The Sword and The Quest: Lady Merlin's Saga (Epic Fantasy) by Kit Maples Page B

had a by the Rule three broad iron bars with their complex in and out spiraling twists of power.  We hammered and twisted another set of three.
    We hammered out the heavy iron core of the blade, hammering to the rhythm dictated by the singing gnome.
    At last, nearing evening and the promise of a full Moon, we had the pieces of the sword’s core ready – the two composite bars of steely iron to wrap around the heavy, springy core of pure iron that would be the spine and heart of the sword.
    “The Moon!” cried the prince.
    A full Moon, shining in silver, burst up over the valley.  From the downslope tents I heard a howl of fright and then a moan of hunger like a cry for us to continue the making of the sword.
    We all were scorched, pocked with spark burns, sweated out, battered by our massive labors.  But none shouted for quarter, none wanted to stop.
    Prince Llew shoved the two thick bars of twisted steel into the fire and the single bar of springy iron.  They glowed into instant heat.  I hauled them out with tongs, laying them on the anvil.  A layer of steely iron first, then the layer of pure iron, finally another layer of steely iron in a composite of brave metals.
    We returned to the fierce, rhythmic hammering and welded them all together.  We hammered them flat and long to make the breadth and length of the sword.
    The prince grabbed up the half-made blade and thrust it into fire again, driving up the heat in the metal until the color was a fierce gleaming gold.  He shouted a prayer and hauled the blade out of the fire and drove it into the quenching bath of water from the Afon mixed with Mosella wine.
    The water and wine burst up out of the stone quenching trough, steaming and spattering us all, but the raw blade had been made hard.  Hard but too brittle to swing against a Saxon skull.
    The prince shoved the blade into the fire again and watched it glow through the colors of heat until he measured with his eye the correct shade of yellow-orange.  He dragged it out of the forge and slid it hissing into a tempering bath of oil.
    The oil did not steam and splash as had the water and wine.  It soothed the steel as the blade sank into it.  Giving the steel flexibility and keenness of edge to add to the power of the quenched iron core.
    “There it is,” said Prince Llew, withdrawing the blade from the tempering bath and holding it up by its narrow tang.
    It was flattened metal in the general shape and outline of a sword blade but without a sword’s keen character.
    I took the rough blade from the prince and found it gone bitter cold, like an icy wind promising sharp pain.  I brought out the cutting tools and there, beneath the icy Moon and the flaming torches, in the howling wind of the citadel, began to cut and grind the sword, shaping it long and thick from tang to point, grinding and polishing into it two great cutting edges.
    In the first gleam of morning, I held up the blade to catch the early sun.  Light flickered and shouted from the sword.
    “Quickly,” I said to the slaves and apprentices, “make the furniture for the hilt, carve out the pommel, build the scabbard and hangers!”
    By noon all was done.
    The sword lay on its stone worktable like a living thing, throbbing with heart’s blood, each movement of an interior vein make the surface metal glitter in the sunshine.
    The slaves and apprentices cheered their own work.
    The gnome in the vault sang its victory song.
    “Toll the gong,” said the prince.
    The gnome rang the gong.
    The tents straggling down the mountain slope went silent at the sound.  An even greater thing than the making of the sword was about to happen.
    “Peace to you all,” the prince said to his retainers.  “Leave us for the naming.”
    They all, the gnome with them, fled the citadel and stood in a far field staring back at us in the citadel’s howling wind, waiting for the wonder of the naming of so fabulous a sword.
    “Will it stretch to kill the king’s