Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [117]
Finally, with a bitter shrug and a shake of his head, Joram tilted the contents of the second crucible into the first, watching as the hot liquid streamed into the burning pool of iron. He continued pouring until he had nearly doubled the measure of iron, then stopped. Looking at the mixture, he shrugged again and added a bit more for no particular reason except that it felt right. Putting the second crucible aside carefully, Joram stirred the molten mixture, examining it with a critical eye. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Was this good or bad? He didn’t know and, with another frustrated shrug, poured the alloy into the dagger mold.
It would cool quickly, the text had noted, minutes compared to the hours it took to cool iron. Still, it did not seem quick enough to Joram. His fingers itched to strike off the mold and see the object he had created. To take his mind off it, he lifted the second crucible and returned it to its hiding place among a pile of cast-off, broken tools and other refuse of the smithy’s. This done, he walked to the front of the cavern and peered through the cracks of the crude wooden door. The village was silent, drowned in sleep. Nodding his head in satisfaction, Joram returned to the forge. It must be ready now. His hands shaking in anticipation, he struck aside the wooden forms that held the mold, then broke the mold itself.
The object within had only the very crudest resemblance to the weapon it would become. Lifting it out with the tongs, he plunged it into the fires of the forge, heating it until it glowed red hot, as the text had instructed. Carrying the dagger to the anvil, he lifted his hammer and, with practiced blows, pounded it into shape. He hurried, being not too particular as to the weapon’s construction since this was only a test. What happened next was critical, and he was anxious to proceed. At last, deeming the dagger good enough for his purposes, he lifted it by the tongs again and, drawing a deep breath, plunged the hot weapon into a bucket of water.
Steam billowed up in a cloud, momentarily blinding him. But with the hiss of the red-hot iron in the water came another sound, a sharp crack. Joram’s heavy brows drew together in a scowl. Impatiently waving his hand to clear the air, he jerked the weapon from the water—and brought up only a shattered fragment. Hurling it onto the refuse pile with a bitter curse, he was about to dump out the worthless alloy he had produced when a prickling feeling at the base of his neck made him turn around quickly.
“You work late, Joram,” said Blachloch. The warlocks face was visible as he stepped into the light of the forge, along with the hands that he held clasped in front of him in the manner of the Enforcers. Other than those, he was a patch of night within the red-lit forge, the black of his robes absorbing the light and even the warmth of the fire.
“It was my punishment,” said Joram coolly, having had this matter arranged beforehand. “I was negligent in my work today and the master ordered I stay until the dagger was finished.”
“It appears that you will be here most of the night,” the warlock stated, his cold-eyed gaze going to the refuse pile.
Joram shrugged, his face flowing into its embittered, angry lines much as the molten iron had flowed into the mold. “I will if I am not permitted to get on with my work,” he said sullenly, walking around to pump the bellows. Deliberately turning his back upon the warlock, he almost, but not quite, shouldered the black-robed man aside.
A tiny line creased Blachloch’s smooth forehead, his lips pressed together, but there was no sign of annoyance or irritation in his voice. “I understand that you claim to be of noble birth.”
Grunting from the exertion of his labors, Joram did not bother to reply. Not appearing surprised or disconcerted by this, Blachloch moved to where he could see