Stephen Mackey

         A thousand thousand songs were sung in a world where the air was filled with a vibrant energy that the heart of a sun might have envied, and the ground was smooth as crystal.  Praises rang out as music, as well as, in smaller amount, wordless expressions of sheer joy, and to an even lesser extent still, respectful supplications, beseeching humbly for the strength to do whatever needed to be done at that moment in time.  It was a world, not of clashing sounds, but of harmonious melodies.

         But in one place, it was different.

         In one humble little corner of this world, there was a workshop.  And in that workshop there was no song.  Only silence.  Quiet.  But not the quiet of tranquility and peace.  Rather, it was a very purposeful quiet.  Anyone lingering would be inclined to think they could almost feel it humming and buzzing in their ears like a swarm of bees.  Few people came here, but it was not a malicious or dangerous place.  It was merely... serious.

         Inside, this day, as it was every day, the weaponsmith Steelrest went through his routine.

         Fifty swords a day.

         Every day.

         'Till the Last Battle was upon them.

         But contrary to what one might expect, he was both happy with his job and content in the quantity of labor.  He could have made a thousand a day, but fifty made for the highest quality blades.  And he loved nothing in life so much as shaping the flame.  He did, sometimes, wonder what the Benefactor would have him do once the Last Battle was come and gone, but he trusted in His wisdom.  There would be something new to shape.  Or perhaps merely new uses for swords.

         He was on his twenty-third sword for the day.  He ran his fingers over the flame, molding and stretching it, delicate but firm and sure in his movements.  This one, he decided, would be a scimitar, ideal for use by cavalry.  He carefully bent the flame, an idle thought of a crescent moon drifting through his mind....

         "Pleasant day to you, Steelrest.  I hope the work goes apace?" a cheerful voice spoke as a form swirled in, bright and cheery with the light and energy of youth.  His form lit up the abode to a level so bright that Steelrest would have had trouble seeing his blades, had he not long ago grown accustomed to his visitor's presence and accompanying radiance.  Outlook influenced form for their kind even more than for most, and the visitor had an exceptionally lively outlook.

         "Doesn't it always?" Steelrest replied with dry amusement.  He curved the half-made sword to the desired angle and smoothed out the last errant bits of unwanted flame-flickers.

         "Well, you never know.  Even the best of us have our off days."  The visitor, a frequent, comfortingly irritating companion by the name of Sparker, held up one of the swords of the day, a heavy two-handed one, and inspected it with an unserious gaze.  "This one's looking quite sleek.  Elegant, really.  Almost like a work of art.  Are you sure this one'll be able to do its job?"

         Frowning slightly, Steelrest set aside his finished scimitar and took the great sword from his friend's grasp, holding it in a careful guard position.  The blade blazed up immediately in a furious crackle of battle anticipation, and Sparker drifted back with a sudden healthy respect for the weapon.  Then Steelrest set the sword down, and it resumed its formerly peaceful state, no more than a long, thick tongue of unmoving flame.

         "They are inert when unneeded, as is proper for dangerous tools.  You know the nature of these things by now... or should."  He formed a new flame in his hands, starting to craft and shape it into a short sword thin as a feather.

         "Come now, no need to take that tone with me.  I'm not oblivious.  I just have my eyes on different things.  For instance, do you know that the humans have developed weapons that are in some respects even better than yours?"

         Steelrest's eyes flicked up briefly, then back to his work.  "I'm going to assume that was a joke."

         "Not at all.  They're doing remarkable things down there.  I daresay the Boss gave them a more productive technological muse than he did us."

         "You think my swords of flame are... out of date?" Steelrest asked, more incredulous than offended.  This was not something he saw fit to avoid confrontation with, and he set down his unfinished short sword purposefully.  "Show me."

         Sparker showed him.

         They didn't visit the planet bodily, of course.  That was forbidden without the express permission from the Benefactor.  Rather, they veiled themselves and flitted from scene to scene and age to age, Sparker pointing out the human evolution of warfare as enthusiastically as—what was the phrase Steelrest had heard from one of those crossed over?  Ah, yes.  As enthusiastically as a child in a candy store.

         The morality or lack thereof in the individual conflicts was ignored.  It wasn't their business to pass judgment, and such a task would take them the rest of their lives if it had been.

         "Now, take a look at this," Steelrest commented as they went to an alley replete with filth and squalor.  Two humans, thuggish in mannerisms and akin to oxen in frames, appeared to be fighting over the lineage of their parents.  Metal flashed quick and cold in what little light there was, like the lunging fangs of a phantom serpent, and then was gone.  "You see that, right there?  The first one stabbed the second one before the second one even knew there was a weapon out.  It's called a switchblade.  We can't do that with any of our weapons."

         "No," Steelrest said, voice devoid of inflection.  "This will not do.  Show me another of your wonders, Sparker.  This example has no appeal to me whatsoever."

         "But, think about how good it would be as a backup weapon, or if you needed to-"

         "No."

         Sparker sighed.  "Very well.  Let's try another."

         They came to a furious sea battle, countless large wooden boats maneuvering around each other in a foam-specked maelstrom by way of wind and oar.  Some ships were spraying others with a flaming liquid that clung to what it touched with almost diabolic persistence.  Steelrest eyed the actions closely, intrigued despite himself.

         "Interesting."

         "Fire, just like yours," Sparker said.  "You see how it demoralizes the enemy even though they have such superior numbers?  And how it burns, even in the water?  Do your swords do that, I wonder?"

         "I have not tested them under such conditions," Steelrest replied mildly.  He watched as the unfortunate soldiers, brave enough to fight their fellow man but not brave enough to fight raw elemental flame, dove into the water in panic and pain, only to continue burning despite.  "It seems to work in a very... protracted... manner.  I have no desires to imitate it, though I grant it is exceptionally impressive."

         "Oh, come now!  It would be perfect for-"

         "If this is the extent of what you have to show me, I think I should get back to work."

         "You're almost as set in your ways as the Boss, you know that?"

         "Is it not our duty to imitate Him in all ways possible?" Steelrest said dryly, withholding a smirk.

         In lieu of making a comeback, Sparker switched locations with a speed that left Steelrest somewhat disoriented.  As far as Steelrest knew, it was the closest Sparker had ever come to acting grumpily.

         The new spot was a crowded urban area roofed by sullen smog and lit by yellow lights glowing in the night as the eyes of malnourished owls, lazy and dull.  People with more muscles than clothes and more clothes than physical coordination were being wounded and killed all around in quick, small splashes of suddenly-appearing blood, while intermittent popping sounds spread through the air like a discordant song of mutually-assured entropy.  Steelrest looked around, a frown etched on his features, and only really understood what was happening when his guide clarified matters.

         "See the things in their hands?  The small black barrels with handles?  Those are guns, the invention that trumped armor.  Easy to use, mostly... often small, but they don't have to be... and the projectiles move faster than even we can see without tweaking our places in the time stream.  They're very popular with the humans these days."

         Steelrest watched noncommittally until the chaotic bloodshed was over, the howling, cursing combatants all fled or slain, and then shook his head.

         Sparker looked irritated, if only in modest amount.  "Well?  What is it this time?"

         "Ricochet."

         "Pardon?"

         "One of the projectiles ricocheted," Steelrest explained, pointing to a wall caked with flaking paint and ancient dirt where a projectile had struck it, and then to one of the dead, who had been struck by the projectile after it had bounced off the wall at an angle, her temple drenched in red.  "That one there was not fighting, just fleeing.  These guns are very indiscriminate."

         "You're impossible, Steelrest.  Just because you're one of the oldest doesn't mean you shouldn't ever try anything new, you know."

         "It seems to me that perhaps you are misunderstanding my reasons for objecting to the marvels you have shown me," Steelrest said gently.

         "Oh, look... just one more?  I know you won't be able to resist this one.  I've spent more time with the humans than you have, and I'm telling you, this last one is the biggest and best they've got."

         Steelrest shrugged, amiable.  "If you're so confident, then by all means, lead me to this wonder."

         This time, they were in the sky, surrounded by azure with only distant clouds for companions.  Puzzlingly, all that could be seen below was an expanding cloud shaped somewhat like a mushroom.  Steelrest looked around and around, uncertain.

         "Is there a battle in the skies to be fought momentarily?" he asked, confused.

         Sparker almost seemed smug.  "No.  The battle is over.  And the war this battle was fought for is also over.  Because of one weapon."

         "One?"

         "Just one."

         "Where is this great weapon, then?  I see nothing but the sea, the air, and a cloud below."

         "The cloud is the weapon.  Or rather, its aftereffects, at least.  The humans dropped a weapon called a bomb from a great height onto the city below us, and the city was enveloped by it.  There's no defending against it."

         "But... where are the ones who dropped it?" Steelrest asked.

         "More than ten miles away from this place.  They flew over the city, dropped the bomb, and fly away."

         Steelrest frowned.  "It is magnificent, in a terrible way, in its scope, but this bomb of yours is unsuitable for the Benefactor's armies, Sparker.  I think it is time to go home."

         They did so, leaving behind the clean skies for a city cleaner still in its pure radiance, Sparker frowning and thoughtful.  Steelrest picked up his unfinished work and began to finish shaping it, and gathered his thoughts, speaking as Sparker was about to leave.

         "A moment, Sparker.  Let me explain something about my craft as a weaponsmith."

         "Yes?"

         "There is no denying that the things you have shown me are all efficient and useful in their own ways, and very practical.  But the way humans wage war now is not the way we shall be commanded to wage war in the Last Battle, nor should it be the way we use force in smaller incidents now."

         "And why is that, Steelrest?"

         "Many reasons.  Among them: Hostile intentions shall not be hidden.  Those intentions shall strike down those necessary to be struck down as swiftly as possible, and not prolong pain needlessly.  Those intentions must also only strike those needful of striking, and not by mischance harm another.  And those intentions must be wielded directly against the enemy while one can see the enemy's face, striking him down while knowing exactly what you do and grieving for that which must be done.  To hide intentions... to wield them with little care to the suffering of others... or to wield them in such a way as to distance oneself from the act... these are things unbefitting of the roles our Benefactor has chosen for us in His wisdom."

         "But our enemies have no such hesitations," Sparker objected reasonably.  "And they will not have them when that last day comes, either.  How can we hope to prevail, using swords against firearms and explosives and all the rest?"

         "Sparker," Steelrest said extremely dryly, letting a smile curl his lips, "name me one weapon greater than the Benefactor."

         Sparker hesitated a moment, then let his lips take on a wry smile of their own.  "Of course, take the easy way out," he kidded, turning to leave, raising one hand in an idle wave, the motion almost beautiful in its elegant imitation of human ritual gesture.  "A pity you don't see the need to innovate even a little, though!  The humans haven't made 'em yet, but they've imagined some interesting-looking flaming whips, you know!  Very stylish..." he trailed off as he departed, his presence almost seeming to linger in the air like an echo too lonely to go away.

         There was a moment of quiet broken only by the sound of the eternal song outside Steelrest's home.

         Steelrest slowly lifted up the half-formed short sword, and rolled a fingertip around the tip.  The blade's tip curled, infinitely malleable and cooperative to his understanding touch.  He pondered the idea, holding it in his mind's eye, visualized as clear and complete as the room that was in front of his real eyes.

         "Well, perhaps just one..." he muttered half to himself, half to the ever-hearing Benefactor.  "Just for show."

         And anyone to pass by the building would have been astonished to hear Steelrest whistling a perky tune.

 

Copyright 2006, Stephen Mackey

Stephen Mackey, previously a longtime resident of South Carolina, currently resides in North Carolina (and greatly misses SC's hills and Rush's burgers), where he spends his days writing short stories for assorted zines and browsing odd sites for odder writing jobs.  His works have appeared in the Heroscape fanzine 'the Codex,' and are also to be in an up and coming horror rpg rulebook (title yet to be determined).