Wolf Awert - The Reign of Magic

From that moment Nill worked in Ambross’ workshop. He learned quickly, understood the delicacies of forging iron, bronze and brass and knew how to engrave fine patterns with a graver. He helped his teacher with the bellows until his arms went numb and he cleaned the workshop. Whenever he had nothing else to do he would sit on a wooden block in a dark corner, watching Ambross work. So the time passed, until Nill spoke to his master: “Master Ambross, I would like to make a weapon.”

Ambross thought for a while and said: “Alright, I’ll give you a blank. You can choose one. Once I’m done here you can do whatever you want with it. But one blank is all you’re getting from me.”

Nill nodded. “One blank is all I need,” he said confidently.

Ambross looked up at the ceiling, where he presumed the gods of silly ideas to reside, and shook his head again. The boy never spoke much, but Ambross rather enjoyed his company. They were similar in at least one way, the huge blacksmith and the small boy: a single sentence was usually enough for them, like a well-placed strike of a hammer.

The workshop was not roomy and rather dark, cluttered and dirty. The blanks lay, sorted by size and hardness, on different piles between hammers and pliers, torn bellows, broken tools and finished objects, and on everything in the room lay a sticky, foul-smelling residue of soot, iron dust, steam and sweat. How anyone could find anything in this mess was a mystery to all but Ambross and Nill, yet there was a hidden order to things in this dark, hot place.

Still, every order leaves room for the past and the future, for forgetting and wishing. Nill had found a blank in the darkest corner of the room that did not seem to fit in with the other blanks. One of his duties was to regularly clean the iron. This piece had remained hidden for a long time, and under the layer of grime it had a peculiar pattern that Nill did not recognize from any other blank. The metal itself did not seem to be solid; rather it was layered, as the leaves that fall in autumn become a single sheet upon the ground in winter. Judging by the filth on the blank it must have spent a long time in the workshop already. Nill did not know if it was valuable in any way, but as he held it he felt as if the iron were talking to him.

Nill waited until the day the council was held, where the village’s troubles and affairs were discussed. Nobody ever wanted to miss out on this, and so Nill had always been present in the past. The children never understood much of the discussions the adults were having, but they loved the feeling of being part of something special and enjoyed the break from their monotonous daily life.

So it was that Nill had the entire day to himself. Stopping in the middle of forging something and continuing later was possible, but not risk-free, as the metal would have to be re-heated. Nill only had this one blank and did not want to risk it. He chose a medium-sized hammer, because he lacked the strength to use the larger one. As nobody was there to help him, he also had to tread the bellows to heat the iron to the temperature he needed.

Nill beat the pointed end of the blank into a short, four-sided tapered tap and drew most of the metal to the other, wider side, flattening it to a wide blade. Nill knew what a good hunting knife looked like. The weight needed to be in the handle, not the blade, or the hand holding it would tire out quickly. The spine of the blade needed to be strong and solid so as not to break when the hunter cut hollow bones to reach the marrow. And the edge had to be robust of course, or it would quickly wear down.

He forged this knife against his better judgment. The taper was short and thin, the blade long and flat, the edge thin, and to be sharpened along half the back as well.

Ambross rarely made weapons, and when he did he answered all questions with an irritated growl or with silence. While working on the weapon he would mumble words Nill could not make out.

“Master Ambross, are you saying spells to strengthen the weapons?” Nill had asked once.

“I’m no sorcerer, I’m a blacksmith,” Ambross had answered gruffly, but then he had smiled his quiet smile and muttered: “Who knows, maybe some magic is left in the old blacksmithing tradition.” A bit louder he said to Nill: “I wished the blade good luck and told it that it had been born. We smiths believe that the hammer gives soul to the weapons, making them come to life.”

Nill had tried to do the same. Every strike from the hammer was accompanied by a thought he sent to the metal. The thought was always the same.

Burn!

In Nill’s inner eye an image blossomed: bright flames, cold white light, piercing bolts of lightning and all-encompassing might. But what could such a thought do, if it dissolved in these images like a thin wisp of smoke in a morning breeze?

Nill entered the workshop the next morning immediately after Master Ambross had opened it. He gave a small bow and focused on using polite words.

“Master, I finished my apprenticeship with you yesterday and would like to thank you for all the effort you have made to teach me.”

Ambross looked down on the boy quietly. Nothing about him showed the glowing pride and happiness he felt as he answered: “Well, Nill, you were never really my apprentice. You can’t really end something you didn’t really begin, can you? Now then, don’t you want to show me what you forged yesterday?”

Nill took out his blade.

Ambross’ feelings died like a fire in an icy wind.

“What it that?” he asked coldly.

“It’s a combat dagger!”

“And what do you want to do with a combat dagger?”

“I want to become a great hero or a warrior.”

Ambross’ eyes became heavy all of a sudden. Bitter scenes from the past, memories of pain and desperation, buried deep for too long, came back to the surface. “Heroics, my boy, heroics don’t require a weapon, but heart. You wouldn’t understand yet. And when you do finally understand, it’ll be too late. You can be certain, my boy: nobody becomes a hero because he wants to.”

Ambross’ keen gaze inspected the weapon more closely. “Still, your blade is well crafted. If I’d known what you were going to do, I never would have let you choose the blank for yourself. How could I forget this piece?” Ambross seemed to look into the distance, at something that was not there. “But you chose well. The blade is hard and resilient. You made one mistake though: the weight isn’t evenly balanced. Your hand will tire quickly if you use this weapon.”

“Yes, Master Ambross, I know. That is why I would like to ask one more thing of you.”

Ambross’ left eyebrow wandered skywards.

“Give me a piece of lead, please.”

“What do you want lead for?”

“If I put a ball of lead in the handle, the handle becomes heavier, and the blade will be easier to use.”

“You’ve learned much, little one. Listen to what I’m about to tell you. Do not use wood for the handle, use bone instead. Make it thin and then wrap it tightly with wet leather. Leather bands will give you a better grip than wood or bone, and you can replace them if they wear out.”

Nill said his thanks with one last polite bow, and Ambross wished the boy good luck. He had said all that he could.

At home Esara did not ask what had happened when Nill told her that he was no longer going to the blacksmith’s. Neither did she ask when Nill stayed away for longer and longer, ranging through the hills around the village, talking with the hunters, the Ramsmen and sometimes with the animals, instead of going after regular work.

Nill learned a lot out there in the hills. After barely one harvest he knew that there were not just flowers and plants of all sorts, but also that every plant had friends, family, and foe, and that every plant adapted its characteristics to the earth and the sky, the sun, the moon, the light and the shade. He knew the right time to pick keriberries and knew why trrk-roots were the only root to be dug up in spring.