Beyond The Hero's Chamber

by Ian Newton

  Chapter 12

  Other People’s Money

  Connor headed north to the edge of the market. His memories, or at least Jacob’s memories, told him what was around the corner. Rounding the final building, off in the distance atop a large hill, the real thing took his breath away. It was huge! The outer wall, the towers, and all its parapets were made of a blackened stone. It looked and felt like power, making Connor grin as he turned northeast, toward the Blacksmith’s shop.

  “Keep your eye on the prize,” he whispered to himself. “We’ll get there.”

  The castle disappeared as he turned down another street, and it wasn’t long before he heard the all too familiar sounds of the hammer and anvil. Looking up, he saw a thin column of smoke from a well-tended forge and his pace quickened.

  According to Shaker, if you wanted a sword, this was the place to go. His advice triggered Connor’s recollection. He knew this shop, he knew this Smith, but unless he was Jacob Duncan, he couldn’t do anything but act like the stranger he was.

  Approaching the shop, he slowed his pace and casually walked to the front of the open-air Smithy.

  Connor watched an apprentice hammering away at a glowing rod of iron. His strokes were painfully uneven, his hammer hopelessly angled. The diamond point he was attempting to make kept getting worse with every blow. Connor just smiled, waiting to be noticed.

  Finally, as the boy reheated his mangled piece, he noticed Connor.

  “Can I help you sir?” he called into the street.

  “Is Jeb around?” Connor asked.

  “No sir, the Master’s out for the day. Can I help with anything?”

  “Perhaps,” Connor said, stepping into the Smithy.

  “I’m in need of a blade, two actually. Identical, if you have them.”

  “Two swords? You need two swords, sir?”

  “Yes and no,” Connor said, looking around at the impressive display of weaponry.

  “I don’t take your meaning sir. Do you need a sword or is there something else you require?”

  “What’s your name apprentice?”

  “Malvrik, sir.”

  “Well Malvrik,” Connor said, pulling a rapier off its display stand. “What I need are two of these.”

  Holding it by the blade, he handed the sword to the boy and noticed his freshly blackened eye. “I need the blades to be as identical as possible.”

  “Yes sir,” Malvrik replied. “The sword you hold is the only rapier we have for sale. It has a sister, but she is not yet complete.”

  “Not yet complete?”

  “No, sir. My Master is still working on it, but they will be the same sword, so to speak.”

  “May I look at the unfinished version?”

  “My Master does not like to display his unfinished work, sir.”

  “I understand Malvrik, but this is very important. I only wish to see it.”

  “I suppose it would be all right sir, but it’s not for sale. It’s not finished.”

  “Of course. I am however short on time, would you please find the sister to the one you hold?”

  Malvrik nodded, set the rapier back on its stand and went into the back of the Smithy. He returned with an identical sword, except its blade was only half polished, and the pommel was not permanently attached. He handed it to Connor for inspection.

  “Is the tang the same?”

  “The same as what sir?” Malvrik asked innocently.

  “Malvrik, the blade is obviously unfinished, but the part that goes into the handle, the tang, is it the same on both swords?” Connor asked, motioning his head toward the other rapier.

  “Oh, yes sir. The blades were made at the same time with the same steel. They are identical.”

  “Excellent, how much for the finished sword?”

  “Four gold pieces, sir.”

  Setting the unfinished blade down on the massive anvil, Connor stepped back over to the finished sword. He lifted it off its stand and balanced it on his finger, just in front of the guard. “It does have a nice balance.”

  “It’s an elegant piece, sir. My master has great skill.”

  Connor held the blade out and looked down the length of it, pretending to inspect the weapon’s quality.

  “The steel Malvrik, what’s the quality on this?”

  “It’s three-bit steel.”

  “Is it a fine blade?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s the best we make.”

  “Then it will have to do. Malvrik, I know you’re just the apprentice,” he said, swishing the rapier around and jabbing at nothing, “so I’ll go easy on you. I’ll give you six gold pieces for the one in my hand and the unfinished blade.”

  Connor turned, putting the point of the sword toward Malvrik. The poor boy turned white, and Connor slapped six pieces of gold down on the anvil.

  Malvrik looked at the gold, then back to the sword and finally up at Connor.

  “I’m not allowed to sell unfinished work, sir. My Master will…he will…,” his voice was low, almost a whisper as he gently touched the side of his bruised face. “He’ll have my head, sir.”

  Leaning against the anvil, Connor set the sword down next to the other blade. He smiled at Malvrik, and asked, “You’re going to be a Smith one day, aren’t you?”

  “I hope to be sir.”

  “Well, this is part of the business. You can’t just make pretty things. You have to sell them too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many hours will it take your Master to finish this other sword?” he asked, flicking the blade with his finger.

  “Many, sir. I’m not sure how many, but there is still much to be done.”

  “In its current condition, is it worth two gold?”

  “I’m not sure sir, but I’m not allowed to sell unfinished pieces. That’s the rule. If I break it, I’ll lose my apprenticeship.”

  “Let me tell you something Malvrik. This sword,” he said, picking up the finished rapier. “This sword is only worth what someone will pay you for it. It’s not even worth the four gold I’m willing to pay you, but since you’re not Jeb and since you’re not a Smith, I can’t actually negotiate with you. For the sake of our little conversation let me just do this.” Connor took two gold pieces off the anvil, and said, “I’ll take the sword. Do we have a deal?”

  Malvrik sighed with relief and nodded his head. “Yes sir, we have an accord. The sword is yours for four gold pieces.”

  Malvrik slowly stepped forward, took the gold from the anvil and placed it in the pocket of his leather apron.

  “Excellent,” Connor announced. “Now let us begin again.”

  “But sir…”

  “The unfinished blade, for two gold.”

  “I …”

  “Is the offer not generous?”

  “It is sir, but without my Master’s permission, I am bound by my code.”

  “Your code,” Connor said, raising his eyebrows. “Yes, let’s talk about your code. Can you tell me, Blacksmith’s apprentice, what your code says about the sale of a weapon, forged from steel? What qualities did you commit to when you sold me this sword?”

  Malvrik was obviously unprepared for a quiz, and he began to stammer.

  “Let me help you,” Connor offered, sounding fatherly and kind. “I’ll walk you through the lesson, and you do your best to chime in on the parts you know, all right?”

  “Sir, I’m just the apprentice.”

  “How many years, Malvrik?”

  “Three, sir.”

  “That’s more than enough. And you’re here minding the Smithy, so you’re the man in charge, right?”

  Malvrik just looked at his shoes.

  “Good, so here we go.” Connor reached out and gently lifted Malvrik’s chin. “I’m not here to take advantage, Malvri
k. I’m a Smith, and I will teach you, or at least remind you, of what you should have already been taught. When we’re done here, you’ll be able to present these events to your master, and avoid another beating. Actually, he should praise you for saving his reputation.”

  “I didn’t know you were a Smith sir. I’m sorry to be impolite to a Master.”

  “That’s not important right now, but thank you.”

  “May I know your name, sir?”

  Connor stuck out his hand, and said, “The name is Duncan, Connor Duncan.”

  Malvrik firmly gripped his hand and vigorously shook it.

  “You can tell a lot about a person from his handshake, Malvrik. I like you. I think you’re the kind of person who will make a fine Smith.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Malvrik said, blushing. Releasing each other’s hands, Malvrik asked, “Which guild are you with, sir?”

  “It’s not important Malvrik,” Connor said dismissively. “Here, sit down,” he said, pulling a stool over. Malvrik sat while Connor grabbed a stool and sat across from the young man.

  “You spoke of your code. What can you tell me about it, I mean when it comes to selling weapons of steel?”

  Malvrik lowered his eyes again and was shuffling his feet. With the young apprentice struggling to begin, Connor offered some assistance.

  “Didn’t you tell me this was the finest blade your master makes?”

  “Yes sir,” he said, never looking up.

  “Do you know the characteristics of the best steel?”

  Malvrik looked up timidly, then back down at his feet. He started to recite his lesson, “It needs to be strong, but not brittle. It should be flexible but hold an edge. It should do well in battle, meaning it won’t break or fail you at a critical moment.”

  Connor smiled, reached out and patted the boy on the shoulder. “I’m a Master Smith, and I don’t think I could have said that better myself. Well-spoken, sir.”

  Malvrik still avoided Connor’s eyes, but he smiled and nodded his head.

  “Then you’ve guaranteed me this blade will be all those things, correct?”

  “I suppose so sir, though I’m not sure my Master would agree.”

  “Who’s in charge today?”

  “I am sir.”

  “Good. Then let’s follow your code and your big day of being in charge will work out better than you expect.

  How can I tell if the blade you sold me is all the things it’s supposed to be?”

  “I suppose you could test it, Master Duncan.”

  “That’s a very insightful idea from an apprentice. What would happen if this magnificent piece of craftsmanship didn’t pass the test?”

  “I would have to replace it, sir, that’s what the code says. It also says if the failure caused you harm or loss of property, the Smith is responsible for damages. That’s the burden of a weapons Smith. That’s why most don’t do it.”

  “I knew you were a smart lad,” Connor said, tousling the boy’s hair.

  “Malvrik, I propose a test of this steel, but as the man in charge, you must agree the test is fair. As a Smith myself, I wouldn’t try any trickery, just a fair and honest test of the quality of this steel.”

  “What kind of test, Master Duncan?”

  “A simple test, the most common test, the easiest one of all. Pass the test and I accept the blade as is, and go on my way.”

  “And if the blade fails?” Malvrik asked.

  “You replace the blade with one of equal or greater value, depending on your inventory or on your ability to make a new one. That’s the code isn’t it?”

  “Yes sir, that’s the code.”

  “Fine,” Connor said, standing up and lifting the unfinished blade from the anvil. “Let’s get this out of the way,” he said, handing it to Malvrik.

  Malvrik set the blade aside and stepped back to the anvil.

  “This is the sword I just bought from you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes sir, it is.”

  “Good. Do you agree this steel should not be brittle?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you agree it should stand up to the blow of another weapon, without breaking?”

  “Within reason, yes sir.”

  “Should it survive the blow from a small three-pound hammer?”

  Malvrik looked around the Smithy at all the horrible instruments of war hanging on the walls. Most were far heavier and larger than the three-pound hammer he had been using to shape the iron rod when Connor arrived.

  He reached down, next to the base of the anvil and picked up the small hammer. Turning it in his hand, he was confident the polished steel blade would be undamaged, even by the hardest blow.

  “After all,” he thought, “the hammer helped create the blade, and if the two could no longer meet without causing damage, then the steel must be inferior.”

  “The blade will be fine,” Malvrik said confidently. “It may flex and recoil, but you won’t damage it.”

  “If your master’s steel is worthy, you are correct. If not, you’ll owe me a new sword. Agreed?”

  Malvrik forced his hand forward into Connor’s, and they shook.

  “The three-pound hammer please?” Connor requested.

  Handing over the hammer, Malvrik backed away until the small stool brushed against his legs.

  Connor took the flawless silver rapier and set it on the massive anvil, resting the guard on the end of the horn. The blade angled down until it touched the far end of the anvil.

  “No, no. That’s not fair,” Malvrik objected. “You need to lay it down flat. Don’t angle the blade like that.”

  Connor nodded, pulling the handle until the blade rested flat against the anvil.

  Looking up, he asked, “Good enough?”

  “That’s fine, and remember only one blow. I’m not interested in watching you ruin your new sword.”

  Pinning the blade down with one hand, his mind’s eye found the center point of the blade and divided the top half into two equal parts.

  He twirled the hammer one last time, glanced back at the apprentice, secured his grip and focused on the area just between the middle of the sword and its tip.

  With more force than expected, he drove the hammer directly into the weakest part of the sword.

  The steel rang out as it compressed between the immovable anvil and the unstoppable force of the hammer. As the hammer pulled away, steel shards danced atop the anvil and Malvrik’s face became a mix of fear and surprise.

  Malvrik stumbled, hitting the back of his knees against the wooden stool. His bottom came down, but only half of it made it on the seat. The stool shot across the dirt floor, leaving the poor boy sprawled across the ground, struggling to regain his composure.

  With a tiny twinge of guilt, Connor dropped the hammer.

  “Here’s one more gold for the unfinished blade,” he said, setting it down on the anvil. “And I’ll be keeping the broken sword for good measure. Pleasure doing business with you Malvrik and congratulations, you sold a terrible sword for an outrageous price.”

  Connor left the Smithy with the young apprentice still sprawled across the ground. He smiled knowing he was one-step closer to his objective, and because he knew just how upset Jeb would be.

  Recalling the map in his pocket, he turned left, heading directly for the Hot Shop. In less than ten minutes, Connor stood in the street watching the Glass Smith.

  He pulled his blowpipe from the furnace, twirling a large vase at its end. Its orange glow made the piece seem alive, like iron from a forge.

  The Smith moved to a wooden bench with an iron rail on either side. He set the long blowpipe across them and rolled the rod back and forth. The vase spun, and the Smith shaped it with his iron jacks. It cooled quickly, and within seconds, it was back in the furnace.

>   His back was to Connor, but like any good salesman he could feel a customer.

  “How may I be of service?” he called out, taking the vase back to the small bench.

  “I’m not sure if you can, what I’m looking for doesn’t exist.”

  “Everything exists within a grab of glass. You just have to know how to pull it out,” he said, twirling and shaping the piece until it cooled again.

  “I don’t want to interrupt your work, would it be better if I came back a little later?”

  “Nonsense, come in and tell me what you’re looking for.”

  Connor stepped into the Hot Shop, and the temperature jumped by twenty degrees.

  “That’s a beautiful piece you’re making,” Connor said, admiring the fluid motions of a skilled craftsman.

  “No, it’s not,” he said, looking up. “It’s crap. I’m just wasting time here.”

  Noticing the broken sword and the unfinished blade, he said, “The Blacksmith is just down the road. Looks like you could use his services more than mine.”

  “That’s where I just came from. I needed to get you some examples. I need you to make me a blade.”

  “You’re joking right?” he asked, putting the vase back in the furnace.

  Connor set three gold pieces on the wooden table in the center of the shop.

  The Smith smiled, took the vase from the furnace and walked over to a small bucket of water. Taking out a spoon, he dripped water along the narrow connection between the blowpipe and the vase. Then he stepped into the street and hit the pipe with the spoon. The glass broke free from the pipe, shattering as it hit the ground.

  Stepping back into the shop, he stood the pipe in the corner and offered Connor a seat at the table.

  Connor placed both of the swords on the table and stuck out his hand.

  “Connor Duncan,” he said.

  “Brian Farmer,” said the Smith, shaking Connor’s hand, “Most folks just call me Farmer.”

  They both took a seat, and Farmer asked, “So, what are you looking for?”

  “Do you want the short version or the long one?” Connor asked, fingering the broken steel.

  “Depends,” said Farmer. “If you want something truly unique, it helps me to know the details. If you just want some simple piece of glass, it doesn’t really matter.”

  “I want both,” Connor said. “I need two blades. Both need to be shaped exactly like this.” He pushed the unfinished sword across the table. “One will be broken almost immediately and doesn’t need to be perfect. It has to look good, but it doesn’t need to be a work of art. The second blade is what this is really all about.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Crystal Sword?” Connor asked, hoping for a reaction.

  “Go on,” Farmer said, as a smile spread across his face.

  “I’ve held it,” Connor lied, “I can describe it in perfect detail, and I need you to make me an exact replica.”

  Farmer grabbed his wooden mug from the table and took a long drink.

  Half an hour later, Connor stood up from the table. Farmer rubbed his hands together, and Connor could see him working through the fabrication steps in his mind.

  Farmer stood, offering his hand to Connor.

  “I need both blades in three days.”

  “And after you win,” he said, shaking Connor’s hand, “you’ll come back with three more gold, right?”

  “A promise is a promise,” Connor agreed.

  Their hands separated, and Farmer clapped Connor on the back. “I’ll see you on the thirteenth Mr. Duncan, and I promise, you won’t be disappointed.”

  “Thank you, Farmer. Please don’t let me down. Everything is riding on you.”

  Farmer turned back to his table and stared at the barely blue vase that would serve as the color match. With the sword as his guide, he knew he was up to the challenge.

  Connor left and made his way around a row of uninteresting shops. Stopping in the middle of the dirt street, he pulled the map from his pocket and saw the drops of wax. Shaker’s idea of a joke. Holding the broken sword under his arm, he fumbled with the map until it was refolded and back in his pocket.

  Turning around, he headed toward a small, but well maintained shop. Its windows were barred with thick iron rods and hanging above the door was an ingot of gold.

  He entered, conducted his business, handed over the broken sword, paid an outrageous sum in gold, and promised to return in three days.

  With the wind at his back and the castle disappearing behind a row of drab buildings, he stood at the edge of town overlooking an unplowed field.

  “Right where it’s always been,” he said to himself, looking at the old faded barn.

  Turning into the field, Connor walked toward the strangely comforting building. A honeybee flew past his ear, followed by three more. He watched them fly off toward the row of wooden hives farther back in the field.

  Connor’s mouth began to water at the thought of honey. It had been forever since its thick sweetness had touched his tongue. He added honey to his mental shopping list.

  “I remember when this was just an old hay barn. And it may be the home of ordinary, but sometimes ordinary is just fine,” he thought, visualizing the items he would be purchasing.

  Above the weathered, sliding barn door, the large, faded white lettering of the “Chandlery” called to all those in need.