"Impossible," Geum said, crossing his thick arms across his chest. "What you ask cannot be done."
Vlad frowned at the old blacksmith. "What do you mean?"
"You want a Bloodsteel blade," the old man said, peering at him like he was stupid. "Are you aware of what you're asking for, fledgling? Have you rotted your brains out reading too many books? You shouldn't do that. You'll go blind."
"What are you talking about? A Bloodsteel blade is simple!"
"Simple, he says!" Old Geum gawped at him. "What nonsense are you speaking?"
Vlad held back a hissed remark.
The old man didn't seem to be lying.
He truly didn't know how to make a Bloodsteel blade!
How was this possible?
"Are you saying no one in Bistritz can forge a Bloodsteel blade?"
"In Bistritz?" Old Geum snorted. "Stupid fledgling. No one in the world can forge such a miracle. And don't think every smith worth his salt hasn't tried! I've tried! And failed. The secret to forging Bloodsteel has been lost for generations."
"Gah!" Vlad resisted the urge to spit on the old man's shop floor. "Why is everything so troublesome?"
The smith raised an eyebrow. "Well. I can't answer that."
Sighing, Vlad held out the sword he had. "Roland said you were the best," he said slowly. "I accept your words and apologise for my rudeness."
"Eh." Old Geum shrugged. "It's a small offence. I won't take it to heart. In truth, I'm ashamed I can't help. But the secrets of the past need careful digging, and I was always too impatient for that sort of thing."
"I understand impatience," Vlad grunted, causing the old smith to grin.
"Tell me what you need."
Vlad held up the sword he'd taken from the Full Moon leader. "Something similar to this. But the blade needs to be thicker. Heavier if you can. And made out of the strongest metal you can make."
"Heavier than this?" Old Geum scratched his head as he took the sword and weighed it in one meaty fist. "Are you sure? This awful thing should already be hard to use, and you don't look very big..."
"I can handle it," Vlad said wryly. "If anything, this has been too light. And you can see the blade is already fractured."
"Hmm." He eyed the steel critically. "It's Turkish."
"Yes."
"Funny thing. You don't look Turkish."
"I'm not," Vlad scowled. "A pox on all Turks."
"On that we can agree…" He squinted at the hilt. "The thing about Turks is they prefer maces. So, they're not too good at making swords. I'm not surprised it fractured on you."
"You can do better?"
Old Geum frowned at the fledgling.
If any other customer had asked that question, he would have been insulted.
But there was something in the young man's smile which looked… old.
He wasn't asking because he doubted Old Geum's skills. Rather, he was still thinking about Bloodsteel and clearly wasn't experienced with the riddles of steel.
Sighing, Old Geum chose not to take offence.
Again.
"I can," he growled. "But try not to ask it like that in future."
"Huh?"
"It's offensive."
"Ah," Vlad nodded. Then inclined his head. "I did not think."
"Well," the old smith let himself grin. "Maybe we have more in common than a lack of patience."
Vlad found himself smiling back. "On that, I won't fight you."
"Come back in three days," he said. "Business is slow, and Roland has asked for priority. I owe him, so will work on this for you."
Vlad stuck out his hand. "I thank you, Master Geum."
"Just Old Geum is fine, fledgling," the smith said, taking Vlad's hand. He was surprised by the fledgling's grip but didn't show it.
"Then you should call me Vlad."
"Vlad, is it?" The old man chuckled as he handed Vlad his weapon back. "Very well. I will remember this name."
As he watched the fledgling leave, he found himself unable to forget the boy's name.
Something about the way he said it, too. Like it meant something.
It made him remember some of the stories his pa had told him when he was young. About the Black Dragon Court's greatest Counts.
There had been one called Vlad.
There were many stories about Vlad. He was called The Impaler. And he had hated Turks with a passion. Something Old Geum's father could relate to.
"Vlad," he murmured, remembering the way the young fledgling's eyes had sparked when he'd asked if he was a Turk.
Almost like he was the Vlad out of legend.
But that would be ridiculous.
Rubbing his bristled jaw, Old Geum found himself pondering old myths and legends as he found himself beginning the process of designing the new sword in his head. Achieving balance for such a weighty thing would be a great challenge.
He liked challenges.
As he turned and headed into the back where his forge simmered hotly, he kept thinking about the impossibility of a fledgling being the original Vlad.
Preposterous!
Still.
He would use his best leather on the sword's long handle.
Just in case.
In Old Geum's life, he'd come to realise that nothing was actually impossible. It was just hard to achieve.
This thought made him glance to a lump of twisted metal resting on a ledge above the water he'd cooled it in just before the fledgling had arrived.
His latest failure.
Shaking his head, he cracked his knuckles. Picked up a stick of charcoal and some parchment.
And began drawing out his design.
For this sword, he would work hard.
In the street, Vlad stomped through the crowd and tried not to show his disappointment.
How could smiths lose the art of Bloodsteel like it was nothing?
The idea was ludicrous.
But as he thought about it more, the reason became disappointingly clear. With the fall of the Court, Bloodsteel wouldn't be needed.
While stronger than normal steel, Bloodsteel's true advantage lay in the fact that it could withstand the violent blasts of blood energy which would consume the blade. Normal steel would eventually fracture and become brittle.
Bloodsteel would keep its strength.
The fact that the Court had fallen seemed, on the surface, a fair reason for the local blacksmiths to forget the method. But wouldn't Radu's perverted Court need Bloodsteel, too?
Surely the method wasn't lost.
Unless Radu had also picked up the Turkish method of fighting.
Vlad snorted. Radu was a bastard, but he didn't expect his former brother would be so stupid as to toss away the Black Dragon Great Sword Art. That would be madness.
For centuries, the Black Dragon Sword Art had conquered all who had tried to defeat it. Only the Church's seemingly endless numbers had managed to swamp the Court. Vlad had a hard time thinking of it as a genuine defeat.
Hadn't he himself beheaded their Pope?
The thought made him wonder what remnant of the Church remained. What were their numbers like now?
He hoped some remained.
It would feel good to stomp on their pride again.
This time he would leave no rats in the kitchen.
"Did you get what you came for?"
Vlad turned and squinted at Lucy, who had somehow managed to appear out of nowhere from a shop's doorway. The shop looked to be selling women's fashion of a sort. Dresses.
Perhaps it had simply been luck that she had appeared in the moment he walked past?
No.
He didn't believe in that kind of luck. She had been waiting for him.
"No," he said bluntly. "But it will do."
"Oh." She looked genuinely as disappointed as he felt. "May I ask what you were searching for?"
"Something which cannot be found," he replied.
"Truly?" Her eyes glittered in a crafty manner. "It is my belief, Vlad, that there is nothing which cannot be found. Tell me what it is, and I will do my best for you."
He saw no reason to hide his mind. "A sword. Specifically, one of Bloodsteel."
"Bloodsteel?" She blinked at him.
"You see? Old Geum said it was impossible."
"Well…" She pursed her lips and touched her chin with a thoughtful look. "I can't say I know better than him. He is a master of the craft, after all…"
"It is as I thought, then."
"But, perhaps you asked him the wrong question?"
"What do you mean?"
"You asked him to make you a Bloodsteel sword?"
"Yes."
"But one cannot be made. I understand the method is lost."
"So he says." Vlad frowned at her, wondering what she was thinking. Her lips were twitching like someone who held a deep secret they were eager to share but were wanting to impress with it. "You know something of the making of Bloodsteel?"
"I'm a lady, Vlad," she said calmly. "What would I know of smithing? Other than that a forge is certainly not a place for someone with my delicate skin. I do have delicate skin, you know. Do you see?"
He couldn't resist looking down at her offered hand.
But he didn't touch it.
Instead, he looked back into her eyes. "The tie between your father and the Court is strong, Lucy Westenra," he said. "But the tie between us is, at this moment, a fragile thing. I am not stupid enough to think this bond would be one-way. I don't expect you to submit to me. But nor do I expect you to hide things from me. Especially when we talk about important things. If you want me to trust you, then spit out what you know."
She blinked at him.
And, he knew, she had to fight hard not to roll her eyes at him.
Instead, she crossed her arms.
Never a good thing.
"I was only having a little fun," she said petulantly.
"That tone doesn't suit you."
"Nor does yours."
He thought back to his conversation with the old smith and let his lips curl slightly without showing his fangs. He didn't want to frighten her. "I am an impatient man."
"So I see." She pressed a finger to her temple, sighed, and then gave him a rueful smile. "Well. I will try to remember there are things you are sensitive about. As for the Bloodsteel, it is indeed impossible to have a blade made of it. But it is not impossible to acquire a blade. Perhaps, Vlad, you should have mentioned to a merchant that you were searching for such a thing instead of demanding to meet a smith. Tell me. Do you know any merchants, by any chance?"
Vlad squinted at her.
"I thought you were a spoiled child," he said at last.
"Only in front of my father. He never fails to give me what I want if I hint at having a tantrum like a little girl." She smiled broadly. "When I was young, I got everything I wanted because he didn't like to see me cry."
"Huh."
"That won't work on you, though, I think."
"You could try."
"Really?"
He shrugged. "I could use the amusement."
"Hmm." She gave him a level look. Like a snake eyeing a mouse. "I will find your weakness, you know. Then you will give me everything."
"I wish you luck..."
She thrust her arm around his and let out a dainty giggle. "Oh, I don't need luck, Vlad! I'll show you. I might fail a few times, but I will figure you out eventually. You have no hope against me."
"You think so?" Despite her threat, he found himself smiling.
"Of course. I mean, even if you are a vampire, you're just a man. Men are not very complicated."
Vlad was suddenly reminded of one of his Brides.
Elizabeth.
She'd been obsessed with poking him. Prodding him. Testing her limits to see how far she could push him. And, just when he was about to lose his mind, she'd break into a laugh and hold up a finger.
"I win again," she'd say.
Elizabeth always won.
Just my luck, he thought. I meet another Elizabeth.
He sighed.
"We might not be complicated," he admitted. "But you'll find some of us aren't quite as simple as you expect, Miss Westenra."
"I hope not," she said lightly. "I do hate simple men."
Grunting, Vlad realised he was not about to win a battle of words with her.
But that had never been his strength.
His strength was the sword.
And, if she could get a Bloodsteel sword for him, then he'd accept any level of nuisance from her.
After all, he'd put up with Mircalla.
He shuddered. No one could be worse than Mircalla.
They walked back to the merchant's compound in silence.
Lucy, her mind ticking over how to source a sword.
And Vlad remembering the last time he saw Mircalla as she was swept away by a battalion of the Pope's elite forces.
Her scream cut off with grim finality.
He'd never had the chance to mourn her.
She'd been a nuisance. An annoyance. A burden.
And many times he'd wished he'd never accepted her in the first place.
I miss you, Mircalla.