Page 3 of A Kiss of Hammer and Flame (Fated for Hael #1)
Smithing is like magick, Cahra thought, hoisting her hammer above the fire-forged blade – creation, something from nothing, from base materials. The way she’d forged herself.
She swung her hammer in the sweltering heat, the rhythmic clang of metal ringing among the motley assortment of chisels, tongs and punches, each practised strike a pounding heartbeat in the Traders’ Quadrant.
Cahra leaned her elbows on the anvil, inspecting the blade of Lord Terryl’s longsword in the forge’s light.
She’d shaped the metal with care, drawing out every bump and imperfection.
It would be easy to sharpen, heat-treat and finish off by hand.
With a satisfied smile, she called to Lumsden.
‘I’m off!’ Cahra dumped her leather apron on the workbench that edged the path to the rear of the smithy, wiping the sweat from her forehead and surveying herself, sighing.
Her trousers were ripped at both knees, her boots holed, the evidence of her fireside labouring.
This was the reality of life as a blacksmith, toiling from sunrise to sunset with no time or coin to waste on clothes.
She adjusted her leather vest, the only woman’s garment she owned, and rubbed the soot from her face.
As far as decorum went, her appearance would have to do.
The sun dipped behind a row of squat grey shacks, barnacles that clung together, as Cahra returned from the jeweller’s, the gemstones for Lord Terryl’s longsword sagging in her pocket.
The precious gems, bartered for by Lumsden, would form the centrepiece of the sword’s hilt, the insert for the pommel – the shapes she’d sketched and hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.
She exhaled softly, eyes drifting over the opalescent orange sky fading into dusk, the coming winter a raw whisper against her skin.
Past the markets, pockets of slums marked the Traders’ Quadrant, their narrow alleys snaking like saltwater through Kolyath’s crevices.
A mismatched cluster of eroded granite and ratty tents, the dwellings always looked set to buckle under the weight of the harsh climate.
Yet they endured, pinched, packed, but persevering.
And once a year, their people celebrated.
Cahra gazed at the decorations for the annual Festival of Shadows and its highlight, Veil’s Eve, dotting windows on the dim streets with paper cut-outs depicting eerie silhouettes.
Absently, she wondered what Lord Terryl might be doing for Veil’s Eve, if high-borns even mingled with the masses in the streets.
As she would, after finishing his blade.
Lost in thoughts of the lord and his sword, Cahra barely noticed the candles flickering behind window decorations as she passed.
Nor did she notice the weapon at her back, until it was upon her.
‘Gimme the coin,’ a male voice growled from behind.
Stilling, Cahra scolded herself. She should have known better, traipsing the backstreets at night with a pocketful of jewels.
What in Hael was she thinking? All she’d wanted was to get back to Lord Terryl’s sword.
But the time for daydreaming was done. She inhaled, restraining the breath in her chest before letting it out, slowly.
Deliberately. It was funny how it always felt so close, the side of her she hid like a crude relic, beastly and buried. Her old life, her old instincts.
Her old self.
Cahra pushed ever so slightly against the weapon at her back and felt no pain.
Her lips quirked to one side as she spun and elbowed a blade from her attacker, her opposite fist hooking a clean punch to the jaw, arms snapping up beside her head again.
A brutal dance she’d learned on Kolyath’s cutthroat streets, where survival depended on raw instinct.
‘No one in this part of the Quadrant can afford to sharpen their knives,’ she snapped. ‘Now what—’ Then Cahra saw.
The dirt-encrusted face. The fear-steeped gaze. The rags and no shoes, just worn soles against the freezing cobblestones.
A tiny, scowling cauldron of resentment. It was like looking at who she used to be.
She watched the boy, younger than her, itching to fight but knowing he’d been bested. Just a few years older than she was when Lumsden saved her from the kingdom’s dungeons. This kid hadn’t been so lucky. Cahra stood over him, silent, then lowered her arms.
And whispered something she hadn’t said in a very long time.
‘ Hael won’t help us .’ The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could think. The beggar’s credo: the words of those without a home, a family, a place in the Steward’s rotten high-born kingdom. Kids like him. Kids like her.
The boy stared at her with sky-blue eyes like aquamarines.
Cahra shot a wary glance around them. She knew the risks. The Steward’s stance against helping Kolyath’s beggars was well-known, as were his Red Square retributions. But they were alone. And this kingdom, this life…
‘It wasn’t coin,’ she told the startled boy. Pulling a hand from her pocket, Cahra dropped a tiny sapphire into the kid’s palm, marking his gaunt face, his vivid blue eyes and the pitted scar through his left eyebrow. She would recognise him again now.
Cahra jerked her chin to the laneway. ‘Go.’
The boy waited, unsure if her goodwill was some kind of trick.
She nodded at him again. ‘ Go . You know these streets don’t stay empty for long.’
He watched her, his eyes brighter somehow, tightening his little hand around the gem. The boy nodded, once. Then he ran.
Cahra stared at the empty space where he’d been and breathed deeply, the cold, moist air of nightfall in her lungs.
She swallowed against the lump that was hardening in her throat.
For one moment, she allowed herself to experience a bittersweet feeling of pride.
Not for her, but for the boy. For every kid out here, just trying to survive.
Hael won’t help us .
But someone had to, surely? Like Lumsden had helped her.
The lonely life Cahra now led sharpened into focus. She’d been vigilant ever since the old man had helped her escape the Steward’s wrath, the scars and wishes she harboured living only in her head, unvoiced. So far, it had been the safest way.
But would it always be like this? Would she always feel so alone?
Pulling her coat tight against the coming frost, she weaved through the drab greys of Kolyath’s austere streets.
It was quiet, and the solitude was a familiar comfort, and a curse, as the image of the boy and the sapphire ruminated in her mind.
A reluctant admission that maybe, even in Cahra’s guarded world, there might be glimmers of something more.
Something like hope.
Days bled into nights as Cahra poured herself into crafting Lord Terryl’s longsword, her world shrinking to the smithy and its forge’s fiery breath, warming her after sundown.
She painstakingly weaved the lord’s cobalt theme and its complementary shades of blue, from the gem-encrusted pommel to hand-painted flourishes dancing from the handle to the blade, every detail reflecting her dedication to crafting a sword the lord might like.
And every night, she dreamt, the dark hours filled with night terrors that seemed to soak like ale straight through her, causing her to wake bolt upright in a cold, stark sweat.
Shivering, she’d pull her blanket to her chin and try to remember the details of her dreams, but never quite could.
All she could recall were icy wisps, a slumbering smoke upon her skin and the suffocating smell, the hiss and deadly snap, of fire. Burning.
Dawn was barely a smidge on the horizon when Cahra dragged herself from bed on the last day of working on Lord Terryl’s longsword, eyes gritty from another restless night.
But her mission was clear: complete the sword. So she shrugged off the bone-deep fatigue like an old coat, working from first light until first candle and beyond, and buffed the blade with her aching hands until the job was done.
When she finished, triumphant, Cahra held the weapon to the forge’s dying flames.
The pommel was majestic, with a rich array of sapphires ringing a glittering blue goldstone, the gems twinkling like distant stars trapped in a sea of polished silver.
The handle, wound with cocoa-coloured leather so soft and supple it moulded to even Cahra’s calloused palms, led the eye to the guard dividing the hilt from the engraved blade.
Her fingers traced the flamboyant brushwork that danced along the fuller, flushing the longsword’s length.
She’d spent hours polishing the sword until it shone like dew in sun-kissed light.
Suddenly, her task was complete.
Holding her breath in anticipation, Cahra lifted Lord Terryl’s sword to test its weight, slicing the blade through the air. The heft was exactly balanced, offering no resistance despite the extravagant handle. It was like the sword caressed the wind itself.
From his seat at the smithy’s workbench, Lumsden’s eyes widened as he followed the longsword’s arc with a reverential gaze, lingering on the blade’s metallic paint.
The old man gave Cahra a slow nod, all the approval she’d ever need, confirming what she already knew.
Lord Terryl’s sword was absolute perfection.
Cahra stepped back to admire the weapon in all its glory, delight and accomplishment swelling in her chest. Each sparkling stone, each vibrant brushstroke, every inch of its flawlessness was the result of her hard work.
She had finally begun to master her craft, just as Lumsden had promised years ago.
Her thumb brushed the tattoo encircling her wrist: a bold, black hammer, with red ink depicting a fiery forge burning behind it.
It was the crest of the Blacksmith’s Guild and her chosen profession, the symbol more than just ink.
It was a sign of her place in the world, a symbol of her skills and dedication.
This longsword, her craftsmanship – it was her ticket to a better life, a life as a respected journeyman blacksmith.
The status was more figurative than anything these days, with the realm’s three kingdoms at war with one another.
But it was a start, she thought. Maybe one day, she could even become a master blacksmith like Lumsden.
Yet as she stood there, staring at the spellbinding weapon she’d created, a sobering thought snuck in among the joy.
A voice inside her, a hard voice, that laughed at her fantasies, speaking the truths she’d rather forget: that her life in Kolyath, whether she had a trade or not, could be snuffed out in a heartbeat.
That no matter what she did, how she changed, it would never be enough. A part of her would always be afraid.
She would always be in danger.
All it would take was the Steward learning that Cahra was the girl who’d tried to kill him.