Jusan, tongs, Declan instructed.
Jusan hurried to take the tongs from Declan, who glanced at Edvalt and then brought his hammer down on the cube, causing steel, clay, and paper to erupt in a burst of brilliant sparks. Declan slammed his hammer with the precise tempo of a bass drummer as Jusan deftly turned the long ash-covered metal bar with the tongs. Declan alternated blows in perfect counterpoint: crash, turn, crash, turn; the timing was critical, for this was steel for a sword of rare quality, worth the price of a hundred lesser weapons.
Edvalt watched Declans every move. This was the sixth time the young journeyman had participated in the creation of such a weapon, but the first time Edvalt had given Declan responsibility for every step. From judging materials to the final polish, Declan alone would determine the success or failure of his first jewel-steel sword. If successful, it would be his masterpiece, and the weapon that would elevate him from the rank of journeyman to the rank of master smith. If he made one mistake, the forging would begin again from the very start.
Good, muttered Edvalt, the only encouragement he would give Declan in his decision-making. Baron Bartholomy, the future owner of this blade, had given Edvalt ample time to fashion the weapon, and if Declan made any misstep, the old smith had enough time to fashion another.
Edvalt and Declan shared a bond closer than that of father and son. Fathers and their sons often disagreed, but masters and journeymen had one purpose: to ensure that the knowledge never died. Declan was the son Edvalt had never had; his daughter was now grown and married, and except for a stillborn son, there had been no other offspring.
They pounded and folded the steel, until Declan indicated with a nod that Jusan needed to insert the lengthened blank into the furnace. With one long stride, the young apprentice thrust the blade deep into the coals and began to turn it.
Declan watched every glimmer and spark on the hot metal, then put his hand on Jusans shoulder. Now, he whispered, as if speaking loudly might imperil the process.
The young apprentice returned the blank to the anvil. Again their hammers landed powerful blows, and the heavy lump of red-hot metal slowly lengthened into a long flat blank of steel.
Declan said, Tongs, and Jusan gave him the long handles.
As Edvalt took a step back to watch, Declan flipped the steel over at an angle and struck hard, then he folded the still-glowing metal over on itself, beating the oblong into a square. Edvalt could fold steel in half the time, but Declans speed would come with practice. All that mattered now was the quality of the steel.
This was crucial in the creation of the great blades. Declan would double this steel a dozen times; hours of deft hammering and heating lay ahead of him, but with each fold the process continued until hundreds of layers of metal would be created. When he was finished, this blade would hold at least five thousand, each strengthening the sword.
When Declan was satisfied with the square, he plunged it back into the forge, and Jusan pulled down the remaining clay walls of the steel furnace. No one outside the smithy would witness the manner of this swords construction, from how the clay was moulded into the furnace, every piece crushed to dust, to preparing the coal bed and stoking the ashes, and how the bellows would be repositioned above the open forge when they were finally finished: the special steel required for the commission was one of the most closely guarded secrets in all of Garn. Even Jusan was allowed to see only part of the process; most of the finishing work had been done by Edvalt alone or with Declan as he mastered the craft.
Jusan would be Edvalts last apprentice and Declans first, and one day he too would move on and establish his own forge somewhere. Good smiths were always in demand, and often among the most important commoners in the world, particularly those who forged weapons for the barons. Smiths and millers could also rise in position, accruing wealth enough to challenge the barons. They might never command armies, or live in castles, but they could live a life of decadence only dreamed of by other commoners.
Declan was driven by two desires: to forge his masterpiece and to make no mistake that would reflect badly on his master. He was an orphaned child, the son of a murdered tavern wench and a nameless father, who had been taken in by Edvalt and his wife, Mila. His master was as close to a father as Declan would ever know. The smith was a taciturn man who rarely showed emotion, but he had always tempered his stern nature with kindness, and Declan had a fierce desire to please him.
The young journeyman pulled the blade close to his face for the briefest instant, a habit he had learned from Edvalt as a means of testing the metals readiness for the next step. Declan judged the combination of colours in the metal and the level of heat rising from the steel. The young smith pushed the blade back into the coals.