Khollo finished retrieving his arrows and looked up at the pale winter sky. There was an hour before lunch still. He could use the time to visit the smithy. He was no longer officially an apprentice to Tarrik, but Khollo still enjoyed banging on pieces of metal every now and then. Or helping the smiths as they banged on pieces of metal. Besides, the smithy was always the warmest place in the fortress, except maybe the kitchens.
Khollo slung his quiver over one shoulder and set out for the smithy. Even now, he could hear hammers ringing as they struck again and again, and he heard the roar of the furnaces. Khollo paused in the wide doorway and surveyed the scene.
Wendell and Aaron were hunched over a warped construction of metal and timber. A prototype, Khollo guessed, though for what he wasn’t sure. Surprisingly, Tarrik was dozing by one of the furnaces, a blissful smile on his face.
Wendell looked up and broke into booming laughter at the sight of Khollo. “You have impeccable timing!” he called, waving a large mallet. Aaron backed away warily during this greeting. “Tarrik’s just gone to sleep, been up all night,” Wendell explained.
“Don’t wake him on my account,” Khollo said quickly. “I’ll drop by later.”
Wendell shook his head and moved towards the sleeping smith. “No, no, you misunderstand me. Last night it was all we could do to keep him from running to find you. Convinced him to put it off ‘til morning.”
Khollo watched, puzzled, as Wendell marched up to the master smith and jabbed him in the stomach with his hammer. Tarrik came awake with a roar, a massive fist lashing out, narrowly missing Wendell. The other smith had leapt back just in time, grinning mischievously.
“Works every time!” he observed. “Absolutely foolproof.”
Khollo watched as Tarrik lurched to his feet, glaring at Wendell. “It’s only foolproof if you’re out of reach,” Khollo observed.
Tarrik swung around at the sound of Khollo’s voice. “Khollo!” he cried. “You’re here! I was hoping you would come by today.”
“So I hear,” Khollo said, grinning. “What have you and the others done now?”
Tarrik moved to his workbench, clearing a pile of metal scraps away with a careless wave of his hand. “I left it here somewhere,” he muttered, casting about. “Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly, digging an oilcloth-wrapped bundle out of the chaos.
The smith turned to Khollo, beaming. “A gift for you, Khollo. Made by my own hand.”
Khollo frowned and took the parcel, surprised by how heavy it was. Slowly, he unwound the strips of cloth, revealing an expanse of smooth, hardened leather. A scabbard.
Eagerly, Khollo tore off the rest of the wrapping. When the last strip fell away, he was holding in his hands a peculiar weapon. One of a kind.
“Here,” Tarrik said eagerly, sliding the sheaths off of either end, revealing twin blades.
“You did it,” Khollo murmured, spinning the weapon slowly. The blades glittered in the morning light, beautiful and deadly. The polished wooden centerpiece with its silver fittings gleamed dully. Khollo twisted the two halves and they spun smoothly apart, leaving him with two shorter weapons, somewhere between a long dagger and a short sword.
“Unbelievable,” Khollo said quietly. Wendell and Aaron had wandered over and were looking on with wide grins. Tarrik looked as though he might explode with happiness.
Khollo raised his right arm and slashed vigorously with the short blade. He laughed with pleasure at how light and quick the weapon was, how responsive compared to his training sword. He reattached the two halves and, taking hold of the shaft in the center, spun the blades round and round, twirling them effortlessly in a pinwheel of blurred metal.
“Masterful,” Tarrik said in an awed voice. “Just as I imagined. Yes . . . this weapon was meant for you.”
“Are you sure?” Khollo asked, lowering the strange weapon and looking up at the smith. “This is your work, after all.”
“I am positive,” Tarrik said firmly. “You were meant to have it. Now that I see you wielding it, there is no other way. Use it well, Khollo.”
“I will,” Khollo whispered, watching the play of light on the blades. “I will treat it with the utmost care and respect.” A thought struck him. “What do you call this new weapon?”
Tarrik considered this, frowning, tugging at his beard, chewing his lip in consternation. Plainly he had not realized that the weapon would need a name. “It needs a strong name, fierce,” Tarrik growled.
“Use the old tongue,” Aaron suggested. “It will sound more powerful.”
“Excellent idea,” Tarrik agreed. “The old tongue. The oldest tongue.”
Tarrik turned to Khollo. “I name this weapon, the Sen-teel.”
“Dark Bane,” Khollo murmured. “I like it.”
“You speak the old tongue?” Tarrik said sharply.
“I . . . what?” Khollo asked, eyeing his new weapon again.
“You translated the name of your weapon,” Wendell informed him. “How did you know that?”
Khollo shrugged uncertainly. How did I know that? “The name just came to me,” he said finally. “Lucky guess I suppose.”
“Anyway,” Tarrik interrupted, “The Sen-teel is yours. Use it well.”
Khollo bowed to the master smith. “I will treasure it always,” he replied. “Truly, you are a master smith, Tarrik. I know no other who would have seen such a frustrating project through.”
“Kill a few vertaga for me, will you? I’d hate for that weapon to go to waste.” Tarrik clapped Khollo on the back grinning broadly.
“I’ll do that,” Khollo agreed. “Thank you again, Tarrik.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Khollo left the smithy, cradling the Sen-teel in his arms. The weapon glowed in the midday light
