Creating iron swords turned out to be harder than anyone had thought. That included Roan. Her first attempts ended in failure. Observing the process was distinctly different from replicating it. Roan had lamented her misery, explaining the hundreds of little specifics she hadn’t noticed, things she didn’t even know to look for: the amount of air, when to pump the bellows, the exact time and temperature to leave a blade in the furnace, the ratio of carbon to iron, and how often to temper. They saw their first snow fall before Roan produced her first sword, and it was an awful-looking thing, heavy and dull.
Gifford expected the dwarfs to be of more help, but as it turned out, none of them had a clue about metallurgy. Still, Frost and Flood were able to build first-rate forges and workstations throughout the fortress and the city by studying the ones the Fhrey had made. This tripled the smithing capacity of Alon Rhist. They also trained members of each clan, who were charged with going back to their dahls and building their own equipment. While Frost and Flood were busy building the infrastructure of smithing, Rain spent the winter days leading teams of miners who dug for raw materials. It wasn’t long before carts of iron and coal flooded into Alon Rhist. All this help was well appreciated, but it was up to Roan to figure out the magical secrets of metallurgy and the keys to sword making.
A major breakthrough occurred when Brin finished translating the entire text from their trip to Neith. Gifford had been there when she read the passages. Roan had sat in openmouthed wonder listening to what Brin said, calling the girl a genius. Brin laughed, saying she had no idea what she’d just said, but Roan understood at least some of it. Despite Brin’s genius, Roan continued to struggle, and the number of failures grew into a mountain that the dwarfs routinely melted down for new attempts. But it wasn’t just the method that vexed Roan. Part of the problem was her inability to physically wield a heavy hammer. That issue was largely resolved when she created a smaller, more Roan-sized tool.
The last part of the equation was Roan’s belief that the formulas of the Ancient One weren’t right. Maybe Brin translated incorrectly, or perhaps the prisoner in the Agave had held back some of his secrets, but she kept insisting that she could do better. Even after her first success, Roan wasn’t satisfied. She was looking for something more. Under pressure from Persephone, Roan was forced to establish a method others could duplicate, even though it wasn’t as good as Roan thought it could be. By midwinter, human-made iron weapons were being produced at varying degrees of quality all over Rhulyn, but Roan continued her struggle to find a secret only she seemed to know existed. Gifford could see it in her face, in the way her eyes searched in a void for answers to questions no one even knew to ask. She saw something no one else could, heard music others were deaf to, and for Roan, iron wasn’t good enough.
On that spring day, Gifford sat in the corner watching Roan use her whole body when swinging her specially made hammer. Her hair, chopped to a short, practical length, still hung in front of her eyes. A drop of sweat always dangled from the tip of her nose, and in her eyes was a fire hotter than the furnace. The woman was possessed.
She’s fighting her own war.
Watching, Gifford had to wonder if Roan was happy. He imagined she liked feeling useful, and he knew she loved working, but Persephone had asked for ten thousand swords, helms, and shields of the finest metal. It didn’t matter that by spring hundreds of smiths all over Rhulyn were working night and day to meet the quota. Persephone’s decree was, for Roan, her own personal task—her fight to win or lose. Roan was the faithful hound who would run to death for her master. Was it a tragedy when such a dog died, or was that the life and death the animal would have chosen?
Roan put down the hammer and set the glowing glob back into the fire. She wiped her forehead with the rag that was never far from her left hand.
“You hun-gee, Woan?”
Hearing her name, she looked up, her face red from the exertion and heat. She raised her brows in surprise. “When did you get here?”
“This mo-ning,” Gifford replied.
“Oh,” she said, considering his answer. “Didn’t see you come in.”
He held up the cloth sack and shook it side to side. “Bwin went to all the twouble of bwinging it to you. Seems a waste not to eat.”
Roan hated waste.
“Maybe later,” Roan said. “I want to get some more done before noon.”
Gifford held back a laugh. “No, Woan. Be night soon.”
“Night?”
Gifford nodded.
She looked out the window. “Oh. I guess so.” Roan looked back at him apologetically. “And you’ve been here since this morning? I’m so sorry. I was so—”
He threw up a hand. “No need to explain. You be busy, I know; it’s fine. All of humanity depends on the swing of that mallet—but you need to eat, yes?”
“I suppose…” She looked back at the crates of iron ore that would have to be smelted, then at the dwindling pile of charcoal.
A wagon pulled into the yard, another delivery. Roan rushed out. He could hear her voice outside, shouting. “Where is it from?”