Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 134 The Blacksmith and the Roast Pig

As darkness fell, the two men were still busy in the blacksmith's shop.

The old blacksmith Misha held the red-hot iron billet between his fingers, while the young blacksmith Berian swung his hammer. Their shadows on the wall danced in the firelight, like some kind of peculiar dance.

Each time the iron billet was forged by Berien, Misha would adjust the angle precisely. The two blacksmiths worked seamlessly together, and soon a slightly curved sword guard emerged from the billet.

Misha tossed the finished sword guard into the oil drum and told his assistant to prepare the hilt.

Berleon returned to the back room of the blacksmith's shop and took out a wooden handle. The material was oak sapwood with a good feel and good elasticity. It had been pre-made into a suitable sword handle according to the user's hand shape.

The sword hilt, engraved with spiral grooves, was tightly wrapped by Berrian in milky white stingray skin and glued together with glue made from fish bladder.

After confirming that the glue was secure, the young blacksmith placed a can of black ink next to the forge to heat it up and began to paint the sword hilt.

To Winters, who was watching from the sidelines, the two blacksmiths' previous work, while interesting, was nothing particularly special.

But when the brush dipped in black ink touched the stingray skin, he was amazed.

Under the influence of the black lacquer, the originally plain fish skin revealed exquisite and intricate textures, making one want to touch it at a glance. The black ink had become a stroke of genius, turning the ordinary into the extraordinary.

But the best part was yet to come. After completing the painting and drying processes, Berrian took out a coil of silver wire.

After securing one end of the silver wire to the end of the sword hilt, the young blacksmith began to wrap the wire around the hilt along the grooves. Soon, the black leather was divided into evenly spaced segments by the fine silver thread.

It was made without gold or jewels. But in Winters' view, the hilt was as exquisite as any sword worn by royalty.

The black fish skin and bright silver threads complement each other, making it not only exquisite but also practical. This simple and elegant beauty makes those jeweled ceremonial swords seem vulgar and tasteless.

Winters' eyes were glued to the young blacksmith's hands, and even the old blacksmith Misha next to him couldn't help but marvel.

A door from his memory was suddenly pushed open, and Winters suddenly remembered where he had seen a similar craftsmanship, or rather, style and aesthetic.

It was on the dagger that had nearly taken his life—the hilt of Sofia's dagger was so similar to the hilt of this sword.

The silver-wrapping process was completed quickly, and the remaining finishing touches were simple: just attach all the parts to the blade and it was ready to be delivered. But it seemed that for the young blacksmith, this was not yet the end.

After quickly securing the guard, hilt, and counterweight, Berion handed the sword to Winters and said simply, "You try it out first."

This is a one-handed sword, one of the weapons Winters ordered a few days ago. The blade was a ready-made item that the Misato people bought from the county seat, Gevodan, and the traveling merchant took almost half a month to make the round trip.

Winters took the sword and pressed the tip down on the ground. The blade deformed under the force, bending into an arc to the side. When he released it, the blade naturally springed back.

The lieutenant squinted and examined it; the sword was still straight and had not been deformed.

He then struck the sword several more times on the spherical anvil where he was testing it. The force of the strikes gradually increased, but the sword remained sturdy, without bending or breaking in any direction.

Winters nodded in satisfaction.

Misha, the blacksmith from Dussac standing nearby, sighed, "Comparison is the thief of joy! The finished swords from Steelburg are far superior to my work. If I tried to make a sword like that, it would have broken long ago. It's incomparable, truly incomparable."

"These sword blades have been tempered, so they're more resilient," the young blacksmith said simply.

Winters swung the sword a few more times in the air, finding the fish-skin silver-threaded hilt to be excellent. It was comfortable to hold without feeling rough, and the grooves helped to wick away sweat, preventing the hilt from becoming slippery.

“The center of gravity is a bit too far back. Let’s adjust it forward a little, to about a foot in front of the hilt.” Winters returned the sword.

The sword's center of gravity is currently near the guard, but Winters prefers it to be slightly forward for greater power in a slash.

The advantage of custom-made weapons is that everything can be modified, but in reality, there aren't many things that can be adjusted about the weapon itself.

Buyers' special requirements are mostly reflected in the decorations. Winters was at the blacksmith shop because Misha invited him to choose the decoration styles.

"Are you sure you don't need to etch any patterns on the sword?" the old blacksmith couldn't help but ask.

“No need.” Winters smiled and shook his head. “Wouldn’t that damage the sword’s strength?”

Misha waved her hand repeatedly: "It's alright, it won't make a big difference. After all, swords look better with some patterns on them."

I prefer something simple.

Misha said regretfully, "Etching is a very technical skill. I'm afraid only Berion in the whole county has that ability. It would be a shame if you didn't give it a try. Oh well, come back when you want to add some decorations to your sword."

“Okay.” Winters said casually, “Even I, a layman, can tell that your sword-making skills are really good.”

“I’m just an old man, how would I know how to make swords? I can only make farm tools.” Misha said with a happy expression, patting the young blacksmith on the shoulder, “This kid is really talented! Even the swordsmiths in Zhevodan can’t compare to him. It’s a pity he’s in this small place. If he were in a big city, he would have made a fortune long ago.”

"Please don't say that," Berrian whispered briefly.

The young blacksmith was taciturn and sparing with words. Most of the time, he would silently work on his tasks, and if he had no work, he would sit in a chair in the corner and stare at the furnace.

“No need to be modest; excessive modesty is just arrogance. With your skills, if you went to Hailan, you'd have orders until next year.” Winters then casually asked, “I know where you’re from, Berlion.”

"To the north."

"empire?"

"Ah."

Where is the empire?

The young blacksmith looked up and met Winters's gaze, then quickly looked down again: "Solingen."

"Are you from Steel Castle? Little Berleon. I had no idea!" The old blacksmith was surprised. "No wonder your craftsmanship is so good. You are the famous Steel Castle blacksmith."

Winters had also heard of the famous Steel Castle Solingen, and he asked with a smile, "Steel Castle is quite far from here, so how did you end up in Palatour?"

Before the young blacksmith could speak, old Misha interjected, "This boy is a Protestant, and he's not well-liked in the north."

Berrian nodded.

"Sigh!" Old Misha slapped his thigh and said sadly, "Every few years they find a pretext to kill Protestants. When I was working for the old emperor, I was also ordered to do those things. Sigh, I was young then, and I just started killing people without any regard for right or wrong, sigh..."

The old blacksmith became increasingly distressed as he spoke, and the young blacksmith stopped his work, gently shaking his head to indicate, "It's alright."

Winters asked one more question: "Did any family members come with you?"

"My brother."

"Then your brother isn't a blacksmith?"

"He worked as a farmhand for the Benting family."

He didn't get anything useful out of her. However, Winters wasn't particularly concerned about the origin of Sophia's dagger. Hailan was far away; what good would it do even if he found out?

“Please come to collect your sword tomorrow,” Berian said.

Winters was somewhat surprised: "Isn't it almost done? Can't it be finished today?"

"The guard needs polishing, and the fittings need grinding." The young blacksmith explained simply, "I'll make it tonight, and you can pick it up tomorrow."

"Polishing is a delicate job; sometimes the pay for polishing is more expensive than the armor itself," the old blacksmith added. "You should go back now; this kid will definitely get it done for you."

Night had fallen, and old Misha left town with Winters. The old blacksmith lived in Dusa village and traveled there and back daily on horseback. The young blacksmith, on the other hand, ate and slept at the blacksmith's shop, and also minded the shop. ...

When Winters returned to Mitchell Estate, he could see the lights from afar. Mitchell Estate, which usually rests at sunset, was unusually lively tonight.

As the weather cools, this is the last harvest season for tobacco at Mitchell Estate.

In newly reclaimed land, tobacco is harvested in three stages due to the climate. The first two harvests involve picking only a portion of the leaves from the plant, while the third harvest involves completely removing all the tobacco leaves.

For Mitchell Estate, the tobacco harvest season is the most important time of the year.

Apart from a small portion used for growing food crops, the remaining two hundred hectares of land belonging to the Mitchell family were all used for growing tobacco.

Taxes, salaries, seeds… Mitchell Estate's operation was entirely supported by tobacco. Therefore, the tobacco harvest determined the entire year's income of this large estate.

Harvesting tobacco leaves is a tough and tiring job that requires speed.

It's already September, and frost could come at any moment. If the tobacco is damaged by frost, the entire year's harvest will be ruined.

Therefore, when the tobacco leaves mature, the pickers must race against time and harvest them while the leaves are still in perfect condition.

The harvested tobacco must be bundled, dried, and stored as soon as possible, otherwise its quality will be affected.

So during the tobacco harvest season, the Mitchell family works around the clock. Everyone, regardless of rank—master, servant, laborer, man, or woman—has to work in the tobacco fields.

Pierre, that idle fellow, was just as honest as ever, picking tobacco leaves in the tobacco field.

It wasn't just the people from Mitchell Manor who were working hard in the tobacco fields; many villagers from the five villages under Wolf Town also came to help.

Besides Mitchell Estate, most other tobacco-growing estates also harvest their crops during these days.

In order to recruit more people, each manor would offer high wages to the farmers who came to help.

Therefore, the tobacco harvest season is one of the few times of the year when farmers in Langzhen can earn extra money, and men, women, and children from all the villages will come out to work.

It was already night, but a campfire had been lit in the tobacco field, and everyone was still working hard.

The entire harvesting process was clearly divided into tasks. People working in the tobacco fields broke the tobacco leaves off the plants intact, loaded them onto trucks, and transported them to the curing barns.

Individual tobacco leaves are bundled together with thin ropes and hung on wooden frames outside the curing barn. Bundling tobacco leaves requires more skill than harvesting them, and only dexterous women can do it.

Therefore, there are almost no men among those working outside the drying room. The women move extremely fast, the hemp ropes flying between their fingers. Even the onlookers can't keep up with their movements; in the blink of an eye, they can tie a row of ropes.

The tobacco leaves, neatly hung on wooden racks, are sent to the curing room to dry, where a large amount of coal is used without reservation during the curing process.

Once inside the drying room, only men remained to work. Because it was so hot inside, the workers were almost all naked, climbing up and down ladders; naturally, there were no women present.

Even without clothes, the people responsible for curing tobacco leaves can only stay in the curing room for a short while, otherwise they risk suffocating.

Winters witnessed an amusing scene: Mrs. Mitchell and her youngest daughter were driving a carriage laden with barrels of wine, bound with iron hoops. They appeared to be heading to deliver drinks to the people working in the tobacco fields.

Everyone else was busy, and the two ladies didn't seem to be very good at riding horses.

The heavy draft horses, with their thick hides and tough flesh, were recklessly grazing on the wheat in the fields beside the road, showing no intention of moving forward no matter how much Mitchell and her daughter whipped them.

Seeing this, Winters immediately stepped forward to help. He wasn't really good at driving, but he could still manage to pull the reins forward.

When they arrived at the tobacco field, Mitchell's coachman saw the lieutenant leading the horse and quickly ran over to take over Winters's job.

Mrs. Mitchell smiled and thanked Winters, while Miss Mitchell almost buried her face in her mother's arms.

Seeing everyone in the manor working so hard, Winters suddenly felt a pang of shame.

“I’ll help out too, but you’d better remember to pay me,” Winters joked.

“I also have a favor to ask of you,” Mrs. Mitchell said with a smile. “Mr. Mitchell is on the west side of the roasting barn. Could you please go and assist him? He needs a reliable helper.”

“Of course, no problem, madam.” Winters mounted his red mane, nodded in acknowledgment, and sped off toward the oven.

Before even reaching their destination, Winters understood what was happening ahead.

An enticing aroma wafted through the air—the smell of roasted meat.

A few dozen meters west of the tobacco curing barn, Gerard and his old Dussac buddies were busy at work.

Several huge arched wooden lids were placed on the ground, and aromas and smoke wafted out from the gaps in the wooden planks.

A nearby open lid revealed Winters's interior: beneath the wooden cover was a large pit nearly a meter deep, its walls lined with stones, and the bottom contained wood and charcoal, resembling a makeshift oven.

Seeing Winters approaching, Girard waved to him happily: "Come on! Give me a hand!"

When Winters got to Gerard's side, he understood why such a large "oven" was used—because this kind of oven was used to roast an entire pig at once.

A whole pig was split in two from head to tail and laid out on an iron frame; it passed away peacefully.

Girard filled the pit with charcoal and wood, and it took six men working together to lift the two pigs and the iron frame onto the fire pit and put the lid on.

A few squeals came from not far away. Looking at the bloodstains on the grass and the pig offal in the wooden basin, Winters realized that it was still freshly slaughtered and roasted.

He counted; there were already six smoking roasting pits on the ground. And in the makeshift pigsty not far away, there were at least twice that number of pigs.

He asked in surprise, "Aren't you going to bake too much at once?"

“When you hire someone to work, you have to treat them to good food.” Girard said with a big smile.

Old Sergei was also there, and he laughed and said, "The roast pig at Mitchell Manor is famous far and wide. Not only the captain's family, but everyone working in other families will come running over as soon as they smell the aroma, and they can even drop everything they're doing."

"Tobacco harvest season is a rare treat," another familiar voice reached Winters' ears. "Only at this time of year is there enough fuel and time to roast a whole pig. Kid, you're in luck; who knows when you'll get to eat something like this again!"

"Why are you here too?" Winters stared wide-eyed at the old mendicant monk.

"Come and eat some meat."

"Why didn't I see you among the people who were carrying the grill?"

Brother Reid replied matter-of-factly, "I can't lift it."

"Alright, I need to go get some sleep." Old Sergei yawned. "I'll come back to relieve you guys in a bit."

After saying that, old Sergei ran to a nearby flat spot and lay down.

"Take a nap?" Winters had never seen anything like this before. "How long are they going to roast it?"

Girard scooped a glass of sweet wine from the wooden bucket beside him and handed it to the lieutenant: "About ten hours."

Thank you to all the readers who have consistently voted for this book.
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(End of this chapter)