STORY

Prologue

The din of a
pounding hammer filled the cavern. Sparks flew, the same glowing red
as the dancing flames of the furnace. The smell of hot sweat added to
the stifling atmosphere. A massive form bent over an iron anvil,
shaping a long, red hot blade as only a master blacksmith could.
Parnassus was a cyclops, and one of the last of his kind. About him
were the other cyclopes; Animethus, the smallest and youngest, bore a
huge jug, beaten out of pewter, which he was carrying over towards
the working cyclopes: Parnassus, Daares, Namthos, and Tallus. Cold
spring water swished back and forth in the jug, dripping over the
edges and pattering down on the stone floor. Parnassus’s
single, yellow eye stared greedily at the young cyclops’s
burden, his tongue scraping dully against the roof of his parched
mouth, feeling like a heavy, useless stone, getting in the way as he
called hoarsely over the clash of iron on steel, “Bring that
over here, Animethus!”

Daares, the
hilt-forger, waved a huge, fleshy arm, black against the light of the
furnace, and called, “No, young one, tote it over here!”

Namthos chuckled
dryly at the two largest of the cyclopes and looked back to his work.
Among them all, he was the most skilled at carpentry and cutting
gemstones. A thin, gray beard hanging down to his chest matched the
color of his wise, old eyes, for Namthos was also the oldest cyclops.
His craft was not as strenuous as that of the smiths, and he did not
need as much water as them. A little ways deeper into the cavern,
Tallus, the tanner and maker of the sheaths and scabbards, as well as
the linen loincloths which the cyclopes wore, shared Namthos’s
mirth at the blacksmiths’ expense. He was lean for a cyclops,
and had a cap of messy, red hair on his head.

Animethus followed
the command of the head cyclops, Parnassus, and brought the jug over
to him. Winking his eye roguishly at Daares, Parnassus put his mouth
on the rim and drank deeply, bending his head back till half of the
water in the jug had passed his lips.

Daares though
broader, was shorter than Parnassus, but he grinned slyly and looked
back at his anvil. Leaving the unfinished hilt on his anvil, he took
his iron tongs in hand and walked over to the furnace, which was
large enough for both of the smiths to reach it over their anvils.
Plucking out a hot coal with the tongs, he walked back towards
Parnassus, whose head was still thrown back as he gulped down the
water.

But, catching
Daares’s movement out of the corner of his eye, Parnassus
lunged away as nimbly as he could with his huge, burly body, slamming
the pewter jug down on his anvil. “Hah! Foul play, brother!
Drink what you may of what is left, and serve you fair for your
greediness yesterday!” he laughed.

Daares squinted down
into the jug as he held it in both hands. He shook it, with his ear
pressed against it, before slamming it down again and glaring up at
Parnassus. “You drank it all, you greedy – ”

Stifling uproarious
laughter, Parnassus put his scarred hands up before him as he backed
off, reasoning with his younger brother: “Now, Daares, it isn’t
all that bad. Er, Animethus, brother, tell him; there’s more
water coming – to cool the steel with, right, and – ”

In turn, Daares
interrupted Parnassus, growling as he advanced towards the older
blacksmith furiously, “Ay, more water coming, but it’s
for cooling the steel and for drinking by the others, not wetting my
throat, so unless you plan on – ”

“Of course I
will, brother, I will, honestly, I’ll go get more water
straightaway. See, I’m going now, just don’t be angry,
brother. Friends?” Parnassus grinned nervously.

Daares stopped for a
moment, his brow still wrinkled with a dark scowl. But suddenly he
threw back his head and laughed loudly, sending the coal flying back
into the furnace with a flick of his wrist and clapping Parnassus a
heavy pat on the back with his free hand. “Of course, brother.
Just be quick with the water!” he added in mock threat.
Quarrels, mostly in play, were frequent among the cyclopes, who were
all brothers, but they were grim and quiet with their few visitors.

Still chuckling,
Parnassus laid his tongs and hammer down carefully on his anvil and
strode off towards the cave entrance. Although for the cyclopes the
entrance was small, forcing them to duck their heads slightly to go
through it, it still stood at least twice as tall as a full-grown man
– cyclopes were fifteen feet tall.

Namthos and Tallus
spoke in low voices, chuckling over the friendly tussle. “Father
would have broken that quarrel up before it could begin, eh, Tallus?”
the eldest cyclops said wryly.

Tallus nodded,
grinning, and replied, “Ay, he’d have them both forging
ring mail till they’d fainted from exhaustion.”

Namthos raised his
eyebrow and said, “But you must remember, brother, Father
believed strongly in the Code, and he’d not have them stop
forging Vehna except to eat and sleep, and that rarely.” The
old carpenter chuckled as he thought back on the days when their
father Tarnos had been alive. Tarnos had forged all of the legendary
blades of old: Skandar the Serpent, Nelvang, Tenethor, Rann Tunivil,
and Tarnam, the Sword of Elibor, and the swords before those had been
made by his father. The Code which Namthos had mentioned said that
the race of cyclopes must forge arms and armor for the heroes of men,
making atonement for a time one thousand years before, when the
cyclopes had betrayed the race of men. But Tarnos had been slain
three centuries before that day in a great battle against an army
from the East, rumored to be sent by Asmodaeus, the Dark Thane
himself, and commanded by his servant, the demon Barlach. Each of the
brothers had been at least three hundred years old, so all remembered
their father’s death at the hands of Barlach. The Code had died
with Tarnos for the most part, for, although the cyclops brothers
were now forging a sword for a hero, they had cut themselves off from
civilization and were not at all hospitable to human visitors.

Though thousands of
the men of Westland, the greatest kingdom of men, were slain in that
battle of far-off days, Barlach, commander of the invading army, had
been slain by Elibor, the last of the heroes of old, with the sword
Tarnam which Tarnos had forged. Since then, although no more great
armies came from the East, the once great culture of the Westfolk had
been declining, and troubles grew with the minotaurs and centaurs.
But the line of Shaama, which was the thing Asmodaeus sought to
destroy and the heroes of old sought to protect above all, had lived
on; and the Anointed One, who would destroy Asmodaeus once and for
all, was destined to be descended directly from that line. The race
of men had looked ahead since the beginning coming to the coming of
the Anointed One, who would deliver them from the ancient foe.

Now Erethir, the
descendant and heir of Shaama, was the man most highly protected by
King Dannor and hailed as the destined ancestor of the Anointed One.
Namthos and his brothers were the last cyclopes on the earth, and
they were now forging a sword as commanded by a strange messenger who
had come to them a year before. Every day they worked on the sword,
doing the work they could have done in a day in a year instead, for
such was the skill and precision they put into the steel, leather,
wood, and jewels comprising what would undoubtedly become the sword
of a great hero.

Not having the gift
of foresight, the cyclopes could not know what new trouble would come
on the race of men, or what hero would wield the sword in defense of
Westland, but they knew the name which the messenger had said the
sword must be called, and they knew its meaning: Vehna Temu, the
Defender of Men. So the brothers had labored, forging a sword to be
worthy of its future wielder.

Namthos’s
thoughts returned to his work. He was carving a wooden handle for the
sword out of oak wood, after which he would wait till Daares had
finished the hilt before setting a few, small gems in it, precisely
as ordered by the messenger. The old cyclops worked slow,
concentrating on the yet-crude cylinder and the blade of his carving
knife. The laughter between him and Tallus had ceased, and both were
again absorbed in their work except for the occasional drink from the
pewter jugs Animethus had brought them.

Closer to the cavern
entrance, Parnassus and Daares, too, labored, pounding away at the
steel on the anvils before them. They had spent half of the year
since the strange messenger came purifying the metal, and now they
were forging it into the shape instructed by the messenger. Vehna
would go to her master soon!

Chapter
I

Sunlight glinted on
the steel arrowhead, skimming along its surface as if over rippling
water as the arrowhead led the aspen-wood shaft, fletched with the
dark brown wing feathers of a harpy, through the air to stick in the
center of the bull’s-eye. Pleasantly surprised, Manlas raised
his dark eyebrows and grinned at his son, who had made the perfect
shot with his ash-wood long bow.