8. New Maker (1)
Kasim's mercenary band had left behind camel footprints, the scattered tracks of onlookers, and a pouch of 1,400 dinars in gold coins sitting on the table. While Rashid and Hasim sorted the gold with tears in their eyes, I rummaged through a pile of scrap metal in the corner of the forge.
Swords can wait. I've definitely branded the name "Barakah's Sword" into the market.
Just churning out massive quantities and flooding the market was a merchant's game. But to become a true master craftsman dominating this era, I had to read the meta. The intel from Zaid was crystal clear. The Auxiliary Crusaders coming soon would arrive with defense on a whole different level from the lightly armed mercenaries we'd dealt with so far. Backed by the immense wealth of Europe, they'd weave their chainmail rings even tighter and layer thick padded gambesons underneath to absorb impacts.
Swinging a sharp blade against those iron men would be as inefficient as scraping an eggshell with a razor.
"Hasim, bring over those bronze scraps you sorted earlier and the good-quality wrought iron pieces."
"Teacher, making swords again? How many this time?"
In response to Hasim's question, I set down a bizarre mold shaped from clay on the floor.
12th-century smiths—at least for weapons and armor—believed forging meant hammering and bending metal into shape. For both weapons and armor alike. And I planned to shatter that notion head-on.
"No, not hammering this time. We're pouring."
If forging was the painstaking process of densifying metal through hammer blows, casting was the efficient art of liquefying metal and pouring it into a mold. Of course, cast blades lacked durability and weren't practical for battle. But what I had in mind was blunter than a blade—yet far tougher, and it didn't need an edge at all.
"This doesn't need an edge. Or more precisely, it kills without one."
What I'd designed was the flanged mace. A impact weapon with sharp, wedge-shaped flanges—hexagonal or octagonal—protruding from the end of its haft. Its principle was engineering perfection: centrifugal force from the swing concentrated at the flange tips. If the chainmail rings were subpar, it'd shred them and drive shards into the flesh beneath. Even if the rings held, it didn't matter—the shock would pulverize bones and rupture organs through the armor.
"Casting's way better for mass production than forging. And with the right alloy mix, you can tune the strength just right."
Saying that, I selected suitable materials from the stock I'd amassed with 120 dinars: bronze scraps, tin, high-carbon wrought iron fragments, bone meal, and more, laying them out on the workbench.
The key to cast weapons was material discernment and alloy ratios. Too hard, and it'd shatter like glass on impact; too soft, and it'd deform into a club after a few hits. My solution? Modern alloy processes. The precise ratios I'd memorized from watching thousands of injections and casts in a contemporary foundry flashed through my mind as data.
Copper 85%, tin 10%, special strengthener 5%.
"Rashid, your turn on the bellows this time. Crank the furnace hotter than usual—smooth enough for the metal to flow like water. Any viscosity, and it won't fill the mold corners properly."
Rashid looked puzzled but trusted me completely now. He pumped the box bellows vigorously, ramping up the heat. As the furnace hit over 1,100 degrees, the metals poured into the sturdy crucible I'd bought melted into rippling red liquid.
"Hasim, tap those mold boards a few times and secure them tight—no bubbles, or it's scrap."
Tension thick in the air, I lifted the glowing crucible with tongs. The well-stirred, molten gold beast sucked into the pour hole with a hiss. Chiiik! Hot steam billowed out.
"This'll really be a weapon? Looks like a lump of metal..."
Hasim tilted his head; all he'd ever seen was forging over his father's shoulder. By 12th-century aesthetics, ornate straight swords or curved scimitars, hammered with care, were true weapons. Desert folk favored light blades over heavy bludgeons anyway, so the crude mace head just looked like an odd metal blob.
"Hasim, this might suit you better right now. 'Forging' sounds noble, but there's a limit to swinging a hammer when you can't keep at it steadily."
He shut his mouth obediently, eyes lighting up—he trusted my word that it'd help him more. He glanced at his father, Rashid, whose usual wary scowl toward weapons softened at "bludgeon."
"Watch closely. If you're as quick a study as I think, the results from this'll beat hammering. And your first lesson is this mace."
After cooling, I carefully broke the mold. From the clay emerged a hexagonal-flanged mace head, dark sheen over bronze, rough-surfaced but with spikes that chilled the bone just looking at them. I hefted it, checking balance. Perfect. Designed to focus weight at the head's top striking point, it promised an air-tearing crack on the swing.
"Rashid, want to hold it?"
His eyes widened taking the still-hot head. "Barakah... this is nothing like a sword. Like borrowing a giant's fist. Why's this little lump so heavy?"
"That's the essence of an impact weapon. But it's unfinished. Hasim! Fetch the ash wood hafts we prepped."
I picked up the dense, tough ash wood hafts I'd stockpiled. For the cast head's power, it needed a flexible yet resilient haft to absorb shock. I precision-fitted the haft end to the head's hole, then used hot shrinkage—reheating the head, forcing it on, letting contraction char and bind the wood fibers into one.
"Now, the finishing touches."
With the head secured, I wrapped premium leather straps tight around the lower haft for the grip, nailing it with brass rivets against sweat slip. Finally, a bronze cap at the end as a hefty pommel to keep it from flying from the hand.
And there it was: a battlefield shaker for 1101, a knight's perfect conversationalist. The flanged mace in full glory.
"Try holding it again?"
Rashid gripped the now weapon-like form cautiously. The haft shifted balance even more extremely. He drew a sharp breath and lightly swung at a useless log in the corner.
Kwajik!—One clean swing, and the log that a sharp sword would've sunk into split under the flanges' impact.
"The feel... it's art."
Rashid's voice trembled. Now he got why I'd poured this crude lump instead of swords.
"No edge needed, no fancy swordplay. Just swing hard and hit. Chainmail or whatever over it—doesn't matter. Bones break, organs rupture."
I grinned, instructing him. "Tomorrow, hit the timber merchant for fifty more ash hafts to spec. Stock up on leather straps and pommel caps too. From now on, we're stamping them out. Buy quick before prices spike."
The 1,400 dinars kicked off a powerful cycle. If swords symbolized a craftsman's art and personal trust, this mace would embody Barakah's brand: overwhelming efficiency and easy destruction.
The second lineup for the new Barakah brand. If swords were art and trust, this mace would overturn battlefields as the efficient beloved of the masses.
I poured hot metal into molds, straightened my apron, pocketed one mace, tossed the apron aside, pushed through the forge curtain, and stepped out.
Over ten days in this world—minus the first—and every day since was holed up in the forge, save brief moments handing out wares. After that furnace heat and choking charcoal smoke, the outside air hit like a miracle, fresh beyond belief. Even under just an awning.
Hoo... yeah, ten days glued to the forge...
Feeling the hefty leather pouch at my waist, I headed to the souk's heart. I'd sent Rashid and Hasim for ash hafts and leather per my orders; meanwhile, I'd check fine supplies they might miss and food for the forge crew.
"Hey, young man! Over here!"
Passing lively market alleys, a call came from a stall where middle-aged women in vibrant hijabs clustered. Damascus's tough housewives.
"You're that smith from Silla, right? The one who piled swords on Kasim's crew!"
Their interest burned hot. 12th-century market gossip outpaced modern SNS—my fame had spread.
I approached with a friendly smile. "Rumors fly fast. I'm Barakah."
"Aigoo, look at the soot on your face. Making bank, but no one looking after you."
One clucked her tongue, handing over fresh flatbread—kubz. Warm wheat aroma rose with steam.
"Eat this at least. Hey, lad, our kitchen knife's dull as dirt—can you fix it? If you make mercenary swords, a knife's nothing."
Such a mundane, simple request cut through my packed schedule's stress like a breath of air. Munching bread, I replied.
"That? Easy."
She fetched the knife in a flash. Inspecting the worn blade, the quote came quick.
Iron quality's trash. Sloppy hammering even for a short knife, tempering's a mess.
I honed the edge with whetstone scraps from my pocket and handed it back.
"Blade's warped—no power transfer. Drop by the forge later; I'll straighten it with a hammer. Payment for the bread."
"Oh, such a sweet talker! Nah, forget bread. Getting a sturdy pot for my girl's dowry later—discount then!"
Their cheerful laughter echoed through the market. A world apart from the forge's war jitters or my inner tension. Folks still ate, drank, prepped for tomorrow, laughing.
I chewed my bread, sating hunger, hurrying on. Amid the souk's bustle, my target was an oil seller.
Oil worth using for this...
Simple reason: clay molds alone weren't enough for clean mace head release. Needed veggie oil mixed with fine graphite or ash—unlike quenching oil.
Haggling hard, I bulk-bought cheap olive residue and castor oil. Then a voice called.
"Teacher! There you are!"
Hasim ran up, ash hafts over his shoulder, panting. "Dad says the timber guy's not budging—charging a whole dinar per haft!"
Damn, getting fleeced.
I smirked, ruffling his hair roughly. "Let's go. Prices rising or not... To be a craftsman, it's not just metal. Knowing fair value's an eye too."
We passed the forge, following Hasim's lead to Rashid's timber merchant. Damascus's scenery behind us felt oddly cozy, but my mind was forge-hot metal: loaded with negotiation ammo, resolute.