The Swordmakers

"... And this is where you'll be setting up," Sarj said, waving a hand at the row of two story buildings lining the street. Each was made of stone and timber, with boarded roofs and shuttered windows; they were in the style of small longhouses, each one with a courtyard fit for a small garden. "Your workshops below, housing above. These were built with smithies in mind, so you needn't worry about smoking out your wives and children."

The group of tribesmen nodded and muttered among themselves, pointing features out to each other as they followed their new liege down the street. These were the master smiths of their tribes and clans, whose skill forged the shining backswords that had become the symbol for fear and death to a dozen cities of the West. Closer to holy men than those who made horseshoes and nails and plowshares, revered and respected for their ability to create the instruments of war carried by every Alistair. They were some of the wealthiest men of the tribes around the Chalice, but even their standards were comparatively low; a house for one family? What would they do with all the extra space? For that, Sarj had an answer.

"Of particular note to those of you without wives, there are a great many women who came from the west with me who are having a hard time staying busy. We're drawing a lottery soon to see which of them will be assigned to serve in these homes as cooks, laundresses, all that. They'll seem meek and small, if you haven't seen one already, but they work hard and passionately." Chuckles, a couple of the younger men rubbing their hands together expectantly. These were his people, the giants of Chalice Lake, to whom any foreign woman would seem rather on the short and slender side. Not that they minded.

Unlike the plainsmen he was bringing in to run his stables and horse ranches, Sarj didn't need to give these men the speech about merit and service deserving of their station. Those policies were not his own creation, as so many westerners thought, but the simple traditions of his people, under which they were born and died. He was already the greatest war-leader their people had ever known, with enough tribesmen under his sway to settle and build a true city. Not everyone liked the idea, but no one before him had ever tried such an experiment in this part of the world. The men before him at least understood the concept of hitching themselves to a rising star, if not the great dream which had been born thousands of miles to the west.

Beckoning his military apprentice forward, he directed their attention to the heavy ledger Axel held open to a fresh page on a tray, along with inkwell and pen. "If you agree to join the Outfit, make your mark on my roster here. My apprentice will have a sign made for each of you that will bear that mark on the front of your home, so that all may seek your skills out without mistake." That was simple enough, since traditionally any swordsmith had a unique signature which he would etch into those blades that were wrought at his hands.

As they stepped up one by one to sign his roster, Sarj took another look down the street, here on the edge of the growing city. On one side, solid stone and timber houses, from which the greatest arms and armor of an era would be produced. On the other, a flat stretch of cleared ground that went on until the distant treeline. One more good beginning, he thought to himself with quiet pride. Tomorrow, another.