Location:Seven Peaks — Bjorn's forge; the yard outside it
Date/Time:TC1857.03.24
Coal smoke, quench steam, and the flat mineral stink that comes off hot scale — Bjorn had smelled the same three things every working day of his life in two countries, and it was the only part of the world that had not changed on him.
He was making neck tools.
That was what the sheet from the north road came down to when you took the words off it. One method left, behind the head-plate, into the joint, and be right the first time. So: a straight edge, short, heavy in the spine and thin at the point, on a haft long enough to reach and short enough to drive. He had made a dozen of them since the sheet came and had thrown four of those back in the fire because the temper had gone wrong at the shoulder, and he was aware that he was throwing back more than he usually would, and he was aware of why, and he kept doing it.
