The Talking Scimitar and the Blacksmith’s Wisdom

The blacksmith’s words from the previous day had plunged her into a night-long reverie of melancholy.

That homemade brew was truly insidious!

In the throes of drink, she had casually agreed, but what if she had actually followed through on her promise to the blacksmith and slain Tolruk with a single stroke?

While Tolruk might have faced death with resolute courage, potentially igniting a fervent zeal among the surrounding Norsemen, what of Freya? And, more importantly, what about Tolke?

The blacksmith had nearly PUAed her into submission (TL Note: ‘PUA’ stands for ‘pick-up artist,’ but in this context, it refers to manipulative psychological tactics used to control or gaslight someone.). How could these proud Norsemen all be so fond of such manipulation?

“Hey now, stop slurping, go find your mother!” Seizing the moment of Noren’s distraction, the little foal gently took her finger into its mouth and began to suck relentlessly.

The wet, soft gums clamped around her finger, creating a distinctly peculiar sensation, while a series of sucking forces emanated from the foal’s mouth. Its tongue and the walls of its oral cavity enveloped her finger tightly, as if intent on draining every last drop of blood and flesh.

It was utterly repulsive; she disliked it intensely!

The foal received a light slap, then scampered off to prance around its mother.

The mare continued to munch on her fodder, casting an occasional glance at her offspring.

This particular foal had been born just a week prior, so unsteady on its legs that Noren and the others had to hold it for it to nurse. They had initially feared it wouldn’t survive, yet a week later, its tenacious spirit of life persisted.

The breeding fee had amounted to ten Denar silver coins, and the stud stallion itself was a formidable draft horse.

Once grown, this foal would either dedicate its life to Noren’s household, much like its mother, or be sold to another owner.

Their family also owned two dairy cows, two sheep, and five chickens—one rooster and four hens.

The arduous task of tending to livestock invariably fell to the slaves; Noren merely came to inspect the animals.

The slaves resided in a thatched hut adjacent to the animal shed, both structures situated roughly a hundred feet from the blacksmith’s cottage. Noren, finding the animal odor too potent, had instructed the blacksmith to erect the sheds at a greater distance.

At present, the slaves were engaged in planting barley and other crops. With summer’s arrival, they would scramble to harvest wheat, and in autumn, they would again sow wheat, toiling relentlessly for five days a week, with only two days of rest.

Frey was responsible for all meals, which consisted of a mixture of coarse grains. Twice a week, they ate rye bread, once they had fish, and the remaining days were filled with stewed wheat porridge.

On Sundays, Noren typically practiced javelin throwing, while Frey would usually wander aimlessly. Slaves, often unable to secure enough food, would frequently gather before her, begging like wild dogs. After she finished her own meal, she would use Frey as a sparring partner to hone her martial arts, a rare form of entertainment for her.

Today, however, was an exception. She harbored no desire to practice javelin throwing, nor did Frey feel like wandering. By unspoken agreement, both had converged upon the blacksmith’s shop.

The blacksmith, equally lacking in spirits, had no inclination to entertain the siblings. He was racing against time to complete several repair orders, a necessity given the considerable expense incurred by yesterday’s feast.

A short while later, the blacksmith set aside his pliers and hammer, pulling over a stool to rest. “Speak your minds,” he grumbled, “what is it you want?”

“Old man.” “Father.”

The siblings exchanged glances, a silent battle of wills playing out between them.

“I’ll go first.” “No, you.”

Frey registered a fleeting moment of surprise as his sister, utterly shameless, brazenly interjected, “Old man, my sword has sustained some damage; it needs repairing.”

Noren presented the sword. Svein, though itching to retort “Serves you right!”, allowed his professional integrity to prevail, drawing the blade for a quick inspection.

“Grind it yourself!” With a swift motion, he sheathed the sword and tossed it back, then turned his gaze to Frey. “And you?”

The younger brother chuckled awkwardly, a blush creeping up his neck. “Father,” he stammered, “my… my sword.”

“You? You dare to ask for a sword?!” As the siblings watched, an invisible aura of fury seemed to ignite around Svein, his beard bristling, his eyes wide with indignation.

“You spend your days idling about, you can barely draw a sword without it getting stuck on your back, and yet you still presume to ask for your own blade? Get out, both of you!”

Tools began to fly, and the two siblings fled as if their lives depended on it.

‘Hmm? Why did I run?’ Noren scratched her cheek, then turned and scurried back, leaving her bewildered brother to stand disheveled in the breeze.

*Whirrrrrr—*

Noren set the grindstone spinning, carefully sharpening her sword, all the while surreptitiously glancing at the blacksmith.

“Whatever endeavor you undertake, approach it with unwavering seriousness,” Svein imparted, sharing a snippet of his life’s wisdom. “Train with dedication, laugh with abandon, and sharpen your sword as if preparing for the final battle of your life.”

‘Not very convincing, old man,’ the young woman mused inwardly. ‘You’re clearly distracted yourself.’

As light glinted off the blade’s surface, Noren tested its edge with her fingertip. “Excellent!” she declared.

She sheathed her sword, then rose, stretching her body as her joints gave a soft pop. Remaining in a crouch for extended periods was hardly conducive to comfort for a tall beauty like herself.

The blacksmith, too, seemed to be nearing the end of his tasks, and she had a few questions she wished to pose.

“Old man, this bloodstone…” She revealed the bloodstone, laying it flat in her palm.

Svein, observing her gesture, stroked his beard and beckoned her inside. He then unlatched a long-forgotten, dust-laden chest, revealing its sole contents: a sword and a bone necklace.

The old man clasped the bone chain tightly in his palm, pressing it to his forehead. A voice from decades past seemed to echo from a distant valley: “Svein, I shall embark upon the grandest adventure, conquer the most savage beasts, and extract their sharpest fangs, and you—”

‘—and I shall weave for you the most dazzling necklace,’ Svein silently completed the thought in his mind. He then carefully set down the unadorned bone necklace, meticulously arranging each bone tooth.

Once the lingering warmth of his emotions had subsided, he composed himself and retrieved the sword. Its guard was a metal cross hilt, the ends of which appeared to have been flattened, yet still retained a subtle upward curve. The distinct bend of its scabbard unequivocally identified it as a scimitar.

Svein merely drew the sword for a fleeting moment before swiftly sheathing it again. His facial muscles twitched, as if he were suppressing some inner turmoil. “Noren,” he instructed, “take this sword outside to examine it. The light in here is dim, and I fear you might accidentally injure yourself.”

Accidental injury? What a mockery! Any Norseman brimming with martial prowess would simply shake their head in disbelief at such a notion.

However, she was no ordinary Norse warrior. Carrying the sword, she stepped outside the blacksmith’s shop, facing the expanse of grassland, the segmented fields, and the meandering river. Embracing the cool breeze that swept up from the slope, she slowly drew the blade.

*Bang!*

Before the sword could even reveal its full form, she had slammed it back into its sheath.

‘What was that sound just now? It seemed as though someone spoke.’ Noren once more pressed her thumb against the sword’s guard, pushing it forward incrementally—

“Hey, hey, hey!”

Releasing her thumb, the sword dropped back into its sheath. She had heard correctly; the sound had indeed emanated from the blade itself.

Gripping the hilt tightly, her fingers nervously caressed the material. The next moment, the sword broke free from its confines, carving a half-moon of silver light through the air as she finally drew it.

‘Why is it silent now?’ Just as Noren’s confusion mounted, a mischievous voice erupted.

“Ha!”

Her hand trembled, nearly causing her to drop the sword.

“Hey, no c**k, ladyboy, little fairy! It’s my first time seeing someone without a c**k. You seem to be enjoying this, don’t you? Want to insert me into your body? Don’t be scared, the first time always bleeds.” Its words, like a volley of cannon fire, struck the young woman’s forehead, leaving her dazed as she instinctively touched her head.

She had never imagined that the first time she would hear Chinese in the Middle Ages would be from a sword, let alone one that assailed her with such vile, scatological language.

While the lack of a c**k was indeed a fact, and lies themselves might not wound, these particular lies were nonetheless utterly disgusting!

‘It’s a fine sword,’ the young woman mused, ‘though I wonder if its mouth is half as sharp as its blade.’ She flexed a finger, then flicked the sword, eliciting a series of ringing cries that sounded like trembles of supplication.

****

“Mercy, mercy, mercy!” the sword shrieked, pleading for quarter.

Noren seized a hammer and began to strike the sword with resounding ‘clangs,’ each blow more forceful than the last.

In the next instant, her father gripped her wrist, nearly being swung off his feet by Noren’s uncontrolled fervor, yet his intervention served to bring her back to her senses, albeit slightly.

A strained smile contorted her face, and veins pulsed visibly at her temples. “Old man,” she said, her voice tight, “let’s reforge it.”

A gust of wind seemed to precede the resounding slap, leaving a crimson palm print starkly visible on Noren’s face.

“Sober up, Noren!”

Gently, she traced the stinging outline of the palm print on her cheek, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. She realized her emotions had spiraled out of control and, once again, she was acutely reminded of Svein’s rather direct methods of education.

“Father, it… it…” the young woman stammered, clicking her tongue in disbelief.

Svein, a hint of disappointment in his eyes, snatched the sword and returned it to its sheath. “This sword is simply as it is,” he explained. “It has had many masters before, and your mother was the last.”

The young woman’s toe unconsciously ground a small divot into the earth as she hesitated. “Old man,” she ventured, “have you ever heard that language before?”

The blacksmith removed his cap, running a hand over his gleaming scalp. “Which language do you mean?” he inquired.

She simply tapped the sword with her finger.

Svein scratched his scalp, then gripped Noren’s shoulders with both hands, scrutinizing her intently, as if checking whether the blow had addled her wits.

“Noren, are you quite alright?” he asked, a note of concern in his voice. “I’m getting old, and I don’t control my strength as well as I used to.”

She twisted her shoulder, shrugging off Svein’s hands. “Old man,” she insisted, “you answer my question first.”

More confusion clouded the blacksmith’s eyes. Even through his bushy beard, Noren could distinctly perceive it. “Norse? What’s so strange about that?”

Noren froze.

Receiving such an unsettling yet reassuring reply, she could only shake her head. “Nothing, it’s just… the things it said were so malicious, so infuriating.”

Seeing that Noren was unharmed, Svein picked up the sword once more, stroking its surface.

“It is a strange artifact, as a certain sorcerer once called such objects. This one in my hand can infuriate any enemy who crosses blades with its wielder. The moment the edges clash, their hands and feet become clumsy and panicked.”

He then paused. “Your mother told me this, but whenever I use it, I go mad.”

“Are there many strange artifacts in the world?” Noren asked, her concern focused on this question.

“I don’t know. I’ve only seen three: this sword, your bloodstone, and the Roman Crown.”

“What power does the Crown possess?”

“I don’t know. The ministers and nobles all admire its might, and I suspect this isn’t merely a coveting of power; perhaps it truly holds some miraculous force.”

Noren recounted the bloodstone’s unique properties to Svein, but he seemed largely unconcerned, ultimately cautioning her: “These things are nothing special. The waters hold sea monsters, and the heavens hold deities. The weak yearn for divine weapons, while the strong grapple with wolves and bears bare-handed.”

What kind of person could slay a bear with their bare hands?