Devlin's Luck (8 page)

He had no reason to question her judgment. And Captain Drakken’s sword had been well made, which spoke for this Timo’s skill. But he could not shake the sense that there was something more going on here than a few flawed swords.

“You should assume that all the swords are tainted, and have them melted down and reforged. And if your smith had a broken arm, no doubt there were other commissions that he had to refuse. Have your guards check every weapon they have for flaws. Ask everyone what else the traitor may have worked on, no matter how big or small, and if there is any doubt, have it forged anew,” he said, his voice firm as if he were giving orders to one of his apprentices. Even as he spoke, he knew the words were not wholly his own. It was the Chosen One who spoke, and who felt entitled to give orders to the Captain of the Guard.

Captain Drakken gave him a measuring look, but he returned her gaze steadily.

“Do you truly think this necessary? It will mean a great deal of work, not to mention expense to the treasury …”

“Do it,” he said sharply. “Even if you find nothing, it will reassure the guards. You do not want to lead them into battle when they are not sure if they can trust their weapons.”

She grimaced. “I doubt very much that the King will let us see battle anytime soon. He holds us too close to the city, safe away from the disturbances that plague the out-lands. But I will do as you say.”

He nodded. “And if you have no objection, I would speak with this smith myself.”

The forge was located on the northern side of the palace grounds, just inside the inner stone wall. As Devlin stepped through the narrow entranceway, he was struck at once by the fierce heat. Against the far wall the fire bed glowed. Iron rang against steel as the smith expertly hammered away at a horseshoe. At Devlin’s entrance the smith looked up but then returned his gaze to his work.

Devlin looked around, noticing that the forge boasted not one but four anvils, of differing sizes. There were two workbenches, each of which had an assortment of hammers, tongs, chisels, punches, and other tools for working metal. Raw bars of iron, steel, and other metals lay on racks, while near the door were shelves containing examples of the smith’s work, knives, buckles, saddle irons, and horseshoes.

Save that the building was made of wood, not stone, he could have been in his master’s forge in Alvaren. A sudden wave of longing swept over him as he remembered how once he had dreamed of his own forge, and of the great work that he would do there.

The hammering increased in tempo as the shoe neared completion. Then the smith moved the shoe from the bick of the anvil to the flat face. Laying down the tongs, he picked up a punch in his left hand. Seven quick blows resulted in seven perfect nail holes. Returning the hammer and punch to the tool rack, the smith then used the tongs to pick up the shoe and douse it in the trough of water. When the water ceased hissing he pulled the shoe out and turned it over in his hands to inspect it. After a moment he nodded, placing the shoe with a stack of others on the bench.

Only then did he acknowledge Devlin.

“Good day to you,” he said.

“Master Timo, is it not?”

The smith nodded.

“Captain Drakken spoke well of you,” Devlin said. “I have some work to be done, and will pay you well for the use of your forge and tools.”

“You wish to use my forge, but to do the work yourself?”

“Yes.”

“No.” Master Timo shook his head emphatically. “There’s not enough gold in the Kingdom to pay me to stand by while some fool who fancies himself a smith ruins my tools.”

Devlin understood the smith’s reluctance. If this were his forge, he’d feel the same. In his head a voice insisted that there was no reason to try and persuade the smith. As Chosen One, Devlin could simply order the man to obey. Devlin ignored the voice, and tried again.

“I apprenticed for seven years, and served as journeyman for three more. I understand your concern, and I would not ask if my need were not great.”

“Let me see your hands.”

Devlin shifted his pack on his shoulder, and propped his staff against the door. Then he held out his hands, turning them over so the smith could see the faint scars that he bore on both sides. Even the most careful of smiths had scars to show the risks of working with hot metal, and Devlin bore his fair share.

Master Timo grunted. “It has been a while since you worked your trade. But those are the hands of a smith. I will not lend you my tools, but for sake of our craft, tell me what you want done and I will do it for you without cost.”

Devlin hesitated for a moment, tempted. The task itself was easy enough, just fitting the axe head onto the new helve. Any reasonably skilled smith could do it. But it was no ordinary war-axe. Deep inside his bones he knew the weapon itself was cursed, and he could not ask this man to take the risk that the curse would fall on him as well.

“I thank you for your kindness, but I must refuse. There are some things a man must do for himself. If you will not reconsider, I will look for another.” In a city this size, he was sure to find at least one smith who would have fewer scruples about lending his tools to a stranger. Devlin reclaimed his staff and turned to leave.

“Wait,” the smith called.

Devlin stopped and turned back. The smith bore a faint frown as he regarded him. “As long as you are here, you can take a look at something.”

He moved over to the workbench at the far corner, and motioned Devlin to join him. A copper armband lay on the workbench. Favored by soldiers as a luck token, this armband was marred by a crack that split it nearly in two.

“The owner offered me twice its value if I could fix it. I can’t, but then steel is my specialty. If you can fix it, then I’d consider lending you a forge and some tools.”

Devlin picked it up and turned it over in his hands. “Old work, this,” he said. It was an elegant piece, showing a woodland scene in exquisite detail. The crack ran right through the central figure of a deer leaping over a stream. A border done in the old trefoil style ran along the top and bottom of the piece, framing the design. He guessed this piece had been made thirty or forty years ago, most likely in Duncaer. In a country where steel was rare, the Caer smiths had developed the art of working with copper to a high degree. Devlin himself had made dozens of similar pieces, before he had given up the craft to join his brother in the New Settlements.

“If I had my own tools, and a decent grade of mountain copper …” Devlin mused. “No, even then the chances are that I would destroy it entirely. You’d best tell the owner that it is beyond repair.” Reluctantly he placed the armband back on the workbench.

The smith nodded in apparent agreement. “That is what I thought. It takes a good man to know when a job is beyond him, and an honest one to admit it. Here, my apprentice is gone for the day. You can use his bench and tools for whatever it is that you are so desperate to do.”

His sudden agreement caught Devlin by surprise. “I thank you,” he said.

Master Timo showed him the bench he was to use, then returned to his own work. Placing his pack on the floor, Devlin reached in, withdrew the axe head, and laid it on the bench. Then he set the staff beside it. The staff was black oak from the hills of Duncaer. It had withstood the long journey far better than Devlin himself. Now it would serve as the new helve.

First he trimmed the staff to the correct length. Then he used a chisel and awl to set the holes for the rivets. Taking a bar of copper the length of his hand, he heated it in the fire, then hammered it into a cylinder on the anvil. He then split the cylinder in two, forming the rivets. While they were still hot, he measured them against the holes he had made, and was pleased to see that they were a perfect match.

Now came the tricky part. If not done correctly, the helve would shatter and he would have to start again with a new piece of wood. Carefully he placed the butt of the helve in the vise, then tightened it until it held firm. Then he lifted the axe head with the tongs and brought it to the fire. He held the shank of the blade above the edge of the fire bed, knowing that too much heat would ruin the temper of the blade. Just as the socket began to glow, he removed it from the fire. Then he turned and aligned the axe head over the top end of the helve. It slipped down the width of two fingers. Using the tongs in his left hand to hold it steady, he began to tap the top of the axe head with the hammer in his right. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the axe head was forced onto the helve.

When he could see the top of the helve through the socket, he relinquished his tongs. But he kept hammering, checking the alignment with every blow, until the holes in the axe head had perfectly aligned with those he had drilled into the helve.

Unclamping the helve from the vise, he positioned the axe so that its head protruded over the anvil. He tossed the copper rivets into an iron cup, then set the cup in the fire bed. A few moments later the rivets were brightly glowing. Exchanging the large tongs for a smaller set, he pulled the iron cup from the fire bed, then grasped the first of the rivets. Aligning it over the hole, he tapped it into the socket with one blow. He then did the same with the second.

The rivets were just slightly longer than the width of the socket. With a few quick blows on first one side, then the other, he capped off the rivets at each end, completing the weld. As he finished, the metal had already cooled to the point where it no longer glowed with heat. He turned the axe over in his hands. The rivets appeared perfect, although he would need to test the axe to be sure. And last time it had been not the axe, nor the rivets, but the helve itself that had failed him.

Still it was done. He hefted the axe, trying to see it only as a weapon, once broken, now made whole again. But he could not, for the axe was bound up with his life. Seeing it, he could not help but remember the pride he had felt when first he forged the axe head, and set the blade on a helve. But that pride was overshadowed by the memory of all that had happened since that day, and of all that he had lost.

He stared at it, fighting the urge to toss the axe into the forge fire and to witness it burn into oblivion.

“That’s an unusual design,” Master Timo observed.

“It was meant for wood, once.” Then feeling something more should be said, he added, “Your apprentice has fine tools.”

Every smith made his own tools, starting as an apprentice. And the tools Devlin had used showed the quality of a journeyman, at least.

The smith beamed with pleasure. “He should. He’s my son. He’ll be a master himself, one day.”

Devlin knew he should leave, but he did not. For all the strangeness of the wood building, it was indeed a forge, and it was the only place in this strange city that had the feel of home.

He glanced over at the racks of iron and steel bars.

“I need some bolts, as well. I would make my own, if you would let me pay you for the steel.” He did not really need the bolts. He had a half dozen bolts in his pack, and as Chosen One could easily requisition whatever else he desired. What he needed was not the bolts, but to remember that once he had been something more than he was now.

“How many do you need?”

“A dozen should do. Steel, not iron, if you can spare it.”

“All our weapons are made of steel,” Master Timo said firmly. “I keep the iron for horseshoes and the like. Make a dozen for yourself, and four dozen for me, and we will call it a fair exchange.”

“Agreed.” Devlin selected two bars of steel from the rack, then placed them in the fire bed to heat. He used the opportunity to study the bolts that were set on the shelves near the door, noting that they were the same design he was familiar with, but longer by a good handspan. He brought one back to the bench to use as a pattern.

The steel was glowing red. He pumped the bellows till the fire was roaring. When the steel bar had turned white with heat he removed it from the fire and began to work. His body remembered his craft, and his arm swung with its old rhythm. Soon he was lost in his work, his mind shutting away all thoughts save those of the steel, and of the task before him.

Long unused to such work, the muscles in his back began to ache and then to burn. He ignored them, as he ignored the sweat that rolled off his body, pausing only to strip off his shirt. With each stroke of the hammer, sparks flew, and the metal rang in a sweet song that he had not known how much he had missed until he heard it anew.

It had been years since he had performed such simple craft, and yet his movements were swift and sure. He made the first dozen bolts for himself, as practice, and then began to work on the ones he had promised the smith.

Captain Drakken entered the forge, her eyes blinking as she made the transition from bright sunlight to the dimness inside. She saw Master Timo at once. He had a dagger and a sharpening stone in his hands, but it was clear that all his attention was on the apprentice at work in the corner.

Master Timo nodded as he saw her but did not speak. With a jerk of his head he directed her attention to the other occupant of the forge.

As her eyes adjusted she realized that the man at work was too large and well muscled to be Master Timo’s son. And then she saw something that made her blink, and then blink again.

Terrible white scars ran down the length of the man’s back. As he swung the hammer, she could see that the scars extended across his left side and chest. She did not know what manner of beast could have made those marks, save that it must have been larger than any creature she had ever heard of.