Chapter 20

Isaac sat inside the steamy forge, before the anvil, surrounded by boys and men on all sides, the room too hot, filled with clouds of steam and the sound of hammering steel. Isaac, too, hammered away, pounding a molten-hot sword again and again as it turned white, sparks flying, sweat stinging his eyes and Isaac no longer caring. Beside him sat Marco and his new friends, all part of the resistance, all getting ready to take up arms against Bandrania.

As Isaac pounded away, with each blow of his hammer he thought of vengeance. He thought of the Bandranians that this weapon would kill, thought of his brother and father and mother. His village. His people. Isaac knew all of these new weapons he was forging would be a drop in the bucket against the vast Bandranian army; yet he also knew that every sword he made, every axe, every shield, would mean at least one more Bandranian dead, one more chance to defend Ur. And that gave him a great sense of satisfaction.

Isaac finished his sword, raised it high, inspected it, then dipped it into the vat of water; another cloud of steam immediately filled the room, accompanied by a loud hiss. He inspected the final product, switching hands with it, until he finally laid it down in the pile of new swords, satisfied.

Isaac took a break, wiping sweat from the back of his head and surveying the room. This forge was more airy than his father’s, with large open arched windows which let in fresh air and bright sunlight, light from the canals making this pace far less oppressive. He looked out and could see all the passing ships, their masts and sails floating by the window, flying banners from all corners of the world. Such an international city, Ur exuded a sense of peace and calm, of commerce, and belied the oppression his people lived under, the occupation of Bandrania—and the great war which Isaac knew was coming. His land, he knew, was crying for vengeance.

Isaac paced the forge, walking up and down the rows of boys and men, surveying everyone’s work. All of these boys were still amateurs, and he had to adjust each one’s work as he went.

“Your strike is uneven,” he said to one boy, shifting his elbow. “That sword will be jagged.”

He stopped beside another.

“The hilt is bent,” he said, straightening his wrist. “You hammer at the wrong angle.”

One boy at a time, one weapon at a time, he went, fixing, adjusting. All the boys looked to him, deferring to him—even Fervil, the master smith deferred to him, finally realizing the fine quality of Isaac’s work. He stopped as he came across an older man hammering a shield, and snatched it from his hands, impatient, as the man stared back.

“This shield will stop the blow of no sword,” Isaac rebuked. “Its metal is too thin—and the strap is too tight.”

Isaac, who used to be so calm and good-natured, found himself getting frustrated, snapping when he should not. He wondered at his recent anger and impatience, wanting to stop it but unable. He felt he was not the same person he was since the death of his family, and he hated who he was becoming.

Isaac stopped and took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm, to release his anger. He did not want to let it out on anyone else. He went to a window and looked out, watching the ships go by, and he wiped an unexpected tear from the corner of his eye, quickly so the others would not see, surprised by its appearance.

Isaac flinched as he felt a palm on his shoulder, and he looked over to see Fervil the smith beside him.

“Go easy on them,” he said. “They are not like you or I. They are not smiths. They are all here to help the cause.”

Isaac closed his eyes and took a deep breath, knowing he was right.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I just feel so frustrated. We don’t have enough men. We don’t have enough weapons. And there is not enough time. All of this, everything we’re doing,” he said, scanning the room, “it’s not enough. What shall we do when the whole of the Bandranian fleet arrives? When the great ships enter these canals?” he said, as he watched another large Bandranian vessel sail past.

“We are doing the best we can do,” Fervil replied.

Isaac shook his head.

“It’s not enough,” he replied. “Swords and shields won’t stop ships. We can’t take on entire fleets with this.”

“What would you have us do, then?” Fervil snapped back, frustrated himself. “Build a fleet of ships? Close up the sea? These swords are all we have, and they will have to do.”

Isaac quieted, something Fervil said striking him. An idea was dawning. As he looked outside and studied the canals, an idea overcame him. He felt a rush of excitement as it dawned on him.

“You’re wrong,” he said, breathless with excitement. “We have quite a bit more.”

Isaac suddenly ran to the tables, examining all the steel, all the half-forged weapons lying on the tables, partly finished axes and maces. Unsatisfied, he scoured the room until he found what he was looking for: there it was, lying in a dark corner on the stone floor.

“What are you doing?” Fervil asked, following him.

Isaac picked up one end of a huge, thick chain, originally designed for an anchor.

“Help me!” he cried out to the others.

Marco and the other boys stopped what they were doing, ran over, and helped him lift the chain, each struggling under its weight. It was like lifting a massive snake.

As all the boys grabbed it, they helped Isaac drag it over and lay it down with a clang on the wooden table. He unraveled it as the others brushed aside swords and shields to make way, sending them clamoring to the floor. He then stretched out the chain with the others on the twenty-foot-long rectangular table, the chain amazingly heavy, weighing at least a hundred pounds. He unraveled it until it covered the whole length of the table.

Isaac stepped back and surveyed it, smiling.

“This will do,” he said.

“Do for what?” Fervil asked, puzzled.

Isaac turned to him, impassioned.

“How wide is the canal?” Isaac demanded.

Fervil shrugged. “Thirty feet?”

“Then we shall make this forty,” Isaac replied. “We will need more chain.”

“But why?” Fervil pressed. “What is this madness?”

Isaac turned and scanned the room, ignoring him, concentrating. He stopped when he found what he was looking for: a group of long spikes, meant for spears.

“I need all of those,” Isaac said to Marco and the others, who rushed to get them. “And we shall forge more.”

“I need those spikes for spears!” Fervil called out. “We cannot spare them! What are you doing? What is the meaning of all this!?”

Isaac grabbed the spikes and spread them out on the table, alongside the chain, then stepped back and surveyed his creation, while the others did, too. There, spread out on the table, was a twenty-foot chain, spikes placed every few feet, and as Isaac looked at it, his heart warmed with his idea. It could really work.

The others must have realized, too, because slowly the room fell quiet as they studied it.

“You mean to trap the harbor,” the smith said softly, finally realizing.

Isaac turned to him, smiling.

“I do,” he replied.

Isaac leaned over and touched a spike, feeling it, admiring how sharp it was.

“We shall trap the floor of the canal,” he replied, “and then we shall wait. When the Bandranians arrive, we shall raise it. Instead of a man, we shall take out a ship; instead of a few soldiers, we will kill a few hundred. And the broken ship shall clog the canals, block their entire fleet, make landing impossible.”

They all studied it in silence, clearly in awe.

“Risky,” Fervil finally replied, walking up and down, inspecting his potential handiwork. “The work this would require, and the chances of success—”

Suddenly, the door to the room slammed open, and all the men turned and looked. Isaac blinked, and as he saw who was entering, he wondered if he were seeing things.

In walked the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, tall, about his age, with long hair, beautiful brown eyes, a proud face lined with character. Even more shocking, she had a dozen girls in tow. She led them proudly, no fear in her eyes, an air of defiance about her, as if she had a chip on her shoulder.

“Joyce,” Fervil said, surprise in his voice, clearly recognizing her. “Did your father send you?”

She stepped into the room and stared back with a hard gaze.

“I sent myself,” she replied.

Fervil stared back questioningly.

“Why?” he asked. “And who are these girls with you?”

Joyce walked proudly into the room, as if she belonged, and Isaac felt his heart beating faster; she was so beautiful, it was hard to think around her. He had never seen anyone like her in Soli.

“I’ve come to arm us all with weapons,” she replied, confident. “And to give these girls a chance to work at the forge. This is our cause as much as yours.”

A few of the boys in the room snickered, while the rest looked at each other in wonder. Fervil shook his head.

“This is no place for girls, and no girls will be wielding swords,” he replied with authority. “Or forging them. You would be of best use at your father’s fort, helping the other women prepare whatever is needed.”

But Joyce held her ground, darkening.

“You don’t seem to understand,” she replied, her voice hard and cold. “It was not a question—it was a command.”

All eyes in the room stared as an awkward silence fell over the room, and as Isaac stared at her, he experienced something he had never felt before. It was more than admiration—it was love. He was smitten. It was even more surprising to him, because ever since the death of his family he had felt nothing but emptiness and grief. And yet, looking at her, something shifted within him. Here she stood, so gorgeous and brave, so strong and proud, and in her he found a role model of courage in the face of adversity. He felt a reason to live again.

Isaac suddenly stepped forward, unable to control himself.

“I do not think it such a foolish idea,” he called out, defending her, and breaking the tense silence.

Everyone in the room looked to him, and his heart beat faster to see Joyce look at him, too. Her eyes were mesmerizing.

“I’d be glad to assist you,” he said, stepping toward her. “I can teach you how to forge weapons. Who knows? Maybe you’ll do a better job than this lot.”

He smiled warmly, and expected her to smile back—but she did not. He could see layers of grief in her eyes, and as she merely stared back at him silently, he sensed she was lost behind walls of sadness. He wondered what had happened to her.

Joyce nodded to the girls, and as they stepped forward Isaac gestured to the boys to make room for them at the table. Isaac motioned for Joyce to sit, too, but she did not. Instead, as all the boys and men in the room went back to work, returning to their weapons, or surveying Isaac’s chain, she walked up and down the tables, observing the weapons. She stopped before a sword, one of Isaac’s favorites, a long thin sword with a silver handle, lighter and thinner than the rest, and sharper, and held it up. Isaac could tell by the way she examined it that she was someone who grew up around weaponry.

“A fine choice,” he said.

“Will this pierce a man?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, wondering at the source of her anger.

“Even through armor?” she pressed.

He nodded.

“That and more,” he replied, sensing the depth of her rage. “Who is it you hope to kill?”

She turned and they locked eyes, and hers were icy cold and deadly serious.

“Any Bandranians I find,” she replied, her voice intense.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Isaac smiled wide, feeling his heart warm again.

“I think you and I,” he replied, “shall have a lot in common.”