Dawning of an Age Ch. 02

"It has come time for you to choose a weapon, and to forge it." Baba spoke across our small, rough table, her sightless eyes staring off into the shadows cast by the flickering hearth. I finished chewing the piece of bread in my mouth and swallowed slowly, my mind already working to consider. "Choose well, for a man's weapon is his worth in this strange world."

"Do you have any advice?" I asked. It was important, in this conversation, for her to understand that I was not asking her to choose for me, but rather offering her the respect as a smith and as a veteran of war that she deserved. Her laughter was dry, cracked with her great age, and full of genuine mirth.

"After so many years, I am full of advice, boy," she rasped. Her enormous hands tore a piece of bread and toyed with it, rolling the bread between callouses so thick that even the heat of the forge could not penetrate them. "You are big, but not so large as to be the biggest man you will ever face by a long margin. You are stronger than most, and so it could be guessed that you will face few who are more powerful. I have taught you to fight with your mind rather than your cock, and so you will be smarter than most that you face. You are a hunter, efficient, clean, and quick.

"All of these will serve you well with any weapon you choose. You are not arrogant, nor brazen, and so I think not an axe. You have the strength and the speed, but there is little finesse with an axe, little room for ingenuity.

"You are good with a mace, but again, I think it would limit you. You are not so brutal as to relish the sound of breaking bone.

"Your hands are strong, your balance impeccable. For most men you would not even need a weapon. You are quick and strong enough to take theirs with your hands. You need nothing overlarge, nothing so messy as a hammer. A blade, I think. The length an breadth and style are up to you. Remember what you have learned about the art and dance of killing men, and you will know what to forge."

The ancient woman stood and walked away, tottering off to her bed, leaving me to think. I sat in silence, unmoving, my food neglected before me. Part of my mind raced with the possibilities, part of it reeled at what had been the single largest number of compliments that Baba had ever paid me in my entire life. Part of it drifted to Lila, and the grotto.

We had explored each other again and again, learning the ways of each other's bodies until the next midday. She had told me of her farm, and where it was in relation to the grain market, and I had led her home, stopping just out of sight of her father's door for one more deep, longing kiss.

"One week," she whispered, and broke away, running through the snow to keep the chill away, leaving the bearskin that had been our first bed and her makeshift coat behind.

My mind pulled away, back to the task at hand. I needed to choose a weapon, to forge it of my own free will, that I would carry for the rest of my days. Baba's words echoed in my mind, the value of her experience something that I could never discount.

I finished my food slowly, my mind passing through the memories of weapons made and trained with. I knew all of them well, and knew that I could fight well with most of them. Baba had taught me the vulnerabilities of men, the places that would hurt, injure, cripple, and kill. She had told me over and over that the way to fight was to seize every advantage. She had driven the point home again and again in lessons both effective and incredibly painful.

She was right, of course. A blade would be best, most versatile, most efficient. I was a smith, but I was also a hunter. I wanted nothing too heavy, nothing too large. I knew the blades we made, but felt that none of them would be quite perfect for what I knew, what Baba had taught me.

I left the table and walked to the forge, the freezing air biting at my skin, my mind too far gone toward my own thoughts and the slowly forming image within to pay much heed. The forge was cold, the fire gone out hours before, some small amount of residual heat lending the work space just enough warmth to keep my fingers from trembling as I lit it once again. A few quick pumps of the bellows had a roaring fire going that sank to a pleasant, warm glow.

I walked past the fire to the store room, where racks of steel greeted me silently. I ran my hands across the tempered metal, feeling the texture, my mind trying to emulate Baba's perfect touch. She could tell by brushing her fingers across steel what it should become, what it was suited for. I felt an axe, a plow, a bailing hook, a sword for a boy, a knife. Nothing was quite what I wanted.

At the back of the store room was a box, full to the brim with chunks of raw iron ore. I took my selection seriously, gathering small pieces, weighing them in my hands. I needed around two pounds of steel for what I wanted, and that meant more like seven pounds of raw ore. I took the ore to the sturdy table in the center of the store room and put it in a pile, where it would stay until I was ready for it.

I gathered the tools I would need, and set to work, the fire from the forge driving away the cold darkness of night and replacing it with a dull glow and stifling heat. Sweat poured from me as I roasted and broke apart the ore, taking it from large, rusty rocks to something closer to a fine, rusty gravel. Once it was fine enough, I started the bloomery furnace and began the long, slow process of smelting. Dawn came before the ore had become blooms of iron, ready to be melted into a pure, strong ingot of steel.

It took five long hours to build a small brick furnace and a crucible, just outside the back door of the smithy, and another five of hard, sweaty work with a pair of bellows to melt the iron together with charcoal made from the burnt bones of a bear. Baba came and went, observing, never speaking, her approval apparent in her silent gaze.

When at last I had my chunk of steel, cooling slowly on the anvil, I allowed myself to sleep, resting against the wall of the smithy. The midday sun was high overhead when I woke to the sound of Baba placing a small bowl and tiny, sharp knife beside me.

"For the quench," she said.

I took the knife and placed it to my wrist, making a tiny cut over the bowl. My blood flowed freely, filling the bowl after a few short moments, and I took the poultice of herbs that Baba offered, stopping the cut with it and wrapping a clean strip of linen over top. Baba took the bowl and began to mix it slowly with oil, adding a little at a time as I walked to the anvil and took up my tongs and hammer.

I worked the steel for many hours, thinning and elongating it, pounding out the rough shape of what I wanted. By the time I had it the right length and thickness, the sun had gone to rest and the moon watched the world outside. I knew none of that, only that the steel was as long as my arm from shoulder to outstretched fingertips, and that it would be strong and flexible by the time I was finished. Sleep came again, this time on the strong table in the store room, the steel beside me, sharing in my dreams of what it would become.

The hairs on my arms began to rise whenever I held it, the energy of this newborn thing already coming to interact with my own. I dreamt of its final shape, the wrapping I would place on its grip, the shape of the pommel and crossguard. As I dreamt, so dreamt the steel; a cold, ancient, dawning presence in my dreams. I hailed it, and it responded, greeting me as a friend, a father, and a master.

I forged night and day, the shape slowly transferring from my dreams to the real world, hours passing without thought, only work and instinct and desire. I devoted a third of the length to the tang, making it full, thick as my two smallest fingers, and round. The blade took on the shape of an elongated leaf, starting just over two inches wide by the base and slowly widening out to three about two thirds of the way down before tapering to a sharp point.

I paused, my hammer raised above my head, poised to strike.

It was finished. The blade was forged. I knew in my heart, in my soul, in my mind that now sang in harmony with this living metal in my hands, that if I struck even one more blow, the blade would die, ruined and broken, whatever rudimentary and rough magic I had managed to put into it gone forever.

I grasped it with my tongs and walked it to the forge, allowing it to gather heat, strength, and for its song to grow ever stronger in my mind as a warm orange glow began to bloom along its entire length. When the glow was complete and even throughout the blade, and the song in my mind had reached its peak, I pulled the blade from the fire and walked it to the tall, thin tube of oil and my own blood the Baba had prepared days before. I plunged the blade into it point-first, oil and blood boiling instantly with the heat of it, the song and steel quenching together, silence reigning in my mind even as the surface of the quench burst into a smoky yellow flame and the hiss of cooling metal took over the silence of the smithy.

I felt no pings, heard none of the telltale sounds of cracking steel. She was perfect, and she was whole. I pulled her from the mixture of my blood and oil, the length flaming until I blew it out, my breath driving away the flames and infusing the blade.

"You have birthed a new weapon," Baba said. I started at her voice, realizing for the first time that she had been watching for hours, silent. "It is fine, fine work, boy. You should be proud, as am I. Leave it, now, let it cool and rest. Being born is hard work. Wait to polish it until it is thirsty for life, until it longs to be worn and held and used. Your days away return, and you should take them. Rest yourself."

I could only nod, my mind reaching out to the blade, brushing my consciousness against one at once alien and hauntingly familiar. It rested, dreaming, waiting and gathering strength into itself. I was attuned to it, able to feel its structure as an extension of myself. I knew it wasn't done, but knew also that I needed to let it sleep.

I took the few short hours before dawn to prepare for the trip, packing a sling and some small, smooth stones, extra food for myself and Lila, a heavy fur for her to wear, a pair of Baba's old, seldom-used boots, and grabbing a few books to let her take home to read. I set out earlier than normal, an hour or more before the first streaks of the morning sun painted over the softening blackness of night. It took a few hours to reach Lila's farm, the distance and time passing as if in dream, tedium overshadowed by my desire to see her and share with her my excitement, my joy at my first brush with magic.

Along the way I felled a rabbit with my sling and squeezed the guts from it as I walked, leaving them behind for some passing scavenger and adding the carcass to the bundle I carried. There was little fat on rabbits, but it would go well with the cheese and bread.

I paused just out of sight of Lila's farm, leaving the bundle behind, carefully hidden in a thicket. I moved forward silently, years of hunting with Baba having shown me how to place my feet in the snow without making a sound, testing each step, careful not to catch on branches as I went. I waited at the edge of the trees, hidden from sight of both the farm and the forest. Lila was rushing from chore to chore, finishing everything as quickly as she could.

My heart pounded in my chest when I caught first sight of her slender frame, the morning sun catching her long blonde hair. She was beautiful, moving with a deliberate grace the sight of which I had come to long for. Every move was practiced a hundred times, remembered in her muscles. Chores didn't take long, and she disappeared into the house.

A few short minutes later and yelling reached my ears, the deep, graveled voice of a grown man too far into drink to control volume or temper. There were crashes, a yelp, and Lila appeared in the doorway, wrapped again in that same threadbare blanket that had nearly been her death just a week before. She hurried from the house, nearly sprinting away from its tiny, stone-arched door and its drunken, horrible occupant.

I retreated back into the woods, placing myself around a bend in the snow covered path in plain sight so as not to startle her. When she reached me, there were tears in her eyes and her brow was furrowed, but her face split into a wide, happy grin when she saw me, the tears disappearing in a series of blinks.

"I was so afraid that I had dreamt you," she said, her eyes shining as bright as her smile, her arms letting go the blanket to wrap around me.

I held her close, my face buried in the soft silk of her bright yellow hair, feeling her happiness in the tightness of her arms.

"Never a dream, unless we have figured out how to make our dreams be real in this world," I replied.

"I may have had one or two dreams this week that we could make real," she whispered, her breath hot in my ear. She pressed her body more fully against me, and even through my furs I reacted, growing hard and pressing back into her softness.

"Then let's go, away from this place and to somewhere warm and safe and happy that is our own."

The trek to our grotto took an hour, and though the morning sun was bright, it lied, casting little warmth over the frozen ground. Lila burrowed happily into the warm fur and sturdy boots I had brought her, finally able to enjoy a walk through the snow. I watched her the entire way, learning the lines of her face again, seeing the delight she took in walking through the forest, in warmth, in me.

I told her of my week, of Baba's assertion that the time had come to forge my own weapon. She listened in fascination as I spoke of the forging, of the connection to the steel, the burgeoning consciousness that I felt reaching out to my own.

"Magic?" The question was a whisper, hopeful and even a bit frightened. I reached out and took her hand in mine, squeezing softly.

"I think so," I said. "I can't imagine what else it could be. It was strange, though. I had always thought that magic came from knowing spells and training and study. That's what everyone says, at any rate."

She laughed, light and happy and pure. I looked at her and her eyes were shining, mischief and delight mixed together in a way that I had never seen before but hoped to see many more times.

"Magic isn't some machine to be operated like the clunky old things before," she said. "Magic is everywhere, and it touches everything. You don't command magic, you feel it and talk to it and convince it to do what you want. I think it must be a different experience for everyone."

"You..." I let the question hang in the air, unfinished. It didn't need to be finished. She knew what I was asking.

"A little," she said, her words coming out in a giggle. "Watch."

Lila stepped away from me and closed her eyes, her head falling back a bit as she took a deep breath. She began to sing, a clear, quiet melody that held no words that I could comprehend. It was beautiful, haunting, uplifting. My heart leapt, and my mind buzzed as I felt a trickle of power begin to weave into the song. Her voice grew, stealing away my breath as it caught the wind, carrying itself away through the forest.

As she sang, a squirrel appeared. I don't know where it came from, I just know that one moment I was rapt, focused entirely on her and her voice, and the next I became aware that the squirrel had come upon us and rather than hide or run away it ran up to her, nervous and twitchy, but still it came. It simply stood before her, almost swaying along to her enchanting melody as it sat upon its haunches.

Her song slowed and faded, coming to a sweet, touching end. As soon as it faded away, the squirrel skittered off, seeming to come to its senses all at once.

"You... controlled it?" I asked, my mind not quite grasping what I had just seen.

"Not so much control," Lila whispered. "More like a lullaby that leaves you awake and lulls you into a dream without sleep, a dream that I can nudge one way or another."

"Does it only work on animals?" I asked. I suddenly began to wonder if perhaps there had been a bit more to our meeting the week before.

"No, it works on people too. I thought it worked on everyone until I met you," she said.

"What do you mean?" Some small amount of alarm crept into my voice. Lila smiled and took my hand, squeezing gently.

"Relax. I tried, when you walked away from me to get the blanket after I woke up and again while you were working to start the fire. You didn't even hear me. It was like no sound even came out of my mouth, though I could hear it myself. It wasn't even as though you were resisting it. I've felt animals resist it before, they push back with their minds or their spirit and I can feel the push like a steady pressure in my mind. It was as though nothing were happening. No push, no resistance, no notice at all. It just didn't work."

I wasn't sure if that made me feel better, really. It was nice to know that I had been in control of myself the entire time, and had made my own choices, but I was unsure how to feel about being immune to her song. It was good, I supposed, but some strange part of me still longed to hear what her song sounded like when it was directed at me, what notes came forth, what melody she felt when she reached for my soul.

We finished the trek to our grotto in comfortable silence, my mind processing everything Lila had told me, Lila thinking thoughts I could only guess at but that placed a small, warm smile on her lips. Her hand was tiny in my own, comfortable and warm in contrast to the cold winter air. We walked close, our bodies almost touching, just enough space between us that we would not bump into each other with every step. My alarm and discomfort at the thought of Lila using her power on me faded and was replaced by the simple joy of being near her, a feeling I was growing to love.

She crawled ahead of me under the brambles bordering our little grotto, my mind painting a picture of what the thick fur I had given her concealed as she moved. I pulled the bundle of food behind me, following the sway of Lila's hips into the warmth and familiarity of our secret haven.

I built a fire quickly, a small blaze that cast enough warmth to raise the temperature in the little cave, hot enough to cook, small enough not to cook us. I pulled off my furs until I was down to the soft doeskin trousers I wore most days and set about skinning the rabbit. It was a simple enough task, requiring nothing more than a small cut and a quick, strong pull of the skin.

I pulled a long, sharpened rod from the little box of things I kept in the grotto, using it to spit the rabbit and set it to cook beside the fire. It would take a few hours, and there was hardly any fat on the rabbit, but it would be nice to have a bit of meat all the same.

I heard Lila moving around closer to the mouth of the cave as I worked, humming gently to herself. My worry about her power had all but vanished, replaced by something of a fascination. What must it be like to live with the ability to bend the will of others to your own? It could be a wonderful thing, or a terrible one.

"How long will the rabbit take?" Lila asked.

"Probably a couple of hours," I said apologetically. "If you're hungry, there's bread and cheese."

"That sounds pretty good," she said, her tone different than it had been a moment before. "But that's not why I was asking."

I turned from the fire to find that Lila had spread the bearskin across the ground and lain blankets over it, fashioning a pillow from one rolled up. She stood atop the makeshift bed completely naked, her hands on her hips, long, slender legs slightly apart, her perfect, pale pink nipples crinkled from what I suspected was more than just the cold.