FSE

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This story is licensed under the Creative Commons

Attribution Noncommercial Share Alike 3.0 License

© 2008 by Noisy Bob All Rights Reserved

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NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The world this story is set in is the one of Onyx Tao's excellent story series Cold Blood (don't throw a fit, it's all open license and Tao's a great guy!) and is set into the timeline at around about chapter 3 - Green Fields - but is to be considered non-canonical, being purely a fanwork. If you enjoyed this then go check out Cold Blood which as of the writing of this is up to it's 15th chapter, I guarantee you won't be dissapointed.

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In the lightless caverns Tathal had no way of knowing whether he'd been staring at his reflection for five minutes of an hour. He'd found a shard of broken mirror behind a stack of crates, the edges were sharp as blades but they didn't cut his skin, they couldn't, not any more.

The changes had become more pronounced after the third augmentation, the scales now extended over his entirety of his forearms and hands like gauntlets of living armour and additional specclings of them had appeared on his shoulders. His musculature had become more defined, Tathal had always had always been wiry, with the kind of explosive strength well suited to a spearman but now he was starting to look like a wrestler. The claws - he was still trying to get used to the idea that he had claws! - had become thicker and longer too, saber-like in their curvature and more vicious-looking than even a wolvens.

He was sure his eyes had been blue, not the golden serpent-slits he saw in the mirror. They weren't really ugly but...they weren't his.

At least he'd gotten some clothes now, First had found his lost trousers and one of the handmade sackcloth robes the Echidnans wore, it was rough and itchy but it at least kept off the cold. He stuffed the piece of mirror away inside a pocket, not wanting to look anymore.

After his second augmentation he had been given the honour of sharing masters chambers while he rested from the working, it seemed to cost Mallear dearly to perform each new change to his body and he spent whole evenings at a time - as far as he could tell in the lightless caverns, but some times just sort of felt like "morning" and "evening" - sitting in his armchair, a massive construction of mahogany and green-dyed leather that looked quite out of place in the barbaric simplicity of the wolven den. Even at these times Tathal knew that massive strength still resided within his Master, somehow he just felt that the few shreds of power that remained after he changed Tathal were still more than sufficient to lay low an army.

At those times Mallear usually read, he devoured books at an incredible pace, the hazel minotaur lingered on each page for no more than a few seconds at a time. Tathal wished he could read more than anything at those times, as he kneeled beside Mallears chair with his head resting on the minotaurs lap while Mallear read, stroking Tathals hair absently to occupy his free hand - Master Mallear always needed something to do and grew fidgety and agitated otherwise. He was suprised when he noticed that the cover of one of the books had fallen open and on the first page there was a picture of the head and shoulders of a human man, like the marble busts that the Imperials made of their leaders, he had inquired Mallear about the picture;

"The author." he had simply said, looking away from his page for barely a second.

That had come as a suprise, from the time he had shared Mallears mind he got the distinct impression that Mallears view of humans was something in between likening them to children and pets. And a resource, he had got that much, during the second augmentation Mallear had told him about the properties of human flesh;

"Very easy to work biomancy upon, probably why the creators decided to make humans the template for all other sentients, or a happy coincidence at least. The changes I wrought on your body would have taken months to achieve on, say for example, a Minotaur or a Wolven."

Knowing that it was hard to concieve why Mallear would read a book written by a human, tentatively he asked why Mallear had been interested by it;

"If I am to improve upon the works of the creators I must possess not only their tools but something they did not." replied Mallear.

"What, Master?"

"Empathy and foresight, pet." Mallear said, a curious undertone in his voice, almost like anger but not directed at him "They didn't take enough care to understand the motives of their creations and track their inevitable conclusion, the result? A fractured mirror."

Mallear snapped shut his book after placing a small strip of cloth on his page and placed it on top of the stack beside his chair, Tathal felt the mages magic, a crawling unsettling feeling that passed as soon as it came, and Mallear unbuckled his mask, revealing his beatific face and eyes brimming with paradoxical kindness.

"Perhaps you think that I scorn humans, after sharing my thoughts? Is that it, pet?" he said.

"Well...you do, don't you, Master?" replied Tathal.

Mallear chuckled softly under his breath "No, pet. Though it is true most humans irritate me I feel much the same way about most minotaurs, I always enjoyed wolven company more, there is a strange kinship between us, especially now that I share the

concordance." he paused and picked up the book Tathal noticed "Now take this fellow, Phlebius of Dioclepia; quite the most entrancing poet I have ever discovered, I have never once read a work of his that did not stir me, sometimes even to tears.

How could I scorn that?"

"Poetry, Master? What's that got to do with the working?" asked Tathal.

Mallear leaned forward in his seat down to Tathals eye-level and looked him square in the face "Poetry is the purest expression of written emotion, it is one of the few things that approaches the concordance in its ability to convey meaning, you...you cannot understand, how old are you?"

"Twenty three, Master."

Mallear shook his head "You cannot understand, no." he said "Should you live as long as I then perhaps you will come to know what immensity of pointless harm can result from a lack of empathy and foresight. Or perhaps you won't, even provided with a quite sufficient thousand years few of those fools come to grasp it."

"The wolven are pretty empathetic, Master. Doesn't seem to help them."

"Wrong on both counts, pet. Wolven are empathic, and that is quite a different thing, and also consider this; thanks to the creators the Wolven will likely never possess a culture of true sophistication on their own, their instincts run too deep, without the solidarity of the concordance they would have quickly disintegrated and destroyed eachother. In fact if I am not successful they may do so yet, given another rather unfortunate oversight on the creators part with regards to their, Aha...dietary requirements. It's ironic, like so much else, that while they have mastery over the emotions of others they, perhaps more than any other creator race, are ruled by their instincts."

Mallear leaned back in his chair again "They suffer too, perhaps more than any of us. The great work will benefit them as well. It is a sad thing to have become a monster, it is doubly sad to have been born one."

"What about being made one against your wishes?" said Tathal, aloud but more directed at himself, it wasn't until he'd actually said he words that he realised their meaning adn tensed in expectation of Mallears ire.

He felt Mallears fingers stiffen on his scalp and then slowly relax "I am unsure that I could put a number to it." said Mallear "And I had thought you were resolved to the changes, welcoming them even."

"I am, Master." said Tathal "But it frightens me, I...I don't know-"

"Yes, the adjustment will be difficult at first as you become accustomed to your new body-image, but if you do not accept it as inevitable and desireable then it will destroy you. I have termed it the 'realisation point', eventually at some point an Echidnan reaches a stage where their psyche attempts to reconcile itself with its new host body. Body and mind are intrinsic to each other, if you are able to reconcile the changes to your form then you will pass beyond this point and your worries will abate."

"And if I can't?" asked Tathal

"Then you will lose your mind and die by your own hand." said Mallear matter-of-factly, Tathal gasped and looked up at him, hoping it was a jest.

"But you are resilient, pet. Your continued persistance in defying me, even now though I am sure you are not aware of it, is proof of that." said Mallear with a smile "And I shall guide you through the transition, I as of yet have no clear way to guarantee that it will not happen but there are ways I can help, it makes me wonder how the creators managed to make such large changes to us without that difficulty. If indeed they even tried to circumvent it, which is doubtful."

Tathal settled his head back on Mallears lap, his worries dispelled by the minotaurs words, until another thought arose.

"So...did First pass the realisation point, Master?" he asked and for just a second, passing so quickly that it might have been a trick of the flickering light, Mallear winced.

"First...has been dealt with." was all Mallear said, some preservation instinct told Tathal that prying further would be a very bad idea.

The uncomfortable silence was broken when Silk appeared in the entranceway looking even more drawn and pallid than usual, sweat beaded on his brow and he was visibly controlling his breathing to avoid panting in exhaustion.

"Apprentice? You bring news?" said Mallear, looking up.

"The captive is proving uncooperative, there is more resistance than anticipated and despite Kathars aid it will not be a simple procedure." said Silk, extending one hand to lean against the cave wall.

"But then that was expected, was it not?"

"It was but...Master, I have never performed the rite of the sleeper on a minotaur before, I knew something of the species resonance but of course the resistance is proportional to the force used and..."

"And the rite is very forceful."

"Yes, Master, Very. I'm having to wrestle with my own magic with every stage of the rite, it recoils against the purpose I put it to."

Mallear sighed exasperatedly "Are you saying that you cannot complete the rite? I have cautioned you on the consequences of failure, or perhaps you think my assesment of your abilities was unfair? Maybe you think I was wrong, that you are in actuallity only a mage of mediocre ability?" he said, almost conversationally but with a dangerous tone creeping in to his voice.

"Master, I-" started Silk, fear clear in his eyes.

"No apprentice of mine is going to admit failure." said Mallear in a tone as unarguable as a blade pressed lovingly to the neck "Either finish the rite...or leave."

For a moment Silk looked crushed before a strange sort of hardness seemed to come over him, a renewed resolve, he bowed and turned to leave wordlessly.

"Oh, and Apprentice..." said Mallear, turning back to his book.

"Yes, Master?"

"If I catch you acting like a slave again I will not be so forgiving, you are a mage now and will never be of use to me if you do not break the habit of looking to 'master' for instruction whenever things seem insurmountable, now go." said Mallear in a deadpan voice, flicking aside the bookmark.

"Yes, Master." said Silk, tersely, and disappeared down the tunnel.

"Tsk, it's progress, I suppose..." said Mallear wistfully, apparently to himself.

Tathal settled his head back on Mallears lap, everything seemed less important these days, all that mattered was that Mallear was pleased with him, even if he apparently wasn't with Silk. Good, he didn't like Silk at all, all of Mallears slaves hated him. They feared him too, they whispered mindbender when he passed by, which was apparently an insult or warning of sorts. Even the wolven seemed to avoid him, though he was less sure as to why.

"Speaking of progress, I think it was time you began some basic training in Thelematics." said Mallear, Tathal backed away on his knees when he felt the minotaur tense to move and Mallear rose to his hooves.

"Follow." he commanded, rebuckling his mask. Not for the first time Tathal wondered why Mallear wore the thing but had little time to think about it when he had to jog slightly to keep pace with Mallear through the caverns. They were strangely quiet now, no servants hauling equipment and the bestial snarls of the wolven were quieter and less frequent, even the atmosphere of the place seemed less oppressive. It must be night-time, Tathal resolved, they were all asleep, the wolvens terrible mental presence was muted because their minds were unfocused. He wondered absently what wolven dreamed of, eventually deciding he didn't want to know.

He was suprised to find that he recognised the cave tunnel, he was starting to pick up the layout of the twisting, winding, place; they were heading for Mallears laboratory-cavern.

Even after being in the place several times before already Tathal never ceased to be amazed by the enormity of the cathedral-like cavern. Mallear broke into a burst of that strange minotaur-speed and reappeared beside a glass-fronted case which he opened and removed from inside an hourglass and an intricate brass device made of a series of interconnected rings and sat down in the great armchair, moving a side-table in front of him and setting the device and the hourglass down on it.

"There, sit." said Mallear, indicating a spot opposite him on the floor.

"This," said Mallear once Tathal had sat where directed, manipulating some of the rings of the device "is a training tool."

"What for, Master?"

"Mental discipline, it was something of a science in old Xarbydis." replied Mallear "The mind is a weapon, as potent as any blade, there was a time when those most skilled warriors were taught using methods similar to this in order to draw out their latent potential. They are...were...quite formidable, yes."

A shadow seemed to pass over the masked minotaur for a moment, an anxiousness of sorts "But such warriors are no more, I am...quite certain of it."

"So, this is to do the same for me, Master?" asked Tathal, uncertainly.

Mallear barked a short laugh "Nothing so drastic at this point, given the existing stresses your mind would collapse in on itself if subjected to that level of conditioning." said the mage "No, at this point I merely wish for you to gain some measure of control over your emotions."

"So I can...keep control in Furore'?"

"Precisely, pet. Most astute." said Mallear with a hint of satisfaction. Tathal was oddly excited at the prospect, he hated how uncontrolled he had felt when he used the creator-gift, like he wasn't really himself anymore - though he wasn't sure he hadn't lost some of that already - and the memories of what he had done to that minotaur prisoner haunted him still.

But if he could maintain control then it would be a true blessing, not the double-edged sword it currently was.

"How do I use it, Master?"

Mallear chuckled "So eager, pet? That won't last long." said the minotaur in an amused voice, that was probably bad, Tathal realised, most of the things that Mallear found humourous so far had been deeply unpleasant.

"To begin with, align the inner medallion so that it's markings match the ones on the next-largest ring." instructed Mallear

"The lesson will begin when you make the first change."

Tathal looked at the device more closely, each brass ring had markings on them, runes of sorts, each one in the center of a small coin-like disk of metal that looked removable. The runes were strange, they seemed to shift and change like they were alive while at the same time maintaining a solid shape, just looking at them made his eyes water. In the center of the rings was a disk containing four rune-coins.

"So I match the symbols?"

"Yes, each subsequent ring has a corresponding pattern which relates to the next, there is only one correct combination." replied Mallear, sitting back and meshing his fingers.

"How will I know what the right combination is?"

"That, I assure you, will not be an issue. You will know."

There was something grave in Mallears voice, and possibly...anticipation? Hunger? Maybe he was imagining it. He turned his concentration on the puzzle, it seemed simple enough; the first ring had eight symbols along its circumference, one of each looked identical to one of the symbols on the central disk and the remaining four looked like amalgams of the central four, it was just a matter of switching the symbols round to match the central ring and place the remaining four in the right position, simple.

he hooked a clawtip under the rim of two erroneous disks and swapped their positions, out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Mallear had overturned the hourglass but he said nothing so Tathal supposed he was just supposed to carry on with the puzzle. The first ring was completed easily enough, the second ring looked harder, he was about to start on it when the last grain of sand fell through the neck of the hourglass.

Before he had time to touch a second-ring rune a sudden jolt of pain lanced through his head and he cried out in pain, the hand that had been meant to go to the puzzle instead moving reflexively to his temple, it felt like he'd been struck with a club.

"Incorrect alignment, the whole board follows a pattern, not just part of it." said Mallear, turning over the hourglass "There is more to the device than simply altering the positioning of the symbols, decipher it or the pain will be worse next time."

The sharpness of the initial pain had dulled away to a persistant headache and he had to fight through it to concentrate; more to it? What did that mean? Everything was aligned correctly with the fixed symbols matching...No, that was the problem!

"The whole board follows a pattern." Mallear had said, the symbols were meant to align to eachother at right-angles, not in lines, just like the amalgam-runes did. The rings looked like they were meant to rotate, that must be why, experimentally he placed one finger on the first ring and span it 90-degrees, the pain stopped almost immediately and Tathal breathed a sigh of relief.

"Don't dally, continue the alignment, you have used up half your time already and if the next ring is not completed by then the pain will be substantially more intense." said Mallear, sternly, pointing to the hourglass and it's slowly-emptying upper bulb.

"You never mentioned that part!" said Tathal in a despairing tone, obscured memories of mage-pain now all too vivd again after feeling the magical lash.

"That, my pet, is part of the learning process." replied Mallear, airily.

Tathal grit his teeth and tried to push the slowly-diminishing supply of sand from his mind and focus on the puzzle board. He didn't know what to do, he had a rough idea of what to do but he had no way to identify which amalgam runes were meant to be placed where as far as he could tell, there semed to be no way of avoiding the punishment.

"Master, can I ask a question?" he said, nervously.

"That rather depends on the nature of the question in hand, speak anyway." replied Mallear.

"Does the pain...does it vary depending on how wrong I am?"

Tathal could almost feel Mallears amusement despite the impassive visage of his mask, as though it radiated from him in palpable waves.

"Very clever, pet, yes it does." said Mallear with a slight incline of the head that Tathal took as a sign of approval.

That was the key! He now had a metric by which he could judge whether his actions were correct.

"If you survive it." his mind grimly supplied. Nevertheless, this was the answer, he was sure of it.

With solemn motions tathal placed a selection of the amalgam runes in an arrangement that seemed logical and then, restraining himself from tampering with the board, waited. Seconds became minutes as he watched the sand trickle through the neck of the hour glass, breath freezing in his throat as that last tiny trickle of pearlescent dust slipped through the pinch and leave the top bulb empty. Immediately he was thrown into contortions by the depth of the agony that ripped through his head but he didn't resist it, didn't try to block it out, instead he gave himself to it, experienced every nuance of the exquisite torment it engendered and remembered it.

When it finally abated he shook the fog from his mind and focused on the board again, selected a rune that might possibly be out of place, and swapped them. Then, once again, he waited.

Mallear was eerily silent, his usual uncontainable nervous energy stilled like a man engrossed in a particularly interesting piece of street theater during a climactic moment. Minutes past, the bulb emptied, the pain...was less than before! Awful, certainly, but it only elicited a pitiful whimper rather than a choked scream of pain this time, he was close...and he could see a new pattern emerging. He hastily memorised the placement of the runes in case his intuiton was flawed and rearranged the pieces to match the pattern emerging in his mind. He sat back for a moment to check that everything was in place and again shifted his attention to the hourglass. His heart raced as the final dram of sand clung to the conical pinch, trickling so slowly that time could have shifted, and finally fell.

There was no pain! He barked a short laugh, half in triumph and half in relief, as he wiped his sweat-beaded brow with the back of his hand, an exaltation that was short lived when Mallears furred fingers closed around the hourglass and turned it over.

"Next ring. The pain intensity for incorrect alignment will be increased fifty percent." the minotaur intoned.

"W-what?" said Tathal in a small, shaky voice as the colour drained from his cheeks.

"The pain intensifies by half with each ring, Continue."

"But I need to feel it at least twice before I can guess the pattern!" protested Tathal, weakly.

"Then guess right."

What followed Tathal only dimly remembered, a waking nightmare of scarcely imaginable torture and nerve-wracking periods of indescision as the sand trickled by. The third ring took him four attempts and left him nearly exhausted, the fourth took only two but the punishment was so paralysing in its intensity that he barely managed to keep his hand from shaking long enough to place the runes. The fifth and final ring now lay before him, he waited for its sting.

When it came he couldn't even scream.

WhiteHotNailsDrivenThroughFleshSavagedByTenThousandDogsFrostburnStuckWithArrowsSwordThroughTheGutLashUponLashUponLashUponLashUponLashUponLashUponLashUponLashUponLash...his imagination failed to encapsulate it, his world had become a supernova pinprick of burning light among a black expanse of suffocating nothingness, yet still the magic wouldn't let him lose consciousness, wouldn't let that pinprick be swallowed by the drakness, it just left him alone with his hurt until it finally abated and his vision expanded once again.

He had only a moment of relief before the pain struck again, long enough to see that the last of the sand had been pissed away while he was incapacitated from the last time. A terrible realisation crept through his pain-addled mind that his body was starting to fail, even for a Celti tribesman he had always had stamina to spare but the ordeal, the muscles bruised by straining against the pain that had no source and the frantic beating of his heart all had combined to make his recovery time longer and longer after each and every jolt.

He was dead. There was no other word for his situation, he was a corpse that just hadn't realised it yet. There was no doubt in his mind that his cruel master wouldn't stop the game, Mallear had no patience for failures, he'd just let him writhe until his heart burst and probably consider it a way of at least salvaging some entertainment from his worthless pet before bestowing Furore' on another human and beginning the process over again. He forced his screwed-tight eyelids open and blinking throught the fog of pain saw that he was right, the steel-faced minotaur watched his agony with somethig resembling interest - anticipation? hope? Lust? - with his mighty head resting on one hand as he reclined in his armchair. Tathal used every ounce of strength he could muster to try and force out a plea, all that his strangled throat could produce was a few choked whimpers but Mallear seemed to understand anyway.

"Maybe I overestimated you? Perhaps this test is too hard..." came Mallears emotionless voice, ringing with metallic resonance, and for just a moment Tathal allowed himself to hope that maybe his master would show kindness afterall "But if you cannot complete this you are of no use to me anyway, do try and fight your death though, I should be able to gather some data from observing how your altered physiology handles this level of pain induction."

What was left of his will crumbled at the confirmation of his masters despite. Despair gripped his heart, he was so scared, so ashamed, so angry! Angry with himself, angry that he couldn't live up to Mallears expectations, angry that he had dissapointed the one who offered him so much. But what did it matter anyway, the pain had abated now but he didn't have enough strength to go on, his body just refused to move, no longer responding to his commands but just a ragdoll of flesh and bone, it was just like...like when he had used Furore'.

The epiphany came dimly at first, but then hit hm like a bowshot. Furore'! When he had used it before he endured a pummeling from a minotaur and barely felt it, if it could render blows thrown by the awesome strength of a minotaur as ineffectual as the flailings of a child then it might let him ignore magical pain as well!

He blinked the tears from his eyes and stared blearily at the hourglass o the edge of the table; there were only seconds left! Tathal focused on the anger, the anger borne of the shame of displeasing Mallear, and alowed it to well up inside him to feed the ember in his chest where Furore' dwelled. In an instant his clothes had become restrictive and binding, he was acutely aware of the coarseness of the sackcloth and felt every groove and indentation, itching and scratching his skin.

As the final dram of sand fell through the pinch Tathal growled like a rabid wolf and forced himself upright, the mage-pain was still there and it still hurt like hellfire but he could deal with it now, it didn't seem to matter as much anymore.

His hand closed on the edge of the table as he pulled himself back to the board, his claws leaving tiny scratch-marks on the surface, in truth he would have torn off a chunk if he hadn't been controling himself. Through red-tinged vision he scanned the board again, dimly noting a short intake of breath from Mallear that he had to ignore lest recognition of the miotaurs approval dampen his supernatural rage. There was little thought to pattern as he swapped the runes on the outer ring, Furore' was meant for war and it was struggle enough to prevent himself from bending the little medallions of brass in half beween his fingers, he just switched them around at random, searching for the right combination. His breath was heavy and ragged and he snarled with frustration as he felt the mage-pain ebb and flow as he struggled with the puzzle that had become nonsensical in his animalistic state.

Focus, focus, focus! This was useless if he couldn't command his own faculties, he could fiddle with the damn things all day and never get the right combination. He had to rise above it, not feel the rage, not struggle to control Furore' but ride it. He reached out with his mind, it was like swimming for the surface of the ocean, except the ocean was a red haze of blood and killing intent and every moment it threatened to drag him down like a beast savaging his legs.

"NO!" screamed the last defiant speck of him and suddenly the world became clear again. He felt shaky and uncertain but he was in control again, riding the beast, letting it bear the brunt of the mage-pain while he remained free of it. Still breathing like a marathon runner adn with the sound of his racing heart beating in his ears he extended a scale-armoured hand that no longer shook with uncontainable energy and, with calm and deliberate motions, completed the puzzle.

A howl of laughter shocked him from his reverie and Furore' fell away with it, retreating to the ember in his heart with a growl. To his amazement the laughter had come from Mallear, who slapped his thigh and roared with laughter that contained genuine pleasure, his mask giving the sound a chime-like quality.

"Well played, pet - no, Ravager!" bellowed Mallear and Tathal felt his heart skip a beat, all the suffering forgotten with those words.

"Mas-" he croaked, trying to thank Mallear for his praise, but a giddy mixture of fatigue and euphorea overtook him and he collapsed against the table, too tired to speak.

Warm, soothing, hands bore him up, the tickling and crawling of Mallears magic sloshing through his form like effervescent water, healing and rebuilding. Changing too, he thought, Mallear changed everything he touched.

"Splendid, even Silk couldn't do it the first time, though his test was slightly different." said Mallear as he held Tathal to his wide chest, Tathal cooed softly and buried his face in the minotaurs robe instinctively seeking out the source of the intoxicating salt-pine scent.

Mallear chuckled under his breath "I have a gift for you." he said "Though it's not finished yet."

With that he carried Tathal to what looked like a bare stone wall until it seemed to soften like clay and open up to allow the miotaur through, revealing another cavern. The smell of metal and flame added itself to the mildewy cavern scent, the source became clea when Mallear paused to lower him to the floor, propping him up in a sitting position againt the wall; the center of the cave was dominated by a massive fire-pit of some sort that was cut out of the living rock, the surface of the stone ring was carved with abstract designs that seemed meaningful in some way, though he couldn't guess how. No, wait, he could - the markings were Ogham, the language of the druids, spiralling around the raised stone. Tools for working with leather and metal were scattered everywhere along with an anvil of astounding proportions.

Mallear approached another stone wall and placed one hand a few inches from its surface before withdrawing it, a slab of stone followed his hand, sliding out of the wall like a cabinet draw with no seam.

"This is where I keep my greatest treasures, I trust the wolven as much as I trust anyone but if they knew of some of the items of power in my possession they might become inclined to treachery to obtain them. And then I'd have to kill them, which would be a terrible waste." explained Mallear, jovially, as he removed a steel flask from the drawer before banishing it back with a push of his hand.

"Wha...what is that, Master?" asked Tathal, feeling a little stronger from the effects of the spell.

Mallear withdrew a large copper dish from a side table which he set down on the anvil, he then proceeded to make a strange gesture over the flask that caused the brass seals stamped over the join between its cap and body fall off and hit the floor with a ring. He twisted off the cap and with infinite care poured the contents of the flask onto the dish. It was a fine greyish powder that caught the light, twinkling like tiny stars, eventually filling the dish in a heap.

"Blood-iron, my pet. Enough to buy a city and all its inhabitants." said Mallear reverently "The blood of red-blooded creatures contains iron in small ammounts, what you see here is the iron taken from the blood of a thousand minotaur warriors."

"I don't understand, Master. What use is it?"

"Blood is a magical fluid resonating to the element of water, any water-mage like myself would gladly kill for this much blood-iron for it carries the resonance of its former owner." with that Mallear held his hand above the pile of grey powder and in an instant it became liquid, the grains coalescing together to form a mercury-like substance that lept into the mages outstreached hand in the form of a metal bar "Oh, what a wonderous weapon I am going to make for you, my Ravager." he whispered as he held the bar aloft.

There was a pulse of magic and Mallears robe fell from about him, leaving the minotaur nude in the firelight besides his mask, Tathal nearly gasped in awe at the sight of Mallears body, hard as marble and as perfect as a statue. A rumbling filled the room, it seemed to come from everywhere at the same time until its source became dramatically clear when a pillar of magma burst upward from the fire-pit, so hot it was uncomfortable against his skin and he had to shield his face from it even from the distance he was at and yet Mallear, who was close enough to touch it, remained unfazed, waves of heat breaking over his body like the ocean against a cliff. The magma didn't spill over the edges of the pire pit but remained obediently in the shape of a column, for the first time Tathal truly realised the extent of Mallears power, this display of magic, gross and awesome as it was, was nothing to him.

Mallear approached the pillar of burning magma and thrust the bar of blood-iron into its depths, right up to his hand! Tathal almost bellowed out a warning but saw that the flame refused to harm his master, it flowed over him with no more effect than as if it was warm honey rather than superheated rock. A few seconds later Mallear withdrew the bar, glowing white-hot in his hand, and set it down on the anvil.

"Water of blood, fire of earth, breath of magic." he intoned and raised his other hand above his head in a fist before bringing it down upon the bar in a hammer-blow that cast a flash of bright white light and a shower of sparks. Again and again he rained blows from his bare fist down upon the bar, when it cooled he thrust it back into the magma and he shaped it between his fingers, folding it, cropping it, teasing it into shape and eventually hammering down upn it again and again, uttering the same phrase each time he drew it out of the flame "Water of blood, fire of earth, breath of magic."

Tathal watched in rapt amazement, hypnotized by the roll of Mallears muscles beneath his flame-lit fur, the crash of his fist against the metal and even the way the sweatdrops that flew from his fur sizzled into nothingness once they reached a few inches away from his body. How much time passed he couldn't say, he was barely aware of anything, but it must have been hours before the pillar of liquid fire withrew and the chamber was again lit by more familliar flames.

Mallear walked up to him, holding the fire-blackened blade by the tang and pointed its tip at Tathal.

"Name it." he commanded as Tathal scrabbled to a kneeling position.

"What, Master?"

"Name the blade, it is a Celti tradition is it not?" said Mallear amusedly.

Tathal suddenly remembered, it had been a long time since he had a sword of Celti-make, the imperial swords were all so uniform it seemed laughable to try and make one unique so he hadn't bothered. He stared thoughtfully at the black surface of the blade, its name should fit its birth and what its life would be. The image of the flash of mage-light and the shower of sparks that followed passed through his mind as he concentrated on it and he put forth his hands to touch its surface, inexplicably cool and smooth to the touch, imagining himself weilding it in battle, imagining his Furore'-borne strength conducting its edge with the power and speed of...

"Master, I have a name for it." he said, confidently.

"Speak it." said Mallear, almost proudly.

"Hard Lightning."

In an instant there was a flash of light and a thread of pure glowing white traced its way down the blade almost to the tip and a moment later more lines branched off from it forming Ogham script, the name of his sword. As the tracery of white light faded away he saw that it had been etched upon the surface, perfect druid-script.

Mallear held the blade lengthways and handed it to Tathal, it was so light for its size he could scarecely beleive it until he saw that the edge was as thin as paper, even at its thickest point the blade was no heaftier than a coin.

"Master, the blade is so thin, will it not break?"

"No, Ravager. It has to be thin."

"Why is that?" asked Tathal in puzzlement.

"How else is it to cut time?" replied Mallear.