7. The One Who Grasps Iron (3)
January 1101 near Damascus was strangely mild. Old folks who remembered the brutal cold when the First Crusade engulfed Antioch just a few years prior kept murmuring "Allah's blessing" as they welcomed the humid air. The drought had lifted, the rivers swelled, and the earth softened like early spring.
But to me, this gentle weather wasn't entirely welcome news.
The weather's too good. No better conditions for a massive army on the march.
The Medieval Climate Anomaly (MCA). To a modern eye, it might seem like a trivial temperature bump, but this era's stable climate had sparked Europe's population boom. That surplus manpower was surging eastward in a massive wave called the "Crusades."
Four days after Zaid's visit, early in the morning—thud—thud—thud!—the relentless rumble of waterwheels echoed from behind the forge, carried along the inland waterways that had swelled vigorously even here. High humidity kept the wooden wheels' grain sturdy and unwarped, while the surging river fed ample power into the hydraulic drop hammer I'd designed.
Of course, hydraulic drop hammers already existed in this era, so it wasn't exactly revolutionary. But compared to the Western lands, it was a clear step ahead.
"Hasim! Keep the grindstone speed steady!"
"Yes, Teacher! It's way easier than cranking it by hand!"
In one corner of the forge, Hasim pedaled furiously on the rotating grindstone chair I'd built him. Before, he'd had to turn the handle with one hand while working with the other—limits on speed, safety, and quality. Now, with both hands gripping the blade steady and his feet maintaining a constant RPM via the crank shaft, the grindstone spun smoothly. Hasim's finishing work had shot up vertically.
"Teacher! This is insane! I've already polished ten blades!"
Thud—thud—thud! The heavy impacts shaking the forge floor came from the hydraulic drop hammer linked to the courtyard waterway. Swollen waters spun a massive wheel, its cam lifting and dropping a hefty wooden beam. No more gasping for breath as Rashid swung a big hammer. Just shove in the heated steel billet, twist it this way and that, and a few blows roughed out the blade shape.
"Barakah, this speed is terrifying. Twenty blades already..."
Rashid wiped sweat from his brow, tongue lolling at the pile of blades on the workbench after just four days.
Hydraulic roughing, Hasim's pedal grindstone for sharpening, and me handling the critical heat treatment and final inspection. In a 12th-century family forge dominated by cottage industry, this was me cranking out mad production alone.
"Rashid, the weather's too perfect right now. Ideal for Europeans sailing in or riding down."
I fiddled with the chainmail ring sample Zaid had brought.
Contingent Crusaders. History says they'll hit Anatolia around May, but they're not all arriving together—advance parties could show much sooner.
This was golden prep time. Max out the infrastructure for January and pump out volume. Fifty Mi'yar Swords for the mercenaries. Forty-four more after the six already delivered.
"No time for daydreams. Let's hit fifty first. That's twenty-six done in four days on the new method—should finish before ten days are up, right?"
Rashid gave a hollow chuckle at my urging and gripped the tongs again. In a normal forge, it'd take over a month, or multiple smiths pulling all-nighters to tolerate uneven results. But we had the hydraulic hammer and division of labor—our relative cheat keys.
Day one, two, three, four. As days piled on, by the eighth, Forge Barakah buzzed with the steady rhythm of hammers and sundry noises that had filled it for days.
Thud—bang! Thud—bang!
The drop hammer pounded the earth in even beats; Rashid timed shoving in the blade. Each time the red-hot billet met the beam's crushing vertical force, it flattened broad, snapping into a sword shape in seconds.
"Rashid—now!"
On my cue, he twisted the tongs. What once took thousands of hammer blows wrapped up in minutes thanks to the waterwheel. I waited nearby with my makeshift master gauge—a wooden template carved with the standard silhouette for inspection.
"A bit off. Just tap the tip flat with the hammer."
I slid the fresh blade into the gauge and fired feedback. While 12th-century artisans groped in the art of "eyeballing" and "hand feel," I dragged this father-son duo into engineering territory with tolerance control. Every sword needed identical length and balance point. Only then could mercenaries project consistent lethality on the battlefield, no matter which blade they grabbed.
"Hasim! I can hear the grindstone drying out from here!"
"Don't worry, Teacher!"
In the corner, Hasim wrestled the screaming grindstone, pedaling like mad. His leg muscles pumped, spinning it to speeds impossible by hand. Sparks flew with shrill friction, reddening his face. Hands free, he pressed the blade with both, drawing the 49th edge angle razor-sharp from 48 prior runs. Finish Rashid's roughing, and the fifty swords were in sight. All that remained for me: heat-treating the 50th.
I stood at the furnace, tweaking the charcoal layout myself. The Box Bellows forced in oxygen with a mighty whoosh, shifting flames to vivid orange.
"Rashid, Hasim—watch and learn."
I slid the 50th blade into the fire. The critical temperature where steel's internal structure realigns. Modern me would've used an infrared thermometer; now, my retinas were the sensor.
Now.
The instant it hit cherry red, I snatched it and plunged the edge first vertically into the specially mixed brine vat.
Hiiiisss—!
Thick steam billowed to the rafters in response to my high-risk, high-reward quench. Only after confirming no telltale crack of water-quenching failure did I exhale in relief.
Fifty repeats. Zero tolerance for warps or cracks—a perfect process.
I handed the final pulled blade to Hasim. With reverent focus, he sat at the pedal grindstone for the last polish.
Shh—shh— The steady rhythm cut through the forge's twilight hush as the 50th sword completed on the promised tenth morning.
That morning in Souk Wadi Barada, market folk clustered early at the forge.
"Fifty swords in ten days? Really?"
"Come on, even pros would take a month. Obviously bluffing."
"Then why show up? Just watch quietly."
Skeptical murmurs parted as Desert Claw's vice-captain Kasim arrived with his men. Behind him stood fifty elite mercenaries, primed to collect, bristling with energy.
"Barakah, delivery day. Where's the goods?"
Doubt laced Kasim's voice. Instead of words, I stood at the forge entrance and yanked the rough cloth off the covered rack.
"See for yourself."
Silence crashed over the scene. On the wooden display rack stood fifty oiled straight swords in perfect parade rank, gleaming like an army at attention. Morning sunbeams hit the blades, flashing sharp brilliance into Kasim's eyes.
The crowd gasped not at the number. Kasim stepped up dazed, hefted one, compared it to another—and his pupils quivered in shock.
"How's my standard Mi'yar Sword?"
Even gripping his own sheathed sword, his eyes locked on the new one as he traced the flat.
"Perfect Mi'yar. Like facing a harem girl's secret soup recipe."
No one called out his odd metaphor. They just nodded in shared awe. Kasim swung his sample, flashed a dark grin, then burst laughing. He slapped three heavy gold pouches on the table from his bosom.
"Barakah, you're a marvel. Heard Zaid sought you out. Storm's brewing, yet you honor a mere mercenary deal like this. No regrets?"
I shrugged lightly, watching Rashid pocket the pouches.
"A contract's a contract. Other orders later might take longer now."
Kasim's eyes gleamed. He nodded, chewing my words. Essentials were secured. Armor? Shields would cover. No swords? Fists would do. Regret, maybe—but no shortage.
"Thirty per blade, plus eighty dinars gratitude. Total 1,400 dinars. Keep ears open—you'll hear soon what your Mi'yar achieves."
Kasim sheathed his sample, tossed to mercenaries, mounted his camel. Fifty mercs turned as one; fifty Mi'yar blades flashed in morning light at their waists. Onlookers parted before the mercenaries like a legendary host, not mere sellswords.
"News with blood scent soon. Stay safe till then, Barakah!"
Dust swirled behind Kasim's retreating back. I leaned on the doorframe till they vanished from sight.
Never saw the captain after all.
A twinge of regret, but I shifted focus. Connections later—profit now. Three leather pouches weighed heavy on the table. Rashid and Hasim cracked them warily; golden dinars spilled out.
"Lord... Teacher Barakah, this isn't a dream? 1,400 dinars in ten days?"
Rashid's hands trembled fine. A lifetime's haul for a 12th-century smith.
"We worked hard, sold quality. Deserved."
As Rashid steadied at my casual words, I reflected.
The first six blades' 120 dinars covered startup gear and materials. This 1,400 is pure ours.
1,400 dinars. Enough to monopolize top iron ore and charcoal near Damascus, or rebuild the forge outright. But my mind raced ahead.
I recalled Zaid's words. Contingent Crusaders crossing Anatolia. They'd roll in with an "iron wall" beyond these mercs—chainmail topped with thick coat-of-plates, early flat helms. Swords were fine, but physics limited them against evolving heavy plate.
"Hasim, stash the gold safe inside. Rashid, tomorrow we craft new templates."
"Not swords—what then?"
I scuffed a sketch on the floor by the anvil. Elongated haft ending in radiating hexagonal flanges. The famed weapon folks mistook for fantasy cleric sidearms.
"Less edge-sharpening hassle, but crushes from any angle."
Spot-on historical accuracy, perfect timing. Eras crown those who adapt.
Time to dent those boasted chain links with excellent dialogue.
"Kasim said blood scent soon. Not from ragtag mercs we've dealt."
I hefted a straight sword from the table, gleaming silver-white in morning light—near-perfect by era standards. But I flicked the smooth blade cold.
"Knights wrapped head-to-toe in chain and leather—human weapons. To them, this edge might mean little."
The forge's warmth chilled instant. Ignoring their shock, I toed the bronze scraps and iron pile in the corner.
"No melting these for sale. From now, we don't cut—we crush armor whole."
My gaze hit the floor Hasim stared at. There sketched the knights' future nightmare: six-to-eight flanged, grotesquely angled iron lump centered on the haft.