The blade

Ryan pounded at the heated blade he had placed on his anvil. He had been working on the piece for a few weeks now, honing the steel into the long shape of a sword, folding the metal repeatedly and re-melting it to increase the strength. It would be complete soon, and ready to be handed over to the man who had ordered it to be custom made. Normally Ryan wasn't one to take custom orders, but the man had offered a large payment, which Ryan really couldn't refuse.

His hammer fell in rhythm, the loud clang of steel on steel ringing out with each strike. Every blow was carefully aimed, placed so as to give the blade it's distinct shape, and to have the strength to withstand a thousand blows. It was no secret that this blade was made not only to fight, but to kill. However, Ryan would not be deterred from his work over such a tiny detail. He did not live in an age in which killing was something to be afraid of. Perhaps when he had been a child, but no longer. If anything were to come from the future, some men would have to forfeit their lives, first.

As the heat of the metal began to fade, and the steel would no longer be shaped by his hammer, Ryan lifted the sword from his forge and examined it closely. It would not do to have imperfections that would weaken this blade. The center had been designed to draw blood, and anything that prevented such an act would be highly detrimental. But his work was true, and the blade was finally prepared for the sharpening stone.

He made his way to the wheel and sat down to his work. He knew he had only a few hours before his client would arrive, awaiting his weapon, and sharpening was not a process to be rushed. He began to pump the pedal on the ground, which started the gears which set the wheel to motion. His foot pulsed slowly and steadily as the wheel gained speed until it reached the pace it needed to be. Only then did Ryan put on his leather gloves and put the steel to the stone.

Sparks flew as the very edge of the sword began to sharpen and hone. Ryan was careful to methodically sharpen the blade all the way around, first one face, and then the other. It needed to be sharp, but too thin as to create weakness. It was a delicate process, but one that he had practiced many times, and that he felt he had mastered.

As the hours dragged on, the blade slowly came to its desired sharpness. Just as he was lifting the blade from the stone to give it one last run down, he heard the door to his shop opening. He looked up to see the man from before walking inside, dressed in dark clothing, a sheath already attached to his belt and awaiting the blade.

"Is it ready?" the man called out.

"One moment, "Ryan replied, "I'm just finishing up with the sharpening."

He heard nothing in reply, and looked back at the weapon he had created. There was no question in his mind that this would be lethal. Men would fall to it, and it would stain red with blood. The sharpness was just where he wanted it, and the design was without flaw.

He was proud of what he had made.

He came out to the front, where the man was waiting, a bag of gold already placed on the counter. Without a word, Ryan handed over the sword. The man took it, looked it over and, satisfied, slipped it effortlessly into his sheath, leaving in silence. Ryan watched the man leave and then picked up the bag, feeling its weight, and pulling a couple coins to examine them.

He would live well for quite some time off of this.