Steel And Flame (Book 1) (9 page)

Maddock walked beside him as the sun reached midday. 
He remained quiet, as usual.  Marik had decided this was the broad man’s way of
staying clear from the crossfire between his two companions.

“I was wondering,” Marik ventured in Maddock’s
direction.  When the taciturn man glanced over in curiosity, Marik continued. 
“Why does Chatham keep going on about my father’s sword?  I know it was only an
extra he didn’t need, but it’s still a sword he owned.  He always talked about
how you trust your life to your equipment.”

Maddock considered the younger man beside him, as if
deciding the best answer.  Finally, he responded.  “That is true, yet at the
same time it is not.”

“How can it be true and not true at the same time?”
asked Marik, slightly bewildered.  If Chatham had said it, he would have
suspected the statement was rooted in the man’s mockery.

“It is a matter of perspective and experience.  Yes,
the equipment you use can mean the different between living and dying, but at
the same time a person who depends completely on his equipment will usually end
on the dying side.”

“How can you not depend on your equipment?  You’re
useless without it.”

“No, that is not what I meant.  Let me provide you
with a suitable example.  It is about a fellow merc I once knew.  He was one
who always strove to obtain the best of the best in terms of weapons, armor,
horses—everything a warrior uses.  He eventually acquired a brand new steel
breastplate, the kind that fastens to a matching backplate with straps.  He
spent an extraordinary amount of his spare time with us rehashing the ways in
which it outclassed the chainmail we still donned.  Its defensive abilities far
outstripped our mail, thus making it the only sensible choice for body
protection.  Can you guess what happened?”

Marik had a suspicion, but asked anyway.  “No, what
did?”

“The next battle we were in, he took an arrow through
his throat.”

“That doesn’t mean the armor was no good.  He was
careless.”

“You are correct.  He was right about the plate being
the superior armor, but he counted on
it
instead of counting on his own
skills.  That is what I meant about depending on your equipment.”

“I see that.  But depending on your own skill too much
is just as thickheaded.  I wouldn’t challenge a squadron of swordsmen with my
fists!”

“That makes you smarter than many other men I’ve known
through the years.  Especially we mercenary types.  Many are thoroughly
convinced of their own invincibility.”

“That aside, I’d still like to know about this sword
I’m trusting myself to.”

Maddock smiled.  “As you should.  From what you told
us about your father, you will be spending a great deal of time traveling from
place to place, unless I miss my guess.  Knowledge of the world will be your
most valuable asset during your journey.”

“I’ve lived all my life back in that town.  I’ve never
left it.”  Marik hesitated, wanting to ask what he needed to without seeming
naïve.  “I know I’m poor in terms of survival skills.  That’s why I decided I
should travel with experienced people whenever I finally left.  I need to learn
what I couldn’t learn back there.”

Maddock studied his face while he confessed this. 
Marik could feel himself being examined to see if he meant what he said.  He
hoped both the truth and his implied question were clear enough for the broad
man to read.  Finally, “I was already aware of your lack, but it is a relief to
see that you are aware of it yourself.  Most people I’ve seen who get killed
did so because they were unable to see their own faults.”

“I intend to stay alive as long as I can.”

“That is also good.  I will show you as much as I can
during our trip to Kingshome, if you so wish.  Chatham has already begun to
teach you how much you don’t know about fighting and I am certain Harlan can
teach you several skills for surviving in the world.”

“Thank you.”  Marik felt a hot flush across his face
at acknowledging his shortcomings.  He tried to force it away and express his
gratitude to this man who stood to gain nothing in return for his teachings. 
“I was afraid you’d think I was asking too many questions.”

Maddock snorted.  “Is it asking too much when you ask
how to live?  I don’t think so, and neither do the others.  And it will be an
excellent way to pass the time while we walk.”  He leaned closer to Marik for a
moment to confide, “It gets trying having nothing to do but tolerate those
two.”

A voice from further up the road called back, “You’re
no festival event yourself, you lummox!”

Surprised, Marik focused on Chatham.  The man must be
thirty feet away, yet had heard their words!  Chatham grinned his fool’s grin
before returning to his bantering of Harlan.  He’d failed to place the flower
in Harlan’s hair so had torn off the petals and sprinkled them across Harlan’s
back, unnoticed by their new bearer.

Maddock recaptured his attention by saying, “Now,
about your sword.  You told Chatham you don’t know much about swords.”

“Yes.  Not many people have them in Tattersfield.”

“I won’t try and tell you everything there is to know
about them, but I’ll tell you enough to build the foundations in your mind. 
You can add specific knowledge later as you come across it.”

Marik was ambivalent.  Possessing only partial
knowledge could cause him trouble later.  But anything new would be better than
the nothing he currently had.

“This is the way I learned it.  Think of swords in
four different categories.  Look at your own first.  Draw it out.”  Marik did
and Maddock continued.  “First look here at the color of the blade.  It is much
darker than the color of my axe.  That is because the blade is mostly iron
rather than pure steel.  This means it is less flexible and more likely to be
damaged than true steel would be.  Also look here at the hilt.  Look closely at
the joining of the blade to the guard.  You can see that it is all of a piece. 
A good sword is made of a blade and hilt joined together from separate pieces. 
With this one-piece sword you have, you will feel the entire impact through the
hilt.”

Phantom vibrations, the ghosts of every time he had
struck a solid object during his practices, faintly ran through Marik’s arms
while he listened.  He admitted, “I thought I had to get used to that.”

“You do need to become accustomed to the feel of the
blade as it strikes, but the shock is lessened when the hilt is a separate
piece.  Also, the fact the hilt and blade are one means the blade was cast
instead of forged.”

“What does that mean?  Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No.  When a tool is cast, the melted metal is poured
into a mold the shape of whatever you are making.  For a weapon, that means it
won’t be as strong as if it were forged instead.  That is when the metal is
pounded with a hammer, re-heated and pounded again until it is the right
shape.  Doing this compacts the metal and makes it denser and flexible, so it
is stronger.”

Marik gazed at his father’s sword in a different
manner than ever before.  How could it be that Rail, a skilled fighter in all
respects, possessed a sword of such apparent low quality?  He asked, “So then
who would make a sword like this?  It seems as though everything about it is
the wrong way to do it!”

“I doubt this blade was made by a swordsmith.  Most
likely it was created by a blacksmith, either for extra income or because his
lord needed a large supply of weapons in a short amount of time.  This is the
quickest way to create a sword.”  He noticed Marik staring at the weapon and
correctly interpreted the thoughts flashing across his face.  “Many mercenaries
choose to keep spare weapons.  In all likelihood, your father claimed this from
a battlefield.  Not the first sword choice he would make, certainly, but it came
without a cost to his coin purse.”

Marik nodded slightly.  He agreed that was a probable
scenario.  “Which type of sword is this, then?  I assume it’s the least of
them.”

“Yes it is.  The four categories are called, as I was
taught, common, high, master and true.”

“As you were taught?  Are there other teachings then?”

Maddock smiled anew.  “Not as such.  I meant only that
not everyone calls things by the same name as you travel from region to
region.”

“So this is a common sword then?  I guess that means
most of the swords I’ll come across will be like this.”

“Not exactly like that.  Common swords are merely
weapons that were created without a great deal of skill.  Usually by
blacksmiths quickly producing a large quantity for a specific need or making
them on the side for extra business.  The techniques and materials used are
neither advanced nor masterful.  In that same light, the high swords are much
better weapons.  They are forged by swordsmiths and are of quality steel.”

“And harder to find I’ll bet.  And expensive.”

“Indeed, you are correct in both.  The master swords
are on a higher level still.  They are produced by the truly skilled
swordsmiths, and are only created on demand for those who can afford them. 
Usually only a noble will ever bear a master blade.  They take long to create
and are exceptional weapons.  The culmination of an elite swordsmith’s skills
honed over decades.”

“And the last?  These true swords.  How are they more
true a sword than the others?”

Maddock’s smile twitched, a suppression of a broader
grin.  “These are the swords of legend.  I’m sure you’ve heard many of the
songs and tales about them.  A true sword has a life of its own and no
swordsmith, however skillful, can set out to create one.  In fact, it is very
lucky if any swordsmith out of an entire generation ever creates one.”

With a snort, Marik asked, “If they can’t be created
then how can they exist?”  He recalled tales heard from minstrels in Puarri’s
tavern.  Marik had never been able to convince himself such weapons could
exist, or ever had.

Maddock remained calm in the face of his skepticism. 
“A swordsmith sets out to create a sword.  If he’s lucky, he will create a true
sword instead of what he had intended, and then he will only do so if he
realizes
he is creating a true sword during the forging process.  A true sword is the
result of everything the smith has ever learned and every skill he has honed
throughout his life.  As such, no two true swords are ever the same.”  Marik’s
skepticism persisted.  It must have shown.  “This is the truth.  So much as a
single missed stroke with the hammer will be enough to ruin the true sword
during the forging and leave the smith with nothing but a regular blade.”

“The stories
I
remember say the swords were
gifts from the gods.”

“They could be correct in that a god involves himself
in the forging process, but I do not know the truth of such.”

“I would think,” Marik commented with a sarcastic
edge, “that these true swords would still be around.  Every song I’ve ever
heard tells of the ancient past.  What happened to these magnificent weapons?”

“They are still around,” Maddock stated
authoritatively.  At Marik’s raised eyebrows he continued.  “Think if the town
council of Tattersfield had one in its possession.  Every bandit in the entire
kingdom would attack the town in hopes of obtaining it for their own uses. 
Even the king, I am certain, would demand it be turned over to the throne. 
Whoever has the keeping of the true swords these days must go to great lengths
to keep them a secret.”

“I suppose…”  Marik was still unconvinced.  “On the
theory that I accept their existence, exactly how are they so much better than
the others?  The only passages I know go along the lines of ‘
and he smote
the legions of his foes as they took up arms against him
’.  That’s not very
informative.” 

“As I said, no two are entirely alike.  From what I
know, any true sword is able to slice through metal like a dagger slicing into
a pad of butter.  They also shared one other property.  They had a unique
reflective quality.  Like this.”  Maddock unhooked the axe from his pack and
held it in the sunlight.  He tilted it slightly a few times so Marik could see
the silver sheen which crossed the axe from top to bottom when light reflected
off its surface.  “Their sheen was not silver, but instead shone in different
colors as when oil floats on water; like a rain arch.  Other than that, their
properties differed from blade to blade.  I heard tell of one that anytime it
was drawn from its sheath, the blade was wet, as if it had been wielded in the
rain.  Swinging the blade would send a spray of water droplets through the
air.”

“A magic sword?  But only mages can wield such!” Marik
exclaimed with profound distaste.

“No, they are not weapons created by magic.  They
might seem magical in nature, but they are not.  No blade created through the
use of magic can match the power of a true sword.  I think that’s enough for
the time being.  Let us stop for lunch while you think on what we have
discussed.  Later, we will speak further.”

As if on cue, Chatham and Harlan stepped off the road
to some trees which provided shade from the afternoon sun.

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