The Blacksmith

The town got nervous when the blacksmith moved in.

There were a few questions at first. Why here? They were a town of few people, and well off the beaten path. He was a blacksmith – what custom did he expect out here, with no local mines, and no one with whom to do business? They weren't even big enough to have a mayor, just a town burgher who would take the road for many days to reach a town of consequence when things went awry. Did he expect an army to magically appear, to buy his wares?

The blacksmith would shrug, and get about his business, making an infernal racket while doing so.

He did craft some amazing swords. Fine steel, the finest. Strong, sharp, and never broke or rusted.

The feel of the place changed. Shadows were darker, and far thicker, and lasted longer than they should have. Torch light was not enough to see the darkness shrink back into itself; only strong sunlight could do that. People got nervous, and dogs and cats were snappish. The most sensitive townspeople left, vowing never to return.

Through it all, the blacksmith hammered on.

Eventually, buyers arrived. They would bring money, and good foodstuffs, and pigs on the hoof. The blacksmith would accept these offerings gravely, and after a slight fuss of measuring arm length and wrist and a bit of swinging about, satisfied customers would leave with shiny blades wrapped in protective leather.

Word spread. The tiny track leading to town became wider and firmer, as people came for the quality of the blacksmith's swords. Never anything else but swords. Broken iron things brought to him for repair were turned aside, to wait for an itinerant to fix, or the people to take them to a bigger town themselves. No time, he'd grunt, must make swords.

Eventually, he bought a pasture, and a barn, to house the swine. And a sullen pigherder appeared, to tend them.

It was the animals that vanished, not the people.

Regularly, roughly every month, the town would hear terrible squealing in the dark of the night. Come morning, the shadows were sluggish and easily moved, and there was one less animal in the field. Some people paid close attention to the numbers, and counted.

An uneasy regularity suffused the area.

Those buyers spent coin on other things, like fresh meals and taverns. Smaller businesses appeared, to care for the travelers and their retinues and all. Good cooks came and made good meals, for when a caravan appeared unexpectedly. Hostlers built a stable. With what was being paid for the swords, brand-new sword owners could afford to be generous to the ones that made their stay in the hinterlands comfortable.

Those who did not directly profit from the new source of income didn't stay. The shadows were too thick, and they missed what life had been like before the smithery. Farmers brought in produce, but scuttled back to their homes outside and away from the atmosphere.

And still the blacksmith forged sword after sword.

It was many years before the sharp-eyed counters thought to ask the obvious question: where is he getting the iron for them?

A few young bucks had taken up residence in the tavern, card sharpers who could fleece the revelers out of some coinage when they were in their cups. One night, with some celebratory ale after a particularly fat pot was won, that question did flow across their minds like a drift of dark shadow.

And they devised a plan.

The blacksmith didn't mind visitors to his forge. It was sometimes the most pleasant location, when the fires burned bright enough to banish the shadows. He would not converse, too busy, but would not mind when others did.

But his cottage? No. No one was allowed there.

It was a most excellent ale, therefore they thought it a most excellent plan. So good, in fact, that they decided to see right away what the blacksmith was hiding in his rooms.

They stealthily sneaked across the moon-dark street, wobbled up the road a bit. The clang clang clang was steady from the forge, and they knew from long experience it would last for many more hours.

The front door was locked, they knew. But the windowless back?

The blacksmith had been seen now and again, bringing a pig through that wide door.

And, once they tried it, they found it unlocked.

They crept inside.

No sooner was the door shut against the night, than they were set upon, buffeted about like they were reeds in the wind.

Swinging wildly led to nothing but being off balance. One was soon knocked out cold, then another, but the third made gurgling and strangled noises before being dropped unceremoniously to the floor.

The other two, upon waking many hours later, found themselves bound hand and foot and gagged. The third, unfortunately, was beyond need of binding. Or air.

The smith was shaking his head in the doorway in dim light.

“I am sorry,” he rumbled, “But I can't have you spilling my secret to the town. I have been driven away almost everywhere else, and even using only pigs has its price and suspicions. I am at least tolerated here, and I wish to keep it that way. I can ensure you a quick, clean death, but that is all I can do. I wish your curiosity had not gotten the better of your reasoning.”

They could make out the dried husk of their friend in the corner, already crumbling away. In another corner, a dark coffin, and it was creaking open. To their horror, the thing inside crawled out, towards them, reaching for them. They tried to scream, but the gag prevented loud noises.

The undead thing came, dragging a length of strong chain attached to both ankles and waist.

“People know what vampires eat,” the blacksmith mused, “But they never think about what is eliminated. If things eat, they must get rid of waste. And blood may be rich in nutrients, but it is not perfect in this imperfect world. What is left, is pure iron, ripped from each particle of food they consume. And such waste product is perfect for my profession, to turn into swords of deadly beauty. So I keep this one I have captured as a farm animal of sorts. But people would drive me away yet again if they knew the truth, so...”

The vampire reached for them and they struggled, but they could not escape.

The blacksmith closed the door.

And as their life faded, they could hear the faint sounds of clang, clang, clang....