Page 20 of Red Demon
He inhaled. “Father?”
“Dead a year. My siblings died a little over two months ago.” I looked around at the faces in the militia. “South Bend. I’m from Crofton.”
No more lies. I’d just run if that frightened them. The small group shifted, staring back until I looked away.
Galen gestured up to the trees. “I’m surprised you can stand after that drop, boy.”
“A solid roll,” Meragc said.
“We’ll try you today at the forge. Tomorrow, in lieu of a form, I want you to teach us that jump of yours.” He rubbed his side. “Even if my bruises disagree, Ash is convinced you aren’t trouble.”
I stared at his extended hand, then at the incredulous faces around me. This was madness, and I savored every bit of it, grinning wide.
Laughing, I grasped his hand.
Chapter 9
A New Beginning
As I started my first day of work, I realized the demands of the forest had taken their toll. My mind had excitement to spare, but I’d thinned out, losing strength in my arms. Sweat stung my eyes as I hauled another bucket of pelleted charcoal into the smoldering furnace.
Galen stood a few paces away, holding a red-hot rod between thick mitts. He vised it into place with deft hands, unconcerned by the heat, giving the rod his undivided attention as each thud of the auto-hammer shook the floor. Asher whirled between the two of us, checking controls on the Chaeten fabricator, the machine that took the bars Galen was done with and produced what appeared to be a complete blade. What came out only needed hilting, engraving, and a final polish. What I found astounding was that Galen spent more time prepping the bars going into the fabricator than the remainder of the process.
“Why not reprogram the fabricator to do the whole thing?” I asked Galen. I’d been holding in the question for hours, not wanting to be a nuisance. That’s how the Chaeten built just about everything, including swords.
He angled the bar under the forging press once more before looking up to answer my question. “The metal remembers. That’s why the first touch—and the last—must be human.”
I didn’t understand what he meant by that. And when Galen didn’t explain further, I kept my hands busy shoveling another load of fuel from the other end of the workroom until the furnace roared.
“Wipe your hands, then pull down the blade on the wall behind the counter, boy,” Galen said, vising another raw steel rod. “The one with the green and gold hilt.”
I found it where he said, taking time to admire it on the way back. The grip showed enough minor scuffs between grooves of the design to indicate it was an antique. Yet as I removed it from the scabbard with a click, I held up a polished blade that caught the firelight with a gleam.
“This sword,” Galen said, running his finger down the fuller, “has walked beside an Attiq-ka for millennia in my family, and I share his name. The immortal Galen died in the Tower. He will no longer reincarnate down our line.”
With awe, I watched as the blade glowed blue behind his touch.
“Istaran adheres to Niire Mai—only used to take a life to save another—or kill a demon. It remembers every time it takes blood. Istaran remembers who holds it, and can track anyone who injures or kills its master.”
Galen offered me the sword. Carefully, I took it, the cool weight of the metal feeling strange on my skin. I wondered how many Chaeten lives it took in the war. The engravings on the sword came alive in my grip, the pale blue glow snaking from the hilt in mazes down the blade.
I almost dropped it, but set it down on the table instead.
“Interesting.” Galen’s black eyes twinkled with something inscrutable. Asher and his father shared a look.
“What was that?” I knew that cyan light was the sign of Asri magic at work.
Galen turned to rummage through a large wooden cabinet, shaking his head as if to uproot a thought. “Nothing dangerous.” He turned and gave me a squinting glare. “Or illegal. Istaran decided you were worthy of its trust.”
“Worthy how?” I stared at the hilted blade.
He huffed. “Wish I knew. Old magic, na.” He produced a similar-looking blade from the cabinets. “I carry on what rituals I know, including a few I can’t claim to fully understand—knowledge the Attiq-ka took with them. But they limit what is allowed, even for their soldiers. The empire won’t let me make Oria-synched blades like Istaran, even for them.”
He passed me a fresh blade, hilt first. It felt just as light as Istaran, every bit as sharp, but it didn’t glow, or otherwise creep me out.
“That’s a sword we made here. It will last—sharp—and I guess that’s good enough. I do the first fold of carbon steel by hand as my grandfather did, using a grade to offer the blade durability and strength. I take a nickel-titanium alloy next, to give the blade enough flexibility not to shatter. The Chaeten machines—” He gestured behind him, to the large thrumming fabricator. “—Are programmed to do what my ancestors taught me, but work faster, using electromagnetic pulses to build a matrix of the two materials.”
“So you don’t just melt them together?” I had no idea it was so complicated.
