Tuning the Ash Shaft

Could an ash stave balance true when the loch had stolen every breath of moving wind? In the low-beamed loft above the taproom, Lorcan-Rhu held the pale wood close to a flickering tallow saucer, testing whether a weapon shaped for open gales could survive the stagnant air settled over Loch-na-Cailleach. His notched nine-ringed saber rested downstairs behind the bar, leaving only this five-foot length of river timber to stand between his retirement and an early ditch.

The dead calm from the common room lingered in the upper rafters. Peat smoke hung in greasy ribs beneath the shingles, refusing to find the roof vent. Without a prevailing draft to buoy his sleeves, the weight of the seasoned wood pulled hard against the old fracture in his left collarbone.

Lorcan set his thumb against the stave's midpoint. He dragged his calloused skin down the taper, feeling for the faint spiral where the wood had dried unevenly in the salt air. Three inches above the butt, the grain veered left. In an open highland gust, a gale-braided slipstream compensated for such a curve by curling an air-cushion around the shaft. Here in the dead air, a direct thrust would drag half an inch wide, straight into Caoimhe's petrel point.

He wedged the stave between two floor timbers. Drawing a thumb-sized steel scrape from his belt pouch, he began peeling curls of pale ash along the belly of the curve. The scrape hissed across the dry fibers, dropping curls like dried onion skins into his lap.

Beside his knee lay a small deerskin pouch. Lorcan pushed a curled shaving away with the flat of his thumb and touched the soft leather. Inside, three dozen dried pippins rattled together. They were Russet seeds collected three autumns ago from an orchard wall outside Dun-Creag, before the Heather-Scythe vanguard marched north to burn the lower sheep pens. If he survived the three horns on the floating dock tomorrow, those seeds would go into black soil on the southern braes. If his balance slipped by the width of a fingernail, Eachann-Ruadh's tallymen would feed the pouch to the loch trout.

He lifted the stave again and sighted down the length. The curve had flattened, but the center of gravity sat too close to the middle. For twenty winters his right wrist had carried the forward pull of a nine-ringed cleaver. The muscles in his forearm were thick as salt beef, hardened to wrench heavy iron through mail, but when he whipped the timber in an empty arc, the light butt drifted. The tip lagged behind his knuckles.

Floorboards creaked out on the loft stair.

Maolain rounded the timber post with a wide red-clay bowl in his good right hand. His stained linen apron brushed the rungs, smelling of roasted barley and boiled marrow.

"Curling timber onto clean fleece," Maolain said, halting two paces away. "Siorcha scrubbed those sheep-pelts with river sand three nights ago. If you grind ash dust into the wool, you can sleep on the bare cedar planks."

Lorcan did not drop the stave. "The wood pulls."

"The wood does not pull," the old striker said, shoving the hot bowl toward Lorcan's chest. "Take the porridge before the tallow scum sets on top. Your shoulders are hunched like an old ox at a ditch."

Lorcan accepted the bowl. The heat seeped through the clay into his stiff fingers, easing the dull ache along his wrist tendons. He set the dish beside the apple seeds and picked up the stave with one hand, demonstrating the lag.

"In a gale, the back-draft catches the tail," Lorcan said. "Here, the tip drops before the elbow locks."

Maolain looked at the stave, then looked at Lorcan's thumb. His watery hazel eyes were sharp beneath ragged white brows. "You spent twenty winters letting an eight-pound slab of iron do the work of your elbow. When you swung the Heather-Scythe vanguard blade, you pulled the blow forward with your collarbone and let the iron rings drag the momentum around. You think you're fighting the calm."

"The calm took the draft away," Lorcan said.

"The calm took your crutch away," Maolain snapped. The old man stepped closer, pointing with the two sound fingers of his mangled left hand. "Connall of the Storm-Petrel lost his wrists because he tried to stop that iron cleaver head-on. Now you face his sister with four ounces of peeled ash, and your shoulder is still waiting for nine iron rings to finish the arc."

Lorcan reached into his pocket and pulled a scrap of oiled rag across the stave's freshly planed flat. "The bout is set for non-lethal staves. Three exchanges. If the tip wanders against her petrel thrust, she takes the throat."

Maolain grunted. He reached deep into the broad front pocket of his faded apron and produced a blackened band of forged iron. It was three finger-widths across, bored clean through the center, with four lead wedges driven flush into the inner rim. The metal was dull, pitted with age, and dark as peat mud.

"Slide that over the butt," Maolain said.

Lorcan set down the scrap of rag and took the iron band. It carried surprising heft, weighing nearly ten ounces despite its small circumference. He aligned the bored opening with the base of the ash stave and shoved it home. The fitted sleeve caught two inches from the bottom, locking tight against the taper.

Lorcan stood up, hunching slightly beneath the low collar beams of the loft. He raised the stave in both hands, setting his feet on the cedar seams.

He brought the wood forward in a low, compressed thrust.

The heavy tail dropped instantly into the pocket of his rear palm. Instead of pulling from his damaged collarbone, the center of mass settled two inches behind his front hand. The front tip snapped forward in a clean, level line, halting three inches above the floor without the slightest tremble.

The change was instantaneous. The mechanical leverage canceled out the twenty-year drag of his vanguard broadsword, settling his wind-core straight through the soles of his boots.

"Where did this come from?" Lorcan lowered the butt to the floor.

"A dead fool from the high glen who thought an ash spear should strike like a blacksmith's maul," Maolain said, turning toward the stairwell. "It has sat in the grease jar behind the lard tubs for fifteen winters. Scrape the rust off before dawn, or the flakes will foul my cedar planks."

"It balances true," Lorcan said.

"Eat the porridge," Maolain retorted, his voice rasping from the lower steps. "A starved swordsman swings like a wet hemp cord, and I have no interest in sweeping up your teeth before the kettle boils."

Lorcan sat down upon the sheepskin. He lifted the clay bowl and worked through the thick barley porridge, tasting coarse salt and melted mutton tallow. Every swallow warmed the deep hollow behind his sternum where the stagnant air had settled.

When the bowl was empty, he wiped the wooden spoon clean with his apron corner and set it neatly against the timber rail. He retrieved the stave once more, working the balance through ten short, silent thrusts in the tallow light. The iron weight hummed against his palm, biting firmly into the ash.

Footsteps pattered on the loft stairs, so light the timber barely groaned.

Siorcha appeared at the top rung. Her small frame was wrapped in a faded gray wool shawl, her soot-smudged face pale in the dim yellow lantern light. Her fingers gripped the banister rail with unusual tightness.

Lorcan lowered the stave. "Siorcha?"

"Master Lorcan," the girl said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper that barely carried across the loft. "The shoreline braziers are gone."

Lorcan moved to the small unglazed dormer window facing the southern water. He looked out into the gloom.

Along the curved bank where the willow trees dipped their boughs into the loch, three iron baskets had burned since nightfall to guide the neutral skiffs through the mist. Now, there was only unbroken, suffocating blackness. No sparks drifted into the fog. No smoke showed against the hills.

"Did the oil run out?" Lorcan asked quietly.

Siorcha shook her head, her breath catching in her throat. "Master Maolain filled them with fresh peat tallow after sunset. The chains are cut, and someone dragged the iron baskets into the deep marsh."