Short Story: Spilling of Heavens. Part 1, Section 1

Note: I figured if Snake was back contributing, I better get back involved. As the title suggests, this is a short story. While overall, it's not all that long, I thought I'd post it in smaller pieces, just to make it easier to take in. This contains characters from the last CD project. I sort of developed this as a break when I was trying to go back and rewrite the whole project. I don't really have any long term goals for this, just thought I tell a little story that builds history for the project.

Spilling of the Heavens

The traitors attacked in the night, as Old Moon’s broken face slid behind the outer tendrils of a thick, white cloud burst. Cassar had been staring up at the wounded moon, remembering how smooth it had once been. On clear winter nights, Old Moon had glowed flawless, filling up the entire sky. What a sight! It had broken his papa’s heart to see the giant pale orb tarnished. For three hundred years, his papa had chronicled Old Moon’s orbit while other historians and stargazers worshipped the sharp, curved blue blade that had appeared in the sky near Old Moon at the dawn of this age. New Moon captivated the half-minded, his papa said. Old Moon, his father’s huge flat face would brim with joy as he spoke, has and will see it all from our birth to death. Little wonder that his papa fell to slumber only days after Old Moon’s scarring.

His papa’s slumber broke Cassar’s heart even more than the death of his wife and son, for he had led the king to the top of the great peak of Kekur where the king claimed his wicked prize, the sword ripped from Old Moon’s face. A shame, but a necessary shame, Cassar’s gigantic head told his weeping heart as the moon approached the cloud.

They were camped upon Cane’s Landing, the stone deck where the old god, Cane, meditated ages ago among the heavens and less than a morning’s hike below Kekur. Yes, Cassar was leading the king to the peak again. This time a hundred dwarves, men and gargolas accompanied them. Cassar was a gargola, a race crossed between the giants of the ancient world and the men of the blue dawn. Behind them, the traitors gave chase, waiting to ambush them either on the way up or way down. If there was a journey back down, he thought. He had no idea why they had left Metahischoo, the palace of Marek, under siege by a host of traitors.  Once he had trusted his king, but Tarek Grandar had changed. The battle with the dark king of Rion on the sands of the Sorna had changed him. So had the two swords, Kekur – the sword of Marek and one of the seven great blades – and Lunar – the wicked sword that had scarred Old Moon.

Then Old Moon disappeared behind the cloud, and the glow it gave off the snow-capped ground died. In the pure dark, the feet crunching in the snow came from every direction. Cassar lifted his head, grasping for his massive club. A gargola never fought with a sword, for no smith had ever forged one big enough to fit his massive hands. Instead, they used clubs that were trunks of young trees rounded at the end. Some cruel gargolas fastened spikes to their clubs, but Cassar preferred his smooth. A short figure with ax drawn came at Cassar, as he worked to lift his huge body from the ground. He made it only to his knees, before swinging his club to send the figure, a dwarf no doubt, flying off the side of Cane’s Landing and down the side of the mountain. Cassar prayed that he had not known the dwarf before all this had started, even though relations between gargolas and dwarves had always been tenuous.

On his feet, the sound of battle surrounded him. Dark figures danced with swords, axes and clubs. Feet tapped off the stone deck, and wails sounded out. Cassar fought to the front of the king’s tent, for the king had not yet joined the battle. The man had an uncanny knack to sleep through everything. The loyal ones left formed a circle around the tent, fending of wave after wave of traitors, losing many in their own ranks each time. Old Moon escaped its temporary prison, lighting the world enough to show the bodies stacking up and the blood running off the deck. “Oh,” Cassar moaned. A place once known for serenity would forever be stained by violence. A man came at him. Cassar fended off a thrust from a sword and then caught the man’s head in his hand. Cassar squeezed, feeling his fingernails dig in right before the man’s skull collapsed on each side.

Behind Cassar, the tent exploded in flame. He held his ground as others ducked for cover. The gargola turned in time to see a man run through the ranks of defense toward the flame at the middle of the tent. Inside the flame was the king, his brown beard with flakes of gray and cold blue eyes were clear. Thank heavens, thought Cassar, he drew Kekur instead of the other. He had seen the other drawn once, and he hoped he would not live long enough to see that blade in battle again.

“Traitor!” Tarek Grandar’s voice boomed as he drove the blade into the man’s middle. The man’s body went limp before it exploded, showering every one including the king with blood and sizzling pieces of flesh.

“Pure rage,” Cassar whispered. “Only rage remains. “