Perfection
Caeroch pulled the steel from the oven. It was glowing brilliant orange and set fire to the thick leather mitts he was using. The acrid burning smell filled the small shop. When he was younger, his shop had been much larger and he had spent too much time walking from one place to another and had lost too much heat to achieve perfection. Blades had twisted right before his eyes as parts cooled faster than others.
The vice was huge; made of cast iron with birch wood covers on the jaws. It was coated with a mix of tallow and charcoal. Binding the blade was the most dangerous part; jets of flame exploded out of the seams of the vice as he stepped down hard slamming the jaws closed.
It had taken a week to form the billet – painstakingly picking little splinters of iron out of the furnace ashes, discarding some and setting others aside. Then he had welded the iron together, alternately whispering his wishes for the perfect blade and hammering the sparking splints until they fused together.
He wasn’t sure if he believed in gods, but it was a fact that things could go wrong for reasons he didn’t understand, so he murmured a prayer to whatever was listening to him. “Keep the blade straight and I will give you mead.” The wood in the vice popped and moaned, burning brighter than the forge that smoldered against the wall. Caeroch was always treating with someone, but it almost never took. He had treated with his wife, “Tarlila, stay with me until I make this sword and then you will have all the time with me that you want.” But there was always one more blade, one more noble who demanded the best. Then he had treated with his son, “Beorn, I have to do this or there will be no bread on the table. I will see you play the games next week.” He'came home one day from digging bog iron and Tarlila was gone. Beorn had left the fall after that; marching off to war with his friends. Neither came back.
The flames on the vice died down, and he relaxed a bit. The wood was going to hold, he thought. If it had split, he could try to replace the splints or to put the blade back into the oven. He looked up at the oven and realized he had forgotten to stoke it, so it wouldn’t have mattered. Beorn would have taken care of that. From the time the boy was three he had worked in the shop with his Da. He reveled in helping with even the smallest chore. Caeroch hoped the blade the boy had taken had served him well. Maybe he would come home in the spring.
The flames were out now, and the vice only barely smoked. He listened carefully and was rewarded with silence. If there had been the pings of stressed metal, it would have meant the blade was cooling too fast. The steel would have been full of cracks and flaws; pulling itself apart like everything else in his life. Every little “tink” sound was a crack in the blade; you couldn’t see them but they were there.
Caeroch rubbed his left shoulder. He had worked the bellows too hard and now his shoulder was telling him about it. The pain extended up to his neck. He’d heat some wine to help him sleep and forget the pain. Right now there was only the blade.
It was another hour before the wood and the vice were cool. He said a prayer to whatever was there and then kicked the ratchet loose. The blade fell to the ground and rang like a bell; it was a good sign, but there was still more to do.
He took the blade outside where the light was good and clamped it to a wooden bench. He began with a course rasp and then progressing to fine and finer files he set the edge on the sword. With every pass, he loved the blade a little bit more and with the last pass he was sure that it was his best work ever.
Now for the final temper or hardening. Compared to everything that he had done so far it would be easy but it must be done just right. His shoulder ached more than ever and was spreading to his chest. “I’ll take tomorrow off and maybe the day after that.”
The pain ripped through him like a spike of ice and drove him to the ground. Blackness swelled out of the shadows filling his eyes, and he knew no more.
* * *
Beorn picked up the blade blank from the sharpening bench. It was pitted with rust from being out in the weather. This is where the charcoal burner said they found his Da. He tossed the blade into the bin and smiled at the way it rang.
“What was that?” his young wife asked.
“I don’t know, some scrap. I’ll use it to make you wind chimes.”
The King in Yellow "Hastur" Dark Contemplatio n
- 9 years, 10 months, 27 days ago
