Legends Never Die: Sparks of Creation (ch. 122)

There was no song more beautiful than that of a forge at work. Of hot metal being pounded into shape with the swing of a hammer. It was that melody that guided him as he made the iron sing, sparks flying with every impact as the ‘ting’ echoed out across the workshop. A low hum rumbled in his chest and at the back of his throat, letting him time his strikes to perfection and he was rewarded every time with the song increasing in pitch. 

Before his very eyes, the lump of orange hot metal was given a shape using the mold that he made the iron take with every swing of his hammer. The metal was first heated up, and given a long thin shape. The metal would then be lengthened and made thinner, and once it was the proper shape… then it would become what the King had ordered it to be. 

Nails. 

The tip of the thin rods would be heated up, portion by portion in a forge that ran day and night. He would hammer out the tip of the nail, then cut where the head would be on a wedge. He made a tool from an iron block that had a square slot in it, and the nail would be slid in where he would then flatten out the head of the nail. A dip in the water bucket would cool it, and with a flick of his wrist, he could send the finished nail into another bucket that steadily filled with nails as he worked. 

The tune helped him keep pace. His best time was fifteen seconds per nail, with ten swings of his hammer to make one. It was a powerful rhythm, and he didn't mind the repetitiveness of the work. He couldn't, when he was shaping iron with his own hands, knowing that every nail that he made would serve a purpose. 

“Sindri!” He heard his father call out to him, but his focus was consumed with the task. There was only the iron, his hammer, and the melody he created. “Sindri! Dammit, boy!” His father gruffed at him, but he let him finish the last nail before plucking the hammer from his hands. It was only then that he looked up at his father, seeing the wild dark beard and deep blue eyes. His face was covered in soot, as were their clothing. “Did you hear a damned word I said?” 

Sindri shook his head, his gaze going to the hammer and feeling an itch in his palm to hold it again. “Was it important?” 

His father looked down at him for a moment, and Sindri got the feeling that it was. “Aye,” his father remarked, sounding exasperated. “I'd say so.” 

“... Oh. I'll listen this time,” Sindri promised and that earned a sigh from his father as he set the hammer on the anvil. Sindri was quick to grab hold of it, feeling whole once more as he did. The wood handle had grooves that matched his hand, though that was also a sign that the shift was about to break. His father looked down at him for a moment longer and there was an expression on his face that made nervousness crawl up the back of his throat. “Father?” 

“I'm sending you to Miklagard,” his father told him bluntly and Sindri gripped his hammer with white knuckles. That sounded familiar. He didn't like the thought of leaving home, so he forgot about it. “Don't give me that look, boy. You're no beaten dog. It might work on your mother, but this is for your own good.” 

Words were hard. He couldn't shape them like iron, like so many others did. Everything he wanted to say got jumbled up on his tongue, so he said nothing at all for a moment. “But… the forge? You need my help.” 

“I already have another apprentice,” his father reminded him, and Sindri scowled. He was aware. The other boy kept touching his things and moving them where they weren't meant to go. “He'll pick up the slack. Better for him. You were already doing half of his work anyway.” 

Because he was bad at it, and the iron deserved better. “Are you mad at me?” Sindri questioned, forcing the words past his lips, uncertain if he wanted an answer. 

To that, his father sighed again. He always sighed a pot with him. “It's for your own good, Sindri. I'm a village blacksmith,” he began, as if that were something to be ashamed of. “You're twelve years old and you've already learned everything I could hope to teach you. Half the damned time, it feels like you're teaching me.” 

Sindri wasn't sure what to say, so he said nothing. His father reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, “Things are changing, son. The King brought with him a bunch of foreign metal workers. From the sounds of it… it won't be long before I'm lucky to keep my trade. But they're accepting apprentices, and you can be one of them.” 

The thought got his heart racing. He liked the King. After the big battle, he took the weapons of the defeated and gave them to the blacksmiths to smelt down into tools and nails. Because of that, Sindri could work all day and night in the forge if he wanted to. And he wanted to. So much so that he got yelled at a lot for disturbing people's sleep. He’d also heard that the King had brought foreign metalworkers and smiths, though mostly because of how much people were complaining about them. 

“You have the spark of Thor, boy. You have clever hands, and you can do more than make nails for the rest of your life,” he father continued. “So, I want you to go. Go to Miklagard, and learn from these foreign smiths. They have more to teach you than I do.” 

The idea of learning more about smithing had its own allure. How did foreigners shape their metal? What made it better than theirs? More than that, while he loved simply making nails, he couldn't deny that the idea of creating a sword, or armor, or all sorts of other things… it excited him. But to do those things, he would need to leave home. His family. 

“I don't want to go,” he whispered and his father gave him a measuring squeeze on his shoulders. 

“I know. But you're going anyway. Your destiny lies beyond this sleepy little village, and the Norns don't care what you want or if you're ready.” 

The Norns sounded rather inconsiderate, Sindri decided. 

…

It was days later that Sindri found himself standing before a wagon that was filled with others around his age. The wagon itself was being pulled by a powerful-looking horse and guarded by even more powerful-looking men. Curious eyes stared at him from the back of the wagon, but he paid them little mind as his gaze drank in the armor that the man wore. 

A solid, shaped metal plate that went over his chest. Layers of smaller plates went over his stomach to avoid any loss in mobility, but it was also easier to shape. With one big piece, a bad enough mistake could ruin the entire armor. Smaller pieces gave more room for error for uncertain hands. More pieces of plate flowed over the shoulders, over the biceps, covering the forearms and the hands. The elbows and shoulders were left exposed, except for a layer of chainmail that were pressed together with small rivets. 

“I take it he’s an aspiring smith then?” The warrior remarked to his father, noticing how Sindri was bouncing on the balls of his heels, his gaze darting around to inspect every piece. 

“Aye, he is,” his father confirmed. “He’s been helping me in the forge since he could walk. He’s skilled -- and not just for his age.” His father assured the man, placing a hand on Sindri’s back as he tore apart the armor with his eyes. The wolf pelt draped over the shoulders kept the armor from chafing around the neck as much as it was for warmth. The long skirt of chainmail that reached down to the knees seemed unnecessary considering the plates that covered the thighs and shins, but he also didn’t know much about battle, so maybe they were really important. 

“He seems to be the type,” the warrior agreed. “Do you have any questions before we depart?”

Sindri shook his head -- he knew all that he needed to know. His father, however, had a single question. “He’ll… be safe in the new capital, won’t he?”

The warrior nodded, and Sindri got the impression he had been asked that question a lot. “They all will be. Housing will be provided, as shall food and drink. Should all go well, the apprenticeship will last five years. If they impress… the King always searches for talent to be brought to his service.” His father nodded, accepting the answer, before he gently shoved Sindri forward. 

“Bye,” he said, offering a small wave to his father as he climbed up into the wagon. There were a bunch of other children within, about a dozen of them. He saw their hands -- most were soft and uncallused. They were here to learn a trade rather than to expand on one they had already taken. One with dirty blonde hair and bright green eyes scooted over a bit, and Sindri sat next to him. 

“Bye, child of mine,” his father snorted with some amusement, sharing a quick laugh with the warrior. He had done something amusing, but Sindri wasn’t sure what. But, after another quick laugh and wave, the wagon began to move as the warrior sat at the head of it. His gaze darted around as they traveled down a dirt path, and his expression twisted into one of awe when they reached the Kingsroad. 

He’d heard about it, but he hadn’t seen it yet. It was wide, dark gray stone layered in neat rows across the top with the barest of slopes that peaked in the middle. The ride immediately smoothed out significantly and it suddenly felt like he wouldn't bite off his tongue by talking. It was then that he turned to the blonde haired boy next to him.

“I'm a blacksmith,” he stated, making the boy blink back at him owlishly. “You're one too, right?” 

“...I am?” He replied, his voice hesitant until Sindri pointed to his hands and showed his own. The calluses on their hands were similar, but it was the one on the inside of their thumbs and pointer fingers that gave it away. Those came with holding a hammer and swinging it repeatedly as opposed to something like holding a hoe or scythe. “Oh.” 

“What do you think we'll learn?” Sindri found himself asking, excitement rising in his chest and he struggled to swallow it down. “Do you think they use different forges than us? Heat treatments? What do foreigner hammers look like?” 

“I don't know?” The boy replied hesitantly, glancing at the others who rose in mostly silence outside of a few other quiet conversations here and there. 

“My father said that they're steel is better than ours,” Sindri continued. “He knows a lot about blacksmithing, so he's probably right. I can't wait! I was really scared to go, but now I want to be there already! What do you think the capital is like?” 

“I… I don't know?” the boy… ah.

“My name is Sindri,” Sindri introduced himself, realizing that he was being rude. 

“Eivor?” The boy replied, and Sindri tilted his head. 

“That's a girls name,” he observed, and there was a spark of defiance in his- her green eyes. 

“That's because I'm a girl,” she told him, and he nodded -- that made sense. A girl would have a girl's name. 

There was a small pause before he spoke again, “Do you think we'll see the King? I heard he's a blacksmith too.” He asked, and for some reason, the tension bled out of Eivor. 

“Maybe?” Eivor shrugged, a small pleased smile finding its way onto her face. Sindri didn't know why, nor did he want to guess -- she was a girl, so she was supposed to be confusing. Father had said a lot about the topic when he talked about Mother. 

Still, talking helped the time go by as they continued the long journey towards Alabu. The wagon steadily filled up, as those from villages and towns off loaded their children into the wagons. Many were orphans, Sindri learned. Like Eivor -- her father had taken her as an apprentice when her brothers died, but when he died, no other blacksmith would continue her education. So, she got on the wagon and joined the rest of them. 

It had been a starting revelation to learn that he was one of the few that were sent because their parents and mentors thought they had something to learn from the foreigners. For most it wasn't an opportunity to learn more about a trade, it was a simple opportunity to gain one. Or an opportunity for food over winter. It made for very uneasy conversations as only Eivor seemed to understand him when he talked about blacksmithing. The feeling that he felt when he made the metal sing… 

Eventually, their wagon met others on the road and Sindri realized that King Siegfried intended to teach far more than a few dozen orphans. By the time that they reached Alabu, Sindri saw that there were dozens of wagons, each containing dozens of children -- some even younger than him. It made him nervous. With so many students, would they be able to answer all of his questions if they spread themselves so thin? 

Not all of them were going to become blacksmiths, and that thought mollified him. Some would become carpenters, stonemasons,  architects, money lenders, and something called ‘glass shapers’. 

In Alabu, they were sorted by the trade they intended to pursue, with some needing to be tested to see where their talents laid since they didn't know. From there, they were sent over to the island of Sjaelland, at a port on the south west of the island where they went up the Kingsroad to Miklagard. It looked unlike anything that Sindri had ever seen before. The buildings seemed impossibly tall, all made out of shaped stone with a bottom floor seemingly reserved for animals and their feed. There were places where plants began to grow along the road, but they wouldn't flourish until spring came. 

There were also people. More people than Sindri had ever seen before. More people than he thought there were in the entirety of the world. 

There were rows of wagons that were being brought into the city, the crowds of people parting for them as they were brought to the outskirts of Miklagard. And it was there that Sindri spied their destination. It was a street that was located near the coast, and through the excited chattering of everyone he could hear the sounds of metal working. Some of the wagons split off, heading down different roads and it was then that the warrior driving the wagon spoke. 

“Welcome to the Street of Steel,” he informed them. There were places that it planned to expand to, Sindri saw. There were plots that were untaken, left as flattened dirt waiting to be built upon. “This whole area is the craftsman district, so you'll find workshops aplenty for metal working.” 

That sounded like a dream, but something had stolen his attention. “What's that?” Sindri questioned, pointing over to something that was attached to the back of a workshop. 

“That's a water wheel. It's a creation of our king,” the warrior proclaimed with obvious pride. “It turns with the flow of water, and with it… ah, it would be better for you to see for yourself.” That made Sindri shake with impatience, and he was the first off the wagon when it came to a stop before a building. It was a large workshop, easily twice the size of those around it. He felt it in his bones -- this was where he was meant to be. 

And, as if to prove it, a strange looking man emerged from the workshop. His skin was a dark color, almost as if his skin had been permanently stained with soot. It made Sindri's heart still in his chest as he realized that his mother's reminders for him to bathe weren't just lies to scare him. The others followed behind him with Eivor standing close to him, and the man's dark eyes swept over all of them. He offered a smile and it seemed kind. 

“Welcome, children,” the man began, though his accent was… strange. “My name is Hamza, and I shall be one of your instructors for the next few years. My trade is smithing, but I specialize in swordsmithing.” 

“What can we learn from you?” Sindri heard someone blurt out from the back. “You can't even talk right!” 

Hamza seemed far from offended. In fact, he offered a smile that seemed like he had been waiting for that question to spring a trap. “I am so glad that you asked. Our good King Siegfried is very wise man. He knows that it is the children who are the future, and he seeks to spread wisdom far and wide. As a wise king, do you think he would be so foolish as to allow clumsy hands to help reforge his sword Gram, hm?” 

A breath was caught in Sindri's throat. This man had helped forge Gram? The legendary sword once wielded by Sigurd and now King Siegfried?

The disbelief must have shown on their faces because his smile widened. “Indeed! I am but one of the few who had a hand in reforming the blade. In truth, it is one of my proudest moments. It felt as if my hands had been possessed by the spirit of the blade to bring forth its chosen shape. Alas, if you think you have nothing to learn…” 

The response was a mixture of shouting, pleading, and outright begging. The response was so visceral the man couldn't hold back his laughter. 

“Settle- I am not going anywhere, and I look forward to the day that you have the same experience that I did,” Hamza said before he gestured for them to follow him inside of the wide building. “Come -- see for yourselves what shall be your home.” Sindri made sure that he was first, sticking so close to the man that he became a second shadow. The doors swung open, revealing a large expansive forge. 

No. Not a forge. It looked like a dozen of them that were all sharing the same space. He saw piles of materials, stacks of wood piled so high that they acted as a wall, and several strange looking forges and anvils, complete with an assortment of tools. It was… a lot. “These are the facilities where many of you shall be receiving your basic lessons. During your initial year, you shall be assigned work, which shall all be inspected. However, beginning your second year, you will gain access to private smithies for personal projects.” 

It was unreal. And that was before Sindri's gaze caught sight of something on the far wall. It was some kind of contraption, and it was what the ‘water wheel’ was connected to. With every turn on the wheel, a large hammer struck down towards an anvil -- not close enough to touch, but Sindri saw a handle where it could be lowered further. He understood the use for it instantly, and his jaw nearly hit the floor. 

The weight of the water counteracted the weight of the hammer, which was easily three times the size of a normal one. The weight allowed the malleable metal to be beaten into shape with greater ease for the initial stages of the project. It was… Sindri wasn't sure if he had a word for it.

For large projects, like a piece of plate armor, he would guess that at least three people would be needed to pound the iron into shape. People simply couldn't wield hammers large enough, or with enough strength, to do the work easily. But with the water hammer, the weight and effort was handled by the water wheel.  

He was so enraptured that he nearly missed it when Hamza continued. “By your third year, for those that distinguish yourselves, you should receive an offer of apprenticeship from one of the teachers -- be it armorerers, swordsmiths, or artisans. Those that don't will have two additional years to distinguish themselves, but even should you not, you will still leave this place a capable smith.” 

Five years. That seemed like so little time, so his hand shot up. Hamza smiled lightly and inclined his head to him, and Sindri asked the question that had been waiting to jump off his tongue. “When can we start?” 

Hamza laughed loud and hard. “You are an eager one. This is good! I suppose this is as good of a time as any to see what you know, what you don't, and what you need to learn. Break yourselves up into groups of five, and pick a forge to work at. Your task is to create something simple but functional.” 

Sindri grabbed Eivor’s hand and half dragged her to a nearby forge. The others didn't matter. All that mattered was that he was here to learn. He was here to create. 

And what wonders he would, as he knew that this was merely the first step of his journey.