Edvalt went to a tool chest and lifted out a modest wooden box. Declan had noticed it on the first day of his apprenticeship and had often wondered about its contents, but he had never voiced that curiosity.
Edvalt opened the box and inside it Declan saw fine grains of something that looked like salt, glowing red-orange in the forge’s light.
‘Sand from the Burning Lands,’ said the master smith. ‘You need to learn to do this alone, so come and stand where I am. This is the last secret of our craft that I can teach you.’
Declan moved to the other side of the forge, the tongs and hammer ready. ‘Flatten,’ Edvalt commanded, and Declan started to beat the red-hot metal, making it thinner on every blow.
‘Be ready,’ said the old smith as he placed the box next to Declan. ‘When I say now, you must do three things very quickly: first, judge the colour of the steel. Then take a handful of sand from this box and sprinkle it down the very centre of the blade. When the sand sparkles like stars in the heavens, you must then fold the steel one last time.’
Perspiration flowed in sheets down Declan’s face and chest, from both the heat and the concentration. He studied the metal, moving the blade around as he struck, then just as he judged it ready to fold, he heard Edvalt say, ‘Now!’
Declan put his hammer down and pulled the blade towards him as he grabbed a handful of fine sand; he felt the weight of it, measuring the amount he needed, and sprinkled the sand onto the flaming metal.
Smoke and flame erupted. Sand sparkled and flared into tiny bright pinpoints of white, and some stuck to the surface. ‘More along the right edge!’ instructed Edvalt at exactly the same moment Declan decided he needed more on that side. The young journeyman felt exhilarated: he was creating the soul of the sword.
‘Now! Edges only!’ said Edvalt, and suddenly Declan understood the secret: the sand hardened the steel with each blow. The slightly softer, more resilient centre prevented the sword from shattering, while the extra sand at the edge created a harder steel that could be honed razor sharp.
He knew!
Without hesitation or a second thought, Declan started to beat the steel until it began to look like the weapon the baron had commissioned: a stout sword of moderate length, long enough to reach over a horse’s neck, to use against men on foot without being a hindrance in the saddle. When he reached the end of the blade, he took it back to the furnace and inserted the tip into the coals. Declan tried not to show any excitement as he neared the end of his task, but he was almost light-headed with the anticipation of reaching this milestone. He forced himself to calm. When the colour deepened in the butt end of the blade, he pulled it from the coals, returned to the anvil, and deftly flipped the blade around so he could shape the blank, where the tongs had gripped, into a proper tang. Quickly he hammered the steel into submission.
Then it was done.
Declan looked at Edvalt. The smith held a bucket of water ready. Most smiths would plunge the rough blade straight into the water, quenching the heat and setting the steel’s hardness fast, but Edvalt preferred to hold his blade out as his apprentice poured water from the large wooden bucket across the metal. He claimed it was easier for him to judge the cooling process, to watch the colour of the blade change as the steam exploded on contact. Declan didn’t care what other smiths did; he knew the quality of his master’s work and was determined to be his equal.
This time it was the student who held the blade and the teacher who quenched it. When the blade had cooled enough, Edvalt gave his journeyman a quick nod of approval.
Declan used a heavy cloth and gripped the still-hot blade. He selected a guard and slipped it over the tang, ramming it down hard into a hole at the end of the anvil cut specifically for this purpose. Guards did occasionally break and need to be replaced, but Declan believed his sword would serve years without the slightest problem.
He retrieved a roll of thin bull hide, cut an inch wide, and quickly wrapped the tang to form the grip. When that was finished, he held the blade for a moment, testing its balance. He could hardly believe how perfect it felt. Hefting the sword, he glanced at his master.
Both men felt tears welling at the beauty of what they had created, and words between them were not necessary.
Edvalt moved to the large smithy doors and unlatched them, sliding them aside. Brilliant afternoon sunlight blinded both men for a moment; then a relatively cool wave of air refreshed them. It was a hot summer day, but the air inside the smithy when forging a sword was hotter still.
Declan asked, ‘Pommel?’
Edvalt shook his head. ‘If his lordship wished some fancy stone or metal, he failed to mention such. I will offer him the choice when he arrives.’
Declan tossed the blade hilt first and Edvalt deftly caught it. Declan went to the well and hauled up a bucket, unhooked it, and carried it back. Edvalt tucked the blade under his arm and took the bucket between large muscular hands, lifted it to his lips, and drank heavily, then allowed his student to follow suit.
Edvalt held up the sword and inspected it in the sunlight. He looked down its length and finally tossed it back to Declan.
The young man caught it and wielded it as a swordsman might. The sword was bluish-grey and needed to be ground to an edge with a fine finishing stone, then polished, first with foundation polish, then fine polish, then at last silk cloth. In another few days the blade would be ready and gleam a brilliant silver-grey in the sun. He glanced at his master, who looked on expectantly, and finally Declan handed it back and said, ‘I find no flaw.’
‘Because there is none,’ said Edvalt, and with an unexpected show of affection, he reached out with his free hand to give Declan’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘It is a fitting masterpiece. You did well.’
‘I was taught well,’ said Declan, emotions threatening to rise up.
Glancing around against being overheard, even by someone as trusted as his wife or apprentice, Edvalt spoke softly, just above a whisper. ‘The sand comes from the north side of an island. From the port city of Abala, on the edge of the Burning Lands, you ride a day eastwards along the shore until you come to bluffs. Follow the beach until you come to a jutting headland, and look up. You will see above you three massive trees, like dark sisters of cursed legend. Look due south, and if the day is clear, you will see the island. A strong man can swim there in an hour; do not rent a boat lest someone divine your purpose. Gather what you need from the deep sand above the high-water line; this box has served me for ten years. You know how much is needed for the blade, and in all your years here I have made but five such. One box should last you a lifetime.
‘Once safely hidden from curious eyes, sift the sand, many times, taking out all impurities, then boil it to a slurry and filter that. Cover the sand as you let the slurry dry, protected from impurities – even dust – then sift it again. That sand will be salt white, without blemish, and it is what sets this blade apart from other blades, even those made with jewel steel. This is what gives the blade a sharpness none can match. No other sand will do this. This sand is a perfect mix, put there by the old gods for smiths, for this secret goes back before the coming of the One God.’ He paused, then concluded: ‘You now possess the secret of king’s steel.’
Declan was astonished. Until this moment he had believed king’s steel was a legend, spoken of by smiths to amaze their apprentices, for it had been said in ancient times skills in armour and arms surpassed what was known today, that through war and time arts had been lost.
‘Five such blades have I made.’
‘But you never named the steel—’ began Declan.
Gripping his former apprentice’s shoulder, Edvalt stopped him. ‘And you must never give its name, until you have an apprentice you prize as highly as I prize you. Then you may share it, but with none other. Few smiths