When the first sword was forged, it was crud, but it was forged. The man who forged it wanted to kill a god. You see, there was a mighty-man in that day—ancient beyond count—who could not be slain.
He was a terror, he respected none, and he left a wake of destruction behind him.
What the particular grievance was is unknown. The swordsman may have lost a father or a son, the mighty-man killed many, or it may be that a wife or a daughter was caught and humiliated—the mighty-man respected no one.
No one had ever killed him, though many tried, age did not visit him, and no one knew of his birth. His coming was like a storm.
So the swordsman prayed and wept and cried out to heaven, and the swordsman had a dream. For three years, it was said, he was at work in darkness and fire and dirt. Men whispered he went mad.
When the swordsman came out of his darkness with his sharp and shining stick, when he said he would kill the mighty-man, they knew he was mad. Sorrow had ruined his mind.
Tale Told 