This is my second entry for the Fantasy Smackdown. My challenge was to write a Sword & Sorcery story with a secondary theme of love and include a magical sweet (I took some liberties on that, but they are fun. You will see.) Also, I had to use four quotes. They are in bold. I hope you enjoy. 

Marshland

SP Parish

(c) 2013

The air was thick with moisture, the moss draped over the twisted branches of ancient oaks hung heavily over the heads of the men.

In the clearing, the forest was seeing an unusual amount of action. Men were moving in benches, women stringing lanterns and starting cook fires. Children could even be seen running back and forth, delighted to have their expressions of excitement ignored. They did, however, stay to the far side of the space. For on the other, two men were practicing their swords with few curious glances from the rest. Titus and Soren? Practicing? The inlanders would laugh, at least that’s all they are up to!

They were great foils of one another—one of average height and broad build—Titus’ wide sword moved in deadly precision against the thin sword of his opponent: his long-time friend, Soren. Tall and as thin as the sword that extended from his hand, Soren’s lowlander clothing accentuated his slender frame what with his long shirt being belted with a length of sailing rope around his middle. He looked like a lowlander and dressed like a lowlander, rightly so having come from a long line of them. However, much to Titus’ relief, Soren had never spoke like a lowlander, but still, he had more to say than most.

Titus just had time to block a overhead blow from his friend with the longer reach. His shield reverberated on his arm.

“Distracted, T?” Soren asked, feinting left and attempting another blow inside the bulky man’s tight guard. Titus defected it and went on the offensive.

“You would hope, Soren.” Hit, block, again. “Then you might actually have a chance.”

Soren played the defensive for a few seconds more before stepping towards Titus, forcing him back. The latter might have the muscle, but the former had the speed. In his rags, face lit with excitement from the bout, Soren had a bit of a wild look about him. Looks were deceiving. He was the quickest spar Titus had ever encountered.

“Admit it, go ahead,” he said, teasing. He stepped and pushed Titus back again, their swords meeting too close to his face for comfort. “No, I’ve changed my mind. If you’re going to admit your inferiority, wait till the clearing’s full. Then everyone will be here to hear it.” Titus broke the hold. “Was it Evie? Were you thinking about your sweetie?” The usually passive face of his friend reddened under the sheen of sweat on his cheeks. “Ah! It is! Did you finally confess your love? Pour out your soul? Hand her your heart to do with it as she sees fit?”

“If you must know,” Titus responded between blows. “I did.”

Soren’s willowy arms, shield, sword and all, went out to his sides, eyes wide in delightful surprise. “Titus, chap!” he said only to be met with a quick jab to the middle. Soren blocked it and continued. “That was cheap.”

“All’s fair in war, Soren.”

“And in love, old friend. How did it go?”

“Well,” Titus said, taking a deep breath, “Not as well as I thought.”

“What happened?”

“I gave her my heart,” he began.

“And?” Soren asked, paying little attention to his opponent. He cared more for the story than the match.

“She handed me a pen.”

“A pen? What do you mean, a pen?”

“I mean, she handed me her slops.”

Soren let out a laugh that echoed across the clearing. “You mean you fed her pigs?” Titus nodded, and his friend laughed even harder. “Oh Titus, that’s rich.”

Distracted by his laughter, Soren missed a thrust and lost his sword. Titus brought his sword up to his neck. “Yield,” he instructed.

Despite the loss, laughter still danced behind his eyes. “Oh, I yield. Nice one, there.”

Titus dropped his sword arm, “Thank you. You did well.” Soren waved the compliment aside and grew serious.

“I am sorry she did not return your affections, Titus. I know how much you care for her.”

It was Titus’ turn to wave the comment aside. He wiped down his sword before sheathing his weapon. “We need to get for ready for the telling.”

Soren followed suit, grabbing a skin and drinking deep. “You go, I think I will linger here a moment.”

Titus wiped his brow, looking at his friend in disbelief. He gestured towards his clothing. “You mean, you’re wearing that? Come on, Soren. It’s the festival.”

Soren’s dark eyes widened in mock surprise. He looked down at his raggedy clothing. “You mean, you don’t like my ensemble? Titus! I am heartbroken.”

Titus rolled his own blue eyes back in his head. It was a gesture reserved solely for Soren. One he had come to ignore completely over the years. “Soren, I know you have better dress than that, whatever pretense you put forward on a daily basis.”

“Yes, m’lord, I do. However, I set the bar low. Keeps down the expectations, and makes the dull extraordinary. Anyways, having a father flying around in the shape of a crow gives you a certain disregard for appearances.”

Titus and Soren looked up to what little sky peeked through the branches suspended over the clearing in search of his father. He didn’t always travel in his shape shifting form, but he would most certainly arrive at the festival tonight by air. A lowlander he might be, but he was still the most powerful. Soren’s father was higher in station than his title admitted. Still, he bore the brunt of cowardly prejudice. No one would speak against him or his son in front of them, no. But sometimes whispers rang louder than screams. Even now the two friends bore the brunt of cold shoulders and disapproving stares. A single friendship between two men of such difference would not rid the land of generations of prejudice.

However, they had grown to disregard them. They did so as they parted ways with an embrace, Titus was off to ready himself, Soren to make what mischief he may. It would be a great night for the town. They would commune over food and drink, dance and fellowship, and they would listen. Listen to the stories of old, stories told by Soren’s father, the Crow. The town’s excitement was palpable as Titus made his way back to his father, the high leader’s, home. The inlander ignored knowing glances as he bore the brunt of sly ridicule and cowardly whispers as he passed. They were not the first, and sadly, would not be the last.

***

Fireworks streamed over the heads of the townspeople as they gathered in the clearing when night fell on the marsh. Lights from the enchantments glittered, caught in the moss hanging from the branches as they made their way over the gay partakers’ heads. Laughter erupted from below as children and adults alike enjoyed the spectacle without suspicion or fear. The lowlanders manned the serving tables, and would do so until the inlanders finished. However, tonight was the one night that they would all eat together, regardless of their color.

Chords of music began tentatively from the newly erected stage before setting a lively tune into motion. It wasn’t long before people were leaving their seats in search of dancing space.

Soren found Titus propped on a tree, tan arms folded across his chest. He strolled up beside him, giving him a sharp elbow in the side. “The blue in her dress brings out the gold in her hair, don’t you think?”

Titus reached back and hit Soren in his arm, “Oh, shut up. I don’t see you asking anyone to dance.”

“You don’t see me pining away at a distance, either.” Titus rolled his eyes. “What? It’s true. You’re the leader of the armies, friend. Surely it takes more than a pretty girl to cripple you.”

Titus sighed, slapping his drink to Soren’s chest with a hefty resolve. He straightened up and headed to the tables to claim his lady. Soren let out a small laugh by the tree as Titus was granted a spin around the clearing. He drained the cup and turned, right into a group of lowlanders.

“Armin! Abdul! Such a fine night for the telling, wouldn’t you say?” he asked them, holding out his hand in greeting. When it went unreturned, he dropped it by his side, turning serious. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

Abdul stepped forward. Every inch as tall as Soren, their dark eyes met. Soren did not like what he saw; he steeled himself for what was to come. “Why you be hangin’ about wit inlander scum?” Abdul asked, releasing the foul breath of tar leaf and inching closer with each word. “Mind yo’ place, boy. An’ it not wit tat boy o’er dere,” he indicated towards the clearing where Titus was dancing. Soren followed neither his eyes of his hand, instead, he kept his gaze trained on the men.

When he was sure Abdul was through, Soren spoke. “You tink our talk or our color be de problem, boy? Nay. It’s in de mind,” he said tapping on the side of Abdul’s head much to the surprise of both of them. “Mind like yours. Change it, or don’t. But leave me alone.” With that, Soren turned to leave only to be stopped in his tracks by a rough hand on his shoulder. He turned back.

“You tink yous more better, boy? Cause you hang ‘round dem?”

Soren stopped his eyes from rolling. “Not no more better, no.” Then switching back to his normal accent, “More tolerant? Maybe. Loving? Probably. Smarter? Definitely.”

Abdul’s eyes widened. He brought back his fist, and Soren braced for a punch. It never came. Titus stepped out of the shadows, one hand on the cocked hand. “Is there a problem here?”

Abdul let go of Soren’s shirt and dropped his hand, but Titus still had his arm. “No sir. We was jus sayin’ hello.”

“Well, keep it that way. I need not remind you there is no fighting at the festival. It is a day of community.”

“Yes sir. No fighting here, sir.”

Without another word, Titus let go of the lowlander, and they sunk back out of the clearing. He looked to Soren, “Sorry old friend.”

Soren clapped his on the back, “Ah, nothing you could do about it, and nothing we are not used to.” Suddenly, the music died behind them. A collective gasp echoed through the clearing. Soren rolled his eyes. “Looks like my father has arrived.”

The two turned to the stage when the lights in the trees went black, darkening the clearing and eliciting another reaction from the crowds. The once colorful sparks returned in a stark silver light with a pop, shaking the branches where they were lodged. Soren and Titus made their way to the back of the benches where those of the crowd not distracted by the theatrics of the Crow were quickly filling the best seats. A loud call came from above their heads, and in came Soren’s father—the largest crow you had ever laid eyes on. He circled above their heads, once, twice, then landed gracefully on the stage. The light went out again, only to continue into a small explosion of fire from where the bird had been moments before. The Crow, surrounded by only the dimmest of lights, was alight on the stage. He was a large, dark man, dressed in dark colors that emitted a light of their own. Obviously, attention was his goal. No one could admit he had not achieved it.

“Brothers and sisters!” He boomed, arms outstretched. He smiled, “Welcome to the telling!” The crowd let out a monstrous cheer that bounced off the thick oaks and continued until the Crow held up a hand to silence them. “I am the Crow, the wizard, the healer, the boogieman, and friend. I am the keeper of our histories, I am a lowlander,” a small cheer went up, “but today, on the day of equals, I am your storyteller.”

Another cheer. This one, the Crow let die out, then began spinning his tale. Rolling his hands one over another, a sphere of spiraling smoke began to form. It grew larger and larger until the Crow took the ball and flung it towards the crowd. They gasped. Laid out before them was a landscape. Everyone sat up a little straighter. This was not just any story, no, this one was special—this one was from the histories.

“Long ago, in the beginning of time. The great sun chose to create from nothing, a land of earth and water,” it was as if the Crow was the great sun, speaking it into existence himself. As he spoke, each elements took shape in the mist. “Trees and animals, the fruit and the vegetables. Then he made man.” Man appeared on the scape under trees that hung with moss. The heat from the conjured sun was tangible, the moisture in the air, heavy. It was the marshland.

“But man had an evil soul, down to the foundations of his heart. The great sun was upset by his actions, and he turned his head away.” The picture dimmed on the miniature men fighting. Titus felt a tugging in his heart. This was what brokenness felt like. It was not enjoyable. It sat heavy inside of him.

“But then, he decided to start over. The great sun had a plan. From the depths of the earth he had created, he woke a great fox. The sly beast snuck into the marshlands, and he ate up the people there. Every night, he returned, taking more of the marsh people until there was only a few people left.”

A hum of energy thumped through the clearing. The Crow worked it teasingly. He slowed the story down, dragging out the words and leaving the people eager for the next.

“Finally, the two of the last men sought each other out. One, from the inland, the other from the low. Together, they devised a plan. Armed with nothing but what they received from the people, they met the fox as it came into the marsh that night.” The fox, as big as the trees met the men face-to-face; as the battle began and at the climax of his story, the misty scene dissolved.

The Crow was standing, hands clenched in front of him. “Two men,” he unclenched one then the other, revealing two smoky figures, one of average build, stocky muscles, light skinned and the other tall, dark and lanky. The Crow looked around the clearing, his gaze lingering on his son and his friend. “Come together, pleasing the great sun and saving the land.” He snatched at the figures, causing them to disappear. “Not for glory, not for pride. For the marshlands.”

The Crow disappeared, leaving the people with a story to do with what they would. The message struck few, who, suddenly, lost their taste for festivities and retired early.

Long after the festival was over, the lights were gone, the tables put away, while all the marshlanders were fast asleep, the fox struck again. 

***

“This is an outrage!”

“Ridiculous, I tell you!”

“We got nothin’ to do with this, an’ still it happenin’!”

“We gots ta stop it b’for it too late!”

“Order, order!” Titus’ father, Rane, stomped a large staff on the stage floor repeatedly. The men of the marsh—both in and low—had gathered to discuss the situation peacefully. That goal was still far in the distance.

One inlander stood, yelling across the aisle, “You did this! It’s your fault! Bringing these stories. Speaking them gives them power, you know!”

A lowlander woman shot up in anger, “Don you be puttin’ dis on us, now see,” she said, wagging her finger in his direction. “E’rybody be n’volved from my seat. Not just white or dark. E’rybody!” That got them going again. Rane stood on the stage and looked across the clearing. He saw a group of people, all suffering the same fate, all unwilling to accept help yet eager to lay blame. There would be no easy solution. His heart sank.

Suddenly, a great woosh of wings disturbed the disgruntled party. The Crow landed with a crash on the stage next to Titus’ father. It was no time for frills and illusions, so he brought none. Instead, he took advantage of their stunned silence.

“If you will, marshlanders, perhaps it is time for relearning.” Few voices began to mumble. The Crow silenced them with the wave of his hand. “What your leader here has attempted to say is that we all have a grave problem on our hands. For the last three nights, the great fox has come into our marsh, inland and lowland alike, taken our children, our families, our friends.”

“They got my Antoine!”

“I saw him outside my window! Fangs! He had fangs!”

The Crow pressed on, “The fox comes at times when great evil is upon us. The remedy lies in two forces rising up against it. Two unlikely forces, pure of heart, in it not for themselves, so that the great sun sees it and grants them victory. This is the lesson we have learned. Now let us not forget.”

In the back of the clearing, an old inlander rose shakily to his feet. He took everyone by surprise when his strong voice carried his message to all. “Mister Crow, you have tickled our ears with your stories and words for many years. You have a gift of words, however, the gift of words is the gift of deception and illusion. We will have none of that here. Speak plainly or be gone.”

The usual play of emotions on the face of the Crow was notoriously absent right then. The silence stretched. Finally, he spoke.

“Things earned are the things appreciated and valued above all else. I have given you the meaning, sir. However, it is up to you to find it.” With that, the Crow turned and readied himself for flight.

“Wait!” The Crow stopped, turning back towards the crowd. A small voice belonging to a small boy spoke up, eyes wide in understanding. “It is like the story! You need one of us,” he pointed to the inlanders before gesturing across the aisle, “and one of them. Together they can defeat the fox! And we need to help them!”

The Crow narrowed his eyes at the boy as if trying to really see him. He sighed sadly before a small smile formed across his lips. “Aye boy, you are correct. You have seen what the most experienced of you would not.”

From their usual place in the back of the clearing, Soren and Titus were propped against two trees.

“Well friend, it looks like duty awaits us,” Titus said.

“So it seem. Destiny calls. We wouldn’t want to disappoint her, you know.” Soren responded.

“Absolutely not.”

With that, the two friends stood and began their descent to the stage, side by side. Their fathers watched them, knowing looks on their faces, emotions running across them both.

But one was notoriously absent.

Surprise.

“We will fight the fox,” Titus said. Then, looking at Soren and back to the stage, added, “Together.”

Shadows flickered across the oddly quiet clearing. It seemed as if nothing were going to happen, then, “’Ere,” said a lowlander, touching Soren on the shoulder. “Take this wit ya. It will help.” He handed the men a length of rope attached to a spear, a common lowlander tool. “Yous’ll need more tan dose swords o’ yours to git dis one.”

With that small step of acceptance, others came to the men. Most gave words of encouragement, some said their goodbyes. Few, though, gave tangible things. In the end, when the clearing was all but empty, and the sun all but down, the two men stood in their places with their weapons of choice. From the lowlanders, a spear, a large basket, and a small gutting knife. From the others, some bandages and a scythe made up the lot. Titus would even march into battle with a token of his lady around his arm.

It was an odd lot of tools to be sure, however one stood out amongst the rest.

“Sweetbreads?” Soren scoffed, holding up the bag to examine them. “What in the marsh are we to do with these? One last feast before we meet our doom?”

Titus snatched the bag from his friend. “Give me those,” he said, opening it to examine them. He reached in to pull one out when the Crow laid a hand on his wrist.

“Perhaps those are better left for your foe. If I know the Madame who gave them to you, which I do very well, they are not intended to fill your bellies.” Taking the bag from Titus, he pulled it closed before handing it back. He looked towards the sky. “It is almost time.”

Rane pulled his son in for a tight hug before moving on to Soren. The Crow, however, stepped back. “Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens."

Soren rolled his eyes. “Yeah, father. I love you, too.”

The Crow stepped to his son, and pulled his head against his own. “I will see you soon, son. Faith is your shield.”

“And hope is our arrow,” Soren finished.

With that, the fathers departed by land and by air, leaving their two sons to fight the evils of an entire land. Together.

***

The lights in the moss swung slightly in the soft wind as the shadowy scene disappeared. The Storyteller went silent, and the moment stretched on. He looked out over a crowd of mixed faces, white, dark, exotic mixtures of the two. On the inside, old emotions reared their ugly head, for he was aware of the sacrifice of that night. He was, after all, the keeper of the histories. But it was more than that. This history was one of his own.

The crowd began to stir in anticipation. Finally a high voice from somewhere in the middle of it all said, “Well, what happened?” Nervous laughter drifted through the marshlanders. A small smile appeared on the Storyteller’s dark face. He parted his lanky arms, bringing the scene to life again.

“The fox came that night, as it had the three before. But this time, they were waiting for it. A trap had been laid by the two friends. One using the gifts of their people. Sleeping meat in a large trapping basket lured in the great fox, alas it was not enough to stave him.”

The scene disappeared once again. The Storyteller finished, “However, with faith in each other, and goodness in their hearts, the two forces for good found favor with the great sun, for he shown upon them that night. The great fox met his end in this very clearing, at the end of their swords, saving the village from senseless death, but also from senseless hate. Some say it is one in the same.”

Remember the words and deeds of your leaders past, marshlanders. Do not be doomed to repeat the follies of your ancestors.”

With that, the Storyteller flung his hands towards the crowd, and harmless sparks spilled upon their heads from above. Squeals of delight erupted from the seats. Distracted by the show, the Storyteller slipped away unnoticed down the side of the stage.

“That is not quite how I remember it, old friend.” The Storyteller looked up to find an elderly woman walking in his direction. A small smile across her lips. “Didn’t your father teach you better than to change the histories, Soren?”

“Aye, Evie, he did,” he replied, leaning his weight upon his staff. “Some stories are too hard to recount. The message was still the same.”

Evie smiled at the old Storyteller, unshed tears glistening in her pale blue eyes. She opened her mouth to speak when a young man came upon them. He was of average build and average height. There was something familiar about the way he carried himself.

“Grandmother, we were looking for you,” he said. His gaze darted from Evie to the Storyteller and back again.

Evie raised her hand to his, “Everything is alright, Titus. I will be there in a moment.” With one more look, the young man nodded and departed.

“He would be proud, Evie. You have done his memory well.”

“Aye, Soren, thank you. I just wish he could have seen it.” She turned slowly from him and joined her awaiting family. Soren watched them for a few moments more. Realizing that at this very tree, he had  watched the two dance so many years before.

The old man clutched his chest, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Every now and then, the pain caught him unaware. There were some wounds even time could not heal.

And with that thought, Soren crouched, and took flight.