Ignatius stirred from beneath Fletcher’s hood, sensing the threat. Fletcher took a few steps back. He was horrified by the implication. Yet he understood how suspicious the situation appeared.
‘I swear, I had no agenda in coming here. I worked in the north as an apprentice blacksmith. I had just arrived in Corcillum and was seeking employment! Othello and I only met when I enlisted at Vocans. I need a scabbard for my sword, and your son offered to take me to a trustworthy blacksmith. I did not even know he came from a smithing family until just a few minutes ago, nor that Athol worked here until just now. I will go upstairs. My deepest apologies for disturbing you.’
Fletcher bowed and turned to leave, but had only made it to the first step when Uhtred cleared his throat.
‘I may have . . . been hasty. My son is a good judge of character, as is Athol. But I must test your story first and see if you were really an apprentice. Athol, hide the musket-making tools and fetch one of the smaller hammers for Fletcher. If he is a spy, best to find out now so we can take the proper precautions. In the meantime, show me this sword. I have not seen a khopesh of quality for a while.’
Fletcher removed his sword and handed it to Uhtred. It looked tiny in the dwarf’s meaty hands, more like a sickle for pruning flowers than a deadly weapon. He was almost five feet tall, practically a giant for a dwarf.
‘You need to look after this better. When was the last time you oiled it, or sharpened it?’ Uhtred asked, turning the blade this way and that in the dim light. ‘A sword is a tool, just like any other. I will leave you an oilcloth to wrap it in whilst the scabbard is prepared, should your story check out. Look after your weapons, boy! Would you let your demon starve?’
‘I guess I have been lax of late,’ Fletcher said with embarrassment. He had barely given the khopesh a second thought since he had received it, other than during his fight with Sir Caulder. Another twinge of guilt ran through him as he thought of how much time and effort Berdon must have put in to make it.
‘All right. Athol should be done by now,’ Uhtred said, stepping out of the way. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’
29
Fletcher grimaced as the red hot metal on the anvil slowly turned grey once again. Every time he removed the bar of steel from the roaring fire of the forge, it returned to a cool state after just a few hits with his hammer. He had shaped it into a rough sliver of metal, but it looked nothing like the dagger he wanted to create.
‘That’s dwarven steel for you,’ Othello said with a hint of pity. ‘It’s harder and sharper than any metal known to man, but it cools fast. You need to have a dwarf’s strength to make an impact on it before it hardens again.’
‘It was an unfair trick to play on you, Fletcher,’ Uhtred said, not unkindly. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to do it. Athol, fetch some of the pig iron from the back.’
‘At least he didn’t know what dwarf steel looked like, I could tell from the look of surprise on his face,’ Athol replied. ‘A spy from the Hominum military would know that. Now we will find out if he really was an apprentice.’
‘Wait,’ Fletcher said, an idea forming in his mind. ‘I can make this work.’
He pulled Ignatius from around his neck and prodded him awake. The imp yawned and scratched at his cheek with his back leg like a dog. Fletcher smiled and waited until Ignatius’s consciousness went from fuzzy to clear as he roused from his slumber.
‘Time to give you a work-out, you idle thing,’ Fletcher teased. Then he concentrated on the steel, willing it to become red hot once again. Ignatius chirred with excitement. He took a deep breath and blew a blue-tinged fan of flame on to the metal.
Slowly but surely, the metal turned red, then pink.
‘Wow . . . I could do with one of those,’ Uhtred breathed in wonder as the demon gulped in another breath, then intensified the flame. It turned the metal almost white and filled the room with an acrid, sulphuric scent.
Fletcher hammered away, the dagger taking shape with each swing. After what felt like an age, he calmed Ignatius with a thought. Exhausted, the demon crawled back up under his hood, its energy spent. Fletcher also felt drained, his arm aching from the rain of blows he had pounded on to the blade.
Uhtred took some tongs and held the weapon up to the light. The handle was a plain metal pommel with a round end, ready to be wrapped in leather for a firmer grip. The blade itself was a simple stiletto, the long, thin blade preferred by assassins.
‘Where did you learn to make one of these?’ Othello asked, prodding the tip with his thumb. ‘It’s not exactly standard issue.’