A week or so after the Test of Knowledge Master Sollis took them to a cavernous chamber off the courtyard, thick with heat and the stench of smoke and metal. Waiting inside was Master Jestin, the Order’s rarely seen principal blacksmith. He was a large man, emanating strength and confidence, brawny arms crossed in front of his chest, his hairy body marked with numerous pink scars where splashes of molten metal had escaped the forge. Struck by the evident power of the man Vaelin wondered if he had even felt it.
“Master Jestin will forge your swords,” Sollis informed them. “For the next two weeks you will work under his guidance and assist in the forging. By the time you leave the smithy you will each have a sword you will carry for the rest of your time in the Order. You should remember that Master Jestin does not share my generous and forgiving nature, mind him well.”
Alone with the blacksmith they stood in silence as he surveyed them, his bright blue eyes scanning each in turn.
“You,” he pointed a thick, blackened finger at Barkus who was looking at a stack of freshly made pole-axes. “You’ve been in a smithy before.”
Barkus hesitated. “My f-… I grew up near a smithy in Nilsael, master.”
Vaelin raised an eyebrow at Caenis. Given that Barkus adhered strictly to the rules and said little or nothing about his upbringing it was a surprise to find his father had been a craftsman. Boys with fathers in trade tended not to end up in the Order, a boy with a future had no need to seek a life elsewhere.
“Ever see a sword forged?” Master Jestin asked him.
“No, master. Knives, plough blades, many horseshoes, a weather vane or two.” He laughed a little. Master Jestin didn’t.
“Weather vane’s a difficult thing to forge,” he said. “Not all smiths can do it. Only master smiths are allowed to forge such a thing. It’s a rule of the Guild, shaping metal to read the song of the wind is a rare skill. Know that, did you?”
Barkus looked away and Vaelin realised he was chastened, shamed somehow. Something had passed between them, he knew, something the rest of them couldn’t understand. It had to do with this place and the art practised here, but he knew Barkus wouldn’t talk of it. In his own way he had as many secrets as the rest of them. “No, master,” was all he said.
“This place,” Master Jestin said, spreading his arms, encompassing the smithy. “This place is of the Order but it belongs to me. I am King, Aspect, Commander, Lord and Master of this place. This is not a place for games. It is not a place for japes. It is a place for work and learning. The Order requires that you know the art of working metal. To truly wield a weapon with skill it is necessary that you understand the nature of its fashioning, to be part of the craft that brought it into being. The swords you will make here will keep you alive and defend the Faith in the years to come. Work well and you will have a sword to rely on, a blade of strength with an edge keen enough to cut steel plate. Work poorly and your swords will break in your first battle and you will die.”
Once more he turned his gaze on Barkus, his cold stare seeming to contain a question. “The Faith is the source of all our strength, but our service to the Faith requires steel. Steel is the instrument by which we honour the Faith. Steel and blood is the whole of your future. Do you understand?”
They all murmured their agreement, but Vaelin knew Barkus was the only one to whom the question had been addressed.
The rest of the day was spent shovelling coke into the furnace and lifting stacks of iron rods into the smithy from a heavily laden cart in the courtyard. Master Jestin spent his time at the anvil, his hammer a constant, singing rhythm of metal on metal, glancing up occasionally to issue instructions amidst a fountain of sparks. Vaelin found it grim, monotonous work, his throat raw with smoke and his ears dulled from the endless din of the hammer.
“I can see why you didn’t relish a life in the smithy, Barkus,” he commented as they trudged wearily back to their room at the end of the day.
“I’ll say,” Dentos agreed, massaging his aching arm. “Give me a day of bow practice anytime.”
Barkus said nothing, staying silent for the rest of the night amidst their tired grumbling. Vaelin knew he barely heard them, his mind was still fixed on Master Jestin’s questions, the one in his words and the one in his eyes.
The next day saw them back at the smithy, once more lifting and carrying, lugging sacks of coke into the large chamber that served as a fuel store. Master Jestin said little, concentrating on inspecting every one of the iron rods they had carried inside the day before, holding each one up to the light, running his fingers along them and either grunting in satisfaction and setting it back on the pile or tutting in annoyance and adding it to a small but growing stack of rejects.
“What’s he looking for?” Vaelin wondered, groaning with effort as he heaved another sack into the store room. “One piece of iron’s the same as another isn’t it?”
“Impurities,” Barkus answered, glancing over at Master Jestin. “The rods have been forged by another smith before they get here, most likely by less skilled hands that our Master. He’s checking to see if the smith who made them put too much poor iron in the mix.”