Part 1 of The Sword Bearer, a dark fantasy sci fi short story written by Emi.
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The sun was down. Sparks erupted in the night, momentarily illuminating the blacksmith as he pounded the steel into shape, gradually forming the thin blade of a Jian. The fire and sparks of the forge were the only sources of light across a mile long expanse. Dust billows, audible only between hammer blows, pushed and prodded at the entrance flaps of the tent, which had been threaded into place the morning prior.
Only the woman and the man resided within. Gray eyes like clouded mirrors to the life of molten steel, betrayed signs of human life, but not evidence. Both were wrapped in wool and leather, to shield them from the cold. The blacksmith had worked up a sweat that glittered every time he swung his hammer. A pale light granted some access to the square outline of his face, a grisly beard difficult to distinguish in the shadow cast by the cliff sides of his nose.
The traveler remained hidden behind a wetted handkerchief, pencil thin eyebrows and long hair being the only indicators of her sex.
“Whatever you plan to do with this, you probably won’t survive.” the smith said, holding the sword up to his face, its outline casting a shadow on the upper corners of the tent. “I’ll need more than just money from you.”
He cast the tip of the blade towards her. She could feel the glare of the heat on the skin of her face. “I need you to show me your commitment, so that I know you can see it through.”
She nodded, her right arm unfolding from her body, as she reached out to grip the blade within her hand. Immediate pain came with a singe, as moisture embarked on an exodus from the charred skin. The blacksmith nodded, easing the blade out from her hand. He then baptized it in a bucket of water. She watched as its bright orange body faded to nothing as it meshed with the darkness of the tent.
“Look at this beauty. Art is extinct they say,” the smith said, filling the empty black space with his voice once more. “I say it lives on, the art of smithing anyway. So long as there is blood to spill, it will stay alive for many more years to come. I’m one of the few people left that can still create something. Most of us have had that privilege taken away. We can only bear what has been thrown at us, whether that thing be my sword or the dust and debris that flies around outside. It makes little difference. You bear it and survive.”
He cast a glance at the woman once more. By now she too had lost her shape amidst the shadows, but he could remember where she stood, and didn’t expect her to move or say much of anything in response.
“So what’s the story, sword bearer?”
She pried chapped lips apart, feeling a trickle of blood pool at the corner of her mouth, as she opened her mouth to speak.
“I’m going to kill a man in revenge.”
“Ah,” the smith replied. “A common story. Many young men have walked in here with the same intentions. Normally I’m able to convince them otherwise, to give them a much needed change of heart, or at least a kick in the pants to set them on a better path. I sense I can’t change much with you.”
“Too old to change,” she replied.
“The desert will do that for you, aging them early. Crossing it can turn a child into an old man.” He said, pulling out a flask and drawing a long swig. He then pushed it towards her. “Water’s a scarcity out in these parts, but as a smith, I’ll probably never run out. The county leader himself is my supplier, so I’ve got plenty. Have some. See if the taste is to your liking after a long trek out in those conditions.”
She reached out with her left, fingers prodding through the darkness, scraping the hardened leather exterior of the flask, before orienting and taking it into her grip. She held it to her lips, allowing small increments to seep through. The desert had stolen away most of the moisture from her body, the feeling of thirst disappearing alongside it. Dried tissues came awake, and asked for more. She gulped more down, quicker this time, each swash invigorating her even. The parts creaked to life, the feeling of cold sweat in her boots, the stinging in her right hand as the charred nerve endings now danced with a newfound fury, the cold air their only refuge, the pit of hunger in her stomach that now roared awake.
“I’ve some of that too,” the smith chuckled. “Food that is. Eat your fill, and rest here for the night. Can’t have you leaving and letting all that dust in here just yet. You’ll have to wait till morning when it’s calmed down some.”
She nodded, though certain he couldn’t see. She slung her rucksack around to her chest, fishing out the cash from a hidden pocket at the back. She fanned the bills, and handed them to the blacksmith, who took to stacking them into his other hand, each bill sliding against another.
“That’ll do it. Thank you.”