Chapter 13

  Francis brought the hammer down.

  The strike landed on the glowing metal with a dull clang that felt wrong the moment it happened. The iron bent awkwardly under the blow, folding in on itself instead of spreading flat like he'd intended.

  "Shit," Francis muttered, pulling back to examine his work.

  The piece looked terrible. Misshapen, too thin in some spots, lumpy in others. Nothing like the smooth, even metal Tormund had demonstrated moments before.

  Tormund leaned over, arms crossed, and studied the mangled iron. After a long moment, he grunted.

  "Well?" Francis asked.

  "It's nothing," Tormund said flatly.

  "Nothing?"

  "Nothing," the blacksmith repeated. "Worthless. Can't use it, can't fix it. Best thing to do is melt it down and start over." He picked up the tongs and thrust the ruined piece back into the forge. "Watch again."

  Francis watched as Tormund pulled a fresh piece of iron from the pile. The blacksmith's movements were deliberate, unhurried. He placed the metal in the forge and waited, not bothering to explain what he was doing.

  The iron began to glow. First a dull red, then brighter, shifting through shades of orange and yellow as the heat built.

  "See that?" Tormund said, pointing with the tongs. "That yellow? That's when it's ready. Not before. You hit it when it's red, and the metal doesn't want to move. You hit it when it's white, you've burned it. Ruined. Can't fix burned metal. You’ll have to start all over."

  Tormund pulled the glowing iron from the forge and set it on the anvil. The first strike rang out clean and sharp. The metal spread evenly under the hammer, exactly where the barbarian wanted it to go.

  "You hit it too hard," Tormund continued, never pausing his work. "Like many who are first starting, you think more force would make it bend faster. All you did was damage it. Can't burn too hot, boy. Not with metal, not with anything."

  Is he talking about the metal, or me?

  Francis didn't ask. He just watched as Tormund shaped the iron with practiced efficiency, each strike measured and controlled. Within minutes, the piece looked perfect—flat, even, ready for whatever came next.

  "Now you try again," Tormund said, handing him the tongs. "And this time, wait for the yellow."

  ---

  By the end of the first day, Francis had ruined six pieces of iron.

  His arms ached in a good way from the repetitive motion of hammering, and his hands were starting to blister despite the thick gloves Tormund had given him. Sweat soaked through his shirt, and the heat from the forge made breathing feel like work. Even with his stats, this new moment had pushed him in ways he hadn’t expected.

  How do people do this for years?

  "You're thinking too much," Tormund said, appearing beside him with a waterskin. "Here. Drink."

  Francis took the offered water and drank deeply. It was cold, probably pulled from snow melt, and it felt like life returning to his body. It had a slight aftertaste, but Francis chose not to comment on it.

  Hopefully, none of the snow was yellow.

  "Thinking is good," Francis said between gulps. "How else do you figure out what you're doing wrong?"

  "Thinking comes after," Tormund replied. He took the waterskin back and gestured at the forge. "Right now, you're standing there trying to plan every strike before you make it. Wondering if the angle's right, if the force is right, if the metal is right. All that thinking makes you hesitate. Hesitation means the metal cools. Cooled metal doesn't move."

  "So what, I just hit it and hope?"

  Tormund laughed. "No. You feel it. The metal tells you what it needs. You listen, you adjust. Can't plan a conversation before it happens, can you? Same with this."

  Actually, I can plan conversations. I've had some of them hundreds of times.

  But Francis didn't say that. He just nodded and picked up the hammer again.

  ---

  The second day started before dawn.

  [ Blacksmithing - 2 ]

  [ Metal Working - 2 ]

  Francis wasn’t sure if those gains were good or not. Having spent half a day feeling like he wasn’t accomplishing anything, the first notification had come. Tormund had asked what had been wrong because Francis’s next swing was off due to focusing on the words that had appeared.

  Still… I doubt I’d be this far if it weren’t for his constant supervision. No one else is getting this kind of help.

  Francis arrived at the forge to find Tormund already working, the orange glow of the fire the only light in the pre-dawn darkness.

  "You're early," Tormund said without looking up.

  "Couldn't sleep," Francis admitted.

  Dreams of dying tend to do that… as well as having the physical stats I do.

  Tormund grunted and gestured to the station Francis had been using. "Good. More time to practice. Today you're going to learn about flaws."

  "Flaws?"

  The blacksmith pulled a piece of iron from the scrap pile and held it up. In the firelight, Francis could see a dark line running through the metal.

  "This came from a batch of ore we smelted last month," Tormund explained. "Looked good at first. But when we started working it, we found this. A crack, running deep through the whole piece."

  The barbarian set it on the anvil and pointed at the flaw. "Now, some smiths would throw this out. Say it's worthless, can't be used. But that's wasteful. Metal's too valuable up here to throw away just because it's not perfect."

  Tormund picked up his hammer. "Finding the flaws is important. You can either learn to work around them or start all over. Sometimes starting over is the right choice. But sometimes, if you know what you're doing, you can work with what you have."

  He thrust the flawed iron into the forge and waited for it to heat. When it glowed yellow, he pulled it out and began hammering, but his strikes were different this time. Gentler, more precise, working around the crack instead of through it.

  "See that?" he said. "I'm not trying to fix the flaw. Can't fix it. It's always going to be there. But I can shape the metal so the flaw doesn't matter. Make something useful despite it."

  Francis watched, fascinated despite himself. The crack was still visible, but Tormund was slowly transforming the piece into something that resembled a bracket or mounting.

  "What if the flaw is too big?" Francis asked. "What if it's in the wrong place, and you can't work around it?"

  "Then you start over," Tormund said simply. "Melt it down, try again. No shame in that. Better to start fresh than force something that won't work."

  How many times have I started over? How many deaths did it take before I figured out the right path?

  "Your turn," Tormund said, handing him a flawed piece. "Let's see what you can do with this."

  Francis took the iron and studied it. The flaw was obvious once he knew to look for it—a thin line running diagonally through the center.

  Work around it. Don't try to fix it. Just make something useful.

  Francis felt himself learning lessons he already knew but in a different way. Not sure if Glitvall had expected or known this would happen, he heated the metal and began to work.

  ---

  The piece Francis made was ugly, but it held together.

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  Tormund examined it, turning it over in his hands, then nodded once. "Not bad. I wouldn't use it for anything important, but it'll do. That's progress. You never know when someone needs a hook for a towel."

  Francis didn’t laugh, but neither did the blacksmith.

  Progress. Guess that's something.

  The rest of the second day passed in a blur of heat and repetition. Francis kept learning that not every problem could be solved by hitting it harder—sometimes a lighter touch was what the metal needed. He was beginning to read the color of the iron, to judge when it was ready and when it needed more time in the forge.

  He also learned that Tormund rarely gave direct answers.

  "Why do we quench some pieces in water and others in oil?" Francis asked at one point.

  "Why do you think?" Tormund replied.

  "I don't know,” Francis said. “That's why I'm asking."

  "You've watched me do both. What did you notice?" the blacksmith asked, still not giving the answers he sought.

  Francis frowned, thinking back. "The water cools it faster. Makes a lot of steam. The oil... It's slower. Less dramatic."

  "And?"

  "And... the pieces you quenched in water seemed harder? But the ones in oil were... I don't know, tougher?"

  Tormund smiled. "There you go. That’s about as simple as you can say it. Water makes it hard, brittle. Good for blades that need a sharp edge. Oil makes it tough, flexible. Ideal for tools that require bending without breaking. Different purposes, different methods. Now, some metal is different, but you’re not ready for that kind of lesson yet."

  Like people. Some situations need you to be hard, unbreakable. Others need you to bend.

  By the time the sun set, Francis's entire body ached again. His hands were covered in blisters that had burst and formed new ones. His shoulders felt like they'd been beaten with his own hammer.

  But he'd made three pieces that Tormund deemed "usable." Not good. Not impressive. But usable.

  It was more than he'd expected.

  ---

  [ Blacksmithing - 4 ]

  [ Metal Working - 4 ]

  The third day was different. Armed with a slightly better understanding of blacksmithing and a few extra points in his skills, Francis felt somewhat prepared.

  Tormund handed Francis a longer piece of iron and pointed to a pile of firewood stacked against the forge wall.

  "You're going to make a poker," the blacksmith said. "For moving logs in the fire. Simple tool, but we go through them regularly. If you can make one that doesn't break or bend after a week of use, I'll call this time well spent."

  Francis looked at the iron, then at the poker hanging near the forge. It seemed simple enough—a long shaft with a hook at one end and a handle at the other.

  How hard can it be?

  "Before you start," Tormund said, "let me tell you about the first poker I made."

  Francis paused, surprised. Tormund rarely talked about himself.

  "I was about half your age," the blacksmith continued. "Thought I was clever. Wanted to make the best poker anyone had ever seen. Strong handle, perfect hook, the whole thing balanced just right."

  "What happened?"

  "I spent three days on it," Tormund said. "Got the hook perfect. Spent hours on the handle, made sure it was comfortable to grip. Was so proud when I finished." He paused. "Used it once. The hook snapped off the first time I tried to move a heavy log."

  Francis blinked in surprise. "Why?"

  "Because I forgot the most important part," Tormund replied. "The join where the hook meets the shaft. I was so focused on making each piece perfect, I didn't strengthen the connection between them. Looked beautiful. Worked like shit."

  Tormund chuckled, giving a rare smile. He tapped the poker hanging on the wall. "This one? Not as pretty. Handle's a bit rough. Hook's not perfectly curved. But the join is solid. That's what matters. It's been hanging here for five years."

  I swear this man’s part blacksmith and part philosopher. The connection is what matters. Not the individual pieces.

  Francis turned the iron over in his hands. "So don't try to make it perfect. Just make it work."

  "Now you're learning," Tormund said. “Show me that you actually have.”

  ---

  Francis started with the shaft.

  He heated the iron until it glowed yellow, then began to hammer, keeping his strikes even and measured. The metal spread under each blow, lengthening, thinning slightly but maintaining its strength.

  He worked through the lessons in his mind, remembering what Tormund had taught him.

  Don't overthink it. Feel the metal. Listen to what it needs.

  When the shaft was the right length, he moved to the hook. This was trickier—he needed to heat just the end, bend it without weakening the connection to the shaft.

  The first attempt bent too far. He straightened it, reheated, and tried again.

  The second attempt cracked slightly at the bend. He cursed, heated it longer, let the metal flow together, then bent it carefully.

  The third attempt looked right.

  He worked the join where the hook met the shaft, reinforcing it with careful, precise strikes. Not too hard like so many of the ones Francis had delivered on his first day of smithing. He didn't want to weaken it, but he used just enough force to ensure it would hold.

  The handle came last. He flattened the end slightly, gave it a gentle curve that would fit a hand comfortably. Nothing fancy. Just functional.

  When he quenched it in oil, he knew why he did so. He needed toughness over hardness. The poker hissed and steamed. He pulled it out and examined his work.

  It wasn't beautiful. The hook had a slight wobble to it. The handle was rougher than he'd wanted. But the join looked solid, and the whole thing felt balanced in his hand.

  [ Blacksmithing Increased - 6 ]

  [ Metal Working Increased - 6 ]

  Tormund took it from him and tested it, prodding at the logs in the forge. He moved a heavy piece, then another, applying real force.

  The poker held.

  "Well," Tormund said, examining the tool one more time. "It's not pretty. But it'll do the job." He hung it on a hook near the forge, right next to his own. "That's what matters."

  Francis stared at the poker hanging there, side by side with the one Tormund had made years ago. Something about seeing them together—one worn and proven, one fresh and untested—made his chest feel tight.

  I made something. Something that'll last. That's... that's different.

  "Good work," Tormund said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're not a smith yet, and you probably won't ever be. But you learned what you needed to learn."

  "What's that?" Francis asked.

  "That some things take time. That you can't force results by hitting harder. That flaws don't make something worthless—they just mean you have to work differently." Tormund paused. "And that the connections between things matter more than the things themselves."

  Francis looked at the older smith, wondering how much Tormund actually understood about why Glitvall had sent him here.

  He knows something. Maybe not everything. But something.

  "Thank you," Francis said. "For teaching me."

  Tormund waved a hand dismissively. "Glitvall sent you. I taught you. That's how things work up here." But there was a hint of warmth in his voice. "Besides, you weren't terrible. For a southerner with worthless swords."

  Francis couldn't help but smile at that.

  As he removed the leather apron and prepared to leave, Tormund called after him.

  "Boy."

  Francis turned.

  "Whatever you're trying to forge out there," Tormund said, gesturing vaguely toward the battlefield beyond the camp, "remember what you learned here. Can't burn too hot. Can't force it. And sometimes the flaws are what make it strong."

  Francis nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  He stepped out of the forge into the cold evening air, the heat from the past three days still radiating from his skin. His hands ached. His shoulders burned. His body felt like it had been beaten and reshaped.

  But something inside him felt different. Steadier. Like metal that had been properly tempered.

  Three days. Three days of not dying. Not fighting. Just... making something.

  It was strange how much that mattered.

  Francis headed back toward his tent. Tomorrow, Glitvall would probably have news about the raiding party.

  But tonight, he'd made something that would last.

  That was enough.

  ?