Hugh J. O' Donnell

I was instantly disturbed by Hugh J. O' Donnell's To Each A Blade the minute I started reading it. It's not rated PG-13, even though it deals with adult themes. What disturbed me was that it violates all the rules. It's written totally in first-person dialogue, without direct quotes, no less. Even more disturbing, we only get the narrator's side of the conversation. Can he do that? Well, it turns out he can. Finally, the narrator is blind. All the visual cues we normally rely on to place us in the story are missing. Is it a riveting good yarn? Yes, it is. Does it work as a short story? You tell me after reading To Each a Blade.

TO EACH A BLADE

by Hugh J. O’Donnell 

Good evening, sir. Please forgive a blind old merchant for the wait. My assistant is gone for the day. What can I do for you?

The sword in the back? In the top case? You have a discerning eye, sir. That sword was one of the last blades forged by none other than master blacksmith Jibril Idari himself.

I can tell that you are skeptical. Come, have a seat, and I will tell you the sad tale of the sword’s origin. The weapon I charge for, but the story is free.

Have you heard of The Smith’s Blessing? The Wise say there are two kinds of blacksmiths. The first, can make anything. Be it a sword, a horseshoe, a plowshare; it’s all the same to them. They can make a dozen, and each one would be the same in form and function. Jibril was the other kind of blacksmith; the special kind. He was blessed from birth by the gods to create objects that perfectly suited their owners. As the saying goes, ‘a blade for every hand and to each a blade.’ Only one or two such smiths are born in a generation, but they can craft wonders. They say that after only a short interview, such a smith could make a weapon that would fit the user’s hand like a glove. Hold this sword. Note the balance. Consider the weight. Feel the grip. How is it? Perhaps it feels as though it were forged just for you? But then again, perhaps not.

But it is not merely physical measurement, but a weighing of the soul as well. It is said that a knight of utmost virtue, wielding a weapon forged for him alone by a blessed smith, would be nigh unstoppable. The pair would work in an almost magical concert. Needless to say, Jibril was apprenticed to the Royal Smiths from a young age.

Let us pause for a moment, as I am parched and could use a glass of wine. Would you be so kind as to drain a cup with me? I believe there is a bottle on the shelf to your right, and a pair of glasses.

Ah, perfect. This is a special vintage I have been saving. But to finally sell so rare a piece seems worth breaking it open. To your health, sir.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Jibril had begun his apprenticeship and taken the first steps toward his sorrowful destiny. This was the first time he truly struggled. In some ways, his hurdles were the same as any artist. It is one thing to know what shape a thing should be, and another to have the skill to create it. For all his divine talent, he still needed to learn the ways of the forge, to suffer the same failures and learn the same lessons. But his masters assumed that he was born holding a hammer and tongs, and his setbacks were punished more severely than his fellow apprentices. I can only imagine what it must have been like for him, to have his potential race so far ahead of his skill. He knew the what the iron wanted, but did not have the strength and experience to bring it into being.

As Jibril came into manhood, his skills blossomed, and fame and fortune followed. He made blades of all sorts: for the King, his knights, and by commission from noble houses all across the kingdom. The latter pieces had to be passed on to other smiths once he was finished to add embellishments and gilding. The problem, he found, was that the blessing worked too well. He took the measure of the man, or the woman, and made an item to match him or her. His work was solid and true, but it was also honest, to the point where he could be said to know his clients better than they knew themselves. Among the noble families a bit of honesty could be a very dangerous thing. So steeped are they in the games of court, in deception and intrigue, that it stains the soul. Jibril found himself making night-black daggers and wickedly curved blades. His masters would commend his skills and gently shoo him to ‘finish’ the pieces he started, to pretty them up and embellish them to better fit a lord’s expectation of himself.

As the years passed, Jibril continued to mature, but he found his skills plateaued. He became bored with his work: making the same weapons for the same vapid nobles, over and over again, his assistants bowing and scraping to meet their outrageous demands. His heart began to wander.

Would you care for more wine? Please, drink.

Everything changed when a young knight came to him for a sword, the reward for an act of unparalleled bravery. The man was the youngest son of a poor and obscure family, but he was also valiant and handsome, the very picture of chivalry. With little more than his grandfather’s armor and his good name, he had pledged his service to the King.

His name was Koldan, and Jibril knew all there was to know about him the moment he saw him. Because the Smith’s Blessing has little to do with the eye or the arm, and everything to do with the soul. From the moment they met, Jibril knew Koldan for his soulmate.

The sword he forged for Sir Koldan was three feet long, and bright as a ray of sunlight. It was said to cut through an enemy’s armor like paper, and blood would not dare to stain the edge. It was Jibril’s masterpiece. Koldan called it Heartblade.

Between campaigns, Koldan would visit Jibril when he could, and their affair was an open secret in court. Love between men was hardly considered unusual in the kingdom, but both had pledged their service to the King, and he had little patience for romance. As for Koldan, even the least son of the least noble house is expected to marry a lady of standing.

For ten years, they loved in secret, and served the kingdom faithfully. Until the day Koldan’s pledge was fulfilled, and they were free to run away.

There were places the two of them could live quietly. But not at court. The scandal would be too great. They left letters, changed their names, and moved to a distant village to start over together. Koldan tried his hand at farming, and Jibril tried to be the other kind of blacksmith.

They lived among plain, hardworking people, whose lives demanded simple but well-made tools. Jibril’s talents were not wasted, and while he saw less coin than he did in the palace, the villagers were kinder and more appreciative of his work. The pair lived happily there. The kingdom was at peace, and they lived peaceful lives. But such peace doesn’t last forever.

The men who broke into their home claimed to be bandits, but someone with Jibril’s talents couldn’t be lied to. This part of the story differs in the telling, but most agree that some lordling, hearing rumors of a village smith whose tools were far too fine, and had worked out the truth.

All agree on is that the pair were roughly woken from sleep with a knife at each of their throats. The supposed bandit wanted a sword to fit his hand, and if he didn’t get it, their lives were forfeit. Heartblade lay hidden in the false bottom of a trunk, out of reach.

And so, with no other recourse, Jibril set to work.

But his talent, as it so often did before, shone true, and he made a sword fit for the bandit’s hand. It was a short, barbed, nasty piece of work, all black steel and wide gutters to make a wound that would fester. It was without a doubt the ugliest, most brutish sword Jibril had ever forged.

Insulted, the man tested it on Koldan. It took three of his men to hold him while he did the deed, but he planted the weapon in his naked stomach. Then one of the others slit his throat, ‘as a mercy.’ And thus it was that the greatest knight of his age was laid low by a dishonorable knife in the dark.

Still not satisfied, the bandit personally used the still-warm blade to take the blacksmith’s eyes himself. He said he desired the blacksmith’s last blade. Can you imagine such a thing? To have the last thing you see be the wretched death of your beloved?

The bandits melted into the night, leaving Jibril a howling madman, which is how the villagers found him the next morning. They did what they could, tended to his wounds and buried Koldan as though he had been born there. But Jibril would not be consoled.

Blinded and enraged, he locked himself in his forge, making blade upon blade, for days on end. He made one for every single member of the bandit’s crew. Every detail he could remember, he poured into the forge. It must have been exceedingly difficult for him. He was unused to his disfigurement, and he would permit no assistance. He burned himself very badly at first. Sight mattered little to his gift, but it took him some time to learn to do without his eyes at the forge.

And when he had created swords and knives and axes enough for his purpose, he packed them in a wagon, put out his fire and disappeared.

I can tell by the way your breath struggles, that the paralytic in the wine has taken hold by now. Don’t try to get up; you will find it quite impossible in any case.

As I said, the gift is very specific. The moment you touched that sword, I knew it was the one for you. And now, you will tell me where your companions are, and I will demonstrate its use.

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