Filling Inchkeith’s empty tool chest with ore, Quentin and Toli carried it to the forge where, using fuel he had found neatly stored away beside the forge, Inchkeith had a fire roaring and ready. Durwin busied himself preparing food for them, as it appeared there would be no sleep for any of them for some time.
When Toli and Quentin had filled the crucible with ore, it was rendered into the fire where a curious transformation took place. The stones did not crack and release their ore as the stones bearing copper and iron do. Instead, they very slowly melted away like ice in the spring when plunged into running water. Using a long rod, Inchkeith poked and stirred the molten lanthanil, causing the impurities to flame into hot ash and ascend up the chimney of the furnace. With long tongs he introduced new ore into the crucible and kept his ceaseless vigil at the fire, maintaining a constant temperature.
This went on for many hours, during which the others watched and dozed and ate by turns. At last Inchkeith pulled the crucible white-hot from the flames and gingerly set it down.
“Quickly, now!” he shouted. “Take up the forger’s yoke and lend a hand. Step lively!”
Quentin was nearest at hand and took up the tool Inchkeith had indicated-a long iron utensil with two handles and a circular bulge in the center. Inchkeith took the yoke and placed it over the crucible, directing Quentin to take one of the handles and carefully follow his instructions. Quentin did as he was told and they proceeded to pour out the molten ore, now a shimmering pale blue like liquid silver, into four long, narrow molds which Inchkeith had arranged along the floor. There remained a fair amount of the precious metal when the four molds were filled, so Inchkeith poured the rest into a sheet mold, and then they sat down to wait for the metal to cool.
Waiting for the glowing lanthanil to cool was like waiting for an egg to hatch, Quentin thought. But at last the four rod molds were judged cool enough. Inchkeith took up a dipper of water and poured it over the still-hot metal, sending billows of steam rising into the dimly luminescent air of the cavern. He then broke apart the molds and, with tongs and heavy gloves on his hands, drew out four square rods nearly four feet in length.
The master armorer hopped to his anvil, took each rod and pierced one end; then he joined the rods together by passing a rivet cut from the sheet of lanthanil he had made.
“Now, then. I have done all I may do,” he said, holding up the four newly fastened rods for the others to see. “Durwin tells me that you must do the rest, Quentin.”
Quentin rose to his feet. “Me? You jest! I know as much about making a sword as I would know of making a tree.”
“Then it is time you learned. Come here.” Inchkeith held the rods in the tongs and indicated for Quentin to take them. Quentin stepped forward, looking to Durwin for approval. Durwin waved him on, and Quentin took the rods.
“Now, do not think for a moment that I will allow you to mar my greatest masterpiece, young sir. I will guide your hands even to the smallest movement. I will be your brain and your eyes, and you will do as I direct to the utmost. Do you understand?” Quentin nodded obediently, and they began to work. Under Inchkeith’s watchful eye he took hammer and tongs and began to braid the still malleable metal, one rod over the other in a tight square braid. When he had finished the task, sweat was dripping from his face and his bare arms. He had long since stripped off his shirt and tunic and wore only his trousers.
The braided rods were then thrust into the pit of the forge among the burning embers, and Quentin turned the core-as Inchkeith called it-constantly, while the armorer plied the creaking bellows.
Soon the core began to glimmer blue-white once more and Quentin pulled it from the fire, his own face glowing red and flushed. Taking the core, he placed one square end into the square hole in the side of the golden anvil and with the tongs began to twist the braid together.
He twisted and twisted, winding and winding until he could twist no more. Then Inchkeith let him stop, and the core was plunged back into the pit of embers and heated to blue-white once more. Then came more twisting and still more. Quentin was exhausted and feeling more so all the time, but the rhythm of the work began to steal over him and he found he entered a free-floating state where he moved in concert with the master armorer’s wishes-so much so that he began to feel as if it were Inchkeith’s will directing his hands and muscles and not his own.
The braided core was twisted again and again until, by the very tension of its coils, it began to fuse together. When it had fused completely, Inchkeith had Quentin cut the long thin core in two, for it had nearly doubled its length with all the twisting. One half was then set aside and the other half was pounded flat on the golden anvil with the hammer of gold. Every time Quentin struck the core, dazzling sparks showered all around and a flash like lightning was loosed.
The flattened core was heated and pounded, heated and pounded time and again until it was very thin and flat. Then it was set aside to cool. Toli was given the task of dowsing it with water numerous times to cool it more quickly.
Taking up the length of twisted braid that had been set aside, Quentin thrust it into the forge pit to reheat it. He then began twisting it again and again, drawing it out into a thin rod. This rod was pinched in half as well and these two pieces, along with the cool flat piece, were thrust into the burning coals once more as Inchkeith explained that the repeated heatings and coolings of the metal tempered it and made it stronger, as did the braiding of the original rods. “You have then the strength of four blades, not just one,” he crowed. “This is how the legendary blades of old were made. There is a tension in the twisting of the braid that is never undone. This tension is what makes the sword leap to the hand and sing in the air. No common blade forged of a rod and flattened can stand against it.”
When the three long pieces were once more burning with blue brilliance and crackling with sparks, they were withdrawn. Quentin was so absorbed in his working it seemed as if he walked in a dream; all his surroundings blurred, becoming faint and insubstantial as he worked on. His eyes had sight only for the flaming blue metal turning under his hands.
The three hot pieces were placed precisely upon the anvil according to Inchkeith’s exacting specifications. With quick, sure hammer blows Quentin welded the two rounded pieces to the flat one. This action resulted in a very long flat piece with a rounded ridge in the center. When that was done, Inchkeith sent him to plunge the core into the pool and leave it there until it could be handled freely.
Quentin hurried off, so absorbed that he nearly stumbled over the curled figures of Durwin and Toli rolled in their cloaks fast asleep.
After a time Inchkeith came and settled himself down beside Quentin to wait. “You are doing a master’s job, sir. A master’s job. If you were not spoken for, I would take you in and teach you the armorer’s craft. You have the heart for it and the soul. I have seen how you look upon your work. You know what I am talking about, eh?”
“It is true. I have never done anything like this, but it is as if I feel in my hands what the metal would have me do and I do it- though you must take the credit there, for I would not begin to know what to do. But when I lift that hammer and I see it fall, a voice says ‘strike here!’ and it is done.” Quentin lifted the core from the pool. Water slithered down its pale blue surface and slid back into the pool in shining beads. “It does not look very like a sword yet,” remarked Quentin.
“Oh, it will. It will. The work is just begun. Now we will see how this metal works. Now will come the test!”