Short Story Submission

[Klazzform]

I would like to submit

 

The Battle of Light and Dark by Mindblade

The children sat in a circle, delighted that the patchwork minstrel had finally returned. The minstrel, they knew, travelled the world, restless in his search for tale and song. And now, at last, he had stopped at their village again.

“Sit down then,” he said. His eyes were fever-bright as he spoke. “This tale – yes, I think this is the right tale to tell.” He spoke with confidence. “This is a story you have never heard before.”


*

The valley was silent. The night was dark, and the air was cool.

A castle stood atop the crag. Treacherous and ominous, wrapped in the deepest shadow, it’s spires were jagged and twisted, as though they were sharp enough to cut the very air and poised to pierce the sky. As twisted as the towers they wrapped around were the metal tubes, jutting into the air in a haphazard yet somehow ordered fashion. The shadow cast by the castle fell across the village.

All was silent.

On the night air, which was the kind of air that carries sound, the gentle harmonics of the strings came from afar. An orchestra, of ethereal yet unholy beauty. Then the organ sank it’s sinister tones into the depths of a perfectly fingered, intricate prelude, as the bellows were worked. For this was the music of the children of the night, and what wonderful music they made.

It was a cloudless night, yet thunder crashed, and rolled, in as a perfect accompaniment to the music. Out, over the mountains, the wolves howled.

The moon rose.

Now the organ was playing notes that were almost a dirge, notes to trail icy fingers down the spine. It resonated with the harmonics that stir the soul to fear, and awakened the inhabitants of the tiny village below. And when they awoke, they shuddered even as they crawled out of their houses. For they were drawn by a score that was counterpointed by the deep rolling of the thunder, and played by the minions of hell.

The music dropped in pitch, to sound the notes of the darkest depths of a mortal soul. It plunged, yes - like a bat swooping in the night. The meter of that score was the same as that of a fevered man’s heart-beat as he struggles with sweat-drenched nightmares. Then the pitch rose, and the music soared, revelling in the glory of misery and pain. And then the melody fell away again. And the score that the master organist was playing with his long, thin white fingers was one to cause angels to weep, and their tears would be of both rapture and horror - for it captured the essence of sin itself. A nocturne - of jealous passion and vicious lust, of desperate need and insatiable despair. The eerie, horrific music flooded the night. Then the music changed again, and the melody it pounded in time with the rushing of the blood in the listener’s hearts.

Soaring through the night sky, destiny approached from afar, drawn by the exquisite beauty of the strains of music.

Down in the village below, the citizens spilled out into the night. Terror was running down their faces, yet they did not hesitate. They ran into the square, clad only in their nightshirts, throwing caution to the wind as they raised their arms to the sky, caught up in the intoxication of the music.

The church bell began to toll.

Fluttering, ragged shapes appeared, and as they swept down they reached out to the upstretched arms to snatch up and carry away the living. The music shifted in tempo, and suddenly the notes the organ reached were a perfect counterpoint to the screams of horror. The valley resonated with the acoustics of evil.

And then there was light.

A voice filled the night sky with notes of impossible height and purity - a singer arrived from outside of the music. And the refrain it picked out wove about the sinister music, and countered it, and surpassed it. Around despair it lifted delight, and the sound of that song was the sound of brightness in the darkness, of wildness, the magic of being truly alive. The foul notes of deceit, of jealousy, of betrayal were all countered with the gentle, streaming song that bespoke of trust unbreakable and hope unquenchable.

At the edge of the ring of mountains that encircled the vale - as though graping it in a cruel, stony fist - a glittering shape appeared. Flying ever faster, first the starlight caught it, and streaming sparks of light glanced over it's scales as it sped to arrive. As it grew nearer still the moonlight caught it, so that it’s crystal wings were outlined in sudden, blazing moonfire to the ends of their outstretched pinions. The moonlight danced, endlessly, across the clear living crystal, so that it appeared to be glowing from within. As it neared the castle and the village, the beams scattered by the dragon's body cast a silvery radiance over the ground, so that the very blades of grass appeared to be etched in light and shadow. It’s wings as they beat sang, too, as the air passed through and around them, crystal flutes, or chimes like the laughter of children.

But the master organist was not to be outdone. The orchestra paused. Then, the music changed, and the symphony of darkness was wholly occupied with the challenge. With awe-inspiring skill, the symphony was now laced seamlessly about the intricate aria, and the dragon responded, measuring its own measure against the measure in kind. The whole was a melody of earth-shattering power and beauty, and nothing like it had ever been heard in all the world yet, nor has been heard since, for that song was the song of the battle of good against evil, and the heartbeat of the very world.

Singer and player, song and score, reverberated through the valley whilst the villagers crouched, listening, now struck down by despair, now soaring in delirious, effervescent joy. The scrawny, filthy, tattered shapes dropped their burdens and fled the coming of the light, and the dragon flew over the village, and as it did so it sounded a mighty roar that shook the very houses, a roar that was song, a cry of freedom, of defiance, of a dragon’s wildness, and the ragged people cheered, stirred to the depths of their blood. The dragon soared up, flying about the top of the spires of the castle, trying to find the centre of the music, and then dropped gently, opening it's wings.

Lightly it landed, before the gates of the castle. It's form shimmered, to take on the shape of a woman, more beautiful than any mortal woman could ever hope to be. Her hair was long, cast almost to the floor - ghostly pale, and floating, and webbed with light. All about her shone scattered radiance, that changed and shifted as she walked. She was tall, stately – taller than any mortal woman, and she stepped forward, still singing, and her voice was heavenly. She laid her hand to the dark, fanged gate, and at her touch they swung forward. And she stepped forward - alone in the dark, the shadows surrounding her, whilst she burned with an inner flame and beauty.

And the music of light and darkness shook the night.

The shadows drew back from her, revealed in that sparkling light to be not sensual, deadly, and devastating, but drab and wretched, living corpses, bloated and vile. Yet even as she walked on they gathered in behind her, a host of vampire spawn. And the host was driven not only by a longing to savour the taste of the light about her, but by the bidding and will of their master. They sang in accompaniment to her, a hellish choir whose mouths still dripped with the blood of the yet-living.

Bold and unafraid she walked on, light about her, darkness behind; and her voice shone in the darkness of the overture of peril. Step by step she ascended the stairs, flights and flights of them. Finally, she reached the organ chamber, and she raised her hands. The doors were flung inward, and upon the stool sat the master vampire. Their voices melded into harmony now, the aria of evil not overwhelmed by her own of light. Nor did he cease his playing as he sang, nor the servitors he had spawned fall silent. For the master of the vampires was an artist, and he, like she, had had a score of centuries to perfect his art.

Finally, the organ was stilled, so that only a single series of notes played slowly as the bellows leaked air. A brief interlude. “You are a master of music, lady dragon,” said the vampire, and his voice as he spoke was the voice of grating, irredeemable evil. “I congratulate you. It has been an honour to work my score to a voice such as yours.”

“You are a master also, vampire,” said she, and she lowered her head. “I have come to destroy you.”

“Alas!” he said, “for this can only mean that the music will never be the same again.” He rose, and his dark cloak flapped about him, and the winds rushed in about him, in obedience to his will. The expression upon the master vampire’s face was one of genuine anguish. “But you must sing with me, a little longer, I beg you,” he said, gesturing with his hands, “for music has been both my delight and my agony through long ages, and music alone has ever come close to filling the void within me, or sating my insatiable hunger. Yet when we battle, one of us must surely perish, and I will forever grieve for the music that must be lost.”

The dragon was still, and the anguish upon her face also was evident for all to see. What true lover of music could refuse? He saw that she yielded to his request, and he bowed to her, and seated himself in front of the organ once more. With the skill of a master, he pulled out all the stops. Then the music was struck up anew, and together they sang.

Long they sang, and their music was unearthly in it’s perfection. The dragon’s voice thrilled with fervour, and she sang to the vampire of light - light in the darkness. She sang of the joy of life, of delight, of places brimming with mystery and hidden magic. She sang of soaring upon the wing, the wind that caress the body, lifting one ever higher. She sang of looking down over the world, it’s awesome beauty. She sang of clouds that glowed with sunlight, so achingly beautiful they brought tears of wonder. And her vibrating voice resonated with what it was to cry out in joy to the endless sky.

Yet in reply he sang to her an aria on the coldness of the corpse, and of the grave. He sang of darkness, of hiding from the sun. Bitter like the foulest of brews was his baritone, as he sang of snatching brief moments of warmth, fierce heat to be stolen and devoured, resentfully, in despite of the world that would deny you. He cried aloud to the darkness upon his knees, of his pride and his grief that the only true pleasures were hellish, that the fires of the soul could only be ignited by blood, and awakened by cruel, fierce desire.

He sang of his joy in the fear of the devoured, and of his need, and their need for his hunger, and that song was a rapture of love that consumes, of the painful, grasping desperation that men so often exalt – of the chains of demand and desire. And the notes played by the organ that accompanied his verses left those that heard it crying aloud in fury and misery at the cruelty of the world.

But she lifted her voice in reply, her voice dominating his, and she sang of pure, selfless love, love that has the courage to love and then let love be free. Loves that exalt each other – loves that endure wherever the other should wander, enduring through absence, and distance, and even time. Her voice was like liquid light spilling from her tongue, suffused with the golden glow of memory, as she sang of love that is pure and sacred, a meeting of souls, that tinges every step throughout the world with new meaning.

And then she sang at last of the power of truth, over all the torments and terrors that assail the soul.

Hands clasped at his breast, he responded with the music of the glamour of evil, the glamour that drives men to lust after it, to yield to it's temptation. He sang of ruined pride, that fills the hearts of the wicked, until their latest vile deed is done. His song was that of those desperate currents, the cravings, the hungers and urges, that ebb and flow beneath mortal man, and he returned to the organ to play once more his sinister motif.

And as he played the shadow gathered about them, choking and terrible, threatening to strangle even the dragon’s light.

Quiet at first, out of that gloom, the dragon’s clear answer was as a ray of light to drive back the oppressive air. There was compassion in her voice, and even exultation. For now she sang of those that set right great ills. As she sang on, each and every act of compassion enacted by mortal man was held up as an act worthy of centre stage. Of valour she sang, and bravery, and courage, the mortal lives made significant by the determination to overcome hopeless odds.

Yet, hoping to turn aside the inevitable battle, she pleaded with the master vampire to forswear his life of evil. He only laughed.


“O, dragon maid, know I revel in sin,
and the maidens fair bleed and die within,
Evil has style, and style grants men pride,
Would you have glamour for goodness denied?”

And he laughed again, and the host of vampires laughed with him, and their teeth were pale fangs in the shadows.

For answer, she sang of hope. Hope so breathtaking and stirring that the villagers leapt to their feet, ready to fly at the castle in defiance of evil. He sang in answer, and his bloody children also, and at the sound of that choir the listeners sank to crawl upon the ground. She sang of awe, and he sang of fear– she sang of joy, and he sang of grief. The souls of those poor villagers soared and plunged alternately as the music warred. She sang of pride, he sang of shame. She sang of joy, his music was pain. And at that, a new refrain was begun, like thorny barbs tearing through the soul.

He sang of death, and the inevitable horror that awaits mortals at the end of their days. And that grieved her, and struck her sorely, and she fell silent.

The master vampire pressed his advantage. He sang in a low and predatory fashion, full of guile, and cunning. He sang of power, and of gain, that the dragons ever fall prey to. He sang of temptation, and of yielding to it, and above all, of the music that they could make together, if only she would fall into the darkness with him.

Then the dragon spread her gigantic wings, for wings they had become, and her form was that of a dragon once more. And lifting her shimmering throat, she answered him. All that seemed good to men was in light, she sang. Without light, darkness could have no lustre. All that evil could mimic of marvel and majesty was to no avail.

Her notes were like droplets of liquid flame, searing the soul with joy. Life!

Only life could fill, she sang. For evil, though it craved life, was lifeless, and drama was life. Without light, the darkness would devour it’s own glamour, and be consumed by it’s emptiness. And therefore, it is life that abides, and life that endures, even after death.

So singing, she rose, and her wings buffeted the inside of the tower. And she sang on, a song of blinding power and purity, the song of Life itself. Every heart exulted that heard it. And as the day dawned the rising crescendo began to reverberate through the earth. As she neared the climax, she sang one high, pure note, and as she held it the Count’s minions dissipated into ashes. A second, glorious note, and the tower was shaken to it’s very foundations.

The Count was smiling.

Then, she drew a great breath, and as she reached the finale the tower was torn asunder. The dragon flew up into the air, still singing, shaking the rubble and metal piping from her wings. The organ exploded as the sun rose, and dawn came. The broken tower was flooded with radiance, and the expression on the Count’s face as he burst into flame was the look of exquisite rapture. For it had been a performance that could never be rivalled.


*

“And to this day,” the minstrel said, “if you visit the town, there are still pieces of that pipe buried in the ground, and the farmers dig them up and put them in the shrine. The dragon flew away, to where none can say, for who can follow a dragon? But that town is now known far and wide for the skill of it’s bards.”

One of the women blinked, and then turned to begin to ask a question of another. But the children’s aged grandmother, who was wise and knew many things, waved a hand, and said only, “Hush.”

for consideration in your next publication. Mindblade was the winner of January's Short Story Contest, hosted here, in the Library on the DnDOG Website.