The Forging
A Quebecian short of the Deadlands epic.
We haven't even gotten there yet!
(A side note for reading the story - '<<' and '>>' mean that the sentence spoken is in French.)
Jacques leaned against the saloon as he fiddled with the cards he held in his hands. How long was it going to take?
It was raining. That was good. There would be less fires today; or so he hoped. There was something étrange about the fires that plagued the city. Something sinister was behind them.
He heard footsteps walking on the wooden porch of the inn, and he lifted his head to see who it was. Broderick.
"Chilly day," she said, rubbing her hands together and shaking the rain from her coat.
"Oui. I suppose it is. I haven't heard about any fires today."
Broderick grinned at that and nudged him slightly with her elbow. "None except the fires you're starting."
Jacques smiled and held open the saloon door for Broderick. The familiar wave of drinking and cigar smoke greeted them both as they walked in. A few eyes lifted from their drinks at the sight of Broderick walking in so cheerfully, but no one questioned her presence. They both walked up to the bar and ordered drinks, which were brought promptly by a thin, wiry bartender.
"So how is the boy doing? Do you think it will be a weapon worthy of the revolution?" Jacques asked, not bothering to take a sip before business was done. Much to his chagrin, Broderick had decided to take her time enjoying her drink.
"I think so. I mean, as much as any hunk of metal at the end of a stick can be. It's not about weapons, Jacques, it's how you motivate people."
"Les gens will be motivated by their faith. They will need a banner to fall behind that has not been entachée by the Anglicans."
Broderick sighed and finished her drink. "I'm just saying that the weapon's not as important as who's holding it, you get me?"
Jacques nodded and took a drink. <<I understand. But there will be some who will not want to get behind the woodsman's revolution. They will want to get behind the Catholic throwing off the yoke off oppression.>>
<<Big words from the woodsman.>>
Jacques shrugged. <<It's not like I haven't read books.>>
Broderick nodded. <<True that, buddy. But I think it's going to be done by today.>>
Jacques smiled. <<I suppose we should head down there then,>> he replied, getting up from the table, and both of them walked outside. They headed down the street to the smithy, passing by a small regiment of British soldiers. Both Broderick and Jacques suddenly became interested in the buildings opposite as they walked past them.
"I forget sometimes that we are wanted," Broderick sighed as the soldiers passed them by.
Jacques looked at the soldiers' backs as they marched away. "We spent a while too long in America."
"Yeah, I suppose."
====================================================
Bonzu sat on a bench as the boy smith, Louis, worked on the anvil with a few of the orphans. She had to admire his dedication - he had seemed so timid before, but when the time had come to work the forge, his back had straightened and the forge fire had danced in his eye and he had started instructing the orphans like he was some master smith.
She was pretty sure there could have been a song sung about him.
Bonnie sighed and closed her eyes and focused. She needed to keep her sight about her during these times.
She saw another fiery cloud with piercing, white-hot eyes flitting about in the streets, looking hungrily at the buildings. She did not know why they were there - she felt it in her spine and her joints that they ought not to be there. But there they were, and they were contributing to all the fires. That much she knew.
And then, one of the clouds seemed to notice something. It looked through the wall of the smithy, right at her, and it gave her a grin, its teeth looking like a smouldering furnace grill, and then swooped down right at her. She raised her arm to defend herself, but then it passed as smoothly through the wall as a breeze through a tree - she only saw the vaguest of ripples in the fabric of her sight as it entered. What could it be after? Why wasn't it setting this place ablaze?
And then she was pulled out of her vision by Louis suddenly exclaiming "Aie!" and wrenching his hand back from his work, clutching his hand and grimacing.
She stood up to see if she could help, but he quickly shoved his hand into a nearby barrel of water, holding out his other hand, telling her to stop.
"I'm fine. A few more sparks flew out than I expected and burned me. I am fine now," he said, and calmly grabbed his hammer and continued his work.
Bonnie looked and nodded and sat back down, and suddenly felt a little dizzy; her vision was back, but she had lost focus - she couldn't remember the last time it had slipped unexpectedly back.
And then...
And then burning, fierce eyes stared back at her from-
The door opened.
Bonzu blinked.
The eyes were gone.
=======================================================
Jacques looked in and saw Louis at the anvil, working on the weapon he would use to crush the filthy Anglicans and drive them from Quebec's borders.
It was beautifully crafted. Well, that was expected; it was the reason that Jacques had asked Louis to forge it for him. Only the finest pieces could be crafted from the hands of one trained at Les Forges de St. Maurice. He was glad he found a worth smith in Quebec.
Louis looked up. "Monsieur Champlain! It is good that you are here. It is almost finished."
Jacques smiled and said, "Thank you for your work. C'est magnifique."
Louis lifted the weapon and held it in his hand. "All that's left is to quench it."
Jacques looked, and then held up a hand just before the boy thrust the weapon into the fire, and held out his hand for the weapon.
"Monsieur?" Louis asked as he handed it over. Jacques looked at the fleur-de-lis that ended in the spearpoint.
"Is it not satisfactory, Monsieur?" Asked Louis, with a twinge of doubt in his voice.
Jacques pulled a flask of maple syrup from his coat and opened it.
"No. But this deserves a rather unique quenching."
He poured the maple syrup onto the speared axe-blade, and it made a low hissing as it touched the red-hot metal.
He cleaned the debris, and then tightened his grip around his weapon and smiled.
The symbol was forged.
Now the war could begin.