A Daemon-Horn Blade Ch. 03

The folding of the steel with its silver/Daemon horn core continued until near mid-afternoon, but the resulting single bar, with the innumerable layers of the three metals, had been folded over and over onto itself many hundreds of times, until the resulting bar, now heating once more in the forge, was perfectly sized for the forging of a sword. The three metals that had been worked together rippled with an unusually silvery glow, as all of the thousands or millions of layers, of the different distinct metals, now shown individually and distinctly, like tiny ripples on a pond.

For a moment, Rowan stood there, hammer in hand, but uncertain as to how to proceed further. While he had repaired several swords on occasion, for the riverboat or caravan guards, he had never actually forged a blade, or any other weapon, from scratch. Oh, he had some faint ideas as how to start, but he worried that he did not possess the skill or the knowledge to succeed. Confused, he looked to the Foole for guidance.

"Trust in your heart and the Weaver's." The Histrio told the lad. "Let them both guide you. You are faint and weary, for the task that you are doing tears at your very soul, as you hammer, but if your hands should grow too faint, with your bitter task yet incomplete, recall then the memories of your lost love... your Cedany -- and how she was cruelly taken from you, by that evil which you are now imprisoning forever. Beat your love of her into this sword, and let her shadowy hands yet guide yours. Be filled with the joys of your love for her, and let that love, and her spirit, fill yours, so that her terrible loss will not have been for nothing, and some greater good can indeed result from this tragedy."

Slightly refreshed, and with a new confidence he wasn't entirely certain of, he started his final task, the forging of a great sword that would capture the essence and evil of the Daemon forever, perhaps even to channel and focus its might into a weapon for the cause of good. Or so he desperately hoped and prayed.

That long, hot, summer afternoon, being the Summer Solstice, was indeed the longest day of the year, but as Rowan toiled in ever greater fatigue, he feared that he could not finish his task in time and his pace with the hammer faltered. Slowly he began to wobble unsteadily, obviously in utter exhaustion, but it was his ever loyal friend, Boyle, who saved him.

"Remember Cedany!" He whispered and placed his hand upon the weary smith's back in love and friendship. "Do it for her!"

"Remember Cedany!" replied the chorus of his watchers and helpers, as everyone murmured along, as a mantra... a prayer to the Weavers, that her spirit might return for, but a moment, from the Shadowlands, and bring comfort and peace to her lover.

Rowan's hands clinched in anger, and a new fresh determination filled him. His hammer beat again, faster and harder, and then ever faster still, until soon he was hammering as if in a trance, with his tearful eyes closed, seemingly aware, but yet unaware of the world around him. His hammer had never struck with such speed before, or such accurate skill. His marks fell exactly where he wished, but as to why that blow should have been struck, then and there, he did not know. As earlier, when he had nearly succumb to his wounds on the battlefield, he once again, faintly, heard the clicking of a shuttle on a loom, both fast and certain, and his hammer, too, now picked up this rhythm and it beat in tune with the shuttle.

Once, all too briefly, he felt Cedany by his side, gently touching his shoulder, as his hammer fell, and he could feel her love and agony at her loss, but all too soon, she was gone. As his hammer struck his last final blows, he thought he heard her voice repeating faintly once again what she had said that final early morning at dawn in the river.

"Trust him, love... and serve her, and all may, yet, be well. I have, and will hold you to your oath, my beloved... forever."

**************

Gently, his Master, Gorge took the hammer from the near unconscious smith's hand. It was growing dark and nearly sunset, and the last light was fading in the trees. The sword had been forged, but still the work was not quite yet completely finished.

"You have indeed forged your Master's Piece!" He gently said while helping to hold his former journeyman upright on his numb exhausted feet. "Your task is very nearly done, but now you must take up the sword and quench it into the flowery waters, before the last light is gone, and then all will be done, and you can take your rest and assuage your grief."

The hot metal sword beckoned to him, and as Rowan reached over to lift it up with his heavy tongs, the Lore-Master bade him to wait but just a moment, as he seemingly had one final task to perform first. Taking out a tiny, clear, crystal vial that was filled with, but a trace, of a reddish-golden liquid, the knowledgeable Histrio quickly painted with a tiny brush, seven rune characters along the fuller of the top side of the blade.

With Gorge and Boyle on either side of him, they helped to hold him upright and steady his hand, as Rowan discarded his tongs and instead touched the still near red-hot metal of the sword at its tang with his bare hands. Somehow he knew that the heat would not harm him, and as he lifted the blade up, it somehow come alive in his hands, which were quite unburned by the searing heat. With it held in firmly in his hands, he turned the blade over to its other side so that Oddtus could paint another seven cryptic symbols on this side, as well. Quietly the Lore-Master's lips moved with a prayer to The Seven, whose holy rune-names now adorned the blade.

Although Rowan's hands were quite unharmed by the intense heat of the red-hot un-tempered metal, a black mark, much like one of the Lore-Master's runes, now appeared on the palm of his hand. It didn't hurt, but there was a brief tingle in his hand as he held the sword. He had forged the blade and now it had claimed and marked him in return.

At first the hot metal blade of the sword glowed with a bright malevolent black darkness, but as the symbols of The Seven glowed, then its light turned more to a grey color, and then it shown with a clear bright silvery light, until it finally it burst into orange magical flames in his hand. Everyone was stunned with amazement. Then Rowan thrust the flaming sword into the cold, quenching water, to temper the blade, and as one, every lily in the barrel, hundreds of them, withered and crumbled as the water boiled rapidly away, turning into a powder that quickly turned the remaining water into a dark thickening sludge, from which the finished and cooled blade could only be removed with some effort.

The metal of the tempered sword shone now with a clear steady silver gleaming of its own in Rowan's hand. Holding it in both of his hands the blade now caught the final sunset rays from the sun, as it passed into darkness behind the trees, past Crystal Lake, and into the Great Western Sea, beyond the white towers of the City of Tellismere. As the light then faded into growing darkness, the glowing of the sword appeared ever more marvelous; the way that the fourteen painted runic characters had melded into the blade, as if they were engravings, and the matter in which they now glowed with a bright, orange fiery light, all of their own. For a moment he thought he could hear the sword laugh, exactly as the orange glow had done in his dark dream of the night before.

With a wan smile, Rowan crumpled into an exhausted sleep, from which he could not be aroused, and was at once put into his normal bed near the smithy. His sword remained firmly in his hands; the placing of the hilt-guard, grip and pommel could wait for another day, as could the finding a suitable scabbard.

The metalwork of the sword was done, except for some trivial polishing and sharpening. At the Lore-Master's request, the murky sludge that remained at the bottom of the quenching barrel was carefully poured off and drained, without spilling a drop. After lengthy boiling, and then baking in the forge in several moulds, three good sized whetstones resulted. Each was of the hardest stone and gently preserved the swords perpetual razor sharp edge with the slightest wipe. The first stone was placed into Rowan's pack, with his other limited possessions. The second stone was later buried with some reverence late one night by Rowan and Oddtus under a stone in the corner of the forge, to be found in time of later need. The final stone just disappeared. Rowan privately thought that the Lore-Master had kept it for himself, but never once asked about it, or checked the gléaman's own packs. He was content to leave that final bit of the puzzle a mystery.

**********

'Time, at last, might be now on our side!' The wise Foole thought, as he watched his young charge sleep in exhaustion. Perhaps soon it would become a world fit for laughter and once merriment again, The Seven restored and the Weaver's will done once more. He smiled. Rowan could sleep well for a day or two, and then once he awoke he'd eat enough to feed an entire garrison of troops, and then probably return to sleep, yet again. This was good and healthy, and he would need his full strength back all too soon, the Histrio decided. There would be time for the lad's ribs to heal and his wounds to close tight and sound before they might find danger again.

This adventure wasn't over, by a long shot, but now they were ready for the dangers that were sure to come. Of this, the wise old fool was certain, and with a jug of wine he went with a smile to his own bed, contented and at peace for the first time in a great many years.