Fire and Steel

Fire and Steel

His hammer clanged on the steel.

The metal was thick and hot and ugly, the forge glowing behind him and casting a rust glow over the workshop.  Sweat poured in rivers down his back, through his hair, hissing into puffs of steam when it dripped off his nose or chin onto the angry steel he worked.  The heavy hammer rose and fell in a heavy cadence, the song of the smith doing battle with the ruddy-red steel, working hotter and harder than he ever had before.

His hammer rang on the steel.

He made not a horseshoe, nor an iron pot, nor a new gate for the Duke's manor.  This was something new, and he poured every ounce of himself into it, for if it were not perfect, if he lost this conflict of fire and metal, the cost was inconceivable.  The corded muscles of his arm flexed and worked ceaselessly, less an effort of strength than force of will.  He knew that was what it came to- whether he would shape the steel to his will, or shatter against it.  He had been at work for hours, maybe days- it was all the same under the unrelenting sun of his forge, the only time the beat of his hammer.  He smiled grimly when he quenched his red-hot work and the metal screamed as it was dunked in the quenching pool.  Victory was closer- still many hours away, but closer.

As he withdrew the near-finished blade from the water, he dared hope he would be done in time.  Tomorrow, his son rode to battle for the Duke, and this sword would bring him home safely.  The steel still fought every change the smith wrought, but he knew his will was stronger.  He fought for his son's safety, and not even steel was strong enough to stay his hammer with that at stake.

His hammer sang on the steel.