For this I went back to my Heart of the Guardian trilogy to the epilogue of the last book. It is about the sword that Kirabaros was presented with and he kept up until his death. Not one of my better ones but I hope you enjoy.
Flame of the Guardian
The smoke and the heat of the fire bellowed throughout the cavern.
The air was heavy with the sweat of the brow and the will of the warrior.
The crash echoed through the cavern as metal collided with metal, the sound of battle.
The blade lay on the anvil, its tip heated red. Sparks flew as the hammer came down to strike it, melding it into shape. It was battle. It was a battle against the elements. Creation was a battle.
The warrior artist lifted the blade and placed it into the water. The sizzle was the submission of the steel into its hardened state. Like all battles one came out the victor and the other came out the loser. The warrior artist lifted it out and looked at the blade.
He had found the steel from a meteor that had collided with the earth. In this time of war, it was a sign. He excavated it and felt the cool burn of the metal against his palm. It was cool burn of pain, the kind brought by battle. He knew then that it was to be a warrior’s blade.
He smelted it by laying siege to ore. Something that gave a cool burn of death did not give easily. Siege was the best in this battle. For hours he smelted the ore until he was satisfied. It was bombarded with a special blend to make the metal stronger. It was long just like any siege that was conducted. For this, patience was a virtue and a necessity. After the siege came the hand to hand.
Each strike of the hammer was like a strike of the sword. The stroke and the timing had to be right otherwise the steel would win. He had struck in perfect rhythm, each one a deathblow. With each strike came a shower of sparks. Two wills were colliding, each trying to best the other in battle. The heat of battle made a warrior stronger. Each strike was a testament to that.
With the last strike came the last submission. Looking at the blade, the warrior artist looked at his victory with respect. He ran his hand to test the smoothness of the blade and he could feel the cool burn of the steel. He could feel his blood chill and yet it boiled as it did in battle. It gave him an inspiration.
It was tradition to name a battle. It gave memory to the battle and taught younger generations lessons. The warrior artist knew that this battle should be named. Taking his special tool, he began to name the battle. It was an eloquent form of his people’s tongue and just right for this occasion. He carefully named the battle to read Sanglumina
He finished naming the battle but it was a ways to go before it could be shown with honor to all. Using a secret procedure, the warrior artist fashioned a handle that would give superior balance. It was fitted with care to ensure strength and honor worthy of the battle. Filigree laid into the handle spoke of the warrior artist’s skill, woven in a pattern that was said to inspire a warrior to greatness. All of the greatest warriors had swords with his handle.
The polishing was saved for last, after the creation of the scabbard. The scabbard was to protect the history of the battle for years to come. From materials unknown and guaranteed to protect against that which can devastate history, its design was unique as the blade. It was one to be appreciated by the warrior who would receive such honor. The polishing was done with a special blend of liquids that brought the shine out on the blade. When held up to the light, the blade shone with its ferocity. Even though it was beaten, it still had the heart of a warrior. It would fight until there was no one left to fight. The warrior artist took one last look at the blade. It deserved its name. Now it needed a strong and worthy hand to wield it.
Morning came and the battle needed to be given to a worthy hand. The warrior artist carried it towards the place it would be given. He would give his opinion on the sword to the Lady and she would give it to one most worthy. The blade would burn its burn of cold fire to those it didn’t consider worthy but would become warm to one it did.
The ceremony was full of laughter and happiness as a peace settled for the warrior artist’s people. He watched as Sanglumina was presented by the Lady to the one who brought the peace. He saw that the warrior was young but he could see the world in his eyes. As the young warrior took the blade in his hands, the warrior artist saw that the blade had chosen. The Lady may have presented it him but it chose to be with him. The warrior artist knew that the sword had a home.
Millennia have passed but not without untold grace. Elderly though he may be, the warrior artist still waged battle to create. He had never forgotten the famous sword that was thought to have been lost long ago. In his mind’s eye he could still see the cold steel and its glimmering beauty. The sword that was never lost but kept safe passed down through the ages.
He watched as she practiced with it, becoming one in its movement. He had seen it once before when her ancestor made the same movements. Four thousand years he had watched the blade, passed down through generations, chosen by the blade. It had chosen and would stay. It was a battle that would be and has been remembered, Sanglumina, “Bloodfire” the Flame of the Guardian.