V3: Chalice Steel

Turning the long, straight saber to catch the forge’s light on the gleaming steel blade, Sarj Beorn nodded his approval. It was a true Alistair weapon, massively oversized for an unaltered man but light and quick when mated to his own grip. Single edged and razor sharp, the sword was etched from the brass handguard and leather wrapped hilt to halfway to the angular tip with runes for lightness and durability. Even with his layman’s knowledge of the workings of magic, he recognized the old and trusted formula used by swordsmiths from time out of mind.

Chalice Steel, one of the ancient strengths of the Lakelands. Taken from the red earth of the southern hills as raw iron ore like any other, blasted and purified with intense heat, beaten and molded by skilled hands, and marked with runes until it was… something else. Blood and sweat and secret magic, all to bring out the soul hidden inside the crude form. Analogies drawn between the native metal and native people around Chalice Lake were everyday fare, particularly regarding those who rose to the highest reaches of the hierarchy.

“This is fine work, Master Harden,” he said, eyes still running over the weapon. At the corner of his vision, he saw that the grimly stoic expression on the much shorter man’s face had not changed. Even so, there was a gleam of satisfaction in his bright yellow eyes, hidden in the deep wrinkles of long years of exposure to the coal-fired furnace which glowed fiercely in one corner of the smithy. Long rods of bar stock protruded over its stony lip, awaiting their turn to be given a true shape with hammer and anvil.

“Thank you, Bossman,” Harden said, gruff and gravelly as ever. Not a man who was naturally predisposed or familiar with deferring to anyone, or even being polite, the master swordmaker was having a difficult time shaping the right sounds with which to address a superior. As usual, he instead delved into brusque technicality, where function sent forms on their merry way, much to the chagrin of the three awe-struck youths waiting to one side. “That’s a two-day sword, one for smithing and one for the runes. Only got the three of ‘em over there to help, strong backs and weak minds. I’m looking for another rune-wise apprentice, but they’re in short supply. Two days, if I have the iron. Can’t rush things any more than that.”

He rolled the last sentence out defensively, probably expecting that Sarj would make some ludicrous and ignorant demand about speeding up the process. For himself, the Outfit’s top boss knew exactly what happened when such demands were made; ill-forged swords which broke in battle, runes without the proper attention paid to their alignment, and all of it perfectly reasonably blamed on fatigue and excessive haste in production. No fault of the creator, who would have much rather spent more time and care; and gotten a full night’s sleep, of course. Alas, the folly of the client, who needed their sword right now and no excuses, such a shame.

Master Harden and his type certainly knew more about runes and steel, but Sarj Beorn understood logistics at least as well. Some things came when they came, some things failed to arrive at all. That was why he had made his desires clear; just make them light and sturdy. In the future, the swordmakers and rune-wise of Shylo would be allowed to return to their slow, careful experimentation in search of flaming swords and blades that never lost their edge, arrow heads that would seek their target's heart or even wooden lance-shafts that would not break. For now, he needed Chalice Steel in trained hands, and faster was better than fancier.

“There’s no rush,” Sarj said casually, sheathing the sword and setting it back on the handcart with its fellows. Rather than have some grand piece with a month’s effort behind it displayed to him, he had chosen several of the many blades which would eventually find themselves in the hands of soldiers. Elite soldiers, to be sure, the dogriding Alistairs which were the cream of Lakelander society and its brutal right hook on the field of battle. But the Outfit had less prestigious smiths for the manufacturing of spear- and arrow-heads for the use of the rankers, a task which most masters left to their apprentices in any case. “There’s no lesson here, either. You’re highly praised, Master Harden, and your good work will be marked in my account.”

Making a guttural, harrumphing old-man-sound, Harden ground his sooty hands together as he appraised the Bossman. “Fine. Thank you. In that case, I’ll get back to my good work.” Waving a hand at the shuffling trio of apprentices, he sent them leaping to their positions.

One hauled on the bellows to bring the forge roaring to life, another set about arraying tools in strategic places around the smithy, while the third headed for the cart of swords Sarj stood next to. Even as Harden picked up his tongs and headed for the forge, ignoring the Bossman as if he had suddenly ceased to exist, the lad raised his fist to his breast in a rather awkward salute before bending to take the cart by its handles.

Following the apprentice out of the suddenly heat-blasted confines of the smithy, Sarj tugged the collar of his loose shirt open to let spring’s cool air down onto his prickling skin. Even the warming sunlight of late morning was chilly in comparison to that hellish environment, and he heard the apprentice give his own gusty sigh of relief at the reprieve as the young man headed toward the street with his burden.

His morning’s meeting reminded Sarj of something his exalted clan-father used to say, usually after a long bout of dickering over materiel. “Bunch of damned prime movers. If there’s a hundred smiths in the Lakelands, there’s ninety and nine who won’t work together. If I could get all those bastards together in one place, bang their heads together and make ‘em work for me, I’d run the whole world by the next week with an alae left over to raid the stars.”

Mejis Beorn had never managed to get a hundred smiths working together under his banner, nor build a great Lakelander city. Had never aimed to do so himself, once youthful ambition fled him to be replaced by the calculating rationality that characterized his later years. His efforts had been spent on the equally worthy goal of building his tribe’s strength, drawing inter-clan tensions out like poison from blood, and fostering unity between the disparate Bear bloodlines. Success in those endeavors were what had laid the groundwork for Sarj’s own achievements, past and future.

Stepping out into the bustling street, with carts of produce and materials jockeying for space with those laden with tools and goods headed for the freeholds, Sarj found his boots turning in an unexpected direction. Drawn like a lodestone to steel, he headed for the longhouse which housed the Bear tribe’s few but respected elders, those who had survived their bloody prime to achieve dotage. Old Mejis would probably grumble at being reminded that the world spun on without his hand on the reins, but it would do him and Sarj both some good.