(eng) Morgan Rice - Kings and Sorcerers 03 by The Weight of Honor

Author:The Weight of Honor [Honor, The Weight of]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY

Alec sat inside the steamy forge, before the anvil, surrounded by boys and men on all sides, the room too hot, filled with clouds of steam and the sound of hammering steel. Alec, too, hammered away, pounding a molten-hot sword again and again as it turned white, sparks flying, sweat stinging his eyes and Alec no longer caring. Beside him sat Marco and his new friends, all part of the resistance, all getting ready to take up arms against Pandesia.

As Alec pounded away, with each blow of his hammer he thought of vengeance. He thought of the Pandesians that this weapon would kill, thought of his brother and father and mother. His village. His people. Alec knew all of these new weapons he was forging would be a drop in the bucket against the vast Pandesian army; yet he also knew that every sword he made, every axe, every shield, would mean at least one more Pandesian dead, one more chance to defend Ur. And that gave him a great sense of satisfaction.

Alec finished his sword, raised it high, inspected it, then dipped it into the vat of water; another cloud of steam immediately filled the room, accompanied by a loud hiss. He inspected the final product, switching hands with it, until he finally laid it down in the pile of new swords, satisfied.

Alec took a break, wiping sweat from the back of his head and surveying the room. This forge was more airy than his father’s, with large open arched windows which let in fresh air and bright sunlight, light from the canals making this pace far less oppressive. He looked out and could see all the passing ships, their masts and sails floating by the window, flying banners from all corners of the world. Such an international city, Ur exuded a sense of peace and calm, of commerce, and belied the oppression his people lived under, the occupation of Pandesia—and the great war which Alec knew was coming. His land, he knew, was crying for vengeance.

Alec paced the forge, walking up and down the rows of boys and men, surveying everyone’s work. All of these boys were still amateurs, and he had to adjust each one’s work as he went.

“Your strike is uneven,” he said to one boy, shifting his elbow. “That sword will be jagged.”

He stopped beside another.

“The hilt is bent,” he said, straightening his wrist. “You hammer at the wrong angle.”

One boy at a time, one weapon at a time, he went, fixing, adjusting. All the boys looked to him, deferring to him—even Fervil, the master smith deferred to him, finally realizing the fine quality of Alec’s work. He stopped as he came across an older man hammering a shield, and snatched it from his hands, impatient, as the man stared back.

“This shield will stop the blow of no sword,” Alec rebuked. “Its metal is too thin—and the strap is too tight.”

Alec, who used to be so calm and good-natured, found himself getting frustrated, snapping when he should not.

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