Blade of Secrets

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About the Author

Copyright Page

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This one’s for you, Dad.
Don’t let it go to your head.

“FLY, YOU FOOLS.”

—Gandalf,

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring

CHAPTER
ONE

I prefer metal to people, which is why the forge is my safe space.

The heat is relentless in here, even with all the windows open for ventilation. Sweat beads on my forehead and drips down my back, but I wouldn’t give up being a smithy for anything.

I love the way a hammer feels in my hand; I love the sounds of metal chiming against metal, the slight give of heated steel, the smell of a raging fire, and the satisfaction of a finished weapon.

I pride myself on making each of my weapons unique. My customers know that when they commission a Zivan blade, it will be one of a kind.

I drop my hammer and inspect my current project.

The flange has the right shape. It’s the sixth and final of the identical pieces that will be attached to the mace’s head. After quenching the blade, I take it to the grindstone to sharpen every curve of the outer edge. I’ve already made grooves into the mace using a hammer and chisel. Now all that’s left is to weld all the pieces together. Using separate tongs, I place everything into the kiln and wait.

There’s plenty to do in the meantime. Tools need cleaning. Scraps of metal need disposing of. I work the bellows to keep the kiln over 2,500 degrees.

Shouts interrupt the peace of my workspace.

My sister, Temra, runs the shop at the front of the forge when she’s not assisting me with larger weapons. From there, customers can purchase more simple items, such as horseshoes, buckles, and the like. My magicked horseshoes ensure the horses run faster, and my buckles never break or lose their shine. It’s a simple magic—nothing like what’s involved in bladesmithing.

“Ziva is not seeing customers now!” Temra yells from the other side of the door.

That’s right. No one steps into the forge. The forge is sacred. It is my space.