Benjamin Blacksmith Shop Novels & Stories

She shivered and looked away. As they turned down another street, the entire block was filled with blacksmiths. Everywhere flew anvils and hammers, and the ping of metal rang throughout the street, each blacksmith seeming to echo the other. There were also clay pits with large flames roasting slabs of red-hot metal, on which they were forging horseshoes, swords, and all sorts of metal work. Caitlin noticed the faces of children, black with soot, sitting by their father’s sides, watching them work. She felt badly that the children worked at such a young age. Caitlin looked everywhere for a sign of Scarlet, of her Dad, of any clue of why they were here—but she found none.

One the blacksmith had referred to as 'beautiful'. Next was the forging. Under the guidance of the blacksmith Sethlzaar spent the rest of the day shoveling coke into the furnace while the man hammered away at his work. The smoke threatened to choke Sethlzaar and the sound of the hammer against the anvil left him with a constant ringing in his ears.

I also make my way through the full corridors, being small has its advantages. I start running by the blacksmithing. It was five-thirty in the morning and the place was already boiling. All five furnaces (that looked more like the volcanoes in the illustrated books) were lit and dozens of blacksmiths raised and lowered their hammers. Pang, Pong Pum. Horrible noise. Even worse is the smell of smoke, coal, metal, and other burning things. (That I don't want to know what it is) Gray-haired blacksmith looks at me and says, —Hey boy! We need more copper here! —Other Blacksmiths start to notice me too.

I said. My fingers ghosted across a simple but well-made black one. The wool was thick and tightly woven, promising warmth and invisibility. After paying the fifty silver, I stepped back out into the plaza. As I walked, the air grew hazy with the smell of hot metal and coal smoke, and the rhythmic clang... clang... clang of a hammer drew my eye. A small, open-air blacksmith shop, its heat a visible shimmer in the cool afternoon. I wonder… I found him by the gate, a shadow against the stone. He rose as I approached. "Success?"

She planned to adjust the armor Kaelen had sent earlier, to better fit the slender builds of her orphan girls. The sound of clanging hammers grew deafening the deeper they went. Blazing furnaces kept the whole area sweltering hot. Eira halted before the largest blacksmith shop, lined with finely crafted plate armor. Before she could speak, three burly bare-chested Blackrock men blocked their path. The leader stood fully two meters tall, a long claw scar slashing across his chest. He held a huge wooden tank of cloudy ale, reeking of strong liquor. He sized them up openly, eyes wandering insolently over Serena and Eira.

“Two and a half.” “One hour forty-five.” The blacksmith rubbed his face. “You’re insane.” Michelle said nothing. He swore. “Fine. But you stay. If I leave you here alone and someone comes asking questions, I lose my licence. You stay. You don’t leave.” Michelle didn’t trust him enough to leave anyway. She nodded. “I stay.” He got to work. The forge roared to life, metal heating to red flame. Sparks burst. The air thickened with heat and smoke. Michelle sat on a stool against the wall, hands folded, mind sharp.

"I was beginning to think I lost my way." We walked towards a store with a sign hanging crookedly at the front Don Blacksmith, etched in faded gold letters that had long since chipped away with time. The wooden sign creaked as it swung with the wind, one hinge barely holding on. The building itself was old, made of soot-stained brick, its front blackened with years of smoke and heat. The heavy oak doors were propped open with two large metal barrels to keep it from swaying in the wind. Inside, there was a glow of orange from the fire they used to forge metal. The shop smelt of molten metal and burning coal.

We stopped before a heavy door made of darkened metal, marked by old dents, soot stains, and deep scratches near the lock. “The Blacksmith lives here,” Darrow announced, his voice echoing with dark reverence. “He makes every weapon in Verisure.” Darrow knocked twice with his closed fist, hard enough for the metallic impact to vibrate through the door and echo down the corridor. A few seconds later, we heard the heavy sound of locks being moved on the other side. When the door finally opened, a wave of heat immediately escaped, striking my face after the street’s biting cold. The contrast was so abrupt that I felt my skin tighten.

The blacksmith stall smelled like smoke and iron. I loved it immediately. Heavy tables were covered with tools, horseshoes, nails, and rough chunks of raw ore that glinted under the hanging lanterns. A few finished blades sat further down the display, their polished surfaces reflecting the warm festival lights. Bjorn wasn’t there tonight. Instead, a broad older shifter worked the stall, carefully weighing small chunks of ore for another customer. I hovered near the end of the table, studying the raw metals laid out on a cloth.

Zen thanked the cheerful armourer and left to find the blacksmith. It was not hard to locate Ben’s workshop from the rhythmic sound of hammer striking metal. Ben was a sturdy-looking man about the same height as Zen but twice as wide with those muscles and beer belly. He had a very bushy beard that looked untameable and a very sooty face. “Excuse me,” his voice sounded small as the stocky blacksmith struck the metal sheet once more. Ben ignored Zen and continued pounding that red hot metal. He looked deeply focused, and the young chef felt bad for calling out to him when he was busy. Hence, Ze ended up waiting for nearly three minutes until the cooling red hot metal was stuffed into a barrel