“Well, my lady,” Ben said with an exaggerated bow that made his leather apron creak, “if I’m working fast and the forge gods smile upon me? About twenty minutes. If I’m showing off for a crowd?” He grinned. “However long it takes to make thee laugh.”
Even she cracked a smile as everyone else laughed.
Ben quenched only the pointed end of the spike, then stuck it vertically in a large shoe vise, the rest of the glowing orange spike pointing up. He took two adjustable spanners—giant wrenches—one in each hand, and clamped them opposite each other onto the spike just below the head to make a T-shape. Then he rotated the spanners, twisting the metal until it spiraled.
“The secret to getting it to do what you want is in the heat. Too hot, and the metal gets angry and twisted up the wrong way. Too cold and it won’t move at all.” He twisted the spanners again, slow and deliberate. “Kind of like my Aunt Gertrude at Thanksgiving.”
More laughter.
He took the spike out of the vise and thrust it back into the coals to heat the other end.
“Now comes the fun part,” he announced. “Turning this thick bit into something sharp enough to make those turkey legs nervous.”
He pulled it out again, the metal now returned to orange, set it on his anvil, and began hammering the opposite end in earnest. Sparks flew upward like tiny stars. Each strike flattened and spread the spike, gradually transforming it from square stock into the recognizable shape of a blade.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
“You know what the best part about being a blacksmith is?” Ben asked between strikes, not breaking rhythm. “I get to hit things with a hammer all day.”Clang. “You have therapists, I have percussive therapy.”
The laughter made him glow inside as brightly as the metal he worked.
A woman in tight-fitting corset and peasant blouse piped up. “Aren’t you hot in all that leather?” She looked him up and down appreciatively.
Ben paused, wiping his brow with his forearm. Out in the real world, her comment and gaze would have had him stuttering—if he could say anything at all. But not in here, where he wasn’t Ben “Moose” Massey, but Sir Benjamin of the Forge, Royal Blacksmith to the King.
He shot her a grin. “My lady.” He gestured at his kilt. “This isn’t just for showing off me pretty legs.”
The woman covered her heart and pretended to faint while the crowd roared, and Ben went back to work, shaping the curve of the blade with confident, precise strikes.
“Almost there now,” he murmured, more to himself than the audience, though they leaned in to listen anyway. “See how she’s starting to curve? That’s what you want in a good blade—a belly to the edge. Makes for better cutting.”
He quenched the blade in water, and it hissed and smoked dramatically. The crowd gasped, a few people stepping back.
“Don’t worry, gentle folk,” Ben said, deadpan. “That’s supposed to happen. Probably.”
The crowd laughed again as he lifted the knife back out of the water.
“And there you have it—fancy!” Ben held the finished knife up for everyone to see. “Because even a tough railroad spike deserves to feel pretty.”
The crowd laughed and clapped.
“No need for applause, just buy one for yourself and for ten of thy closest friends.” He gestured at the display cases of jewelry, the tables covered with knives, swords, leaf-shaped belt buckles, and real chain mail.
Behind him, one corner of the shop gleamed like a dragon’s hoard: torsos mounted on wooden busts wearing hand-linked hauberks, the morning light glinting off steel rings. A coif hung from a carved post, draped like a hood over a leather helm.Nearby, gauntlets rested on a curved wooden rack, their fingers flexed into a loose grip, ready to knock on trouble’s door.
A smaller mail shirt dangled from a nail near the front edge—right at kid height. He’d made that one out of light but sturdy aluminum for the little ones, so they could wear it without getting weighted down.
Across from the forge, and not for sale, hung his most impressive piece to date. Shoulder to mid-back chain mail shirt with the finest rings he could make, shined up until it looked like it was made of silver. He let it hang there deliberately, a quiet flex. The shirt looked like it’d been made with elven magic, but of course it wasn’t. It took precision, patience, and weeks of his labor.
Ben admired it briefly as the crowd looked over his wares, deciding what to buy, before turning to answer questions and collect money. The crowd was thinning out, slowly making its way to the first jousting tournament of the day. He had just finished placing a necklace in a drawstring bag for a woman, when a man standing behind him beside the chain mail cleared his throat to get his attention.
“This chain mail shirt isn’t half-bad, friend.” He had the fakest British accent Ben had ever heard.
Ben stiffened. “Nothalfbad? Your average chain mail takes between two and three thousand links, depending on the size, while this one is made of six thousand, eighth-inch rings. It took me the better part of a year to make. And before you ask, it’s not for sale today.” He turned to look at the guy. “It was a…commissioned…piece…”
Ben squinted. He tilted his head as he looked the guy over.
“Rowan? Is that you?”
