Amagro Dreygun's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

Rahmar's training left Amagro faster, but her katana had cracked at the guard. A dull blade would break under his lessons. So Rahmar walked her across the hills to a low smoky hut. "The man here forges the best steel in Chronchara," he said. "Warriors come from every land to beg for his work. Few leave with a sword." Inside, the heat pressed on Amagro's skin. A tall, thin man stood at the anvil. His arms were bone under rolled sleeves. Greasy black hair hung past a bald crown. A huge mustache flailed out from his gaunt face. He looked sad and gentle, not like a man the whole world chased. He set down his hammer and studied her. "You want a sword," the Swordmaker said. "Everyone does." He nodded at a carved oak rack along the wall. Finished blades filled its slots, each one clean and bright. "Those are promised. Kings paid for them years ago. I have no blade for you." Amagro reached for the coin at her belt. "I can pay." "Gold I have." He almost smiled. "I make swords for hands that deserve them. Not for the deepest purse." He lifted her cracked katana from her grip and turned it in the firelight. "This snapped because you outgrew it. Show me you have grown." He pulled a heavy, unfinished bar of steel from the rack's lower shelf. It had no edge, no polish, only weight. He tossed it to her. "Rahmar says you are quick. My apprentice used to strike the hanging bell across the yard, one clean cut, before the rope swung twice. Do that with a raw blade and I will forge you a true one." Amagro stepped outside. A rusted bell hung from a beam, tied to a frayed rope. She gripped the rough steel. It was too heavy and dead in her hand. She swung. The bar thudded against the bell's rim and glanced away. The rope swung twice. She had missed the cut. The Swordmaker watched from the doorway. Amagro breathed slow, the way Rahmar had taught her. She stopped fighting the weight. She let the bar's mass carry itself and read the swing before it began. She struck once more. The steel bit clean through the bell's neck. The metal dropped and rang in the dirt. The rope swung only once. The Swordmaker picked up the fallen bell and turned it over in his thin fingers. "Better than my apprentice," he said quietly. "Come back in three days." Three days later he laid a finished katana in her palms. The steel was pale and perfect, lighter than her old blade and far sharper. Amagro felt the balance settle into her wrist like it had always belonged there. "It will not break," the Swordmaker said. "You might." He turned back to his fire. Amagro left with a blade worthy of the tournament, and now no excuse left to fail.