been sealed; the piles of crushed ore glittered in the sunlight. Everyone
awaited the results of the latest grinding. It seemed to Walegrin, as he turned
away from the sound, that it was different this time. The metal shrieked like an
agonized, living thing.
Thrusher gave him a sharp nudge. The courtyard had become silent and an
apprentice was running toward them. It was time, the youth shouted, for Walegrin
to witness the tempering of the blade.
“Luck,” Thrusher added as Walegrin rose.
“Aye, luck. If it’s good we can start thinking of leaving.”
Balustrus was polishing the freshly ground blade when Walegrin entered the hot,
dusty shed. The bronze man’s tunic was filthy with sweat and dust from the
grinding wheel. His mottled skin glistened more brightly than the metal.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” he said, giving the blade to Walegrin while he
sought his crutches.
Fine, wavy lines of black alternated with thicker bands of a more silvery metal.
The old Enlibrite sword he kept rolled in his mattress had no such striations
but Balustrus said an iron core would ultimately yield a better steel; so much
could be learned from the Rankan armorers. Walegrin thumped the flat of the new
blade against his palm, wishing he knew if the metal-master were correct.
“We’ve done it, son!” Balustrus exaulted, grabbing the blade back. “I knew the
secret would be in that silver.”
Walegrin followed him out of the shed to one of the smaller furnaces which the
apprentices had already fired. The youths ran when the men approached.