Falstaff sat back on a chair far away from the bellows and the anvil as Lion-O hammered.  "Easy lad, don't hit it so hard you bend the metal.  A series of light blows will shape it better than a single strong one, and strong blows can weaken the metal.  Forging a proper blade takes a long time and a great deal of patience."  Falstaff lifted his feet up onto a post and leaned back, sipping his cool drink, and regarding the sweat pouring off Lion-O.  Being close to the forge tended to do that to you.  Falstaff much preferred to sit back, dispense knowledge, and let Lion-O's muscles produce the blades.

Lion-O finished hammering the slender, reddened piece of iron, and then dipped it into a trough of water, quickly pulled it out, and then thrust it down into a trough of sand.  He undid the heavy leather apron he wore and wiped the sweat from his brow.  He would have to wait until the metal was cold before he could start grinding an edge to it.  "Who is this one for, anyhow?"

"That one is for the mayor's son.  A fine young lad.  Don't put too sharp an edge on it with the grindstone though, don't want him to hurt himself, snort snort."

Lion-O regarded his relaxing mentor as he completed mopping his brow. "Falstaff, why exactly do all the others buy their blades from you?  I know there is no other smith in town, but I see very little need for swords here, yet I've made two a day for the last two days."

"Oh, that's easy, they don't want to go to war."

"I...I don't understand.  Why would you buy weapons if you didn't want to go to war?"

"I am the captain of the guard as well.  If business gets too poor for the forge, I can always declare a war, and then everyone will need to buy my blades, and has to risk their life as well.  So they all buy blades anyhow to make sure that I never declare a war on anything."

"That's absurd."

"That's alot more reasonable then the way most governments do it."

Lion-O fell silent at that, unable to argue the point.  "Did you mean what you said the other night?  About the truth I mean?  I was always taught to guard the truth as something important."

"Precisely!  Something that important can't be given away to any man you meet, Lion-O!  Keep the truth close to you, and only share it when it is to your advantage to do so.  The truth cuts like a blade.  A man that can never tell the truth is holding a blunt weapon.  A man that can never lie is holding a weapon with no hilt, that cuts him as badly as his enemy.  But a man who knows when to use the truth, and when to lie, now he is well equiped against any foe.  Does that way of putting it make more sense to your military mind?"

"Surprisingly, yes.  I never thought of it that way.  And there is a kind of wisdom in what you say.  But I can't believe you would say the same about honor."

"Why not?  I suppose it is conceivably useful to have a reputation as an honorable man for when you have to deal with others that believe in the stuff, but other than that it is worthless."

"Worthless?!  Life is meaningless without honor!"

"And life is cheap and often lost with it.  The blade is cool.  Put an edge on it, lad, and I'll go get us something to drink."

"Very well, Falstaff.  And I will concede truth to you, but not honor.  Nor justice or loyalty."  Lion-O reached into the sand and wrapped his fingers around the still warm, squared off bottom of the blade.  For the blade to become a sword, this section would be set into a hilt.

"Give it time, my boy," said Falstaff on his way out.

Lion-O shook his head and got back to work.  He poured water onto the heavy stone grinding wheel and set to the long task of edging the blade.  He let his mind wander as the tedious task stretched on.

*Lion-O remembered.  Buildings were exploding, the earth below him rumbled and split.  The air was filled with the sound of a low, grinding boom and the shrill screams of people.  It was the end of the world.*

*Young Lion-O was terrified, running to get to his father, so they could board the royal escape ship and get away.  He was sweating with fear, terrified that the whole thing would just explode under his feet at any second.  After all, no one knew, really knew, exactly when it would happen.  Lion-O ran, feeling like every second was his last.  At last he made it to the throne room.  He was about to scream to his father to get going, but what he saw cast a silent pall over him.*

*Claudis was shouting at Jaga, screaming something with a rage that young Lion-O had never before seen in his father.  Spittle flew from Claudis's mouth as he yelled, but Lion-O couldn't hear the words.  The rumble of Thundera's death throes and the screams of the people overwhelmed the words, drowning them out of his memory.  Claudis grabbed Jaga by the cape, hauling him up off the ground, threatening to strangle the life out of the mystic right there. Such strength, thought young Lion-O, such incredible strength his father possessed.*

*Jaga said, "Stop," in a crisp, clear tone that split through the noise of the end of the world.  Claudis stopped.  "Release me," rang out the voice, drowning out the cacophony of the destruction of the world.  Claudis let go of Jaga.  Young Lion-O's hands unclenched.  He didn't know why.  He hadn't even realized he had balled up his fists.  "Sit down," the voice continued, ringing in the young lion's ears, the only thing in the entire universe that really existed was the voice.  Claudis sat down calmly and silently upon his throne. Young Lion-O sat down on the ground.*

*Jaga straightened his cape and turned to leave, and looked slightly startled when he saw young Lion-O sitting on the cracked marble floor of the hallway. "Get up, Lion-O, we must get to the ship!"  He grabbed the stunned boy's arm and pulled him to his feet.*

*Lion-O shook his head, recovering slightly.  He was turning to run, but something nagged at him, like he was forgetting something.  He turned his head and caught sight of he father, still sitting on the throne with a blank expression on his face as the the pillars of the throne room tumbled down around them all.  "NOOO!" screamed the boy.*

*Jaga waved his hand before the young lion's eyes.  "Forget," he commanded. "Run!  Run for your life!"  The rest was a chaotic haze of running through hallways and connecting tubes to the waiting flagship.*

Lion-O ground and ground, his face contorted with anger as he remembered more and more.  Finally he stopped, and looked down to the blade he was working on. One edge gleamed, honed by wetstone to polished sharpness.

Lion-O held the blade up.  How he hated Jaga!  How he ached for vengeance! With an ear splitting yell of rage he swung it down into the anvil.  The blade rang out, a crisp metal on metal noise, and sank a half an inch into the anvil.  Lion-O dislodged it and looked at the dulled edge, and the twisted metal.  He went grimly back to the wheel to repair the shaft of metal, and make it suitable for a mayor's son.

Soon he would make a weapon for himself.