In stunned silence, the village waits. The world holds it’s breath. Eyes wide, transfixed by the Bard, who’s very stature has seemed to lengthen and grow with his telling of the story. A deviation of a story they all thought they knew since youth.
The plump chieftain, his tankard spilling ale, stands, ready to yell down this impostor, this thief of joy. Surely he has come only to sow discord and unrest. This be not the bard that has resided in their midst since… Since… Since he was a littling?
Standing, about to shout accusations, the chieftain halts and studies the Bard. As if fog clearing from his eyes, he suddenly sees the Bard he had known his whole life. Not the old frail man as his countenance suggests, but a rigorous man, full of life and vigor.
The Bard, turns to look at the chieftain, drawing deeply on his pipe causing the end to glow red. The pipe glows redder still, moving to orange, then yellow to white with heat. He stands to face the chieftain, the village fire in between them. Two men, staring each other down. The chieftain’s face twisted with surprise, the Bard’s with calm. Still he draws on his pipe. Not yet taking a breath. The Bard steps forward, into the flame and lets the smoke out his lungs.
His voice booms over the village, no longer the soft spokenness of an old man weaving tales, but with the command of authority. The flames of the fire surround him, and yet do not touch him. He grows in height, standing far above the chieftain himself, his brown cloak no longer moth-eaten and torn, but a deep rich silver, over shining armor of alien design.
“For too long have you men dwelt in comfort! Growing fatter with each winter, letting your swords rust and bows fray. You men, who have squandered the very blood of Kyren that runs through your veins. You men now seek to challenge me when I bring the truth!
His voice softens.
“But the fault does not lie with you alone.” To himself, muttering “I have coddled you like babes for too long.”
The chieftain, mouth agape, sits back down, dropping the ale from his hand. His gaze, along with that of the village, transfixed upon the Bard. The fog removed as visions dance behind their eyes.
The plain where Kyren met Cadryn in battle. Cadryn leaving victorious, Kyren having met his end. The Bard, wounded on the battlefield, witnessing it all, trapped under the stead he rode to battle on, his staff broken. Cadryn, returning to the mountains, returning to his keep with his dark disciples. And the darkness that swept across the land, driving men to seek peace towards the east.
Men continuing east, deeper in the desert, further away from their homes, as the darkness threatened to follow. For generations, men traveling, always east. Until now. At the edge of the world, past the great sand sea, men finally found solace. Here, they rebuilt. Here they lived.
“Cadryn has awoken. And now he seeks to finish the line of Kyren. I do not know why, or how, or what has transpired since we fled east, but I know this.” The Bard having passed through the fire to stand before the villagers, the littlings at his feet, making not a sound. His cloak brown and ragged again, yet his posture still upright.
“We must take up arms. We must meet him on the battlefield. Or this world will fall to him. The heritage of Kydren, destroyed.
Eyes turn to the chieftain. His mouth still agape at the sights before him. The village will not move if not for the chieftain’s words. Loyal as they are. Unsteadily, the chieftain approaches the Bard, his voice stuck in his throat. He stands before the Bard, eyes searching the Bard’s face. His voice, a harsh whisper.
“I… I remember you. Sitting on my father’s knee, I listened to you. Your stories?
How long? No, it doesn’t matter.”
He pauses, knowing what he must do, but not the will to do it.
“My sword, my clan, my village.” His voice growing louder, ensuring all can hear what needs to take place.
“Its yours now, Bard! Into battle we will follow. But first, we would know the name that you have called us to die for.”
“My name?” The Bard’s features soften, and his eyes glaze as he stares past the chieftain, and into his past. “No one’s asked my name for the past 300 years. I’d all but forgotten myself.” His gaze returns, as his face hardens. “When I crept from the battle, wounded and beaten, I shook off that name. Vowing to take it again when Cadryn falls. Now that we return to face him once again, I shall claim it. Let all men, women and littlings here, know who leads them! Let the other villages, tribes and cities of the east hear it too! Let it be a war cry that shall shake the very bones of Cadryn. Here before you, stands Gamlaen!”
The chieftain falls to his knees. If he had not seen the visions of the battle, if he had not recognized his face, he would have rejected it outright. Here, with this village, for countless years. It cannot be. It cannot be the one the legends spoke of. The one who weaves magic as if it were twine, shifting the very air around him, calling forth great monsters to fight by his side.
“And now” Gamlean looks down at the chieftain, his face broadening into a smile. His had reaches down to help the plump man to his feet. “Now, we must begin.”
…. To be concluded in The Bard’s Tale: Part III