THE SWORD IS FORGED
@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, December 2004. All rights
reserved under the Berne Convention. This story may be
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headers. You may also print out a hard copy for personal
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Self-Indulgent Author's Notes: Another introductory story
for a planned furry swords, sorcery and spooge series, "The
Three". Thanks to Limyaael<
/a> and Manya 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.