Fantastical Ramblings Read Free Page B

thinned. Each blow of the hammer changed the pitch of
metal clanging against metal. Gradually the sound sweetened to a pure tone of
music.
    Pound, reheat. Pound, reheat. Dust rose from the altar stone
and filled the air under the force of Herakles’ blows, but still it did not
shatter. Endlessly, Herakles worked the blade. Fatigue crept into his arms. His
legs trembled from the strain. Dust clogged his senses. He hadn’t felt this tired
since the twelve labors.
    At last the sword took shape, long and slender, folded and
layered with tensile strength. The beauty of the blade took hold of his senses.
Balanced, keen, perfectly proportioned. He couldn’t destroy it. He had to find
another solution. Perhaps The Merlin’s hero was truly worthy of the blade.
    Herakles reached for the tongs, ready to plunge the blade
into the lake outside the cave for the final cooling and tempering.
    “Let me finish this,” The Merlin said as he sloshed a bucket
of water over the blade where it lay on the altar stone. Immediately, the cloud
of dust swirled together and dropped onto the sword. It combined with the cold
water, cloaking the sword in a sheath of white stone, only the grip remained
free. The thin layer of dust hardened rapidly around the blade. The soft patina
of dressed marble settled around it.
    “Don’t!” Herakles stayed The Merlin from dousing the altar
with another bucket of water. “The blade is now part of the altar. It looks
sculpted from the marble.”
    The Merlin smiled. Mischief brightened his eyes. “Now for
the final deception.” He slid the metal blade out from beneath the marble
casing. A perfect replica of a sword sheath lay atop the altar. Then the
magician retrieved a second sword from the folds of his cloak. He slid this
weapon under the marble sheath. “Uther Pendragon’s sword of state. The sword
that other kings will recognize as belonging to the next High King. Our hero
will be the only man among them who can draw it forth. A useful weapon, but not
an artifact of power and destiny. Our sword will come to our hero later, when the time is right.”
    Another slosh of water extended the marble casing over the
grip.
    “Where did you get Uther’s sword?” Herakles asked.
    “I have kept it safe during his last illness. It will be
here, awaiting our hero when he is ready to claim his heritage. You almost hid
the sword in this cave too late for him to claim it upon Uther’s death.”
    “Tell me, Merlin, how you work this magic. Are you a god?”
    “No. Every person can work magic if they want. Not all have
the patience to bring it forth from the depths of their souls. Not every one
has the courage to work magic only for good. Few have the wisdom to know the
difference between good and evil.”
    Herakles looked from the true sword to the replica on the
altar. Both resonated a kind of power, reflections of the original weapon. Had
he diminished the sword?
    Hesitantly he touched the blade with one finger. Energy
snaked up his arm to his shoulder, infusing him with new strength. Changed, not
diminished. The lightning of Zeus and the invincibility of Hephaestus still
resided in the metal.
    Together they hid the tools and other evidence of the
transformation they had worked.
    “I must go now.” The Merlin tucked the sword within the
voluminous folds of his cloak. “I have had the rearing of our hero. He will be
worthy of this blade when it comes to him.”
    Herakles grasped the sword within The Merlin’s cloak one
last time. “Promise me that he will know humility.”
    “I’ll do my best.” The Merlin bowed his head. “I would give
him a perfect life if I could. But I can’t alter the future, only perceive it.”
    “I trust your promise, Merlin. Now I too must go.” He knew a
satisfying sense of completion.
    Herakles looked up, startled by the sound of a determined
step at the cave entrance. The Merlin seemed to fade into the shadows and
reflections of the crystal as he took a step back toward the