Note: There's no doubt that this is less disturbing than the last part, but I found it nearly as interesting to write. I hope it doesn't slow down too much from the last couple eye-opening parts.
Track 6: Burn the Witch – Queens of the Stoneage
“There they are, the mob it cries for blood, to twist the tale into fire wood, fan the flames with a little lie.”
In the days before Tarek Grandar took the sword Lunar north to peak of Mount Bela and pierced the heavens spilling forth the waters of the Belnor that split the world between east and west, there were seven great kingdoms.
Nocnil, the kingdom of sand dwellers living in the Sorna, Marek, the men and dwarves of the northern mountains, the sister kingdoms of Isa and Besa that walked the thin line of love and hate with each other throughout eons of time in the south, Atlan on the eastern coast of the great abyss, and the mythical Arna folk west of the Sorna whose existence had always been debated among the rest of the kingdoms.
Last, there was Rion, rulers of the lands just south of the mountains and masters of iron and sword craft. Each great family of the kingdom had a sword, a fine sword, customized to their line. It was an honor for every firstborn son to be presented with the sword of his family to carry on the line. The ceremony for the presenting of each sword lasted over a day. The people of Rion loved swords more as symbols of power than as weapons to gain it.
The master swordsman was a small, mystical man that forged seven great swords to be distributed to the kings of each kingdom. There is a great tale concerning a man named Werhane that was sent west with one of these swords to find Arna, but that is a tale for another time and another place. Each sword was professed to be indestructible, except in a bit of irony each sword would crumble if met in battle with any of its brethren. It was ploy by this little sword master to ensure peace.
Long after this sword master had moved on from this world, a man lusting for more power than the great sword of Rion came to the throne of the kingdom. He desired a sword greater than any other, a power greater than any of his peers in the other six kingdoms. It’s a funny thing about power. There is always a way to get more for those looking for it. This king found it in ancient pagan lore and conjured up a black sword that shook the world.
Rion fell in his wake as he unleashed terrible beasts from the underworld. With his eventual death, the knowledge of sword making and any desire to relearn the art were lost. Those left from the great kingdom were split into two groups. The leaders of the two groups were brothers sworn against each other.
One brother, named Dinar, had been a close confidant of the power-hungry king. He fell into worship of the man after his death and the splitting of the world by Tarek Grandar. He gained followers that wore dark robes to cover up the mangling of their features in some bizarre, dark rite. In those early days, they found a hidden passage across the Belnor and disappeared into myth.
The other brother, Aldroubi, renounced the old king and his brother. He and those that followed him refused all ironwork and devolved into a tribe of hunters and gatherers. The only remnant from their once great kingdom was the swords of their fathers, of their families. They were kept hidden and guarded by a strange man. Whenever one generation of a line passed, the man would appear and present the sword of the family to the next in line. It became tradition for the next of kin to view the sword once to remember the grandeur of their family and then send it back with the man to keep safe. Never once in nearly a thousand season cycles had a man of the Aldroubi touched the steal of a sword.
The history lived on through the tongues of the elders of the Aldroubi. Oan grew up listening to the tales by blazing campfires. He had been told more, maybe more than any elder knew, by the witch. As he watched the men of his tribe file toward the fire in pairs as dawn kissed the sky, he knew very well what was happening.
They marched side by side with wooden spears in their outside hands and round wooden shields held against their chests in their other arms. There was a short hill leading up to the fire where Oan and Nestor stood exhausted from the night’s tale. The Aldroubi formed a circle around the hill, the numbers in this camp equaling maybe two hundred. At the end of the procession, a small man, no more than four feet tall, stood a long bundle braced against his chest.
The man wore a green cape and a white, sleeved shirt that billowed out. His gray trousers stopped just below his knees where there was one neat fold. He wore no shoes or boots and his feet appeared dirty and torn. His eyes were a sightless, milky white. His blindness did not stop him from ascending the hill and standing directly before Oan. The bundle wrapped in no more than an old brown cloak was clutched with tiny hands that did not seem strong enough to handle the weight.
He spoke then in the high pitch voice of a child even though his dirty brown hair was thinned by age.
“I dream of a field of white roses where a breeze, warm and moist, blows eternal. I sit upon a hill overlooking this valley with a lion and a dragon, paw in claw in hand. I see green eyes that smile with no lips. I live, I breathe and days go by.”
The man stopped, staring blankly into Oan’s bare chest. It took a moment for Oan to realize that the little man was waiting a response.
“I do not read dreams, small one.” Oan said.
The man’s forehead wrinkled and then he smiled revealing a mouth of gleaming white teeth.
“Life’s a dream, then we awake,” He chirped and dropped to his knees placing the bundle at Oan’s feet. “I have been dreaming for a very long time. I’ve had more dreams than I can remember, but I remember you very clear. A man just finished being a boy, tall with long dark hair and broad shoulders. His skin dark brown from days under the sun; his blood cold; his heart stone, a man destined for the great battle. A man carrying three blades.”
“Three blades?”
“I dream of a river of fire burning with no end. A gold throne soaked in blood and a million glowing eyes peering from every shadow. Death, sorrow, paw and claw and hand. Agony rolling like thunder on the wind.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Like a flood they’ll come, digging and clawing and pouring upon the soil an endless wave of pain.”
“Who?”
“Salama’s offspring!” Nestor’s voice was distant, heard almost as an echo. The little man twitched toward it and sneered.
“I dream of you holding the sword that shines, the sword that glows and one other.”
“The sword of my fathers.”
“No, you are not a son of Rion. You’re blood flows from the mountain.”
“What?”
“You are an heir of the Marek. Men made hard by the stone of the mountains, men that carried axes and picks, not swords. There was but two swords carried by a king of Marek. There was Lunar that the last king of Marek, Tarek Grandar, forged from the face of old moon. And there was. …”
“Kekur.”
“Yes. Kekur. One of the seven great swords made as gift by the swordmaster of Rion to the seven great kingdoms of old.”
“Are you he?”
“I once had a dream I was.”
“I don’t understand you.”
The man didn’t answer instead he started to unwrap the bundle. Oan saw the hilt, grooved for large hands and the design of a great mountain peak etched into the iron.
“Perhaps, the most unique of the seven great blades, Kekur, named from the highest mountaintop in the Kingdom of Marek, is a marriage of stone and steel. The great swordmaster toiled for many seasons getting the two to forge together. When he did, he rejoiced but found he could not lift the blade up. It was too heavy for him, too heavy for most.”
The man removed the rest of the covering displaying the blade that was nearly four feet long and striped with sections of steal and a white stone sharpened to perfection. There was a chip in one of the stone sections, a chip that could never be fixed. That too is a story for another day, another time.
“I present Kekur, prize of the Marek.”
Oan felt Nestor gazing over his shoulder. Oan dropped to his knees viewing its grandeur and smelling its history.
“I thank you for this glimpse. Please go now and take. …”
“Oh, you may not send this back with me son of the Marek. The son’s Rion have cursed off blades, perhaps for too long, but the son, nay the King of Marek, may not refuse Kekur. It is a gift not to be denied.”
“I am no King.”
“Perhaps not, but I dream of you holding this sword. It is time for that dream to awake.”
With that, the short man arose and turned away leaving Oan on his knees before the ancient sword. He did not have the courage yet to touch it. A question then came to his mind only seconds before it hit his lips.
“Who am I?”
The short man stopped, but did not turn around. Instead, he tilted his head back as if to view the sky.
“That was not in my dream.”
“Who am I?”
“I dream of the witch. Holed up in her cave, peaking through the glass of that secret door. Her green eyes have seen much more than my blind ones. Paw and and claw and hand, and if anyone knows who you are, it’s the witch.”
The little man started walking again and as he reached the bottom of the hills he seemed to fade a little and the farther he walked the more of him disappeared. Then he was gone.
“The witch,” Oan whispered staring at the blade. “Gods, I thought I was done with her.”
He reached down, recovered the sword in the brown cloak and lifted it. The blade was nearly too much for him, he used both arms to haul it down the hill with Nestor following. The Aldroubi had left, knowing that their message was clear. It was time for Oan and Nestor to leave.
“Where are we to go?” Nestor asked while Oan packed up a few things from his tent. The Aldroubi left two fine horses waiting for them there.
“To see the witch.” Oan answered and that was all he said from then till they left the camp and had rode for nearly the entire day.
Nestor seemed shaken by the news and did not speak either.
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2 comments:
wow, that was alot to digest. I get lost in the beginning with all the names and such. But that isn't as important i suppose and if i read it again slower it would make more sense. This is really the good charge ya up chapter that is like ok now we are getting somewhere, shit is about to go down type of thing. I really hope you can finish this story. It is shaping up to be epic!
Yeah, I got confused with all the names when I was writing it. Then I misspelled "Marek" consistently after the first mention. I had tried to string out the introduction of new names to make it easier, but the floodgate broke open in this part. I need to get a notebook out and make a list our I'll forget most of them or have to scramble through text to find them.
I have worries about finishing. First, I didn't really think about how many songs you had on your CDs. It feels like I should be like halfway through, and I am not even halfway through the first CD. I also worry, because I have a feeling my writing time may get cut into pretty fiercely here in a few months. I don't want to get stalled because that makes it really hard to get going again. That's part of the reason, I've abandoned some of my other posts to focus on this.
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