Let the Bellows Blow
Giovanni Maniscalco was born to man the forge. His family's legacy stretched back centuries, or so the old stories went. Since the days of Rome, his ancestors had shaped metal with their hands, passing the craft from father to son through generations of soot-streaked faces and calloused palms. His father and grandfather had been blacksmiths for the Italian resistance during the Second World War, casting the tools that had fueled the rebellion against the brownshirts. It was a proud legacy, one built on fire, iron, and defiance.
And yet, despite this weighty history, Giovanni often found himself staring blankly at his latest commission, waiting for the fire in his chest to match the one in his forge.
These days, blacksmithing wasn't what it used to be. Once, his family would have crafted essential tools, sturdy horseshoes, and weapons for battle. Now, he spent his days making replicas—novelty swords for collectors, reenactors, or weekend warriors who fancied themselves knights. Industrial manufacturing had pushed men like Giovanni into the shadows. Once, his family had been called upon for their skill and precision. Now, people bought cheap tools and weapons off factory lines, content with poor craftsmanship so long as it looked good hanging on a wall.
Giovanni set down the hammer and wiped the sweat from his brow, staring at the half-finished sword on the anvil. It gleamed under the light of the forge, but to him, it was nothing more than another pointless commission. A replica longsword, bound for some American HEMA enthusiast out in Texas. He'd had a steady stream of orders ever since the revival of historical European martial arts in the States, and while it kept the forge burning, the work was starting to feel unbearably dull.
Day in and day out, it was the same thing: blades that looked the part but had no real purpose. Swords made for display cases, not for battle. No matter how intricate he made the hilt, or how carefully he balanced the blade, they all felt hollow in his hands. He'd often finish a piece and feel a flicker of pride—after all, he was still practicing his craft, carrying on the family's legacy. But that feeling faded almost as quickly as it came.
The truth was, Giovanni was bored.
For all his skill, for all the hours he spent hunched over the anvil, he longed for something more. Blacksmithing had become routine. He used to think of each weapon as a unique challenge, something that could tell a story through its weight, its balance, its design. But these days, they were all the same: longswords, bastard swords, sometimes a great axe if he was lucky. Every now and then, a customer would request something different, maybe a little filigree on the hilt or a crossguard shaped like falcons wings. That would give him a brief moment of satisfaction, a small reminder that he was more than just a machine churning out product after product. But even that was fleeting.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, glancing around the forge. It was exactly as his father had left it when he passed—the same soot-stained walls, the same heavy iron tools hanging from their hooks. The forge itself was massive, a hulking furnace that had been in the family for over a hundred years. The bellows, cracked with age but still functional, hung in the corner like a silent sentry.
Giovanni felt a certain comfort in this place, despite everything. There was a satisfaction in knowing that his hands were doing the same work his ancestors had done, even if the world outside had moved on. He could still lose himself in the rhythm of the hammer striking metal, in the heat of the forge, in the hiss of steam as hot iron was plunged into water. But that feeling—the joy of creation, of bringing something to life from raw materials—was dulled by the monotony of his commissions.
Today was no different. He had three more orders lined up after this one: another longsword, a short sword, and a two-handed behemoth that no one in their right mind would actually use in combat. All for collectors. All destined for display.
Giovanni picked up the blade and inspected it. The steel was good, well-forged, and balanced. He could see his reflection in the polished surface, warped by the curve of the blade. He couldn't fault the quality of his work. It was just… it felt like he was crafting ghosts. These blades had no future in them, no life. They'd never taste battle, never clang against a shield or bite into armor.
He missed the days when he felt the weight of history in his hands, when the weapons he made had purpose. Now, all he felt was the weight of routine.
As he turned back to the grinder to put the final edge on the blade, Giovanni heard a faint knock at the door. He paused, unsure if it was just his imagination. The forge was loud—between the clang of metal and the whoosh of the bellows, it wasn't uncommon for him to miss the sound of someone knocking.
But then it came again. Louder this time, accompanied by what sounded like swearing in English.
With a sigh, Giovanni set the sword aside and wiped his hands on his apron. Another tourist, probably. He got a few of them now and then—enthusiasts who'd heard about his forge and wanted to take a look. They always asked the same questions: How long does it take to make a sword? What kind of steel do you use? Can I hold it? And inevitably, Can you make me a custom blade?
He moved to the door, bracing himself for another tedious conversation.
But when he opened it, the man standing on the threshold was not what Giovanni had expected.
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Carl Jackson was convinced that working as part of Lucasfilm's legal team was slowly draining his soul. Of course, he knew there were worse things than recruitment—acquisitions was a waking nightmare, for one—but honestly, he wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. If one more actor asked him whether their new contract's health insurance meant they could afford a Ferrari to test on the Pacific Coast Highway, Carl swore he'd commit a felony. He could practically see the headline already: Lucasfilm Lawyer Snaps, Bludgeons Starlet With Briefcase.
So when his boss called him into the office to offer him a job overseas—recruiting a blacksmith, of all things—Carl jumped at the opportunity. He didn't care that it was a last-minute decision. He didn't care that he had to be on a plane to Italy within 24 hours. Anything was better than explaining once again that health insurance didn't cover poor life choices.
Carl hadn't expected it to be smooth sailing—nothing in his life ever was—but as he sat in the business class lounge at LAX, staring down at his suitcase, he allowed himself a moment of hope. Italy. Fresh pasta. Wine. And he was supposed to meet some famous blacksmith, some maestro named Giovanni Maniscalco. The guy apparently had a pedigree going back to Roman times or something equally ridiculous, and Carl was supposed to get him to consult on the new Conan the Barbarian movie. Authentic armor, real weapons, training for the prop team—everything the director had been losing his mind over.
The new Conan movie was shaping up to be huge. Carl had heard the whispers in the studio about getting the look and feel of the weapons just right. It was going to be a spectacle, and he was expected to bring back someone who could guarantee historical accuracy with the props. Carl wasn't exactly a history buff, but he knew enough to appreciate that swinging around swords that weighed more than most people probably wasn't the right way to go. So, when his boss had told him to head to a forge somewhere deep in the Italian countryside to negotiate with a blacksmith who still used ancient techniques, it hadn't sounded so bad.
That was before everything went wrong.
The trip started to go south about fifteen minutes into his flight from Los Angeles. As soon as the plane lifted off the ground, the pilot informed the passengers that they were in for turbulence. Carl's white-knuckled grip on his armrest hadn't loosened for the entire eleven-hour flight, not even when they landed in Munich for a quick layover. He disembarked, legs like jelly, and stumbled through customs, already feeling jet-lagged and drained. He just wanted to grab his luggage and crash at his gate until the next flight to Italy.
But, of course, his luggage was nowhere to be found.
Carl stood at the baggage claim carousel for what felt like an hour, watching the same suitcases circle around again and again—none of them his. He checked his ticket again. Flight to Naples. Gate 17. Fine. But where the hell was his bag?
"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath, heading to the nearest information desk. After some fumbling with his broken German and a less-than-enthusiastic airport employee, he learned that his luggage was on a different plane—a plane that was currently en route to London.
Carl stared at the attendant. "London?" he repeated, half-laughing, half-groaning.
"Ja," she said, with no hint of irony.
It took another forty-five minutes to fill out the paperwork and try to reroute his bag. In the meantime, Carl's layover was quickly shrinking. By the time he sprinted to the gate for his flight to Naples, he barely made it on board.
His seat was in coach. A middle seat. Carl was wedged between two men who each seemed to have a personal vendetta against armrests and personal space. As the plane took off, he tried to console himself with the fact that, at the very least, it was a short flight.
It wasn't. Between the turbulence and a minor mechanical issue that required them to circle the airport, the flight dragged on. By the time Carl finally stepped off the plane in Naples, he looked—and felt—like death warmed over. He was exhausted, jet-lagged, and, of course, still without his luggage.
His lack of luggage quickly became a problem. Carl stood in front of a discount clothing store, gazing at the racks of clothing that looked like they hadn't been updated since the 1970s. His flight out of Naples wasn't for another two days, which gave him time to find something presentable before he was supposed to meet Giovanni Maniscalco, but his choices were limited.
The clerk, an older woman with an indifferent expression, watched him pick through the racks of ill-fitting suits and polyester monstrosities. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime of indecision, Carl settled on the only thing in the store that fit: a bright orange suit that looked like it belonged on a used car salesman.
Carl stared at himself in the mirror of the dressing room, grimacing at his reflection. The suit fit too well, which only made the garish color stand out even more. He briefly considered abandoning the whole endeavor and just showing up to the meeting in jeans and a T-shirt.
But no. This was Lucasfilm. He needed to look at least halfway respectable. This is temporary, he told himself, slipping into the blinding orange jacket.
He checked out, mentally promising to bill the company for emotional damages.
His luck didn't improve.
After donning the orange suit, Carl picked up his rental car and began the long, winding drive into the Italian countryside. According to the GPS, Giovanni's forge was located in a remote town about three hours outside Naples, and Carl had naively assumed the journey would be scenic and relaxing. It wasn't.
About two hours into the drive, the car started making a noise that could only be described as a wheeze. It rattled, sputtered, and eventually, with one final shudder, gave out completely. Carl managed to pull the car over to the side of the road just before it died altogether.
"Perfect," Carl muttered, stepping out of the car to inspect the damage. Not that he knew anything about cars—his knowledge extended to checking the oil, and that was about it. He kicked the tire for good measure and cursed under his breath.
He was stranded in the middle of nowhere, in a bright orange suit, with no luggage, no working vehicle, and a business deal that was about to collapse before it even started.
This is fine, Carl thought to himself, taking in the idyllic rolling hills of the Italian countryside as if they personally offended him.
He had no choice but to walk.
The nearest village was about five miles away, a fact that Carl had discovered after consulting his crumpled map. He cursed his luck for the hundredth time that day and began the trek, his polished dress shoes quickly becoming covered in dust as he trudged along the narrow, winding road.
The sun was setting by the time Carl reached the outskirts of the village. He was tired, sweaty, and the orange suit—already an eyesore—was now crumpled and stained. The small town was quiet, with cobblestone streets and quaint stone buildings. It would have been picturesque, Carl thought, if he weren't so thoroughly miserable.
He needed directions to Giovanni's forge. He had no trust that his map would work, which meant his only option was to ask someone—anyone—for help.
Carl spotted an older man setting up a small fruit stall in the marketplace. The man seemed friendly enough, so Carl approached, pulling out the English-to-Italian dictionary he had borrowed from one of his coworkers.
He flipped through the pages frantically, finally settling on a phrase he hoped would make sense. "Uh, scusi," Carl began, his pronunciation wobbly at best, "Indicazioni per... uh, l'uomo che... ti martella la spada?"
The old man blinked at him, squinting as if trying to figure out what this brightly dressed foreigner was saying.
"Ah!" the man finally exclaimed, nodding. "Un turista! Se stai cercando il bordello, è in fondo a questa strada e sulla destra."
Carl blinked, certain he had misunderstood. The word bordello sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. He thanked the man and followed his directions—down the street, turn right.
It wasn't until he reached the small, discreetly signed building at the end of the road that it dawned on him.
"Oh, come on!" Carl groaned, staring at the entrance to what was clearly a brothel.
He turned on his heel and marched back the way he'd come, muttering curses under his breath. I'm going to kill that coworker who gave me this dictionary.
After some frantic gestures, pointing, and another round of very broken Italian, Carl finally managed to get proper directions from a young woman selling flowers in the market. He followed her instructions and, at long last, found himself standing outside the blacksmith's shop, his patience worn thin but still hanging on by a thread.
He knocked, cursed, and knocked again.
Giovanni Maniscalco opened the door, hammer still in hand, and stared at the man in front of him. The stranger was tall, sweating profusely, and wearing what had to be the most obnoxious suit Giovanni had ever seen. It was bright orange—like something out of a bad comedy—and wrinkled beyond belief. Giovanni wasn't sure if he was looking at a lawyer or a circus performer.
"Posso aiutarti?" Giovanni asked, arching an eyebrow.
The man cleared his throat and switched to English. "Uh, yes—hi, I'm Carl Jackson," he said, his voice tight with nerves. "I'm here on behalf of Lucasfilm. We need your help—for a movie. Conan the Barbarian."
Giovanni's expression didn't change. He stood in the doorway, hammer still poised as though he might need to use it if this strange man said something else ridiculous. "Conan," Giovanni repeated slowly, "the movie with O'brien?"
Carl nodded eagerly, relieved to be on the same page. "That's the one. We need someone with your expertise. The props—the weapons and armor—they're just not up to par. The director wants authenticity, and your name came up."
Giovanni leaned against the doorframe, his expression unreadable. "What exactly are you asking me to do?"
"We need you to consult," Carl said, his words tumbling out now. "Help our prop team. Show them how to make the weapons and armor right—historically accurate. The director's obsessed with detail, and he wants everything to look and feel real. You'd also craft some of the main pieces yourself. We'll pay you, of course—whatever you need. We just need you on board."
Giovanni stared at him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as if weighing his options. Carl could feel the sweat dripping down the back of his neck, the orange suit clinging to him like a bad dream.
"I'll do it," Giovanni finally said, much to Carl's immense relief, "but on one condition."
"Name it," Carl blurted, desperate to wrap this up and get out of the suit from hell.
Giovanni smirked. "I'll make your swords and armor, but I'm not crafting any of that oversized Hollywood nonsense. If you want real weapons, they'll be designed as they should be—functional, not flashy."
Carl blinked, momentarily confused. "Deal!" he said, too exhausted to argue.
"And one more thing," Giovanni added, glancing at the hideous suit Carl was wearing. "When this is over, you're buying me a proper suit. That orange monstrosity is a crime."
Carl looked down at the blinding fabric and let out a defeated laugh. "Deal. A thousand times, deal."
As Carl left the shop, Giovanni watched him go, shaking his head. He turned back to the forge, already thinking about the weapons he'd craft, the legacy he'd breathe life into once again. For the first time in years, he felt that old thrill—like the heat of the forge itself was flowing through him.
I argue that we should hunt someone down to help us forge realistic props and train our prop department to do blacksmithing. It may serve us down the line if we want to do any historical films. Plus it would add authenticity to the Conan film
