A Promise of Iron by Brandon McCoy (the reading list .txt) 📕

I had created the solution the moment I got back to the shop, adhering precisely to the measurements Ada had prescribed. Salt, sand, and alcohol, not that I wanted a Cyllian drink upon my blade, but I needed the purest form of alcohol I could find. I let the solution cure while I worked the forge below; now, it was about ready. I moved the bucket to the tall wooden drum and poured it inside.

I gagged.

The fumes from the shock were so overpowering I thought I might faint. I steadied myself and continued to pour until the solution reached near the break line I had notched on the outer wall. I moved my stool next to the drum then went to retrieve the sword.

“Time for your bath,” I said. placing the blade into the groove at the top of the drum well.

The sword remained silent.

I pulled the blade in and out of the solution for hours, allowing the thick, gritty substance to permeate and soften the tarnish, taking breaks only to work the blade with a thick woolen cloth. After considerable effort, the tarnish faded under my assault, revealing a clean and vibrant blade, both bright silver and flowing blue water.

“You are beautiful, sword of legend,” I flirted. “But you must be feared as well.”

The sword remained silent.

Despite any weave the sword held, the years were unkind to her. The edge was dull, uneven, and beyond repair, so I sat at the grinding wheel, working both sides of the double-edged blade into a new crease. Once I carved out the appropriate angles, I moved to my oils and sharpening stones. The sword refused to speak, but I was not offended. I stroked it for hours like you would soothe a feverish child through the night.

Hand sharpening the final edge of the blade gave me a sense of satisfaction I didn’t expect. The work was rhythmic but far less strenuous than the wheel. I drank ale as I worked my stones across the length of the sword, occasionally wiping the blade down with another coat of oil before switching to a finer grain. It was relaxing work, peaceful even.

As the western windows darkened and the noontime sun radiated above the oculus, I paused and stretched. I pulled my neck from side to side, then stood and flexed the muscles in my back and legs. I held my arms out wide, basking in the light. I held the blade at arm’s length and eyed along its edge. I made a few cuts on a spare sheet of writ paper; they fell away easily.

“You shall be feared once more,” I flattered.

The sword remained silent.

I walked over to the bundle by the door and carried it back to my work table. I cut away a bolt of black leather I had saved from a project a cycle ago. Thankfully, there was enough extra material left to wrap the handle, and its quality would suit the sword well. Sadly, there would only be enough for the handle and not enough to craft a scabbard. No matter, I figured I could dicker down some of the cost on Dallon’s order and chisel out another half star or so to purchase more materials later on.

I unfolded the leather and took it to the workbench. It was a deep black, seemingly dyed from midnight itself. I cut the leather into two long strips then braided them around the handle in a technique Ada had shown me. I stitched where the final edges came together at the end of the handle then tied the remaining length into a loose knot. I would use them later to wrap the base of the pommel stone.

I was finished.

I stared at the sword as if seeing it for the first time. I gripped the leather handle with my sword hand and squeezed. It felt good in my hand. I took a few practice swings and was astonished at its weightlessness. I went through primary sword forms: Stone first, then Fire, then Water. It would take time to adjust to the weight of the weapon, but the song it sang while it cut through the air brought a gratified smile to my face.

“You sing beautifully, sword of legend,” I praised. “Now for a name worthy of song.”

Hammer in hand, I tapped my chisel along the base of the blade, etching a single word in Illyrian script. I ran a cloth down the length clearing away the flakes of metal. The script showed a brighter hue than the surrounding metal, like blue flame cast against icy water.

I took in a deep breath.

“In all the tongues of Men and Mere, there are many names of legend,” I said. “Today, your legend is reborn.”

I wrapped my hand around the sharpness of the blade.

“My blood is your blood,” I said, pulling my hand down its length. Blood trickled and darkened the edge crimson red.

“Nahdril,” I whispered.

The sword was pleased.

Interlude

I think now is a good time to pause. You must be tired.

She shook her head as if waking from a trance. The crimson letters faded back into the page of the open book. She ran a hand through her hair. She was tired; too many sleepless nights had finally caught up to her.

“I’m fine,” she said unconvincingly. “Let’s continue.”

I’m afraid I cannot. You need your rest. This will not be a short tale.

With a sigh, she placed her device down on the desk. “I’m not even sure what I’m reading.”

She looked up at the antique clock hanging above her door. It read 0331. She looked to her bed then back to the book. “What is this? This story… your story I mean… I do not understand the urgency behind a man and his swo—”

Rest now. All in time.

She nodded, out of excuses. Exhaustion weighing on her, she shuffled slowly to her bed. Unceremoniously, she threw her clothes on the floor and climbed under the covers. She found her pillow and closed heavy eyelids. Sleep