Chapter Eighteen: Pact

Brickit left to refill the pitcher and when he returned he was also carrying Shafelm. I blinked in quiet surprise to see my sword in his hands and I received it from him gladly. Once again I had completely forgotten it, but luckily the situation now was not nearly as dire as gathering fiddlehead ferns. I laid it across my knees as Peter and I had gotten into the habit of doing with our swords when at rest. Brickit, wisely not pursuing our last topic, watched me with amusement since I could not hide my pleasure at the sight of the sword.

"What name?" he asked, jerking his chin at the weapon and moving on to much safer subjects than witches and werewulfs and emotions.

"Shafelm." I could not keep the pride out of my voice. "Blade of the Western Wood."

He nodded. "Centaur make that is."

"Yes," I said. "They gave it to me before Beruna. How can you tell it's Centaur work?"

"Easy. The taper."

"Taper?"

He reached for Shafelm and I handed it over. It was too long a weapon for him, but he did not draw it fully from its sheath. He held it up so I was looking straight at the sharpened edge.

"See the flat, how it tapers so gradually to the point? This is a blade for slicing, not thrusting. Give a Centaur a sword and he'll want to cut you to ribbons with it, not stab you. Stabbing is for Fauns and hacking is for Satyrs."

I blinked, realizing he had just summed up Cair Paravel's sword masters (and my teachers) very neatly.

"The cross-guard, too," he added. "Centaurs tend to make them plainer than Dwarfs. 'Tis a good, solid bit of work they gave you. I've seen worse craftsmanship and I've seen better, but not much."

Well it certainly was made well enough to penetrate Dwarfish armor, because Jadis, with her sense of irony and cruelty, had used this very sword to disarm Peter during Beruna and then stab him in the arm. Peter always laughed at the memory and offered to return the favor with Rhindon, which I politely declined. I found myself eyeing Brickit keenly. "Have you made better?"

His eyes grew wide at the notion and the imagined slight upon his work and family honor.

"The least of my blades would put to shame the work of any other smithy in the land, Spawn."

With a little smirk I murmured, "Really?" as I recalled the magnificent knife he had shown me that first day here.

Brickit leaned forward. "I was taught my craft not only under my mother, but under my grandfather, Chief Smith Branset, who was called the greatest sword smith in the world and made blades for knights and kings and even for that Tisroc on his ivory throne."

"Can you show me?" I asked.

"You've seen my work."

I shook my head. "No, no. I mean show me how, Brickit."

He snorted, feigning disgust. "Why should I show anything to an arrogant whelp like you?"

We were definitely on safer ground if we could insult one other again. It was a relief for us both.

"General Oreius says you don't really know a thing until you can teach it."

"And who is this General Oreius?" he demanded, though I suspected he already knew.

"No one particularly special. He just rescued me from the White Witch and led the army next to Peter at Beruna."

He snorted, staunchly refusing to be impressed. "I've taught many an apprentice to make blades."

"Then teach me."

"Why?"

I smiled, remembering Aslan's amusement. "Because I want to learn."

"Again I ask why?"

"Because I still want your good will. You respect learning. I've seen that! I want to learn. So teach me."

He drew a deep breath, staring at me with his dark eyes, and after considering my words and his own he slowly said, "You have my good will, Edmund Pevensie. What is more, you have my respect."

I blinked, astonished by this confession.

"But I refuse to waste my time teaching someone such skills only to have them forgotten or worse still, abused. If I show you this craft how will I know you'll care for it as I do?"

"I would never forget or abuse anything you taught me. I give you my word -"

"Words are easily forgotten."

"Pax! If you'll be silent and let me finish I may be able to prove otherwise, Chief Smith."

He harrumphed and waited impatiently.

"I give you my word I'll return. Let that be our pact – my service to this smithy for your service to Narnia."

"Seems to me I'm getting the short end of the bargain."

"You're one to talk of short! Not many people get to order a king around. Besides, I'm the one coming up short if I have to endure this poor excuse for beer that you drink."

He glared, and I could tell he was highly pleased by the train of conversation. "Two weeks," he finally decided after a long pause. "Two weeks a year at least you must give me, to be made up if missed."

"You have my word."

"Think the Nancy can spare you so long?"

I shook my head. "You know, Brickit, you're going to meet Peter some day and believe me, sir, when I say that you will sorely regret that choice of a name for him."

The Black Dwarf smirked and leaned far back in his chair. "I've no regrets, Spawn. Doesn't matter this way or that if the title fits your Queen Peter or not. It's enough that it drives you spar and gets the blood boiling. 'Tis healthy."

"Ohhh," I breathed, instantly seething and trying to hide it. I was only partially successful, but it pleased him to see me cross. "Oh, good my Dwarf, you will regret that statement."

He grinned. "Never. Drink on it."

We finished our cups of beer to seal the agreement. I grimaced at the sour, bitter, painful, biting tang of it, finishing with a gasp.

"That is awful!"

He chuckled, refilling the cups. "Brint and Bort make it."

I gagged. "Much is explained by that."

"I'm a hard master," he warned.

"Do tell," I returned quickly. "You can't be any harder on a body than this stuff you call beer."

He dismissed my comments with a gesture. "When I work the smith in earnest, boy, it's masters who work under me, not apprentices."

"I'm no master."

"Nor even an apprentice. Spawn you are."

I smiled, wincing at the pain it caused in my jaw. Pleasure filled me as I realized exactly what he was offering. It wasn't an apprenticeship. It was far more specialized. "Then look at me as a challenge, Chief Smith."

"Oh-ho," he laughed. "I already do!"

He slammed back the beer, then stood. "Come! Run and fire up the furnace as you've been taught! Hurry! It's time you learned how to swing a hammer."

It was hours before dawn, he'd been drinking beer since before I'd arrived, and he hadn't slept since yesterday. I had been terrorized and had terrorized, I'd grappled with a crazed Werewulf, been traumatized by old memories, and walked with the Lion all in the span of a day.

I ran.