The Realms Thereunder

5

The blacksmith staggered into his workshop, exhausted from hewing stones. He felt the uncommon chill of the room caused by the forge having grown cold while he had been helping to repair the wall. Moving to the fire pit, he stirred the embers with an unfinished sword shaft and shoveled in a couple scoops of coal. This was no enchanted fire but one that needed constant attention. Right now he needed it to be hot-a working flame. In a small handcart by the door he had chisels and picks that needed to be sharpened and tempered for work on the repairs.

As he watched the new coal catch, he became aware of a shuffling behind him. He expected his assistant, and was about to berate him for letting the fire burn so low, when he saw the shape in the doorway. Turning fully, he saw one of the lifiendes- the boy-clutching a sword in his hands. Clearing his throat, he gruffly asked the lad his business.

The boy held up his weapon and mumbled something. He asked the boy to speak up.

“I-I’ve seen some of the knights’ swords have got writing on them,” he stammered. “Could you do that for me?”

The blacksmith said that he could.

“I’d like to have my name on this sword, in the same writing as theirs.”

The blacksmith huffed and stepped towards him, taking the sword from his hands. He turned it over and recognised the work and style. He tapped the steel with a hammer and listened for its hardness. It was a soft blade and he told the boy so. He saw the young one’s face fall and hastened to explain that this blade’s edge was as sharp as any hard blade’s edge but had less chance of shattering than a hard one. It would serve him well, provided he didn’t use it to fence with rocks. As to the name, he replied that it could be easily done, but why should it be done?

The boy said softly, “Because I’m going on a dangerous mission and I might not come back. And if someone finds my sword . . . I want them to know that it was mine, and that I tried.”

The blacksmith smoothed his beard and nodded as he turned his broad back. He rooted around on a high shelf and found a scrap of parchment. He laid it in front of the boy and gave him a stick of charcoal, instructing him to write his name in plain letters, as he wanted it to appear on the blade. As he waited he noticed the child’s thin legs, weak arms, and small chest. His mind went back to a time when children were not an unfamiliar sight, even in his own house. He thought how unsuited this child was to a sword of any type. Was he raised with an illness, or just born small and thin? Perhaps all children looked this way now. Or perhaps they always had and he’d forgotten.

The boy finished and straightened himself, placing the charcoal flat on the table. He scratched away for a few moments and then looked up. “I’d like a name for it. What are some good sword names?”

The smith shrugged and gave him some-many famous, others not so. Gradually, they came to an agreement about what the sword’s name should be and the blacksmith instructed the boy that the work would be sent to the Langtorr in due time. The boy thanked him and then left.

The blacksmith returned to his forge, heaped more coal into the fire pit, and started working the bellows.