Our sabers clashed and rang above the gallery's hoots and shouts of encouragement. I turned my wrist to try for an upwards cross-chest cut, but Reynaldo parried it low and jumped back, pushing my blade out of line. A weak move on my part.

I recovered and took a new stance, point extended forward from my left shoulder towards his mid-line, as he came on again. The blades barely touched before the electric clatter of the session bell sounded. We both turned our points to the floor and removed our masks. There were no carbon marks across either of our vests, but welts throbbed ... beneath my padding, at least. I feel to have improved since our last match, and given Reynaldo a run for his money.

Others from the class took our place, while the referee finished up his notes on our bout. Behind us, the bell clanged again.

"Must tell you, old boy," said Reynaldo, rubbing his right arm, "you put a lot of muscle into your attacks but you really don't have the reach for competition, you know."

It's always something with this guy. "What, run out of blonde jokes, Reynaldo? Down to talking about my height now? I got you on points, my friend." This is just bravo, as neither of us had seen the referees scores yet. But I couldn't let his comment go unanswered.

The slender English ex-patriot waved this away, giving me his usual condescending smile. "Sheer luck William, just chance." Renaldo's eyes flicked to the scoreboard, to check for our match post, which, of course wasn't up yet. "Now, this is a wonderful sport, but I can't help wonder why you pursue it as opposed to some other equally vigorous alternative given your build. Good practice session, William, by the way."

"Helps me get into my work, I guess. I make things like this," I said, lifting the practice saber, "for historic re-creationists and such. Hard to get the blade balance right if you don't know what you're going for."

We were both trying to capture the last spot on the intramural team's roster, so I took his comments for yet another stab at obtaining my withdrawal. He was right about the sport though. Re-creationist saber dueling is exhausting and dangerous. Unlike relatively light, 500 gram fencing sabers, these weapons pattern after true Cavalry forms. The style taught here was more a bastardized form of Japanese Kendo than classic saber technique. Edged or not, you can get severely hurt whacking away with them. Plus, they are at least triple the weight of a fencing foil or epee'. Good exercise though. I peeled off the padding, left the gymnasium and headed toward the showers. With luck, I might make it through the cross-town traffic in time to put some effort towards the strange piece of work currently gracing my bench.

***

Blackened, dirty and cracked, the shadowed, smoky beams of the ceiling weep down tears of dust, echoing each strike of my hammer.

The hammer's haft shuddered as I struck the glowing iron rod against the anvil's cold surface. There is a comforting tempo to these things. The familiar ring and beat, flip and pound, rang through the shop. I tapped my hammer on the cold iron to clear its head of metal scale, then thrust the flattening rod back into the sparking coals of the furnace. My arms, thickened from the profession's grind, ran with sweat and black ash.

The forge's stained oak and stone walls are covered with examples of my art. Fireplace andirons hang to the left, caressed by delicate vines of forged ivy that twist and strive up them, as though the warmth of spring urges at living roots. On the opposite wall, a lion's head thunders a challenge through rippling gums, neck belled with a steel ring knocker, its welded mane swept by unseen veldt winds. Even the spikes and hooks from which these works dangled were forged here. I am truly happy when at work.

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The sign outside reads 'Drake's Custom Ironworks.' In an age of mass production, I feel blessed to know the pleasure of molding cold iron and steel into useful art, and throw my heart into what I make.

I pump the forge's bellows, tossing out waves of heat and blooms of carmine light, that waver across the walls like tormented imps, dancing as the furnace glow fades and returns.

Markham will be happy with this one.

Again retrieving the smoking cane from the furnace, I placed it on the anvil and continued to beat it, working my way down the blade. It's a pattern weld of several steels, some hand folded, melded from the alloys Mr. Markham supplied.

This blade will be strong, take a fine edge, but still bend like a willow branch and spring back arrow straight. The tang, long and thick, will allow for a substantial grip. That is, if Markham ever comes up with the handle material he promised. Already, a serpentine pattern showed within the wrought. When finished and polished it would, I knew, take on an iridescence that could never be achieved by a factory design. The phone rang just as I thrust the cane back into the coals. Turning to answer it, a voice, Markham's, came scratching over the poorly installed connection.

"How goes the war, Will?" Then with some concern, "Think y' can finish up that poker of mine before the S.C.A Convention?" He had ordered the blade for display at an upcoming event hosted by the Society for Creative Anachronism.

"I'm working on it right now, should have it on the grinder tonight. Were you able to get the handle materials you wanted?"

"Just this morning. Did the forging go well? Were there any problems with the process?"

The process was to say the least, bizarre. The blade required techniques similar to those for a classically wrought Yasuyuki, but to Markham's requirements, I had infused the steel layers with a strange mix of powders, other agents, and tempered the blade with odd clays. Some of these powders had been supplied directly by Mr. Markham, and were entirely a mystery to me. The results were looking good though, and 'custom made' defines what my business is about. As long as the cost didn't bother Markham, the strange process didn't bother me. "Most complicated piece of handwork I've ever done, but I had no problems with it."

"Good, real good, Drake. You'll get the handle stock in Monday's mail. Probably not see you until Tuesday, busy till then."

I glanced at the handle design on my desk and made note to set up the lathe on Sunday night since I rarely have weekend plans. The shop is my social life and almost everything revolves around it. While talking, I fiddled with the handle designs strewn over the workbench. The handle would include two horizontal rows of oddly shaped Celtic runes. While formed incorrectly in my limited experience with such decorations, they held an ageless air of authenticity that gnawed at my imagination. Above and below the runes were matching wraps of a Celtic knot pattern reminiscent of marriage band designs. I have done some before, but again these were subtly off. For some reason I found them unsettling.

"Talk to you then, Mr. Markham."

I returned to the forge. Heated and quenched as instructed, the steel warped to take on a slight upward curve, as predicted, resulting in a smooth and tapered look.

The finishing went well. Polishing the blade, the grinder spat a rainbow of colored sparks, some of hues I had never seen iron produce before. When sharpened, the blade took a keen edge. I dragged the hard brown leather apron off my chest, stepping back to admire the work. A sheen of green and gold reflected along its silvery length. No chasing or inlay could possibly improve the beauty of it.

***

Sunday found me finishing a set of custom horseshoes, but I remember to set up the lathe and mill. On the way home, I stopped at the cemetery. Once income from the shop enabled it, one of my first purchases was a memorial niche for my adoptive mother's urn. My step-father had been buried at Arlington, gratis of his military carrier, but when Eunice passed, I arranged for her to be cremated, and interred locally. I never determined who my natural parents were, and I did not want the few remaining scraps of such past as was left me scattered across the country. After her funeral, I had also salvaged her cat, Bangles, paying to have him kept until my discharge from the Marines. After, we had roamed the country together until I settled here in Illinois. The cat, well, he's gone now.

I retired early, as usual. Although sleep came quickly, my dreams were disturbed and dark, cycling around the silvery blade that still rested on the notched and hammered bench of the shop. Almost, a warning premonition came of the dreams, and yet, they were elating as well. A welter of forests, jagged mountains, verdant vales and fey creatures pushed aside the usual cast of unconscious vagaries. My imagination even named some of the creatures, and left me to feel strangely connected to them.