When his vision returned, Crispus was sprawled on the ground, surrounded by his men. The signum lay beside him. Two soldiers helped him to his feet as someone asked if he felt unwell.
“Here, sir. The signum. You dropped it,” a soldier said.
Crispus shook his head, backing away. He turned to his second, the one ready to carry on if he fell.
“You carry it. The gods have given me a vision. There is something else I must do.”
Ignoring their questions, Crispus pushed through the ranks to find Valens. The battle had yet to start, but the barbarians hollered nearby, taunting the Romans. He could see the centurion hadn’t issued the command to attack, and Crispus wasted no time finding Valens.
“Why are you here?” Valens asked.
“We must flee!” Crispus whispered urgently.
“Where’s the signum? Who leads the charge?”
“Forget that! Did you hear me? We have to run!”
“What? Why? What are you saying?”
A few velites shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond to Valens arguing with an officer. Crispus hoped he had kept his voice low enough to prevent eavesdropping. If not, he knew it would only be a matter of time before someone tried to detain him.
“Venus, your patroness, Valens, has warned me not to fight.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“Do you love me?”
“Crispus. Now’s not the time.”
“Now is always the time because it’s impossible to know when you’ll be out of time.”
“Are you testing me? You think I’m too scared to fight?”
Shaking his head, Crispus moved closer.
“I should have said this sooner, but pride prevented me. I love you, Valens.”
Valens smiled cautiously, happy to hear Crispus’s words but unsure of what to make of his lover’s behavior.
“I love you.”
“We have to go.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“I refuse to lose you again.”
“Again?”
“Yes. Now, let’s go.”
“Ok, but I think it best to take you to the healers first.”
Crispus surprised Valens with a passionate kiss.
“No healers. Follow my lead. No one should challenge my rank with the centurion occupied. I’ll explain everything when we’re alone.”
“But, the battle?”
Realizing Valens didn’t believe anything he had said, Crispus started to panic.
Venus, how can I convince him?
Crispus laughed, recognizing the irony in his question. But the revelation gave him an idea. He knelt down and bowed his head.
“What are you doing?” Valens asked.
“Praying.”
“Come on, I really think you should see the healers.”
Crispus didn’t move, silently waiting. His response came quickly in the form of a dove bearing a sprig of myrtle in its beak. Valens gasped, seeing the bird alight on Crispus’s shoulder.
“Do you believe me, now?” Crispus asked.
“Yes…but why Venus favors you eludes me.”
“I needed to learn a lesson.”
Valens frowned.
“Desertion is a serious offense, Crispus.”
“Of that, I am well aware.”
“It’s not honorable.”
“What? Sacrificing yourself to save others? Keeping your promise?”
“No one will believe you.”
“Is honor dependent on fame and praise?”
“No. Such things can cheapen it. Replacing honor with hubris.”
“It’s now or never, Valens.”
“They could execute us.”
“Then we’ll die together.”
Valens nodded.
“Lead on. I’ll follow.”
Crispus pulled himself straight and barked a few orders causing Valens’s squad to snap to attention.
“I’ve had enough of your insolence, soldier!” Crispus shouted, pointing at Valens. “You think you’re special?”
“Ah…no, sir,” Valens said, genuinely caught off guard.
“Disgrace! You should be in chains for your cowardice! That’s it! You’re coming with me!”
Crispus ripped the wolf pelt off Valens’s head.
“Drop your shield, soldier.”
Valens didn’t need to act because Crispus’s demeanor truthfully spooked him. Valens’s squad watched in shock as he tossed his weapons to the ground before Crispus roughly seized him to escort him away.
“What are you looking at? Can’t you see a battle’s brewing?”
“Yes, sir!” the squad said in unison.
“Eyes forward, soldiers! You’re about to get a first crack at the enemy! Miss that signal, and you’ll have more to deal with than me!”
“Yes, sir!”
When the centurion finally signaled the velites to advance, Crispus and Valens ran the other way.
The Romans routed the barbarians, securing the bridge without Crispus, and his absence didn’t go unnoticed.
After receiving troubling reports, the centurion ordered a manhunt.
It didn’t take long to uncover discarded garments and gear bearing the signifer’s insignia and a ridiculous account of men transformed into doves.
Until now, Crispus had ignored the peculiar mists obscuring the river and fields beyond. Suddenly hearing his name again surprised him, drawing his attention to the bridge.
“Someone does still live,” Crispus said.
“Do you know who it is?” the god asked.
“How could I? I don’t recall these mists. Are they your creation?”
Crispus cupped his hands about his mouth and shouted.
“VALENS!”
“Ah, you do know who it is.”
“No, you’ve made me your puppet, and I’m tired of this game. Reveal the meaning of this word I utter; if not, just kill me. I don’t care anymore.”
Crispus paused to listen as the shouting grew louder.
“How do I know this isn’t another of your tricks?” Crispus asked.
“The man speaks your name, does he not? Surely, he knows you.” the god said.
“I’m the signifer, third in command. Every soldier in my century knows my name! My task is to lead the way. This man’s confused, seeking the signum for guidance. Your chains prevent that!”
“Then you recognize the voice?”
“A hundred men serve beneath me. How could I possibly know who it is?”
“I’ve heard mortals form strong bonds fighting together.”
“I’d know the centurion’s voice and recognize some veterans, but the others…probably not. Besides, all men sound the same on the battlefield.”
“Surely there must be someone precious to you?”
“No.”
The response felt wrong to Crispus.
“Wait. Maybe…I can’t remember.”
This realization troubled Crispus more.
“I know who calls you,” the god said.
“Then why are you asking me for his name?”
“You fascinate me, mortal. Answer this question truthfully, and I’ll release you.”
“I am no coward, no panderer of lies. Honor demands the truth. Ask me what you will.”
“Name what your heart holds most dear.”
Crispus wished he knew the god’s name; it might be easier to find the correct answer.
“You promise to free me?”
“You have my word.”
Crispus suspected nothing kept a god from breaking an oath, but he felt compelled to play along.
“Then I shall tell you.”
“But, before you answer, be sure to leave no door unopened within your heart, for I see a truth you hide from even yourself.”
“I know myself,” Crispus grumbled.
“Your answer?”
“Rome. I live and breathe to safeguard her.”
The god shook his head.
“Honor then. A good death won with bravery.”
“No.”
“I am my own man! Even the gods don’t see all! I speak the truth.”
“You do not.”
Crispus howled, yanking the chain, desperate to be free.
“My men! I’ve lost countless soldiers, many dear to me! I’ve since hardened my heart, hoping never to feel such a loss again.”
The god shook his head and began to fade away.
“Prepare yourself, Crispus, to behold the greatest power in the world.”
“Don’t leave me!”
A sudden commotion pulled Crispus’s attention back to the bridge. The lost soldier remained shrouded in the mist, but Crispus could hear the man’s desperate plight. He didn’t know what danger the man faced but felt certain a fierce passion compelled the soldier to confront his terror, enabling him to hold his ground. Crispus’s heart skipped, realizing the stranger fought to rescue him. Shame and anger gripped him as he wracked his brain, desperate to identify the man. A bizarre thought came suddenly to him.
That word! Could it be this soldier’s name? What was it? Valens? Yes, Valens!
“Valens! Follow my voice. Your signifer calls!”
Crispus waited, watching the bridge intently until he saw a host of shadowy figures materialize in the mist.
“Valens! Bravery brought you this far! Mars surely favors you! Your foes are but shadows! Strike, and they will flee before you!”
With a shout, the soldier burst free from the mists, and Crispus hollered, fists in the air in triumph.
“Here! Here! To me!” Crispus cried.
The man ran toward Crispus, slowed, then stopped, clearly confused. Crispus remembered seeing the soldier in the past but nothing else.
“Friend! Here! I’m here! A mighty chain binds me! Here!”
As the soldier silently approached, Crispus felt confident he knew the man, but the memory remained out of reach.
“I don’t understand. I feel nothing. Everything is blank. I was sure if I could only cross the bridge…find…someone I love? I’ve forgotten everything.”
The soldier’s legs crumpled beneath him as he fell to the ground.
“What’s your name?” Crispus asked.
“I don’t remember anymore.”
“Is it Valens?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know me?”
The man looked up, and Crispus’s heart leaped as their eyes met.
“No. Maybe? No, I don’t think so. Crossing the bridge was supposed to fix things.”
“I think I remember you. We were friends…close friends.”
“What’s your name?”
“Crispus.”
The soldier repeated the name slowly, testing its familiarity before shaking his head.
“Are you Valens?”
The man absent-mindedly toyed with a medallion dangling from a chain about his neck as he pondered Crispus’s question.
“I don’t know.”
Crispus knelt, holding his palm out.
“Can I see that?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve seen this before. Who is it?”
“Venus.”
Something clicked in his mind, and Crispus began to remember.
You are Valens. You’re the answer to the god’s question.”
“A question? From which god?”
“Eros.”
“What question?”
“Valens, it’s me, Crispus. Try to remember. You and me…we…you love me…and… I love you. It’s you I hold most dear. I’m sorry I couldn’t admit that. I had lost someone. I promised myself never again. Oh, it doesn’t matter. You just need to remember. Try to remember.”
A wind picked up, chasing the mists away, and Crispus sensed the presence of another behind him. He turned expecting to see Eros, but instead, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen approached.
Crispus bowed his head in reverence.
“Your chain is broken. You are free.” Venus said.
“My lady, forgive me. In my quest to honor Mars, I have insulted you.”
“Love is exceedingly powerful. Observe how Valens throws everything away to keep it. Even the gods fail to resist. Your scorn of love has put you in great peril, mortal. But your lover’s faith has saved you. Go before I have a change of heart.
“What of Valens?”
“A worthy devotee, Valens has proven to be. Immortality shall be his reward abiding with me.”
“No!”
“No?” Venus laughed.
“Please. Restore him. I beg you. I love him.”
“Do not sully the word, love! You know nothing of love, warrior. You may be free of my chain, but your heart remains bound to another, and Mars does not take kindly to meddling.”
“Surely, you of all the gods know how to change his mind? Please. I will do anything. A mortal life devoid of love is meaningless. I see that now.”
“But, what of honor and glory? Would you malign your own name to be with Valens?”
“Your test has changed me. I swear an oath to put love first. I’ll endure any hardship, any humiliation if I can spend my days with Valens.”
“Renounce war with its violence and death. Vow never to strike another mortal ever again.”
“I promise.”
“You will be called a coward.”
“I do not care. Return Valens to me. Please.”
Venus smiled as her laughter filled the air. Crispus’s vision clouded, and he felt himself falling.
Valens groaned and rolled over. His pounding head and the memory of a pleasant dream made him want to go back to sleep. Sitting up, he looked about to find himself in the grass, surrounded by thick mist. He wondered if a sudden change in weather had delayed their march.
Noting a soldier lying nearby, Valens sought to dispel his confusion.
“Hey, friend. What’s the hour?”
Valens spoke louder.
“What’s happened, friend? My head’s foggy.”
Valens shook the man gently.
“Rise, friend.”
Again, no reply came.
“Wake up!”
The silence made his skin crawl.
“Get up! Are you dead?”
Valens knew the answer.
Wobbling to his feet, he rolled the body and retched. He had to pause and steel himself before investigating further. But in every direction, he found only death.
Gods! How? How?
Numb, Valens staggered aimlessly in the mist, probing every corpse he found for signs of life.
“Am I the only one left?” he shouted.
Disorientated, leery of the swirling mists, Valens knelt weeping and prayed.
Beauteous Lady, Jewel of the Gods, I beseech your aide. If another survives, surely it must be Crispus. Please guide me, Venus.
Valens’s heart sank as the silence persisted. He rocked gently, mumbling to himself.
“Crispus. Crispus. Crispus.”
Crispus’s voice rang out, piercing the gloom as if waiting for Valens to utter his name.
“Valens!”
Valens leaped to his feet.
“Crispus?”
Silence hung in the air, making Valens fear he might be hallucinating. Despair swallowed him until he heard his name again.
“Crispus! Where are you?”
Not waiting for a reply, Valens charged blindly in the direction that felt sure right.
“Keep speaking! I’ll follow your voice!”
“Valens!”
“That’s it!”
Hope restored, Valens ran, dodging or leaping bodies as needed.
“Damn this mist! It’s not natural. Crispus?”
Valens stopped, concerned he had somehow turned himself around. He recognized the distinct trickle of flowing water and remembered the river. Valens had last seen Crispus holding the signum high on the bridge. Guessing the direction, he hoped to follow the river to the bridge.
“At the river! Don’t know which way the bridge is! I need you to yell again!”
“VALENS!”
The cry sounded close. With a quick dash, Valens saw massive stones materialize before him. Peering across the bridge, he thrilled as the mists thinned, revealing a figure far off on the other side.
“Crispus!”
Rushing across the bridge, Valens experienced an attack of vertigo right before stepping onto the other side. Pulling him up abruptly, the sensation knocked him to the ground. Dazed, he tried to collect his wits.
“Valens!”
“I’m… coming. I Must have run too fast. Whoo! Felt like I was falling. I’m coming.”
Crawling to his hands and knees, he looked to see how much further he had to go.
“Gods!”
Valens remembered crossing the river, yet somehow, he hadn’t moved. Crispus’s figure still stood across the bridge on the other side. Bewildered, Valens turned slowly, surveying his surroundings, gasping again at the slaughter as if seeing it for the first time.
“Gods! The legion’s gone!”
His hands flew to the sides of his face, inadvertently brushing a gash on his temple. He winced.
“Wounded? I… don’t remember.”
“Valens!”
“Crispus! Yes, he’ll know what to do. He’s on the other side waiting.”
Valens ran, nearly reaching the other side of the bridge until vertigo struck, and he found himself back where he had started. Something refused to let him cross; the thought frightened Valens.
The gods toy with me. Venus, help me.
Valens tried to cross repeatedly, only to end up at the beginning each time.
But he sensed something else happening. He increasingly had difficulty thinking clearly, and he struggled to remember things.
“Strange place. So cold! What was the name?”
Valens grip on sanity continued to deteriorate, and eventually, only the carnage and finding Crispus alive filled his mind.
“Dreadful. So many dead! They’ve sacked Rome, and their gods blight our lands with ice and snow. Crispus’s surely nearer death in this cold.”
The power of the bridge gnawed at his self-awareness.
“Why am I carrying this spear?”
Removing his cloak, Valens stared, trying to understand what he wore.
“A wolf pelt? Strange. Just cross the bridge. Crispus will explain.”
Valens suspected every attempt to reach the other side stripped another piece of him away, and suddenly it occurred to him the bridge could take his memory of Crispus too. The realization froze Valen in his tracks. Panicked, unsure if he should continue, he frantically deliberated about what to do. He stared longingly at the figure waiting on the other bank.
Why isn’t he coming to meet me?
Is he hurt? If so, how does he stand on his feet?
“Crispus?” he shouted.
Seemingly in response to his call, multiple shadowy figures coalesced in the mists at the other end of the bridge. Valens’s heart raced, and his bowels squirmed as the shadows solidified, barring his way.
Gods! Is this what destroyed the legion?
The shades crept closer, and Valens trembled, knowing he must face them. His spear felt heavy and dull in his hands.
I’m no warrior. Not yet, anyway. Venus beseech Mars to aid me.
The stench of death grew, and a sinister chill gripped Valens as he forced himself to confront the evil presence. He advanced with increasing difficulty. Monstrous features resolved more clearly with each step, sapping his courage.
The beasts have killed everyone except me. I’ve no chance.
No.Another survives.
Someone dear. A friend? No, one more than that.
That’s why I cross this bridge!
Caught between conflicting desires, Valens stood, feeling his resolve break.
“I’m sorry, whoever you are! Sorry, I can’t remember your name or even your face! I am weak! The terror is too great! Forgive me! I dare not cross!”
“VALENS!”
The shout engulfed him with a flood of harmonic noise. With his fears washed away, Valens felt his courage welling up in response to hearing his name. He stood a little taller and raised his spear with a firm grip.
“Love rushes to fortify me, impelling me forward whatever the cost! If reunion in this world eludes us, then know love will bring us together in death!”
Valens roared a battle cry, brandished his spear, and rushed headlong into the beasts blocking his way.
A shout caused Crispus to start, freeing him from troubled dreams. Instinct drew him into a defensive crouch as he reached for his sword. But his hand found the scabbard empty. Confused, he paused, straining to listen, but only an eerie silence greeted him. Glancing about, he noted the stonework of a bridge close by. A memory returned.
We fought to take the bridge.
Their numbers were sparse.
We flooded it with ease.
But something teased Crispus’s mind, and he wrestled with pinning down what he had forgotten.
We had carried the day.
Our victory, sure.
Lost in thought, his gaze drifted to the bridge. An inscription marked the distance to Rome. The words surprised Crispus. He appeared to be on the other side of the river, the side the enemy defended. He didn’t recall making it across the bridge.
This is all wrong. Something stopped us. Surprised us.
Crispus clamored to his feet, desperate to understand. A ghastly scene confronted him. Countless Roman and barbarian bodies lay twisted and torn everywhere he looked.
There were suddenly more of them. How? They came from nowhere.
Despair seized Crispus, fearing he alone survived until he remembered the shout that woke him. Someone else lives, he thought, straining again to listen.
“Valens!”
Despite his anticipation, the volume of the cry surprised him. Whoever called had to be near. Crispus hesitated, unsure of which direction the sound came from. Guessing, he lurched forward until a sharp pain pulled his feet out from under him. He wrenched his eyes to find his ankles clasped in a heavy chain.
“Valens!”
Crispus flailed on the ground, searching for the survivor in vain.
“VALENS!”
Crispus felt his mind slipping. The voice grew louder.
“Where are you? Show yourself!”
Only his ragged breath and pounding heart answered, taunting him.
“Perhaps, I am dead, and these are the shades of hell before me.”
Laughter, lively and bright, resounded from behind. Crispus turned to behold a beautiful man lounging atop a barbarian corpse. The man hadn’t been there before.
“Who are you?”
The stranger laughed again.
“Why laugh? Look at the horror about you!”
“What are mortals to one such as myself.” the man said.
“You are a god, then.”
“Indeed.”
“May I ask your name?”
“All you need to know, Crispus, is you are the cause of this slaughter.”
“What?”
“You heard me, mortal. All this death is your fault.”
“How?”
“That detail doesn’t concern you.”
“Why?”
“An appropriate question. The answer will come in good time. My task is nearly over. I merely linger to amuse myself.”
“So, it was you calling out?”
“No.”
“Who then? Do you know where they are? I can’t find anyone alive.”
His question elicited more laughter, and Crispus grew angry.
“What is so funny?”
“You! And your desperate search for a voice, unable to recognize it as your own.”
“I do not understand.”
“Pay attention, mortal. I will show you.”
The god stretched an arm as if fetching something slung on his back. Crispus gawked, seeing a bow made of light materialize in the god’s hands. With a pluck of his hand, the god pierced him with a radiant arrow.
“VALENS!” Crispus screamed.
His hands flew to his chest, but he found no wound and felt no pain.
“What is this word I utter? Please, be merciful! What have I done to incur your wrath?”
“Would you be fortunate if it were I you had offended.”
“Who then?”
“My mistress is a jealous god, and you have belittled that which is most dear to her. Behold the results.”
“We outnumbered the barbarians. How did their numbers multiply?”
“Rome is mighty but blinded by hubris. I easily supplied the savage beasts with the means to hide their numbers.”
“Why not slay only me?”
“You live to learn your error.”
“The barbarians litter the field too. Why?”
“Once engaged, it is difficult to contain the god of war’s lust for blood.”
“Faithfully, I served Mars.”
“No mortal meets his needs for long. But rest assured, plenty of fools are hungering for the glory found in battle. Death is always the price for such honor.”
“And now I am abandoned to live in dishonor.”
“Does life mean nothing to you, mortal?”
“Please, give me the means, and I’ll do it myself. A signifer dies with his men. It is cruel to let me live.”
“Honor is more important to you?
“It’s all mortals have. Without it, life is meaningless.”
The god picked up a sword from one of the dead and tossed the blade at the soldier’s feet. Crispus snatched the sword up.
“You have shown me kindness beyond measure. Thank you.” Crispus said.
The soldier didn’t know what reply he had expected, but the god’s smirk surprised him. It unnerved Crispus as if knowing a trap lay ready but unable to determine where and when.
“Your mistress…she wants me to learn something. I do not pretend to understand the ways of the gods, but surely you risk garnering her displeasure.”
The god grinned, shaking his head.
“I will do this. Honor must be restored.”
“Oh, I know you will.”
With a curt nod, Crispus angled the blade toward his heart, closed his eyes, and fell.
He felt no pain. Opening his eyes, Crispus watched the tip of the sword rise and fall as it rested gently against his chest. He had caught himself, stopping the fall. He tried again but failed even to prick his skin.
Crispus searched himself, satisfied to reaffirm he didn’t fear death. A part of him longed for it. But, he sensed something more substantial preventing him from ending his life. The feeling confused him. He couldn’t explain why, but Crispus knew something or someone laid a stronger claim to his heart than his fear of dishonor.
“Who is your mistress? What have you done to me? Release me!”
The god hummed merrily, drawing his bow to smite Crispus with another magical arrow.
“VALENS!” Crispus screamed.
Dropping to his knees, bewildered and defeated, he searched his mind to uncover the meaning of the word he felt compelled to speak.
Valens waited in the wings for the signal to dash headlong into danger. Last night’s bravado had faded, allowing his fears to mount. Expecting a more significant barbarian force, he thanked the gods, seeing his side outnumbered the other for his first battle.
“Remember, lads. Speed’s the velites best defense. Dash in and out, nipping at the fringe. Don’t stop. Throw. Keep running.” A veteran said.
His youth and inexperience had landed Valens in the velites unit. He wore no armor, only a wolf-pelt cloak for a uniform, and carried a small shield and several javelins. Tasked with harrying the enemy like a pack of wolves, Valens’s squad aimed to dispossess as many front-line barbarians of their shields as possible.
Searching the ranks, Valens spotted Rome’s golden eagle glinting in the sunlight atop the signum. Crispus, garbed in gold and scarlet with a lion pelt on his head, bore the Roman banner as a weapon. He knew the officer relied on Mars for success in battle, but Valens felt better praying to Venus to protect the one he loved.
“There’s our cue to advance! The battle begins! Fly, brothers! Fly like Mercury himself, and I’ll meet you on the other side!” the veteran shouted.
Valens sprang into action, sprinting across the meadows toward the waiting barbarians. Numerous clumps of thorny brush dotted the fields, forcing the velites to weave between the razor-like briars. The effort slowed Valens’s pace, making him feel vulnerable.
Nearing the uneven enemy lines, Valens targeted a foe and, using his momentum, threw his first javelin. His eyes lingered, watching the weapon arc through the air until striking his target’s shield. A triumphant whoop leaped from his mouth until he felt sharp thorns goring his legs. Valens halted, frantically kicking and pulling, scolding himself for forgetting the briars. The tangle fell to the ground revealing its dry, exposed roots. Surprised, Valens looked back to see a large hole where the briars had been.
Briars, back home, take two men to rip out. Merely running through these pulled the whole thing up. He thought.
Reconsidering the landscape, the unnatural pattern appeared obvious now. Realizing the enemy had transplanted the briar, Valens saw his foe in a new light. The Romans had foolishly assumed the barbarians were an unsophisticated lot incapable of devising such defenses.
An arrow pierced the ground at his feet, wrenching Valens out of his reverie.
Fool! How long have I been standing here?
Vowing to learn from his mistakes, he leaped back into action, seeking targets for his remaining javelins. Valens focused on aiming and sidestepping briars; thus, he had no idea if he had disabled more barbarian shields. Throwing his last weapon with satisfaction, he hurried back to the relative safety behind the Roman legion.
His part finished, Valens accepted a proffered spear from one of the older soldiers and readied himself to provide cover for a fighting retreat if the prime soldiers failed.
“Will it be difficult to secure the bridge?” Valens asked.
“Shouldn’t be. We’ve superior numbers.” an older soldier said.
“My run wasn’t a complete failure. At least one javelin flew true.” Valens said.
“One hit could alter a soldier’s fate for the better.”
“I guess.”
“First battle?”
“Yes.”
“Always the hardest. But, you’ve proved yourself now, lad.”
Valens watched a comrade limp back, shieldless, using his wolf pelt to staunch a spreading splotch of blood. He realized more than half of the velites had yet to return. Valens burned with shame for complaining about his scratched legs. Remembering Rome had the advantage here, he wondered how many wolves typically survived a run with worse odds.
Why did I make it? I should be dead.
Valens thrust the thought from his mind, returning his focus to the battle. The barbarians had managed to break through a section of the shield wall manned by less experienced soldiers. Valens watched Crispus rush forward, with the signum high, alerting everyone more support was needed. Soldiers shifted, forming a spearhead of veterans to push the barbarians back onto the bridge.
“The enemy retreats! Is it already over?” Valens asked.
“Wouldn’t be surprised if …”
A gurgle cut the old man’s reply short.
Valens turned to find the veteran soldier wide-eyed, clutching at an arrow in his throat. Stunned, he watched the man collapse, dead before hitting the ground. Valens struggled to grasp what had happened.
We’re out of range.
Valens stood frozen, listening to a chorus of sickening sounds as others dropped about him. He became aware of a growing rumble from behind. Valens turned to investigate, but someone slammed into him, knocking him to the ground and causing him to thwack his head on a rock. Dazed, gasping for air, he struggled to get up.
What’s that noise?
A warm, stickiness oozed down Valen’s face stinging his eyes. Swiping his brow only brought pain and blurred his vision. Squinting to focus, he saw blood on his hand and panicked.
Gods! I’m wounded! Venus, help me!
Valens felt the ground begin to vibrate. Peering back, he beheld a horde of barbarians fast approaching from behind the Roman lines.
Where in gods did they come from?
Valens discovered the answer to that question as a brute of a man materialized before his eyes. Another trapdoor to his left flung open, showering Valens with dirt and debris.
The ground! They were hiding beneath us!
Everything made sense now. The briars were too readily unearthed because they hadn’t grown there. The thorny plants had probably just been moved to conceal hundreds of pits. The real barbarian army had lain in the ground waiting for an opportune time to ambush the Romans from behind.
Valens tried to call for Crispus, but his voice failed him as he passed out.
I’ve decided to write a short story for each monthly prompt from a blog I’m following called Writer’s Unite. I missed the submission deadline this month and last. But, there’s always next month to get my act together.
Please visit Writer’s Unite and support all the authors who worked hard to craft a tale capturing the essence of this month’s photo. The site organizers aim to help writers gain more exposure.
Once you read the story, you’ll understand my eagerness to post at least part of it by the end of February. After all, it’s supposed to be the month of LOVE!
Enjoy!
Part One
“You Pray to Your Gods and I’ll Pray to Mine”
The new recruit shivered, tightened his cloak, and leaned closer to the fire.
“Why Rome desires such lands baffles me,” he said.
“A little snow won’t kill you. Besides, the countryside’s rich with timber and furs,” another said.
“The forests of Lebanon provide plenty without the cold,” he replied.
“We’re not here for spoils, lads.” an older soldier said.
“Then why have we come? No Roman would want to live here.”
The old soldier nodded thoughtfully before smiling.
“Name’s Titus. And you are, lad?”
“Valens.”
“Not wealth we’re after, Valens. Our legions march into this wilderness for one reason only.”
“Which is?”
“To hunt and kill every barbarian we find lest their numbers swell enough to breach even the walls of Rome,” Titus said.
Cheers erupted from the rest of the company about the fire pit.
“But, Titus, must it be so cold? My breath turns to smoke, and my stones shrivel, threatening to fall off.” Valens said.
His comrades laughed, gulping more wine.
“This far north, best to find someone to warm your bed sooner rather than later,” Titus said.
Valens glanced longingly at the ornate command tent.
“I’ve already done so,” Valens said.
“Careful, lad. Only experience and skill in battle gives a man his place of honor here.”
“Are we to ignore the arrows of desire?” Valens asked.
“No, lad, as long as it doesn’t lead to trouble,” Titus said.
“I seek no favor.”
“I can see that. Otherwise, suspect you wouldn’t be sitting in the cold with us.”
The old man chortled, slapping Valen’s shoulder.
“Ignore me, lad. I’ve grown old and leery of Cupid’s games.”
With eyes wide, a soldier spat out his drink to whistle sharply. Everyone stood for the signifer, an officer, third-in-command of the entire century. Valens struggled to keep a straight face watching the man approach.
“At ease, men. I’m on no errand of business.”
“How can we be of service, sir?” Titus asked.
The officer inspected each man until resting his gaze on Valens.
“I confess there’s one among you who’s drawn my interest. May I sit? Not as an officer, but as a fellow soldier.”
“A soldier’s always welcome about our fire,” Titus said. “Make room for a comrade-in-arms!”
The men shuffled, making space, and the officer pulled Valens into a warm embrace as he sat.
“Suppose Valens has been complaining about the cold?” the officer asked.
Valens harrumphed.
“You’d wither beneath the desert suns of my homeland,” Valens said.
“A soldier does his duty wherever he has to.” The officer said.
“As does this soldier.”
“Yes, but not quietly.”
“Pardon me, sir, but perhaps young Valens here has the voice of a future signifer,” Titus said.
“Ha! Well said, my friend. Timon, is it? No, Titus! Please, call me Crispus. It is I who share your fire and drink.”
“What think you of Titus’s suggestion, Crispus?” Valens asked.
“A signifer must embody Mars’s lust for war on the field. You’re bold, brash, and outspoken. Your skill in arms grows. Let’s see how you fare in your first battle tomorrow.”
“Are you ever afraid, bearing the signum on the frontlines? Or does Mars relieve you of such emotion?” Valens asked.
“No. Fear enables one to find courage. Fear motivates.”
“How so?”
“A good soldier fears dishonor, not death. Honor is everything.” Crispus said.
“And love?” Valens asked.
“Love?”
“Surely love is what compels us to attempt the impossible.”
“Bah, love is weak. Love hampers a soldier, clouding his mind. Love causes men to lay aside arms hoping in vain to spare the weak.”
“And yet love leads nations to war. Love destroyed Troy.”
“Forget you, the tale of Achilles, Valens? Agamemnon angered Achilles with the theft of Briseis. Honor demanded he deny the Greeks their best warrior. And yet his love for Patroclus drew Achilles back to fight. The gods warned against it, to no avail. Love’s compulsion destroyed Achilles.”
“One mustn’t speak so! Venus is a jealous god. She suffers not the scorn of mortals.”
Crispus scoffed.
“Are you a priest of the goddess of love?”
“The blessed lady has always been my family’s patron. We honor love above all.”
Valens removed a delicate chain from about his neck to present a medal to Crispus.
“What god do you serve first?” Valens asked
“Mars, of course.”
“Our patrons are lovers. Explains our ready bond.”
“Treacherous Cupid’s arrows lead Mars to Venus’s bed. Truly, Mars is wedded only to war and the honor it brings.” Crispus said.
“Have anything other than disdain for the goddess of love?”
“Let’s not quarrel. I admit life would be dull without the blessings Venus bestows. But, I mistrust her ways.”
Crispus tried to kiss Valens.
“Then I shall endeavor to teach you not to dismiss the power of love so idly.”
Valens stood to leave the fire.
“I thought you were cold,” Crispus said.
“Love will keep me warm.”
Crispus followed, smirking.
“Signifer! Any news? What awaits us tomorrow?” one of the soldiers called.
“A river lies ahead with multiple crossings. The general has chosen us as a vanguard. Our task is to secure safe passage for the rest of the army.
“Do you expect much resistance, Signifer?” another soldier asked.
Crispus laughed.
“Throw your javelins true, soldier. Soften them up, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
A Short Story Set in a Mythical Nordic Medieval World.
Glossary of Terms and Characters
Völvur: a shamanic order of women capable of foresight and communing with the otherworld.
Jötunn: god-like elemental forces of nature from the mountains, forests and wilds of the tundra. (Giants.)
Gobban: a Norseman, a smith and master craftsman of weapons.
Kalda: servant of Skadi, an ice sprite.
Skadi: winter goddess of jötunnic origins.
Seiomenn: men who practice conjuring magics.
Greta: the queen’s seeress.
Alfar: fairies, elves.
Surtr: Norse god of fire.
Muspellheim: elemental realm of fire.
Steinvegg: a stonewall.
Holde seg: a command to hold, stay, or remain still.
Part 7 “Winter Thaws”
Kalda’s suggestion flummoxed Gobban. The smith stared uncomprehendingly at the ice sprite.
“Isaz?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes.”
An involuntary titter escaped Gobban’s pursed lips, replaced by silence as he observed Kalda’s sincerity. Forcing a cough, he cleared his throat to compose himself.
“I typically shy away from Isaz. The cruel cold tends to induce brittle weakness in steel.”
A fiery, azure light flared in Kalda’s eyes as she scowled fiercely. Gobban stepped back, head titled, eyes wide, and hands in the air. He simpered, attempting to mollify Kalda’s rising ire.
“Now, of course, Isaz can represent such things, but I have you, Kalda, to thank for showing me a different side to winter’s power.”
The ice sprite raised an eyebrow inquiringly, emboldening the smith to continue talking.
“With your guidance, my eyes have been opened to intriguing possibilities. Tonight, I have witnessed impossible feats wrought with the help of your wintry magic.”
“You understand then how the ice rune is crucial to achieving your goal?” Kalda asked.
“Isaz’s chill bite may diminish the beast’s inferno, making its fires unequal to those we used in forging this sword.”
“I believe victory will be won by the sword’s ability to endure,” Kalda said.
“Agreed.”
“Good. How do you affix the sigils to your work?”
Gobban led Kalda to a workbench. He laid the blade before them and fetched a small clay pot from a shelf.
“My family has perfected the recipe for an acid capable of eating into the steel.”
“How can this clay jar contain such a liquid without failing?”
Gobban laughed.
“Simple. Nothing magical is involved. Manure from a cow solely fed spinach and kale greens is liberally mixed into the mud.”
Smirking, the smith removed the jar’s lid and dipped a fine brush into the etching fluid.
“I suppose your brush is made from spinach leaves?” Kalda quipped.
“Nope, just a regular brush. I trim the burnt end off after each use. One will last quite a while.”
The ice sprite rolled her eyes.
“I was hoping for something a little more exciting, master smith.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
Gobban and Kalda giggled, forgetting momentarily the monstrous evil threatening the kingdom. As their laughter subsided, the smith regarded the ice sprite solemnly.
“Thank you for coming to our aide. I admit I was anxious, not knowing what to expect. But, ironically, your laugh, your presence warms my heart.”
Kalda nodded, reflecting.
“It surprises me, but I am pleased to be in your company. My kind and yours so rarely have such close dealings. Many questions arise in my mind. Being here awakes memories I had long forgotten.”
Curiosity gripped Gobban, but he held his tongue. Sensing Kalda would say no more, he clapped his hands, rubbing them together.
“Let me demonstrate the technique I employ,” he said.
Melting a lump of wax, the smith fashioned a mold outlining first one rune and then another until six letters ran down the length of the blade. The ice sprite watched intently as Gobban carefully applied the acid to the spaces surrounded by wax. The liquid fizzed and bubbled, wisps of vapor wafting towards the ceiling.
“It doesn’t take long.” Gobban offered.
Kalda remained quiet, seemingly deep in thought.
“That ought to do it. Here’s where I usually make a mess.”
Juggling the sword and clay pot, Gobban tilted the blade, causing the acid to run down its narrow length haphazardly. Most of the liquid successfully streamed back into the jar. After mopping up the small spill, he gently removed the wax, buffing the steel clean.
“One last thing to do. Then our work is done!”
Gobban attached a bronze guard and sturdy wooden handle to the tang. Fine wire and two strong bolts held everything together tightly. The smith sighed with pride as he presented the finished sword to Kalda.
“It is a beautiful sword.” Gobban beamed.
“Yes, it is. But do you believe it will be sufficient? Will it slay the beast?”
Gobban sighed grimly.
“If our sword fails the prince, my kingdom is doomed. There be nothing left to do but flee. And yet, I dare to hope this weapon will be exactly what his Highness requires.”
The smith smiled wanly, attempting to convey confidence. The ice sprite seemed not to notice. Absorbed in thought, she stared intently at the runes on the sword. Silence stretched as her eyes burned and her face hardened. Gobban struggled to read Kalda.
“What? You wrestle with something. Tell me.”
The ice sprite’s eyes bathed Gobban in a tangible radiance of sapphire light. The set of her chin was tense, her smile ferocious as she stood tall and proud.
“Gobban, there is yet one thing more I can offer to help you and your people.”
Something in the tone of her voice brought a lump to his throat as his heart quickened.
“You have done more than you know already, Kalda. What further aid could you render?”
“A foresight is upon me. Smoke and flame fill my mind. I fear the sword as-is will not be enough.”
Gobban shook his head.
“I disagree.”
“The beast’s fires will melt this weapon like all the others.”
“Why this sudden doubt?”
The smith squinted, raising a hand against the increasing glare from the aura of blue light surging out to surround Kalda.
“I see clearly now the wisdom in my mistress’ choice to send me to answer your king’s call for aid.”
“What are you doing?” Gobban shouted as her rotating screen of snow whipped faster.
“I will imbue this blade with my essence.”
Horrified, Gobban gasped.
“You can willingly part with an aspect of your life force?”
“I am prepared to hand over the entirety of my power if need be.
“Everything? Can you survive such a sacrifice?”
“My mistress, Skadi, has bestowed a great gift upon me; a means to redemption.”
“I do not understand.”
“The sword must be magically warded against the beast’s infernal fire.”
“The runes will….”
“My wintry spirit will amplify Isaz’s potency, protecting the sword. Its power will overwhelm and subdue the beast, allowing the steel to pierce and freeze its fiery heart.”
“Kalda, no! You are not one of the völvur. Pay no heed to this false vision. I have clouded your judgment, foolishly giving voice to my fears and uncertainty!”
The growing maelstrom of ice and snow writhed around the sprite filling the air with an ethereal sound as if a thousand tiny bells were simultaneously ringing.
“Gobban, for years beyond count I have existed, created when the world slept beneath majestic glaciers blanketing this realm in an endless winter. I am not afraid.”
“Kalda, please no!”
“Gobban, I welcome this. Being here has reminded me of my desire to right past wrongs.”
“Stop! I forbid this!”
Gobban held the sword behind him.
“I have made my choice, human. There is nothing you can do.”
“But, why? The beast will be defeated! The völvur seers foresee it. Think of the weapons, the tools, the art we could create together!”
Kalda’s magical presence expanded, filling the room.
“Please, Kalda. Stop. I know it sounds ludicrous, but I love you.”
“Master smith, you have thawed my icy heart, producing the closest thing to love a winter fairy may feel. Thank you. Goodbye, Gobban.”
A blizzard of energies engulfed the smith. Gobban flung his arms up to shield himself from the icy tempest, the sword clattered to the floor.
“No! Please gods, no!”
Kalda’s voice sung reassuringly above the din.
“I will live on in the winter and within the blade itself. Grieve not, Gobban.”
The smith fell to his knees, numbly watching the vortex of magic quicken. It hovered above the sword, channeling the frigid forces toward the blade. A brilliant orb of sapphire light crackled with energy at the point of contact as Kalda’s power surged into the weapon. Gobban could no longer see Kalda. A blinding radiance obscured everything from view until flashing and disappearing with a loud clap of thunder. The magic exploded, throwing the smith to the ground. The concussion extinguished the forge fire throwing the room into darkness as a wild wind ripped its way outside.
Silence dominated. The smith took a moment to collect himself. He lay on the floor and shivered under a new coating of snow and ice. Ghostly afterimages from the dazzling light danced across Gobban’s vision in the darkness. As his eyes recovered, he became aware of lighter areas of blackness outlining the windows and from somewhere inside a faint blue glimmer.
Sitting up, he beheld the sword gleaming with a radiance absent before. There was no sign of the ice sprite. Gently picking the blade up, Gobban studied it. The runes etched into the steel shimmered with an otherworldly blue light. One rune sparkled more intensely than the others.
“Isaz,” he whispered.
Responding to his voice, the sword crackled with light extending from the runes to illuminate the entire blade. A chill seeped down into the handle nipping his hand. Ignoring the frigid pain caused by touching the sword, Gobban cradled the weapon and wept.
“Kalda, your sacrifice will not be forgotten.”
Gobban’s heart ached to recognize the runes burned with Kalda’s familiar sapphire blue light. Loath to move, to disturb the solemnity of this grievous moment, he knelt quietly. The smith grappled with warring emotions. He knew he should be grateful, consumed with joyous relief. They had succeeded in creating a weapon to defend the kingdom. But sorrow and guilt welled up, threatening to drown him.
Listening to the shutters banging in the breeze, Gobban chided himself. He acknowledged the tragedy of Kalda’s death, but his emotions dumbfounded him. Humans and fey folk rarely interacted. The smith had spent one night with the ice sprite. He did not understand why he felt this way.
A faint, unfamiliar noise pulled Gobban out of his reveries. With dawn beginning to break, he wondered if the sound had come from outside. The smith refused to face the world just yet. He stood, walked to each window, and closed the shutters. He stumbled forward in the gloom using the sword’s light to see. After some effort, Gobban managed to rekindle a frost-covered torch. He grimaced in dismay surveying the sodden remains of the forge fire in the smoky, guttering torchlight.
Again, a muted sound caught his attention. He raised the flickering light to illuminate more of the smithy. A whispering murmur percolated from somewhere inside. Cautiously stepping forward, he searched the room. On the far side of the forge, a figure lay huddled on the floor.
Shocked, Gobban’s heart skipped a beat. His mind raced; he wondered if this was Kalda’s body. He hadn’t anticipated anything corporal remaining behind after the ice sprite had selflessly poured out her spirit. Gobban realized he was shaking, racked with indecision. He dreaded having to gaze upon her lifeless form.
The smith stood rooted in pace, hesitating until he perceived a quiet groan coming from the prone form. With a disbelieving, desperate hope, Gobban catapulted forward. Collapsing next to the body, he gawked. Coarse fabric and the filthy pelt of an unknown animal covered the figure. Long hair hid the person’s face.
Hand trembling, he reached out to turn the body over. Through the grime and dirt, Gobban could see it was a woman. He nearly leaped out of his skin when she coughed. He leaned closer, scrutinizing the stranger. Wild, dark, unkempt hair framed a beautiful face. Tentatively, he leaned forward to listen to her breathe. Instantly, he could feel her warmth and vitality. The woman stirred, eyes fluttering open with a look of surprise.
“Gobban?”
“Kalda?”
Gobban studied the woman’s face. He recognized her features, but instead of pale, unnaturally white features, Kalda had a tanned, ruddy complexion. Deep, dark brown eyes gazed back at the smith. Astonished, Kalda studied her hands and felt her face. She smiled, crying. Gobban assumed she shed tears of joy.
“But, how? I don’t understand,” he asked.
“The gods have restored me to what I was eons ago before the völvur’s magic made me into something different.”
“You, you were human? I mean, you’re human?” Gobban whispered.
“Yes, human.” she laughed.
Gobban clasped Kalda tightly in an embrace. Showering her face with kisses.
“I don’t understand. But, it doesn’t matter. You’re alive!” the smith said.
“The gods have forgiven me, Gobban. I have a second chance.”
“But, why? What did you…?”
Kalda touched a finger to Gobban’s lips, silencing him.
“Not yet. Please. I promise I will explain soon,”
“Ok.”
Sensing Gobban desperately yearned for some explanation, Kalda sighed, shaking her head.
“I was foolish and vain. Lust for power consumed me, stealing my humanity.”
“Oh.”
Gobban frowned.
“But, you’re not… I mean, you’ve… changed?”
Kalda reflected.
“I believe I have. Yes. Yes, I have. After all these years, meeting you has changed everything.”
Kalda smiled broadly and giggled. Gobban smirked, blushing. He shook his head, struggling to reconcile the youthful image before him with her claim to ancientness.
“How old…?”
“Older than you can count, master smith. And yet, I am beginning to feel young again.”
Völvur: a shamanic order of women capable of foresight and communing with the otherworld.
Jötunn: god-like elemental forces of nature from the mountains, forests and wilds of the tundra. (Giants.)
Gobban: a Norseman, a smith and master craftsman of weapons.
Kalda: servant of Skadi, an ice sprite.
Skadi: winter goddess of jötunnic origins.
Seiomenn: men who practice conjuring magics.
Greta: the queen’s seeress.
Alfar: fairies, elves.
Surtr: Norse god of fire.
Muspellheim: elemental realm of fire.
Steinvegg: a stonewall.
Holde seg: a command to hold, stay, or remain still.
Part 6“Runes”
Holding the elegant blade aloft engendered within Gobban a hope he hadn’t felt for weeks. It felt good allowing himself to celebrate. But, the moment passed quickly. The smith became grave again, worry and concern shrouding the radiance on his face.
“Now, we come to the real test, Kalda.”
The ice sprite tensed, perceiving a solemn air of importance hovering between them.
“If we fail, nothing short of divine intervention will stop the beast from consuming the entire kingdom with his infernal fire,” he said.
Kalda reflected.
“I fear the assistance you seek from the otherworld is already standing before you. I pray I am equal to the task.”
Gobban smiled, nodding.
“I believe you are.”
“Tell me what needs to be done.”
“We must create the hottest possible fire to harden the sword. The winds you conjure should be sufficient.”
“What will prevent the steel from melting?”
“The magic inherent in this forge’s construction will imbue the metal with a resistance matching the fire’s intensity.”
“Then truly all that’s required to defeat our foe is to build a fire greater than its own.”
“Yes.”
Kalda studied Gobban’s face trying to identify what he didn’t say.
“You are troubled by something else.”
Gobban snorted, shaking his head.
“You see right through me.”
“It isn’t difficult to read your aura.”
Her revelation surprised the smith. He stared disbelievingly at Kalda.
“My aura? You speak as a völvur. What signs do you see circling about me?”
The sapphire light behind the ice sprite’s eyes intensified.
“You are afraid. Our task is more dangerous than you say.”
Gobban sighed.
“I can’t be certain the forge will contain the fires even with my smithing magic. This is uncharted territory.”
“Remember, you don’t carry this burden alone, Gobban. You will have my magic supporting you. Together, we shan’t allow the fires to get out of control.”
“Your confidence is reassuring, but quenching the blade will present the most danger. The extreme shift in temperature is always violent.”
Kalda smiled, her magical barrier expanding. She reached out, touching the nearby barrel of water instantly freezing it. Gobban grimaced as the expanding ice cracked the wood.
“Hey! There’s a hole in that now.” he laughed.
“I wanted to remind you of what I am capable of.”
Gobban rolled his eyes.
“I assure you I hadn’t forgotten.”
“Let us begin then?” Kalda asked.
“Sooner we start, the sooner we’ll know if we’re successful.”
Gobban threw more fuel on the fire, carefully raking the coals to create a hollow. Laying the sword in the furnace, he raised his mighty voice to sing and chant while Kalda fed the flames with a steady current of frigid air.
“Feast and Fed! Flare up! Burn bright!
Surtr, the swarthy one, harken to my plea!
Hammer, anvil, tongs, and bellows!
Coal, wood, peat, and oil!
Surtr, creation comes through you!
Fire, I seek.
Fire, I start.
Fire, I tend.
Fire, I shelter.
Forge of Muspellheim, my need is great!”
The fire grew so intense it pained Gobban to stand close by. The hue of the flames shifted from blue to white. The radiance silhouetted Gobban as he paced, gesturing with his hands to evoke a shield of warding magic around the forge.
“The fire needs more air!”
Kalda responded, increasing the airflow from outside.
“Good!” he shouted.
Containing the heat and fire was becoming arduous. Gobban rushed to and fro, reinforcing the magical barriers. His voice grew hoarse, no longer singing, he shouted his incantations over the roar of the storm Kalda had brought into the room.
“Steinvegg strong have I built! Holde seg!”
Gobban gasped, exhausted from his efforts. As the flames intensified, they increasingly threatened to escape. The rising heat required him to redouble his focus on providing a scaffolding of magic about the sword, but continuing to confine the firestorm demanded too much of his attention. Ensuring the sword endured meant Gobban had to risk allowing the fire to damage the smithy.
“Holde seg! Be content within the steinvegg!”
The firestorm obeyed briefly as the smith called out to the ice sprite.
“The sword is in danger! I can no longer protect it while reining in the fire’s desire to spread!”
“I will stand guard for errant flames!” Kalda said.
Releasing his grasp on the raging inferno, Gobban watched in dismay as wooden beams above the furnace erupted into flames. He struggled to concentrate as a blast of snow and ice snuffed out the fire. He whooped gleefully, seeing the charred wood drip with moisture. Gobban could now focus on the sword, knowing Kalda would watch the fire. Thankful most things in the smithy were made of stone or metal, but he winced, noting his bellows had already been reduced to ash.
Attending to the steel blade nestled deep within the forge, Gobban saw it shone with the light of the midday sun. Now, his task was to maintain a tight wrapping of magical force about the sword. He naturally did this with all his craft, but rarely to this extent. Standard weapons and armor did not require a heat of this magnitude.
Eventually, Gobban realized they could achieve no more. He decided to withdraw the sword from the forge. Hopefully, the heat they created was enough. Reports of city walls sloughing apart in the beast’s fiery grasp harried his mind. Urgently, the smith studied the forge’s stonework. The granite sill running atop the furnace’s circumference showed signs of bowing inward. Still, his spirits soared, noting the great slabs of dark augite lining the interior walls remained firm, holding their shape.
“It is time! I am going to quench the sword! Prepare yourself, Kalda! Wrap yourself tight within your snowy magic!”
Gobban fearing the blade would bend, continued to chant a protective spell about his work. His hands screamed as intense heat instantly radiated up through the metal tongs. The pungent smell of singed hair clawed at his nostrils. Gobban charged forward, plunging the brilliant white steel into the quenching vat. The oil erupted violently, causing the smith to stumble backward. Gobban fought to maintain his grasp on the tongs as splattering grease peppered his unprotected arms with angry blisters.
“I fear our success is also our undoing! Our magic allowed us to preserve the sword’s integrity within a heat that should have melted it. But it’s taking too long to cool! I can sense the steel threatening to buckle. It will take all my skill to safeguard our progress.”
“Have a care!” Kalda shouted.
The smith disappeared behind a dark cloud as the oil started to smoke. The fumes billowed and spread, rolling across the ceiling, cascading down the walls to fill the room with their acrid stench. The roar of the boiling oil increased, reminding the ice sprite of a mountain stream swollen with spring meltwater. Gobban’s hazy outline reappeared as the oil ignited, throwing flames high.
“It’s too hot! The amount of oil is insufficient! It shan’t cool the blade fast enough!” he cried.
“Let me extinguish the fire and chill the sword,” Kalda said.
“No! You’ll create an explosion! The ice and snow will react with the oil throwing it everywhere!”
“Then what shall we do?” Kalda asked.
“Snuff it out. Pull the air out again with your magic. We’ll have to start over once I devise a way to safely quench the blade.”
“But that will take more time!”
“There is nothing else we can do. We can’t safely cool the blade fast enough right now.”
Coughing, eyes burning, Gobban continued to sing his magic as he extracted the sword from the burning vat. Oil clung to the metal, wreathing it in flames.
“Wait! It needs to be cooled quickly?”
“Yes, an almost instant drop in temperature is required,” he said.
Gobban could sense the sprite was about to do something rash.
“Stop, Kalda. Let us ponder and try again. It is too dangerous!”
“Brace yourself! Keep a firm stance!” she cried.
“Kalda! No!”
A vortex materialized about the sword threatening to wrest it free with powerful suction. Currents of air siphoned heat, smoke, flame, and oil away from the blade carrying them out the window. Seeing clearly again, Gobban marveled the steel continued to glow brightly with a white-hot radiance.
A narrow shaft of cold moisture struck without warning, enveloping the sword in pale blue magic. Gobban reflexively flinched against the blast of steam. But, the expected onslaught never came. A strong, warm current of air protected him from behind, shunting the hot vapors into the expanding whirlwind.
Within seconds the sword’s heat and its light diminished and disappeared completely. The smith reached carefully to test the temperature of the blade. He laughed, feeling it was cool to the touch.
“My gods! You’ve done it!”
Kalda danced about the room, chasing the smoke out and smothering the remaining pieces of leather, wood, and cloth still smoldering about the smithy. Gobban noted the ice sprite avoided the vat of fiery grease. She had listened to his warning about trying to use water to douse it. Laying the sword gently aside, he moved to deal with the burning oil. Throwing handfuls of the scouring sand onto the flames, he tamed the fire and secured a lid atop to extinguish the blaze.
“Did I quench the blade fast enough?” Kalda asked.
Gobban picked up the sword and carefully examined it. His face beamed as he looked up across the room.
“Yes, Kalda,” he whispered, awestruck.
“We are done now?” she asked. “Have we succeeded?”
Gobban could only laugh as he nodded and wept for joy.
“Yes, we have accomplished a miracle. This weapon has endured even when the granite stones have not. Look at my forge!”
“Then we are done.” Kalda smiled.
“Almost. Now, let us gently heat our masterpiece to temper and relax the steel. This will prevent the blade from becoming brittle. Otherwise, it could shatter in battle. Supple strength is our goal.”
Gobban returned the sword to rest amid the diminished furnace coals. Kalda watched as he frequently adjusted the sword’s position to modulate the heat.
“We will need to clean and resharpen the edge once more. Are you able to repeat what you did before?”
“I do not tire easily as your kind does,” Kalda smirked.
“You underestimate humanity.” he laughed.
Another layer of snow and ice buried Gobban as he held the blade beneath the scouring magic Kalda created. But, the smith found it easier to tolerate knowing their work would indeed fashion a weapon capable of defending the kingdom. He dried and oiled the sword admiring its beauty. Gobban looked up, beaming at Kalda.
“I believe, my dear Kalda….” Gobban stopped short, realizing what he had just said. He flushed with embarrassment.
Kalda’s blue incandescent gaze sparkled.
“Continue my master smith. What do you believe?”
Gobban’s heart burned with a stinging warmth like the tingle fingers experience while thawing from frostbite.
“I believe this is the strongest blade I have…we could ever craft,” he said.
“Then we have succeeded?”
“I can dare to hope so.”
Kalda thought for a moment.
“Do you not ward your weapons with runes?”
“Yes, I often do when the need is great.”
“Which will you etch into this blade?”
Gobban considered.
“Mannaz, certainly, to support and augment the wielder’s power. Urug to foster strength of will. Algiz to provide protection. Naudhiz to declare a great need. Lastly, Sowila to claim success.”
Kalda nodded, quietly thinking. Gobban watched a frown spread across her face.
Völvur: a shamanic order of women capable of foresight and communing with the otherworld.
Jötunn: god-like elemental forces of nature from the mountains, forests and wilds of the tundra. (Giants.)
Gobban: a Norseman, a smith and master craftsman of weapons.
Kalda: servant of Skadi, an ice sprite.
Skadi: winter goddess of jötunnic origins.
Seiomenn: men who practice conjuring magics.
Greta: the queen’s seeress.
Alfar: fairies, elves.
Part 5 “Force of Nature”
Absorbed by visions of the unfinished blade’s future glory, Gobban’s dreamy eyes widened into a far-off stare. A rich, exultant laugh burst forth from his mouth as a triumphant smile creased his face.
Kalda was moved, and yet, puzzled by Gobban’s sudden outburst.
“Claymore?” she asked.
The question’s sobering effect was instantaneous.
“Oh, I see.”
“What is it you see?” she asked eagerly.
“Forgive me, Kalda. I do not mean to speak in riddles. Let me explain what a claymore is.”
“I assume it is a mighty sword.”
“Yes, in the hands of an able swordsman, it is formidable.”
“This lethal weapon is your creation?”
“No. It is a Pictish blade.”
“Pictish?”
“Across the western sea lies a kingdom of fierce warriors. We raided their coastal villages as is our custom, quickly finding the Picts to be capable foes. Our men returned with tales of a mighty sword outmatching our best blades. The king respectfully made peace, pledging friendship. Our two peoples have since wreaked great havoc upon the weaker southern peoples. This alliance has brought great wealth and renown to our kingdoms.”
Kalda took a step backward, shaking her head.
“You are a mighty people. I tremble to think what will become of the Alfar and even the gods themselves if you made war upon us.”
Gobban reached out a hand beseechingly.
“Fear not, Kalda. We are more than our ambitions. Most of us are quick to mend our ways when we recognize the pain it causes.”
Kalda stood her ground behind an intensified screen of protective snows.
“Humans have always yearned for more. They waste their meager years seeking greater wealth, power, and control.”
Gobban cringed, feeling the weight of Kalda’s judgment.
“Yes. You are correct. Our mortality renders us susceptible to envy and other dark emotions. Too many are jealous of the splendor the Alfar possess. But, I think attacking the fey people is an attack on nature itself. Well, anyway, that’s what my mother taught me.”
Kalda said nothing for a time. Gobban worried the ice sprite would leave. But, gradually, the magic veil about her thinned as the snowy vortex slowed its rotation. The smith realized he desperately needed Kalda to trust him.
“This weapon will protect and defend, Kalda. I give you my word.”
The woman listened to his words, reflecting. She then nodded solemnly, stepping forward.
“Who will wield it?”
Gobban was taken aback by the question. He shook his head, shrugging.
“That’s not for me to decide. But, I suspect the king’s son will.”
“Why?”
“The prince is greatly skilled in arms. He is honorable, asking of others only what he asks of himself. He alone has returned alive from attempting to slay the beast in one-to-one combat. If anyone can dispatch the fiery devil, the prince can.”
“Then let us return to fashioning a sword worthy of this protector of the people.”
“Agreed.”
Gobban looked down to reexamined the sword. He shook his head, clucking his tongue.
“We’ve dallied too long. I need to restore the metal to a workable temperature.”
Returning the blade to the forge, Gobban sighed, staring into the fire as he waited. He could feel the ice sprite’s sapphire blue eyes upon him in the silence. He turned to face Kalda.
“Thank you for helping me.”
Kalda nodded.
“Sing, master smith. Sing to the fire. I would hear your song of heat and flame again as I fan the coals.”
Gobban smirked.
“With pleasure.”
Each better understood how to complement and support the other’s efforts, and they found themselves working together with greater ease.
Gobban stood confidently, legs wide, hands on his hips, singing to the fire. His leather apron and hair thrashed about him in the winds Kalda conjured. Sparks leaped into the air, dancing in the smoke, as the smith banked the coals around the steel.
Kalda noted the strength of Gobban’s build. She marveled, watching him labor so close to the furnace’s raging inferno. The ice sprite imagined she watched a jötunnic smith high atop a fire mountain far to the north. She had heard many tales of how the giants forged mighty weapons within the molten fires deep inside those peaks.
Gobban once again laid the soft, pliable sword on the anvil. Kalda could see the air above the hot metal ripple and wave. As before, she outstretched her hands, summoning the cold from outside. Her fingers danced as she constructed an eddy of cool wind about the blade. Periodically with a flick of her wrist, she would toss a slight breeze across the smith’s sweating brow.
Sparks erupted like fireworks as Gobban pounded the steel. The unworked end slowly curved and narrowed with each hammer fall. Eventually, Gobban had pinched the steel into a point. Satisfied, the smith lay the sword flat. Beginning with one side, he painstakingly adjusted the force of his strikes to create a beveled edge down the sword’s length. Flipping it, he repeated the process, compressing the other side’s boxy shape. Gobban stopped to admire his work.
“You are satisfied?” Kalda asked.
“I am pleased with the proportions and how the weight is distributed.”
The smith swung the blade smoothly.
“Are you a skilled swordsman as well?”
“My skill ends with the crafting of the weapon. I leave the gruesome work to others better suited to the task than I.”
Kalda studied the man.
“I sense you would be a dangerous foe if pushed to fight.”
Gobban abruptly looked at Kalda.
“I certainly would do all I could in my power to protect the weak and vulnerable.”
The smith once again found himself staring intently into the ice sprite’s eyes.
“And… if the time ever arose, I hope I wouldn’t hesitate to lay down my life safeguarding those I love.”
Wondering why his mind dwelt on thoughts of love, Gobban realized he teetered on the edge of a strange emotional precipice. He was a human, and she was an ice sprite, a jötunnic being. He didn’t know if she possessed the capability to feel love. Chastising himself for becoming distracted, Gobban tried to refocus on the task of creating a weapon to slay the flame monster.
For her part, Kalda was also perplexed. At first, she thought she was too close to the forge but then decided the peculiar itch of warmth she felt had to be something else. Struggling to identify the strange sensation, the ice sprite startled, realizing it felt oddly familiar on one level. Kalda couldn’t recall ever feeling this before. Perplexed, she decided it was prudent to lay the mystery aside and focus on aiding Gobban’s work.
“What happens now, Gobban?” she asked.
The smith panicked; he coughed to hide his embarrassment.
“Kalda?” he squeaked.
“Surely, you have more work to do before the sword is complete,” she stated.
Relief flooding over Gobban. He smiled, forcing a laugh as he nodded his head rapidly.
“Oh, yes! Yes! Yes, the next step is normalizing. I have to normalize the adamantium steel. This process requires a little less heat.”
“Shall I reduce the airflow then? Do you want me to continue fanning the forge fires?”
“Yes, please. But, not too much.”
Eager to move away from Kalda, Gobban returned the sword to the forge. He wanted to clear his head. He cursed inwardly the persistent ache of tension he now felt around the ice sprite.
“What will normalizing accomplish?” Kalda asked.
Grateful for the opportunity to redirect his thoughts, Gobban happily explained in detail what was required during this part of the process.
“There are internal weaknesses scattered throughout the steel now after shaping it with the hammer and anvil. This must be mended and set right. It is the first step in hardening and strengthening the sword.”
“I see. And a cooler flame will repair these injuries sustained during the forging?”
“Yes.”
The smithy grew quiet again as they waited. Gobban listened to the crackle of the fire. The moonlight coming through the window highlighted delicate snowflakes floating about in the gentle currents of air Kalda fanned into the furnace. The smith watched pensively as the sword began to glow again with a hellish orange light. He shuffled coals around to maintain the perfect temperature like a cook fussing over a complicated dish. Eventually, he pulled the sword out of the fire.
“How do you know when it’s ready?” Kalda ask.
Gobban snorted and chuckled.
“Years and years of practice.” he smiled and shrugged his shoulder. “Truthfully, it’s just a hunch.”
Laying the sword on the anvil, Gobban fumbled about in his pockets. After a moment’s search, he found what he wanted. The smith held up a dark, pitted stone.
“Lodestone,” he stated.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“A wayfinder?”
“I am unfamiliar with that word too.”
“Helmsman use such stones to guide our ships west across the sea?”
Kalda stared uncomprehendingly.
“This stone longs for the iron residing within strong steel. I learned from a young age to test the metal of a new sword to ensure a lodestone clings to it. Shaping the sword disrupts its ability to lure and hold fast such a stone. If there is no attraction, the sword is weak and will break in battle.”
“Normalizing…restores this attraction?”
“Yes.”
Gobban crooned with happiness, seeing the lodestone stick to the blade as he waved the sword about.
“She begins to look like a real sword!” Gobban exclaimed.
“Indeed it does.”
“Now, we must smooth and hone the blade. I must warn you this is a tediously long process.”
Kalda ventured closer to look upon the rough, blackened blade while Gobban lumbered off to a far corner of the room.
“How will you clean and sharpen it?”
“Sand, gravel, and wool will scrub the blade clean. I’ll sharpen it with my whetstone.” Gobban called out distractedly.
The smith had overturned a large barrel and rolled it over. Righting the cask, he popped off the top to reveal water still sloshing about from the movement. Gobban had several burlap sacks over his shoulders which he let drop with a thud to the stone floor. He reached into one bag and pulled out a handful of fine sand.
“I’ll scour the steel with grit finer and finer and then finish with a clump of rough wool. The metal will gleam like a mirror when done.”
The smith smiled smugly.
“How long does that take?” Kalda asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Ooh, it could take days.”
“Does the kingdom have time for that? How many more will die while you perfect your art?”
“Now, listen. It’s the only way to ensure I don’t mar the balance while putting a razor-sharp edge on it.”
“I still don’t really see how I’ve helped you craft a better sword. Is all this effort going to work?”
Gobban looked sadly up from scraping the flat of the blade.
“I don’t know, Kalda. We have greatly increased the forge’s heat. I have been able to shape the steel in less than a quarter of the time it normally takes me. But, the most difficult work is still before us. I hope using your magic will allow me to harden the sword with a temperature more potent than the beast’s.”
“I overheard a rumor your cities’ stone walls have been bested by the monster. Surely, your stone forge would not contain a fire so hot.”
“I do not know what stone those walls were constructed of. Some rock is better suited to heat and flame. I can only hope the forge’s stonework can contain a stronger fire.”
Gobban went back to work. Kalda silently watched and waited.
“You may as well go and rest, Kalda. Wouldn’t you prefer the cold outdoors? I will labor through the night and tomorrow. Return next night, and we shall build an even mightier fire to harden the sword.”
Kalda said nothing, intently observing Gobban scrub and wash the steel.
“I may be able to quicken the process for you. Is it the blade ready to endure great cold?” the ice sprite suddenly interjected.
Gobban stopped to consider the question. His eyes narrowed apprehensively.
“Yes, provided we don’t hit it with a direct strike. What are you proposing?”
Kalda’s azure eyes gleamed with excitement.
“Water and ice grind down even the mightiest of mountains over time. I have witnessed incredible changes made in a short time when their power is focused. Allow me to use my magic to clean and hone the blade.”
“Unconventional. This I would like to see.”
Gobban held out the blade forgetting how Kalda had suffered when touching the steel before. The ice sprite flinched reflexively.
“I’m sorry. I should have remembered the effect metal has on you. I will hold the blade for you.”
“I fear my magic my harm you, Gobban. I will venture nearer the heat to work with the sword at the anvil. But, I will still need you to secure the blade and maneuver it when need be.”
“Then we shall take solace in the fact both of us are uncomfortable. It will make the suffering bearable.”
“Indeed.”
Standing close together, Gobban shivered, his breath crystallizing. Kalda pulled her protective screen of wintery weather close to her body. The perpetual swirling vortex hissed, creating a cloud of mist above her.
“Scrubbing away the carbon from the fire is simple enough, but allow me to quickly demonstrate the basic technique required to hone the edges.”
Kalda carefully noted the angle and direction Gobban used to run the whetstone along the sword’s edge.
“I have seen enough to mimic your technique. Hold the blade as securely as you can. The blast will be strong.” Kalda said.
Gobban readied his grip, nodding he was set for Kalda to begin.
“I will do my best to direct the ice flow away from you.”
Gobban smirked.
“I appreciate that.”
Knowing something was going to happen still failed to prepare Gobban. Chaos exploded, instantly engulfing him. The sword jolted forward, nearly slipping free from the smith’s firm grasp. His eyes snapped shut as a spray of ice struck, needling his skin with countless pricks of pain. A high-pitched squeal pierced the air, and a biting cold rapidly numbed his hands.
He tried to watch, but Kalda’s magic obscured the sword behind the turbulence of her wintry power. Gobban held the sword with all his might. Time became difficult to discern. He began to worry the ice sprite would damage the steel.
“Flip the blade!” Kalda said.
The command buoyed Gobban’s ebbing resolve. He wrenched his frozen hands, twisting the sword over.
The freezing flow of arcane forces shifted, coating the smith in a fine layer of sleet and snow. His body ached as if suddenly plunged into a cold, underground well. He consoled himself, knowing the task was half-finished.
“Can you manage to slide the sword slowly at an angle one way and then another? I want to better sharpen the edge!”
“I’ll try! It’s difficult to see through this storm of yours!”
Working metal, day in and day out, for years upon the stalwart anvil, Gobban knew its every bump, dent, and crack. He discovered he had no need to see to find his way about. The smith expertly positioned the blade pushing its edge slowly into the blast of icy magic.
As quickly as it began, the tumult ceased. Relative quiet returned, although Gobban failed to notice due to the residual ringing in his ears.
“Is this what you desire?” Kalda asked.
Opening his eyes, the smith beheld the brilliant gleam upon the sword. Immediately, he recognized he would have spent hours polishing to achieve what Kalda had in minutes.
Gobban was speechless.
Lifting the sword from the anvil, the smith winced as bits of skin from his palms stuck to the frigid metal. He moved closer to the fire, allowing the weapon to warm. Gobban ran a bloodied hand along the flat of the sword, now smooth as the surface of a river stone. Rotating the blade, he tested the edge with his thumb. He felt the satisfying nip of sharpness bite into him.
“Yes,” he whispered. “This is marvelous work, Kalda.”
Gobban looked to see how the ice sprite fared so close to the forge. Surprisingly, Kalda beamed, a smile dominating her face. She showed hardly any sign of distress. In fact, he decided she looked healthier than before. Kale’s facial features appeared less severe. He noted a softness in her lips and a hint of pink on her cheeks. The smith marveled, unable to account for the change.
“Kalda, contrary to what you may say, I think the heat suits you.”
The ice sprite raised one eyebrow quizzically and laughed.
“Gobban, I fear the cold from my magic disagrees with you! You look like a straggling mountain-top pine. Are you still well under that layer of ice and snow?”
The smith ran a hand through his hair, causing ice to cascade to the floor around him. Stomping his feet, brushing his clothes off, he laughed with Kalda.
“Never fear, my lady. The heat required to harden and temper our work will thaw my body.”
Gobban held the sword aloft, admiring it in the firelight. The weapon glistened radiantly, reflecting the fire’s dancing flames upon its polished steel.
Völvur: a shamanic order of women capable of foresight and communing with the otherworld.
Jötunn: god-like elemental forces of nature from the mountains, forests and wilds of the tundra. (Giants.)
Gobban: a Norseman, a smith and master craftsman of weapons.
Kalda: servant of Skadi, an ice sprite.
Skadi: winter goddess of jötunnic origins.
Seiomenn: men who practice conjuring magics.
Greta: the queen’s seeress.
Alfar: fairies, elves.
Part 4 “Songs of the Winter Forge”
Frigid air rushed into the room as Kalda stopped speaking. She turned to face the smith and his subdued forge. She furrowed her brows with concern, biting her lower lip. Gobban felt the display of emotion made the winter fairy appear more human. He instantly longed to comfort the sprite, reassuring her no great harm had been done by her magic. As he stared, he wondered what made the fey folk so different and yet similar to humans.
“I did not realize, Gobban. I am sorry. I only sought to help.”
“Do not worry. I am hale and hearty. It will take only a little effort to recover the necessary heat to continue forging.”
Gobban walked to the furnace and stirred the embers. Adding more coal, he began to work at the bellows again and sing his enchantments to the fire.
“Wood, coal, peat, and pitch.
Awaken, ignite, erupt and blaze.
Work have I, metal to shape.
Heed my voice. Raise the heat.
Ore is hard, brittle, and dense.
Coal is hot, eager to burn.
Heed my voice. Raise the heat.
Relax, soften, pliable be.
Hammer, anvil will transform.
Work have I, metal to shape.
Heed my voice. Raise the heat.
Offerings from the four winds I make.
Breathe deep, leap up….”
Gobban abruptly stopped chanting, letting out a triumphant shout.
“Kalda! How foolish of me. I know exactly how you can aid my efforts!”
“How?”
“We’ve had it backward! We don’t want to remove the air; we want more of it!”
The ice sprite peered intensely at Gobban, her sapphire blue eyes burning bright.
“I do not understand. The cold, chill, winter air will assist in intensifying the fire?”
“Fire is alive, Kalda. It dies without air. It breathes like a living thing. The more air it consumes, the greater its heat. Speak with the wintery winds. Convince them to fan the flames in the forge. Surely, that will muster the heat I and my song can not.”
Kalda looked perplexed.
“You need the air to go into the fires?”
“Yes.”
“But, the winter winds are frigid. They are fierce and mean. They will try to destroy you and your fire. Even humans extinguish a candle with their breath.”
“That is true. But, this fire will not go out. The gusts will only make it grow.”
“Won’t you be burnt?”
“I may singe hair and scorch my hide, but gods willing, the runes I wear will prevent any lasting harm. And every smith has to concern himself with a fire out of control at one time or another. One of the first smithing songs I learned was a tune of taming. The flames will obey me. They will not leave the furnace. I will demand they remain content with their fuel and promise to keep them ever well-fed.”
Kalda nodded with a smirk and a glint in her eyes.
“I will call upon the winter wind. It will come. Like your flames, it obeys me.”
Gobban spirits soared, feeling this strange, new connection to Kalda. His hopes for crafting a weapon capable of slaying the beast rose. He resolved going forward to have more respect for the völvur. Not since boyhood had he observed the effects of their guidance directly. As an adult, Gobban often downplayed the importance of fate, declaring he was master of his own destiny.
“Right! Let’s work with all haste.” Gobban said.
Kalda’s voice rose with her song again. Gesturing, she beckoned the wintery elements in. The incoming air whipped about her. The ice sprite’s protective shell of magic guttered like a candle in the wind. Bits of snow, sleet, and ice hissed, violently evaporating into angry wisps of moisture as they were pulled toward the heat. Within the furnace, Goabban watched the coals flare up with a burst of flames. There was no need to pump the bellows.
“It’s working!” the smith called out.
Gobban uttered his chants, monitoring the rapid change in the steel. It already was the familiar golden, yellow glow. Gobban observed blue flames develop, indicating the fire was growing hotter. His thoughts drifted to the tales of the devilish monster melting raw stone. He wondered exactly how hot the beast’s fire raged. He needed to forge his steel with a temperature even more intense. But, Gobban suspected the metal would then be too soft to work. Nevertheless, he knew he had to try.
“The forge needs to burn hotter!” he bellowed.
“I will not hold back then,” Kalda said.
A maelstrom of wintry precipitation raged within the smithy. The stone floor was slick and damp. Kalda strained to usher more air in against a steadily building resistance. Holding the winds inside was like keeping an upturned bucket full of air underwater.
“It would be best to open the opposite window. It will provide a path for the currents to exit. This will generate better airflow!” Kalda cried out.
Gobban perceived the ice sprite’s growing struggle. Only a thin layer of the protective magic encircling her was discernible.
“It’s becoming too hot for you!” he said.
He was becoming acutely aware the same was true for him. A terrible thirst wracked his throat, his lips felt cracked, and his exposed skin was blistering.
“I won’t give up! If we can vent this torrid air through another window, I can draw in more wind to fan the forge fires without it circling back upon myself.”
Gobban ran to the shuttered window on the far wall and flung it open. A gust of escaping air buffeted him about as it rushed out.
“It is done! Is it helping?”
“Yes!”
Gobban shielded his eyes from the brilliant light from the coals as he returned to his forge. He beheld within the inferno the blazing white-hot steel. It threatened to bend as he pulled it from the furnace. He hastily draped the steel bar across the anvil. Carefully modulating the intensity of his swing, Gobban let his hammer fall. The metal over responded to the blow.
“Blast! It’s too soft!” he yelled.
“Wait, let me help. I comprehend now what you are endeavoring to accomplish.”
Before the smith could respond, he felt the icy stab of a focused current of frigid air strike him. Glancing down quickly to his anvil, he saw the metal’s light dim. Gobban hammered again. The steel pushed back with tenacity while yielding favorably to the smith’s demands.
“Well done, Kalda! The metal remains hotter and softer internally. Yet, somehow, this gentle cooling has returned just enough external integrity allowing me to continue to shape it.”
“Good. I greatly desire to observe the final result of our efforts.”
Gobban hazarded a quick glance toward Kalda. His heart leaped upon seeing an intense smile upon her face.
“Yes, I too am eager to learn more of the unique nature this blade will possess.”
Both labored tirelessly in such a fashion. Kalda alternately kept the furnace flames ready and hot while bathing the sword Gobban worked with subtle jets of cool air. The smith could hammer and shape for longer intervals of time and waited less for the metal to return to optimal temperature when reheated.
“I will now draw the blade out.”
Gobban returned the steel briefly to the forge. Returning the sword to his anvil, he furiously attacked it with a shower of blows. Each strike fell diagonally at an angle to the length of the blade. Before long, Kalda could see the steel was noticeably thinner and had doubled its reach.
“You have pulled the metal out to a great extent, Gobban. Will the blade not be too weak if stretched so far?” Kalda asked.
“That would be the case with lesser steel, but adamantium steel is exceedingly strong. We are fortunate to be working with such a quantity of the highest quality material.”
“Will it be what humans call a longsword?”
“I intend to expand the reach of this weapon even further. The fiery beast radiates scorching flames far beyond its body. I hope to provide this sword’s wielder with the ability to strike from the furthest possible distance.”
“It will be a great sword indeed then.”
“It will be nearly a foot longer than a longsword. This shall be a great claymore blade!”
Mythos Creative Writing 