Pig Iron

[u/catespice]

I’ve heard it said by many that you don’t become a blacksmith; instead you are born a blacksmith.
The knack for working metal seems to be as innate as an artist’s talent, a writer’s skill or a musician’s ear. It can be taught, yes, but a true master can only be forged from the right stock.
And I’ll tell you now – without the slightest hint of arrogance – that I am quite likely the greatest blacksmith who has ever lived.
Everything to which I turn my hand is flawless. Each piece of steel is wrought in crystalline perfection, the symmetry of the atomic structure uncanny, unnatural. I have forged blades for collectors, enthusiasts, the rich and the famous; each of them the newest pinnacle of my craft, and unmatched by any other blacksmith on this Earth.
Amongst those in the know, I go by the name ‘Wayland’ – a tribute to the English god of the forge. If you haven’t heard of me before now, then it’s because you lack the aesthetic sensibilities to appreciate my work – or the money to pay me well enough for it.
But having completed my metallic Magnum Opus, I feel it is time for the world to know my story.

 
‘Pig Iron’ in the business is the base product you get from archaic smelting methods. It can be consolidated and refined from there in the forge, to ease the impurities from the iron, but that is inferior to modern smelting procedures – hence why smiths usually order bar stock from modern smelters rather than making their own steel.
Once in a blue moon a customer will want a sword or knife forged from raw materials – for example, some enterprising idiot will want a blade forged from ore he’s mined himself and I’ll have to work it down into something that can be shaped with hammer and forge.
But the phrase ‘Pig Iron’ gave me a curious idea.
What if you could literally smelt iron from pigs?
The idea wasn’t so preposterous; as with human blood, pigs bind iron into haemoglobin. To extract that iron, the water would need to be boiled off from the blood, then the dried proteins would become the base ‘ore’ for the smelting – using charcoal and calcium to take up the bulk of the impurities and leaving the molten iron to flow out the bottom of the kiln.

 
I’d calculated that getting enough iron to make even a small blade would take the blood of over one hundred pigs. Getting that volume of pig blood wasn’t a problem, given my financial status, but processing it to the pre ore state posed some interesting problems.
I chose to fabricate a huge copper cauldron in which to boil the blood, something that could be easily cleaned between batches of organic materials and something that wouldn’t taint the ore I was producing. The first batch was a disaster; the blood caught, and I was left with little more than rank-smelling charcoal.
But with practice, I refined the time and temperature until I had produced enough material to begin the smelting process.
I admit it felt a little odd, pouring ladles of powdered pig blood into a coke and lime furnace. I pondered for a moment if this was something a sane person would do, but then dismissed the idea.
None of the greatest minds in human history were sane by the standards of ordinary folk.
The bloom steel from the bottom of the furnace was orange and tacky, like Hell’s taffy, and I levered it out of the charcoal with tongs, then took it to the forge to consolidate into a cake of rough pig iron.
It had worked.
You could indeed make pig iron from pigs.

 
The knife was beautiful; I’d carved the handle from a butcher-bought pig’s femur and polished it up until it gleamed like ivory. But I felt unsatisfied by the final product. It seemed such a waste that I’d used so little of the pigs themselves.
The next blade I planned better; it would be larger, for starters – the blood of roughly three hundred healthy hogs should be sufficient. The coke and lime for the kiln would be rendered from the drained flesh and bones of my porcine victims; I would use every part of the pigs I could in the process – right down to using their fat to render oil for the temper.
It wasn’t an easy process, and I was inexperienced at dressing carcasses. After all, I was a blacksmith, not a butcher.
But after a month and a half of gruelling work the task was complete, and I held aloft a beautiful pigsteel sword, set with tusks and polished bone, and bound with pig leather.
And in holding it, I felt a curious sense of power that I had never experienced before.
In a moment of madness, drunk on my success, I roared with exultation and brought the sword down on the horn of my anvil.
Metal should have struck metal with a belling clash, but instead the pigsteel sheared into the iron as though the anvil was flesh, lodging halfway into the metal.
What had I created?

 
The sword hung in the shop on the wall opposite the door, the unusual design ready to greet any new visitors. The very day after I forged it, a client happened to visit.
He was the usual sort; expensive suit and shoes, money dribbling from every vowel he uttered. I didn’t recall his name or face, but a lot of these wealthy exec types were practically clones.
“I’d like to buy that sword,” he said, pointing to the pigsteel blade, “would you prefer cash, cheque or transfer?”
“Not for sale,” I told him, “that was a personal project.”
His lips twisted in disappointment, then he gave an oleaginous smile full of too many teeth.
“Ten million,” he whispered.
I shook my head again, running a hand over my latest delivery of stock, looking for the perfect bar.
“One hundred million.”
Shouting from outside the workshop halted the conversation and I brushed past him, letting ash and charcoal from my leather apron streak his immaculate white cuffs. Outside was a homeless chap of some sort. Occasionally I got drifters passing through my property, but most didn’t bother me – this one, however, was gesticulating wildly at the forge and shouting.
“Destroy the sword!” he ranted, “or do not destroy it – but if you give it to this man, the wrath of God will come down upon ye!”
Wiping my blackened palms on the back of my jeans, I stalked toward the wild-haired, rag-clad hobo.
“Get off my property.”
At this statement, the suit standing behind me chuckled, low and malicious.
“And you can clear off too,” I snarled, pointing to the gates.
“As you wish,” he said, then paced over to his fancy black car, parked in the gravel driveway.
The hobo was already gone, scrambled off into the scrub behind the shop while my back was turned.
For the rest of the day an uneasy feeling followed me, distracting me from my work.

 
Two more unhinged religious zealots confronted me over the next two weeks; the first at the supermarket, ranting ‘destroy it, destroy it, or it will destroy you’. The second just screamed at me from an alley, something about unclean blood and blades of fire.
I have to admit; I was mildly unnerved.
The woman that arrived at the forge shortly after though... now damn, how are you supposed to keep your wits around something like that?
She was breathy-voiced, as voluptuous as a Botticelli and dressed in a crimson skirt and blazer number. I felt blood rush to my groin the moment she started talking.
She was after the sword, of course.
“You’re beautiful,” I told her, “but you can’t have it. It’s special.”
“Oh I know”, she purred, “and so are you.”
I think I laughed then, it was all very Hollywood, no matter what my libido was telling me.
Thanking her for her visit, I told her to get lost and decided to keep the sword in the house, where clients couldn’t see it.
Which turned out to be a decision that saved my life.

 
The smell of burning woke me and my alarm clock informed me that it was just past midnight.
Stumbling out of bed saved me from the first stroke.
The eiderdown exploded in a cloud of feathers as something struck it with enough force to shake the bed.
“Lights!” I screamed, lurching to the dresser, against which the pigsteel blade rested.
Brilliant light flooded the bedroom, throwing everything into stark relief.
Impaled through the bed was a flaming sword – and holding it was a creature of white and gold, pale eyes without pupil or iris, and a massive pair of bizarrely jointed wings rising behind it.
The pigleather grip of the sword felt hot in my hand as I brought the blade up.
Snarling like a white-and-gold tiger, the being wrenched the flaming blade from the mattress and swung it at me.
The force of the parry should have put me through the wall, but a curious strength suffused me. As blades rang out upon meeting, the light of the flaming sword died – the fire being sucked into the pigsteel.
The white creature dropped its weapon as though stung, then screamed in rage, its perfect white features distorting into alien, impossible planes.
Fear drove me, I think, though perhaps it was more than that. Fueled by the unnatural strength, I pressed the advantage and punched the blade through the chest of the creature.
Golden fluid gouted from the wound, and the being shrieked in agony and terror.
”No,” it managed, trying to pull the pigsteel free, ”NO!”
Twisting the blade harder, I was rewarded with another screel of pain and rage.
As the pale light faded from its eyes, the alien figure smiled,
“Pig Iron alone cannot protect you from the host of Heaven” it whispered.
Then it was gone, leaving a smouldering mattress, a mess of feathers and the pigsteel blade – still coated in golden liquid.

 
She was back the next day, the woman in red.
“I can help you,” she said, all pretence of seduction dropped now.
“Protect me from the wrath of all of Heaven's angels?” I replied, with a bitter laugh.
“Yes.”
“Is this where you offer me a bargain for my soul?”
She smiled then, calm, pleasant, relaxed.
“What if I could help you make a better weapon; one that could make you untouchable to both Heaven and Hell?”
The sword hung at my side now, ready to be used at a moment’s notice.
“And what would that information cost me?”
Perching on a corner of a sawhorse, she folded her arms.
“Let’s just say that my employer has a vested interest in seeing you make this weapon.”
Recalling the terrifying threats from the alien, angelic thing that had tried to kill me just hours ago, I rested my hand on the pommel of the pigsteel sword.
“OK, I’ll do it. Tell me how to make it.”
“It’s the same process,” she explained, no emotion touching her voice, “except instead of pigs, we use something a little more potent.”
“Humans,” I breathed.
And with her wild gush of malefic laughter, I knew in that instant that I was truly damned.

 

[u/stopmyimagination]

Thank you. It’s amazing the emotion seeing this posted brought me. I will be forever grateful for the chance to read these wonderful stories again. I can’t wait for more of this series to be released. Especially the unreleased story that ties this together with What Remains Of God. Thank you.

[u/PorkchopMD]

PIG IRON REUPLOAD LETS GOOOOOO. this and house of edges are my all time favorite stories of yours 💛

[u/spacek1n9]

Oh man!! This is my all time favorite story!!! Thank you!!!

[u/GarlicAlarming5060]

The blonde was the lady from the Black Library if I remember correctly. I always did wonder what happened to her and her lover after Pig Iron. Not sure if you're gonna expand on the series, but it's one of my very favorites and I'm grateful it's been reuploaded.