Chapter Three.
The Fashioning of The Guardian Swords.
For many moons now, the forge had been thundering, with its charcoaling heart bellowed to white heat. The furnace pots bubbled and fretted, and spat as Elshore melted the metals to start the pouring of billets of Iron, and thence, when that was accomplished; of Leissor, into the waiting moulds. Into each iron melt, one precious shard of Great Shadowcleaver... the Nightmare of Darklings; was placed with singular care; and, in the melting, the toil was not hard to accomplish by reason of the Corbis-wood charcoals glowing white-hot, as like the heart of the sun.
The moulding was swiftly completed, with the billets cooling and the melting all done. In the space of three moons, there were billets a'plenty... more than enough for the wrought to begin. The great quenching vat was freshly filled with crystal-clear spring water, and a measure of Olistalix-Bane was carefully poured therein. The vat began writhing and boiling, and bubbling and fuming; then at length, it calmed, but did not grow cold. The liquid in the vat was clear, sparkling amber, with swirlings of scarlet. This was, indeed, an ancient enchantment; awesome to behold.
The 'prentice lad set his shoulder to the bellows, fanning the hearth until the forge-bed glowed brighter and brighter, and whiter, and hotter; and then, the first Iron billet was laid into the heat by Elshore, who studied the colours rising. When Straw crept from out of the Cherry-red... t'was swiftly out of the forge-bed and onto the Anvil; and then, double hammered to left, and to right. The first blow was struck by Elshore, the next by his young 'prentice... one to the other, so swiftly as to imagine each blow was 'naught but an echo of the other. The sparks flew about, as the billet sank in gradual thickness, as all the while, Elshore kept watch on the colours as they ran. When Straw had become again, Cherry; t'was back to the forge, to thrust the lengthening billet back into the white-hot glow.
Then again, air was bellowed to the forge-bed, and as the heat rose, they watched for the sign of the Cherry glow fading to Straw. Then swiftly, the billet was laid to anvil again. So this continued with heat and with hammer, until the Iron billet was parchment thin, taking the shape of a sword blade, some three-fingers in span, and two, and one-half cubits in length from tine to point tip. Then, it was time for the quenching. So t'was back to the vat for the plunging... the sizzle and fume; but there was none. As they laid the metal into the vat, a bright, orange glow lit up the forge, and spider-web fingers of flickering orangey-red danced all around and about the metal. Never had they seen the like of this thing; t'was, without doubt, a true ancient enchantment.
When the metal had cooled in the quenching vat, Elshore took stock of the glittering leaf of metal. It shone and it sparkled with a shimmery blueness, and lacked any hammer marks; t'was close, beyond belief. The spider-web fingers still crept and softly flickered, but now... they were not fiery orange, but more, a shimmering golden that faded away like a soft summer sunset; fainter and fainter, as the Iron cooled. Then, it was time to begin again with a new billet... with heat and with hammer, until all were done. It would need a score of Iron leaves for each one of the sword blades, and the sum of the forging would take close on thirty moons in passing.
At length, with all the Iron billets fettled, t'was time for the billets of Leissor. They would take longer, and they would take all of Elshore's skill; for they were much harder than Iron in the hammering. With each blow, the air would fill with sparks; and with the quenching, the spider-web fingers shone brightly, like forked lightning beset round a storm... blue-white and violet, endlessly flickering; and for two moons the leaves remained warm to the touch.
Four score, less four, of the billets of Leissor were wrought in the forge-bed, until at length, all had been done, and two great piles of leaves lay spread out upon the forge floor. Now, they could take a well-earned rest from their labour. The forge must be purged yet again, for the melding of Iron and Leissor, and fresh Corbis charcoal needed to be piled into the Forge-bed.
The quenching vat was purged, and filled with fresh, spring water. Olistalix-Bane was then added in measure laid forth in Filar's parchment. This would be the melding. This would be the swords' birth. This would give them their fidelity.
The forge was fired again, and swiftly bellowed until the forge-bed flared white-hot again. Now, the meld could begin. A leaf of the Iron and a leaf of the Leissor were brought to the forge-bed and swiftly thrust into the heart of the whiteness. Elshore watched the colours run from Cherry, to pale Straw... then swiftly, he drew out the Iron leaf, whilst his 'prentice drew out the leaf of Leissor. Both were swiftly laid upon the anvil table, one upon the other; and both were double hammer-struck, as before. When the colours had crept back to cherry, t'was back to the forge to lay them deep into the heat again. Two more leaves were already waiting, thrust deep into the white heart of the forge.
When these leaves glowed a pale straw, they were laid to anvil and hammered together as had been the first pair... the meld, as close as lovers in springtime; all wrapped into each other... a true, unioned bliss. Thus, it continued, with the laying of leaves, one upon the other; Iron... then Leissor... then Iron, again. Elshore wrought these infant blades ten times in this manner with five quenchings. Thus, slowly, but surely, the sword blade was birthed. Twice more, they laboured with heat and with hammer; with meld and with quenching. Two more blades were forged, and then coated with beeswax whilst they slowly seasoned.
They began again with the new morn, to the fashioning of the fourth blade for the girl-child. The elegant sweep of this sword would be quite unlike those before, but would be of the same melding and infinite deadly. Here then, was birthed the daughter of the Dushrakhas... the Thuvian Berserker blade. It was shaped like the wing of a swallow in high flight, with the tip sweeping up and the hilt falling away. It would be forged in one piece for perfection of balance, and would be a true working of the Sword-maker's art, with which to impose a vicious doom to Darklings.
After the fourth blade was fashioned and waxed, and laid down for seasoning, t'was time to mould the Appointments, as sword makers call all the fitments added to make a sword from a blade. Elshore brought forth a great crucible for the melting of Leissor to pour into the moulds. This, he placed firmly in the heart of the forge-bed, and the 'prentice lad bellowed with vigour, until the crucible base cheerfully glowed.
Then, it was time to lay in the last billets of Leissor, and slowly, they meltingly sank into a glittering, shimmering liquid, with no trace of slag that need be skimmed away. Soon, came the time for the pouring into the carved moulds, waiting patiently upon the forge floor. These moulds were crafted from a singularly cunning, soft stone that would withstand the heat of the moulding. It was found in the depths of the Thuvian Mines of Khallis. This stone was soft, white, and powdery; and was easily cut or crushed to a fine powder. Some called it Gypsum, and some called it Chalk. T'was thought to be of little virtue at all; yet, when it was fired, and ground to a powder... if then, it was mixed with water; this powdered stone became hot, and this strange mixture quickly grew in hardness. Here, it stood singularly perfect for moulding fine metal. When the poured metal had cooled; one sturdy blow would most swiftly cast off the fragments of mould enclosing the fine moulding; leaving only the moulding to view. This would then be ready for planishing and polishing, and the working of any small changes needed.
The mouldings to pour were the cross-guards and hilts, with pommels attached. Thrice then, need be the moulding, for each of the boys' swords would mirror the other. The sword of the Girl-child was not of this fashion. Forged in one piece, it had no requirement of appointments, save for the fitting the Eye-stone, and perhaps, gravings. Elshore thought deep and hard. Each new sword needed a name. What might he name it? Thuvian blades and Algethi blades were not alike. The girl-child's blade was so like an Algethi Sabre... yet, it was not an Algethi Sabre. T'was more like a Paunching knife, used by the hunters; but t'was close in size to an Algethi Sabre. It was fully double-edged, whereby a Sabre was blunted along the nether edge. What then, might he call it?... this soft, sweeping curve, as yet, crude; and lacking elegance... yet, holding such promise?
Faced with this vexation, Elshore pondered awhile as he waited for the billet to heat. What would befit the girl-child, in the summers to come? Cirion; Granddaughter of the Warrior Ice Queen. Cirion... the First Female Guardian of The Light in Amriath. What name could he give to the sword that would not demean the promise of what she might become? T'was certainly needing an Algethi name. Then... it came to him. Why not Charybon-Runic for "Maid Guardian of The Light?" The name of the sword might be "Kesol-Cel." Elshore elected to seek Eldamar's wisdom in this matter; but, that was not for now, but for when the sword birthing was complete.
After the passing of two moons, the moulds were broken asunder, and there, shining brightly, lay the cross-guards. They were sturdy, round-edged, and curving. They were 'bellished with symbols denoting "The Light"... The Ivy leaf twinements of Lothloriel; the Charybon Cyphers of The Shining Land. The fitments needed little or no planishing. How well then, Elshore had applied his skill to this thing. The full-pommelled hilt moulds were split open, and such a sight came to their view. The hilt grip was fashioned as a delicate taper to the pommel. Thus, the Guardian could regain his grip in Battle, if his hand should slip on the hilt as he smote down his foe. In this, he would not lose grace in combat, and this might well preserve his life.
The pommel itself was fashioned as two great, spread Eagle talons impatient to clasp the Eye-stones. Cut in the throat of the pommel was a pocket, to hold safe the secret... the Unicorn Teardrop, the "Niirea-Kalhkari" enchantment to keep all the Darklings at bay. But, how to keep safe this magical Lozenge? How then, to be sure it would stay there, secure? Deep in thought, wandering out of the forge… suddenly, there... staring him full in the face... was the answer. It was the lowly of the low... t'was a bindweed spiralling up, as it wound itself about a tree. Elshore saw how it twisted and turned. Then, the answer came to him. If he cut a spiral groove in the pocket, and a similar one... but, as if seen in a looking glass... in a pellet of Leissor; the one perhaps, would intertwine with the other; locking both together, firm and secure.
Elshore returned to his work-bench to craft a pellet in accordance with his thinking. At length; the pellet of Leissor sat snug in the pocket of the sword pommel and could not fall free. Only by turning the pellet round and about, would it come forth. There was no time for preening over this masterly solution. The several appointments had need of the finishing, buffing and such... planishing out the odd, tiny despoilment with the laying on of a delicate file. Then, the hand-grips had to be crafted with gold and enamel; horn, or shagreen, or black ebony. Each one would be different, but all would be of the same kinship. Each one would be crafted with care.
A score of moons later, the hilts were finished, and Elshore made haste to Eldamar's Hall to study the Eye-stones. He needed to see whether they would be held firmly in the claws of the pommels, or if they had need of cutting and shaping. If this were so... then, who might craft them? Elshore had thought perhaps, Torbair of Aiuthal... famed Goldsmith of Elisriendell. Torbair knew well, the secrets of "Niirea-Kalhkari"; and knew of the Rituals that need be intoned. He knew of the words in the Charybon tongue that need be spoken for melding the lozenges with the blades.
Elshore would also need to study the Eye-stone of Cirion. Her sword, being of un-pommelled design, needed a setting to snugly clasp the Eye-stone. T'would need a setting of guile; of most subtle crafting. The pale, sky-blue Agate perhaps, if carved cunningly into a half globe, could then mount easily in the nether end of the curving-down handle, being held caged in a delicate, wrought filigree of Leissor.
Elshore spread out his thoughts to Eldamar, who could find no fault in the plan that he laid forth. But, time enough yet, to bring it to blossom. Firstly stood the need to refinish the four blades laying a'slumber, safe in their wax coatings as they gently seasoned and slowly took age. Each was impatient to take on sheen and edging. Each was impatient to grow from a blade, into a sword. So, they prepared for the careful re-forging. The forge-bed was re-laid with fresh charcoal; the files were all arranged, and the whet-stone freshly-faced. The forge-bed was bellowed to whiteness once more, and the first blade felt the kiss and the roar of the flames. But this time, the blade was only taken to Cherry heat. Then it was dressed on the anvil with file and hammer. Slowly, the blade became elegant; shyly revealing its glittering smile. As yet, it was without edge, but was now ready for hilting, and so, the appointments were carefully laid out. First, the cross-guard, and then, the main hilt were affixed to the tine. Three times, this was repeated for three Guardian's Great Swords, all laying a'glitter, yet, lacking bite.
Now came the polishing and honing with the whet-stone, that cast out the showering sparks as the 'prentice made sturdy turn and turn-about of the whetstone handle. When, at length, edge was taken; t'was time for the final enchantment to make them complete. Each in its turn, was taken back to the still-glowing forge-bed, and carefully... gently, thrust in. When the blade glowed a delicate, blush-pink, it was swiftly drawn out, and a final dressing of Olistalix-Bane powder was thinly sprinkled upon it from cross-guard to point-tip, down the full length of the blade. But now, there were no fiery and dancing spider-webs. At first, there was a greenish glimmer... as one might see, gazing far into the north... the flicker of the pale curtains of light that sometimes danced in the night sky.
Suddenly, there came a shimmering blueness that washed all across the blade, swelling and flashing with blinding white light, then fading and waning as swiftly as it had started. The blueness flickered softly round the blade, leaving a wicked, and glittering cutting edge; shimmering brightly where the blueness had danced.
The three swords were thus fashioned in their turn. Each time it was the same; with the blinding blue-white shimmer washing over the blade. Elshore then lifted the blade forged for Cirion, and gazed at the other three, lying on his workbench glittering in the light from the forge-bed. Wondrous as they were, this one would be Master-forged. This one was special... this one was for Her.
Elshore had the gift of the seeing, concerning young Cirion; and of what she might well become. He had foreseen where her footsteps might lead her. He had the sensing of her Destiny. She would indeed be a Guardian of The Light, and would be the boldest of all, 'though they would all journey upon the same pathway... for in her veins, ran the blood of her Grandmother, The Warrior Ice Queen, who bore the same name. And, how then, the Circle of Amriath turned plain in the Tell. For, in the fullness of time, she would ascend The Throne of The Ice Realm as The New Warrior Queen. She would find fame and renown in The High Pass of Ling; as had her Grandmother before her, in a time now long since passed. For, round and about Cirion's twentieth summer... Elshore saw that Amriath would know again... War.
For, by then, The Mordbrood of Valdarthost would have gained full strength. They would turn their gaze fully into the west, intent on the conquest of all the Kingdoms and Realms; and then, the Sword Enchantments would need to stand in full prevail. For when they came into Amriath, as most surely they would; to lay forth their Mayhems; Elshore knew well that Shandalar, Lorenfalu, and The City of Rhom would be their first aspire.
Mindful of this, he started the fashioning of the blade... planishing and filing far into the night. He tended the blade six times in the heating, and six times in the quenching; and each time, the glittering spider-webs washed over the blade. Then, t'was to the whetstone for edging and polish, and slowly, the sword showed her glittering smile. Five moons were spent in the finishing, and all his skills had been offered.
Contented at last, Elshore laid down his tools. The only thing left now, was to enchant the edging with the Olistalix-Bane sprinkle... the shimmering blueness washing across the blade; as it had with the others. But then, of a sudden; as he made sprinkle… he was almost blinded by a bright, violet flaring that danced about the blade. It surged, swelling and waning, flickering and flashing, as will forked lightning in a violent storm. The edging blazed and flared with a brilliant, white light. The spider-web patterns seemed to trace out shapes he had not seen since he was a youngling, and then… only upon vague, scribed parchments. They resembled shapes of an ancient riddle, whispered in Legend... The Nightmare of slumberings. For here, burning into the blade were shapes that Elshore recognised as what would seem to be the shadowy symbols of The Dreadful Shamel of Lorienlief.
The Shamel of Lorienlief was whispered to be a fateful Cantation to be spoken only when all else was lost. The words were only to be spoken as the last, faint lights were flickering glimly, and then... by none other than a Guardian. For the reckoning of the Cantation was said to be terrible. The fabric of time, in itself, could rend asunder if the wording was spoken in haste, or in fear, or in selfish indolence. Suddenly, Elshore was afraid. He watched, with eyes disbelieving as the fiery shapes graved into words… words that he could not read. Nothing was said of this in Filar's letter. This must be some deep and fearsome, Ancient Enchantment. He needs must fetch Eldamar swiftly, for he would know what it meant... this thing here, in plain sight. He left the sword shimmering, sparkling, and… singing? For the sound that it made could so easily be, just that. T'was not like any sound made by the cooling of metal... the sounds he knew so well. 'Nay, t'was more like a misty, and half-remembered refrain from his youngling days of so long ago.
T'was the memory of echoes from out of The Enchanted Woodlands, when the Great Harvest Moon drifted fat, and pale in the night sky. T'was the memory of nights when the younglings crouched snug beneath their covers; imagining shadows and shapes in the drifting clouds. Nights, when the Ancients communed with the Unicorns. Nights of Spellbinding in Elisriendell. Nights, when the Old Magic moved, by the light of the Oak-apple lanterns.
Eldamar came swiftly to Elshore's entreatments, and gazed in wonder at this thing. The pale, violet light still flickered about the keen edges, the song of the blade still whispered softly. The blade was now all boldly gravened, as if crafted by a Jewel-smith, The Shamel of Lorienlief brazenly stood to his view.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Eldamar knew full well the meaning of what he saw. Here then, before him, lay the final sum of the balance between Evil and Good. He carefully lifted the sword...but he must be certain. Swinging the sword high above his head, Eldamar brought the sword down in a great, fearful sweep. The very air screamed as it was rent asunder. The blade struck the anvil horn and smote it off with a leaping of sparklets. With a great clatter, the anvil horn dashed upon the floor of the forge.
And, what of the blade? Not a mark... not a blunting. She wickedly smiled, and brightly glittered. Here was the proving, here was the Covenant. This indeed, was The Sword, long since spoken of in Legend. Here was The One to prevail, when at last, came the direst need of Amriath... as had been foretold in the Great Scrolls of Vardabeik; and known, but to a few. This was The Sword that would now take the name ordained by The Holy Ones, in ages, long past. The naming, so ordained, was "Alasse Nenharma," which meant "Shining Slaughter" in Shah'Algethi… The Golden, or Sunrise Algethi tongue of the Holy Ones.
Eldamar laid a hand on the shoulder of Elshore, and spoke.
'This, indeed; is your great triumph, old friend. Now she is forged, there is little to fear from such vermin rabble as The Mordbrood of Valdarthost, nor of any breed of Darklings with stomach to try their hand at mayhems across, or about any Kingdom or Realm in Amriath. For now, the land might sleep safe for the present.'
And so; in the morning, by light of the sun in the east, she was so named. Eldamar held her high in the morning air, and brightly and sweetly, her blade shone golden in the early morning Sunlight.
Word was sent into Elisriendell, for Torbair of Aiuthal to make swift preparation of that, which he needed for fitting the Eye-stones. Eldamar journeyed to Torbair's ancient mill, carrying the four Swords of The Light, swathed about in fresh Cambrick; the casket of Eye-stones, and the most precious of all... the small, Leissor box in the shape of an acorn, where the Niirea-Kalhkari slept safe in their nest of soft, spider webspin.
Torbair of Aiuthal welcomed Eldamar, and marvelled the swords that Elshore had wrought. He then went to his workshop to begin the cutting of the four Eye-stones Eldamar had brought to him. This was a labour of trust, and of faith. He knew full well, what stood on his skilfulness, and so he elected to cut them with patience, with his workmanship pure, and lacking the slightest flaw. After the passing of five moons, he was content. Now, t'was the time for The Enchantment. He called forth two young Algethi maidens. These were the gatherers of Niirea-Kalhkari; as Ritual decreed. Later that day they began the Cantations in the ancient Charybon tongue, as the Algethi maids gently wrapped each lozenge in a Moonflower petal, fresh-plucked, and fragrant. Each lozenge was then gently placed in the pocket prepared in each sword hilt with reverence and grace. The Leissor plugs were carefully anointed with Corbis sap, offered to pocket, and firmed into place.
The Three Swords were then mounted with the Eye-stones, and the Eagle talon pommel settings were then firmed over to hold them safe. But, with the sword forged for Cirion; three filigree Leissor straps were folded with care, around the pale, Summer-sky Blue Agate which was set into a soft bed of Corbis sap, above the Niirea-Kalhkari lozenge safe set in its pocket.
The younger Algethi Maiden then held the sword on high, and Torbair of Aiuthal made an intonement in the Charybon Tongue. The blade edge flared clear, and brilliantly violet, as it had so done once before... at its birth. All then knew this was a blade to be feared with naked, dread terror, if being of Darkling kind. For in the seeing of her wicked smile, glittering brightly; such Darkling vermin would know full well, that there was no black enchantment or sorcery that could gainsay her death bite. They would know full well, that their doom stood naked before them, should they choose to stand and take issue in vain assumption that they might prevail with spellbinding. They would know that only their whitening bones would prevail to tell the tale of their foolish conceit.
Thus, were the Swords of the Guardians infused with their final enchantment in Elisriendell, then carried safely back to the Halls of Eldamar, to slumber in their cambrick wrapments until the shadows came creeping over Amriath. But, such times of shadows were far, future days. The Third Age of The Light had dawned fully upon them, and such shadow gathering was yet, far away in time and place.
One bright, autumn morning; a rider came galloping from out of the west, from far Elisriendell. He reined in his mount at the Halls of Eldamar, calling for Elshore, in seek of his counsel. The Rider bore a gift from Torbair of Aiuthal. He opened up the bundle he carried, to show four scabbards fashioned of flawless Black Adamaunte. Each of the scabbards was most skilfully fashioned. Each bore adornments, all guilefully displayed. Each was embanded with Leissor, beset with golden emblems. Each scabbard was adorned to match the sword for which it was crafted.
Two of the long scabbards both bore the Device of The Kerim of Arialthor, fashioned in gold. These then, were the scabbards of Trillan and Calamar; with the Great Seal of Rhom shining proudly and boldly upon them. The third scabbard bore, in red gold; the likeness of a fine Gryphon; rampant and watchful. This emblem would certainly provoke an echo of fear for such Darklings who might lay eye upon it. This then, was the scabbard of Callam. This Gryphon was the Cypher of The Great Crystal Castle on The Cornflower-Blue Mere.
The scabbard for Cirion was yet, more awesome. Torbair had fashioned a beautiful, sweeping black curve; as like a swallow wing in high flight; all garlanded round with blossoms of Alfirin in purest gold. He had indeed, crafted a most beautiful thing. As with the rest; it was lined with a crimson silk, spun by the spiders of Lothloriel, and dyed with an infusion of ground-up wing cases of a small beetle being called "Tylolaer," and found only in the distant forests of Lothleitha. At the throat of each scabbard was 'bellished a rearing Unicorn fashioned from finest Leissor. In matching with the pommel stones; each Unicorn eye was a gemstone that was a perfect miniature of that sword's Eye-stone. For Trillian; an honest Blue Sapphire, like high summer skies, with no promise of rain. For Calamar... an Emerald, soft tinged with a blueness... like the throat of a pheasant on a bright autumn day. For Callam... an Aquamarine of soft blue-grey... like the first winter storm on the Cold Northern seas; and for Cirion... a pale blue Agate, so perfectly matching her eyes... a soft, Summer-sky blue.
Torbair of Aiuthal had indeed, surpassed himself. No finer scabbards could one hope to see. The Unicorn eye-gems caught the light, and they sparkled, to mirror each sword's firm-pommelled Eye-stone. The Cilme vell Kiira... the choosing of Eye-stones, had thus, come full circle, as it was so ordained. Elshore then offered each sword to its scabbard, carefully slipping each blade to its sleeping. How perfectly then, were the scabbards close fitting... as perfect as a hand gloved in the finest, soft kid leather.
Each scabbarded sword was then swaddled in freshly-spun cambrick, and steeped in nut oil from young Almond trees. Then all were laid in the undercroft, safe in a great chest of camphor-wood, thrice-locked, and sealed. There, they would remain; safe and warm in their slumber, whilst The Third Age of Light shone upon Amriath and all of its Realms and Kingdoms; and the hope was that their slumber would be long.
As the summers wandered, the younglings were made golden gift of the span of their springtime days that lacked less than 'naught. They were free to play out in the bright golden meadows. They were free to explore the deep greening, with never a thought, 'nor fear of the Darklings, as they played with the Unicorns, or vexed the gryphons who dozed in the sun. Their parents had laid their inheritance well, and fully worth the price paid, for this peace they had won.
This, too... on the visits to Rhom, as they boldly played "Catch as catch can" in the Palace; many were the hiding places in Towers and Battlements, as they all played at "Come, seek me out." But, also, Eldamar gave counsel, and set their feet firmly on the path of the Guardians of The Light. Watching them, as they drank in his tutoring, their bright, open minds filled him with pleasure.
T'was more than just play in the City of Rhom. The Sages and Scholars of Lorenfalu counselled them well in the Arts... in Philosophy, in Music and Literature. Tristan's Sword-Master made free with his knowing of the art of the thrust and the parry... but with wooden blades; teaching the skills they would need for their Guardianships. Slowly, and with patience, was each personality honed.
As they grew into their youth, the Master of Rhom's Standing Army took them to his hand; teaching the secrets and arts of full Warfare in games, and with words they could well hold to their reasoning. As Elshore had foreseen; t'was young Cirion who triumphed. Her instinct and boldness outshone all the boys. She was the first to take metal blade in hand. The boys were still content with their wooden blades. She had a natural skill with a long sword. It fell to her hand, as a bird will take to the skies. Soon enough, she could best her Sword-Master, seemingly... without the needing to try. The learning time of the three boys was much slower, though, in the fullness of time, they too prevailed. The Sword-Master was at length, fully contented that they could confound any attack, if so availed upon by the Darklings; 'though they needed to hone their sword skills before they became Masters of Blade. Mayhap then, a different style of the sword skills should also be taught.
And so, to Filar of Khallis was made entreatment to counsel the fledgling young Guardians in skills of the Thuvian Swordsmen. For though it was true that Thuvians were famed for the bite of the Long-Axe; t'was Thuvian sword skills that filled all Darklings with fear. Duly, response came from Filar of Khallis. T'would be a great honour to fulfil such a task; and if the truth of this thing be spoken... well, never then, had there been the need to lay the question.
On a bright summer morning, they set forth for Khallis, their Torcs shining brightly in the Sun. As they rode out through the soft, verdant meadows of Lorenfalu; those seeing them, rejoiced at the sight. The Four Future Guardians... the three handsome boys, and the beautiful Cirion, rode out as one. Word carried swiftly across Amriath of this Bright Hope for the future. The Darkling times seemed close to fully running their course, with no more blighting cold fear in the night of what it might conceal. For now... of The Guardians of The Light, there were seven in number. The future, it seemed, had itself, fully revealed. Seven was ever a number beset with Enchantment and Magic, or so spoke the Ancient Tell... and now, with Eldamar, and Tristan and Marcus, and the four young ones; how then, could The Darkness ever prevail?
At length, they came down on the Frontiers of Khallis, and waiting to greet them was Filar himself; beset by a Cohort of his Thuvian House-Carls. Such honour had rarely been shown to Algethi-kind. But, these were not common Algethi. These were The Guardians in Waiting; and Filar knew full well, how lay The Matter of Amriath. He knew well enough, how soon the Darkness might come, and elected that his counsel be good.
Without delay, they began their instruction; and soon enough then, did they feel the dull bite of blades with blunted edges, and rounded-off points, as Thuvian swordsmen showed them the true way to fight. Only Cirion could hold ground against them, and only she could best them with blade. Filar watched, full of admiration, as Cirion drove them back, and the decision stood plainly upon him. It was time to acquaint her with her future weapon, or, as near as he could come to it. He called forth the Thuvian maiden whom he had chosen as his Bonding partner, above fourteen summers, now passed. To view came Kyla Dinush, who had shown the Dushrakhas to Eldamar that age ago. Kyla Dinush... once, a Berserker, and now a Thuvian Matron; but still, with the stomach to trade blow for blow with any who dared to gainsay her.
Filar called Cirion to him, and greetings were passed; then Kyla Dinush drew her Dushrakhas and held it forth to Cirion, showing her the glittering blade. Cirion lifted the Dushrakhas; balanced it, and studied the long sweeping blade with a smile. Filar said there was a sword waiting for her, copied from this blade... but not until she came of age. So, for now... to master this vicious, razor-sharp Tarak-splitter.
He, and his Kyla watched her at her exercise, and her swift grace filled them both with delight. She bore the grace of a young Roe deer of the forest, although she stood in tallness, close on three, and one-quarter cubits. She was slender and blonde, but instinctive with swordplay; and seeming to lack any fearing at all. She was bold in her sword stoke... aggressive, audacious. It would be a brave one indeed, who would stand to her blade; as all about the Courtyard, the Khuzud-Mahin who made linger in watching; applauded this young Algethi Guardian of The Light.
Kyla called Cirion to her, and said that, in the space of three summers, a weapon, full deadly, would come to her hand. For, as she swelled, and she blossomed to womanhood; this was a most deadly advantage... by reason that when she faced Darklings... all soft, jutting roundness; then, with their instincts of danger thus befuddled by their lust; this was her advantage for striking the Death blow, and swiftly spilling the life out of them.
Kyla said she had made discovery in her Berserker days that Darklings held weaknesses much the same as Algethi and Men. When they were made gift a glimpse of lithe leg, or firm bosom, their resolve swiftly crumbled, and betrayed them to the sweep and the bite of the dreaded Dushrakhas. Their unnatural span was not hard to separate from them if womanly wiles were used subtly; melded together with skilful sword art.
She added that whence fully blossomed, Cirion should come back to Khallis for taking of Armour of Leissor and Leather, ready for War... as, and when it came, as surely it would. For the smoke over Astalan hazed ominously in the blue skies to the east. The Armour that Kyla chose echoed the style of the Thuvian Berserker. T'was the finest... of subtle design; all cunning protection, and masterly guile. It was fashioned for ease, and for swiftness of movement. Such armour would cling to her curves, and show fair, her firm bosom... soft, rounded, and sweetly valleyed. And this alone, could off-guard any Darkling, beset with the blind lusting that blighted their breed.
For, when faced with the beautiful Cirion, so armoured... their leering would lend her a most singular advantage. In the fleet moments they ogled her body... weighed her for the breeding... for her carnal esteem; she could strike them down with her sword whilst their minds blindly strayed, with the slow, stirring girth of their man-hoods. For, like all male-kind, this stirring emptied the mind of both danger and wisdom; and like the summer mow, she could then cut them down... for in this sweet snare, there was no defence.
This then, was the pathway that Kyla Dinush fully laid down for Cirion, with guile and with truth. This pathway had held firm for Kyla in battle, when she was Khuzud-Mahin, back in her springtime. Though, in no way, such a beauty as Cirion; she had prevailed with this artful device, and Cirion... who gathered male stares in the manner that wind gathers the Autumn leaves; could then, this art, fully refine.
Meantime; the boys had progressed with their swordplay, faithfully learning the old Thuvian ways to bolster and fatten the art they had practised in Lorenfalu, under the tutorment of Tristan's Sword-Master. At length, the swordsmen of Khallis could teach them no more. The boys could turn aside every stroke with which the swordsmen engaged them. Thus, at last they were ready. Filar called them to his side, and he spoke. He told them that they were as ready as ever they would be, but not to rest easily. The edge that was gifted, could so easily dull; so t'was practice, and practice, and practice again. From a great chest, he brought out four pairs of leathern Vambraces, beset with Leissor devices crafted into true Thuvian symbols. These were the Iron Star, the Wyrmsbane, and the Earthcrown... such emblems, the Thuvians ever revered. These would lend strength to the sword-arms in battle. These Vambraces would turn fully aside, any Darkling sword stroke. Filar urged them to believe in their power, and Filar, like all Thuvian folk... never lied.
As chill autumn days lengthened slowly into winter, the time came for the leaving of Khallis. The young ones gave thanks to Filar for wise counsel, all strengthened by the Thuvian skills they now fully well knew. Kyla took counsel with Cirion, entreating her to return when three summers had passed, for taking the Armour of Leissor and Leather... this guileful advantage; as Kyla so called this thing.
Then, they rode back through the meadows of Lorenfalu, fading fallow as winter drew 'nigh; content in the company of one another and knowing that they would reach Rhom before dusk. And, as the sun sank in the west, casting shadows of crimson and gold upon the buttressed walls... echoing over the darkening plains besetting fair Rhom, came the welcoming call of a watchtower trumpet. They had been spied by the sentries, as they rode in from the north. The Great City Gates were thrown wide, and Tristan, in company with Landamar, rode out to greet them, and to welcome them home.
Two summers swiftly passed in peace and harmony. Yet, still to the east... faintly, the smoke rose and smudged the skies over Astalan. Something was indeed stirring. Eldamar watched this, and at length, he judged the Young Guardians' growth... both in stature and wisdom, was enough to unleash the swords; and now was their hour at hand for their bestowal upon the New Guardians. The younglings were summoned to him one fair spring morning. Now, the hour stood, that Eldamar would lay upon them their full, birth-right power. They stood in the undercroft before the Camphor-wood chest, as he surveyed them with appraising eye. The three boys accomplished above one-half, and three cubits in stature, and were shoulder-broad as the western skies. Cirion was beautiful, blonde; close as tall as her brother, yet svelte as a youngling Roe deer. She stood, slender of hip, and longer of leg than Eldamar thought might be wise for a Guardian of The Light.
He bade them draw near; and from out of the great chest he then lifted the first sword, and unwrapped the cambrick. Into the light, smiled the first blade, "Alasse Nenharma"... "Shining Slaughter"... Cirion's sword; and she gasped with delight. She lifted the sword and marvelled the perfect balance. It fell to her hand as light as a feather; almost then, part of her. But of the blade graving though; she had no knowing, and asked of her Grandfather the meaning of it.
Eldamar gave light to her question. This was the Dreadful Shamel of Lorienlief there graven, as if, by a Jewel-smith. This Cantation was never to be spoken until all else was lost; and only then, in the blackest despair. Then, he made gift of the scabbard of Torbair; garlanded about with Blossoms of Alfirin. She gently slipped Alasse Nenharma therein. The sword met its slumber with a soft, glissing sound. The three boys were given their swords and their scabbards. To each then, their Eye-stones were allotted, and each was told to contemplate the Sword naming... each to their instincts, and none then, the same. In five moons, a Council would be called at the Great Crystal Castle beset by The Cornflower-Blue Mere, for the Sword naming. All those having part in the birthing of the swords, would be summoned to attend.
And so, in the luminous, lustrous Great Hall, on the sixth day; the Council of The Light assembled. Eldamar, Elshore, and Torbair of Aiuthal; Chelaine and Marcus, all sat to the Left-most side, together with Laumil of Elisriendell with two of his Kalhkari maids. To the Right-most side sat Landamar with Tristan and Talith; waiting on Filar and his Company out of Khallis. At length Filar made entry with Kyla, and Gilmar his old Assay-Master, in company with his Forge-Master. Filar brought news that he was saddened to recount, but, t'were better that Chelaine knew the whole. Her Mother, The Great Ice Queen Cirion, was swiftly fading. He thought it not long until her Charas would fly to the sound of Sathulinan, the Song of the Holy Ones. Could she make haste to The Ice Realm to offer her last Farewells?
Eldamar stood forth, and elected that she ride out Starshadow, full safe, and as swift as the wind. Marcus bade her depart now for the Ice Realm; for this Council mattered much less in the balance of this thing. And so, she departed, with Filar's assurance that, at the far borders of Lorenfalu, he had commanded she be met by a Cohort of Khuzud-Mahin to escort her up through The High Pass of Ling, and thence, on to The Ice Realm. She would be safe in their charge, should there yet, be spies of The Mordbrood of Valdarthost lurking abroad; for he was of a mind that they would afford protection, the like of which, no Darkling dare stand against for a moment... if he wished to live.
And more... on his journey here, he had charged Rhom to prepare their best riders to muster an escort for Chelaine. They would meet with her at the edge of The Delvlings and keep her safe across Lorenfalu. For she was now Queen in Waiting, and thus, a great target for Darkling mischief. For, as certain-sure as night follows day; the word of the Great Ice Queen fading would have crept to the ears of The Mordbrood of Valdarthost, and such a prize as The Ice Realm would certainly help them bolster their intent. Chelaine swiftly bid her farewells and rode out on Starshadow. Soon, she was little more than a pale speck in the east.
But now to the business of naming the swords. Trillian stood first, and addressed them. His sword would be "Ristgor," the name meaning, "Cleaving Dread." This was agreed, and so, it was done. Calamar spoke then. His sword would be "Mirilyrath"... "Glittering Terror." Well met, was the choice; and Callam then named his sword, "Nainarien"... "Lament of the Darklings." The Council rose, and as one, applauded the choice of the naming of the swords. No finer names had they thought, than those, now here laid.
Eldamar said they should all now repair to the battlements, forthwith. Overlooking the Cornflower-Blue Mere, they stood in the sunlight, and as Eldamar repeated the names, the boys raised their swords; and with each name called, that Sword's pommel stone seemed to gather the sun's rays, and glittered so brightly. Eldamar then decreed to the Council to now, hail the New Guardians of The Light. But, as they rejoiced... still far off to the east, the skies over Astalan smudged with fresh smoke.