Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 20 – Homecoming

Note: I am not entirely satisfied with this part. It was a little tricky to write, but I think the effect is still fairly powerful. We passed 30,000 words with this part. That's 70 single-spaced pages in Word. Not too shabby.

Disc 1
Track 20: Dirty Dancehall – The Zutons

“Woken up again by a young girl’s shout”

Zuton Del Aram woke; startled from slumber by a scream that sounded too much like a voice he knew and loved. He jumped up from his second-floor bed and pressed his face against the glass of the window. Outside the sky was black and starless over the city of Stra, which was eerily quiet. While his days of frolicking out past dusk had long past, he knew that others in the city should still have been out. Whether it was heading to a tavern or walking off too much time already spent in the tavern, there should still have been folks out but there wasn’t. There hadn’t been any one out past dark for weeks. The streets in the outer ring were empty, but, as he knew very well, not still. Things lurked in the shadows that weren’t just rats plump from feeding on the waste from one inn or another. They were larger than that and the shadows seemed to cling to them. One night about a week ago, he was sure he saw red eyes staring back at him.

He scanned the street below that was lit up the fire of torches lining both sides. The torches were new. He was not the only one seeing things in the shadows. Achingly, he sought the source of the noise that had disturbed him, but saw nothing.

“Fool of fools,” he swore turning away from the window. “She’s not coming back.”

Beside the bed, a half bottle of brandy sat upon a table next to an empty glass. He filled the glass to the brim then shot it down in one burning gulp before refilling it. The bottle had been full earlier today. He swore again before bringing the glass back to his mouth. His wife would never have allowed him to drink so much, but she had been gone a very long time. Since she gave birth to their daughter, the strings of his heart pulled tight at the thought.

“Pappy!” The words came loud from outside, accompanied by a knock on his front door. That surprised him so that he spit the second gulp of brandy out, spraying it all over the wall and his bed. He dropped the glass and the bottle, they shattered hitting the wood floor, but he did not notice that even when a few of the longer shards cut into his bare feet.

His knees creaked, his back popped as he came as close as he could to a run for his door and then nearly broke his neck twice while trying to take the stairs two at a time. He was no boy, but he felt like one just then. To see her again, meant everything, and he didn’t want her outside in the dark any longer than necessary. There was a time when he would have left the door unlocked and she could have came in on her own, came up to him in his bed and greeted him with one of those great big hugs she used to give him when she was his little girl. In his heart, she was still his little girl no matter what any of others said about her. His daughter was different, but she was still his daughter. After all the time that she had been gone, he realized that more than ever. He was a fool to listen to anyone about her and feared that by his inaction that he had allowed something to be done to her.

“I’m coming!” His voice came out gruffer than he wanted. He preyed she did not run off thinking he was angry with her. He could not be angry with her, not now, not ever again.

Throwing back the wood brace across the door, he sensed being on the edge of delirium. It was a happy sensation, one that, at his age, he may never feel again. He fumbled to release the lock before turning the knob. A putrid, dead, smell hung in the air, but he forgot when he saw the great mane of red hair facing away from him. No one else had such a bright glowing flow of locks in Stra. Hell, he thought, he could travel the entire world and not see its equal.

“My Hatala,” he made no attempt at hiding the tears that streamed from his eyes. She spun, slow and graceful, the purple riding cape floated out behind her. Zuton flushed seeing the tight purple dress she wore, which accentuated her breasts and the paleness of her skin that was dotted with hundreds of tiny brown freckles. This was not the sort of attire he had raised her to ware. It was a problem, but not one of any consequence so long as she was home. Before she could speak, he was embracing her to make sure that she was indeed real. He was shocked to feel how cold her skin felt, how frail her body.

“Father,” she said with little hint of emotion.

“You’re freezing child, come in, come in,” he brushed her through the threshold with his arm. “I’ll start a fire directly to warm you’re blood.”

He closed the door behind her not bothering to lock it and lit a long match from the pile he kept by the door. He took that to several candles before guiding her to the den and the fireplace.

“My girl, I am blessed to see you again,” he bent over clearing a place for new kindling. There was a creak from out where they had come, but he didn’t think twice about it. It was a old house full of old memories that came out in moans and groans. Just like old men, he thought, and decided that the next day he’d write that down. He was one for jotting down notes and thoughts. He would write a great book of wisdom before his days came to an end. Perhaps the return of his daughter was the inspiration that he needed.

“Did you search me out,” she asked, her voice very low?

He blew on a spark from the match as the kindling began to snap, but the rest of his body tensed. He had not known what to do when the girl came up missing. She had a nasty reputation among some folk, the kind of folk that sometimes acted on suspicion. He had wanted to sound the alarm when she disappeared, but worried if he had that he may be the next to go missing.

“I looked all around the city and outside of it as well,” he said. “No one had seen you come or go. I did not know where you had gone. Then the other girls started to come up missing and no one wanted to hear about you.”

“They were glad to see me gone.” She smirked.

He straightened up not turning from the mantle place. There were old wooden figurines from a game he had as a child on top. One was of a bear and another a dragon. He lifted both thumbing the carving lines nervously.

“You have always put some people on edge, my daughter,” he said. “It is their problem, not yours.”

“And yours?” She hissed the last as an accusation.

He turned to her, the tears back in his eyes. The room was full of huge, heavy shadows, but all he saw was her in that damned purple dress, looking cold and scared.

“If you ever felt that way then I pray I am cast into the underworld,” he sobbed. She appeared taken aback for a moment by the statement. “I love you, my daughter.”

She did not speak for a long time and the distance between them seemed even greater than when she had been gone. He wanted to run to her, shake her free of whatever evils had ensnared her and welcome her properly home. He had to break the silence.

“Where have you been?” It was the question many parents asked of truant children. Few parents would have let her back in the house before knowing.

She stirred to life then, the color came to her cheeks and the green of her eyes glowed bright in the dark.

“I’ve been casting away the chains of this world,” she smiled for the first time.

“Hatala, don’t say such things,” He stepped closer, but stopped noticing that the shadows in his house were not empty. “What have you done?” He croaked in fear.

“What have I done, Pappy?” She let the cloak fall to the floor behind her. There were deep bruises up and down her arms. For the first time, he saw what looked like a burn mark under her eye. Sensing his eyes, she lowered one strap of her dress and then the other letting the whole thing fall to the floor. He gasped in revulsion and grief. She bore lash marks as if she’d been whipped from the top of her legs up past her breasts. There were dozens of marks of varying length and depth. How could she stand such pain?

“Hatala…” he could not form a thought without his voice and mind collapsing in grief.

“I’ve been doing what you taught me,” she smiled.

“What?” From the shadows emerged four figures robed in black. Behind them, he saw glimpses of other creatures that he was sure there was no adequate name. Hatala put her hand on the black robe of one of the figures.

“This one is rough with me sometimes,” she squirmed as if thinking about it. “Not soft and gentle and cruel like you.”

“I never laid a finger on you,” he spit the words out. It was the truth, but he knew these creatures had brainwashed her somehow.

He took a few steps back reaching behind his back for the poker.

“These two are brothers, I think,” she had walked over to the pair of robed fingers on the right. “They always go at me together. It’s quite something.”

“Stop this, stop this,” he started shaking his head violently. “Why are you saying these things?”

The smile never left her face as she came up to him, pressing her naked flesh up against him. He recoiled as her skin was like touching an open flame.

“Don’t you see, these are my Pappy’s now,” she said and kissed him full on the lips. He grabbed the poker, wrapping his fingers around the handle. Whatever this beast was, this was not his daughter. She had always had strength, and maybe something a little more than natural, but she had been kind and gentle and pure when he last saw her. He pushed her away. “Oh, come now, Zuton Del Aram, son of Ardst. Do you not want to play with your daughter one last time?”

“You are not my daughter?” he spewed out raising the poker. The look on her face never altered its expression as he tried to swing it at her. His strike never came close as a gloved hand stopped his arm. Another of the robed men came forward and grabbed his other arm. He was too slow, too old to be a match for the likes of these.

“Goodbye, Pappy,” Hatala came up to him and ran her hand along face. She met his eyes once, and his heart broke, seeing they were full of malice.

She turned then and took the two men she had named as brothers by the hand and started to lead them up the stairs to the bedrooms.

“Let me go,” he struggled against his captors, but they quelled that with two swift blows to the top of his head. His vision blurred, but not poorly enough that he could not see the shadows move again as two creatures came forth. One had fours arms and four legs and a torso that bulged and rippled. It had one eye in the center of its forehead, no nose to speak of and a mouth with the lips peeled back to show a row of razor sharp teeth. The other creature looked as if it may have been a dog once, but its face was closer to that of a man and it had long sharp nails coming out of its paws. He tried to scream, but nothing came out.

The creatures crept forward, enjoying the fear that was shooting through his mind. The two robed men gripped tighter as the two spawn of the dark approached Zuton’s legs. He kicked at them weekly before feeling the teeth sink in and the jaws clamp down just below each knee. Flesh tore away in wet smacks followed by bone in loud cracks. The robed men let go and he dropped to the floor on his back.

He could not force himself to look down, but he was sure that both his feet were gone. The pain burned, but he blocked it out. They had all been right about her, he thought. She is some kind of witch.

The robed men left his vision, but he saw them mount the stairs when he turned his head. Somewhere below his waist the creatures slowly fed up his legs. They were taking their time, not pulling away anything vital. From upstairs he heard Hatala start to wail. The repulsion from the sound of agony in her voice was nothing compared to the hints of satisfaction. It sickened him that his dear wife had forfeited her life to bare her.

It lasted till the dark sky night started to lighten. The creatures were past his waste before the cold started to reach his heart. How they managed to keep him from bleeding to death hours earlier, he did not know. Outside the sun hit the horizon, when the dog-like creature rose to his face. Red drool dangled from its chin, its eyes glowed red. It was the last thing that Zuton Del Aram saw, as his daughter’s cries of triumph trumpeted through the house.

Snake's Reaction: Get A Haircut & Get A Real Job part 5

Part 4: http://sbrlists.blogspot.com/2010/04/snakes-reaction-get-haircut-get-real.html





Big & Rich: Real World & Wild West Show from 'Horse of a Different Color'



I think I listen to this album at least once a week. I can't get away from it. When I picked Real World, I totally forgot about the little section at the end that went way over the top country. If I had, I wouldn't of picked it. Wild West Show has always been my personal favorite from the album. Save A Horse (Ride A Cowboy) & Holy Water got quite a bit of attention from this album. Saved is a pretty awesome song and looking back I should have included although it would be another slower soulful song and I knew I needed to highlight their playful side. Deadwood Mountain and Live This Life are some fantastic more traditional country songs while Rollin' and Love Train are the newer hick-hop they are famous for.

Verdict: I love it, but it is not for everyone. If your music likenings blur the lines between country and rock, then these guys will be king to you. If you like traditional country, there is enough in here to satisfy you if you skip past a few songs.

Metallica: Broken, Beat & Scarred and Unforgiven III from 'Death Magnetic'

This album selection haunted me for quite awhile. All the songs are so long and it was hard to find the ones that really stood out musically. So I ended up picking the two that stood out to me cause of their somewhat goofy lyrics. "What don't kill ya, make ya more strong" from Broken just kills me with bad grammar. "How can I be lost if I got no where to go" from UIII is some how stupid and poetic at the same time. It just proved that the words didn't really matter. The album is loud and heavy. It is an assault on the ears and slap to the face of all the current heavy bands saying, 'This is how it's done!' I believe I listened to this album non stop for a month after it came out. It was all I listened to on my headphones while painting my house.

Verdict: Good Metallica album, more like it used to be. It is a pure lesson on musicianship and jamming like a metal band should. Not alot of production or gimmicks, just lots of fuzz and power.

The Killers: Spaceman & Neon Tiger from 'Day & Age'

Another album that got steady listening time for a couple months after I bought it. This was hard choice again. Spaceman is just a great song with a lot going on in the lyrics underneath that catchy beat. I loved Neon Tiger's imagery in a homage to their hometown of Las Vegas. I could have something great to say about every track on the album. Red passed it off as standard stuff from the Killers, I can understand where it gets that when forced to listen to 30+ tracks by various artists in a short time span. At first glance it seems run of the mill until you start to really listen to what is happening in these songs, that the message really is. Realizing their inspiration and the dark meanings to some happy sounding songs. Step through the looking glass, take the red pill, and have you world changed forever. (Ok that is probably a little over dramatic)

Verdict: 'Hot Fuss' was really good. 'Sam's Town' was really really good. 'Day & Age' is F($*ing Brilliant!

Motorhead: The Chase is Better Than the Catch from 'Ace of Spades'

This was tough choice. I tried to find one of the songs on the album that better showcased the punkish sound that prevailed the album more so then the speed metal style of the title track. There isn't much else I can say about this album, other than it is awesome.

Verdict: Get metal/punk album that inspired lots of metal acts to follow including Metallica.

YTCrakcer: N.E.S. from 'Nerdrap Entertainment System'

I discovered this album from a promo for a G4TV show. It was cool hearing all the old Nintendo 8-bit tunes with some very nerd based rap over top. Surgerunner is another of my favorites as he raps about it longing for the classic Mountain Dew ripoff Surge drink to come back. I have never found a documented list of each old school Nintendo game that is the sample for each song, so a few still puzzle me probably because I never played them.

Verdict: Definitely for a niche market of slightly nerdy men who grew up in the late 80's, early 90's.

Avenged Sevenfold: Sidewinder from 'City of Evil'

I heard Bat Country on the radio and then bought this album. Beast and the Harlot also got lots of recognition. This is a decent metal album. I do enjoy Sidewinder along with Strength of the World. There are the band's best efforts at the classic epic metal song.

Verdict: Nice addition to most of the metal these days. I still listen to lots of songs off this album, surprisingly enough. So it has the staying power to leave its mark.


With that I am done. Only took 6 months. Not too bad I think :)

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 19 – Voices

Note: What I like about this part is that it plays with the idea of perception more than any of the other parts or characters. Eden Perde had been painted into a box in our minds by the way his brother sees him. I think, I hope, this part blows that box up. I didn't really know the character was going to take this turn, but I think it'll provide an intriguing conflict for the rest of this tale.


Disc 1
Track 19 – Baby Brother – The White Stripes

“My little baby brother used to play down on the floor. But now he’s not satisfied to do it anymore.”

How dare he touch that sword! That brute! Eden allowed the thoughts into his head, even worse into his heart. The seeds of mistrust toward his twin brother had recently started to take root. He didn’t understand the thoughts. It had to be a byproduct of his worry for his wife and daughter. It’s not only that, you know that. You have to sleep. The voice was that of his conscience that always ringed with the same tone as his father’s. Never had he felt anything more than love and admiration for his brother, but he had always envied the man’s strength.

Ewam had a will and a spirit not easily matched even by his sibling. When they were children, Ewam had always won the wrestling matches, the play sword fights, even the games of battle strategy. He was natural soldier. No, Ewam was more than that, he was the kind of man that men trusted and followed.

Eden was not dim. He knew that he would never match Ewam’s strength. Eden had to become the image of a king both in sight and action. By the time he was eight, he had mastered language, decorum and etiquette. It was their mother that drilled him daily on such matters. She never said it, but Eden was positive that she held the hope that one day their father would put an end to the nonsense about having both boys rule Satar. For whatever reason, she wanted Eden on the throne. Therefore, she made him the perfect groomed king. Not that Ewam was not in her heart too, but she knew he belonged in the field, managing the swords and the shields.

Of course the great show that he and his mother prepared never fooled Rudan Perde one bit. He recognized Eden’s behavior as an act. Rudan wanted Ewam to have his share of the throne because he knew that Satar would need a man of Ewam’s grit and power to rule.

Ewam, on the other hand, had allowed Eden to assume most of the control since their rule began. Ewam fell for the pomp and grandeur of Eden’s act. It was all that Eden could do to maintain any semblance of credibility. All he really wanted was enough power to balance the throne and honor their father’s wish.

Now Ewam held that sword, a blade meant for one king even if it were the King of Nocnil, and it looked so natural, so right. He had already sent out riders to gather an army. Soon he’d light the beacons so that the four great cities of Satar would send their regiments immediately. Ewam, without a second thought, had brushed him aside. Even the foreigner Banik had deferred to Ewam once he entered the room. He’ll take everything! That was voice of his mother, one that occupied his mind more of late. The jealousy teased through his restraint enough for it to turn to rage.

The two brothers were alone again in Union Hall. Banik had left upon Ewam’s command. He studied the blade, almost as if he were entranced by it.

“Then we attack Nocnil,” Eden managed to withhold any of his anger from his voice. He settled into his usual airs upon the throne.

“No,” Ewam lowered Duna, letting it rest along his leg. “I will lead our army to Nocnil. You shall stay here. The land will need a king, your wife will need a husband, your daughter a father. I will go to war.”

Like that, Eden was made second. So quickly, I am his puppet. You have always been a puppet. First your mother’s, now you’re his. That was the voice of Rudan Perde again. He pushed the voice away in his mind, but it’s residue lingered. He worried that this was all some sort of disease of the mind. Part of him hoped it was.

“I’ll be seen as a coward.” Eden said. Ewam grinned and all the whiskers lining his face glittered in the light as he did. Eden did wish the man would shave more often.

“You’ll be seen as King. That’s what the people here will want, will need,” Ewam fidgeted obviously trying to keep from gazing back down toward the sword.

“Perhaps,” Eden found it hard to argue with the reasoning, yet his heart screamed for treason. It’s the sword. We must have it. His mother’s voice turned to that of a mongrel. Eden’s skin began to tingle thinking about having it in his hand. “Will you carry that then?”

Eden did not need to name it and as soon as the thought was out, Ewam lifted the sword back up to his face. Ewam was not a man that smiled much, but he did not seem to be able to stop as he traced his finger along Duna’s shining blade. Eden wanted reach out to do the same, but he thought Duna’s spell might make Ewam’s hand hasty. WE MUST HAVE IT! Eden rubbed his temple trying to chase away the voice. When he looked back up, Ewam was staring at him.

“Are you unwell,” Ewam spoke in their private language. Like a strong shot of whiskey burned the throat, the words chased away the voices, if only for a little while. Before him was his brother again, the boy who was always up to a little too much mischief, but always by Eden’s side whenever he needed it. The smile that snuck to his lips then seemed as foreign as the one Ewam had worn while holding Duna. Heavens, how long have I been so downtrodden? This is Ewam, brother, twin, friend. Not some man trying to steal the kingdom. Ewam was not cousin Cortbrane, always plotting and scheming for power. He was Ewam, who wanted no more than to ride free upon a great steed’s back throwing all other responsibilities into the win. If Eden had demanded the throne, Ewam would have wrapped it in a bow for him. Eden took a deep breath feeling reason slipping back into his body.

“I am better now,” Eden said back in their language. Ewam accepted the answer, but the look of worry didn’t leave even as he brought Duna back up to his eyes.

“I cannot deny wanting to carry this,” Ewam stared at Duna. DON’T LET HIM HAVE IT! It took all of Eden’s will to suppress a groan with the voice’s return. “It has a charm to it that is almost uplifting. Here, hold it once.”

“No!” Eden recoiled against the back of throne. The voices all sang out as his brother brought the hilt toward him. He wanted it more than anything else in the world, but the small thread of reason that he was clinging to sounded off like a sentry’s alarm in the distance to leave it be. He knew if that sword touched his hands that little thread would forever be severed. The actions that followed would certainly be terrible. “I cannot. It is not mine.”

The last nearly made Ewam recoil. The man looked at the sword again, his shoulders slumped just enough for Eden to notice. Giving up the sword was already very hard for Ewam to do.

“You are right, brother,” Ewam spoke again in their familiar language. “It is not ours. I shall give it back to Banik. He is the last beacon of Nocnil. When we ride out, he shall carry it to glory.”

Again, he decides without asking. Eden wanted that sword buried somewhere no one would ever find, most of all either Perde brother. Over the next hour, the two poured over a host of decisions about the coming war from the gathering of the soldiers, to the best route to Noce to take. Ewam even laid out the plans for the rule of Satar while he was gone and nearly set in stone all actions necessary if he were to fail. The sword never left his hand. With each passing moment, the voices grew more fevered and frenzied in Eden’s head.

By the end of the meeting, Ewam seemed to tower above him. The flood of plans had overwhelmed them both, but while Eden felt swept away, Ewam was skimming across the waves. The only saving grace was that the two were alone so that none of the other nobles or even servants would know of his inferiority.

Ewam drew the session to a close, saying he’d take the sword to Banik then go to gather the generals. He walked away then, his shoulders back and his posture perfect. It was the first time the man had reflected the image of a king without hours of prompting.

Usurper. His mother’s voice hissed. Puppet. His father’s added in a mockingly as Ewam exited the doors. Somewhere below those there was a whisper in own voice in their twin language. Brother. He barely even heard it. Eden slumped over and wept for the first time since he was a boy and the last time as a man.

Snake's Reaction: Get A Haircut & Get A Real Job part 4

I figured it was about time I stepped up and at least finished this thought. Since it has been 5 months since my last post on this, here are the links to parts 1 -3:

Part 1 http://sbrlists.blogspot.com/2009/10/snakes-reaction-get-haircut-get-real.html

Part 2 http://sbrlists.blogspot.com/2009/11/snakes-reaction-get-haircut-get-real.html

Part 3 http://sbrlists.blogspot.com/2009/11/snakes-reaction-get-haircut-get-real_20.html


The Secret Machines: The Road Leads Where It's Led & Nowhere Again from 'Now Here is Nowhere'

First off, I love the name of this album. I am a sucker for play on words type of humor. This one took me awhile to get into and I don't know why. Once I truly decided to listen to this album, I was hooked. It was extremely difficult to pick 2 songs. Every one of them seems to have this pounding beat that just resonates in your chest. First Wave Intact is the first song on the album and I probably would have picked it if it wasn't 9 minutes long. It has that thunderous beat that seems to set the tone for the album and the band. Lights On and the title track are both close seconds as well. The two tracks I picked though do stand out above the rest for good rhythms and great lyrics.

Verdict: I need to find more by these guys. They were actually part of the musical, Across the Universe covering The Bealtes on Blue Jay Way and backing Bono's trippy I am the Walrus. I would recommend this album to almost anyone regardless of their musical tastes.

Modest Mouse: Bukowski & Satin in a Coffin from 'Good News for People Who Love Bad News'

Another great album title and another one that took me awhile to get into. I bought this because of the catchy single, Float On. As soon as I heard the line: 'God didn't wanna be such an asshole,' I knew I had to include Bukowski on this project. Satin in a Coffin is to represent the quirkier songs on this album without going way out there. That title would go to This Devil's Workday. My words could never describe that song, but I love it. The World At Large, Bury Me With It, Dance Hall & Blame It On The Tetons are the other highlights of the album and give a good representation of the range of this group. Some are so soft and beautiful that you get one image in your mind of how tender this group is. Then they turn around and smack you with these loud horns, quirky lyrics and soul grabbing hooks.

Verdict: This band would be my definition of eclectic. I have grown to love them and the variety they provide. Not for the faint heart at times and yet so gentle & serene at others, this would fit any savory listeners tastes.

The White Stripes: Baby Brother & You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do What You're Told) from 'Icky Thump'

This album is for now the White Stripes' swan song. Baby Brother is a call back to their early fuzzed out blues that Jack White is a supreme master of. You Don't Know What Love Is has that crossover blues/country feel that they seem to project at times. I almost put their cover of Conquest on this CD, but I didn't think anyone else but me would like that song. Little Cream Soda & Rag and Bone are some great Stripes-style blue tunes. The hook in Soda is so fuzzy and distorted it calls back memories of blown out speakers. Rag plays on that classic blue style of talk through the verse and then jam rather than have a chorus, done with the magic that only those two possess. St. Andrew is that one just truly out of the norm song that they seem to put on every album. Meg seemly chants over top of bag pipes, strange indeed.

Verdict: While certainly not their best album, if this ends up being The White Stripes final studio album, it will be a good ending to their place in music history.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 18 – Song of time

Note: All I can say is that I keep peeling back the onion here and finding new layers. What I like is that the characters are starting to take this story over. It makes it easier to write that way.


Disc 1
Track 18 – Sad Statue – System of a Down

“You and me will all go down in history”

When Ewam was a very young boy, his father had come to his room late one night to kiss him goodnight. Rudan Perde stopped inside the door, slumping between the light of the hallway and shadows of Ewam’s dark room. His father was tired, worn thin by ruling a kingdom that stretched so vast that it demanded more than any one man could handle. Yet every night he visited his sons, kissing their foreheads and setting wards against any possible childhood spooks. In many ways, the duties of fatherhood came much more naturally to him than those of a king.

“What is it like to be king?” Ewam had asked throwing back his covers. He had been a boy that did anything to avoid being forced to bed. That had been another difference between him and Eden. When Eden was told to sleep, he went to bed, closed his eyes and drifted off. Ewam, on the other hand, skirted to the kitchens for a snack, and once caught, his mother tugged him back to his room by his ear. When his father came, he asked questions and demanded stories.

That night Rudan took a candle, lighting it from a torch in the hallway, and sat upon the edge of the bed. His father had wide shoulders and thick arms to go with jarring features, but Ewam always thought the man had the warmest eyes. No matter how much trouble he caused, he felt safe when his father’s eyes were upon him.

“Son,” he paused, a sparkle touched his eyes. “It’s like being told to go to bed a thousand times a day.”

Ewam stuck his tongue out knowing his father was teasing, but he didn’t say anymore. Once he got over being goofed with, he realized that his father was also being serious.

“That’s awful,” Ewam said. “I’d never want that.”

“Oh, I know that son,” Rudan Perde tickled his son’s stomach. “You can’t handle it once a day.”

After several minutes of jovial wrestling that climaxed in a hug, Rudan Perde brought his son to his knee and met his eyes.

“I want you to listen to me well now,” he brushed the hair from Ewam’s eyes. “Being king is the hardest thing you’ll ever do. There’ll be many days where you won’t feel like going on. It’ll be like your chained to a great stone that’ll you’ll be asked to drag back and forth all day long. But, my son, it’s all worth it.”

“Why,” Ewam asked, for the seeds of his insecurity compared to Eden were already laid?

“Because every so often, you sit upon that great throne in that old hall and hear the song.”

“What song?”

“The song of time, my son. It’ll ring in your ear. You’ll hear the voices of the great heroes and pick them out, one by one. You’ll hear my voice just as I hear my father’s. That big throne will be tuned to that because your actions and decrees right then are going to shape the world around you. Then you’ll know.”

“What?”

“That you’re king and one day you’re voice will join them.”

His father’s eyes were full of happiness as he began to hum and Ewam wished to stay in that moment forever. Before long though, a servant was whisking him away to address one problem or another. Ewam spent the rest of the night trying to hear that song.

“I’ve been waiting ever since,” Ewam thought he whispered, but Eden glared over at him. The man named Banik was still kneeling on the floor. Ewam heard a song now, but it didn’t sound joyous or upbeat. It certainly was not a tune he wanted to sing along with.

It occurred to him that Eden was waiting for him to say something, which broke their unspoken agreement of how to handle most audiences. It was Eden that asked the right questions or gave the correct orders. It was just that Banik’s offer of the lands of Nocnil was not something either had ever considered.

“There’s more to this,” Ewam could feel something tingling at the edge of his senses. How could one man bring down a kingdom? Even if it were some demon, it did not seem impossible, it was impossible. Ewam knew that there people that roamed even in Satar that sulked in the forests and hid in the hills. They wore black cloaks and covered their faces. They had never opposed the rule of the Perde line and, for the most part, the line had done little to oppose them. “What sort of a force does he have?”

Banik hesitated. The trouble with two kings being in the room was that it made it hard for most people to know which king to address, but this man had made his choice. He met Ewam’s gaze.

“There are the Dinar,” the man stood for the first time leaving the ancient sword on the floor. It looked like a corpse left like that. A nerve stirred in Ewam’s heart to reach out for it

“How many?”

“There were less than a thousand when they took Noce.” Banik started to pace, finally taking note of his surroundings.

“One man and a thousand, you say,” Ewam stood from his throne. This was becoming a farce. “I don’t know what fools you take us for. You expect us to believe so few took the oldest kingdom in the world. Either you are a liar or Nocnil grew soft.”

“I am no liar,” anger swelled in the man’s voice.

“Then how? How could so few take a village, much less a city, much less a kingdom?”

Ewam was down the stairs in the man’s face before Eden could even move. He ignored the sword and the smell. Ewam wanted answers.

“We could not fight them.”

“Could not or would not?”

“Could not. They were shielded in a way no man would fire an arrow or raise a sword. They paraded down our streets, decimated our royal guard, one man at a time and nary a sword was raised.”

“I don’t understand this,” Ewam turned back to meet Eden’s gaze. “Brother, it does not add up.” The last he said in their twin language.

“I know,” Eden answered under the same guise.

“It was the women, our women,” Banik’s voice took on a whole new level of shame. “They walked beside the Dinar and clung to the demon. It was some sort of spell. The women were drawn to him. They still are. I’ve passed hundreds on the road here.”

The blood left Eden’s face, leaving him pale and shaken. He slumped back down unto the throne rubbing at his forehead. Ewam felt his own knees weaken.

“What of them once the city was taken?” Eden croaked out the words. Ewam closed his eyes hoping that his ears would shut it the same matter.

“It’s a fate you don’t want to know,” Banik said.

“What of them!” Eden’s voice was a roar. Ewam took a step away from his brother and felt his heel touched the sword on the ground. Something stirred for only a moment within him. He was sure that Banik took more than two steps away.

“He mates with them, all of them,” Banik said. “I caught a glimpse when retrieving that.” Banik pointed to the sword. “His spawn are grotesque, blood drinking mongrels. I ran two through with the sword and was chased for some time by others. I hid in the Sorna a week before returning to the road here.

“Lords, I believe he can mate hundreds if not thousands a day. His force now may already be too much for the world of men.”

Ewam’s gaze never left Eden’s face. There were tears welling up in the man’s eyes. This explained everything from the disappearance of their sister to the nightmares that both Evandra and Kendra were suffering. A great evil was loose on the world. Eden was frozen in his throne.

“Leave us Banik,” Ewam ordered. “Our servants will show you a place to bathe and bring you new clothes. We will send riders out. Salama is not the only one that can gather an army.”

Ewam bent down and picked up the sword. He ran his hand along the curve of the blade. There was a great chorus sounding in Ewam’s head. He picked out one very familiar, soothing voice. Eden’s eyes were wide watching him.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 17 – Duna

Note: I run the risk of backlash from faithful readers jumping away from the witch here, but I could not go much longer without bringing the Perde brothers back into the fold. I hope this doesn't drag too much after a riveting last part.

Disc 1
Track 17: Saving Us – Serj Tankian

“You’re tearing us, you’re tearing us, you’re breaking us, you’re breaking us, you’re killing us, killing us, you’re saving us...”

Hanging on the corridor wall that led to Union Hall were the portraits of every King of Satar. Ewam stood before the last two in the long line. The one of his father, sitting upon the throne with a goblet in his hand and the heavy red-and- white-jeweled crown of Satar upon his head, hung in a silver and black frame next to the one of Ewam and his brother. His father, of all the other Kings in the long corridor, showed the most emotion. A slightly, upturned lip was almost a grin when compared to the stern, staunch faces of his predecessors. His father had the humor to snub his nose up to tradition. The portrait had been done at the beginning of his reign before the birth of his sons, but the painting radiated that the man had a very good idea he was going to knock down the walls of tradition.

When it came time to commission a rendering for Eden and him, the two had wanted to honor both tradition and their father. It was no secret that nobles and others around the kingdom where still nervous about accepting two kings. Some had maintained and even lobbied for one brother or the other to step down. One man, a cousin on his father’s side, Randall Cortobrane had worked hard for Eden to claim the crown, promising more than fealty, but also a large army in case Ewam resisted. Ewam had been tempted by many of the offers, if for no other reason, he did not want to sit upon the throne, but the two brothers had pledged to their father to rule united. The first order of business when the two assumed the throne was sending their dear cousin Randall to manage the city of Stra in northwest Satar.

The two chose to stand back-to-back in the portrait in front of the throne, facing the artist and curling their lips in jest to all who thought the arrangement was destined to fail. The portrait had turned into quite the scandal as ladies in the court started spreading the rumor that the brothers already could not look each other in the eye.

Ewam studied the portraits often trying to determine how honestly they represented the men they portrayed. The artist had taken liberties in cleaning him up for instance. He had to hand it to the man, he had made it seem like Ewam belonged before the throne. Even so, he paled to Eden. His brother brimmed with confidence and strength. The reality that Ewam was inferior to Eden rarely left his mind. He spent most days striving to reach that level.

“Lord Ewam,” the voice, despite sounding like a mouse, made him jump.

He wondered how long his serving woman, Meriam, had been behind waiting for him. The woman was a few years younger than him with plain brown hair accentuated by the long brown hair that she wore in a bun. She was devoted to him, to her duty. It worried her beyond anything else to break decorum, but she had an ability to sneak up on him. She glided lightly along the floor no matter the surface.

“I truly apologize, my lord,” she curtsied far enough for her long skirt to fold twice against the tiled floor. “I would never have interrupted your important thoughts, if the not for the urgency of the message I carry.”

“What is it, Meriam?” He adjusted the black vest he wore over a white shirt. He should have been wearing some sort of jacket to be proper, but he sweated like a pig in those. He knew Meriam had one waiting for him before he entered Union Hall.

“A foreigner arrived this morning pleading to see the Kings of Satar. Lord Eden is with him now and requests that you join the audience as soon as you are able.”

“From where does this foreigner hail?” Visitors from other lands were rare.

“I do not know, my Lord. All I know is that he smells as if he hasn’t washed in his lifetime.”

“Smells?” Ewam tugged at the tufts of his beard. The woman removed his hand out of habit. At times she was devoted to formality, others she was like an older sister rebuking an uncouth younger brother. In a fluid sequence of movements, she was ushering him toward Union Hall, slipping a blue jacket with maroon stitching and folded cuffs over his shoulder, and calling for the doors to be opened for King Ewam. Sometimes he wished she could pull more strings to handle the many other tasks set before him.

The doors snapped shut behind him and Meriam was gone. He sighed without his little general pushing him toward duty. Before him was the great hall with the clean tiles and tall columns. Old Moon and New Moon floating in a sky of stars were depicted in a mural behind the thrones. His brother sat in one. Before him a man was kneeling and he did not look up when Ewam entered.

Checking to make sure the jacket was properly buttoned, Ewam started forward trying his hardest to mimic his brother’s stately gait. He was sure he was failing. Ignoring the man bent on one knee, Ewam studied Eden as he traversed the long hall. As always, Eden stood straight backed in the throne without a hint that perfect posture was nothing but perfectly comfortable. Despite that, Eden’s eyes were all wrong. They were red with a hint of fear and something else that Ewam could not quite put his finger on. Eden’s jaws were clenched, his hands were held tight to the throne. It was like he was being held there against his will.

A great gulp of fear eased down Ewam’s throat into his stomach as he took one look back toward the doors that now seemed impossibly far away. Why in the world would Eden see a complete stranger unattended? Ewam grasped for a sword at his waist that wasn’t there. They did not wear weapons in the throne room. They barely wore weapons at all with the only exception being when they traveled in the countryside.

Ewam was close enough to peer over the kneeling shoulder to see what lay on the floor before him. It was a long, curved blade with what looked like a glass hilt filled with sand. The sword’s appearance pulled at his memory, but that was kicked away by an even greater sense of urgency. He was incensed that any of their guard’s had allowed an armed man into a private appearance with one of the kings much less both. And Meriam? She’d never allow such a risk. Unless. A new fear swirled in his mind. Was this some sort of treason?

He didn’t have time to think or worry about the causes of the situation; he had to intercede. His brother was obviously shocked beyond action. Ewam changed his gait into a gallop. The man on the floor never flinched as Ewam jumped between him and his brother. If this man was looking to assassinate the kings, Ewam was going to shield his brother long enough for him to escape.

“Flee Eden, I will not allow this rogue to harm you,” Ewam words came out as a shout and he was shocked to see that the man on the floor never reached for the sword.

“Brother, that is not necessary,” Ewam could hear Eden rising to his feet behind him.

“A man armed before you and you do not see the threat?” Ewam thought about lunging toward the blade if his opponent was not going to make an attempt for it. He thought he might be quicker than his foe.

Ewam felt his brother’s hand on his shoulder. For the first time, he noticed the odor lingering around the thrones. It smelled of urine mixed with some other indescribable filth, both impossible for Union Hall. He couldn’t help holding the thick cuff of his jacket to his nose.

“He has vowed not to harm us,” Eden tugged on Ewam’s shoulde trying to get him to look away from the sword. “I believe him. Please, trust my judgment brother.”

Ewam took a few steps back trying to escape the smell. He studied the sword and then his brother’s face. He trusted his brother’s judgment more than his own, but this felt all wrong. Backing up more, he found his own throne and then forced himself to view their visitor.

The man wore a tattered brown jacket with what was once a white shirt below. The shirt was stained a dark yellow from ware and sweat. He had brown pants on underneath that had tears in a half dozen places. He was on one knee allowing Ewam to see that his leather boots with a thick wood heel were now fit for nothing more than a hot burn pile. The man’s entire outfit would find the same flames if Ewam had any say in it. He considered sending the man out immediately to bathe before he saw them. It was an odd thought form him, one more suited for his better-groomed brother, but Eden had not forced such a condition meaning the man’s presence was urgent.

Ewam focused on the clothes, trying to avoid the face and the dark hair that dangled in knots and twists. The man’s face sagged and was lined with terror and exhaustion. Ewam guessed he was nearly the same age as he and Eden, but whatever he had gone through to get here had aged him ten maybe twenty years.

“Brother,” Eden started once he was sure that Ewam was settled on his throne. He then returned to his own throne. “This is Banik Tarn from the city of Noce in Nocnil. He brings disturbing news from out neighbors to the west. I believe you’ll want to hear it.”

Ewam eyes shot back to the sword as recognition of the blade finally settled into his mind. His fingernails sank into the wood of the throne. To think, he thought, it was only hours ago that he was disturbed by a nightmare.

“Please Banik, tell my brother what you have told me,” Eden did not wait for any more reaction from Ewam.

The man started with the thick-accent that hung on end consonants like honey on the sickle, which was commonly associated with the men of the sand.

“Lords of Satar, the watch has failed,” the man’s eyes never left the floor. “The scourge of the sand walks again. Nocnil is no more. If nothing is done, the rest of the world will fall soon with it. I come here for retribution and forgiveness, even if you cannot provide both.”

“Forgiveness?” Ewam’s voice came out as a croak.

Banik’s eyes finally rose from the floor and met Ewam. Two dark orbs edged in brown shown up.

“In my heart, I know my father is to blame and that the demon walks in my son’s skin.”

Banik’s head dropped again. Ewam was sure it was to hide tears.

Despite the pain that the revelation obviously caused the man, Ewam’s eyes went to the blade and he had to ask.

“And that?” Ewam pointed to it.

Banik raised his head and almost saw the sword for the first time. The dark rings around the man’s eyes grew.

“Only men of the Sorna Watch knew where that was stored. No king was trusted with it for an age. When the demon took Noce, I had to take it. I could not let him have it.”

“This can’t be true,” Ewam turned to Eden, who was still straight-backed but the look from before had returned from when Ewam entered the room. Ewam understood the third emotion mixed with weariness and fear. It was panic.

“It was called Duna in the days of old,” Banik continued without being asked. “Duna was a mythical oasis in the Sorna. When the blade was forged in Rion, it was thought that the sword would deliver us of the sand to that paradise.”

Banik almost reached out to touch it, but then thought better of it.

“Why did you bring it to us?” Eden said it, but Ewam had been on the verge of asking the same thing.

“As a prize,” Banik stared up at both men.

“A prize.”

“Help me deliver retribution against the demon and ye may have it all. The sword, the lands, all of it I offer to the Lords of Satar.”

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 16 – In the cave

Note: I was going to go a little farther here, but I like people wanting a little more. I'll be interested to see the reaction to this.

Disc 1
Track 16: 3’s & 7’s by Queens of the Stone Age

“The truth hurts so bad, wouldn’t you say. So why tell it?”

The witch had summoned them, but she had also stirred the horses beyond consoling. Oan and Nestor tied each to a tree and spent the rest of the waning light massaging the horses’ muscles and trying to work down their fear. Afterward, they fed them and took off the saddles.

Oan knew his companion was glad to have the delay before meeting the witch. Her appearance at the entrance of the cave had done nothing to soothe either of their nerves about having to converse with her. For one, she was intimidating despite barely coming to either of their chests. Second, neither man really had any idea of what she was going to reveal. Nestor surely had secrets that he wanted kept from Oan. As for Oan, there were plenty of secrets he didn’t even know about himself.

With the horses as settled as they ever would be with the green torches flaming above and the screams of the Shadows still in the distance, Oan and Nestor climbed the rocky embankment up to the cave. The night air was crisp and cold; puffs of white breath came from Nestor’s mouth. Oan didn’t know how cold it would have to be before his breath would do the same. He guessed maybe only on the frozen plain to the heavens would he find out. Except, he doubted if that was ever a likely destination for him.

At the mouth of the cave, darkness loomed like an invisible door frightening away any passersby. Nestor sucked in air like he was dipping his head under water, Oan had to resist doing the same as they stepped into the unnatural shade. For a few steps, the entire scope of Oan’s vision was black. He held his hands out before him to hopefully protect him from any hanging rocks. He knew he’d heal anyway, but even for him, a knot on the head led to a lingering headache.

A few more steps in and the darkness gave way to an empty cavern glowing from more orbs stuck unceremoniously around the cave walls. The witch stood in the middle of the cavern, her back to them and her arms held straight out with her palms up. Her head nodded up and down as if she were asleep standing up.

“They drove spikes into his palms,” her voice sounded like it was coming from the other end of a hundred-mile cave. “He wore a crown of thorns that stabbed into his brow. Who would treat the King of Kings so?”

A vision, quick and jarring, of blood pouring from the witch’s hands and feet, came to Oan. Only it wasn’t the witch, it was a man. Then the vision was gone.

Nestor jabbed Oan with his elbow, then lifted his spear. Both men had entered the cave armed, Nestor with the spear and Oan with Kekur. For once, Oan was glad to have the sword.

“I thought you had lost your nerve, my lovely boy,” the witch’s voice seemed closer, but it still held a note of sadness and wonder. She twirled around, leaving her arms out till she faced them. Then her left arm dropped her side and her right she held out in front of her, palm up waiting for him to come and take it. He moved without thought taking her hand, kissing her palm and then turning it over kissing that side as well.

“The horses were frightened, mother,” he said, dropping to a knee.

“Ah well,” she took his face in her hands. “What to do when the beasts of burden become burdens? I know a good horse stew.”

Nestor coughed at the suggestion of eating horse. For a moment, the witch’s eyes shot to him, her face turning to cold steel then she returned her gaze to Oan and she radiated happiness.

“I have missed you, my lovely boy,” She kissed his forehead then cradled him against her stomach.

“I have missed you also, mother,” he felt her tense against his touch, but for a moment there had been comfort. He had longed for that sort of comfort his entire life.

“I will not have that mother business,” she pulled away. “I allowed that when you were a boy, but you’re are a man now and I am not you’re mother.”

Standing, Oan needed a few seconds to readjust to his surroundings. He grasped the hilt of Kekur, feeling the pulse of heat running through it. As if sensing his thoughts, the witch reached over and grabbed the back his hand.

“That quick is it boy,” she let go tracing her finger lightly up his arm. “One instant mother, the next a foe worthy of the nasty end of your sword.” Her lips pursed at the end of that line. “Have you not riled up enough shadows for the time being?”

Her finger came to his face, then his lips. For a second, he thought he heard her purr like a cat being scratched. He withdrew a few steps.

“We will not succumb to your trickery or spells, witch,” Nestor’s voice came out a growl.

The witch’s emerald eyes shifted quickly and she stalked toward Nestor, who still stood just inside the edge of the darkness. He held the spear out before him, pointed as in attack.

She walked right up to him, letting the point of the spear press at her left breast. She purred again before speaking. Her words came out more like a hiss.

“You dream of power you cannot have, one-eyed man,” the witch said. Nestor’s hands were shaking, the spear scratched against the surface of the silk gown. For the first time, Oan noticed the woman still wore no form of shoes. Her bare heals poked out from under the bottom of the gown.

“I dream of only avenging my wife and my honor,” Nestor seemed on the verge of tears.

“How will you do that?”

“I will slay the demon Salama.” Nestor poked the spear forward, Oan was sure that had to have pierced the witch’s flesh.

All she did was laugh. Not one laugh, but a full on fit in mockery of the man. She brushed the spear away and turned back toward Oan. Nestor regained the spear and was ready to attack. Only a shake of Oan’s head stopped him from stabbing into the witch.

“As I said, you dream of power you cannot have,” the witch said once she gained her composure. “Salama is dead. You cannot slay what is already dead.”

“Mo. … Madra, the demon has returned,” Oan said before Nestor could. The man obviously irritated her. Oan was not going to let him do anymore talking than necessary. “The man, Nestor, has seen him”

“Nestor is a fool and don’t ever forget that, my boy,” her lips sneered saying the name. Her shoulders slumped then and her head turned toward the entrance of the cave as if she were listening to some far off call. “I have felt that call. The one that pulls women like a hook tugging in an Anni’s mouth. But that being is not Salama, but does carry that demon’s shadow like a leach sucking the life out of its host. The Dinar have performed the ceremony, returned the black sword and unleashed the dark back upon this world.”

“What can we do?”

The witch’s eyes flashed to the back of the cave with Oan’s gaze following. In the shadows, he could make out the wood door.

“We can dine.” She said dropping to the floor, where she sat crossed leg before a blanket atop which was a loaf of bread and two goblets of wine.

She broke the loaf of bread in two as he sat down across from her. Nestor stayed near the front of the cave, thankfully staying quiet. She reached across to him with half the loaf in her hand.

“Take and eat,” she looked amused, but about what he did not understand. He bit into the bread, which was still warm and started chewing.

“You come here for answers,” she said handing him one of the goblets. “Take and drink.”

The wine was red and sweet. He did not often imbibe and knew that he could not afford too many swallows from the goblet.

“Who am I?”

“Oan Stoneheart, do not be silly, boy.”

“Who were my parents?”

“Ah,” she drank from her own goblet and swirled it for a moment considering her words. “No one of any consequence.”

He slammed the goblet down and jumped to his feet. The sword sang as he pulled it from the belt. It whistled through the air stopping in front of her face.

“Do not play with me woman!” The same steady, calm look never left her face. She took her right hand and stroked it up and down the blade leaving a thin stream of blood. She took her hand away and let the wound drip on her half of the bread.

“You are the last of a line. A distant, although not really official, descendant of Tarek Grandar.”

“Not official.”

Her grin was wide.

“The man kept many woman.”

“Whores,” Nestor’s voice came as a shock from the front of the cave.

The witch sneered at him before returning her gaze to Oan.

“A woman smart enough to use all her talents to stay alive. Call her what ye will.”

“My parents.”

“Dead.”

“How?”

“Their hearts stopped beating.”

He thrust the sword forward, nicking the front of her throat.

“Who.” he asked between clenched teeth?

She smiled again, bringing the sword up and kissing the tip.

“They were Keepers of Marek, a quiet folk that live up near the old palace. They both lept from the peak of Kekur. I suppose siring someone such as yourself can have that effect.”

Never more in his life did he want to spill blood. Yet, there was a weakening in his knees that made it hard to steady the sword.

“You lie.”

Grabbing the sword, she made a cross in front of her heart with it.

“Hope to die.” There was no mockery in her voice this time. He brought the sword down, almost with a whimper.

“Good, I am glad that is out,” the mirth returned to her lips. He sat there as she starting feasting on her blood-soaked loaf of bread. He heard Nestor retching behind him, but could focus on nothing else. Had he really caused his own parents to jump off a mountain? Why would they ever do that? What kind of monster was he?

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 15 – Welcome home

Note: This post past the 20,000 word mark. We sit now at 21, 102. Not too shabby. We close in on a much anticipated event in this section. One that has been building since the start of the story.

Disc 1

Track 15: Hands by The Raconteurs

“’Cause you’re the only one who really knows”

The wailing from the Shadows was constant making sleep impossible for the rest of the trip through the foothills and thinning the horses’ nerves to barely a thread. Oan and Nestor sat awake by the fire each night, barely talking, listening to the fear-drenched screams. They would have kept moving through the nights, but the threachourous terrain and the branches that stabbed out into the paths made it too dangerous in the dark.

Nestor had implored him to leave Kekur uncovered and to carry as if it were the weapon of his choice. After the first day’s travel after the attack, Nestor started crafting a belt with a loop attached from the hide of the boar he had killed. It took the man three nights to stretch it out, dry and form it. He used the buckle from the belt that had been all but destroyed when Nestor had taken his swim in the Belnor. When it was all finished, Nestor handed the belt over.

“Wear that sword in this, and I’ll assure those banshees won’t come near us again,” Nestor said. It was evident that Nestor was not interested in meeting another Gargola.

Oan didn’t think the belt would ever hold the weight of the sword, but as Kekur had done in battle, it lost its weight when worn as a weapon. The sword was peculiar. If he did not know better, he thought it had a personality geared toward battle. How could a sword have a personality?

Oan felt like a traitor to the Alrdoubi by brandishing the sword. The great blades had been a contributor to the rise of Salama and the waste he laid before him. The blades had severed the world when Tarek Grandar cut into the heavens. They had flooded a kingdom. They had drawn an end to one age and the birth of another. Since then, they had been gone, not forgotten, and the consequences had weighed greatly upon the Aldroubi. Now he had stirred the power of Kekur from slumber and, if the old legends were true, when one awoke so did the rest. What had he begun?

The density of the forest was beginning to wane as the elevation gradually increased. The canopy above was still too thick to see through, but he could feel they were closing in on their destination.

Nestor rode behind him, always behind him, humming some tune that Oan did not recognize. It was his attempt to block out the Shadows. They had been riding twelve days since the attack, and still the screaming continued. The only change was the shrillness of the shrieks. Even the Shadows’ voices could handle screaming for only so long.

“Do you handle swords in Nocnil, Nestor,” Oan asked? The man cut off humming in mid tune. A boot connected to a hairy leg and nothing else caught Oan’s eye to their right. It was sticking from below a thorny bush, likely carried there by some animal. It belonged to one of the Shadows. They were killing each other now. It was the third sighting they had had that day.

“Aye, me boy. Our blades are curved like New Moon, not straight like yours there,” Nestor replied.

“Did your ancestors not fear the blade at the end of the last age?”

“Fear? Boy, we lived on the edge of a vast desert that’ll slowly kill you from the inside out if you venture too far and, if that weren’t bad enough, a damned demon was entombed somewhere out there and it was our duty to watch for it. So, no, I says, blades didn’t bother us too much.”

Oan sighed. If he had grown up there, his soul would not feel so stained then.

“Course, my boy, we never made swords like that one you got to feel guilty about. It was those fools in Rion that mixed the blades with some sort of magic that caused all the problems.”

Oan sighed again. Nestor liked to put in jabs about how it was everyone else’s fault for the likes of Salama. He thought maybe it eased his own conscience for his failure at watching the Sorna and stopping the demon’s return.

“Look, when it comes down to it, you’re gonna have to accept using that thing strapped to your waist, my boy. When the battle comes, we all reach for our blades.”

Oan stifled another sigh. The rest of the body belonging to the leg well behind them now was in their path. He dropped off his horse to move it out of the way.

“Perhaps, you can teach me in the sword,” Oan said straining to carry the corpse form the road.

Nestor tilted his head as he sat atop his steed. He made no attempt to help Oan in the task.

“I’ll show what I can, I will, I will.” With that Nestor started humming again.

Oan dropped the body in the bramble never looking at the face. The less he remembered about the Shadows, the better.

Nestor kept humming the rest of the afternoon, as Oan’s mind drifted back and forth between the sword at his hip and the duty ahead. The swordbearer had mention three blades from his dream. How in the world would Oan ever reckon with himself to carry three, when one disturbed his mind every waking moment of the day? Then there was the business of his identity. The swordbearer claimed he was an heir of Marek, not Rion. How could that be?

Every avenue led to one conclusion. The witch. She had to know more. She had to tell him his path. He hated depending on her so much, but she was the only one that could help. Perhaps, it was her that was meant to clash with Salama. She had never talked about that demon being part of his destiny. His fate was always focused on the final great battle. She was the one that worked magic, and used, as she sometimes called it, the Spark. He was a hunter, no more, no less.

Just before dusk turned to night making it too difficult to travel, they came to a clearing and before them rearing up to impossible heights were the snow-topped mountains of Marek. Nestor gave out a whistle. Mountains were not a feature one from the Sorna was used to. It had been a long time since Oan had seem them, and now they seemed to loom twice as high as they had when was a boy.

A flicker of light caught Oan’s eye ahead of them in the rocky hills before the mountains. From deep inside a crevice in the terrain, two green lights pulsed out and seemed to be floating toward them. He heard Nestor fumbling for his spear.

“Don’t move,” Oan whispered.

At the mouth of the cave, the two green orbs stopped and glowed brighter than before. They were mounted atop two tall staffs held firmly by two hands attached to thin, pale arms. She stood out then, chest held out proud, with a warm smile that never touched her eyes. She wore a green dress with gold stitching that was more suited for a grand hall than a cave. He had never seen in her such regal attire and wondered where in the world she had found the garment. To his surprise, he could feel his blood moving faster and his heart pounding. A small part of him felt like he was home and returned to a mother that he had not seen in years. He wanted to jump off the horse and run up and embrace as tight as he could. That feeling, however, was balanced by his other instinct to reach for the sword and drive it through her chest. Kekur burned hotter than ever at his side.

“I have been waiting, my love,” Her voice boomed despite her small stature. “Welcome!”

With that, she brought both staffs down hard into the stone below. He could hear, almost feel, the stone crack and give way. For an instant, a great wave of green shot out into then nearly dark night. Both horses, whinnied up, and it took all of his strength to stay on. Nestor was not so lucky, landing with smack on his rear on the uneven ground below. Oan frowned up at the witch.

“Come now, The Door to Nowhere awaits.”

She turned and was swallowed up in the dark of the cave.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 14 – Wedded to the dark

Note: I think I could do a whole project with the lyrics from this song. It became hard to figure out where to go because there were several avenues I wanted to go down. I thought this turned into a nice change of pace from the last section.

Disc 1
Track 14: Bukowski by Modest Mouse

“I can’t make it to your wedding, but I’m sure I’ll be at your wake”

Long ago, Salama had leveled Noce with one mighty swing from his black sword. Every building, every palace, even the silly little gardens that the royalty loved to brag about growing despite the lack of the rain, fell in his wake. Everything fell but the Golden Dome of Ithmus. That stood rearing it’s rounded head that reflected the light of the sun as if to gloat. The old tales don’t say, because they don’t know, but one of the last things he saw before Tarek Grandar entombed him in the Sorna was the glowing dome off in the distance. He took that image with him to the underworld where it tormented him for an age.

The dome was the only real remnant from the old city. Everything else came after he was gone, even the Coliseum where he had feasted upon women until full. It was his payback to the ancient wonder to have the Dinar turn into his Temple. He had his son’s and daughter’s take rotting corpses of the city’s children and paint the gold exterior in their blood then leave the corpses above for the buzzards to collect the remains and defecate on the dome as they did.

Hatala did not know how she knew about all that while standing inside the hallowed room under the dome where seven gold pillars stood around seven ancient gold thrones with a gold crown waiting beside each on a gold pillar. Barely visible behind each throne, a man stood robed and hooded in black. The only light came from thousands of candles placed on the ivory floor forming hundreds of small six-pointed stars. Before her was a table, waist eye with intricate carvings of demons along the side. On the table were placed seven gold goblets.

Her head was floating atop weary shoulders and a body battered, torn and defiled. The Dinar had rushed her across the city, naked, bleeding, allowing every sharp stone upon the street to tear into her feet. When they arrived at the dome, she was handed a purple, silk garment cut low on the chest and high on the legs before being led into the huge room.

She was changed inside. The internal blocks between her and the magic she always suspected she possessed were gone. It flowed within her veins. It pounded out in every heartbeat wanting to explode. The power resonated through out her bones wanting to be released. Even more peculiar was the sudden flashes of memory and knowledge that floated through her brain.

She had never been to Noce before much less inside the dome, but she knew that the man responsible for it – a king named Ithmus, who feared water so much that he never bathed, built it to trap the kings of the six other kingdoms. This had been long before Salama or Tarek Grandar in an age when the kingdoms were at war, even Arna. It had been a silly plot by Ithmus, one ended with his head mounted atop the mast of an Arnaian ship. Hatala could not deny that she was exhilarated by the thought of Ithmus’ head sailing through the breeze. The dome, however, was a triumph of architecture that had lasted in a world where little else had.

She stood alone for what seemed like an eternity in the middle of the room, the ivory cold on her feet. She couldn’t see the men behind the thrones, but she could feel their eyes. There were more eyes above as well.

Finally, one of the dark figures moved in front of his throne, removed the crown and then circled around to stand behind the table. The man was nearly two-heads taller than her and despite being right before her, she could not make out his face. She watched the crown as the man placed it upon the table. It had a rose engraved upon it with a sharp torn jutting from its stem. There appeared to be something dripping from the stem, her mind assumed it to be blood.

“Who comes before the Lords of the Dinar?” The voice was hollow, but cracked from little use.

“Hatala Del Aram,” she answered.

“For what purpose?”

“To worship my Lord Salama.”

Before she could react, he slapped her across the face with the back of his hand. Blood gushed from her nose that she was sure was broken.

“The Great Lord of the Underworld is master of all.” He said with no emotion.

She tried to steady her legs and meet the shadowed face.

“What is your purpose?” He started again.

“To worship the Great Lord of the Underworld.”

He slapped her again, this time across the jaw. She felt it pop, likely fractured in more than one place.

“Do not waste our time.” He still did not indicate any sort of anger or rage in his voice.

“What is your purpose?”

She was dizzy from the two blows and not entirely sure her mouth would work.

“To serve the Great Lord,” her words came out jumbled. She felt teeth in the back of her mouth jiggle too much in her gums.

“In what manner?”

“In any why that pleases the Great Lord.” Somehow now she knew the words they wanted to hear.

“For how long?”

“Till the end of days and beyond.”

At that, the man pulled back his hood and it took all her willpower not to scream. The man had two black orbs for eyes surrounded by thin, rotten green skin that was blistered and scarred in too many places to count. There were solitary strands of long gray hairs protruding out in all directions from his head. His lips and ears were long gone leaving gaps where yellow, infested bone and flesh were clear. His teeth, the few he had, were black. He gave her a good look before placing the crown upon his head.

“What is the price of eternity?” She wasn’t sure if he was smiling or if he beyond being able to control the muscles of his face.

“My soul.”

“Do you give it to him?”

“I do.” She answered without hesitation. She had already healed both her jaw and nose with the power now coursing through her. She longed for more.

The Dinar pulled a knife that was long and curved from his robe. Lifting one of the goblets, he slit his right wrist letting his thick blood ooze into the goblet. When he was satisfied, he set the goblet down before her and she saw the wound at his wrist slowly heal.

“This is the blood of Underworld, drink it and bond thyself to the Great Lord.”

She grabbed the goblet greedily with both hands, the smell from it made her stomach want to wretch. Without giving it another thought, she put it to her lips and let the warm, sour substance stream into her. She gagged and convulsed dropping the goblet.

From the entrance of the dome, Salama watched. He had stood in her shoes long ago. Although it had not been the Dinar’s blood he had been forced to drink. That ritual was different then, but the outcome very much the same. She was married to the Lord of the Dark now, but he believed she was strong enough to still be used for his plot to usurp that monarchy. If she proved not strong enough, he’d just have to get rid of her then.

They repeated the act of drinking the Dinar’s blood with the six others. They were an old bunch, men that had served him the first time. It was amazing their bodies had not spoiled completely yet. When they were finished, she was left lying on her back, and the candles had nearly all burnt out. Above, ungodly creatures watched from the deep shadows. She bared her bloodstained teeth looking up at the thousands of eyes shining down on her.

Red's CD Project Story 2: Part 13 – The Shadows of Marek

Note: I thought I was a little overdue for an action sequence for a Fantasy story. It's been awhile since I tried fighting sequences like this, so I wasn't entirely happy with the wording an such, but I think it got the point across. Enjoy.

Disc 1
Track 13: The Road Leads Where It Has Led – The Secret Machines

“Uncertainty fails”

Ten days past after leaving the Rock Garden Of Manta before Oan and Nestor reached the foothills of the mountains. The vegetation consisting both of tall, thick proud leaf-bearing trees and the beginnings of the wide, low to the ground needle-bearers that ruled the mountainside mixed with a dense wall of bushes and shrubs, which made travel difficult. There were trails carving through the terrain, some made by deer, bears and big cats. Others were made by the strange race of men and dwarves known only as the Shadows of Marek.

The trails were narrow and crude, forcing the two travelers to dismount and lead the horses through. The steeds did not go willingly. The foothills were a dark place with shadows and wild beasts. Animals could sense danger as well or perhaps better than men. Oan, more sensitive than most, could feel eyes watching him from deep in the thicket. He had been in the foothills when he was a boy with the protection of the witch, but that had been a long time ago.

Nestor mumbled a lot, the suffocating nature of the place made the old man dream of being back out in the wide-open skies of the desert.

That night they camped at the base of a large hill where three trails converged to form a rare, flat open spot. Oan supposed it was foolish to camp on the trail, but he knew the dangers of the forest would find them just as well in the thicket as they would on the trail. Besides, he knew the shadows were watching. He just wasn’t sure they’d be brave enough to attack.

Nestor insisted on doing the hunt that night in an attempt to be more than just a burden to Oan. The Aldroubi had provided a spear for Nestor when they left camp, but the man was awkward with it. He tended to carry it as staff, and Oan guessed, the man intended to use it the same in action. Oan unsaddled the horses and gave them a good rubdown followed by a handful of grain mixed with some herbs to settle their nerves. He laid the heavy sword Kekur down near where he built a small fire. With those tasks completed, he laid down using his blanket roll as a pillow and nodded off to sleep. They had done nothing but travel since Nestor fully recovered in the Rock Garden and it was beginning to catch up with him. Even on hunts with the Aldroubi, there was a day or two of rest between trips out.

He wasn’t sure how long he had dozed before a loud crack forced him to his feet with his spear ready in hand. The thicket to his right was shaking wildly, and he cursed himself for being so foolish.

“Come out, Shadow,” Oan sounded out. “Come meet my spear.”

Grunts came for the thicket and it started to shake more. Oan kept his feet wide, his knees bent; his entire body was wound for the attack.

“Come out, Shadow,” he shouted, jabbing forward.

Finally, the bushes opened and a wild boar’s face was staring back into his eyes. For a moment, Oan was stunned to see a boar tall enough to reach his eyes before he realized the eyes were very much dead. The boar was riding across Nestor’s shoulders. Oan let out the air he was holding tight.

“What was all that you was yelling,” Nestor asked while panting? Sweat was pouring down his scarred face, but a grin was beaming out from him jaws. The man had meant to get a rise out of Oan. “I’ve caught us a feast, now give me a hand.”

“This is too much for just two,” Oan said reaching up to lift the boar from the man’s shoulders. The beast had to weigh as much as half a man. “We can’t eat it all tonight and it will spoil before we stop again.”

“We’ll dry it and salt it my boy,” Oan winked. “It lasts us longer than those furry critters you catch stay in my belly, that’s for sure.”

“Salt? Who has salt?”

“I am a man with many surprises boy,” Nestor winked again. Oan tensed at that admission.

“I doubt that not.”

Nestor and Oan spent most the night butchering the beast, cooking it down and wrapping up long dried strips in bits of cloth from a pack that Nestor had brought with him from the camp. By the time they were done, Old Moon was high in the sky with New Moon falling near behind, and each man had a stomach rounded out and full. It didn’t take long for both to fall asleep, Nestor first with long snores and a whistle from his one open nostril. Oan was too tired and his stomach too full to let it bother him. He would come to regret that.

The thing that Oan did not know, nor Nestor for that matter, was that the Shadows of Marek received their name for several reasons. One was that no matter their girth, and some of them were three times the size of a normal man, they could move as shadows without a sound moving among the dark like the wind between branches. Oan didn’t hear them when they came upon the path at the top of the hill.

The first was a dwarf whose height barely came up to Oan’s thighs. The dwarf was bald with a long blonde mustache. He had strong arms and legs and carried an old, rusted ax.

His partner was what the old people called a Gargola. They had been used to carry boulders from the caves of Marek. The man was easily twice the height of Oan, his arms nearly as wide as Oan’s waist. He carried two clubs that could have past as trunks for trees. He had the face of dullard, because he was. They both were. Like the rest of the Shadows of Marek, they were stricken with the lunacy and idiocy passed down by their ancestors when Tarek Grandar cursed them and banished them from the mountains. They were from a line of traitors living out an eternal punishment.

Despite that, they were dangerous and lethal. The dwarf had his ax’s blade at Oan’s throat before the man could open an eye. If Nestor had not screeched when the Gargola wrapped its meaty paws around his throat, then Oan would not have awoke at all. Later, Oan wondered if the witch’s curse could heal a head separated from a neck. It was a question that he never wished to have answered.

Oan caught the ax in his palms, feeling it dig nearly all the way through before stopping when it hit bone. The dwarf’s eyes widened in surprise and Oan pushed up against the blade. Oan felt his blood dripping down onto his chest. With a great shove, he sent the dwarf sprawling onto his back. Oan felt for his spear, found it and went on the attack.

The dwarf was quick, dodging Oan’s first thrust and then cutting the spear in two with his ax. Across the fire, he could hear Nestor gurgling caught in the Gargola’s grasp. Oan held the two ends of the spear and without a second thought, threw the pointed end across the fire. The spear whistled as it crossed the distance, then struck with a wet thud in the Gargola’s shoulder. It let out a hollow moan dropping Nestor without a care to the ground. Oan admired how the old man started crawling toward his spear even while gasping for air.

Oan’s hands tingled as they healed, but he soon he forgot the sensation as the dwarf cut deep just above his rib. Oan dropped to a knee. The dwarf pulled the blade out and swung again at his head. Oan rolled away still grasping the dull half of the spear. Getting back to his knees, his entire back burned as dirt stuck in the wound before it fully healed.

The dwarf charged, Oan thrust once with the spear, but the dwarf fended it off with the ax sending it sailing away in shards. Oan rolled away again. He caught a glimpse of Nestor landing a few hard strikes with the dull end of the spear, but they barely fazed the muscled Gargola. The monster thrashed once with his arm knocking Nestor the ground. For a moment, the man’s one good eye caught Oan’s and then flashed to the ground near the fire. Oan looked over to where the long bundle rested on the ground.

Lying on his back, Oan saw the dwarf cross his field of vision. He kicked the dwarf away giving him a moment to think. He crawled backward on his elbows toward the bundle. He was looking for any other defense other than the sword. He had grown up detesting the blades that had brought the world to its knees. Despite that, Kekur was ungodly heavy. How could a man fight with such a thing?

He kicked again at the dwarf, but missed. The dwarf was getting too close, raising the ax well over his head. This was Oan’s only chance. Reaching over, he pulled at the hilt. The cloth gave away as Old Moon’s pale light reflected off Kekur. At first, Kekur was too heavy for him to lift from his back, but as he strained the sword changed, almost as if it were giddy for battle. Oan’s hands fit perfectly in the groves as he brought Kekur up to meet the ax blade. Oan thought he saw a glowing light follow the blade’s route. When it hit the ax, it tore into the blade making a deep cut all the way down to the handle. The dwarf dropped it before it reached his hands.

Seeing the sword for the first time, the dwarf’s face contorted into a vast mix of rage, fear and shame. The sound the dwarf made then came from deep inside it’s muted, cursed soul. It knew very well what that sword was. Soon the Gargola joined in the inhuman chorus before both bounding away into the thicket. Their shrieks could be heard for miles. It was not long before other voices joined in. The Shadows of Marek were awake and frightened. The King they had betrayed long ago had returned for retribution.

Oan finally tore his eyes away from the blade to see that Nestor was sitting on his knees across the fire also staring at Kekur.

“I don’t think you’ll be needing a spear any more, my boy,” Nestor’s voice was hoarse. Oan’s frown went from the old man back to the blade.