Traveller Inceptio
55

Desmond’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the blade, but he made no move to touch it. The look on his face said it all. Michael felt intensely uncomfortable allowing his most precious sword to be inspected. It was impossible to hide the glaring differences inherent in the weapon.

There had been quite some contention as to whether the Travellers would be permitted to make the katana part of their mission kit. After all, the Saxons were a people where the sword was an heirloom that honoured the family who owned it. It was inevitable that a sword such as a katana would attract undue attention. One historian suggested a katana in Saxon England would be akin to driving a Hum Vee around, but in the end the swords were adopted as the safety of each Traveller was paramount. The compromise was that the swords must be kept safe, and where possible, hidden. If a sword was to be used, none cared how it looked as long as it did the job and saved the life of the wielder.

Each in that small hut knew they were witness to something not of their world. Desmond shook his head and looked at Michael with new respect as he gazed upon the sword in envy and wonder. “What is this?” he asked in a whisper.

Michael offered the blade to Desmond’s inspection and the sword-smith hesitantly allowed it to be placed onto his hands as the others gathered. Osric stared at the blade fearfully, as if it was too dangerous to touch. He muttered to Desmond as he shook his head, “No man made this. This is the work of angels, it is. Oh ’tis of the Lord himself. I see heaven in this blade.”

Desmond handed the blade to the other blacksmith and Osric bowed his head over it in reverence. He fingered the sharkskin handle, noted the small hilt, and shook his head in wonder. Overcoming his initial sense of awe, he sighted down the blade and then moved outside to heft the weapon and test for balance. All followed to witness the sword as it shone in the fading light.

Desmond’s apprentice sons, Hengist and Irminric, craned their necks for a better look, for they had been raised crafting beautifully deadly blades. Michael drew the second sword, carefully handed it to the lads for their inspection, and they muttered their amazement at its perfection.

Eadric looked at Michael in renewed wonder and Michael knew what was going through the lad’s mind: perhaps the monks were right.

“Whence and by whom was this made, Lord Michael?” asked Desmond after moments of silent pondering. “I see the maker’s marks, but they are a mystery to me.”

“This sword was made in a far-off land by a sword-master of great renown. All I can tell you is that the sword steel was folded many times and has been created for battle. She was especially created for me and gifted before I departed on my journey to these fair shores. All else I can’t say,” explained Michael regretfully.

“Ah, so the sword is a woman? Does she have a name?” smiled Desmond.

Michael paused before he answered. “I’ve not yet decided. This sword has yet to be truly blooded and I think I’ll have the name revealed to me then.”

Desmond nodded and sighed; the master artisan’s delight in examining the creations of others. “As you know, Lord Michael, the sword isn’t a common weapon. It’s a warrior’s most prized possession and is considered of greater value if their history is shared.”

Michael simply nodded, but wouldn’t be drawn.

Desmond sheathed the blade and, with a respectful bow, handed it back to Michael before he turned and walked into his home. He reached into the rafters where a bundle was hidden, wrapped in cloth. As he brought it forth, he looked at it thoughtfully, as if momentarily doubtful. He looked to Michael and to his swords, and shrugged as the cloth was removed. “This is my sword, Lord Michael. I have created these blades for the better part of my mortal life and I thought, until now, that my swords were some of the finest in the land. It’s a measure of my arrogance to witness blades that are truly magnificent.”

His sword’s silver-inlayed iron pommel and grip shone in the fading light and, as it was removed from the scabbard of timber and metal, the differences between the weapons became obvious.

Michael gasped at the beauty of what he beheld.

Unlike Michael’s swords, Desmond’s sword was straight, a double-edged blade that was traditionally used for hacking and slicing, more than piercing. The weapon’s guard was short, just enough to keep the hand from sliding down upon the sharp blade, and unlike Michael’s sword, there was an ornamented pommel, or knob at the end of the hilt. What was most outstanding was the patterning in the actual blade. While Michael’s swords shone free of ornamentation, the sword of Desmond was one of the older and most valuable patterned blades, where the colours in the metal itself swirled for the entire length.

“Aye, this is one of the most valued patterned swords as made by my father and his fathers. Most swordsmiths have lost the art, for they make their blades of iron and steel that some think is stronger. You won’t see too many swords like this one anymore, as the old blades have been either lost, or buried with their users.” Desmond looked up at Michael with pride. “These are the old swords, full of lore and mystery. Now, they’re kept locked up with a thegn’s gold or are worn by kings.”

Michael held the blade reverently. “Oh, Desmond, this is a work of pure art. I’ve never seen any blade so beautiful.”

Desmond shrugged, his confidence shaken, but Michael hefted the beautiful weapon and then examined it closely, passing the weapon close to the camera-button pinned to the centre of his chest. “This is truly magnificent. To be able to make this…” Michael shook his head in admiration.

“Aye,” admitted Desmond, “there’s a lot of skill in such a sword. I must create the bars of different steels and then twist them together as we hammer the metal flat. It is of our people, but a part of us that will soon be lost, I fear.”

Michael held the sword so he could gaze along the planes of the blade. He took pleasure in the waves of silver and grey. While the actual steel would not be as strong as the steel in his katana, the blade was beautiful and mysterious, with an elegance that appealed to Michael’s taste. He noticed that his admiration left Desmond relieved and gratified.

The light faded into the inky blackness of night. The foot traffic outside their home ceased and the only visible light was from the fireplace around which the men sat and discussed swords, spears, seax, and their manufacture and use. Young Berethun hopped from one knee to another, enjoying attention from all.

Desmond showed Michael how to wear a sword as many Saxons did, via a baldric at the chest. “This is your ‘shoulder companion’, and lets you wear your sword over your heart, for the sword is a man’s heart; its nature is a warrior’s boon friend.”

Michael saw the similarity to how most 21st Century soldiers carry their weapons at their chest, rather than over their shoulder. The sword, like firearms, was to be drawn quickly when needed.

The time came when Desmond reached into the rafters to bring forth another wrapped bundle. Eadric had been joking and tickling the twins, but something in Desmond’s demeanour caused him to sit up, suddenly sober. With not a little satisfaction, Desmond handed the bundle to Osric and his two sons. Together they unwrapped the parcel to expose another sword.

Desmond held the sword by its hilt, his brawny arms outstretched above his head, hands almost touching the thatch roof, the blade pointing to the floor as if he was to smite the ground. In the flickering light, Desmond’s magnificent physique was the epitome of the Saxon warrior, an image to be forever burned into Michael’s heart and mind. A hushed silence fell and all watched with calm expectation while Eadric’s uncle spoke formally.

“Eadric, son of Godric. On commission from your father, I have made you a weapon that is worthy of a man and a warrior. This is on loan to you until you are formally presented by your father.” The blacksmith gave a grunt of satisfaction and a curt nod. “Wear it well and keep it close.”

Desmond returned the sword to its scabbard of timber and iron, a warrior’s scabbard made with ancient skill and love. He then held the weapon horizontally and Eadric nervously stood and received his sword with both hands. At that moment, Michael watched the youth become a man. The young man drew the sword carefully in the confined space and the patterned steel shone mysteriously as the flickering light caught the inscription just above the hilt: ‘Desmond Made Me’. Eadric’s normally nervous face was set and his eyes hardened. This was the moment he had dreamt all his life: to be a man and possess his own sword. The others sat breathlessly as Eadric stood quietly savouring one of his life’s definitive moments.

Desmond clasped Eadric by the forearm and the new warrior was submitted to gratulatory pounding at his shoulders and well wishes from all men present. The girls watched in obvious hero-worship and his Aunt Edyt gave him a motherly hug and kiss.

Later that night, as they slept on the timber floor of the hut, Michael noted that Eadric slept with the sword in his arms like a lover.

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