Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 16 – In the cave

Note: I was going to go a little farther here, but I like people wanting a little more. I'll be interested to see the reaction to this.

Disc 1
Track 16: 3’s & 7’s by Queens of the Stone Age

“The truth hurts so bad, wouldn’t you say. So why tell it?”

The witch had summoned them, but she had also stirred the horses beyond consoling. Oan and Nestor tied each to a tree and spent the rest of the waning light massaging the horses’ muscles and trying to work down their fear. Afterward, they fed them and took off the saddles.

Oan knew his companion was glad to have the delay before meeting the witch. Her appearance at the entrance of the cave had done nothing to soothe either of their nerves about having to converse with her. For one, she was intimidating despite barely coming to either of their chests. Second, neither man really had any idea of what she was going to reveal. Nestor surely had secrets that he wanted kept from Oan. As for Oan, there were plenty of secrets he didn’t even know about himself.

With the horses as settled as they ever would be with the green torches flaming above and the screams of the Shadows still in the distance, Oan and Nestor climbed the rocky embankment up to the cave. The night air was crisp and cold; puffs of white breath came from Nestor’s mouth. Oan didn’t know how cold it would have to be before his breath would do the same. He guessed maybe only on the frozen plain to the heavens would he find out. Except, he doubted if that was ever a likely destination for him.

At the mouth of the cave, darkness loomed like an invisible door frightening away any passersby. Nestor sucked in air like he was dipping his head under water, Oan had to resist doing the same as they stepped into the unnatural shade. For a few steps, the entire scope of Oan’s vision was black. He held his hands out before him to hopefully protect him from any hanging rocks. He knew he’d heal anyway, but even for him, a knot on the head led to a lingering headache.

A few more steps in and the darkness gave way to an empty cavern glowing from more orbs stuck unceremoniously around the cave walls. The witch stood in the middle of the cavern, her back to them and her arms held straight out with her palms up. Her head nodded up and down as if she were asleep standing up.

“They drove spikes into his palms,” her voice sounded like it was coming from the other end of a hundred-mile cave. “He wore a crown of thorns that stabbed into his brow. Who would treat the King of Kings so?”

A vision, quick and jarring, of blood pouring from the witch’s hands and feet, came to Oan. Only it wasn’t the witch, it was a man. Then the vision was gone.

Nestor jabbed Oan with his elbow, then lifted his spear. Both men had entered the cave armed, Nestor with the spear and Oan with Kekur. For once, Oan was glad to have the sword.

“I thought you had lost your nerve, my lovely boy,” the witch’s voice seemed closer, but it still held a note of sadness and wonder. She twirled around, leaving her arms out till she faced them. Then her left arm dropped her side and her right she held out in front of her, palm up waiting for him to come and take it. He moved without thought taking her hand, kissing her palm and then turning it over kissing that side as well.

“The horses were frightened, mother,” he said, dropping to a knee.

“Ah well,” she took his face in her hands. “What to do when the beasts of burden become burdens? I know a good horse stew.”

Nestor coughed at the suggestion of eating horse. For a moment, the witch’s eyes shot to him, her face turning to cold steel then she returned her gaze to Oan and she radiated happiness.

“I have missed you, my lovely boy,” She kissed his forehead then cradled him against her stomach.

“I have missed you also, mother,” he felt her tense against his touch, but for a moment there had been comfort. He had longed for that sort of comfort his entire life.

“I will not have that mother business,” she pulled away. “I allowed that when you were a boy, but you’re are a man now and I am not you’re mother.”

Standing, Oan needed a few seconds to readjust to his surroundings. He grasped the hilt of Kekur, feeling the pulse of heat running through it. As if sensing his thoughts, the witch reached over and grabbed the back his hand.

“That quick is it boy,” she let go tracing her finger lightly up his arm. “One instant mother, the next a foe worthy of the nasty end of your sword.” Her lips pursed at the end of that line. “Have you not riled up enough shadows for the time being?”

Her finger came to his face, then his lips. For a second, he thought he heard her purr like a cat being scratched. He withdrew a few steps.

“We will not succumb to your trickery or spells, witch,” Nestor’s voice came out a growl.

The witch’s emerald eyes shifted quickly and she stalked toward Nestor, who still stood just inside the edge of the darkness. He held the spear out before him, pointed as in attack.

She walked right up to him, letting the point of the spear press at her left breast. She purred again before speaking. Her words came out more like a hiss.

“You dream of power you cannot have, one-eyed man,” the witch said. Nestor’s hands were shaking, the spear scratched against the surface of the silk gown. For the first time, Oan noticed the woman still wore no form of shoes. Her bare heals poked out from under the bottom of the gown.

“I dream of only avenging my wife and my honor,” Nestor seemed on the verge of tears.

“How will you do that?”

“I will slay the demon Salama.” Nestor poked the spear forward, Oan was sure that had to have pierced the witch’s flesh.

All she did was laugh. Not one laugh, but a full on fit in mockery of the man. She brushed the spear away and turned back toward Oan. Nestor regained the spear and was ready to attack. Only a shake of Oan’s head stopped him from stabbing into the witch.

“As I said, you dream of power you cannot have,” the witch said once she gained her composure. “Salama is dead. You cannot slay what is already dead.”

“Mo. … Madra, the demon has returned,” Oan said before Nestor could. The man obviously irritated her. Oan was not going to let him do anymore talking than necessary. “The man, Nestor, has seen him”

“Nestor is a fool and don’t ever forget that, my boy,” her lips sneered saying the name. Her shoulders slumped then and her head turned toward the entrance of the cave as if she were listening to some far off call. “I have felt that call. The one that pulls women like a hook tugging in an Anni’s mouth. But that being is not Salama, but does carry that demon’s shadow like a leach sucking the life out of its host. The Dinar have performed the ceremony, returned the black sword and unleashed the dark back upon this world.”

“What can we do?”

The witch’s eyes flashed to the back of the cave with Oan’s gaze following. In the shadows, he could make out the wood door.

“We can dine.” She said dropping to the floor, where she sat crossed leg before a blanket atop which was a loaf of bread and two goblets of wine.

She broke the loaf of bread in two as he sat down across from her. Nestor stayed near the front of the cave, thankfully staying quiet. She reached across to him with half the loaf in her hand.

“Take and eat,” she looked amused, but about what he did not understand. He bit into the bread, which was still warm and started chewing.

“You come here for answers,” she said handing him one of the goblets. “Take and drink.”

The wine was red and sweet. He did not often imbibe and knew that he could not afford too many swallows from the goblet.

“Who am I?”

“Oan Stoneheart, do not be silly, boy.”

“Who were my parents?”

“Ah,” she drank from her own goblet and swirled it for a moment considering her words. “No one of any consequence.”

He slammed the goblet down and jumped to his feet. The sword sang as he pulled it from the belt. It whistled through the air stopping in front of her face.

“Do not play with me woman!” The same steady, calm look never left her face. She took her right hand and stroked it up and down the blade leaving a thin stream of blood. She took her hand away and let the wound drip on her half of the bread.

“You are the last of a line. A distant, although not really official, descendant of Tarek Grandar.”

“Not official.”

Her grin was wide.

“The man kept many woman.”

“Whores,” Nestor’s voice came as a shock from the front of the cave.

The witch sneered at him before returning her gaze to Oan.

“A woman smart enough to use all her talents to stay alive. Call her what ye will.”

“My parents.”

“Dead.”

“How?”

“Their hearts stopped beating.”

He thrust the sword forward, nicking the front of her throat.

“Who.” he asked between clenched teeth?

She smiled again, bringing the sword up and kissing the tip.

“They were Keepers of Marek, a quiet folk that live up near the old palace. They both lept from the peak of Kekur. I suppose siring someone such as yourself can have that effect.”

Never more in his life did he want to spill blood. Yet, there was a weakening in his knees that made it hard to steady the sword.

“You lie.”

Grabbing the sword, she made a cross in front of her heart with it.

“Hope to die.” There was no mockery in her voice this time. He brought the sword down, almost with a whimper.

“Good, I am glad that is out,” the mirth returned to her lips. He sat there as she starting feasting on her blood-soaked loaf of bread. He heard Nestor retching behind him, but could focus on nothing else. Had he really caused his own parents to jump off a mountain? Why would they ever do that? What kind of monster was he?

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 15 – Welcome home

Note: This post past the 20,000 word mark. We sit now at 21, 102. Not too shabby. We close in on a much anticipated event in this section. One that has been building since the start of the story.

Disc 1

Track 15: Hands by The Raconteurs

“’Cause you’re the only one who really knows”

The wailing from the Shadows was constant making sleep impossible for the rest of the trip through the foothills and thinning the horses’ nerves to barely a thread. Oan and Nestor sat awake by the fire each night, barely talking, listening to the fear-drenched screams. They would have kept moving through the nights, but the threachourous terrain and the branches that stabbed out into the paths made it too dangerous in the dark.

Nestor had implored him to leave Kekur uncovered and to carry as if it were the weapon of his choice. After the first day’s travel after the attack, Nestor started crafting a belt with a loop attached from the hide of the boar he had killed. It took the man three nights to stretch it out, dry and form it. He used the buckle from the belt that had been all but destroyed when Nestor had taken his swim in the Belnor. When it was all finished, Nestor handed the belt over.

“Wear that sword in this, and I’ll assure those banshees won’t come near us again,” Nestor said. It was evident that Nestor was not interested in meeting another Gargola.

Oan didn’t think the belt would ever hold the weight of the sword, but as Kekur had done in battle, it lost its weight when worn as a weapon. The sword was peculiar. If he did not know better, he thought it had a personality geared toward battle. How could a sword have a personality?

Oan felt like a traitor to the Alrdoubi by brandishing the sword. The great blades had been a contributor to the rise of Salama and the waste he laid before him. The blades had severed the world when Tarek Grandar cut into the heavens. They had flooded a kingdom. They had drawn an end to one age and the birth of another. Since then, they had been gone, not forgotten, and the consequences had weighed greatly upon the Aldroubi. Now he had stirred the power of Kekur from slumber and, if the old legends were true, when one awoke so did the rest. What had he begun?

The density of the forest was beginning to wane as the elevation gradually increased. The canopy above was still too thick to see through, but he could feel they were closing in on their destination.

Nestor rode behind him, always behind him, humming some tune that Oan did not recognize. It was his attempt to block out the Shadows. They had been riding twelve days since the attack, and still the screaming continued. The only change was the shrillness of the shrieks. Even the Shadows’ voices could handle screaming for only so long.

“Do you handle swords in Nocnil, Nestor,” Oan asked? The man cut off humming in mid tune. A boot connected to a hairy leg and nothing else caught Oan’s eye to their right. It was sticking from below a thorny bush, likely carried there by some animal. It belonged to one of the Shadows. They were killing each other now. It was the third sighting they had had that day.

“Aye, me boy. Our blades are curved like New Moon, not straight like yours there,” Nestor replied.

“Did your ancestors not fear the blade at the end of the last age?”

“Fear? Boy, we lived on the edge of a vast desert that’ll slowly kill you from the inside out if you venture too far and, if that weren’t bad enough, a damned demon was entombed somewhere out there and it was our duty to watch for it. So, no, I says, blades didn’t bother us too much.”

Oan sighed. If he had grown up there, his soul would not feel so stained then.

“Course, my boy, we never made swords like that one you got to feel guilty about. It was those fools in Rion that mixed the blades with some sort of magic that caused all the problems.”

Oan sighed again. Nestor liked to put in jabs about how it was everyone else’s fault for the likes of Salama. He thought maybe it eased his own conscience for his failure at watching the Sorna and stopping the demon’s return.

“Look, when it comes down to it, you’re gonna have to accept using that thing strapped to your waist, my boy. When the battle comes, we all reach for our blades.”

Oan stifled another sigh. The rest of the body belonging to the leg well behind them now was in their path. He dropped off his horse to move it out of the way.

“Perhaps, you can teach me in the sword,” Oan said straining to carry the corpse form the road.

Nestor tilted his head as he sat atop his steed. He made no attempt to help Oan in the task.

“I’ll show what I can, I will, I will.” With that Nestor started humming again.

Oan dropped the body in the bramble never looking at the face. The less he remembered about the Shadows, the better.

Nestor kept humming the rest of the afternoon, as Oan’s mind drifted back and forth between the sword at his hip and the duty ahead. The swordbearer had mention three blades from his dream. How in the world would Oan ever reckon with himself to carry three, when one disturbed his mind every waking moment of the day? Then there was the business of his identity. The swordbearer claimed he was an heir of Marek, not Rion. How could that be?

Every avenue led to one conclusion. The witch. She had to know more. She had to tell him his path. He hated depending on her so much, but she was the only one that could help. Perhaps, it was her that was meant to clash with Salama. She had never talked about that demon being part of his destiny. His fate was always focused on the final great battle. She was the one that worked magic, and used, as she sometimes called it, the Spark. He was a hunter, no more, no less.

Just before dusk turned to night making it too difficult to travel, they came to a clearing and before them rearing up to impossible heights were the snow-topped mountains of Marek. Nestor gave out a whistle. Mountains were not a feature one from the Sorna was used to. It had been a long time since Oan had seem them, and now they seemed to loom twice as high as they had when was a boy.

A flicker of light caught Oan’s eye ahead of them in the rocky hills before the mountains. From deep inside a crevice in the terrain, two green lights pulsed out and seemed to be floating toward them. He heard Nestor fumbling for his spear.

“Don’t move,” Oan whispered.

At the mouth of the cave, the two green orbs stopped and glowed brighter than before. They were mounted atop two tall staffs held firmly by two hands attached to thin, pale arms. She stood out then, chest held out proud, with a warm smile that never touched her eyes. She wore a green dress with gold stitching that was more suited for a grand hall than a cave. He had never seen in her such regal attire and wondered where in the world she had found the garment. To his surprise, he could feel his blood moving faster and his heart pounding. A small part of him felt like he was home and returned to a mother that he had not seen in years. He wanted to jump off the horse and run up and embrace as tight as he could. That feeling, however, was balanced by his other instinct to reach for the sword and drive it through her chest. Kekur burned hotter than ever at his side.

“I have been waiting, my love,” Her voice boomed despite her small stature. “Welcome!”

With that, she brought both staffs down hard into the stone below. He could hear, almost feel, the stone crack and give way. For an instant, a great wave of green shot out into then nearly dark night. Both horses, whinnied up, and it took all of his strength to stay on. Nestor was not so lucky, landing with smack on his rear on the uneven ground below. Oan frowned up at the witch.

“Come now, The Door to Nowhere awaits.”

She turned and was swallowed up in the dark of the cave.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 14 – Wedded to the dark

Note: I think I could do a whole project with the lyrics from this song. It became hard to figure out where to go because there were several avenues I wanted to go down. I thought this turned into a nice change of pace from the last section.

Disc 1
Track 14: Bukowski by Modest Mouse

“I can’t make it to your wedding, but I’m sure I’ll be at your wake”

Long ago, Salama had leveled Noce with one mighty swing from his black sword. Every building, every palace, even the silly little gardens that the royalty loved to brag about growing despite the lack of the rain, fell in his wake. Everything fell but the Golden Dome of Ithmus. That stood rearing it’s rounded head that reflected the light of the sun as if to gloat. The old tales don’t say, because they don’t know, but one of the last things he saw before Tarek Grandar entombed him in the Sorna was the glowing dome off in the distance. He took that image with him to the underworld where it tormented him for an age.

The dome was the only real remnant from the old city. Everything else came after he was gone, even the Coliseum where he had feasted upon women until full. It was his payback to the ancient wonder to have the Dinar turn into his Temple. He had his son’s and daughter’s take rotting corpses of the city’s children and paint the gold exterior in their blood then leave the corpses above for the buzzards to collect the remains and defecate on the dome as they did.

Hatala did not know how she knew about all that while standing inside the hallowed room under the dome where seven gold pillars stood around seven ancient gold thrones with a gold crown waiting beside each on a gold pillar. Barely visible behind each throne, a man stood robed and hooded in black. The only light came from thousands of candles placed on the ivory floor forming hundreds of small six-pointed stars. Before her was a table, waist eye with intricate carvings of demons along the side. On the table were placed seven gold goblets.

Her head was floating atop weary shoulders and a body battered, torn and defiled. The Dinar had rushed her across the city, naked, bleeding, allowing every sharp stone upon the street to tear into her feet. When they arrived at the dome, she was handed a purple, silk garment cut low on the chest and high on the legs before being led into the huge room.

She was changed inside. The internal blocks between her and the magic she always suspected she possessed were gone. It flowed within her veins. It pounded out in every heartbeat wanting to explode. The power resonated through out her bones wanting to be released. Even more peculiar was the sudden flashes of memory and knowledge that floated through her brain.

She had never been to Noce before much less inside the dome, but she knew that the man responsible for it – a king named Ithmus, who feared water so much that he never bathed, built it to trap the kings of the six other kingdoms. This had been long before Salama or Tarek Grandar in an age when the kingdoms were at war, even Arna. It had been a silly plot by Ithmus, one ended with his head mounted atop the mast of an Arnaian ship. Hatala could not deny that she was exhilarated by the thought of Ithmus’ head sailing through the breeze. The dome, however, was a triumph of architecture that had lasted in a world where little else had.

She stood alone for what seemed like an eternity in the middle of the room, the ivory cold on her feet. She couldn’t see the men behind the thrones, but she could feel their eyes. There were more eyes above as well.

Finally, one of the dark figures moved in front of his throne, removed the crown and then circled around to stand behind the table. The man was nearly two-heads taller than her and despite being right before her, she could not make out his face. She watched the crown as the man placed it upon the table. It had a rose engraved upon it with a sharp torn jutting from its stem. There appeared to be something dripping from the stem, her mind assumed it to be blood.

“Who comes before the Lords of the Dinar?” The voice was hollow, but cracked from little use.

“Hatala Del Aram,” she answered.

“For what purpose?”

“To worship my Lord Salama.”

Before she could react, he slapped her across the face with the back of his hand. Blood gushed from her nose that she was sure was broken.

“The Great Lord of the Underworld is master of all.” He said with no emotion.

She tried to steady her legs and meet the shadowed face.

“What is your purpose?” He started again.

“To worship the Great Lord of the Underworld.”

He slapped her again, this time across the jaw. She felt it pop, likely fractured in more than one place.

“Do not waste our time.” He still did not indicate any sort of anger or rage in his voice.

“What is your purpose?”

She was dizzy from the two blows and not entirely sure her mouth would work.

“To serve the Great Lord,” her words came out jumbled. She felt teeth in the back of her mouth jiggle too much in her gums.

“In what manner?”

“In any why that pleases the Great Lord.” Somehow now she knew the words they wanted to hear.

“For how long?”

“Till the end of days and beyond.”

At that, the man pulled back his hood and it took all her willpower not to scream. The man had two black orbs for eyes surrounded by thin, rotten green skin that was blistered and scarred in too many places to count. There were solitary strands of long gray hairs protruding out in all directions from his head. His lips and ears were long gone leaving gaps where yellow, infested bone and flesh were clear. His teeth, the few he had, were black. He gave her a good look before placing the crown upon his head.

“What is the price of eternity?” She wasn’t sure if he was smiling or if he beyond being able to control the muscles of his face.

“My soul.”

“Do you give it to him?”

“I do.” She answered without hesitation. She had already healed both her jaw and nose with the power now coursing through her. She longed for more.

The Dinar pulled a knife that was long and curved from his robe. Lifting one of the goblets, he slit his right wrist letting his thick blood ooze into the goblet. When he was satisfied, he set the goblet down before her and she saw the wound at his wrist slowly heal.

“This is the blood of Underworld, drink it and bond thyself to the Great Lord.”

She grabbed the goblet greedily with both hands, the smell from it made her stomach want to wretch. Without giving it another thought, she put it to her lips and let the warm, sour substance stream into her. She gagged and convulsed dropping the goblet.

From the entrance of the dome, Salama watched. He had stood in her shoes long ago. Although it had not been the Dinar’s blood he had been forced to drink. That ritual was different then, but the outcome very much the same. She was married to the Lord of the Dark now, but he believed she was strong enough to still be used for his plot to usurp that monarchy. If she proved not strong enough, he’d just have to get rid of her then.

They repeated the act of drinking the Dinar’s blood with the six others. They were an old bunch, men that had served him the first time. It was amazing their bodies had not spoiled completely yet. When they were finished, she was left lying on her back, and the candles had nearly all burnt out. Above, ungodly creatures watched from the deep shadows. She bared her bloodstained teeth looking up at the thousands of eyes shining down on her.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 13 – The Shadows of Marek

Note: I thought I was a little overdue for an action sequence for a Fantasy story. It's been awhile since I tried fighting sequences like this, so I wasn't entirely happy with the wording an such, but I think it got the point across. Enjoy.

Disc 1
Track 13: The Road Leads Where It Has Led – The Secret Machines

“Uncertainty fails”

Ten days past after leaving the Rock Garden Of Manta before Oan and Nestor reached the foothills of the mountains. The vegetation consisting both of tall, thick proud leaf-bearing trees and the beginnings of the wide, low to the ground needle-bearers that ruled the mountainside mixed with a dense wall of bushes and shrubs, which made travel difficult. There were trails carving through the terrain, some made by deer, bears and big cats. Others were made by the strange race of men and dwarves known only as the Shadows of Marek.

The trails were narrow and crude, forcing the two travelers to dismount and lead the horses through. The steeds did not go willingly. The foothills were a dark place with shadows and wild beasts. Animals could sense danger as well or perhaps better than men. Oan, more sensitive than most, could feel eyes watching him from deep in the thicket. He had been in the foothills when he was a boy with the protection of the witch, but that had been a long time ago.

Nestor mumbled a lot, the suffocating nature of the place made the old man dream of being back out in the wide-open skies of the desert.

That night they camped at the base of a large hill where three trails converged to form a rare, flat open spot. Oan supposed it was foolish to camp on the trail, but he knew the dangers of the forest would find them just as well in the thicket as they would on the trail. Besides, he knew the shadows were watching. He just wasn’t sure they’d be brave enough to attack.

Nestor insisted on doing the hunt that night in an attempt to be more than just a burden to Oan. The Aldroubi had provided a spear for Nestor when they left camp, but the man was awkward with it. He tended to carry it as staff, and Oan guessed, the man intended to use it the same in action. Oan unsaddled the horses and gave them a good rubdown followed by a handful of grain mixed with some herbs to settle their nerves. He laid the heavy sword Kekur down near where he built a small fire. With those tasks completed, he laid down using his blanket roll as a pillow and nodded off to sleep. They had done nothing but travel since Nestor fully recovered in the Rock Garden and it was beginning to catch up with him. Even on hunts with the Aldroubi, there was a day or two of rest between trips out.

He wasn’t sure how long he had dozed before a loud crack forced him to his feet with his spear ready in hand. The thicket to his right was shaking wildly, and he cursed himself for being so foolish.

“Come out, Shadow,” Oan sounded out. “Come meet my spear.”

Grunts came for the thicket and it started to shake more. Oan kept his feet wide, his knees bent; his entire body was wound for the attack.

“Come out, Shadow,” he shouted, jabbing forward.

Finally, the bushes opened and a wild boar’s face was staring back into his eyes. For a moment, Oan was stunned to see a boar tall enough to reach his eyes before he realized the eyes were very much dead. The boar was riding across Nestor’s shoulders. Oan let out the air he was holding tight.

“What was all that you was yelling,” Nestor asked while panting? Sweat was pouring down his scarred face, but a grin was beaming out from him jaws. The man had meant to get a rise out of Oan. “I’ve caught us a feast, now give me a hand.”

“This is too much for just two,” Oan said reaching up to lift the boar from the man’s shoulders. The beast had to weigh as much as half a man. “We can’t eat it all tonight and it will spoil before we stop again.”

“We’ll dry it and salt it my boy,” Oan winked. “It lasts us longer than those furry critters you catch stay in my belly, that’s for sure.”

“Salt? Who has salt?”

“I am a man with many surprises boy,” Nestor winked again. Oan tensed at that admission.

“I doubt that not.”

Nestor and Oan spent most the night butchering the beast, cooking it down and wrapping up long dried strips in bits of cloth from a pack that Nestor had brought with him from the camp. By the time they were done, Old Moon was high in the sky with New Moon falling near behind, and each man had a stomach rounded out and full. It didn’t take long for both to fall asleep, Nestor first with long snores and a whistle from his one open nostril. Oan was too tired and his stomach too full to let it bother him. He would come to regret that.

The thing that Oan did not know, nor Nestor for that matter, was that the Shadows of Marek received their name for several reasons. One was that no matter their girth, and some of them were three times the size of a normal man, they could move as shadows without a sound moving among the dark like the wind between branches. Oan didn’t hear them when they came upon the path at the top of the hill.

The first was a dwarf whose height barely came up to Oan’s thighs. The dwarf was bald with a long blonde mustache. He had strong arms and legs and carried an old, rusted ax.

His partner was what the old people called a Gargola. They had been used to carry boulders from the caves of Marek. The man was easily twice the height of Oan, his arms nearly as wide as Oan’s waist. He carried two clubs that could have past as trunks for trees. He had the face of dullard, because he was. They both were. Like the rest of the Shadows of Marek, they were stricken with the lunacy and idiocy passed down by their ancestors when Tarek Grandar cursed them and banished them from the mountains. They were from a line of traitors living out an eternal punishment.

Despite that, they were dangerous and lethal. The dwarf had his ax’s blade at Oan’s throat before the man could open an eye. If Nestor had not screeched when the Gargola wrapped its meaty paws around his throat, then Oan would not have awoke at all. Later, Oan wondered if the witch’s curse could heal a head separated from a neck. It was a question that he never wished to have answered.

Oan caught the ax in his palms, feeling it dig nearly all the way through before stopping when it hit bone. The dwarf’s eyes widened in surprise and Oan pushed up against the blade. Oan felt his blood dripping down onto his chest. With a great shove, he sent the dwarf sprawling onto his back. Oan felt for his spear, found it and went on the attack.

The dwarf was quick, dodging Oan’s first thrust and then cutting the spear in two with his ax. Across the fire, he could hear Nestor gurgling caught in the Gargola’s grasp. Oan held the two ends of the spear and without a second thought, threw the pointed end across the fire. The spear whistled as it crossed the distance, then struck with a wet thud in the Gargola’s shoulder. It let out a hollow moan dropping Nestor without a care to the ground. Oan admired how the old man started crawling toward his spear even while gasping for air.

Oan’s hands tingled as they healed, but he soon he forgot the sensation as the dwarf cut deep just above his rib. Oan dropped to a knee. The dwarf pulled the blade out and swung again at his head. Oan rolled away still grasping the dull half of the spear. Getting back to his knees, his entire back burned as dirt stuck in the wound before it fully healed.

The dwarf charged, Oan thrust once with the spear, but the dwarf fended it off with the ax sending it sailing away in shards. Oan rolled away again. He caught a glimpse of Nestor landing a few hard strikes with the dull end of the spear, but they barely fazed the muscled Gargola. The monster thrashed once with his arm knocking Nestor the ground. For a moment, the man’s one good eye caught Oan’s and then flashed to the ground near the fire. Oan looked over to where the long bundle rested on the ground.

Lying on his back, Oan saw the dwarf cross his field of vision. He kicked the dwarf away giving him a moment to think. He crawled backward on his elbows toward the bundle. He was looking for any other defense other than the sword. He had grown up detesting the blades that had brought the world to its knees. Despite that, Kekur was ungodly heavy. How could a man fight with such a thing?

He kicked again at the dwarf, but missed. The dwarf was getting too close, raising the ax well over his head. This was Oan’s only chance. Reaching over, he pulled at the hilt. The cloth gave away as Old Moon’s pale light reflected off Kekur. At first, Kekur was too heavy for him to lift from his back, but as he strained the sword changed, almost as if it were giddy for battle. Oan’s hands fit perfectly in the groves as he brought Kekur up to meet the ax blade. Oan thought he saw a glowing light follow the blade’s route. When it hit the ax, it tore into the blade making a deep cut all the way down to the handle. The dwarf dropped it before it reached his hands.

Seeing the sword for the first time, the dwarf’s face contorted into a vast mix of rage, fear and shame. The sound the dwarf made then came from deep inside it’s muted, cursed soul. It knew very well what that sword was. Soon the Gargola joined in the inhuman chorus before both bounding away into the thicket. Their shrieks could be heard for miles. It was not long before other voices joined in. The Shadows of Marek were awake and frightened. The King they had betrayed long ago had returned for retribution.

Oan finally tore his eyes away from the blade to see that Nestor was sitting on his knees across the fire also staring at Kekur.

“I don’t think you’ll be needing a spear any more, my boy,” Nestor’s voice was hoarse. Oan’s frown went from the old man back to the blade.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Glossary

NOTE: I am going to try and keep this updated as I go. Should be a good reference for stuff.

GLOSSARY

ALDROUBI (man): Leader of group from Rion that turned away from Salama after the pouring forth of the Belnor by Tarek Grandar.

ALDROUBI (Tribe): Nomadic hunters east of the Belnor that are descendants of the ancient kingdom of Rion. Due to shame over the rise of former King Salama, the group refuses to carry swords.

ANNI: Edible fish that Oan and Nestor consume in the Rock Garden of Manta.

ARNA: One of the seven ancient kingdoms. Mythical kingdom west of the Sorna. Not much else is known. May still exist.

ATLA: One of the seven ancient kingdoms. Kingdom on eastern coast of world. Not much else is known yet.

BESA: One of the seven ancient kingdoms. Kingdom to the south, sister kingdom to Isa. Besa was flooded by Belnor waters. After pouring fourth of Belnor, Isa and Besa went through bloody war till it was united by Perde family and the kingdom of Satar was formed.

BELNOR: River that separates world form east and west. Created by Tarek Grandar who pierced the heavens with his sword Lunar spewing forth the icy waters that flowed all the way down to the Underworld. Rivers creation also flooded ancient kingdom of Besa.

DANGS: Poisonous orange fish.

EDEN PERDE: King of Satar, a title he shares with twin brother Ewam. Well-groomed, red-haired, tall, thick man. Kingship comes naturally to him. Perfect posture and self control. Married to Kendra and has a daughter named Evandra.

EVANDRA PERDE: Daughter of Eden Perde. Resembles father and his twin brother. Named after her fraternal grandmother.

EWAM PERDE: King of Satar, a title he shares with twin brother Eden. Tall, thick man with red hair and red beard. Not comfortable on throne and harbors feeling for brother’s wife Kendra.

KENDRA PERDE: Queen of Satar, married to Eden Perde. Tall, skinny woman with flowing blonde hair.

KEKUR (MOUNTAIN): Tallest mountain in kingdom of Marek.

KEKUR (SWORD): Great sword forged out of steel and stone for the King of Marek.

KNASH ROOT: A root that Oan uses for medicinal purposes to break Nestor’s fever.

HATALA DEL ARAM: Woman with some witch-like magic that Salama choose as a queen. Dark red hair, pale skinned. Comes from city of Stra formerly in Isa now in Satar.

ISA: One of the seven ancient kingdoms. Kingdom to the south, sister kingdom to Besa. After pouring fourth of Belnor, Isa and Besa went through bloody war till it was united by Perde family and the kingdom of Satar was formed.

MADRA THE LURKING WITCH: Woman that raised and cursed Oan Stoneheart. Origins unknown. Guardian to Door of Nowhere and one of few souls to be allowed travel between worlds. AKA – Witch of the Weeping Woods in another world.

MAREK: One of the seven ancient kingdoms. It housed the men and dwarves of the northern mountains.

NOCE: Captial city in the kingdom of Nocnil. It is nearest the Sorna. The men of the watch return their when their turn of duty is done.

NOCNIL: One of the seven ancient kingdoms. The kingdom of sand dwellers living in the Sorna. According to Nestor, the only one of the seven kingdoms that remain.

NESTOR: A man of the Sorna Watch that crosses the Belnor after Salama returns to the world. He lost and eye and has a deep scar across his face from a battle with Salama. Physical characteristics – tufts of scraggly gray facial hair, brown skin, accented voice.

NEW MOON: Curved, blue moon that follows Old Moon into night sky.

OAN STONEHEART: Primary character. Young man, long dark hair, brown skins. Fell into the icy waters of the Belnor as a child. He was rescued by Madra the Lurking Witch, who revived by turning is heart to stone and blood to water. His body then is resistant to injury. The result he is cursed to fight in the Great Battle in the Underworld.

OLD MOON: Large round shaped moon with crack on face. Legend has it that Tarek Grandar forged sword Lunar from by breaking a piece away from Old Moon.

OMET: Capital city of the kingdom of Satar. Known for large outer wall and four towers surrounding palace that served as prisons for three men and one woman for crimes committed after the chaos following the flooding of Besa.

MOUNT BELA: Mountain peak where Tarek Grandar went to pierce the heavens to release the Belnor.

QUINTA: Nestor’s wife.

RION: One of the seven ancient kingdoms. Laid in lands now east of Belnor and south of the Mountains of the kingdom of Marek. Once great swordmakers. Last King was Salama, who yearned for more power. After his defeat, the kingdom was divided into two groups the Aldroubi and the Dinar named after a pair of brothers. The Dinar continued to worship Salama, while Aldroubi swore off swords and become nomadic hunters.

ROCK GARDEN OF MANTA: Left over wonder from the Kingdom of Rion. Contains thousands of boulders each with mural painted on it.

SALAMA: Former King of Rion that sought great power by wielding a Black Sword that he forged by trading his soul to the Great Ruler of the Underworld. Defeated by Tarek Grandar and entombed in the Sorna. Upon rebirth, his body takes on an ashen texture, his tongue at first does not grow then becomes forked, his has four arms, two from his shoulders and two below. His pupil-less eyes change color from red, to purple to milky white. He carries a whip that doubles as some sort of flesh-loving snake. Women are irresistibly drawn to him. His duty is to suck the life out of this world to fuel the fires of the underworld for the Great Battle.

SATAR: New kingdom made of descendants of Isa and Besa. Ruled by the Perde family.

SEVEN GREAT SWORDS: The swordmaster of Rion crafted seven powerful swords for the king of each of the seven ancient kingdoms. Oan Stoneheart receives Kekur the great sword of the kingdom of Marek. The other great swords are not yet named.

SORNA: Great desert that housed tomb of Salama. Located west of ancient kingdom of Nocnil.

SORNA WATCH: An order of men assigned to guard the Sorna by Tarek Grandar and watch for the return of Salama and keep the Dinar from seeking Salama’s tomb.

STRA: City that used to be in Isa now in kingdom of Satar.

SWORDBEARER: No name, guards the old swords of Rion. Appears to Aldroubi with swords of family and presents them to heirs after deaths of father. Short man with milky white eyes, but dreams of things to come.

TANTA: A burrowing creature in the Rock Garden of Manta.

TAREK GRANDAR: Former King of Marek that both defeated Salama casting him to his tomb in the sand and slashed the heavens open with his sword Lunar (see Old Moon) to pour forth the waters of the Belnor.

WERHANE: A man sent by the swordmaster of Rion to deliver a great sword to mythical kingdom of Arna.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 12 – A Nightmare

Note: I started writing this one and didn't like it were it was going, so I had to start again. This would be a good lesson on the writing process from where it started to where it ended. I am pretty sure I've blown the scope of this thing beyond the number of parts I have left. That's scary considering there are still a lot of songs left on the CD. I also am pretty close to getting a glossary caught up for a nice little reference tool. Don't miss part 11 below, or you'll be lost here.

Disc 1

Track 12: Tribute – Tenacious D

“All of a sudden, there shined a shiny demon…”

The desert floor was hard, the sand matted down as if a thousand horses had spent a thousand years pacing across it. Spotting it, here and there, were the strangled out greens of weeds left too long without water even for plants used to the dry desert air. Ewam awoke, face planted in the hot turf, nostrils full of sand. Before him was a cactus, wilted brown, nay the plant seemed more black. Impossible, he thought.

Once his father had taken both he and Eden to Nocnil and the outskirts of the Sorna. He recognized the barren land at once. Above the sun beat down on his pale skin, no doubt turning it a bright red. He stood up, thinking he heard a song on the wind. The sky was blue, then purple, then red, then blue again.

He was dreaming. It was a thought that floated through his mind and disappeared without the slightest hint of residue. He stood upon a ridge looking down upon the great waste. Below, the sand was full and rolled in great dunes. Soon, he thought, the desert would rise up and crash like waves upon the shore over the rest of the earth, swallowing it in scorching death.

That idea was lost when a figure, wrapped in shadow topped a dune in the desert. Striding beside the figure were a woman and a girl. Kendra and Evandra! Their shapes, their faces and their smiles shaping into form according to his mind’s recognition. He reached for his sword, but he had none. Looking up, the three figures were closer, just below him. Kendra and Evandra were nude. The dark man was of no shape, no form that he recognized. The woman and her daughter lay upon the desert floor as the dark figure turned its head up to him, opening it mouth revealing a fire inside. Ewam could not move a muscle, as the figure seemed to speak and at the same time encompass his brother’s wife and his niece.

“Come,” It was Eden’s voice spoke in their secret language. It came first from the demon below and then from a voice beside him. Ewam was startled to find his brother, Eden, wearing a crown with a green jewel in its center and a breastplate with a green and black dragon’s face painted across it. The dragon was the ancient insignia of Isa. Ewam gasped. That image, that history, had been locked away, forgotten in some dark chamber well below the palace.

“Come,” Eden spoke again, a long forked tongue escaped for a moment from his brother’s mouth. Eden’s eyes turned color then from brown, to purple, to red, to black. This was a dream. Ewam could not hold onto that thought.

“Come brother,” a bolt of anger turned Eden’s eyes red again. “Come deceiver!”

All the words in their secret code, the last spoke with a slither at the end and a thrust forward. Ewam looked down at his stomach, a sword’s hilt with a dragon engraved around it sank into him, blood spilled out below. Ewam swore he could see the steel dragon breathing. He dropped to his knees looking away from Eden and the sword, down to where Kendra and Evandra lay upon the sand. They were sinking into, nay rather the desert floor was consuming them, burning away their flesh, draining their blood and eroding their bone till they were nothing more than sand.

Ewam bolted upright in his bed, a film of sweat weighing down his silk top. His stomach turned and he flushed with shame. Earlier he had questioned his brother about Evandra being a little too old to be disturbed by bad dreams, now it was his turn to fear closing his eyes.

Pouring water from a pitcher upon his nightstand into a silver goblet, Ewam rose, put on a robe, and drifted over to the large double doors that led to a balcony. Outside the city known as Omet was silent. It’s residents in bed. The palace was in the center of the great stone metropolis. In the distance, he could see the great outer wall that was guarded every hour of every day. The palace rose high above the rest of the city save for the four towers placed equidistant from each other forming a square around the palace that once served as prisons for three men and one woman after the Perde family took control nearly a thousand years earlier. No one went in those towers to this day and little is known as to what those four person’s crimes were. Ewam remembered wondering as a boy if they were still locked away in those towers, forced to live out eternity in the solitude way above the city. There were rumors of seeing lights of candles and faces in the open windows at the top, but they were just stories. The doors at the bottom were solid steel that were locked and sealed shut. The keys for the doors were held somewhere in the palace, but the location of the keys was lost long ago.

Ewam huddled down into a wood chair he kept out on the balcony and sipped at his water. He tried not to think about the dream, but it was impossible. The vision of Kendra and Evandra being devoured by the sand was horrifying, but perhaps even more disturbing was the vision of his brother decked out in the attire of the King of Isa. No one named those old kingdoms in Satar. There were ancient bloodlines still alive from both Isa and Besa and it was best just to leave those bloodlines dormant then awake old rivals and bitter lovers.

As an heir to the throne, he was taught more than the common man on the history of the two kingdoms. The way they would embrace each other with one arm and stab with a poisoned knife with the other. For an age, they waged war, reached peace only to return to war a few years later. There was no one innocent or right. It was simple bloodletting. In fact, he remembered his teacher, Victor, once raising the question if it was possible that the Kings of both kingdoms agreed to the wars in part to keep their own subjects occupied. The answer was impossible to know. Almost all of Besa, except for the city of Morgandy, was under water. Morgandy had never been a stronghold for Besa, more of a post near the border to keep an eye on Isa. As for Isa, much of its history was lost in the chaos following the flooding of Besa. There were tombs under the palace that housed many lost things, but they were not safe to inventory and most kings, he and Eden included, felt the past was better buried.

Yet, Eden had been dressed in the Isa armor. What a peculiar thing to dream. Ewam didn’t even take time to consider the dark figure with Kendra and Evandra. He dismissed that as some demon or monster of dreams, but he spent the rest of night sipping water on the balcony. Soon he was thinking about his sister’s disappearance and all the other missing women and all the other duties of his position. By daybreak, the dream was near the back of his mind.

Later, the dream was faded from his mind altogether. For even then, as he sat out the dark hours of the morning, there was someone outside the great wall of the city. The man was trying to convince the guards to let him. He carried an urgent message for the Kings of Satar. He also carried ancient history of another great kingdom in a bundle on his back.

When that man was let in, there would be no more time to worry about dreams.