Friday, 7 October 2011


Ideas come from many sources. I have been mulling over an MG Fantasy. 

On the welling of the River Dosluda that runs through the forest of Matenitisel over Staroitsa, in the times of Makkan, the third of his name.

When the gust of wind sent the opening of his campaign tent flapping like the signal to advance, the warrior king, Makkan, saw the boys clambering the rocks that edged the waterfall. The shouts and screams, alien to the discipline of his men, sharpened his senses, sent heat to his heart and strength to his arm. He stood, one hand crushing the begging letter that had been delivered by the commerce thieves and slugs of Staroitsa while the other tightened around the hilt of his drawn sword.
                Returning the blade to its kilu, Makkan put down his work and ignored the plans that demanded his attention. Framed in the doorway of his blood red tent he watched as the boys' long, well-muscled arms reached and pulled as they hauled themselves higher and, when the climb was more difficult, how they pushed and shoved at each other to be first back to the ledge. From this distance he could not make out the small, dark figure of his own boy. He smiled and relaxed. To learn the art of war, the Saye of the Greater Clans travelled with the caravan. Over the years, Makkan had seen – had experienced – the ways of the Saye Master. Ghaggra used unorthodox methods to temper the boys’ inner metal but he found it hard to believe the old man had sanctioned this one. Leaping out from a flat rock a good distance below the summit, the Saye took it in turns to jump into the rocky pool below.
                Then the boys in the pool looked up. Those who had been climbing clung to solid rocks or slid back when they stared higher. Too high. An air of stillness descended over the camp. 
               Kirune, the small, dark-skinned son who had sucked his mother’s image into his own rejecting all his father’s large boned frame and fair good looks, had climbed to the top of the mighty waterfall. Makkan knew the boy, on a spur of rock surrounded by the fast-flowing water,  must not be able to see much of pool below; he frowned and clenched his fists. He sensed the moment old Ghaggra, Saye Master, came to his side: the scent of leather, horses and well-oiled steel combined to be the essence of the man.
                “Makkan, my General; my king.”
                “Is this your doing?”
                “I teach the Saye the skills they will need; to know their worth; to be men after their own hearts.”
                The air around seemed to have lessened. The men of the camp who stood in silence held the breath they’d drawn. Pressure built with the expectation and the fear. A gale of disappointment blew when Kir stepped back away from the edge.
                Makkan’s broad face was marred when he twisted his lip and he creased his nose, “Next time I marry let it be to a woman of stature who will not breed me runts with pretty faces.”
               Ghaggra bowed; he hid his smile for fear he might not keep his head.
               The king had turned, ready to return to the important business of the day, when more cries than the chirruping chorus of the dawn disturbed him again. He spun in time to see his small son, too small for a boy of his age, racing towards the edge of the waterfall. Speed turned into distance as he threw himself out and away from the rocks. The form, more tiny now it was shown against the torrent of white and blue, tucked and fell fast. Suddenly, he pushed his legs straight back behind him, arrowed his arms over his head. A small dark dart he speared the water in the pool, far from the rocks that endangered the edge. Soon his head of curls slicked backed by water, and seemingly in one piece, was visible as he swam to the shore of the Dosluda.
“So,” said the Saye Master into the storm of cheers, the ratching of blades on shield rims and the laughter.
Red stained the cheeks of the king, he bit words through closed teeth, “What need have I of a foolish, reckless son? Such a one would lead my army to destruction.”

Poor Kirune - family, opportunity and adversity shapes us. ;)


Have a great weekend. I will be posting Six sentences on Sunday.

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