This is a continuation of Black Iron - The Smith starts his fires (VI)
Also related to Black Iron - Thoughening up (IX) by Turuviel
The fire roared through the afternoon, and the heat inside the smithy continued to rise far into the evening. The once so dark and imposing steel ingots were now glowing red, and all of them soft enough to combine and draw out upon the anvil. Blow by blow landed upon their surface with a heavy hammer, and each strike rang like the bells of Mithlond’s towers. He strikes the metal once, he strikes it twice, and he strikes it a third time; again and again he strikes the metal upon the anvil until it vaguely begins to resemble the rough shape he seeks. He folds the metal once, he folds it twice, he folds it a third time - yes, many times he folded it upon itself, only to draw it out again. The different metals combine in a dance of swirling patterns and colors, for now invisible to the naked eye, but would come into the light once grinded, polished and etched.
The rough shapes of the desired blades took shape with each blow. There was the outline of a strong, pointed tip that would thrust through chainmail and thick fabrics and leather with ease, yet strong enough to not break or chip upon impact. Both blades were beaten into a smooth and slender curved shape much like the arched back of a feline hunter, and as a weapon of war and survival, it would deeply cut flesh and sinew. Along the back he chiseled a fuller to reduce weight and leave the blades lighter and more flexible.
With every blow of the hammer he watched for cracks or imperfections, for he would not leave this up to chance until the quenching. No, everything had to be perfect, or he’d never be able to release them from his workshop. A smith’s work is not always a straight road to success. A few discarded blades, hammers and tools loomed in the background, each failure a reminder of mistakes made over many years, and something he always took with him even as he travelled. In truth they were all serviceable and held a good edge or surface, and to anyone they’d see plenty of use for many years; but to him, they were only failures that shamed him and his work.
As the blades take their desired shape, he wipes his forehead from the accumulated drops of sweat and soot, and continues until he’s satisfied. Still there’s much to do, and the quenching and hardening of the blades is what worries him the most, for that is where it will be decided whether his work is good enough, or if it will end up in the pile of shame and failure. The moment of truth approaches on swift steps as the night grows colder and darker, and the blades are almost ready.
