Free Wielder of the Flame by Nikolas Rex Page B

the space but he had taken enough medieval history to know that the
general equipment, materials, and furniture in the room made up a smithy, or
blacksmith’s workshop. The largest of objects in the room was a forge, a stone
hearth for a fire, connected to large bellows, operated to fan the flames and
coals to intense degrees of heat. A workbench stood nearby, stacked atop it
were an abundance of tools, hammers of various shapes and sizes, swages,
fullers, punches, chisels and many more. Stacks of metal ingots filled up half
a wall, there were shovels and horseshoes, armor bits and more hung nearby the
ingots. There were many numerous small slits in spaces at the top of the wall
and ceiling that were more for ventilation than windows. Across from the
workbench at the other far end of the room was a giant anvil.
    It was at this anvil that caught most of Marc’s attention.
    A young man bent over the anvil, a large hammer in one hand,
and a pair of tongs holding a piece of metal into place in the other, it
appeared to be a sword. The boy was about Marc’s age. He wore brown leather
breeches, heavy brown boots, a light colored tunic, heavy black gloves, and a
thick black apron over his clothes. He had fairly long light brown hair falling
down to his shoulders.
    Marc stood in the doorway, and watched, fascinated, as the blacksmith
skillfully worked on a sword. Marc’s world was one of mass production, where
things were created in copious amounts, cheaply made, cheaply distributed. But
here was a single young man hard at work on a single item. It seemed to
resonate with Marc’s soul. Each blow of the blacksmiths’ hammer was struck with
precision and dedication. The young man worked the bellows, stoked the coals
into flashes of fiery red and searing white, then retrieved the weapon and
hammered the malleable hot metal into submission.
    But never did he turn to Marc. Marc was invisible again. He
did not know what to do. The last time he had been frightened by the boy
covered in blood, and did not know what to make of this. So instead he watched
to see what would come of his presence there. For hours the smith pounded the
sword, to the fire, then back to the anvil. It was a fascinating and
exhilarating thing to watch. The boy seemed to be struggling to get the sword
just right, it was still bent at an odd angle near the tip.
    The young man began to look tired and he stopped, wiping the
heavy sweat from his forehead. He took a number of deep breaths and let his
head back, closing his eyes. Then he slowly stopped and turned around, looking
directly at Marc.
    For a moment Marc thought the boy could see him, but the
young man looked around the room. He set down his tools and went over to the
walls. He climbed up on a stool and peered out the slits near the ceiling. He
checked all four walls of slits, then he went to the door at the end of the
room next to Marc. He opened the door and glanced to the right and the left, as
if making sure no one was nearby or watching him.
    Finally, satisfied, he shut the door and returned to his
work. But instead of picking up the tongs and metal hammer as before, the young
man picked up the blade itself. Marc was about to call out, as the sword on the
anvil still steamed with fiery heat. But the boy did not yelp or even react at
touching the heated metal. He held it easily in his hands. He closed his eyes and
sat on the ground.
    Marc watched in utter amazement at what happened next.
    A sort of glow came over the boys hands, a soft silver
light, it filled the blade. The entire room began to brighten. Then, the sword
in the boys hands began to change, it moved and warped like clay being shaped
by invisible hands. The silver light pulsed like a heartbeat, stronger,
brighter. The boy began to sweat, concentration showed on his face. The aura
fell in brilliance for a moment and the boy shook his head, as if warding off a
distraction. Then, the odd bent angle in the tip of the blade straightened
itself and