Sword of Destiny

It was fair to say that his actions didn’t win him the respect of his family. Quite the opposite in fact. He was treated like a rabid dog. The smithy seemed such a small space.

At the age of fifteen, he was still technically the least educated in the household. But despite that, he was definitely the most learned. Conversation with his family was like counting sand; just an impossible waste of time. And when he wasn’t reading his book, his thumbs twitched. He hated the place.

“Oi, Joss.” That was what they now called him. It was marginally less insulting than Jossie, but it was hardly the rough title he deserved. He would not respond to any name other than his surname. It was that or nothing, so he ignored the call. He would only respond to ‘Kantal’.

But he did really need a forename, didn’t he? His father had a point.

No! It was a girl’s name. He would not wear it.

He stared at the words on the ageing paper, but he was not truly reading. He had absorbed the book over the years, and he could recite every page. It was the same book as it ever was, the work of Queen Delfin, mother of Delfinia. It was her story, by her hand, and it was a rare piece of prose. No, it was more than that. It was the priceless original. Bulge had let him keep it. The fact that the other librarians had not even noticed its absence spoke more than enough. But their loss was his gain. Delfin was his guide, and he worshipped her.

And fortunately, his family didn’t recognise its value. They would surely sell it if they did, but it was saved by that age-old adage: ‘ignorance is blinding’. There was certainly a truth to that.

So much written about Delfin painted her as a traitorous bitch or a magnanimous monarch, but the reality was so stark. So different. She was confused and she was scared. But she was also curious, and that’s what drove her to greatness. She was not content with the answers she was given, even when her father blocked her. She had to find out for herself. She was always scratching; always searching; always probing. It was her strength, and it defined her.

And it was this strength of character that splintered the six-hundred-year-old Empire of Mikaeta. She broke the very lineage of written history just by being curious, and that was impossibly inspiring. He liked to think he had that same quality bubbling inside him too. He could change things, do things, he was sure of it. Now he just needed to prove it.

“Joss!”

No. He would not recognise that name. He would not. He focussed back on the page. He had read The Queen’s Descent hundreds of times, and yet he never tired of its inspiration. If anything, the shapes of the words on the page were comfort enough. He smiled.

“Bellowing Brother, Kantal. Will you listen to me?”

He turned and smirked with the act. He loved winding his thick old father up. “Ah, Father. I didn’t notice you there.”

“I was calling your bloody name.”

He was exercising his linguistic skills more and more, though he hated the common twang of his accent. Nonetheless, he sounded fresher than the rest of this household combined.

“Apologies, Father. All I heard was the whispering shadow of my past.” Perhaps that was too much?

“You are a girl after all.” Yes, that was definitely too much.

“Care to say that to my face?”

His father was huge. He was fifty times the proposition of Beef, who was in reality a sallow and flabby excuse of a juvenile. By contrast, his smith of a father was still in remarkable shape for his age. The man’s arms were like fence posts and he had legs to match, as-well as the ability to swing a right-hook with the best of them. But size wasn’t everything. After all, he had floored his father more than once now. The man didn’t look best pleased.

“You cannot call yourself by your surname. It’s dumb! We are all Kantal.”

“But I am the Kantal.”

“No, Joss. I am the Kantal. I am senior, and I also live the name. You’re a cocky li’l prick.”

Unfortunately, he could hardly argue with that. His father and his brothers did in fact live the name, and he didn’t. To be Kantal was to be the smith, and he was no smith. He should have used a different name, a forename of some sort, but the moment had taken him, and he was now too far down the road. He needed to persist, just to float his pride. He could not back down now. It was time for a change of subject.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to learn the meaning of your name. I want you to help me.” That was surely a double-edged request. His father hated him, and he hated his father. It was really that simple. It was only because of the smithy roof that they shared any proximity whatsoever. He scowled.

“What do you mean?”

“Come and be a smith, you precious little bitch. Come. Now!”

There was the tiniest appeal, but even greater loathing. He was an outcast in the family, so why taunt him with this suggestion? Usually his father laid into what he called the ‘scrawny shard’ of his frame, although it was this scrawny shard that had toppled the huge man twice. But though that earned some distance, it didn’t earn respect. So why was he saying this?

“Why, Father?”

“It’s because the others are out, and I have a real important job. I only need your help this morning. You can return to your sulking this afternoon.”

“It is not―”

“I don’t have time for your bollocks, Joss. Get out here.”

Almost every fibre told him to sod the bastard, but one chord pulled in the other direction. It was the part of him that wanted to learn. He may not crave a career in metal, but he was intrigued to see the trade in action. To be a part of it, even. It could hardly do harm to learn. And that’s what his queen would do, wasn’t it? He would learn the meaning of his name, but he would do it for himself. His father was just an unfortunate accessory.

He followed.

He’d expected to walk right into the forge room, where the real work took place, but instead he was led into a storeroom out back. He laughed at his own stupidity and earned a scowl from his father. The man dwarfed him in so many ways.

They stopped next to a mess of bitter and scorched iron compound, twisted and deformed where the heat had contorted the material. It was huge, double the size of his father, and it was entirely underwhelming. Whatever it was. He looked over the mess and his shoulders sagged.

“What is it?”

His father was gazing at the thing as if it were offspring. It was a look he’d never experienced. It seemed utterly absurd to idolise such scrap, and he almost spat on it and left the room there and then. But he didn’t.

“It is a Mandari steel bloom. This is the raw material for the finest sword-smithery the world has ever known. This is Mandari steel, my son.”

You couldn’t beat a mandahoi, and this was one of the reasons.

He’d established that the mandahoi were the elite warriors of Mandaria, and therefore they were chief invaders. They had a reputation for being close to invincible, and where did that reputation come from? Well, many places, but the quality of their steel was one. And this was their steel before him. It didn’t seem like much.

His father smiled, a broad thing that stung his pride. He looked over the metallic mess – all black stains and flashes of light – and his jaw dropped. He shut it quickly, not wanting to betray his amazement. He couldn’t see how it would become fine steel, but he had to trust his father in this. And he hated that fact.

He looked up at his father. “How did you get it?”

“I didn’t. The customer did. This bloom is more valuable than everything I own.”

“Who is the client?”

“It is the King himself who has commissioned this work.”

His breath caught. He could still see the King and his son standing at the Royal Gallery in the library. Since when was his father taking commissions from the King? He didn’t ask the question.

He looked more intently at the twisted mess and furrowed his brow. How would it become a thing of beauty? But that was several steps ahead. Another question was more pressing.

“How many swords are you expecting to make? This is a lot of steel.”

“One. Just a single blade. I am nervous, Joss.”

For once he didn’t correct the use of his name. He barely registered it, in fact. One blade. He didn’t know a lot about sword-smithery, but this was a lot of metal. His father was on edge, and that was telling. If his father was uneasy, then he should be terrified. But his inquisitive streak was burning bright and he wanted to learn. He would succumb absolutely to his father’s word. Only a fool turns down a lesson, and this was a fine opportunity at that.

“What do we do first?”

His father smiled, but it was also part grimace. “We break this bastard up. Only a third of this bloom is fit for use, and we need to ease that third out. Then we need to split that third into three piles: char-rich; char-poor; and char-neutral. It’ll take all morning, but only then can we begin.”

His father lied. It took them all day.

He was working with his top off, skinny body on show, when his brother returned home. The bastard laughed and sauntered straight through to the forge room. Even Brother Two snorted, but he didn’t care. He may have actually been enjoying himself. He and his father would take it in turns to angle the crowbar into the metallic mess, targeting clear points of differential. The other would then use a heavy mallet to smash the bar in, and the material apart. By the time the sun was sinking, they had three very distinct piles of impossibly valuable material. That and a rather larger one of waste. It was satisfying. He could get used to that sensation.

He ached all over, having exercised muscles that he’d only sporadically used in his past. At least, he’d rarely used them in his life. His father seemed unaffected by the day’s exertion. When his father finally looked away from the piles of metal, Mother was deep, and the shadow of dusk hid his father’s facial features. Somehow though, the man’s mood shone through the darkness. His father was smiling.

“Did you enjoy the work?”

He nodded hungrily, revelling in the delicate thread that had been woven between them. Until this moment, he had been the bastard who’d refused his role as a daughter. And a rebellious little vandal at that. Here and now, for just the briefest moment, he was a son. He almost wanted to cry, but that was not for now. That would be for later. In private. He still had a reputation to uphold.

His father came over and slapped him on the shoulder. The smile now only sharpened one side of his face, but somehow that was even greater. That was a smile reserved for the finest deeds of offspring, and it was pointed his way. He shivered.

“Perhaps we will work this blade together. Would you like that?”

Yes he bloody well would. In that moment, it was all he could think about.