Chapter 11: Building Reputation
Three weeks after Lindisfarne, I realized that success in the Viking world came with complications I hadn't anticipated. Word of the raid's triumph had spread far beyond Kattegat, carrying with it tales of the "eastern builder" whose innovations had made the impossible possible. Every day brought new visitors—traders curious about improved ship designs, craftsmen seeking to learn "foreign techniques," and ambitious jarls wondering what other advantages they might purchase.
The attention was flattering and terrifying in equal measure.
"You need a proper workshop," Ragnar announced one morning as we watched yet another delegation of visiting smiths examine our raid ship with undisguised envy. "Somewhere you can work without half of Norway peering over your shoulder."
He was right. My current arrangement—borrowing space in various craftsmen's shops when I needed forge access—was becoming untenable. Every project attracted crowds of observers, making it nearly impossible to use my powers discreetly.
Using my share of the Lindisfarne silver, we established a workshop near the harbor that would serve my needs while projecting the right image of prosperity without ostentation. The location was perfect—close enough to the docks for easy material transport, but positioned to control access and limit unwanted observation.
Building the workshop became an exercise in applied engineering psychology. The layout needed to optimize workflow while providing strategic sight lines that would let me spot approaching visitors in time to conceal any supernatural assistance. The forge required precise ventilation calculations to maintain proper temperatures without creating smoke problems that would draw complaints from neighbors.
But the real challenge was the tools.
My metallic manipulation abilities let me create implements of impossible precision—hammers balanced to molecular perfection, tongs that gripped exactly as needed, measuring devices accurate beyond anything Vikings had ever seen. Each tool was a masterwork that would have taken a skilled craftsman months to produce, emerging from my forge in hours through subtle power application disguised as exceptional skill.
The result was a workshop that attracted professional admiration and barely concealed suspicion in equal measure.
"Foreign sorcery," muttered Hakon the Smith as he examined one of my hammer heads with the expression of a man confronting heresy. "Metal doesn't flow like this naturally. What did you sacrifice to achieve such perfection?"
"Time and patience," I replied, which was technically true even if it omitted crucial supernatural details. "Eastern techniques require different approaches to familiar problems."
"Different approaches." Orm the Smith picked up one of my measuring chains, testing its weight and flexibility. "These links are identical to precision I've never seen. How do you achieve such consistency?"
The question was professional rather than accusatory, but it highlighted the growing divide between those who wanted to learn from my innovations and those who viewed them as threats to traditional methods.
I'd chosen to handle this tension by positioning myself as complementary rather than competitive. Instead of taking standard metalworking commissions that local smiths depended on for their livelihoods, I focused on projects they couldn't or wouldn't attempt—complex repairs that seemed hopeless, innovative designs that required techniques beyond normal craftsmanship, custom work that demanded impossible precision.
"Bring me your difficult problems," I told anyone who asked. "The jobs that waste time and materials when they fail. Let your local smiths handle standard work while I attempt what others call impossible."
The strategy worked better than I'd hoped. Within a week, I had a steady stream of challenging projects that let me demonstrate value without threatening anyone's livelihood directly. More importantly, it established me as someone who solved problems rather than creating competition.
Teaching, however, proved more complicated.
"I want to learn builder's work," Bjorn announced on a morning when spring sunshine made outdoor projects appealing. "Father says warriors need to understand how things are made, not just how to break them."
I looked at Lagertha, who'd accompanied her son to the workshop. Her expression mixed maternal concern with practical assessment of whether her twelve-year-old could be trusted around sharp tools and hot metal.
"Building requires patience," I warned Bjorn. "Mistakes with forge-fire or heavy tools can cripple or kill. Are you prepared for lessons that require thinking before acting?"
"Yes!" His enthusiasm was infectious, but I caught the slight eye-roll from his mother that suggested she'd heard similar promises before.
"We'll start with principles," I decided. "Understanding forces and materials before touching anything dangerous."
The first lesson involved designing a simple bridge across the creek that ran behind Ragnar's farm. Using wooden planks and rope, I had Bjorn calculate load requirements, identify optimal placement points, and understand how weight distribution affected structural integrity.
"Why does the bridge sag here but not here?" I asked, pointing to different sections of his design.
Bjorn studied the problem with genuine concentration. "The supports are farther apart in the middle. More distance means... the wood has to work harder?"
"Exactly. The wood experiences more stress when it has to span longer distances. What might we do to fix that?"
"Add more supports? Make the wood thicker?"
"Both good solutions. Which would be more efficient?"
Watching him work through engineering problems with twelve-year-old logic was genuinely enjoyable. His questions forced me to explain concepts in simple terms, which actually improved my own understanding of how to communicate technical knowledge in a world without formal mathematics or engineering education.
"This is better than sword practice," Bjorn declared after we'd spent two hours calculating optimal angles for a pulley system. "With weapons, you learn to destroy things. With building, you learn to create things."
"Both skills have their place," I cautioned. "But yes, creation generally requires more thought than destruction."
Our teaching sessions attracted regular audiences of curious onlookers, but none more persistent than Rollo. Ragnar's brother had developed a pattern of appearing whenever we worked on interesting projects, ostensibly to mock "eastern nonsense" but actually to observe techniques that clearly impressed him despite his vocal skepticism.
The confrontation I'd been expecting finally came on a afternoon when Rollo arrived at my workshop in obviously foul temper, carrying a sword that looked like it had been used to chop wood.
"Foreign sorcerer," he announced loudly enough for half the harbor to hear. "I need this blade restored to fighting condition, and I'm told you're the man for impossible repairs."
I examined the weapon, which had been abused beyond any reasonable expectation of restoration. The tip was broken off, the edge was chipped in dozens of places, and the entire blade had been bent almost thirty degrees out of true. Any normal smith would have declared it scrap metal and recommended starting over.
"This is what you want repaired?" I asked, making sure my skepticism was audible.
"Unless your famous eastern techniques are all reputation and no substance," Rollo replied with a challenging grin that didn't reach his eyes.
The insult was deliberate, designed to provoke me into either accepting an impossible task or backing down publicly. Either outcome would serve Rollo's purposes—proving that foreign innovations were inferior to traditional Norse methods.
"I can repair this," I said finally. "Though it will require techniques you might consider... unconventional."
"I don't care if you have to sacrifice to dark spirits," Rollo declared. "Just make it functional again."
The repair took three hours of careful work that combined visible smithing techniques with subtle metallic manipulation. Heating, hammering, and shaping provided cover for the supernatural assistance that realigned the blade's molecular structure and removed the stress fractures that would have made normal repair impossible.
But I didn't stop at mere restoration.
Using my enhanced understanding of metallurgy, I improved the sword's carbon distribution for better edge retention, optimized the weight balance for Rollo's fighting style, and added subtle decorative elements that enhanced both beauty and function. The weapon that emerged from my forge was superior to anything the original smith had ever created.
Rollo tested the restored sword with the critical eye of a man whose life depended on weapon quality. He checked the balance, tested the edge against leather, even tried to bend the blade to assess its resilience.
"It's..." he began, then stopped, his face cycling through confusion, admiration, and irritation in rapid succession.
"Functional?" I suggested innocently.
"Better than functional." The admission seemed to pain him. "It's the best this sword has ever been. Better than when it was new."
He stared at the weapon for another moment, then glared at me with the expression of a man who'd been outmaneuvered by forces he didn't understand.
"Foreign sorcery," he muttered, and stalked out of the workshop without another word—or payment.
"That was entertaining," Athelstan observed from the corner where he'd been organizing bronze fittings from our Lindisfarne haul. "I believe you've given Rollo a crisis of faith regarding the superiority of Norse craftsmanship."
"Probably. Though he'll be back next time he breaks something."
"Undoubtedly. Men like Rollo always return to what works, regardless of their stated principles."
As evening approached and I began banking the forge for the night, I noticed a figure watching from the workshop doorway. Not unusual—my work attracted regular observation—but this observer was different.
Thyri stood silhouetted against the dying light, her warrior's bearing unmistakable even in casual clothes. When our eyes met, she didn't look away or pretend she hadn't been watching. Instead, she smiled slightly and stepped into the workshop proper.
"The famous eastern builder," she said, her voice carrying amusement rather than mockery. "I've heard impressive things about your work."
"People tend to exaggerate," I replied carefully. "What you've heard is probably more interesting than the reality."
"Really?" She approached one of my work tables, studying the tools laid out there with obvious appreciation for quality craftsmanship. "Because what I've heard is that you create impossible things with impossible skill, and that half of Kattegat wonders whether you're blessed, cursed, or simply very clever."
"What do you think?"
"I think," she said, meeting my gaze directly, "that interesting men attract interesting attention. And that interesting attention isn't always safe."
The warning was subtle but unmistakable. Thyri had noticed things that made her concerned for my well-being, and she was taking the risk of offering advice to someone she barely knew.
"Thank you for the warning," I said. "Though I'm curious why you'd offer it."
"Because Kattegat benefits from innovation, and innovations require innovators to survive long enough to implement them." Her smile turned more genuine. "Also because anyone who can make Rollo admit his sword works better deserves protection from their own success."
She moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold to look back at me.
"Be careful, Thanos. Fame is a double-edged blade, and not everyone who seeks to wield it survives the experience."
Then she disappeared into the gathering dusk, leaving me alone in my workshop with the uncomfortable certainty that my growing reputation was attracting exactly the kind of attention I'd been hoping to avoid.
As I secured the forge and locked away my tools, one thought echoed through my mind: in a world where power attracted enemies and success bred danger, how long could I maintain the delicate balance between useful innovation and dangerous exposure?
Judging by the quality of attention I was already receiving, I suspected I'd find out sooner than I wanted.
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