Note: This ended up being a little longer than I originally intended. The last part of this story I think will turn into more of a prologue for this entire project. Then it's time to take stock on this whole process. It's certainly drained me.
The sweat-drenched air inside the bedchamber clung to the newcomers like spiderwebs in a dark cellar. Even Cortobrane, a man whose girth soaked through a couple shirts a day, felt uncomfortable in that atmosphere. It was not just sweat in the air, but blood and tears and rape mixed with soured-love and the longing splash of bitter death. Cortobrane stepped back with Mr. Vedder and Mr. Itor to watch the proceeding from the safety of the royal apartment.
“What is the charge?” The queen, who looked beaten and broken, spoke with sure words that contradicted her state.
“Adultry, betrayal and treason against the king.” Eden answered, the sword resting at his side.
“Fine.” The queen answered and looked away from Eden.
“Do you not deny it?” Eden did not know whether to laugh or scream.
“There is no need. You have passed judgement and reason long ago. There is nothing I can say that will change that.”
He grabbed her by the throat with his right hand, Fangen burned in his left. The sword had a song that soothed and cleared Eden’s thoughts.
“A sharp tongue will do thee no good.” He released his grip, surprised to see no look of pain or fear in her eyes.
“Let me ask this of you my king. What vow have I broke that does not equal the one you have?”
“What do you mean? I have been faithful.”
“Nay, not that. Once I asked a simple question, one not intended for you, but one you answered and swore to just the same.”
“What nonsense is this?”
“Don’t you remember the night of Reap Ball? Our dance. A marvelous dance. I asked then, if I gave you my heart would you accept it and keep it safe?”
“I remember that well, my wife.”
“You swore before all that you would.”
“So, woman.”
“MY HEART HAS BLED EVERY DAY SINCE!” The queen screamed. Everyone, including Eden, took a step back.
A blinding anger coarsed through Eden. The sword joined in filling in any weak spots. How could this woman accusse him of anything?
“You love him then? All these years, you and he have betrayed me.”
“Aye.”
“Has he touched you?”
“Aye, and one touch from him was better than a million from you.”
“Has he kissed you?”
“Aye, and I dream of his kisses everytime your lips touch mine.”
“Has he laid with you?”
“Aye, and he accomplished more in his bed once than you did a thousand times since.”
The words struck him like a stiff slap. His anger boiled over and he once again went for her throat, but when he did a bolt of pain shot up his left leg. Looking down, he saw the gold hilt of a dagger sticking out from his thigh. His wife’s hand lingered on the dagger a moment before leaving it with an expression that resembled a cross between a growl and a grin.
Eden stumbled backwards, the sharp end of the dagger sticking crudely out of the back of his leg. For an instant, shock set in, washing away his anger and even parts of his dimentia to wonder how all of this had happened. Never once in his worst nightmares did he believe Kendra capable of stabbing him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cortobrane and his men enter the room. He raised a hand, ordering them to halt. As he did a new flash of pain was greeted with a cold rage that resonated from Fangen.
Cortobrane, standing just inside of the door, swore he saw Eden’s pupils turn a blood red. Before he could examine any closer, Eden lifted the sword and eerily a haze, almost like a fog or a thick layer of smoke, settled over the room with sickening warmth.
Eden limped toward the bed.
“He’s run aground. Like his life, water much too shallow.”
Soon the grasping, clawing hands of the dead had pulled Ewam’s lower legs under the surface of the ground. The two Elder Dinar loomed above them, the long black blades drawn and ready to strike.
With each inch of his flesh that disappeared below, Ewam could feeel his life draining from him. Soon the fight, the spark to live started to go with it. Apathy settled over him. He no longer cared about the battle, about the Dinar, about saving Satar from the evil before him. He wanted to sink, to let it all end.
“Not yet,” It was the voice of the sword screaming in his head. “Not yet!”
“It’s over,” he mumbled lowering his eyes to his approaching grave.
“Not yet!” Duna screamed again. “Listen. Listen carefully.”
From far away Kendra’s voice echoed in his ears. ““I’ll be standing on the porch, waiting my dear and that night shall last a thousand years.”
He could hear the finality in her words, the sense that they were a few of her last. Whatever had inflicted her had won its battle. He supposed it was possible that the sword was playing some sort of trick using his own emotions and memories against him, but he did not believe that to true. In his heart, it was the evil before him that had something to do with Kendra’s passing. It had poisoned her heart from far away. It was up to him to make them pay.
A cold heat sprang from Duna sensing the quickening of his blood. A strange orange glow came from it.
Above him, the dead eyes of the Dinar rose in panic. Many years had those two undead brothers walked the world. Long enough to know of Duna and its brethren. Those swords defied reason and iron. A force lived in them maybe not as great as the dark seed that kept the two brothers alive for thousands of years, but still a force not to be taken lightly. When it glowed as such, time for its enemies was running short.
Duna took control from there. Ewam watched as he stabbed down with Duna into the soil. The grasping hands froze, once again lifeless. A great moan came from the earth. Both Dinar froze also, feeling the great power that had coarsed through them to drawing up the dead severed. Without another hesitation, the Dinar attacked.
Bursting from the ground, Ewam fended off the first stirikes from the Dinar. Duna cut through the air with a whistle, meeting the cursed-black blades. One touch from either blade would kill a mortal man. Across the field of battle the three battled in a blur, obliterating any man or beast that got in the way.
In the midst of the fight, Duna stuck in the long robe of one of the Dinar. In an instant, a flame shot up freeing the blade and setting the Dinar’s entire robe ablaze. The undead creature let out a bloodchortling snarl falling momentarily away. From behind, the other approached, but Ewam ducked the advance and countered with a strike that sawed effortlessy through the Dinar’s body. Two nearly equal halves fell to the ground.
The burning Dinar screamed as if the sight of his brother’s death was far worse than the sensation of his boiling flesh.
“Lars!” the Dinar wept. “What have you done? What have you done? My brother?”
Het stumbled toward Ewam in a rage, making one feeble attempt at a strike. Ewam shrugged it off easily, knocking the black blade away. Defenseless, Het opened his mouth in one last agonizing scream. Ewam saw flames in the back of the Dinar’s throat briefly before shoving Duna down it.
The remaining Children clattered away. While still plenty dangerous, they were bound to the Dinar. With them gone, they were called back to their ultimate father.
Ewam fell to his knees.
“I will come to you my love. Not today. Not till all those responsible for your demise are sent into the dark.”
“Slipping fast, down with his ship. Fading in the shadows.”
Blood splattered in sickening waves across every wall of the royal apartment with each heavy blow delivered by Fangen in the hands of Eden. Behind Cortobrane, Mr. Itor fell to his knees and began to wretch. Cortrobrane, no stranger to violence, felt his own stomach turn. By the end, there was nothing really left of the queen only large clumps of flesh floating in pools of thick red soup.
When it was finished, Eden hobbled to Cortobrane, sweating and pale, and through his arm around his cousin to keep his balance. Fangen dragged on the floor in his other arm. The dagger still was stuck through his leg. The man felt thin, weak. If Itor and Vedder were not there, Cortobrane thought he could easily remove the king from his throne. As it was, he thought, both men now had serious doubts on the mental heatlh of the man they called king. It was only a matter of time now.
“What have I done?” Eden mumbled stairing blankly at Cortobrane.
Choking down the bile that had collected in the back his throat, Cortobrane pulled Eden closer.
“She attacked you, my king,” Cortobrane said. “You carried out the correct punishment.”
Even Cortobrane wondered if any person deserved the treatment the woman had received.
“We were wearing masks. She thought it was him the whole time,” Eden words slurred together.
“Pardon me, my king,” Cortobrane asked?
It took all of his strength, but Eden brought Fangen up to his face. The blade was stained from the blood. A far away smile came across Eden’s face.
“Take me to my mother’s apartment, call for my doctor,” Eden stilled leaned heavily on Cortobrane. “My brother is to be arrested and brought to me.”
“Yes, my king,” Eden hid a smile. With one king shamed and another wounded, it would not be long, indeed, before he sat upon the throne of Isa.
“Now a castaway”
Evandra woke with a scream that was cut off by a hand sealing tightly over her lips. Meriam awoke moments earlier to the girls fevered dreaming. She had not reached the girl in time before the nightmare had caused her to shout out. Meriam wished she had. They were hunkered down in the brambles a few hundred yards off the road heading east.
Meriam thought they were far enough away from the city to stop worrying about the royal guard catching them, but she was not sure how long it would take the king to realize his daughter was gone. Then, they’d probably have entire battalion on their heals. Meriam planned to sleep for only a few hours and get back on the road before dawn. They had to keep moving. They had to get away from Satar, from Eden.
“Hush, my girl,” Meriam tried to soothe the girl who was trembling. “It was just a bad dream. Just a dream.”
After a long time, the girl finally stopped and wiped the tears from her eyes. Meriam let her go, and then started to settle back onto the cold, hard ground.
“You’re wrong, Mistress Meriam,” Evandra said, it shallow voice. “It was not a dream. She is gone. I felt it. She is gone and it was so terrible that I felt it all these miles away.”
“Oh, my poor girl,” Meriam reached over and pulled her close.
“She is gone. I am alone against him.”
“Not alone,” Meriam answered looking up into Old Moon’s ugly, scarred face.
“Forgive me. Forgive me not.”
Thinking he was dead, they surrounded Nestor. They were an assorted lot of dwarves, gargolas, men and women. All of them were armed with some sort of pale paint covering their faces. If Oan did not know any better, he would have thought the Shadows of Marek had followed them up the mountain. It was impossible. The last they had heard of them were the wails in the foothills as the rumor of Kekur had drove them insane. Any of those that had survived that fever would not have approached the mountain, even in their insanity.
No, these folks before him were what the Witch had called the Keepers of Marek. Oan had been a fool to forget they were up here. That mistake had almost cost both he and Nestor’s their lives. He doubted they were clear of that danger yet.
Nestor was pinned in the middle of a circle of spears. They were so tight to his throat that he was unable to speak.
“You have entered the cursed realm of Marek,” shockingly a gargola began to speak. The voice was deep and clear, and belied the beast’s girth. It was nothing like the dumb grunts of the gargola they had met in the forest. “No man shall enter here. No man shall leave.”
With the eyes off him, Oan slowly started removing the arrows from his body. A fresh set of pain tore through him as he did. His body had healed around them, only to be piereced anew.
Before him, Nestor gurgled trying to speak.
Finally Oan drew the slowly drew the sword. As he did, he noticed a slight rumble in the stone behind him. Trying not to move to suddenly to draw attenetion, Oan rose to his feet. His blood was still wet on the stone as he slid back up the wall.
Gaining his balance, he lifted Kekur above his head. Behind him the rumble shifted into a quaking. Stumbling forward Oan saw the wall behind him splitting in two. Oan could make out the recesses of a great chamber.
The multitude turned in unison, dropping their weapons in surprise. Nestor fled to Oan’s side.
“What’s happening boy,” Nestor asked?
“I’m not sure.”
Returning their attention back to the Keepers, they found the multitude kneeling before Oan. Finally, the gargola, who still towered over Oan while on one knee, spoke.
“I am Cassar, Steward of the Keepers,” the gargola said. “We welcome the King of Marek back to his throne. May he forgive our shame, though we shall never forget it.”
Just then a blast of cold air swept from the opening accompanied by a blast of white light.
“What?”
“Go now, King,” the gargola interrupted. “He awaits you.”
“Who?”
“Metahischoo is the home of ghosts and one other.”
“And that other?”
“We call him the dreamer.”
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