Chapter 6
SIX
It was early morning but the Renaissance Faire was already alive around Ben.
The weather was perfect—not too hot yet, blue skies, and a light breeze that picked up the scent of pine sap, sawdust, and turkey drumsticks roasting over an open fire.
Lute music drifted through the trees, along with laughter and the banter of merchants tempting visitors to buy their goods.
Ben was right along with them, talking to the crowd as he worked a railroad spike into a knife.
Because of the forge, his booth was one of the permanent structures at the faire—open at the front with two half-walls on either side, and the forge at the back.
It was along the main path, across from the building housing the costume shop and tended to draw a curious crowd.
Ben wiped his sweaty hands on his leather apron and started in with his practiced stage patter.
“Lords and ladies, lend me thine ears! Come closer, brave souls and wandering knaves,” he called, raising an iron railroad spike like a holy relic. “What you see here is not a magic sword, nor a rare treasure, nor a cursed talisman from the tomb of some forgotten mage of yore.”
He waited half a beat before pointing at a boy at the front of the crowd. “You there, young squire. Can thou tell me what it is?”
“It’s a giant’s nail?” the kid answered. Several people in the crowd chuckled.
“Indeed, indeed.” Ben placed it in the forge to heat up while he talked.
“Once upon a time, this giant’s nail was one of many used to build a steel and wooden road for fire-breathing iron dragons.
This one comes from the far away, mystical kingdom of…
Nebraska.” Ben spotted a man in a University of Nebraska hat and added, “Home of the Knights of the Cornhuskers.”
That earned him a few more laughs.
“There’s one of them now. Sir Big Red, I believe.” He pointed at the guy then mock-bowed as people glanced back smiling and laughing. The guy tipped his hat to Ben.
“Today, this humble spike will undergo a magical transformation right before your eyes.” Ben waited until the spiked glowed orange before picking up his tongs and removing it from the fire.
“Through trial by fire, trial by hammer, and trial by my bad jokes, it will rise through the ranks and become a mighty weapon! One that’s powerful enough to cut through yon turkey legs.”
The crowd laughed good-naturedly.
Except for a woman in the front who called out, “How long is this gonna this take? I wanna catch the jousting tournament in half an hour.”
“Well, my lady,” Ben said with an exaggerated bow that made his leather apron creak, “if I’m working fast and the forge gods smile upon me? About twenty minutes. If I’m showing off for a crowd?” He grinned. “However long it takes to make thee laugh.”
Even she cracked a smile as everyone else laughed.
Ben quenched only the pointed end of the spike, then stuck it vertically in a large shoe vise, the rest of the glowing orange spike pointing up.
He took two adjustable spanners—giant wrenches—one in each hand, and clamped them opposite each other onto the spike just below the head to make a T-shape.
Then he rotated the spanners, twisting the metal until it spiraled.
“The secret to getting it to do what you want is in the heat. Too hot, and the metal gets angry and twisted up the wrong way. Too cold and it won’t move at all.” He twisted the spanners again, slow and deliberate. “Kind of like my Aunt Gertrude at Thanksgiving.”
More laughter.
He took the spike out of the vise and thrust it back into the coals to heat the other end.
“Now comes the fun part,” he announced. “Turning this thick bit into something sharp enough to make those turkey legs nervous.”
He pulled it out again, the metal now returned to orange, set it on his anvil, and began hammering the opposite end in earnest. Sparks flew upward like tiny stars. Each strike flattened and spread the spike, gradually transforming it from square stock into the recognizable shape of a blade.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
“You know what the best part about being a blacksmith is?” Ben asked between strikes, not breaking rhythm. “I get to hit things with a hammer all day.” Clang. “You have therapists, I have percussive therapy.”
The laughter made him glow inside as brightly as the metal he worked.
A woman in tight-fitting corset and peasant blouse piped up. “Aren’t you hot in all that leather?” She looked him up and down appreciatively.
Ben paused, wiping his brow with his forearm. Out in the real world, her comment and gaze would have had him stuttering—if he could say anything at all. But not in here, where he wasn’t Ben “Moose” Massey, but Sir Benjamin of the Forge, Royal Blacksmith to the King.
He shot her a grin. “My lady.” He gestured at his kilt. “This isn’t just for showing off me pretty legs.”
The woman covered her heart and pretended to faint while the crowd roared, and Ben went back to work, shaping the curve of the blade with confident, precise strikes.
“Almost there now,” he murmured, more to himself than the audience, though they leaned in to listen anyway. “See how she’s starting to curve? That’s what you want in a good blade—a belly to the edge. Makes for better cutting.”
He quenched the blade in water, and it hissed and smoked dramatically. The crowd gasped, a few people stepping back.
“Don’t worry, gentle folk,” Ben said, deadpan. “That’s supposed to happen. Probably.”
The crowd laughed again as he lifted the knife back out of the water.
“And there you have it—fancy!” Ben held the finished knife up for everyone to see. “Because even a tough railroad spike deserves to feel pretty.”
The crowd laughed and clapped.
“No need for applause, just buy one for yourself and for ten of thy closest friends.” He gestured at the display cases of jewelry, the tables covered with knives, swords, leaf-shaped belt buckles, and real chain mail.
Behind him, one corner of the shop gleamed like a dragon’s hoard: torsos mounted on wooden busts wearing hand-linked hauberks, the morning light glinting off steel rings.
A coif hung from a carved post, draped like a hood over a leather helm.
Nearby, gauntlets rested on a curved wooden rack, their fingers flexed into a loose grip, ready to knock on trouble’s door.
A smaller mail shirt dangled from a nail near the front edge—right at kid height. He’d made that one out of light but sturdy aluminum for the little ones, so they could wear it without getting weighted down.
Across from the forge, and not for sale, hung his most impressive piece to date.
Shoulder to mid-back chain mail shirt with the finest rings he could make, shined up until it looked like it was made of silver.
He let it hang there deliberately, a quiet flex.
The shirt looked like it’d been made with elven magic, but of course it wasn’t.
It took precision, patience, and weeks of his labor.
Ben admired it briefly as the crowd looked over his wares, deciding what to buy, before turning to answer questions and collect money.
The crowd was thinning out, slowly making its way to the first jousting tournament of the day.
He had just finished placing a necklace in a drawstring bag for a woman, when a man standing behind him beside the chain mail cleared his throat to get his attention.
“This chain mail shirt isn’t half-bad, friend.” He had the fakest British accent Ben had ever heard.
Ben stiffened. “Not half bad? Your average chain mail takes between two and three thousand links, depending on the size, while this one is made of six thousand, eighth-inch rings. It took me the better part of a year to make. And before you ask, it’s not for sale today.
” He turned to look at the guy. “It was a…commissioned…piece…”
Ben squinted. He tilted his head as he looked the guy over.
“Rowan? Is that you?”
The guy was wearing a peasant costume. He had Rowan’s eyes and build but his nose was way too big and his hair under a ridiculous leather hat was the wrong color. Then there was the weird accent.
Rowan McCrae—old friend, current television hero—burst into laughter as he clapped Ben on the back. Ben and Rowan went back years, to a time when they were both a couple of nerds busking their way up the Ren Fair food chain until Ben became a blacksmith and Rowan became a jousting knight.
“Well met, friend, well met,” Ben said as he pulled Rowan into a one-armed hug. “I wasn’t expecting you today. I didn’t recognize you with this.” He tapped Rowan’s fake nose.
“That’s the whole idea. I wanted to have a chance to bum around without being spotted,” Rowan said, dropping the fake accent. “And I want to introduce someone to you while the crowd’s thinned out.” He looked over at a couple of women admiring a rack of blouses outside the costume shop.
Ben followed his gaze and froze.
One of the women was Charlie.
She was striking even in the plain clothes that contrasted with the brightly-colored skirts and peasant blouses. Charlie wasn’t looking at him—her attention was focused on the woman beside her.
“I know her,” Ben said, only half-paying attention to Rowan now. Why was Charlie here, and how did Rowan know her?
“Really? Even in disguise?” Rowan looked troubled.
“What? She’s not in a …Oh.” Ben realized Rowan wasn’t talking about Charlie, but the other woman.
“Charlie,” Rowan called, confusing Ben even more. So he did know her?
Both women looked up and across the path.
Charlie caught sight of Ben and blinked—clearly just as surprised to see him. Her gaze flicked between him and Rowan. The other woman smiled at Rowan, and they both started walking across the way.
She looked vaguely familiar. If Rowan hadn’t mentioned she was in disguise too, Ben might not have taken a second look. But as she came closer, he recognized her.
The interviews. The red-carpet photos. The stills from Legends of BattleLore that had lit up every fan forum.