Hello everyone, this is Asclepius, with a wonderful story from Ulf Berht. It is entitled

Prologue (Ulf Berht’s Bio)

It is the first chapter of a longer story, so stay tuned for more!

Background music by Smartsound

Three summers I have endured this second exile. three winters since I was ripped yet again from all things familiar.

My childhood was cruel, torn as I was from family and friends as our boat foundered in the swirling, rocky rapids of the River Volga. The Brigands on the bank had forced us to risk the river. I watched as one by one my family was swallowed by the torrent. Many times since, I have wished that my mother had not lashed me to some planks before she slipped beneath.

After these small men with round faces had gathered what they could of our trade goods, I was bundled into a wheeled cage stuffed with other human wretches. I survived the long trip, as others did not, because of my value. A blonde child was worth much in the slave markets of Constantinople. Like many of my folk, I was big for my age and was expected to grow into a man as large as any of the Vikings in service to the Byzantine Emperor. I was eventually sold into a clan that specialized in metal work. I was treated well, taught to read Greek and Latin, and became privy to the family secrets of iron and steel.

In my 23rd year, a plague decimated my Master’s clan. On his death bed and with no remaining family, my Master granted me my freedom and his remaining stock. The Emperor taxed most of it, but enough was left for me to be well off. I was no longer a barbarian from the North. I was literate, well-travelled, and determined to return closer to home.

Denmark was now my chosen destination, but fickle winds forced my passage onto the southern shores of Britain, near where the River Tamar flows out to the sea. Monks from a nearby abbey arrived before the wreckers did, so most of my stock survived the beaching. I was injured, but my Greek and Latin lessened any suspicions about my intentions and heritage. The same monks aided my recuperation, so I was soon about. I was taken in with the beauty of the land and became content to settle. An abbey is always in need of a blacksmith and my reputation grew from there.

To incur the wrath of beings that care not about human suffering is a punishment beyond comprehension. I committed no heinous crime, I transgressed no moral lore nor the divine teachings of any prophet. I sought only to ply an honest trade and practice an art painfully won.

I curse the day I crossed paths with the enigma known as Merlin. His gold was pure and the offered purse was heavy, so I took it up without hesitation. “Ply your trade,” he said. “Craft me a sword better than any you have forged before. It must be fit for a king, for that is its destiny. Spare no coin, avoid no sweat, and fear not for loss of trade; no expense will be too great.”

My past Master had, on occasion, sent me to Sri Lanka to observe native craftsmen making the ore cakes necessary for Damascus Steel. I remember watching the monsoon winds drive gigantic bellows and marvelling as the heat turned rain into steam a man’s height above the furnace. In the inferno of this furnace, the alchemy of magnetic lodestone, found only in this island’s mines, combined with the finest ironwood charcoal to produce a steel superior to all others. Barely 10 Roman pounds of these ingots survived my travels and the best of these I committed to Merlin.

My two strongest apprentices and I, with heat and hammers beat the glowing bricks into strips as thin as parchment, folded them together and beat them again and again. The last step I alone undertook: two days in a secret chamber that was encased in many layers of peat. The first day was a test of mortal endurance, keeping the heat in the room as hot as I could withstand, gently quenching the blade with my own sweat.