Fantastical Ramblings (2 page)

Hours later, when there were no more enemies, Herakles
lowered his club and sword and looked around. Four ships sailed away. Two more
burned on the beach and broke apart as he watched. The last ship listed heavily
to port in the surf where a submerged rock had pierced its hull. He’d help beat
off this attack. How long would the raiders stay away this time? How many
friends and comrades had died?

“The world needs a hero to wield the sword for justice, not
destruction like this!” he shouted into the wind. “But where will I find him?”
he asked himself in a softer voice. Quickly he sorted through the current
leaders. Most of the petty kings were too self-serving to draw together the
varied peoples of this land. The High King of the tribes was a good general
with strong leadership. Could he master the sword?

Not just any warrior could maintain control of a weapon
forged by a god. Not just any warrior could put the needs of his army and his
people above the absolute power the sword could give. The man who wielded the
sword needed to be honorable, just, fair, and a little bit humble.

“You’re right, that isn’t any sword Hephaestus forged.” Hera
rematerialized and pointed disgustedly at the dulled and bloodied blade in
Herakles right hand. “Only your skill and strength kept that weapon intact. Where
is the real sword?”

“You’ll never find it, Hera. I’ll destroy it before I give
it to you.” Something he should have done centuries ago—if a weapon forged by
Hephaestus could be broken. But it was such a magnificent weapon, a symbol of
justice and freedom. If he destroyed it, would those qualities of life
disappear?

“You could have helped, Hera.” Even now, he doubted any of
the mortals could see her.

“Why would I do that? Unlike you, I don’t like humans. I won’t
stoop to interfering with the natural course of events.” She sniffed haughtily.

“First time you’ve ever wasted an opportunity to meddle. You
want to give the sword to someone who will abuse its powers. We can’t predict
if your chosen assassin will stop his murder with the nymph—whose only crime,
like my mother’s and many others before her—is to be beautiful.”

For the first time in centuries, Herakles used his immortal
powers. He dissolved his body, just as Hera had done before the battle. He had
to move fast and free to stay ahead of her now. She could follow his trail
across time and space, but it would take effort.

Dark mist boiled over him. Cold pierced his body until his
joints ached. Time and distance folded and collapsed into tiny pinpricks of
light akin to the distant stars in the heavens. Each point of light winked at
him in a different color. He reached for an obscure one that sometimes looked
white, other times, blue and sometimes a pale pink. Time and distance lost
meaning.

Sunlight burst around him, dazzling his eyes and warming his
body after the chill darkness. Trees and rocks took form. Birdsong and a gentle
breeze in the tree tops whispered to him. At last the Earth became solid
beneath his feet. He stood on a rocky ledge before a narrow crack in a mountain
wall. Low shrubs and rubble hid the rest of the opening from casual view. A
sparkling, clear lake stretched out from the outcropping where he stood. Its
beauty drew the ordinary seeker away from the cave entrance.

He ducked into the low opening. On a ledge to his left, he
found the candle stub and flint he had left there. He struck a spark from the
flint against the rock wall. The candle leapt to life.

A few steps further into the cave and the flame exploded
into a million points of light. Bright crystals clung to the ceiling of a huge
cavern and filled its walls. In the center of the cave, a long narrow stone,
seamed with marble, stood solitary vigil over the wonders displayed in the
crystals.

Men called Druids had worshipped here last. They were all
dead, now. The altar abandoned, as lonely and useless as Herakles had felt when
he realized what he had done to his family after Hera’s fit of madness left
him.

Where was the sword now? It should be resting atop the
altar. Panic shot through him like Zeus’s lightning. Hera couldn’t have found
this cave in a forgotten corner of Britain so soon.

If any mortal had stumbled upon the cave, the hallowed
position of the sword on the altar should have discouraged trespassers from
touching the relic.

“Looking for this?” Echoes distorted the voice of the
questioner.

Herakles whirled around. His rapid movement sent the candle
flame sputtering and waving. Shadows flitted across the crystals in demonic
shapes, defying his eyes to keep up with them.

A hunched figure, cloaked against the damp chill of the
cave, stood up from behind the altar, holding the sword aloft in his left hand.

This wasn’t Hera. She hadn’t had time to follow him.

No trace of rust dulled the ancient blade. The star-iron
glowed softly in the crystal’s prismatic light. Shorter and thicker than modern
weapons, the edge glinted with a keenness only Hephaestus could hone.

“Yes. It belongs to me,” Herakles replied, assessing the
distance between himself and the shrouded figure. He automatically judged the
strength of the arm that still held the sword aloft and the skill of the hand
that clasped the grip.

“I knew you’d come eventually. This is too powerful a weapon
to leave unguarded for long. Some men would sacrifice the lives of their entire
army to hold power like this in their hands.” The figure lifted his head. A
rather full and shaggy white beard poked out from beneath the cloak’s folds.

“It must never fall into the hands of one who would
sacrifice so much for the sword and the power.”

“Agreed.” The man moved around to the front of the altar. He
shifted the sword to rest horizontally across his hands, almost offering it in
peace.

“Then I will dispose of it safely.” Herakles took another
step forward. The man appeared old, very slender. He couldn’t carry much muscle
on so spare a frame. “You can’t hope to protect it.”

“I have my ways, though I find myself a little stiff and
sore traveling forward through time to meet you. Only a few months, but enough
to weary a body. You, I think have traveled further than I, a decade or two at
most. Tell me about the sword.”

“I do not know you. Why should I trust you?” The old man had
come forward through time, as Herakles had done Such power shouldn’t belong to
an ordinary mortal.

“Among my people, I am known as The Merlin.”

Herakles halted in mid-step. “I know of you. Last of the
Druid, gifted with power and wisdom. This was once the cave and altar of your
people. But I thought you dead or a fanciful tale. Did your power draw me here?”

“Possibly. The patterns of past and future create strange
coincidences. You left a wondrous sword here. I—no, Britain—needs such a sword.
You and the sword belonged together.”

“You say the sword
belonged
with me?” Herakles found himself liking this old man. Not many mortals would
face a man of Herakles’ size and appearance, an immortal, without any trace of
fear.

“Aye.
Belonged
. It
will belong to another soon enough. One who can use it to save Britain.” The
Merlin swung the unsheathed weapon testing its balance. It sang as it cleaved
air. The crystals picked up the hum and passed it around the cavern.

“The sword is too dangerous for an ordinary mortal.”

“The man who will inherit this sword will have to earn it. And
he will be no ordinary man. As you are no ordinary man, Herakles.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I learn many things. I know of your exploits, but I thought
you dead, or a fanciful tale.” The Merlin yanked a hair from his long beard. He
grimaced at the slight pain, then tested the edge of the sword by splitting the
hair.

“In many ways I am dead. In other ways I can never die. I
cannot fully withdraw from life until humans are safe from the temptations of this
sword.”

“Agreed. But I have plans for the sword and the future that
will fit your ideal.”

“Such as?”

“I have found a hero. A hero who will bring law, justice and
peace to Britain. He will need a sword such as this.”

“Who is this mighty man, and why have I not heard of one
worthy of the sword and my trust?”

“He hasn’t been born yet, in the time you came from. But he
will be. Shortly. I know that he will be worthy of the sword and your trust, as
well as mine.”

“Even the gods of Olympus can’t see into the future.” If
only the old man’s words were true. He wanted to believe The Merlin.

“The future is a shadow among many shadows. Those who know
how and where to look can catch glimpses of shapes and patterns. I saw a sword
in the patchwork of time. Look into the crystals. I will show you.”

Herakles looked. The lights and shadows from the candle
shifted into symbolic shapes and rhythms. He recognized Hera’s peacock blue
eyes, searching, ever searching. Another shadow, fleeing her. Fleeing toward
something bright. A bright sword blade. He also saw a cloaked figure,
prematurely grey of beard and hair, hiding a second sword in this very cave.

Hastily, Herakles looked toward The Merlin to make sure the
old man hadn’t tricked him with reflections and shadows. Merlin stood off to
one side, head bowed, the sword resting quietly in his hands.

“I sought the pattern,” The Merlin said, as if sensing
Herakles’ gaze. “That is how I found your hiding place. I sought a place to
secrete a different sword and found a better weapon for my purposes. But for
its full potential to be unleashed and controlled, it must be given not stolen.”

“I can’t allow the sword loose into the chaos that rules the
world in the time I left. I do not foresee an early end to the swath of
destruction left behind by the sea raiders.”

“The sword does attract a great deal of notice.” The Merlin
chuckled as he hefted the weapon, assessing its balance. “Clever of you to hide
it in the future, at a time when it can be used for good. I sense someone
seeking it even now. She? She has ties to you and through you to the sword. This
power within the blade is easily recognizable. Reforging might shift the
pattern enough to disrupt her search. Can you reshape the blade? Something
longer and more slender? The kind of warfare my hero wages will require a
longer reach and a shift of the balance.”

“I have been many things, including a blacksmith. But this
sword was forged by Hephaestus. I’m not certain anyone but a god could change
it.”

“Was it the forger or the nature of the star-iron itself
that makes this weapon so formidable?” The Merlin asked, raising one white
eyebrow. “You are Zeus’s son, the strongest man on Earth. If anyone can work
this metal, it is you.”

Reforging might alter the pattern of power within the blade
enough to divert Hera for a little while, give him time to find a new hiding
place. Or working the blade might show him a way to destroy it. “I will try,
though I am but half a god. Do you have a forge?”

“This altar stone will suffice for an anvil”

“The altar will splinter at the first strike of a hammer.”

The Merlin smiled with half his mouth. His eyes danced with
mischief. He was younger than his white hair suggested. “I think not. I have
hidden sea coal, tools, and water buckets deeper in the cave.”

“Then let us to work.” Herakles stripped off his shirt and
stretched in preparation of wielding hammer and fire.

Very quickly, heat from the burning coals filled the cavern
and coursed through Herakles’ veins. He thrust the sword into the brazier much
as he had thrust the torch into the signal fire. Tiny flames licked at the
black lumps of coal within the makeshift forge. He watched for what seemed an
eternity. The sword was slow to take the heat. Its tip remained bright steel
gray. He added more coal. The tiniest bit of red glowed at the sword point.

“The fire has to be hotter,” he said. He couldn’t fail now.

The Merlin knelt beside the brazier and blew at the base of
the fire. His breath came longer and steadier than an ordinary man’s. A cloud
of sparkling mist surrounded the coals then sank into them. Instantly the fire
blazed hotter. The old man sat back on his heels, blinking tiredly. “That
should help,” he said.

The glow of red crept up the sword blade. The crystals
reflected the heat and light, adding to the burning coal. Gradually the red
blade turned white. A sense of triumph bloomed inside Herakles. With The Merlin’s
magic and his strength, they just might achieve the impossible.

He moved the sword onto the altar and raised the hammer. He
closed his eyes as he swung, expecting the stone to shatter. He heard only the
resounding ring of metal against metal.

Another blow and another. He watched the sword carefully as
the blade flattened, 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.