10 Minute Tales

May 13 - Forge

The pounding of the hammer and the ringing of metal echoed through the air as sparks flew. The smith sat up, panting softly as he took a small break. The ringing continued as his colleagues continued their work, but he spent a moment to admire his work. It was a slim blade, a subtle inlay of silver worming around its core. The power within silver would help against the undead, he had heard, hence its inclusion. It would be pricey, though... He was worried about it.

"Something up, apprentice?" a voice asked. He looked over; it was his master, striding over with a confident gait.

"Just..." he sighed. "I'm worried that I won't be able to sell this one."

"Let's have a look, then." he bent down to the still-glowing metal, seemingly oblivious to the heat radiating from it. "Hm... well, the make's fine, the pattern of the silver's okay... yeah, I don't see nothin' wrong with it."

"Really?" the apprentice sighed in relief.

"Yeah, go ahead and quench it." The apprentice nodded, grabbing a set of tongs and guiding the weapon into the water. Steam hissed and spat into the air, objecting to this sudden event. "Give it a sharpenin' when it's cool, then if you trust it, bring it in for testin'."

"Testing? Y-you think it can stand up to testing?"

"Well, if you don't, then it's not worth a damn penny."

"Sir?"

"You've got to have confidence in yourself if y'want to sell anything you've made. I'd hoped you'd have learnt that by now."

"S-sorry, sir, I... yes, I'll try it..."

"Good. Bring your normal hammer in case it gets ugly."

"R-right." he nodded, swallowing nervously. His weapon was one thing; it was his combat abilities he wasn't so sure on.

-----

It was a few days later. He had fashioned a simple handle for it, dull and unornamented but with a firm grip that wouldn't slip. The arena was not one of glory, but one of duty; soldiers often trained here, working in safe conditions against all manners of monster that threatened the city, the fields, the roads, all signs of civilisation. One such sample, the zombie, was the worst of what these monsters could offer; any fallen victim would be turned by vile magics, their bodies dragged back into a grotesque mimicry of life that sought only to follow the unknowable will of whatever foul demon had brought it to life. It was a zombie that stood in its cage, rattling against the bars with a guttural growl. The apprentice swallowed nervously, adjusting the blade's grip in his hand. Seeing the foul abomination, this mockery of humanity, reminded him how grateful he was that he had chosen to be a blacksmith.

"Right." the captain of the guard explained. "This one's been weakened enough that you should be able to take it down no problem. If the blade works, it'll glow slightly when it hits."

"O-okay."

"Go for the kill as soon as you can for your sake. We can't promise we'd be able to cure the undead plague."

"R-right..." he tried to control his shaking, preparing to rush in to deal one single, powerful blow. There wouldn't be a second chance if this went wrong.