A Random 30 Minutes - 01

Kenlan's Sword

Disclaimer: Is this image AI? yes, yes it is. I am not a fan of AI for work for sale. I use it here for a graphic element that fits the story below. I would not, however, use it for books I publish.

I’ve been wanting to do this for a while now and tonight’s the night I guess; I’ll try to continue doing this on a weekly basis going forward.

What I’m going to do is get a random writing prompt from a website, and then set a timer for 30 minutes and write. I may get a story out of it, or a partial story, or I may get sidetracked by something shiny. Let’s find out.

The prompt… In a land where magic has been outlawed, a young blacksmith discovers a mysterious, ancient forge that still holds the power to imbue metals with magical properties, forcing them to choose between their duty to the law and their desire to wield its power.

And

3…

2…

1…

Kenlan pulled back from the incessant heat of the fire and wiped a sweat-soaked arm across his brow, rearranging the soot and grime across his face like the streaks of freshly tilled earth he gazed at through open barn doors. In his left hand he held strong metal tongs that gripped a piece of iron, and in his right, a hammer. His shoulders ached, but they weren’t sore, they were pulsing with life and energy - energy he would soon continue pouring into the misshapen metal that would become a weapon.

For days Kenlan worked on the sword, determined it would be the finest he had ever made. People stopped to talk to him, asking him to repair rakes and hoes, kettles and pans. He told them they would have to wait.

“Who do you think is going to buy that thing?” Rostrov asked, pulling an apple from a sack by his side and offering one to the smith who took it gratefully, replacing the hammer in his hand for the fruit.

“Probably no one.”

“Then why bother? You’ve got a stack of work piling up here that people in town will pay good coin for.”

“Rostrov, what do you do all day?”

The man laughed. He looked around him as if searching for something and took a second apple for himself. “I plant, you know that. Corn and cabbage, carrot and spud.”

“That’s not all though, is it?” Kenland smiled and raised his eyebrows. They both knew the younger man also planted trees throughout the village and along the edges of the fields. There was a small strip of of an orchard starting to grow in the middle of the field and each year during harvest, the older men in town threatened to cut it down, decrying the wasted space that could be spent on crops.

“How man of those trees will you live to sit under the shade of, do you think?”

Rostov considered the question. The fruit trees, almost surely he would enjoy, but some of the larger trees he could only hope to shelter under as an old man. “So, you’re saying this sword will be a mighty oak?”

“No,” Kenlan laughed again, not an oak, but something for people to look upon when I’m food for your trees; to look upon and say, ‘Kenlan wasn’t much, but he made this beautiful thing,’ the same way they’ll likely name a forest after you.”

And so it was that weeks later, Kenlan finished the weapon and everyone agreed it was the finest they had ever seen. No sooner had they paid him the compliment, they held up their pots and buckets, scythes and trivets and saw him back to work on more useful things.

The village where Kenlan toiled was far from the city, and it was rare anyone passed by except those with something to sell, who knew the villagers were scant on money, but filled with needs. These traders did a bustling business in barter, and throughout the summer and winter more than one who had heard of the sword, tried to convince the young smith it was worth anything from a half a sheep to two quite live cows.

As the fields were prepared for crops the following year, Rostov and Kenlan were again eating together, this time outside the smithy on a sturdy bench, their backs against the stone wall of the building. They waved to the young women who passed by, each considering them as they passed, wondering aloud to each other which would make the best wife. “It’s time we started considering such things, I understand,” Rostove said, “but, truth be known, I’m happy to wait.”

Kenlan smiled but said nothing, his eyes fixed on the road to the south, on his left, and a single horseman who plodded slowly up the narrow track, small bits of dust marking time with the clops of his mount’s feet that arrived a heartbeat after each billowing cloud.

The horseman stopped in front of the smithy and looked down at them. He was dirty from the road and drank long from his leather waterskin before deciding Kenlan was the man he had come to talk to.

“I’ve heard there is a master smith her who has crafted a fine blade. I would have a look at it.” He didn’t ask, he commanded; but he did it in such an affable way that it seemed more like a favor he’d appreciate, so Kenlan stood, introduced himself and invited the man into his workshop.

When presented the sword, the man, who wore patchworked metal armor and sturdy leathers beneath, raised the blade in his hands, marveling at its balance. He spun the blade effortlessly, the hilt responding to subtle movement of his wrist to jump, the point of the blade marking Kenlan’s shoulders, elbows, and hips before landing once more upon the man’s other outstretched palm.

“It is magnificent. And you, you are the sole creator of such a weapon?”

Kenlan nodded but said nothing.

“We need to speak. Alone.”

That evening, the stranger, Bralen, sat across a wooden table from the smith, each man separated by a steaming plate of food and large mug of beer.

“What do you know of magic, young smith?”

“I know it is illegal and the last of those who availed themselves of its power are long ago food for the crows.”

“That is true. But have you never wondered?”

“About?”

“I know of a place, of a thing, of such beauty, that with your art, might make the inspired sword you showed me earlier, look no better than this ratty bread knife.”

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… and just like that, 30 minutes is up. It goes so quickly it’s crazy.

Let me know what you think and if you have a prompt you’d like me to try, please send it along.

Thanks for reading

Rosaire