iron, steel, and other metals lay on racks, while near the door were shelves containing examples of the smith’s work, knives, buckles, saddle irons, and horseshoes.
Save that the building was made of wood, not stone, he could have been in his master’s forge in Alvaren. A sudden wave of longing swept over him as he remembered how once he had dreamed of his own forge, and of the great work that he would do there.
The hammering increased in tempo as the shoe neared completion. Then the smith moved the shoe from the bick of the anvil to the flat face. Laying down the tongs, he picked up a punch in his left hand. Seven quick blows resulted in seven perfect nail holes. Returning the hammer and punch to the tool rack, the smith then used the tongs to pick up the shoe and douse it in the trough of water. When the water ceased hissing he pulled the shoe out and turned it over in his hands to inspect it. After a moment he nodded, placing the shoe with a stack of others on the bench.
Only then did he acknowledge Devlin.
“Good day to you,” he said.
“Master Timo, is it not?”
The smith nodded.
“Captain Drakken spoke well of you,” Devlin said. “I have some work to be done, and will pay you well for the use of your forge and tools.”
“You wish to use my forge, but to do the work yourself?”
“Yes.”
“No.” Master Timo shook his head emphatically. “There’s not enough gold in the Kingdom to pay me to stand by while some fool who fancies himself a smith ruins my tools.”
Devlin understood the smith’s reluctance. If this were his forge, he’d feel the same. In his head a voice insisted that there was no reason to try and persuade the smith. As Chosen One, Devlin could simply order the man to obey. Devlin ignored the voice, and tried again.
“I apprenticed for seven years, and served as journeyman for three more. I understand your concern, and I would not ask if my need were not great.”
“Let me see your hands.”
Devlin shifted his pack on his shoulder, and propped his staff against the door. Then he held out his hands, turning them over so the smith could see the faint scars that he bore on both sides. Even the most careful of smiths had scars to show the risks of working with hot metal, and Devlin bore his fair share.
Master Timo grunted. “It has been a while since you worked your trade. But those are the hands of a smith. I will not lend you my tools, but for sake of our craft, tell me what you want done and I will do it for you without cost.”
Devlin hesitated for a moment, tempted. The task itself was easy enough, just fitting the axe head onto the new helve. Any reasonably skilled smith could do it. But it was no ordinary war-axe. Deep inside his bones he knew the weapon itself was cursed, and he could not ask this man to take the risk that the curse would fall on him as well.
“I thank you for your kindness, but I must refuse. There are some things a man must do for himself. If you will not reconsider, I will look for another.” In a city this size, he was sure to find at least one smith who would have fewer scruples about lending his tools to a stranger. Devlin reclaimed his staff and turned to leave.
“Wait,” the smith called.
Devlin stopped and turned back. The smith bore a faint frown as he regarded him. “As long as you are here, you can take a look at something.”
He moved over to the workbench at the far corner, and motioned Devlin to join him. A copper armband lay on the workbench. Favored by soldiers as a luck token, this armband was marred by a crack that split it nearly in two.
“The owner offered me twice its value if I could fix it. I can’t, but then steel is my specialty. If you can fix it, then I’d consider lending you a forge and some tools.”
Devlin picked it up and turned it over in his hands. “Old work, this,” he said. It was an elegant piece, showing a woodland scene in exquisite detail. The crack ran right through the central figure of a
Save that the building was made of wood, not stone, he could have been in his master’s forge in Alvaren. A sudden wave of longing swept over him as he remembered how once he had dreamed of his own forge, and of the great work that he would do there.
The hammering increased in tempo as the shoe neared completion. Then the smith moved the shoe from the bick of the anvil to the flat face. Laying down the tongs, he picked up a punch in his left hand. Seven quick blows resulted in seven perfect nail holes. Returning the hammer and punch to the tool rack, the smith then used the tongs to pick up the shoe and douse it in the trough of water. When the water ceased hissing he pulled the shoe out and turned it over in his hands to inspect it. After a moment he nodded, placing the shoe with a stack of others on the bench.
Only then did he acknowledge Devlin.
“Good day to you,” he said.
“Master Timo, is it not?”
The smith nodded.
“Captain Drakken spoke well of you,” Devlin said. “I have some work to be done, and will pay you well for the use of your forge and tools.”
“You wish to use my forge, but to do the work yourself?”
“Yes.”
“No.” Master Timo shook his head emphatically. “There’s not enough gold in the Kingdom to pay me to stand by while some fool who fancies himself a smith ruins my tools.”
Devlin understood the smith’s reluctance. If this were his forge, he’d feel the same. In his head a voice insisted that there was no reason to try and persuade the smith. As Chosen One, Devlin could simply order the man to obey. Devlin ignored the voice, and tried again.
“I apprenticed for seven years, and served as journeyman for three more. I understand your concern, and I would not ask if my need were not great.”
“Let me see your hands.”
Devlin shifted his pack on his shoulder, and propped his staff against the door. Then he held out his hands, turning them over so the smith could see the faint scars that he bore on both sides. Even the most careful of smiths had scars to show the risks of working with hot metal, and Devlin bore his fair share.
Master Timo grunted. “It has been a while since you worked your trade. But those are the hands of a smith. I will not lend you my tools, but for sake of our craft, tell me what you want done and I will do it for you without cost.”
Devlin hesitated for a moment, tempted. The task itself was easy enough, just fitting the axe head onto the new helve. Any reasonably skilled smith could do it. But it was no ordinary war-axe. Deep inside his bones he knew the weapon itself was cursed, and he could not ask this man to take the risk that the curse would fall on him as well.
“I thank you for your kindness, but I must refuse. There are some things a man must do for himself. If you will not reconsider, I will look for another.” In a city this size, he was sure to find at least one smith who would have fewer scruples about lending his tools to a stranger. Devlin reclaimed his staff and turned to leave.
“Wait,” the smith called.
Devlin stopped and turned back. The smith bore a faint frown as he regarded him. “As long as you are here, you can take a look at something.”
He moved over to the workbench at the far corner, and motioned Devlin to join him. A copper armband lay on the workbench. Favored by soldiers as a luck token, this armband was marred by a crack that split it nearly in two.
“The owner offered me twice its value if I could fix it. I can’t, but then steel is my specialty. If you can fix it, then I’d consider lending you a forge and some tools.”
Devlin picked it up and turned it over in his hands. “Old work, this,” he said. It was an elegant piece, showing a woodland scene in exquisite detail. The crack ran right through the central figure of a
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