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
