply follow instructions and Brother Bodai’s lead. Hatu fell into step behind Bodai, moving last onto the gangplank, keeping his head down, and attempting to look the part of an inconsequential servant.
On the dock, they were just steps away from the gangplank when two men approached, a soldier with the yellow and red badge of Sandura on his tunic, and another wearing a large black badge with a solid white circle at its centre: the sign of the One.
It was the servant of the Church of the One who spoke. ‘Who are you, traveller?’
‘Brother Chasper, late of Turana, an island of Lanobly.’
‘Brother?’ he replied. ‘You wear no vestment or badge.’
The newly named Chasper smiled broadly and said, ‘I am a mendicant friar of the Order of the Harbinger. This is my beggar boy, Venley.’
A look of confusion crossed the soldier’s face and the officer of the Church looked annoyed. ‘We expected an episkopos of your order and his retinue …’ He left the sentence unfinished and made a general circular motion encompassing the itinerant monk.
‘The episkopos hasn’t arrived?’ said Bodai, feigning alarm. ‘I was supposed to join him, to then carry news …’ He gave a sigh that Hatu, now named Venley, thought a hit too theatrical.
