Verecleeve's Arc

Chapter 2 of 8

The forge sat under a patched canvas roof, timbers gray with age. A small fire burned in a stone pit. Verecleeve stepped in from the dark, rifle across his chest. The blacksmith who forged the Magus's blades stood at his anvil. Jorum had named him. Verecleeve had walked here to earn what the man knew. The Swordmaker looked up. He was a thin man, near skeletal, with long greasy black hair and a bald crown. His mustache flared at the ends. His face looked sad, but his eyes were sharp. He set his hammer down. "You want the man in black robes," the Swordmaker said. His voice was soft. "They all do. I forge his steel. I know his door." He nodded at the rifle. "But I don't hand secrets to a man who carries that." "It shoots true," Verecleeve said. "Any coward can pull a trigger from far off." The Swordmaker walked to a rack of blades and drew a raw steel bar, unfinished, no edge. He carried it to a wooden post and set it in Verecleeve's hands. "A blade tells me what a man is. Prove your hands deserve to know." He pointed to a small bell hung from a beam by a thin rope. He reached up and set the bell swinging. "Cut the rope before the bell swings back twice. One stroke. Show me you're more than your gun." The bell swung out. Verecleeve gripped the cold bar. He had never held a sword in a fight. His whole life was breath, aim, and a steady finger. The bell reached its height and started back. He swung anyway. The dull bar hit the rope and slid off. The bell rang and swung on. The Swordmaker shook his head. "I thought so," he said. He turned back toward his anvil. "Take your rifle and go." Verecleeve stood there. Two pairs of boots worn through. Every stop the Magus made, memorized. And now a bald man with a bell would end it. His jaw tightened. On the timber beam, a purple frog with green stripes sat blinking, watching him fail. "You forge his steel," Verecleeve said. "You know when he needs it. You know when he'll come here." The Swordmaker stopped. "I don't need his door," Verecleeve said. "I need to know the next time he sends for a blade. I'll be waiting when your runner leaves with it." The thin man turned. He studied Verecleeve a long moment. Then, slow, he almost smiled. "Those hands can't cut," he said. "But that head thinks." He set his tongs down. "He sent word three days back. A new sword, finished by the next full moon. My boy carries it east when it's done." "Then I follow your boy," Verecleeve said. "You follow my boy." The Swordmaker picked his hammer up. "Don't get him killed." Verecleeve had his trail again. The full moon set his clock.