“This place,” Master Jestin said, spreading his arms, encompassing the smithy. “This place is of the Order but it belongs to me. I am King, Aspect, Commander, Lord and Master of this place. This is not a place for games. It is not a place for japes. It is a place for work and learning. The Order requires that you know the art of working metal. To truly wield a weapon with skill it is necessary that you understand the nature of its fashioning, to be part of the craft that brought it into being. The swords you will make here will keep you alive and defend the Faith in the years to come. Work well and you will have a sword to rely on, a blade of strength with an edge keen enough to cut steel plate. Work poorly and your swords will break in your first battle and you will die.”

Once more he turned his gaze on Barkus, his cold stare seeming to contain a question. “The Faith is the source of all our strength, but our service to the Faith requires steel. Steel is the instrument by which we honour the Faith. Steel and blood is the whole of your future. Do you understand?”

They all murmured their agreement, but Vaelin knew Barkus was the only one to whom the question had been addressed.

The rest of the day was spent shovelling coke into the furnace and lifting stacks of iron rods into the smithy from a heavily laden cart in the courtyard. Master Jestin spent his time at the anvil, his hammer a constant, singing rhythm of metal on metal, glancing up occasionally to issue instructions amidst a fountain of sparks. Vaelin found it grim, monotonous work, his throat raw with smoke and his ears dulled from the endless din of the hammer.

“I can see why you didn’t relish a life in the smithy, Barkus,” he commented as they trudged wearily back to their room at the end of the day.

“I’ll say,” Dentos agreed, massaging his aching arm. “Give me a day of bow practice anytime.”

Barkus said nothing, staying silent for the rest of the night amidst their tired grumbling. Vaelin knew he barely heard them, his mind was still fixed on Master Jestin’s questions, the one in his words and the one in his eyes.

The next day saw them back at the smithy, once more lifting and carrying, lugging sacks of coke into the large chamber that served as a fuel store. Master Jestin said little, concentrating on inspecting every one of the iron rods they had carried inside the day before, holding each one up to the light, running his fingers along them and either grunting in satisfaction and setting it back on the pile or tutting in annoyance and adding it to a small but growing stack of rejects.

“What’s he looking for?” Vaelin wondered, groaning with effort as he heaved another sack into the store room. “One piece of iron’s the same as another isn’t it?”

“Impurities,” Barkus answered, glancing over at Master Jestin. “The rods have been forged by another smith before they get here, most likely by less skilled hands that our Master. He’s checking to see if the smith who made them put too much poor iron in the mix.”

“How can he tell?”

“Touch mostly. The rods are made of many layers of iron hammered together then twisted and flattened. The forging leaves a pattern on the metal. A good smith can tell quality rods from bad by the pattern. I’ve heard tales of some that could even smell quality.”

“Could you do it? The touching thing I mean, not the smelling.”

Barkus laughed, Vaelin sensing a note of bitterness in the sound. “Not in a thousand years.”

At noon Master Sollis appeared and ordered them onto the practice field for sword work, saying they needed to keep their skills sharp. They were sluggish from the hard labour in the smithy and his cane fell more frequently than usual, although Vaelin found it didn’t sting as much as it once did. He wondered briefly if Master Sollis was lightening his blows and dismissed the idea immediately. Master Sollis wasn’t going soft, they were growing hard. He’s beaten us into shape, he realised. He’s our smith.

“It’s time to fire the forge,” Master Jestin told them when they returned to the smithy after a hastily consumed afternoon meal. “There is only one thing to remember about the forge.” He held his arms up displaying the numerous scars that marked the thickly muscled flesh. “It’s hot.”

He had them empty several sacks of coke into the brick circle that formed the forge then told Caenis to fire it, a task that involved crawling underneath and setting light to the oak wood tinder in the gap beneath. Vaelin would have balked at it but Caenis scrambled to it without any hesitation, flaming taper in hand. He emerged a few moments later, blackened but undamaged. “Seems well alight Master,” he reported.

Master Jestin ignored him and crouched down to inspect the growing blaze. “You,” he nodded at Vaelin, he never called them by name, seemingly recalling names was a pointless distraction. “On the bellows. You too,” he flicked a finger at Nortah. Barkus, Dentos and Caenis were told to stand and wait for instructions.

Hefting his heavy, blunt headed hammer Master Jestin lifted one of the iron rods from the stack next to the anvil. “A sword blade of the Asraelin pattern is fashioned from three rods,” he told them. “A thick central rod and two thinner rods for the edge. This,” he held up the rod in his hand, “is one of the edge rods. It must be shaped before it is melded with the others. The edge is the hardest part of the sword to forge, it must be fine but strong, it must cut but also withstand a blow from another blade. Look at the metal, look closely.” He held the rod out to each of them in turn, his rough, uneven voice oddly hypnotic. “See the flecks of black there?”

Vaelin peered at the rod, picking out the small black fragments amidst the dark grey of the iron.

“It’s called star silver because it glows brighter than the heavens when it’s put to the flame,” Jestin went on. “But it’s not silver, it’s a form of iron, rare iron that comes from the earth like all metals, there’s nothing Dark about it. But it’s this that makes swords of the Order stronger than others. With this your blades will withstand blows that would shatter others and, if wielded with skill, will cut through mail and armour. This is our secret. Guard it well.”

He motioned for Vaelin and Nortah to begin pumping the bellows and watched as their efforts were rewarded by the gradual appearance of a deep red-orange glow in the mass of coke. “Now,” he said, hefting his hammer. “Watch closely, try and learn.”

Vaelin and Nortah started to sweat profusely as they heaved at the heavy wooden handle of the bellows, the heat in the smithy rising with every flush of air they forced into the forge. The atmosphere seemed to thicken with it, drawing a breath becoming an effort in itself.

Get on with it for Faith’s sake, Vaelin groaned inwardly, his sweat slicked arms aching, as Master Jestin waited… and waited.

Finally satisfied the smith took hold of the rod with a pair of iron tongs and plunged it into the forge, waiting until the red-orange glow flowed into the metal and along its length before taking it out and placing it on the anvil. The first blow was light, little more than a tap, scattering a small cloud of sparks. Then he began to work in earnest, the hammer rising and falling with drumbeat precision, sparks fountaining around him, the hammer sometimes blurring with the speed of his swing. Oddly there seemed to be scant change in the glowing rod at first, although it may have got a little longer by the time Master Jestin plunged it into the forge again, gesturing irritably for Vaelin and Nortah to pump harder.

It wore on for what seemed like an hour but could only have been about ten minutes, Master Jestin hammering at the rod, returning it to the forge, hammering again. Vaelin found himself longing for the bruising comforts of the practice field, hand to hand combat on icy ground was better than this. When Master Jestin signalled them to stop they both staggered away from the bellows and leaned their heads out of the door, heaving great gulps of sweet tasting air into their lungs.