HONOR BOUND (The Spare Heir) (22 page)

Jorem’s eyes stung and he nearly gagged from the smell.  The entire room was dimmed from the haze that hung in the air.  Franks opened the door, but even with that, it took a while for the air in the room to clear.  When the air finally did clear, Franks motioned for Jorem to get back to the bellows.  With a little reluctance, Jorem returned to pumping air through the bellows to get the heat of the forge back.

The smith pulled the cooled sword from the barrel and wiped it clean.  The wet surface of the sword glistened in the light.  Returning to the forge, he turned the blade and placed only the very tip of the handle into the heated coals.  Wisps of smoke slowly drifted from the handle and then the blade as the residue from the liquid in the barrel gradually burned off.  The smell of the smoke burning off of the blade again filled the air.  Jorem could barely breathe through the overpowering stench.

The smith stood watching the blade as if he expected it to do something.  Jorem had to shake his head at the intensity of the smith’s gaze.  It was, after all, a piece of metal.  There was little chance it was going to run off on its own.  Just as Jorem finished that thought, the smith picked up the tongs, grasped the sword and once more thrust it into the barrel.  The smoke and mist that came from the barrel was not as bad as before.  Then again, the sword was not as hot as before, and the door was already open.  Franks examined the blade closely as he pulled it from the barrel.  Finally, he laid it down on a bench.

“Good,” he said.  “Very good.  One more night’s work should have it ready for Ben to finish.  This way I will be able to present it to Pertheron when the Duke comes to inspect the other swords.”

Brushing himself off, the smith removed his apron and left Jorem to clean things up.  Once again, Jorem was too tired to do more than a little straightening before his strength abandoned him.  The forge was still too hot to clean out so that would have to wait.  He wasn’t sure what to do with the barrel of, well, whatever it was, so he put a cover on it and left it there.  Finishing up as best he could, Jorem left to get what sleep the few scant hours left of the night would allow.

The next day was much like those before it.  By noon, Ben and Jorem had nearly caught up with Franks as he was finishing the blades.  The smith held up the last two swords that Jorem had roughed out.  He looked thoughtful for a moment, then took the two swords and leaned them in a corner of the room.

“These two I think will have to wait for another time,” the smith said with a sigh.  Taking up several stones, Franks started going over the edges of each sword.  The stones he used were of varying shades of green and gray.  He used each stone in turn on each blade.  The steady rhythm of scraping stone on steel had an odd soothing effect.  Jorem found himself in an almost trancelike state.  So accustomed to the ringing of the hammer, this seemed almost peaceful.

By the day’s end, he and Ben had finished the grips on all of the swords.  Franks had finished putting an edge on them as well.  The smith had started sharpening what Jorem had come to refer to as “The Sword.”  The sound of the stones on this sword was different than on the others.  It had a higher pitch and when the stone left the sword there was a musical ring to it.  Unlike the other swords, the sharpened edge of this one did not shine in the light, but instead remained the dull, smoky shade of the rest of the blade.

When Jannett came to help Ben back to the house, Jorem had to shake his head in amusement.  Over the past few days, he and Ben had developed something of a friendship.  Yet Jannett still acted as if he didn’t exist.  She never even looked at him let alone spoke to him.  Ben, for his part, looked drawn and weary.  The work of wrapping and binding the grips of the swords had tasked him far more than he would admit.

As Jorem watched Ben limp out the door, he was reminded of something Pentrothe had said that only now rang true. 
“It is not the grand achievements that make a good man, but the diligence with which he acquits himself of his daily tasks.”
  To Jorem’s mind, Ben was well on his way to becoming a very good man.

After Ben left, Jorem sat and watched the smith sharpen “The Sword.”  It took Franks far longer to achieve an edge that satisfied him on this sword than it had on the others.  When he finally stood up, he held the sword close to his eyes and studied each finger length of the blade intensely.

“The metal is harder than I thought it would be.”  The smith spoke more to himself than to Jorem.  “Perhaps too hard.  I fear it may prove to be a weak blade after all.”

Franks carried the sword over to another bench on which stood the large anvil he used for much of his work.

“Better to find out now than later,” the smith muttered.

Raising the sword above his head, the smith gripped it with both hands.  He brought the sword down on the anvil with all of his might.  Jorem winced at the shower of sparks that flew from the anvil.  Instead of the crashing ring that Jorem had expected there was a swishing sound accompanied by a high-pitched ting.

Franks stood looking at the anvil in amazement.  Not only had the sword not broken, it had actually cleaved cleanly through the anvil.  The tapered portion of the anvil on which Jorem had tried so unsuccessfully to form a horseshoe lay rocking on the bench, the sword resting beside it.  Franks held up the sword to see what damage had been done to the sharpened edge.  Not so much as a scratch could be found.  Almost reverently, the smith carried the sword over to Jorem and laid it on the bench there.  They stood there for a time without speaking, just staring at the amazing blade they had created.

Finally, the smith broke the silence.  “Only the Folk could make a better sword than this.  I’ve only heard tell of them.  Those that have seen one of their blades are either dead or hiding in fear.  This blade though, will serve Pertheron well.  If he should fall in battle, it will not be for lack of a fine sword.”

Franks opened a drawer in the bench and pulled out several cans and a handful of rags.  The cans were numbered and he set them in order across the bench.  Gripping the first can, he pried off the lid and set both lid and can down in front of Jorem.  The can was filled with a dark thick paste that reminded Jorem a little of the goop in the barrel.

“This last bit I will leave to you,” the smith said.  “Use the paste from each can in turn.  Use a different rag for each paste.  Start with this one and go over the entire blade until the finish is the same on the whole surface of both sides.”   Picking up a rag and dabbing it in the paste, the smith rubbed it across the blade firmly and evenly.  “When you have finished with the first paste, wipe the blade clean.  Get a clean rag and begin again with the next can.  When you are finished, it should look much like a mirror.  I should like to be well-rested when the Duke comes tomorrow, so I will leave you to it.”

Jorem took a short break to get something to eat before he started on the sword.  From the way Franks had spoken, the task shouldn’t take long and Jorem was looking forward to a better night’s sleep than he had gotten for a while.  As he sat at the bench and began the process with the first paste he quickly realized it might take longer than he’d thought.  There were six cans of paste and it took two full marks to finish with the first can.  The hardest part was getting the entire surface of the blade to look the same.  At this rate, he realized, it was going to be a very long night.

Chapter XXIII

Morning found a weary-eyed Jorem still at his task.  He was using the paste from the sixth and final can.  The sword was polished so that it reflected the least bit of light.  The color of the blade, however, was not the bright silver the smith had said it would be.  Instead, it had a smoky gray luster almost like stained glass.  If Jorem had seen it in the market he would have admired the beauty of it, but he would never think it to be anything but ornamental.  The odd color and high polish looked more like decorative glass than any metal he had ever seen.

When the smith arrived Jorem was just finishing up.  Franks was surprised to see that Jorem was still there.  He was even more surprised at how the sword had polished.  Picking up the sword, the smith ran his fingers along the blade and closely examined both sides.  He stared at it so intently Jorem was certain he’d done something wrong or that the smith had found some mark or scratch that had been missed.

“A fine job,” the smith said, nodding his head.  “I thought I might need to do some finishing, but this is superb.  I’d not expected such an odd coloring.”

Setting the sword back down on the bench, Franks wiped his hands off on a rag.  He looked about the room and scratched the stubble on his face.  He was wearing what Jorem supposed were his best work clothes.  Apparently the smith wanted to make a good impression on the Duke.

“Would you help Ben with the grip on this sword while I check the other swords one last time?  Then I think we will move a few benches outside so the Duke will have better light to see with.”

Jorem looked about the room and could see what the big man was really thinking.  The place was a mess.  They had spent so much time working on the sword for Pertheron that Jorem hadn’t kept up on the daily cleaning.  He thought it funny that a year ago the smith would have thought this was clean and had no second thoughts about the Duke seeing it this way.  Just then Ben came through the door.

Ben had managed to make his way from the house on his own.  His limp was evident but so was his determination.  Jorem could plainly see the pain each step caused.  Jorem stood and pulled a stool out for the other boy.  Ben nodded to Jorem gratefully and limped over to the stool where he sat down.  Franks reached over and slid the sword over in front of Ben.

Ben’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the blade.  “It’s beautiful, Father.  How did you manage this color?”

“This is the blade for Perth,” the smith responded.  “Do you think you can finish the grip before the Duke arrives?”

Ben picked up the sword and felt its balance.  “I think I have just the thing.  I’ll need to use a heavier silver wire to move the balance back a bit, but it should work out well.”

“I’ll trust you to finish it up then.”  The smile that Franks gave his son was one of pride and love.  “Jorem, when you’re finished here, come give me a hand with the benches.”

While the smith went to check the finished swords, Ben began picking through his pouches.  He chose a polished silver bar with a forward hook for the cross guard.  For the grip he chose dark gray suede and a thick silver wire to bind it.  With Jorem’s help, the job was done in just over a mark.  The finished sword looked like something out of a tale.  A claw shaped pommel held the silver corded wire that spiraled up the grip of shadowy gray suede to twine around the sides of the cross guard.  The silver of the cross guard reflected off of the throat of the glossy blade.  All the sword lacked was some magic, a name and a legend to be written about it.

Ben packed all of his supplies back into their pouches while Jorem and Franks moved a couple of the benches outside.  The smith insisted on bringing an anvil out as well.  Luckily, he chose one of the smaller ones.  If he had wanted the larger one they would have had to use the neighbor’s workhorse to haul it out.  Then they began bringing out the swords and arranging them on the benches. They made a beautiful display in the sunshine. Light glimmered off of nearly every surface.

The smith brought out the two swords that he had deemed unusable and stuck them tip down into the dirt at the end of one of the benches.  The grips on those two swords had not been finished.  Nor had the smith done more than minor finishing on the blades. They looked very out of place compared to the finished swords.  Jorem wondered why the smith wanted them out with the rest of the finished swords but the arrival of a group of horsemen prevented him from asking.

The Duke had brought his son, Pertheron, and four other men with him.  Three of the men were obviously guardsmen while the fourth had more the look of a clerk.  As the riders dismounted, the smith’s wife and daughter came out to greet them.  Jorem chose to remain by the door to the smithy as the smith greeted the Duke and his future son-in-law.  Franks looked a little nervous but the Duke put him at ease with a friendly clap on the back.  Jannett, on the other hand, could not have been pried from the side of the Duke’s son.

The men gathered around the benches and began to examine the array of swords.  Pertheron showed far more interest in the details of each sword than any of the others.  The Duke expressed concern that the grips were not the same but was quickly satisfied by Ben’s explanation of a fighter needing a grip that suited his hand.  All in all, they were quite pleased with the quality of the smith’s workmanship.

The smith stepped over to the two swords he’d stuck into the ground.  “Before you go, Duke Rodney, there is something I would like to show you.  I understand that you commissioned several smiths to make swords for your men.  I believe mine are the first that you have come to inspect.”

At the Duke’s nod, the smith continued.  “Not all swords are as they appear.  These two swords look and feel as well crafted as any you see before you.  They are not.  I kept them only so that I could show you how to find flaws that are hidden from the untrained eye.”

Taking one of the swords, the smith slid the blade between two of the heavy boards that made up the top of one of the benches.  When about a third of the length of the blade was through the bench top the smith grasped the unfinished grip and pushed sideways on the sword.  With the strength and weight of the smith pressing against it, the blade slowly bent over.  When the smith released the grip the blade remained bent over.

“A proper blade would spring back to its original shape. This metal was made too soft.  It would loose its edge quickly and eventually it would fail and be discarded.” Frank’s voice was firm and clear as he spoke.

Taking the second sword by the grip in both hands the smith raised it above his head and swung it down striking the anvil that rested on the bench top.  With a sharp crack the blade shattered as it struck the anvil. Shards of metal pelted the ground.  A few pieces actually stuck into the side of the building.