Chapter 95: The Art of Forging

“By the hammer! Look who’s here—why, if it isn’t our dear Master Mage!”

No sooner had Joann stepped through the doors of the smithy than he heard that familiar laugh. Tom, Flint’s nephew, came bounding over with a look of delighted surprise and embraced him without the slightest ceremony. The sturdy dwarf smith lifted the lanky young mage, who stood a head taller than he did, as easily as if he were hoisting a sack of potatoes.

“Joann! You’ve been back for ages and only now thought to come see an old friend? That’s cold!” Tom set him down and asked excitedly, “Come on, tell me—how did you handle that dozen evil sprites?”

“A dozen?” Joann stared at him in bafflement.

“Everybody says you were attacked by a dozen evil sprites in the Algonquin Valley, and that with nothing but your wits and powerful spells you wiped out the whole band of brigands. Of course, you also paid a price for it... Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” Tom glanced cautiously at Joann, deliberately avoiding his right eye.

“It was only one soul-stealer. Where’s this dozen coming from...?” Joann could only feel helpless at such absurd rumors. Ever since Aunt Barbara first told the story, it seemed people added a bit of invention whenever they passed his tale along. The evil sprite that had cost him his right eye had somehow grown larger and larger in the retelling, until by the time it reached Tom’s ears it had become a dozen.

Joann briefly recounted what had happened in Powhatan Village, then came to the point and asked whether Tom had time to teach him smithing.

“Of course I do. I’m bored stiff and was just thinking of sneaking out for a drink!” Tom said readily.

“Is the smithy really that idle?” Joann asked in surprise. In his mind, smiths spent from dawn to dusk around the forge, hammering away without pause; it was one of the hardest trades in the world. How could Tom be so relaxed?

“We’re busy enough, sure, but mostly it’s the machines and the apprentices doing the work. There’s no need for me, the overseer, to do everything myself.” The young dwarf grinned and took Joann by the hand, leading him deeper into the workshop. “A modern smithy is nothing like the old-fashioned forge. A lot of what used to be done by hand is now handled by automatic hammers. The smiths only need to show their skill at the key steps. Come on—I’ll show you around.”

Joann followed Tom on a tour of the workshop and felt his horizons open wide. Flint’s Forge already showed the shape of a modern factory, with waterwheels driving automatic hammers to work the raw iron. The crude steel produced in this way was then further shaped by water-powered machine tools, which cut it into rough blanks. Only after that did craftsmen finish the surface by hand, polishing it into gleaming ironware.

Besides the forging hall, the workshop also had a casting hall. There, the craftsmen poured molten iron into sand molds; once the metal had cooled, they broke the mold away to reveal the casting, which was then refined and polished by hand until the cast-iron vessel or tool was complete.

“Cast iron is easier to work, but it’s also brittle. It’s only really suited to everyday things like pots and bowls. Farm tools and weapons need much greater strength, so cast iron won’t do there; forging is still the way to go.” Tom explained patiently to Joann.

“Tom, if I wanted to make a dagger, where would I start?”

“Well, that’s not something I can explain in a few words. You should try it yourself.” Tom ran off to the stockroom where the steel was stored, rummaged around for a while, and selected a steel plate half an inch thick, three inches wide, and a foot long. He brought it back to the water-powered machine tools and carefully taught Joann how to use the milling machine to cut out the rough shape of a dagger. Then he used the water-powered drill to bore three small holes at the hilt end for securing the wooden grip.

“There you have it, a dagger blank. Now comes the old smith’s real craft—hammering!”

Tom took off his coat, revealing a body packed with lean, hard muscle. With practiced ease, he gripped the metal tongs, thrust the blank into the forge, heated it until it glowed red, then laid it on the anvil and raised his hammer with crisp, ringing blows.

Watching sparks burst between the dagger and the anvil, Joann felt an inexplicable thrill and called out loudly, “Can I try?”

Tom looked him up and down for a long moment before nodding with some hesitation. “You can, but I’ll need to give you another hammer.”

While Tom had his back turned, Joann tried to pick up the large hammer beside the anvil. He could not lift it with one hand at all; even with both hands straining, he could only barely get it off the ground, let alone forge with it.

“This is a small hammer our dwarf children use when they’re first learning to smith. Give it a try.” Tom handed him the tiniest hammer.

Joann tested it in his hand and found the weight just right. He smiled in satisfaction and, following Tom’s instructions, began striking with all his effort. Smithing was truly exhausting. In less than five minutes, Joann was drenched in sweat, so he followed Tom’s example, stripped off his coat, and continued hammering the red-hot dagger in a short-sleeved undershirt.

As he was bent over his work, Mr. Flint walked over with his hands clasped behind his back. Seeing Joann hammering away in a sweat, he could not help laughing.

Joann looked up and saw Flint, quickly set down the hammer, and scratched his head in embarrassment.

“Don’t look at me—keep going!” Flint said with an encouraging gesture.

Red-faced, Joann picked up the small hammer again and resumed struggling with the dagger blank. After ten minutes of repeated blows, his arms were so tired he could scarcely lift them anymore, and only then did Flint signal him to stop and rest.

“Mr. Flint, I...” Joann looked at the dagger on the anvil, which he had practically beaten into the shape of a loach, and felt deeply ashamed. “When it comes to smithing, I still have a great deal to learn.”

“Yes, you do, my boy.” The old dwarf squeezed the young mage’s pale, slender arm and, suppressing a smile, added, “But before all that, what matters more for you is eating more meat and putting on some flesh. With that toy hammer of yours, you’re not going to forge any proper weapon.”

Joann lowered his head, overcome with mortification.

“Don’t think I’m mocking you, good child. As a mage, it’s already something remarkable that you were willing to stoop to swinging a hammer.”

The old dwarf waved away his nephew, who had been about to take over the forging, rolled up his sleeves, and personally seized the hammer. With a sharp, resonant strike, he brought it down upon the anvil.

The hand of a master was not like the hand of an amateur. The noise Joann had made was nothing but clanging confusion, but Mr. Flint’s hammering rang out with the lively rhythm of a drumbeat. It was not harsh to hear; instead, it stirred Joann’s blood.

In just ten minutes, the twisted little “loach” on the anvil had been reborn beneath Flint’s skilled hands, transformed into a beautiful wave-bladed dagger.

“My uncle hasn’t personally forged a weapon for a whole year. This is a rare chance, so watch closely. Real craftsmanship isn’t something you learn just anywhere.” Tom whispered to Joann.

Joann nodded and carefully memorized Flint’s forging technique.