By Kat Clements
White wyrms lick with flaming tongues
The iron as it glows.
Red-hot, the metal dragon’s roars
Are lost beneath my blows.
Between the strikes I hear a call:
An unknown human voice.
Few dare tread the bog this far;
Most do not by choice.
With a sigh, I pause my work,
And stride out to the gate.
I watch the boat pull into dock.
I cross my arms and wait.
Towards me trots a gangly lad
With carrot-colored hair.
Beside him glides a fae old man
With magic in his stare.
Behind them comes a priest-man
In a mud-splattered cowl,
He scurries up towards me,
And I fix him with a scowl.
I have no need for church choirs;
The only toll I heed
Is the belling of my hammer
And the singing of the reed.
The new god has no place here,
His hang’d corpse does reek.
I start to send them all away…
The priest begins to speak.
“We come to see the sword-smith
Who lives within this glade.
We need his skill and knowledge
To craft a blessed blade.”
“I am that smith,” I rumble,
Savoring his astonished stare;
No man ever expects to see
A woman standing there.
“I need a sword,” the lad pipes up,
“That will in battle sing.
It must be light and strong and true
For soon I will be king.”
Such proclamation makes me laugh
So hard it shakes the ground,
But stop and glare with eyes aflame
At the old fae man’s frown.
“For years I forged under the Hill
‘Til I came to understand
The blood that sprayed from each fell blow…
It also stained my hand.
“You may a kingdom win this way,
And hold it for a time,
But all that death exacts a price,
And this, dear prince, is mine:
“Seek not the precious holy cup;
It lies within no land.
The priestly words of Hanged God’s men
Are but a fool’s errand.”
Reluctantly, I acquiesce,
And grab a pig of ore.
Against my better judgment,
A sword I’ll forge once more.
The sparks, they fly! The anvil rings!
My soul, it feels alive
To do that which I’m meant to do
And not just to survive.
I never see the lad again,
Nor the old man or priest,
The days, they turn, and turn again…
Fate is a fickle beast.
My forge has long been dark
And no more swords I make,
Yet on I live in legends
As the Lady of the Lake.
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