Prologue to nameless tale: Please read

Prologue

The coals in his furnace crackled and sparked, glowing furiously as a mountain of a man worked the massive bellows. Sweat beaded on his brow, the heat in his modest workshop intensifying. Still he pumped his mighty bellows, like the great lungs of some monstrous creature, roaring as the heat seared his skin, and the coals pulsed to its breath. It was nearly hot enough…

Outside his forge, dusk fell upon the town of Furth, turning the clouds to the color of fire, and the river to gold. The blacksmith, however, hadn’t noticed. He’d been working all day, shoveling coal and working the bellows of his large brick oven, all in order to melt down the perfect bar of steel, so that he could make the perfect blade.

Finally, his arms burning with fatigue, he released the bellows. In his excitement he practically ran the eight-and-a-half feet to his workbench fumbling in his excitement to pick up his tongs. Steadying himself, he used one hand to open the furnace. He had to squint as a fresh blast of heat singed his shirt, and the exposed skin on his face and arms. Gingerly, he reached inside and retrieved a clay pot the size of a large boot, placing it carefully on his anvil the way one would place an egg on a table if that egg were worth ten times its volume in gold. Despite the fatigue and the pain in his arms, a grin spread broad across his face, barely visible beneath a black beard that was so full of burns that it could easily be mistaken for some sort of moss, or tree bark.

The crude pot, fashioned from muddy clay for this very purpose, glowed still like the egg of some strange creature, born from fire. Inside, he knew, like a maturing yolk, steel was hardening. He stared at it for what may have been a minute, or may have been ten, holding its fiery gaze as he smiled stupidly. This is going to be a sword, he thought. The best sword ever forged!

After what he estimated was about fifteen minutes, during which time he took care not to look away for too long, he picked up a hammer and wedge and proceeded to very carefully smash the clay pot to pieces. In a few taps, the clay shell cracked and fell away, revealing a rough cylinder of hot steel, all of the slag and impurity having risen to the top of the pot. He whooped aloud as he beheld the fresh metal, and laid it down on his anvil to beat out the impurity. Slag fell away in chunks at first, then flakes, and then… not even a spark. This meant that the iron indeed was pure, perfect… he laughed as the ringing of steel on new steel, filled his ears. He didn’t doubt that, downriver throughout the whole town, everyone could hear him. If this was the case, he didn’t care. The townsfolk knew better by now than to come and complain about the noise. Even so, he had built and mounted a sign that read I’ll be dead before the hammer stops ringing! He was still hammering and the ingot was ready to be shaped into a blade, when suddenly another noise clashed and disagreed with the rhythmic clanging of his hammer. Someone was banging on the door. Figured. The only person who still complained about the noise, and it was the blacksmith’s wife.

“Mason!” she called through the door, when the blacksmith showed no intention of ceasing his work. “Mason, come and have dinner! The children have begun to bang on the table again, and I don’t think they’ll stop until you tell them to.”

“They’re just practicing for the anvil, Gwyneth!” Mason said. Gwyneth opened the door.

“Mason you really should go and eat! I cooked that chicken Meredith gave us!”

“I’ll eat later. I really should…”

“It’s their birthday.” Gwyneth said sternly. She was fully inside, with one hand on Masons shoulder. His hammering faltered, but didn’t stop. He had two children, two years apart but born on the same day. There birthday shouldn’t have been until tomorrow…

“It isn’t, today’s the sixth.” Mason said after a second, and resumed hammering.

“It’s the seventh.”

“What?”

“It’s the seventh.” Gwyneth slapped his arm lovingly. “Put down your hammer and eat!” and Mason stopped hammering. Next door, he could hear the ruckus caused by his children as they bashed the table with the butts of their knives.

“I…” Mason began, his mind weighing the importance of his metal over that of his children’s birthday. “Well… I’ll have to put coal in the furnace to keep it running… Of course, I’ll have to reheat this tomorrow…” Masons shoulders slumped under the weight of his defeat. As always, his wife took him successfully away from his work. Mason sighed, and there was a screeching hiss as he plunged the hot lump of metal into the water trough. I’ll begin using the oil tomorrow, He thought. He retrieved the metal from the trough, and placed it in a small chest.

He bent to pick up the shovel for the coal, but it wasn’t there. He looked around for a moment and saw that Gwyneth had snatched it up.

“Hey now.” Mason said. “I’m coming, but really I have to—“

“Go.” Gwyneth said with a smile. “I’ll shovel the coal. I’ve done it enough times. Besides, I made you this shovel after you broke the last one.”

It was Masons turn to smile. “I love you so much.” He said, shaking his head. And he meant it. There were few things he loved more than his work, but…

“Go!” Gwyneth repeated. “I won’t get started until I see you through that door! And take down that sign, too!”

“Priorities…” Mason muttered under his breath as he walked over to embrace his wife.

“What was that about priorities, metal-man?” She said. She might have said more, but Mason kissed her on the mouth lovingly. “Go eat.” She said sternly, but she smiled.

The banging from inside the house could be heard from the forge, but without the ringing of his hammer to damper it, it sounded like they had a horse in there with them bashing its own hooves on the table. Mason laughed as he pushed open the door. “What are you doing in here, you two little troublemakers?”

“Pa!” Said the boy. He would be five today. “Pa! We’ve been practicing for when we do blacksmiffing like you!”

“Ha!” Mason said. “That so? Well remind me to tell your mother ‘I told you so!’”

“He might have been. I like the noise!” said the girl.

“Sounds like you!” Mason laughed. The chicken was on the table.

“Pa!” said the children in unison.

“Garreth! Gwendolyn! What is it?”

“When will you teach us how to use the forge?” asked Garreth.

“When you can lift the hammer with one arm, and hold it out like this for ten heartbeats without making a face.” Mason said, holding his arm out.

“Where’s ma?” Gwendolyn asked.

“She’s shoveling coal!” Mason replied.

“Can I help?” asked Gwendolyn.

“Oi! I wanna help! I wanna!” Garreth protested.

“Now, I’d expect that she’d want you—“

Boom.

There was a searing light, and a sound like thunder as something exploded just outside. Right where the forge would have been. “Gwyneth…”

“Pa, what was…”

“STAY HERE.” Mason bellowed, as he barreled out the door, grabbing the pail as he went. As soon as he saw the forge, however, his hopes turned to smoke, his screams to ash in his mouth. He could only look for a moment. Gwyneth…

Pure adrenaline, rage, grief, and fear propelled his body forward into the inferno. He pushed the door open with his shoulder, and looked frantically for his wife. “GWYNETH!” he screamed, his voice cracking. The smoke made his eyes water, and the heat suffocated him. He began coughing. “Gwyneth…”

But she did not call. She did not make a sound. And so he stood there, struck dumb, as the forge collapsed around him. It took one flaming timber to the back to bring him to his senses. Ignoring the pain in his arms, he heaved the wood out of his way and barreled for the door, coughing and weeping as he did. Once outside, he fell to his knees, and looked up at the sky. He hadn’t noticed while he had been working… The stars were out. He silently screamed, cursing every one of them. His heart had turned to stone in his chest, as he half wept half coughed from the smoke, and from knowing.

Gwyneth was dead.

Men ran around him with pails, screaming. He didn’t hear them. He didn’t listen to them. He couldn’t hear anything, didn’t want to. He didn’t want to hear the man shaking him, calling out his name. He didn’t want to turn and see what fire had done to his beloved forge. He didn’t want to have to rummage through the wreckage to recover his tools… or her bones.

“Mason!” yelled a man. “Mason, are the kids in the house.”

“Kids… are safe.” Mason said.

“What?”

“They are safe.” Mason said. Looking up, it was his friend. He stood up.

“Where…”

“She’s gone.” Mason said. “Gimme a fucking bucket.”

The fire smoldered into the morning. Wisps of smoke still rose over the ruins of Mason’s forge. As an ironic flag, some mocking god in the heavens laughing upon him, his sign had been spared. He looked at the heap of timbers that was his forge… that used to be his forge. He waded into the burnt timbers, looking for something. Anything. A sign that may have indicated where his love had lain to die.

“Death by fire… Bad omen.” Said a voice from behind.

“Shut the hell up, Netter.” Said another voice. “Have some decency. Can’t you see…”

“It’s okay, Jack.” Mason said. “He can’t help it.” And he kept wading. His eyes scanned the wreckage, his hands for some reason not wanting to disturb it. Finally, they rested upon a blackened box… a small chest. He recognized the chest. He picked it up… and his heart sank further. It was empty, he could tell by the weight.

“There was metal in this chest…” he said. He opened it. Empty.

“What’s the matter, Mason?” Jack called over. “Do you need a hand?”

“Nothing… It’s fine.” Mason said, not really hearing all that Jack had said. Where…

His eyes finally caught something. Burnt fabric. Blue burnt fabric. He stared at it for a while, and made a vow, silently to himself. This was someone’s doing. He said. Your bones won’t go to waste…

“The master will not be pleased.” Said a man robed in black, in a tavern many miles to the west. “You’ve not only failed to kill Mason Jace, but you’ve not collected the sword.” The man was young, fit, and flanked by two huge men armed with swords.

“It should have been finished tonight! I planned it so that when he loaded the coal after having finished the blade…” said another man, this one a bit older, but thinner. He was robed in blue, and although his robes were filthy and his hair matted and unruly, he was probably wealthy. He pushed a pair of large spectacles up over his beaklike nose.

“Your plan was shit.” The cloaked man said harshly. “And you give me this?” he said gesturing to an ingot of steel on the table. “You have reason to fear for your life.”

“But… if Mason is still alive, won’t that mean… Can’t he make another sword? We’ll just wait another year!”

“You’re lucky if the master takes that into account before killing you. Although…”

“What?”

“Shut up. I’m thinking.” He pondered for a moment. “How old was his son?” the cloaked man said suddenly.

“I don’t know… five?” the old man managed, thinking fast.

“So he will be eighteen in…”

“Thirteen years… oh.” Said the older man, and the pair grinned. “Oh, yes.”

“You might be saved. If that kid is to inherit a sword, made with the bones of a Maker’s wife, thirteen years after her death…”

“Wicked things come in thirteens.” Grinned the old man.

“I’d say you’re saved, alchemist. Now. We’ve a bit of planning to do.”

Thirteen years later…