* * *
Aetolia (Eastern Ancient Greece)
1143 BC
Erfinder opened his eyes and reached for his belt to test the weight of his purse. He had enough silver drachmae to remain drunk for several weeks if he could stomach the taste of last year’s souring wine. In his present mood, he wanted a sweeter drink to soothe his throat; perhaps an expensive skin of Chios black wine flavoured with honey and thyme. He took a sharp breath between clenched teeth. No blacksmith would offer him work if he smelled of alcohol.
Trying to think of the women he’d spent the night with instead of the war, he sought out a blacksmith. The city had many. The first three he spoke to told him there was no work for men without experience. He shook his head and snorted. How did anyone learn unless they were given a chance?
The sun broke through the clouds and beat down on Erfinder’s head. His thirst had grown throughout the day. He was a Khryseoi and had eternity to attend to the menial task of beating metal into swords. Had the ‘special mission’ come from anyone other than Phylasso, Erfinder would have laughed in his face. He decided to speak to one more blacksmith and if that failed, he would try a skin of the Chios black wine instead.
He’d passed a smithy near the theatre district on several occasions, a small business operated by one Simo, whose name was incised in large, blue-painted letters in the limestone. The forecourt housed a raised fire pit built of bricks. Blackened and broken pot shards were scattered about and heaped into piles here and there. Erfinder had to watch his footing to avoid getting cut. The door to Simo’s house was ajar. Erfinder poked his head through. “Hello?”
“What do you want?”
Simo was a small, wiry man with a blond beard shot with grey. His house was an indescribable mess, as if the Gods had played one of their incomprehensible tricks on him. He was searching through a pile of rags, papyrus, small tools and pots. He gave Erfinder no more than a glance.
“Sorry to interrupt. I’ll leave you in peace,” said Erfinder.
“You wouldn’t have walked through my door without a reason, boy. Spit it out!”
“I’m looking for work, have no experience, but I must learn to make a sword! Thank you for your time.” Erfinder started to close the door.
“I see,” said Simo. “Why must you learn to make a sword?”
Erfinder took a deep breath and wondered what plausible reason he could offer Simo. He had none. Clearing his throat, he said, “Because I’m Daemones Khryseoi, one of the golden spirits, and I have been told I must learn.”
Simo snorted a laugh. “Is that right!”
Erfinder nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Erfinder.”
“That explains your accent and height. You’re from Noricum, I’d say. Two obols per week. That’s my offer.”
“Two obols!” shouted Erfinder. “That’s barely enough to buy food!”
Simo straightened his shoulders and looked Erfinder up and down. “If I paid you any more than that you’d spend it on prostitutes and wine. You can eat and sleep here... if you’re truly interested in learning to make swords.”
Erfinder took a deep breath and nodded.
The reason for Simo’s willingness to take on an apprentice soon became apparent. He’d broken his wrist and the bones hadn’t set straight. Try as he might, he couldn’t swing a hammer competently with his other hand. He told Erfinder to clean up the mess and to cook them both a decent meal. Erfinder complained. Simo responded by pointing to the door.
When Erfinder had finished, he rested the broom against the wall and admired his handiwork. The forecourt was tidy and safe to walk around in bare feet. The house was clean and organised. As Simo was unmarried, Erfinder used the women’s quarters to sort and store Simo’s vast collection of objects: pots, lumps of ore, tools, firewood, coal, and piles of papyrus covered with diagrams and notes.
At the end of the week, Simo paid him two obols. Erfinder put them in a ceramic pot next to his bed. It was a pittance but if he could survive this apprenticeship, he determined to blow all his earnings on the black wine he craved.
“Very well!” he said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get to the business of making a sword!”
Simo raised a bushy eyebrow. “First, you’ll need to dig a pit and collect three talents of clay.”
Erfinder blinked. “My body weight in clay? I thought you were a blacksmith!” he said.
Simo sat down and inspected the tools he had laid out on the workbench. “I am. First you must learn how to shape and fire a pot.”
When Erfinder had earned four obols, he was ready to pack up and leave. His arms ached from digging through hard ground to reach the clay. Simo inspected every load as it arrived in Erfinder’s handcart. If the clay was too stony, dry or crumbly, Simo told him to discard it and fetch a new batch. On top of the labour, Erfinder had to prepare meals still, run a multitude of errands and tidy up after Simo, who seemed determined to return his house to its former chaotic state. As far as Erfinder could tell, none of his duties had much to do with sword making.
When the required weight of clay had been collected, Simo instructed Erfinder to knead it, until it was uniformly even and smooth. When he had finished, Erfinder had six obols saved and dry cracked hands. No amount of scrubbing could clean the dirt from under his fingernails. He lay awake at night looking through open curtains at the stars and wondered if Phylasso was punishing him for some reason.
Simo instructed Erfinder to make three round pots big enough to sit in the fire pit. Erfinder wet his hands and set about shaping and smoothing the clay. Simo inspected each pot in turn and asked Erfinder to start again. “Round as the moon with a narrow opening and a stout lip!” he said.
While Erfinder reworked the clay, Simo had an afternoon nap. Eventually, the pots met with Simo’s approval and Erfinder had eight obols to his name. When they were ready to bake, Simo forbade Erfinder from lighting the fire. He built it by himself, as if he were observing a sacred practice, until the pit was filled with glowing embers. They fired each pot in turn, covering the fire pit with a bronze plate and bricks to turn it into a kiln. Erfinder was allowed to place and remove the pots. He singed the hair from his arms and the tip of his beard. “We could build a proper kiln,” he said.
Simo grumbled he was a blacksmith, not a potter but he managed a small smile as the last pot was set aside to cool. “Well done!” he said. “As a reward, I’m sending you on a short adventure.” Erfinder nodded and reached for his sword belt. “You’ll need only your clothes.”
The next morning, a burly deeply-tanned man arrived with two charcoal horses. One was for Erfinder. There had been no discussion about what the adventure might be, but Erfinder thanked Simo for his kindness and they departed. After a journey of two days, they arrived at their destination, a great pit in the ground far from civilisation. The pit was full of slaves chipping away at the walls with hand picks, mining for ore. Erfinder was told he wouldn’t have to wear shackles and could keep what he found. He was also spared the master’s whip, so quickly became unpopular with the slaves.
It was hot, hard work. No matter how much water he drank, he couldn’t wash the taste of flint and dust from his mouth. The thought of the Chios black wine, rather than Phylasso’s mission, spurred him on. He worked tirelessly, seeking veins of ore as the slave master had showed him. In a few weeks he had mined enough ore to fill two small sacks, as much as his horse could carry. He said his farewells and began the journey back to Lissia on foot, as his horse couldn’t carry him as well as the ore.
When he returned, the house was a mess again. Simo complained about how much work he’d had to do while Erfinder had been away. Erfinder went straight back to work without rest.
The next day, Simo made another fire in the pit, filled a pot with ore, and set it to smelt. Erfinder worked a set of bellows to keep the fire hot. He licked his dry lips and thought of the wine. The pain in his arms turned to numbness before the task was
complete. They left the smelted ore to cool. Simo broke the pot with a sharp hammer strike and they examined the spoils. Simo showed Erfinder how to distinguish the metal flakes from the slag. They produced enough copper and tin to make two bronze swords. Simo presented Erfinder with a hammer and a pair of tongs. “Go ahead! Make your sword!”
Erfinder’s jaw dropped. “I’d hoped to get some instruction!”
“The metal has moods. You must do it yourself!”
Erfinder threw down his tools. “You’ve had me running in circles for months! For what? For nothing!”
Simo shrugged. “You may watch me make mine if you wish.” He turned away and thrust his bronze rod into the fire pit. When it was white hot, he set about shaping a blade with carefully placed hammer strokes. He developed a rhythm, and as his arm fell, he began to sing under his breath. Erfinder watched the metal bar become a leaf-shaped blade. When Simo was satisfied, he thrust it into a pot filled with water. Clutching his wrist with his other hand, he said, “If you will excuse me, I’m in considerable pain.”
Erfinder paced the house, forecourt and grounds for several days. Simo didn’t emerge from his room, not even to relieve himself. When Erfinder called out to enquire after his health, Simo replied, “Make your sword! That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Erfinder built a fire in the pit, heated the metal and set to work. He hammered the metal till his shoulder was so sore he couldn’t go on. On several occasions, he felt the hairs on his neck prickle, but when he turned he saw nobody. He worked on until he had finished his sword. It lacked style but it was straight enough. Simo emerged from his room, blinking in the orange-gold light of the evening sun. He glanced at Erfinder’s blade. “It’s too long,” he said.
Erfinder ground his teeth. “I need to be able to make a long sword!” He stretched his arms wide. “This long!”
“To make a proper long sword, you must first make a short one,” said Simo. He tossed Erfinder a leather strap. “Bind the handle and we’ll test our weapons.”
Erfinder did as he was told. They faced off. Erfinder’s sword was two hands longer than Simo’s. He tested its weight and balance with a flourish.
“There’s no need for anything fancy,” said Simo, raising his sword to guard. “Just strike at me!”
Erfinder swept his blade through the air. It met Simo’s with a solid clang and bent in the middle. He straightened it with his foot against the ground.
“Too long!” said Simo. “Tomorrow, we’ll begin again. At first light, dig and collect three talents of clay!”
* * *
Time passed. Erfinder had learnt to dig for clay, to shape and fire a pot in a single day. When he was sent to mine ore, he wore shackles and told the master not to spare the whip. The slaves took a liking to him and many were knowledgeable. He listened to every piece of wisdom they offered about how to identify various ores. Simo no longer lit the fire pit. He watched Erfinder work, when he wasn’t snoring on his chair. Erfinder’s swords progressed from short to longer, a cubit at a time. Eventually, he forged a blade he thought too beautiful to be used in battle. He roused Simo and presented the blade on his palms. Simo ran his eye from one end to the other, and nodded once.
“Shall we test its strength?” said Erfinder.
Simo shook his head. “No. It’s a fine sword.”
Erfinder held it out, measuring the length with his eye. “It’s still not long enough!”
“It’s a fine sword.”
Erfinder looked at his teacher. “Is that your way of telling me I’ve mastered my craft?”
Simo shook his head again, and even though his lips remained pursed, his eyes smiled. “No, Erfinder. You surpassed my skill with a hammer long ago, but you’re still a novice.”
Erfinder waited for Simo to continue. Simo stared at him until Erfinder drew an impatient breath. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you remain unchanged by the passage of time,” he said. “My bronze has more tarnish than your skin.” He drew a deep breath. “Erfinder, I have nothing left to give. It’s time you found a new teacher.”
Erfinder opened his mouth to object and then sighed. “You’re a grumpy, pig-headed old man and I’ll miss you.”
* * *
Dravida (Ancient Southern India)
1120 BC
Erfinder decided to explore the lands to the east. He and Simo both knew they’d not meet again. Instead of saying goodbye, Erfinder had left Simo a gift; two pots containing every obol he’d earned.
Erfinder found a Dravidian blacksmith who worked with iron. He learnt to temper the metal and to make longer, stronger swords. However, any blade he forged as long as Phylasso’s bent in use. He stayed with the Dravidian blacksmith for several decades and then he moved on. He crossed the sea to the lands of the Ainu people who had developed a technique for making iron into steel. Their sword making skills were sophisticated. Erfinder learnt to make folded blades that held their sharp edges and which didn’t bend or break when they took strong blows. He still lacked the knowledge to make a sword like Phylasso’s.
He forged a blade with a gentle curve that was as long as his arm. It was so sharp he could shave with it. When he had exhausted the Ainu blacksmith’s teachings, he decided he missed wearing a beard and returned to Noricum.
* * *
Noricum (Ancient Austria)
270 BC
Erfinder settled in a small village in the foothills of the Erzgebirge mountains. The land was green and plentiful, as was the ore mined from the mountains. The people here had discovered the raw materials to make steel. It was a good place to continue the perfecting of his craft. It was also his homeland. He built a house with a forge in the courtyard. Through the cold dark months he worked tirelessly to improve his steel and to forge finer swords.
From somewhere, a man’s voice asked him if his skills were in such demand that he must work though winter. Erfinder glanced up from his forge. A man wrapped in a thick black travelling cloak waded towards him through the snow, breathing out clouds of fog in the cold.
Erfinder ceased hammering to watch the stranger approach. “It keeps me warm,” he replied. He’d been so absorbed in the heat of his work he hadn’t noticed the subtle warmth of the epiphaneia. The man smiled. “I’d rather talk inside, if you have time.”
“Time? Yes, I think we both have plenty to spare.” Erfinder led him inside and stoked the hearth. “I’ve been wondering when I’d see you, or if I’d see you. It has been a long time, Raven!”
“What shall I call you, old friend?” asked Raven, warming his hands near the flames.
“Let me think on it,” Erfinder replied. “In the meantime, show me the dark spirit’s weapon.” Raven removed his cloak and tossed it over a chair. He drew the black blade and presented it hilt first. “What do you make of it?”
“Exceptional craftsmanship, well beyond that of any mortal,” said Erfinder. He swung it gently, listening to the hum it made as it cut the air. Raven touched the blade above the guard, drawing Erfinder’s attention to the barbs.
“Decoration or impractical design,” said Erfinder.
“Impractical?”
“A short blade is most useful as a thrusting weapon.” Erfinder mimed a lunge. “If you buried this sword in your opponent, those barbs would bite into the wound and make it hard to withdraw.”
Raven raised his eyebrows. “It sounds effective.”
Erfinder laughed. “Not if you have more than one opponent.” He returned the black blade to Raven and fetched his own sword. The steel sang as it left its scabbard. “Strike,” he said, “as if you mean to kill me!”
“Very well!” Raven swung, putting his full strength behind the blow. Erfinder’s blade shattered like a glass vessel. He released a slow breath.
Raven inspected his blade. “No notches, not even a scratch. What metal has such strength?”
“Black copper,” Erfinder replied, “from a fallen star. Even if you possessed the skill, the metal is so rare, how would
you obtain enough to make a sword!”
Raven sheathed his blade. “Two of our kind have been killed, maybe more,” he said. “I suspect the dark spirit who owned this sword is responsible.”
Erfinder nodded.
“I’m not strong enough to defeat him alone. Will you stand with me?”
“Of course! I pledged you my help in the dream... even though I thought differently about the decision the next morning.” A small smile appeared inside Raven’s beard. He wrapped himself in his cloak and raised the hood.
“Pick a new name. The dark spirit possesses knowledge of The Unbinding.”
Erfinder thought for a moment. “I choose Klinge.”
Raven cocked his head. “That’s the word for ‘blade’ in your language. What an unusual name!”
“Says the man named for a bird!” said Klinge. “Well, an interesting name is a wonderful conversation starter with women. I may be Khryseoi, but I’m also a man.” He wanted to tell Raven there was another reason he had chosen the name, but it was too long a story, and Phylasso had sworn him to silence.
“I still have two other Khryseoi to find,” said Raven. “We’ll meet at The Watcher’s Tower. It may be a while before we come together. When it’s time, you’ll have a vision.”
“That’s fine. I have my work to do,” said Klinge, picking up the shards of his sword. “Tomorrow, I have to collect some clay.”
Valley of the Shadow Page 10
