11. The Invisible Hand (1)
Before the blood-soaked soil of the Galilee Hills had even cooled, the rumors rode the desert winds and blanketed Souk Wadi Barada. Tales of how the bizarre flanged mace wielded by the Desert Claw mercenaries had crumpled Frankish knights' chainmail like paper. The fact that the creator of that monstrous weapon was an unknown blacksmith named Barakah on the outskirts of this village had evolved from mere tavern gossip into a point of local pride.
But I, the protagonist of those rumors, remained calm. Or rather, I feigned calm while throwing myself into new experiments and the forge.
"Barakah! Still fiddling with iron? Take a break already."
A clear voice slipped under the awning of the forge. It was Miriam, cradling a basket of bread. In her arms nestled kubz flatbreads, cheese, and dates, held as preciously as a child. She set the basket aside and plopped down on the bench as if it were the most natural thing.
A few weeks ago, the frail girl screaming in front of Hamar's shop was gone. Handing over that antimony had sparked our bond, and now she used the excuse of making sure I ate to cross my forge's threshold daily, treating it like her own bedroom.
"It's work to eat and live, right? Starving would hurt my feelings. Come on, sit. Today's kubz came out extra perfect."
Miriam wiped the sweat from my cheek with her sleeve and offered me bread. Camel milk cheese melted slowly over the kubz in the forge's lingering heat, and with a beaming smile, she said to me,
"Hurry and take it before the cheese drips! Oh, whoa! It's really dripping!"
She giggled, delighting in my flustered gaze. In the 12th-century Levant, where distances between men and women were strictly observed, Miriam's boldness was extraordinary. She plunged into my personal space without hesitation. A few village boys burned with jealousy at her advances and attention, her pure, unbridled charm—but everyone else now watched us with warm, approving eyes.
"So, what are you making this time? It doesn't look like that pointy flanged mace from before. Kinda like scales..."
Miriam pointed curiously at the armor piece I was working on. I paused riveting steel plates densely layered over velvet fabric, then topped with linen and secured. I held up the finished arm section before her eyes.
"Lighter than chainmail, silent, but with superior protection—a new armor. Thinking of calling it Sirion."
To me, it was brigandine or coat-of-plates, but I named it after "scales" to match local intuition.
Miriam blinked her round eyes and gingerly touched the armor draped over my arm.
"Sirion... Never seen many fish, but it looks like snake scales—cool. What's really in that head of yours, Barakah? Sometimes you don't seem from this world."
To her, my knowledge was an endless realm of novelty and mystery. Knowing only wood grain and the life wisdom other women taught, I was a fresh spring to Miriam. And I didn't mind her innocent reactions.
To a 21st-century transplant, in this barren, wind-swept medieval barbarity, she was the only one letting me smell something normal.
But beyond that warm routine, cold gazes began intertwining. At the market teahouse corner, the caravanserai's second-floor windows, the village well. Strangers multiplied. Dressed as merchants or pilgrims, but the calluses on knuckles glimpsed passing by, and their beastly glints betrayed them.
Overt approaches increased too. One night, a silk-robed merchant in finery arrived with veiled beauties, skin bared white, adorned in jewels—a dancer entourage.
"Master Barakah, my lord sends these gifts, admiring your talent. Damascus's finest flowers, to comfort your nights."
Blatant honey trap. Booze and perfume to sway me. But it fizzled in under five minutes.
"Oh, flowers? We have rarer treasures piled high—no room!"
Miriam appeared from nowhere, broom in hand, parting dancers and merchant. She kicked up dust, soiling his silks, then linked my arm innocently tight.
"Master's busy saving the realm with armor—no time to blink. Tell those pretty sisters to dance in the market square!"
As the flustered merchant retreated, Miriam slipped her arm free, face flushing.
"Barakah, you okay? Or... did you like it? Was I meddling...?"
Her eyes quivered—jealousy, worry, a hint of apology mixing in her excuse of bringing dinner. A girlish vulnerability peeking behind her usual boldness.
I started to pat her head reassuringly, then stopped. Such gestures would be weakness fodder for lurking spies.
Instead, I grabbed her bread basket, replying casually.
"Coal smoke suits me better than headache perfume. And those types always cause backlash later. You chased 'em off great."
Only then did unease lift from her eyes, her playful smile returning. As she hummed, tidying forge clutter, cautious footsteps sounded beyond the awning—familiar, but far more guarded.
"Feels like crashing a flower viewing."
It was Zaid. No usual boisterous laugh. He scanned around repeatedly, dropped the awning tight upon entry. His guards' eyes sharper than before.
"Zaid, you look grim. Business tanking?"
My joke drew no smile. He glanced at Miriam, approached low-voiced.
"Not a joking time, Barakah. En route here, I sensed four tails—my men spotted two more. Damascus's Atabeg, even northerners, all digging into you."
Sealed Invitation
From: Malik of Damascus, bearing Duqaq's seal
"This is an invitation stamped by Damascus's Malik, Duqaq. And this..."
◈ Taken from a Frankish neck
◈ Near caravan | Last night
He pulled a small metal token. Crude, but clearly cross-engraved.
"Crusaders—from a Frank skulking our caravan last night, we took his head. Heard Bohemond himself saw your flanged mace smash knights' heads like watermelons. Calls you devil, but craves you— they'll close in. Desperate to harness even a demon."
Zaid's eyes flashed. Merchant, yet now a schemer reading war's board. He eyed opportunity clearer, hunger for my weapons sharper.
His gaze darted: letters, token, my face. Crisis as his grand chance.
"If co-opt fails, destroy. Power's nature. You're in danger. Grab one side's hand, or both tear you apart."
Threatening, but I calmed. My creations shook power balances—proof of value.
I toyed with brigandine plate, spoke.
"Zaid, I disagree. No dog's leash, trapped in walls for me."
"What? How handle those blades?"
"You will. You're the merchant."
His brow twitched. I met his eyes.
"Duqaq's invite, Crusader token—take all. Tell them: Want Barakah's weapons? Through your guild, Zaid's guild."
"Dumping on me? Now?"
"Exactly now. Small output, scant proof—manageable wave for you."
He abacused mentally. As I said: rising artisan, not overwhelming his guild yet. Later, if too big, pre-contract sales, not monopoly.
Chuckle swallowed. Wall for profit deluge. My expected reaction.
Like Bohemond's dogged trek from Jerusalem to Galilee hills, Zaid bared his nature unfiltered.
"Deal! Love that monstrous guts. Stake guild's fate—sell you as world's priciest commodity. Tell 'em: Damascus seal, cross token—route through my guild."
As Zaid pocketed letters, leaving, Miriam approached warily. Worry lingered, but I patted her shoulder lightly.
"No worries. Now they'll check each other—no time to bother me."
I returned to the furnace. With merchant giant Zaid as shield, expand the game. Beyond hammering-selling smith—tech base unassailable even by lords, forge master status.
Desert winds raged, but forge flames burned hottest yet.
The "Newmaker" hammer—redefining eras—resumed shattering desert silence.