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A blacksmith stood at the base of the world tree, his forge nestled among the roots. His arm rippled with the strain of lifting a heavy mallet and swinging it with absolute precision. The furnace raged beside him. The anvil swirled with shadows. On it was a blade.
The smith gauged his next blow carefully. He had nearly finished the edge. The sword’s point stretched far past the length of the anvil, nearly as long as the smith was tall. The blade glowed red where the hammer was striking, but its cooler parts were silvery steel. Light danced on its surface as though on water.
Metal struck metal, chiming a last, clear note that echoed among the boughs of the tree.
The smith plunged the blade in a vat of water to cool. The liquid hissed, and steam billowed up in clouds, obscuring the man’s face. When the vapor dissipated, he drew out the blade, dried it with a cloth, and held it up to the firelight.
Never had I seen such perfection. The proportions of the blade, the purity of the metal, the grace of the pommel, all combined in a sword that could cleave a man’s skull or balance on a child’s finger.
The smith hefted the weapon in his hand. He tested its swing. As he did so, there appeared another figure beside him.
It was a Paladin Lord. His face was all men’s faces. His spirit was all spirits. He approached the smith, who knelt, offering up the blade on his open palms.
The Lord reached out his hand. He touched the grip, and a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. When it faded, the worlds near the top of the tree glowed blue as if they had captured some of its light.
As the roar of thunder washed over him, the Lord took the blade, raised it above his head, and charged at the tree, up the trunk, towards the higher branches. He spared no glance for the rotting worlds of our past but launched himself headfirst into the storm.
The journey is treacherous. The stakes, high. Only the strong will prevail.
This is the Trial By Sword.
