THE SWORD IS FORGED


@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, December 2004. All rights 
reserved under the Berne Convention. This story may be 
distributed freely via electronic means, provided no money 
or other consideration is charged and that the story 
remains intact as posted, including these notes and the 
headers. You may also print out a hard copy for personal 
use. If you want your friends to see it, don't email it to 
them; instead, direct 'em to my archive (URL below).All 
other rights reserved under the Berne Convention.

Self-Indulgent Author's Notes: Another introductory story 
for a planned furry swords, sorcery and spooge series, "The 
Three". Thanks to <a 
href="http://www.livejournal.com/users/limyaael/">Limyaael<
/a> and <a href="http://www.manyastarr.com/">Manya</a> for 
their constructive criticism.

You can read more of my erotic stories at:
http://members.vclart.net/Maureen/index2.html



The Sword is Forged

By Maureen Lycaon



Tehaeri hammered, hammered at the blank of steel as he 
shaped it, preparing it for the sword it would become. His 
flaring black nostrils were filled with the smells of 
smoke, of hot steel -- and the bright smell-not-smell of 
magic, flowing through the bulging smith's muscles of his 
arms like cool, living fire.

He had heard many smiths try to describe how the magic felt 
as they called upon it. Some compared it to a fire in the 
blood, others to lightning. Tehaeri thought of it as like 
some curious cross of white fire and flowing water, cool 
and fluid and yet burning brilliantly.

Usually, when he called upon it, the magic was little more 
than a late-summer creek's trickle. This time it was a 
great, roaring cataract, welling up from its divine, 
incomprehensible source to flood into his soul as he 
worked. A less experienced magician would have lost all 
control of it, and perhaps been destroyed or left mad -- 
the magic of the smith, like all magics, was dangerous. For 
all his skill and the knowledge of many years of smithing, 
Tehaeri struggled to control it. He focused his mind and 
will upon directing it, letting it flow through his arms 
and the blows of his hammer into the steel as he forged the 
blade.

When he had begun his apprenticeship so long ago under 
Ngorobi, the finest magician-smith of his generation, he 
had created swords that merely did not rust, or that never 
needed sharpening. Later, he had learned how to forge the 
rarer, more powerful magical swords, the ones which could 
cut through even the finest bronze armor, or which could 
guide an inexperienced wielder's paw.

Finally, he had learned how to fashion the greater swords, 
the ones that could slay even some of the lesser creatures 
of the Elder Gods.

And now, knowing that the time was right and he was truly 
ready -- assisted by the God of the Forge -- he was forging 
the greatest, most powerful magical sword he had ever 
attempted, a triumph of the magician-smith's art. The kind 
of sword that a smith would likely forge only once in his 
lifetime.

Yet, he did not *know* what the blade's powers were. With a 
sword such as this, the smith was almost a tool for the 
magic, rather than its master; the true master was the 
Forge God, whom the Hyenan knew as Neegoral, the Lionen as 
Mangaylem, the Wolven as Grell. 

Still, he could guess. Surely, like all the greatest 
magical swords which Neegoral directly aided the smith to 
create, it would help its wielder find the cursed artifacts 
of the Elder Gods, and it could slay their eldritch 
servants.

But, like a living creature, magic must be fed. And alhough 
he could feel its cool, white fire moving through him, 
entering the sword, he did not know exactly how *this* 
magic would be fed.

Nor did he know who the blade was meant for. Not himself, 
certainly. He was well past the days when he might go 
adventuring. The right apprentice for this blade lived 
already -- and he would soon encounter her. The gods and 
the magic would see to that.



Days later, as he finished quenching the blade, and was 
breaking away the clay from it, he could *almost* perceive 
the magic in its full beauty, and understand it. But he 
knew better than to pause or even slow his work to "look" 
more closely. To do so would be to break the spell of 
forging, and ruin the sword.

As he was polishing the blade, the work almost done, he 
felt the last of the magic run through him into the steel, 
melding into the cool metal forever, until that far-off day 
when the sword should be destroyed. And then, in a mighty 
flash, he understood the magic, and how it was to be fed -- 
and he laughed aloud.

It was *so* fitting. No magician-smith could help putting a 
little of himself into the blades he made, but *this* . . . 
What a pleasure it would be, to train that lucky/unlucky 
novice!

Tehaeri lifted the newly-created sword, raising its point 
to the roof of the smithy. He swung it through the air, 
laughing again in delight. The balance, the heft -- such 
sweet perfection! He knew a vast, warm glow of joy . . . 
the joy of an artisan who has accomplished his life's work.

Then, carefully laying the finished sword down upon the 
now-cool anvil, he closed his eyes and mentally uttered a 
grateful prayer of thanks to the Forge God. 

*Neegoral, Master of Bronze and Iron -- your servant thanks 
you.* And though there was no reply that he could sense, he 
knew his words had been heard.


@Direct comments and criticism to maureen_lcn@yahoo.com . 
See author's notes above for the URL to my story archive.