[MR] WAR OF THE WINGS, PART VIII

[Jonathan Blackbow via Atlantia]

If you haven't read any of the storyline before, read this one.

WAR OF THE WINGS XI

PART VIII



"They live for war, Master and Mistress."


"And now there is nowhere to put them."


Crows flew circles around an area jammed with people, waiting for them to
fall lifeless to the ground.


Baron Mark and Baroness Alianor stood watching as the restless crowds
surged back and forth, looking for a place to pitch their tent, to stand,
to sleep, and in vain.


"Truly we did not know that our ...disagreement... would be the cause of
such strife," Mark said.  They stood close together, as if their
...disagreement... had been nothing but a show.  Or mayhap they stood
together for mutual support in the face of such an angry mob.


"I expected the populace to support me, 'tis true, and I suppose I expected
there would be those that supported him as well," said Alianor.  "But this
is too much.  Whatever shall they do?  Whatever shall they go?"  She put
her hand to her head, as if fevered.


Mark grinned.


"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a- "


"Surely not!"  Alianor said loudly.  Whatever Mark was about to say was
lost as she spoke over his last words.


"But there it is.  There is only the space we have, and the lake behind it
cuts off any access to the rest.  So for yet another conflict, we needs
must withdraw into the space we have, and sacrifice what we can to
accommodate these poor, benighted people."


And the night drew on, the shadows lengthened, the air grew chill, and we
sought out our tents.

And fog descended over the scene, leaving only muttered words of discontent
and toes being stepped on.  Literally.  For the once-proud Town of
Elchenburg was stuffed to its seams with people, and more on the way.


And those of us that labored to solve the problem trudged about, doing the
best we could to make sure all had room.  But there was precious little to
be done.


Around midnight some of the scouts came running back, screaming urgently
for Their Excellencies.  And they arose, and bade us follow them.  And we
came to a space where a stream cut off access from the remaining lands on
the opposite side of the lake.  It was dark, and all we could hear was the
sound of the water burbling over its way to the south.  When we tried to
question the scouts, all they would say was that they had heard a stirring
in the earth.


"Doubtless a herd of cows," grumbled Mark, and turned to leave.  "I should
have fenced off the graveyard where my forge helpers were laid to rest, and
now I suppose I will have to-"


And not far off, we heard a rumbling, and a tearing of the earth.


And from out of the fog strode many short, dwarflike figures.  And they had
pickaxes, and hammers, and other forging tools.  They would not speak to
Baron Mark, nay, they would not speak to any of us standing there in awe.
But they strode to the stream, and began digging and picking, and some of
them marched into the nearby quarry, and returned with stones.  And we
stood paralyzed with fright for what seemed like days.  The rain did not
touch us, nor the sun.


And the forge helpers, long dead, who had obviously returned to fulfill one
more task, began to sing.  It was not the forging song they had sung first,
nor the insanely fast-paced song that they sang to their doom.


It was worse.


We only caught a few of the words before we were mercifully freed from our
paralysis and allowed to creep away, terrified at what we had witnessed.
When we awoke the next morning,   a fine bridge crossed the stream, and
allowed access to the remaining territories, and the people were saved.
But a plaque was on the bridge, and there it remains to this day.


And it bore the following words.


"We built this crossing

We built this crossing of rock and stone

We built this footbridge

We built this footbridge for Sacred Stone........"