Apprentice Swordceror
Page 25
They continued on through the hallway that led to the commissary. Kevon picked up a small, flat loaf of bread and two strips of jerky, holding them up until the record-keeper tallied them. Kevon handed one of the strips to Nic, and headed for the exit.
He walked unhurriedly as he ate his breakfast, finishing up as he reached the well near the north guard post. He hauled up the bucket and dipped ladles of water into the tin cups that Nic pulled off the hanging hooks at the side of the wall.
After the two had finished their drinks, Kevon set off for the smithy at a brisk pace, forcing Nic to run at times to keep up.
The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon, but glancing back to the east, Kevon could already see the wavy lines of distortion as the barrens to sunward began to bake. The junior apprentice kicked Kevon in the shins.
“Go, already!” Nic yelled, scrunching his face up in an attempt to look intimidating.
Kevon smiled and resumed his faster pace.
They reached the smithy as the sun crept just above the horizon and other people started coming out into the street. Kevon noted that the woodpile was fully stocked, and as they neared the forge, he saw that the three quenching barrels were all filled correctly as well. The other junior apprentice, Tom, sat on a stool, slumped over into a corner.
“You lout!” Tom jumped up and rushed toward Nic. “I had to fill all-”
Tom stopped, and hesitantly took the half piece of jerky that Nic held out to him. The junior apprentices wandered toward the back of the smithy, Nic telling Tom about how he almost had to thrash a dozen miners, Tom nodding and gnawing.
Kevon pulled off his tunic and worked the bellows on the small forge to get the heat up to working temperature. Once it glowed brightly enough, he resumed the project he’d been working on the day before, a batch of hoof-picks.
His Warrior training served him well in the forge. His practiced manual dexterity and arm strength had been amplified over the last year, and he’d learned the slow, easy rhythm that raised a sweat without forcing him to gasp for air after a few minutes.
The tool quickly took shape, but started cooling before it was quite done. Kevon flipped the strip of iron back into the coals with his tongs and worked the bellows for a minute before retrieving it and resuming his work. He quickly made the last few adjustments, turning the tip and pounding it just so, making the slight hook that gave the tool yet another advantage over a knife when used properly.
Satisfied, Kevon dipped the still-glowing metal into the water barrel, swirling it in slow circles with the long-handled forge tongs. When he withdrew it and found it comfortable to the touch, Kevon scraped it thoroughly on the large whetstone that sat on a bench near the forge. Kevon finished smoothing the bumps off the business end of the tool as well as the stem for the handle. This would ensure there would be less chance of the tool’s user scratching themselves accidentally. He tossed the finished product into the nearby pile.
Kevon walked over to the scrap bin and dug carefully through broken sword edges and other sharp objects that were not so readily identifiable. He quickly found a scrap that was about the right size, and returned to work.
He had just tossed the next finished pick into the pile when Master Farren arrived.
“Are you almost done with those?” the Master Smith asked gruffly.
The Apprentice nodded. “All they need are handles. I can have then done-”
“No,” Farren interrupted. “I’ll have the other apprentices split the batch, and see who can do the best job of putting handles on those picks.” The smith spoke louder than needed to inform Kevon, but his words had their intended effect. Nic and Tom scurried in and began taking turns choosing hooked implements from the pile.
Kevon nodded to Farren, acknowledging the tactic. The boys always did better work when they were competing against each other.
“Besides, neither of them has the strength to work the bellows on the good forge,” Master Farren commented.
“Awww...” Tom’s outburst nearly drowned out Nic’s sigh of disgust. The boys quickly finished sorting the pile and took their respective projects outside.
Kevon grimaced, but said nothing as he set about helping Farren prepare the forge for use. When Kevon finally got to working the bellows in earnest, Nic and Tom ventured in with their completed batches of tools for the Master Smith’s inspection.
“Excellent work, boys,” Farren said after making sure that every leather-wrapped wooden handle was snugly fastened so as not to slip during use. “I’m certain you both will be working the small forge by this time next year.”
The Seeker nodded in agreement, in time with the rhythm of the bellows. He watched as the boys, obviously bothered by the heat of the larger forge, remained in the open-ended building. They roamed separately, well out of the way, each checking to make sure that tools and supplies were all in their proper places.
The Master Smith disappeared into the back of the building and returned quickly with a short steel bar in one hand, and his favorite hammer in the other. The Master Smith tossed the ingot into the glowing coals, leaned the hammer against the large anvil standing to the side of the forge, and walked over to sit beside Kevon.
“How is that helmet coming along?” Farren asked over the soft creaking and whooshing of the hide-covered blowing contraption.
“Not good.” Kevon scowled. He paused for a moment. “I don’t think it would even fit Waine’s lumpy head.” He pronounced the Adept Warrior’s name like the locals here did, more like ‘win’ than ‘wane”.
“So you did see me,” Waine chuckled from just inside the entrance to the building.
“The change in light reflected off the swords hanging on the side wall, a glance from Master Farren,” Kevon commented blandly. “And you’re not that quiet.”
“Fair enough,” Waine agreed. “I can see you’re busy now, but we need to talk later.” The Adept turned and left without another word.
Farren was already up, fishing the only slightly glowing ingot from the coals. He placed the block of metal on an anvil on an unused bench, and returned to drive Kevon from his spot at the bellows with a series of elbow pokes.
“Something tells me you’ll want to finish your helmet today,” the Master Smith said, grimacing.
* * *
Under the older smith’s direction, Kevon finished the helmet to Farren’s satisfaction in just a few hours. Nic and Tom sat on stools stitching the leather padding that was going in the helmet, gossiping like old women.
“That’s it, then,” Farren said, rapping an anvil lightly with his forge hammer. “You’ve done plenty of tools, several knives, and now armor.” The gruff older man squinted and looked Kevon in the eye. “So now you’re a Journeyman.”
That last word made Kevon’s blood run cold. It was not the first time he’d earned that title, though Waine was the only one here that even suspected.
Kevon was a Journeyman in the Mage’s Guild, normally a feat that a Warrior or Blacksmith simply could not accomplish. Handling iron or steel was the touch of death for any accomplished magic-user, so the two worlds stayed well clear of each other.
It was only by accident that Kevon discovered he could survive the touch of steel the day before his mentor, the Magi Holten, had promoted him from Apprentice to Journeyman Mage. It was also by accident that weeks later, Kevon discovered his former Master was not as good a man as he pretended to be.
Kevon turned away from the forge, rubbed his eyes with the back of his forearm, and nodded to the waiting Smith.
Nic handed Kevon the completed helmet. Kevon ruffled the boy’s hair, and earned a swift kick in the shin for his efforts.
The Journeyman inspected the headgear for a few moments, nodding appreciatively at the quality of the leatherwork. He handed the finished product to Farren, who handed him a hammer in exchange.
“Use it well,” Farren sighed. “Return when you can.”
The Journeyman nodded. He had picked up on the ten
sion in Waine’s voice earlier, and evidently Master Farren had, as well. He was not sure where he was headed, but was certain that in a few days’ time he would be well away from this place he had called home for the last few seasons. He turned to say goodbye to the boys, but they were somewhere further back in the building. Kevon could hear their muted bickering over the low flames in the forge, and it brought a smile to his face.
“We’ll…” Kevon began, choking on a bit of dust. “We’ll see each other again.”
Farren nodded once, and turned his back to Kevon. The Master Smith rattled around some of his tools until Kevon’s footfalls faded into silence. After a minute of contemplation, Farren tossed the bar of sword-steel into the forge and shouted at the back of the building for his apprentices.
* * *
Kevon hadn’t been looking too long when he found Waine and Bertus at the armory. The Adept already had a small wooden case tucked snugly under his arm, and was helping their younger friend get the feel for a heavy crossbow.
“What are you going to be hunting now?” Kevon asked, jokingly.
“Orcs,” Waine replied. “And Demons.” The Adept waited for Kevon’s surprised expression before continuing. “And you’re coming with us.”
About the Author
Chris lives in a small town in Western Idaho, works for a large semiconductor company by day, and is a were-cyborg by night. He is currently pursuing his goal of being able to write, spend time with his family, practice martial arts, and barbeque mercilessly.
Look for updates on future volumes of the Blademage Saga, and other projects on his writing blog at: sleepingdrake.blogspot.com.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
About the Author