him select one by stroking the small rectangular pieces until suddenly his hand paused over one. Those blocks were made of the finest steel, re-forged by the College of Magic in some jealously guarded process. Each blank was waiting to be turned into a sword of black-iron, so expensive to produce they
were rarely done.
'Goin' to teach me somethen' new?'
As the confusion of his new life crowded in on Isak's mind, the simple, solid forge had increasingly become a sanctuary. There was no idle chatter, no swirl of politics here. The smith respected ability with a hammer and didn't give a damn about much else. He was happy to tolerate Isak's presence, though the young lord had yet to say a word to him. There'd not been any need – and the smith was a man of few
words himself.
Isak didn't reply. His eyes were already lost in the black-iron and the smith immediately gave up his place at the fire. There was purpose in those eyes. The smith recognised it and knew not to disturb Isak. He secretly hoped that Isak would forge with magic one day, some' thing he'd dreamed about but never yet been permitted to witness.
The smith picked up the bellows and began to stoke the flames. Isak sat before the fire and waited, lost in the dancing surge of heat. The image of Carel beaming down at the dragon on his tunic loomed large. Isak knew that Carel still kept a Palace Guard tunic among his
effects for the day he died. He couldn't imagine the man wearing any other. The arrogant dragon symbol had been fine until Carel put it on, but then it looked a sick joke, one that would come back to haunt
him. Isak had been tempted to go and ask the Keymaster what he'd
seen in his future, but something told him it would be futile.
A slight cough from the smith brought him back to reality. Taking the long steel tongs, Isak withdrew the glowing brick and held it before him. Looking deep into that bright burst of colour, his eyes began to water from the heat. As the image blurred he saw the shape this weapon should take: a slender, curved sabre with symbols he didn't recognise etched and inlaid with gold. The rounded pommel was to be carved with a hawk's head. The dusky steel would contrast with Carel's cream glove.
With a sigh, Isak nodded to himself and laid the metal down on the battered anvil. The first few strokes were hesitant, but he soon found his rhythm. The smith stood and watched the sparks fly, mesmerised by the sweet ring of the hammer. It was only when Isak stopped to return the metal to the fire that the smith realised his eyes had been closed after that rhythm had been reached. Though his bladder was pressing, the smith couldn't drag himself away. It was pitch-black outside by the time he did leave, drained by the effort of watching. Isak didn't notice him go.
After the evening meal, Carel found himself a stool in the forge and puffed away on his pipe while Isak worked. The seamstress had been dealt with earlier, storming off in a huff when Isak refused to stop to be measured for his own uniform. Carel didn't disturb the boy, but Isak did acknowledge his presence. It was almost unbearably hot that close to the forge; Carel could see Isak's chapped lips underneath the glisten of sweat, but knew he'd not accept any water. Once the sword had gone back into the fire, Carel offered his pipe to Isak, who smiled to himself and accepted. He drew on it a few times, then pulled the sword out again and started hammering. As he did so, he puffed out the smoke from the pipe over the glowing surface and then struck it again, repeating the process until the tobacco was finished.
Carel had half risen from his seat to reclaim the pipe when Isak slipped it under the cooling metal and smashed the hammer down again, shattering the fired clay and sending pieces clattering out around the room. Carel opened his mouth to protest and then closed it again. Isak had clearly done that for a reason, just as there had to be sense in the way the boy had repeatedly gestured towards Carel as though he was wafting the scent of the sword towards him.
Abandoning the Krann to his labours, Carel went into the frosty night air, a heavy fur draped over his shoulders, and sat himself down on a rough wooden bench against the wall. It gave him a good view of the deserted training field, which glistened frostily in the moonlight. Mihn's eyes swept over the veteran, then he returned to his own distant thoughts. The foreigner had left the door of the forge only to fetch a fur for himself once the cold night air started to bite. As a cloud covered the gibbous face of Alterr above, Carel fumbled through his pockets for his tobacco pouch, which also contained the scratched wooden pipe that had accompanied him on every campaign of his life. He filled and lit it before offering the pouch to Mihn.
'Come and sit down, man,' he said, patting the bench. 'Isak doesn't need a guard at this time of night.'
Mihn stared suspiciously at both Carel and his offering, shaking his head to the pouch, but he did leave his post to cross the few yards to the bench. He made no noise as he walked, even across the iced grass. Carel was a Ghost; he had worked with the biggest and best of the Farlan, men who combined skill and grace with more deadly skills. Mihn was shorter than every soldier there, and slender too, but he stood out to the trained eye. The man reminded Carel of the black leopard he'd seen once in Duke Vrerr's menagerie in Tor Milist. The animal had hypnotised Carel: it moved with an almost supernatural elegance. A drunken soldier had got too close to the enclosure and in the blink of an eye the leopard's pose had changed from lethargy to lethal purpose.
'Have you been watching him?' asked Mihn suddenly, bringing
Carel back to the present with a jerk.
'1- ah, yes. I don't know what he's doing now, but that'll be one fine weapon when he's finally satisfied. The shape's there already, but
he keeps beating at it.'
'Is he speaking?' There was a slight anxiety in Mihn's voice, but Carel saw nothing in his face.
'Nothing 1 could hear, but I saw his lips move from time to time. Why?'
'No matter. Is he going to engrave it too?'
'If you're so interested, what're you doing out here?'
Mihn ducked his head slightly and Carel immediately regretted his
tone.
'Sorry, lad, my mind's still waking up. Feels like I've been in a trance while watching him. I think he's going to engrave it, yes. He's got some tools beside him – though I've never seen him do anything like it before.'
'I doubt he has.'
Carel drew deeply on his pipe. 'Being as mysterious as ever tonight,
1 see. Care to tell me?'
The smaller man shook his head, blinking away the smoke.
'Then let me tell you something then,' said the veteran, his voice a low growl. Mihn caught the tone immediately and sat stock-still, his body almost quivering with readiness. Had it been almost any other man, Carel would have grabbed him by the tunic, but the image of the leopard rose in his mind once more. The drunken soldier had
died.
Mihn had already proven his skill publicly. A friend of one of the soldiers he had felled in the barbican tunnel tried to secure some measure of revenge. He was a hulking brute, but a skilled one. His wrist was so badly dislocated the surgeons at the College of Magic had to be called in to repair the damage. A rib, snapped under a well-placed knee, was still giving him trouble. Carel had seen that Mihn had the killing blow ready and waiting. Luckily, it had not been needed.
'Whatever penance you're doing, I don't care, see? I've smacked his arse and wiped his eyes; I've taught him when to fight and when to stand back. Even if you'd give your life for him, that's nothing big to me. If you know something, if you even suspect it, don't you dare hide it, not from me. In case your nose has been so far up his arse you haven't noticed, Isak's a white-eye. He's a stubborn and wilful shit for much of the time, but I love him like a son and I know his mind better than he does. He can protect himself from others, but he's no defence against himself.'
Mihn stared into Carel's eyes and then, without warning, wilted.
'I understand,' he said quietly. 'And I apologise. I held my tongue because there are those who expect great things, or fear them. I should trust you as he does.'
‘And so?' replied Carel, a little mollified.
