Red's CD Project 2: Part 35 - Legends born

Note: I kept putting this off for some reason and I am not sure why. I sat down today and pounded it all out in two writing sessions. The editing may be off. I reverted back to using my old lab top with updated software, but a very stripped down version of Word. The new house has afforded a work space that will maybe help me get this writing thing off its feet. We'll see.


Disc 2
Track 13: Waiting Hare - Buckethead

"You call me today, with your enemies; You call me today, with your infinite dreams"


All the old legends spoke of the hero, Tarek Grandar. The man that rose from obscurity and strange birth from the weak and impoverished class of folks in Marek and became king. The man that climbed to the height of Kekur and carved from the face of Old Moon the sword known as Lunar. The same sword that tore through Salama Blackblood and cast him into the his desert tomb. The same man that cut through the heavens and unleashed Belnor, dividing the land and its people.

Those legends passed through the lips and hearts of every man and child on each side of Belnor for an age. The thought of him, the immortal image, brought hope and joy and safety. The folks of the world gave thanks for Tarek Grandar at morning meal and at night when their weary heads hit soft pillows.

But time forgets the details of legends. If not time, then man does by picking and choosing what he cares to remember. Folks ignore that Marek fell under Grandar's rule. Its people were cast into lots, some banished, ruined and cursed to linger in shadows. Oan Stoneheart and his one-eyed companion know those faces well. They met a few en route to the witch's cave, and that confrontation was nearly the pairs undoing. Others, while not banished or ruined, were cursed just the same to stand and wait in the graveyard of what once was great with only a fool's hope that that greatness would come again.

Oan Stoneheart, brave and ture, surely knew little of these other legends, or of the madness that slowly ate away Grandar before one day disappearing through a certain door with three diamond-shaped panes of glass tucked away in some dingy cave in the foothills of Marek, as he stood before the sealed stone slab doors of the great palace of Metahischoo. Oan Stoneheart had not the memories or thoughts to draw on. Neither did his one-eyed friend, also cursed and perhaps ruined in his own way. For the two had traveled long and far, and in their hearts enough gladness had settled over their worry and weariness to take pride in reaching their destination through snow and wind and one dreadful path ironically called Veris.

What need for worry did they have at this deserted palace where the only voices were those of ghosts? While the stone doors were huge, and no doubt heavy, they would find a way in. Every palace had its front doors and its back doors and side entrances. Surely even Tarek Grandar's great hall had a place for the low folk to slip in and out. They would find one and be inside.

For now, they were pleased because neither were thinking about a small group of leftovers that the witch had slyly mentioned in what seemed like a long ago meeting. For now, they did not see the eyes peering from nooks and crannies of the mountain and buried cleverly in hallowed snow drifts. They were eyes trained for watching and able, if not eager, to kill. Nestor would have understood those eyes, very well. For he too once had been charged with watching an ancient legend. He too understood that after awhile, a little excitement, a little swordplay, was welcomed. It broke up the monotony of such a life with such a calling. Those eyes were eager for anything after an age of nothing.

Oan did not see them. Nestor either. Their collective joy ignored the hairs raising on their necks. Those slight hairs that always seem to know when someone is watching, that someone was waiting to strike, that death was very near.

* * *

Ewam watched in horror as the Elder Dinar trotted half the distance between the two armies. His cavalry line already had huge gaps after the archer's volleys had little effect. The large Children, as Banik called them, shrugged off the little pricks of the arrows. The smaller Children dodged falling arrows with uncanny ability. While others only stopped bit off arrows if possible or simply snapped off limbs that were rendered useless by wounds.

Ewam called for the charge, but the cavalry, which was twice the size of the force before them, barely made a dent. The beasts they were fighting were not like men that slowed with wounds and quickly died. These things were tenacious, blood-thristy, soulless, and worst perhaps of all, hungry. Even when mortally wounded, they kept on, biting, clawing, screeching, maiming. Victorious Children stopped and fed on their opponents in the middle of battle, sucking, gouging, tearing and relishing in flesh.

They also worked in tandem. The small ones, some no bigger than street vermin, bit at ankles and climbed up backs distracting Ewam's soldiers long enough for the big ones to strike fatal blows. It had been only minutes into the battle, but the hopelessness grew by the moment in the pit of his stomach.

Ewam, Banik and the rest of the generals had yet to engage in the battle. They watched from a rise, waiting to call in the infantry, his last line, to attack. Once the infantry moved, Ewam and the rest would go too. How, he thought, could so few decimate an army his size so quickly? How did the world stand a chance?

As if reading his thoughts, the Elder Dinar started their march onto the field of battle. Ewam now understood how foolish he had been to think two was surely not enough to stand against him. Banik had corrected him sharpely and justly. At this rate, Ewam wondered if the dark army even needed those two.

"Be ready," Banik fingered the sword that once was Ewam's. "Be ready." This second time was softer, private.

Ewam reached for his sword, but something in his head whispered, "not yet."

A circle formed around the two black-robed figures and the two hellish beasts they rode. The Children, while starving for more blood, served the Dinar before their own hunger. The Dinar lifted their arms, from Ewam's vantage it was hard to make out the fragile, green hands peeking out. Above the sky turned dark without any clouds to block away light and below the ground started to hum, then buzz. Ewam could not hear over the noise of battle, but he thought the Dinar were chanting. The words echoed faintly in the air.

"Heavens and fires," Commander Robare Lews appeared beside Ewam, his arm pointing to the ground before them. "What is happening?" Ewam followed the man's finger down to the ground feet before them. The dark earth below the yellowing grass was splintering like glass dropped on stone.

"BE READY!" Banik shouted drawing his sword.

The warning proved late for Ewam and Commander Lews. Springing from below the surface of the world came a haggared, slitted-eyed creature with a pointed noise and huge round mouth. Trailing behind it was a long, cylindrical body with thousands of dark, bent legs to push it through soil. Ewam's horse reared in time to throw him away from the creature, but not quick enough for him to miss the sight of Lews' head and shoulders disappearing into the hurdling mouth of the creature, which never ceased moving. The creature snapped the upper-half of Lews clean off save for his spine that tore free and dragged along with creature till it sank back into the ground. That was all Ewam witnessed before landing with a hard thud on the back of his head.

Everything went dark, and he remembered thinking in that instant, that he may not see light again.

* * *

"Who is that?" Evandra pointed down to the street from the balconey high above. Her finger led to a fat man riding a poor, tired steed. His armor reflected the sun, but Meriam shielded her eyes enough to see the green dragon etched and painted across the front. King Eden stood below at the entrace of Union Hall, clearly waiting to welcome the man. Squinting, Meriam could make out enough to recognize the fat man.

"Cortobrane," Meriam whispered and Evandra turned her ear up. The girl had always been stout, but she had lost dozens of pounds since first hearing that cursed call.

"Our cousin from Stra?" Evandra wrinkled her eyebrow. "Father and Uncle Ewam never liked him."

"He should not be here." Meriam said. "He should not and he should not be wearing that."

Meriam forced her eyes away and knew this was her only chance. Grabbing the girl by the shoulder, she turned her and knelt to meet her squarely.

"Do you trust me, Evandra?" Meriam asked.

"Aye, madam, I do."

"Then trust me when I say that we have to leave here," Meriam let a tear slip from her eye. "We must leave here, get away from your father and this place."

The girl dropped her chin to her chest and let out a sniffle.

"I know." She croaked out the answered Meriam hoped to hear without much conjoling.

"Good, we must pack," Meriam rushed back into the girl's bedroom. "I have arranged a horse."

"Mistress Meriam," the girl followed behind.

"Yes girl."

"Will we take mother?" She stalked over to the bed and sat.

"Aye, if she'll let us, I will," Meriam answered tossing clothes that looked the least regal from the girl's wardrobe into a burlap sack. She also pocketed some jewelry that did not look important, but that would bring good trade.

"If she does not let us take her?"

"Girl, I'll try, that's all I can promise."