![Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03]](https://fs.ageofbook.com/606913/thumbs/152x264/susan-king-celtic-nights-03.jpg)
inhaled the familiar odors of iron, charcoal, and stone. His footsteps echoed on the slate floor.
The forge sat in the shadows to one side of the room like a dormant beast, bleak and empty. He touched the cool stone, then stepped toward the huge bellows behind the chimney. His fingers left a trail in the dust and ash on the leather casing.
The anvil, shaped of cast iron with a flat top and two beaked ends protruding like horns, stood a few feet away from the forge, anchored to a stout upright log. Tools—tongs, hammers, chisels, swages, pokers, shovels, and points—hung on racks on the walls and the forge. Others were stored in a wooden chest on a table. Inside another chest were small, essential items: nails and rivets, vials of oil for polishing, scraps of leather for wrapping hilts and making sheaths.
A wooden tub stood near the door, stacked beside empty buckets. Leather gloves and aprons hung on pegs, and other implements were scattered on the table. Dust and soot lay thick upon most surfaces. Beneath a canvas beside the narrow back door of the smithy, a store of iron—broken pieces as well as rods and ingots—required sorting and cleaning before he could determine what materials were available for forging.
He sighed, aware that much needed to be done before any smithing work could begin.
He fetched the pack that he had left on the doorstep and brought it inside, closing the door. Rummaging among his few items of clothing and possessions, he withdrew a wrapped object and laid it on the anvil face. Carefully he unknotted the twine ties and peeled away the layered cloth.
Two halves of a broken sword shone bright in the dimness. He traced his fingers over the brass pommel and leather hilt, and touched the second piece, the separate remnant of the blade. The first time he had seen this weapon, it had gleamed like molten gold reflecting a sunset sky in France. A girl who shone with courage had gripped the hilt.
Its design was simple but elegant, a single-handed hilt with a brass disc pommel and a sloping crossbar. The blade, cracked in half, was tapered, its fuller engraved with five fleurs-de-lis filled with gold. He took the worn leather hilt and turned the sword point upright.
The gold engravings glittered. Even broken, it was a fair sword, he thought, and he felt privileged to have the safeguarding of it. Light caught the steel, set it afire in his hands. Brilliance rayed outward like diamond strands as he turned the blade.
Magical swords and warrior maidens, he mused. Strangely, they seemed to be a repeating motif in his life. Sighing sadly, he wrapped the blade in its cloth again.
Jehanne had once told him to keep the sword because one day he would know what to do with it. But he did not know, and neither heart nor reason told him.
He did not think he could fix the break. Regardless of his flawed eyesight, he could not touch fire to the marred beauty of this particular blade.
He tucked the cloth bundle high on a ledge and walked away.
Chapter 9
"We must find out what Lachlann intends to do now that he has returned," Simon said, frowning thoughtfully. Eva sat beside him, having already explained what she knew, while her brother and kinsmen listened in grim silence.
A few of the fourteen men in Simon's band of rebels had gathered in a clearing on a wooded slope in the wild hills above Loch Fhionn. The view through the autumn leaves revealed the loch at the foot of broad mountains. Far out, Innisfarna and its castle seemed to float upon the water like a jewel.
"He must be the king's messenger," Simon mused, frowning.
"We cannot trust him, if so." Iain Og spoke; he was the oldest of the MacArthurs—despite his nickname, Og, "the younger"—who followed Simon. Iain was a huge man, tall and wide, though Eva noted that his bulk had lessened in the years with the rebels. He stood apart from the rest, his arms folded, brow creased beneath a shock of graying hair.
"You do not know the man,
The forge sat in the shadows to one side of the room like a dormant beast, bleak and empty. He touched the cool stone, then stepped toward the huge bellows behind the chimney. His fingers left a trail in the dust and ash on the leather casing.
The anvil, shaped of cast iron with a flat top and two beaked ends protruding like horns, stood a few feet away from the forge, anchored to a stout upright log. Tools—tongs, hammers, chisels, swages, pokers, shovels, and points—hung on racks on the walls and the forge. Others were stored in a wooden chest on a table. Inside another chest were small, essential items: nails and rivets, vials of oil for polishing, scraps of leather for wrapping hilts and making sheaths.
A wooden tub stood near the door, stacked beside empty buckets. Leather gloves and aprons hung on pegs, and other implements were scattered on the table. Dust and soot lay thick upon most surfaces. Beneath a canvas beside the narrow back door of the smithy, a store of iron—broken pieces as well as rods and ingots—required sorting and cleaning before he could determine what materials were available for forging.
He sighed, aware that much needed to be done before any smithing work could begin.
He fetched the pack that he had left on the doorstep and brought it inside, closing the door. Rummaging among his few items of clothing and possessions, he withdrew a wrapped object and laid it on the anvil face. Carefully he unknotted the twine ties and peeled away the layered cloth.
Two halves of a broken sword shone bright in the dimness. He traced his fingers over the brass pommel and leather hilt, and touched the second piece, the separate remnant of the blade. The first time he had seen this weapon, it had gleamed like molten gold reflecting a sunset sky in France. A girl who shone with courage had gripped the hilt.
Its design was simple but elegant, a single-handed hilt with a brass disc pommel and a sloping crossbar. The blade, cracked in half, was tapered, its fuller engraved with five fleurs-de-lis filled with gold. He took the worn leather hilt and turned the sword point upright.
The gold engravings glittered. Even broken, it was a fair sword, he thought, and he felt privileged to have the safeguarding of it. Light caught the steel, set it afire in his hands. Brilliance rayed outward like diamond strands as he turned the blade.
Magical swords and warrior maidens, he mused. Strangely, they seemed to be a repeating motif in his life. Sighing sadly, he wrapped the blade in its cloth again.
Jehanne had once told him to keep the sword because one day he would know what to do with it. But he did not know, and neither heart nor reason told him.
He did not think he could fix the break. Regardless of his flawed eyesight, he could not touch fire to the marred beauty of this particular blade.
He tucked the cloth bundle high on a ledge and walked away.
Chapter 9
"We must find out what Lachlann intends to do now that he has returned," Simon said, frowning thoughtfully. Eva sat beside him, having already explained what she knew, while her brother and kinsmen listened in grim silence.
A few of the fourteen men in Simon's band of rebels had gathered in a clearing on a wooded slope in the wild hills above Loch Fhionn. The view through the autumn leaves revealed the loch at the foot of broad mountains. Far out, Innisfarna and its castle seemed to float upon the water like a jewel.
"He must be the king's messenger," Simon mused, frowning.
"We cannot trust him, if so." Iain Og spoke; he was the oldest of the MacArthurs—despite his nickname, Og, "the younger"—who followed Simon. Iain was a huge man, tall and wide, though Eva noted that his bulk had lessened in the years with the rebels. He stood apart from the rest, his arms folded, brow creased beneath a shock of graying hair.
"You do not know the man,
Similar Books
