9. New Maker (2)
Guided by Hasim, we arrived at Hamar's timber yard, but the scene before his shop was already a chaotic mess that shattered my expectations.
"Have you ever seen such a shameless bastard? Charging dinars per bundle?"
Rashid had already grabbed Hamar by the collar. It wasn't just about the money that had the usually gruff Rashid this furious. It was a mix of pride as someone who sourced and handled the materials, plus the anxiety of returning to his teacher empty-handed over a price dispute.
"Enough, both of you! Even in the market, fighting won't solve anything."
At my shout, Rashid stepped back with eyes full of resentment. Hamar smirked, straightening his disheveled beard. He glanced at me, then waved his hands as if deeply wronged.
"No, Teacher! Look at this! With the current situation blocking logistics, ash wood is worth its weight in gold, sure—but this merchant's deliberately gouging us!"
"No, Teacher Barakah. Things are rough these days, aren't they? You know as well as I do—getting goods is like plucking stars from the sky. With supply lines choked, even quality ash and other woods have become precious rarities. If you don't like it, walk away."
Classic hoarding logic. I'd heard market prices fluctuating wildly since asking about the Crusaders, but seeing deliberate price-gouging up close was infuriating.
Leaving the fuming Rashid and foot-stomping Hasim behind, I stared straight into Hamar's eyes. His attitude—ignorant of hospitality and honor—was perfect for stirring anger and worry among desert men.
"Fine. Then let's inspect the quality. At that price, not a single knot allowed."
I was feigning pickiness, stepping toward the warehouse, when—
"Aaaah! Let go of me!"
A sharp scream pierced the air near Hamar's shop—not the tough voices of market women, but the frail cry of a young girl. Hamar's face drained of color at the sound. It was his precious only daughter, Miriam.
"Miriam!"
We hurried after Hamar as he bolted toward the noise. In a dim corner stacked with logs like a fortress wall, three men in shabby leather armor surrounded Miriam. Crude straight swords dangled from their belts.
The situation was tense, but I felt oddly calm. Almost like there was no real threat to begin with. Unlike true mercenaries like the Desert Claw, these guys reeked of amateurishness. Leather armor with no ventilation in the scorching desert sun? Full boots in sand that would swallow them whole? They clearly ignored local survival norms—thin linen layers for breathability. Proof they were war-refugee drifters, swept in by the conflict.
"Well, if it isn't timber merchant Hamar. You know who sent us, right? Saw your daughter on the way and figured we'd handle business first—glad you showed up quick."
The scarred leader in the middle sneered. They were opportunists exploiting the war's terror—rejects who couldn't join armies, now playing debt collectors with weapons, preying on the market's weak. Hamar wasn't innocent, but he was just a merchant without muscle. In a lawless market, merchants without their own force were nothing more than fat targets.
"Please... I'll get the money, just let my girl go!"
Hamar knelt and begged, but the men drew their crude swords threateningly.
"Out of the way, old man. The boss said today’s the deadline. Unless you want a gut full of this scrap, move."
As one swung his blade lazily, Hamar turned back with desperate eyes and clung to my and Rashid's clothes.
"Teacher! Please help! Those bastards are after my daughter...!"
Hamar grabbed my arm, his lightning-fast attitude shift—faster than a cockroach—transmitting raw terror through his sweaty palm. In this world where fists trumped law and gold outranked honor, merchants like him were just "rich prey."
I shook off his hand and stepped forward slowly. Behind me, Rashid gripped his fists, breathing heavily, while Hasim clutched my clothes in fear.
"Hey, you lot. What're you doing at my supplier's place?"
All three thugs turned to me. The scarred leader sneered, pointing his sword tip at my chest.
"Who’s this soot-covered nobody butting in? Blacksmith, huh? Your common sense sink in the Barada like a lump of iron? Don't want a hole in your gut? Go hammer an anvil quietly."
"Put away that toy. You don't even know how to hold it right... might clip your own foot."
My jab made him roar and raise his sword high—a crude downward chop more like clubbing than swordplay. I didn't even bother countering properly, just gripped the mace shaft on my back. Twisting lightly, I smacked the flat of his blade.
Clang—!
The precisely aimed strike shattered the shoddy blade into fragments. No need to kill three men, nor any desire. It was neighborly kindness—preventing their deaths on the battlefield with that junk sword and poor technique. Sparing lives with mercy.
But business was business. As the sword broke, I drove the shaft into his chest, then hooked his neck with both hands, sweeping his legs. The leader rolled on the ground without a scream—a makeshift mace wrestling, not ideal for big impact, but enough.
His rolling sparked the other two to charge, but they were worse. I raised the mace casually; they hesitated, then rushed one by one—ending up just like their boss.
Thwack! Thwack!
"Aaaagh! My leg! My leeeeg!"
Dull thuds and screams followed as they clutched their legs. I'd just tapped their shins with the mace end to warn them off. They scampered away like yelping dogs.
With the three drifters gone, silence fell over the shop alley. Hamar eyed me warily, stealing glances at the mace in my hand—too intimidated for direct stares. That once-mysterious, intimidating weapon had just "tapped" three men's legs, naturally commanding respect.
"Well, Hamar. Situation's cleared—let's resume our deal."
I brushed off the spotless mace head—no blood, just used for discipline—and smiled.
"How much per bundle again?"
Trembling, Hamar hugged Miriam, then rushed forward, bowing low. Even collar-grabbing Rashid now watched me carefully; only Hasim's eyes sparkled with childlike awe.
"Ash bundles—five per dinar! No, six! What wouldn't I do for the teacher who saved my daughter?"
Hamar's flip proved why he survived this cutthroat market. Greed for one dinar per bundle vanished, replaced by gratitude—backed by sharp wits and quick reads.
"Good. Prep twenty dinars' worth then. Not top-grade, but close enough in quantity."
Hamar nodded furiously and dashed inside. To jog the father's memory of the escape route and my mace, I added:
"First time seeing someone turned polite? No need to tiptoe—what, no blood was spilled."
As I realigned their wary glances, Miriam—now safe in her father's arms inside—approached shyly. She held a small silk pouch.
"Um... Teacher. This is separate from what Father offers—I wanted to give it myself."
She offered a heavy leather pouch—not some grand ledger. Inside: fist-sized metal ore chunks with eerie silver sheen.
"Whenever I fetch water by the river... I collect these shiny ones from rock crevices. Father says they're just pretty stones, but for a blacksmith like you, maybe useful...?"
I held one to the sun. Crystal structure, density—this wasn't ordinary rock.
Is this... antimony? Or high-purity zinc?
Modern metallurgy knowledge whirred. Rare but not impossible near medieval Damascus. Either way, perfect alloy additives—boosting fluidity or hardness at key temps.
This pure gift could be the piece elevating a special mace recipe.
"Precious gift. I'll use it for something truly valuable."
Miriam blushed, bowing shyly. Pocketing the girl's heartfelt thanks, I headed back to the forge—steps lighter.
At the forge, I opened Miriam's pouch. Sharp-faceted silvery-white ore gleamed in the furnace light. Definitely antimony.
Lucky break. Pure antimony like this in this era?
From a modern view, it completed my alloy casting puzzle. In the warm 1101 air, I simulated thousands of recipes mentally with the cold ore.
"Rashid, Hasim! No rest from tomorrow—we're running ten molds at once!"
"Yes, Teacher!"
Hasim's crisp reply fired up the furnace again.
"Hasim, prep one crucible separately. Different mix for that one."
I had him set aside a crucible, grinding antimony to powder and tweaking ratios. It improved molten flow into mold crevices, and its slight expansion on cooling yielded bubble-free surfaces and sharper flanges.
A cheat key leapfrogging 12th-century tech.
Whoooosh—!
Under Rashid's steady bellows, a hundred ash bundles from Hamar piled in the yard. Days later, the forge transformed from artisan workshop to efficient factory. Day one: inventory and mix optimization. Day two: mass production. Hasim ground edges on the pedal grinder; Rashid secured molds. Division and standardization were terrifyingly effective—work taking skilled smiths days done in half a shift.
On the week's end, amid worsening chaos outside, I dumped the last antimony powder into one "special" head.
"Last one."
Lifting the cooled mace from the furnace, Rashid and Hasim stared in unison. The head gleamed with antimony alloy's cool silver—smooth as moonlit metal. Dense, imposing aura rivaled forged masterpieces, despite casting.
"Beautiful... like a noble's jeweled weapon. But Teacher, doesn't it stand out too much from the rest for sale?"
Rashid's awe hid concern—like silent doubt on selling it plain.
To his worry, I smirked, stamping "Barakah" on the haft.
"Not for plain sale. Proof of our skill—display it, or save for someone worthy. Bait, premium bait."
The display rack overflowed with a hundred maces like an army. Cramped, but imagining them scattering to Damascus battlefields brought a smile.
"Rashid, Hasim. We're ready."
I raised the shimmering final mace high. Amid war clouds over Damascus, these hundred flanged maces would spread our name—and keep death at bay, if just a bit.
In 1101's warm air, the new maces exhaled chill menace. True New Makers, ahead of their time—their screams would soon echo beyond Damascus walls across the desert.