Chronicles of the World

Chapter I

The white,
brown-dappled flanks of the stallion heaved as he galloped on, up the
scree-covered slope of the mountain. Whipped about by the wind, the
horse’s black and white mane and tail went from being flattened
against its body to pluming in the wind. A gray-green cloak billowed
out as well, fastened at the rider’s throat by two buttons.
Spilling over the buttons and throat of the man was a long, white
beard, long enough to reach his knees; but instead of doing so, the
wispy beard, too, was blown wildly about by the winds.

Heat and red light
radiated from a small, narrow opening in the mountain at the top of
the slope, but its warmth was almost unnoticeable amidst the cold,
fierce air of the dark, stony mountain. The old man drove his horse
on. The stallion’s hooves slipped on a patch of loose soil, but
at a command from the rider’s lips the horse moved on, its
movement suddenly unhindered by loose scree and soil. At last the two
reached the entrance. It was almost a head shorter than the man, and
just wide enough for his horse to squeeze through. After a few
moments of struggling and pushing, the old man and his mount were
inside.

Now a sound that had
been tugging at the back of the man’s mind became almost
overwhelmingly loud: the sound of iron on iron, a steady, single,
reverberating clash that resounded every two seconds or so; and now
the old man saw what he already knew had been generating the warm,
promising glow: an iron anvil and furnace, over which bent a huge
figure, humanoid in shape and standing more than ten feet high. This
figure’s massive arm swung up and down, its fist clutching the
handle of a hammer which smashed down on a red-hot metal blade, held
in place by iron tongs which were gripped in the colossus’s
left hand.

“Greetings,
Parnassus, from Mellar son of Tamuil,” said the old man. His
voice reflected on his tall, straight, thin body, strong and steady
but not as deep as the voice that would answer him.

The giant’s
single eye, located just above the bridge of his short, ugly nose,
turned to stare fixedly at Mellar. He continued his work as he
answered the old man, so skilled and practiced that he could forge
the blade without looking at it when needed. “Greetings, Mellar
son of Tamuil; well met,” Parnassus said in a voice low and
deep but somewhat quiet. With that, the cyclops’s yellow eye
turned back to his work.

Mellar looked
Parnassus up and down before answering. The cyclops was huge and
muscular, but his flesh was thick and bulging, and not a very pretty
sight, scarred where sparks had landed on it. He wore only a
blackened loincloth of once-white linen – even his burly hands
were bare and not covered by gloves, for Parnassus was fully in tune
with his life’s occupation, and worked by the smell, sound, and
feel of his metal as well as the sight of it. At last the old man
spoke again, raising his voice to be heard above the din, “How
goes your work?”

The cyclops did not
look back at Mellar as he answered, “It goes well.” Then,
after a brief pause, he added, “The sword will be finished by
the winter.”

The old man resisted
the urge to escape the burning heat and replied, “So I know by
my holy arts; and may its strength warm both the winter’s snow
and the hearts of men. I will send him to you when it is finished.”

Evidently knowing
whom Mellar meant by “him”, Parnassus looked worried
briefly as his eye returned to the old man. “Can you not come
yourself?” he said, keeping his gaze on Mellar as the man
answered.

“He must come
for it himself, Parnassus. He will not betray you,” Mellar said
firmly.

Parnassus sighed and
looked back to his work.

Mellar brought the
end of his staff down on the stone floor. “May it be well with
you, Parnassus. You must fulfill this task!” the old man
shouted before turning back and going out once again into the cold
winds, goading his horse before him.

Inside the cavern,
sparks flew as Parnassus beat the metal.

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