The familiar smells struck him first, the tang of molten iron and the underlying aroma of the charcoal burned to heat the forge. These smells got into a smithy’s walls, and into the clothing and skin of the smith. Smelling them made Aric homesick for Nibenay, though at the trip’s start he’d been glad for the chance to see new sights and have new adventures.
The doorway of Hotak’s shop was covered in a fine layer of black dust, as was the shop’s single window. Aric tried to see through it, but all he could make out were vague shapes, and back in one corner, the red glow of the forge. Evening was coming on, but warmth radiated from the smithy and standing outside it was comfortable.
He didn’t know how long they would remain in this village. Not long, he hoped, but if the raiders or the thri-kreen were tracking them here, he didn’t want to go back out into the desert until they’d been dispatched.
And the fact that he had lost his steel sword bothered him. The weapon had been too old, and too heavy for him, but for all that it felt better in his hand than any agafari-wood sword Nibenay could provide. He wondered it Hotak would mind if he used the shop to craft his own sword, something custom-made just for him, as he had made so many for others over the years.
He was staring into the window, inhaling the pleasant smells and feeling the warmth, when suddenly a face appeared on the other side. It belonged to a man, short and heavily muscled, with a head completely bald but for a sprig of hair growing from the top, like a tuft of weeds in an otherwise bare field, and a few strands of sparse beard on his chin. His features were thick, with a low brow, a wide, flat nose, and full lips framing a wide mouth. A dwarf.
“What do you want?” the dwarf demanded, his voice gruff. “Shop’s closed.”
Aric stepped closer to the window, looking down as well as he could through the grime-coated glass. The dwarf held a shovel full of charcoal. “But you’re working,” he said. “Best get that in the fire, lest the forge cool.”
The dwarf’s eyes widened and something akin to a smile danced on his lips for an instant. “You know the smith’s ways?”
“I am a smith,” Aric said. “And I’ve met Hotak, who told me this is his shop.”
The dwarf disappeared from the window. A moment later, Aric heard the sound of charcoal being shoveled into the fire, then the pumping of a big bellows. Aric stood there wondering if he should come back another time, when the door opened. “I’m Mazzax,” the dwarf said. “Hotak’s apprentice.”
“I am Aric, of Nibenay. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mazzax. I’ve been too long from my own forge, and didn’t realize until just now how I miss it.”
“I couldn’t be away from it for a day,” Mazzax said. “Everything about it … the heat, the sparks, the clang of the sledge against iron on the anvil. It’s in my blood. But … you can’t come in. Shop’s closed. When Hotak returns …”
“That could be a while,” Aric said. “He’s at the wall.”
“I know. Preparing for attack. You’re one of the strangers?”
“I am.”
“If we’re attacked because of you … if anyone’s hurt … you’d best not stay long, that’s all I’ll say.”
“I don’t know that anyone followed our path here. If they did, well, it sounds as if the raiders from Fort Dunnat have been troubling your village too long anyway.”
“True enough.”
“Believe me, I’d as soon never see those raiders again. And I hope to stay in your village only a short while, then to leave it in peace, as I found it.”
The dwarf was sizing him up. He seemed satisfied by what he saw. “And you are a smith.”
“I am indeed.”
“All right, then. I won’t hate you. Not for now.”
“That’s good,” Aric said.
“But you still must leave. Shop’s closed!” Mazzax slammed the door, and Aric heard him shoot the bolt. Then he heard the rhythmic pumping of the bellows once again. So Hotak had a project going, even though he wasn’t here to supervise it. Or the dwarf worked on one of his own. Otherwise he’d let the fire cool, and not bother feeding air into it.
He walked away from the shop, reluctantly, as it had given him the flavor of home. He let out a long yawn, stretching his arms at the same time. He would speak with Hotak. But perhaps in the morning, after a few hours sleep …
The raiders came at first light, with the rising sun at their backs. Aric was deeply immersed in a dream. He was the master of a huge smithy, with a dozen forges and even more anvils. The place was crowded with journeymen, working at each forge and anvil, and apprentices doing nothing but working the bellows and stoking the fires. Ruhm was there, and Myrana and Rieve and even Damaric, the barbarian soldier-slave, all of them journeymen, and Aric paced around the shop checking their work, barking out orders. It was a strange dream, but somehow satisfying. When shouts from outside threatened to tear him from it, he tried to hang on.
Finally, Ruhm shook him. “They’re here,” Ruhm said.
“Who’s here?” Aric rubbed his eyes. Gradually he understood the sounds coming through the window—sounds of a village under attack. “The thri-kreen?”
Sellis stood at the window, looking out. “I think it’s raiders,” he said.
“I thought sure the thri-kreen would finish them.”
“Perhaps they did. But if others went out looking for their comrades, they’d still have been able to follow our tracks.”
“We should help,” Ruhm said.
“Aye,” Sellis agreed.
Aric dressed quickly. He had no weapon but that short spear he had taken. If there were many raiders, he wanted something better than that. “I’ll meet you at the wall,” he said. He dashed from the tavern, and across the square.
The forge’s heat still seeped through the walls and window of the blacksmith’s shop. Aric pounded on the door. No one answered, so he went to the window. Through the filmed glass, he could see Mazzax moving about. “Mazzax!” he cried. “It’s me, Aric! Open up!”
“Shop’s closed.”
“I know it’s closed! Just open the door!”
Mazzax did as he asked, opening it a few inches and blocking the way with his squat, solid bulk. “What?”
“The raiders. They’ve attacked the village.”
“And if they come here they’ll find the shop closed.”
His response confused Aric for a moment. Best not try to think like a dwarf, he decided. That will get me nowhere. “I need a weapon,” Aric said. He showed the dwarf his spear, a simple wooden shaft with a chipped obsidian head. The dwarf eyed it with disdain. “I want to go fight at the wall, alongside Hotak and the others. But I need a real weapon, not this paltry thing.”
“Shop’s closed.”
“There must be something!”
“Wait here.” The dwarf slammed the door, shot the bolt. Aric wondered if he’d be left waiting all day. A minute later, the bolt slid back and the door opened, and again Mazzax stood there. “Here,” he said.
He handed Aric an iron rod, a half-inch in diameter and three feet long. “That’s it?” Aric asked. “That’s all you’ve got? I’m willing to pay—”
“Shop’s closed.” The door slammed again.
This time it wouldn’t be re-opening, Aric knew.
He hefted the iron rod. For a moment, images filled his mind, of Hotak and Mazzax working side by side, of Mazzax obeying the big man’s instructions, copying everything Hotak did, learning the craft from the bottom up. He forced those aside. No time for that now. Still, contact with the metal brought him comfort. It was heavy and it was strong.