Spilling of the Heavens: Part 2

Note: I realized that part 2 wasn't all that long. I actually like these two little sections better than I remember.

Dawn greeted them with purple and orange streaks in the skye to the east and with the peak looming ever closer. They climbed the crumbling stone stairway built by some unknown craftsman in an age before such things were recorded. In his former life, Cassar had snuck up here often among the clouds, and where even the air feared to linger, in search of clues on the mystery stairway. He feared no clues remained from that long ago time.  Even if they did, he no longer cared to find them. He promised himself that this would be his last trip to the peak of Kekur. His days of adventure were over after this.

Cassar was wrong on both accounts, his return to Kekur would come, and so would one more adventure, but not for a very long time.

Of the hundred that had left Metahischoo, the palace of Marek, as escort to the king, only ten remained. The traitors had followed up the path, picking off wounded and slower moving members of the party. Some of the traitors had left the stairway, choosing to brave the rugged, sharp-inclined terrain of the mountain. Those pitiful few labored behind using axes and swords to dig into the solid rock. That way was treacherous, and many fell, their screams echoing for minutes before reaching the heavens, or if the poor soul was truly unfortunate, his wails plummeted all the way down to the underworld.

Ahead, Tarek plodded up the stairway, taking in loud, raspy breaths. It had been much the same the first time the two friends had scaled the stairs together. No matter the strength of the man, the altitude, the thin air and the cold beat down like the hooves of a thousand horses. Cassar handled it better with more experience, but Tarek appeared near exhaustion. Yet the king pressed on, sometimes mumbling and other times belting out rhymes suited for taverns and brothels.

Cassar thought back to the first journey; it was not even that long ago really. Tarek had been quiet, even scared. They had approached at night, a terrible idea, but the prophecy demanded such a risk. In the crisp, cold air, it had been Cassar’s voice that rumbled an ancient gargolian hymn. One that his ancestors had sang while chained and enslaved by the dwarves ages earlier in the darkest depths of the old mines. An old hymn that was full of sorrow with lyrics expressing hope.  That night, Tarek had clutched Cassar’s hand with tears clear in his eyes.

“Thank you, Cassar,” Tarek said. “Thank you.”

In a world cast in a deep shadow, that had been a moment of beauty and peace, a moment Cassar had lost until then as Tarek belted out lewd lyrics ahead of him.

In that instant, Cassar truly hated Tarek Grandar.

* * *

While neither the king’s escort nor the traitors raised a white flag, the fighting, at some point, stopped and the two groups mixed. Cassar noticed this only when he looked back to see his cousin, Smyth, limping directly behind him. An arrow stuck crudely through Smyth’s leg, and he had a large purple bruise over his eye. Growing up together, Smyth had been considered a prodigy of language. He was fluent in every current tongue used in the seven kingdoms, and two dozen, at least, ancient languages.

After the war, Smyth had been one of the first to abandon the troubled king. Along with knowing languages, Smyth knew how to use words better than anyone than Cassar knew. His speeches in the square gained attention and won over followers. When the king’s guard came for his arrest, the rebellion started first with fists and shouting then with blades and dying.

“I’ve no fight left, cousin,” said Smyth, who carried no club. “The mountain is beating all of us.”

“If not for you, we’d not be challenging the mountain or each other,” Cassar fired back. Smyth’s betrayal still cut at Cassar’s heart.

“Not each other perhaps,” Smyth spoke again, this time gasping for air, “but, do you truly believe that you’d not be here climbing this mountain with him, rebellion or not?” Smyth pointed toward the king.

Cassar did not answer knowing the truth in Smyth’s question. The trip to the peak of Kekur had nothing to do with the rebellion or the traitors. The king seemed not to care about them. His concern for the kingdom and the crown had dissipated in the months preceding. Tarek’s actions were wild and dark. He brooded and cursed. He once said the swords at his hip were like an itch on the middle of his back, constantly nagging, but impossible to satiate. There was something waiting at the peak again, something that would change the course of the world forever.

“What’s going to happen?” Smyth gasped out the question.

“I dread to know.” Cassar answered.