The Weight of Honor by Morgan Rice Page A

eager to join our cause.”
    “Is he now?” Fervil asked skeptically.
    He surveyed Alec with harsh eyes, looking him up and down as if he were useless.
    “I doubt that,” he replied, “from the looks of him. Looks awful young to me. But we can put him to work collecting our scraps. Take this,” he said, reaching over and handing Alec a bucket full of metal scrap. “I’ll let you know if I need more from you.”
    Alec reddened, indignant. He did not know why this man had taken such a dislike to him—perhaps he was threatened. He could sense the forge grow quiet, could sense the other boys watching. In many ways, this man reminded him of his father, and that only increased Alec’s anger.
    Still, he fumed inside, no longer willing, since the death of his family, to tolerate anything he had before.
    As the others turned to walk away, Alec dropped the bucket of metal and it clanged loudly on the stone floor. The others all turned around, stunned, and the forge grew quiet, as the other boys stopped to watch the confrontation.
    “Get the hell out of my shop!” Fervil snarled.
    Alec ignored him; instead, he stepped past him, to the closest table, picked up a long sword, held it out straight, and examined it.
    “This your handiwork?” Alec asked.
    “And who are you to be asking questions of me?” Fervil demanded.
    “Is it?” Marco pressed, sticking up for his friend.
    “It is,” Fervil answered defensively.
    Alec nodded.
    “It’s junk,” he concluded.
    There came a gasp in the room.
    Fervil stood to his full height and scowled back, livid.
    “You boys can leave now,” he snarled. “All of you. I have enough smiths in here.”
    Alec stood his ground.
    “And none worth a damn,” he countered.
    Fervil turned red and stepped forward threateningly, and Marco put a hand between them.
    “We’ll leave,” Marco said.
    Alec suddenly lowered the sword’s tip to the ground, raised his foot high, and with one clean kick, shattered it in two.
    Shards flew everywhere, stunning the room.
    “Should a good sword do that?” Alec asked with a wry smile.
    Fervil shouted and charged Alec—and as he neared, Alec held out the jagged end of the broken blade, and Fervil stopped in his tracks.
    The other boys, seeing the confrontation, drew swords and rushed forward to defend Fervil, while Marco and his friends drew theirs around Alec. All the boys stood there, facing off with each other in a tense standoff.
    “What are you doing?” Marco asked Alec. “We all share the same cause. This is madness.”
    “And that is why I cannot let them fight with junk,” Alec replied.
    Alec threw down the broken sword, reached over, and slowly drew a long sword from his belt.
    “Here is my handiwork,” Alec said loudly. “I crafted it myself in my father’s forge. A finer work you will never find.”
    Alec suddenly turned the sword, grabbed the blade, and held it out, hilt first, to Fervil.
    In the tense silence, Fervil looked down, clearly not expecting this. He snatched the hilt, leaving Alec defenseless, and for a moment he seemed to contemplate stabbing Alec with it.
    Yet Alec stood there proudly, unafraid.
    Slowly, Fervil’s face softened, clearly realizing Alec had left himself defenseless, and looking at him with more respect. He looked down and examined the sword. He weighed it in his hand and held it up to the light, and finally, after a long time, he looked back at Alec, impressed.
    “Your work?” he asked, disbelief in his voice.
    Alec nodded.
    “And I can forge many more,” he replied.
    He stepped forward and looked at Fervil, intensity in his eyes.
    “I want to kill Pandesians,” Alec replied. “And I want to do it with real weapons.”
    A long, thick silence lingered over the room, until finally Fervil slowly shook his head and smiled.
    He lowered the sword and held out an arm, and Alec clasped it. Slowly, all the boys lowered their weapons.
    “I suppose,” Fervil said, his grin broadening, “we can find a