The Deafening Sword

Let the Ruckus be heard!

Written by Maese Delta

In adventures throughout Everdant, and its ages, in exploits of war or against nature in harsh conditions, there were some people who overcame all odds with the help of magical objects. And when these were weapons, the gift could become a curse, for even if it never meant harm to its owner, the possession bespoke of the craving of others, of jealousy, and sometimes, even worse: the destruction of such tools, so that no one else could use its life-saving qualities.
These objects, of great power were not always meant to be taken so easily. Perhaps the fact that few of them were destined to just one person in all the lifetime of the world was a solace, but waiting for the arrival of the true owner to brandish its power was harder than the mastering of its use.
The world was big, and conflicts between lands and clans become larger than life itself causing countries to shudder on their foundations. From slaughters to pest-ridden peoples, doors were closed as bridges were risen, and spears and swords became longer due to fear and hatred. Any hope for rescue or compassion faded like candles in the night when a drift came through the window.
Thus, if the owners of these objects, and in particular, the weapons, saw themselves as kings or demigods, when would they fear for the sudden encounter with an enemy, the one that shared a power like theirs? Would a disaster or unexpected enemy make them form an alliance? Or would their days be reduced to sleepless nights and uncertain days, at the mercy of incoming attack, fearing the greeting hand and the common gaze?
This is a story about a special sword, a large iron blade meant for powerful hands, for a large man, one weathered to bruises and enmity, and at the same time, willing to defend his people and family. This sword did not turn a man into a king, nor grant immortality, it was unable to weave a spell of fortune to its bearer. That was something any man ought to achieve by himself.
The sword came into existence in the lands of the nature-bound folk of the Keltoi, among ponds and trees, meadows of high grass and rivers running through ravines. The legend that spawned in these regions spoke of a sword unlike any other. It was known that the making of a blade was a work of art, a beauty to behold except its bloody task.
A huge responsibility fell on the shoulders of the man who owned this sword. Struggles would come, yet, as hard as they were, the sword had a gift of its own, a way to achieve victory even before the battle started.
The legend first came to happen in a forest, a gathering of Keltoi warriors and priests. They were planning a defence against a terrible host of Easterlings who had raided their village, and set it ablaze. The memories still fresh in their minds, for they looked around, hoping to find an Easterling spying on them before a harsh cry called for the next onslaught.
“They said they would hunt us down!” said a woman. “The next flames will be far more terrible, because they would wield them… a blade of fire!”
“That is not true! Even them would fall into insanity with such power!” said a warrior. “The Easterling clans have searched for too long in the search of that sword, and even if one claimed it, others would crave it even more. Let them kill themselves for it, and the one who remains burn with it!”
“We may not live to see such a day if they find us first” said the woman. “And keep your voice low. The ritual is about to begin. And we already have one to wield the sword…”
A large man stepped forward, into the circle, surrounded by all. Pale, pink skin, a messy dark mane reaching his shoulders, and a bewildered look his face. Even though he seemed to tower above the rest, he gazed at the ground most of the time, and his fingers were moving, as if trying to scratch the bruises on his arms. His name was Dandelion.
The gathering had taken place in a clearing. The light of the morning coming through the branches and leaves, no sound of any creature, not a shadow or hint of movement in the plants. The silence that followed seemed to have robbed everyone’s breath. No one blinked. The people stared at Dandelion, waiting for an answer.
“Even if you fear as you stand before the enemy, whether stepping forward or not, you will give them something that will chase them beyond the grave.” said a priestess of long, ashen hair, clad in green.
The priestess led them all to another place, a large pond of shallow waters. The trees seemed to close in around it. The branches looked like hands, reaching down to touch the water, though there were no ripples on the surface till the priestess stepped on it, till soon she was sunk to her waist.
Only she was in the pond, the others gathered around it, watching. She raised a hand, asking for Dandelion to approach.
He walked towards her, treading carefully, thinking that he was staining a pond that looked filthy, though the water was crystal clear, it was its sludgy bottom that looked dark. The priestess asked him to kneel, and he did. Then, she gestured for him to grab the sword by the hilt that pointed at him.
“When the sword was forged,” said the priestess, “the blade received one drop of blood for each of the peoples that form our race: One from the Pelts, from the Rovers, the Treelings, the Wealas, even from the old Cavefolk... and from us the Keltoi, the one that must wield it: you.”
She gestured for Dandelion to stick the hilt of the sword in the mire, with the point upward. Then, he made a small cut on his palm, so his blood stained the blade.
“The power of the blade will only answer to you. A large sword for a large man. Even if someone stole it from you, it is not easy to wield, and its power can only be unleashed if it is in your hands. Now, pull out the sword and place it across your arms as I tell you the words you must intone before every battle.”
Kneeling in front of her, Dandelion felt the water reached his waist. Holding the sword as if it were a newborn baby, he listened to the voice of the priestess as she leaned towards him, whispering what he had to repeat. As he did, he felt a slight vibration coming from the bare blade.
“This is the true chant of the sword, loud and reckless to the foes and glorious to the friends. Ears will be pierced before heads are cut off with ease. Curses and roars cannot drown it, for when the sword is swung all foes must beware, for the warlike song will chase them even to their graves... And let the ruckus be heard!”
Loud would be the cries, as raucous and wild as possible, cursing and letting the wind to deliver the message of the threats for the enemy. With this sword, there was no need for that. The moment the armies were about to meet, it only holding the sword high, upwards or downwards and then, hitting the tip against a hard surface.
Ruckus was the name of the sword. Instead of the roar coming from a throat, there was a loud, metallic noise that reached every enemy ear, deep into their skulls. And that was just for a single touch of its tip against stone. Another one, a bit harder, and the noise turned even louder. The owner of Ruckus was then granted the sight of his enemy falling to their knees, grabbing their heads. Sometimes, one could have sworn that their heads had been pulled suddenly by invisible hands, just before they plugged their ears.
The blade shuddered a little more as it rang a clean metallic tone that all could hear. Yet for them, it was like a bird greeting the morning sun, and at the same time, a sign for victory in the days to come.
“Arise now, Dandelion.” said a warrior. “There is yet so much you can do for the sword, so do not take it lightly. We heard just a bit of the song, but when the time comes, you will make us come to you once the real song is sung, the one that no enemy would ever forget.”
And the time for it to be heard was coming faster than he thought.
After the ritual ended, more Keltoi arrived, bringing grave tidings: a nearby camp of them had been destroyed by the Easterling horde, and now they were heading to the village where the new army was to be mustered, the one that waited for its new hero, hoping to find out if the power of the sword Ruckus was real.
Even now, what dangers could I face while wielding Ruckus? thought Dandelion. The sword can only protect for as long as no storm of arrows descends upon me. And... How far can its song reach?
There was not enough time for questions, for the need was dire, and soon Dandelion followed the warriors and rode with them, going to the village to present himself and the sword that could save them all. It could not stop the war, and if the arrows indeed were faster than him, the sword could not stop them mid-air. However, it was meant stop the enemy from getting nearer, and while the noise lasted, no hand would keep gripping the sword and spear, for it would be too busy plugging the ears.
A cloudy, silent day awaited them. Whenever they passed, Dandelion and the riders never heard any chirping bird, or were greeted by those of their own. They saw mourning people, they saw fleeing prey. The Easterling menace could spring from anywhere yet they were sure to reach first the village to begin a battle. If anything, it would surely begin with a taunt and a show of their first victims, the slain that were an offering to the battlefield, an altar for the Easterlings.
The sight of defenders, of men who wanted retribution for past offences and defeats only brought them laugher, at least before they unleashed their fury and began another massacre to prove how useless was to battle against them.
Dandelion felt as if his beating heart was louder than his thoughts, than the gallop of the horses. Whether the men around him and those from the village were more scared than him or not was not his biggest concern. Despite the ritual and the mysterious tingling he had experienced, what was real indeed? Could that sword send the enemy away?
The faintest idea, the feeling of something gnawing at his heart, the times Dandelion looked around, as if hoping to find a gaze that reaffirmed what was expected of him, that it was no folly, all that was replaced by a gripping fear once they neared the village. The attack had already begun. Some skirmishes could be seen on the outskirts of the unfinished outer wall that was being built. Fire spread through the houses and farms.
And the Easterling army was waiting there, two thousand warriors clad in black and red, their baneful banners with a fist wreathed in flames waving thanks to a sudden, cold wind. The clouds above, though gathering and getting darker, there had not been a single clap of thunder, nor fell a single drop of rain.
They were waiting for more Keltoi to come, more lives to be taken and offered to the altar once the swords and spears sang a song of butchery.
The skirmishes had to be disrupted, and won in favour of the Keltoi. The troubled villagers turned around and beheld the arrival of a small party of riders, a hundred of them. And there rode Dandelion, with the sword Ruckus dangling on his back. The first fights took place, and the lives of the newly arrived were at stake, yet Dandelion did not join the struggle. Atop his horse, feeling the sword on his back, he looked at the enemy army in the distance and felt it was all hopeless.
The Easterlings were not intimidated by the presence of Dandelion, and all the same, they kept taunting him as they killed each and every defender that dared to stand in their way. Man or woman, with sword or spear or bare-handed, they all fell to the ground, and their limbs would be strewn around just to remind the Keltoi of their fate.
When Dandelion at last decided to fight, it seemed the Easterlings felt his presence approaching, for they retreated, not out of fear but simply to join their army before the real onslaught started. There had been some wounded Easterlings crawling on the ground, among the slain Keltoi. Dandelion drew away those who were wounded and then, he walked alone to meet the army that waited outside.
The sword dangling on his back became a nuisance, his right hand was moving as if trying to grip something, as if it had a will of its own. Dandelion had his eyes fixed upon the enemy, not knowing how many of his own people were behind, fearful, knowing that if they turned and fled, their backs would be pierced by arrows before the Easterling fury scourged them in the flesh.
Ahead was death and rage that could not be countered, and behind lay a village bound to be ravaged, where the slain would not be granted the crudest burial. Was this the last day to behold the end? Was this the chance to whimper and whisper, where voices shouted as a searing pain cut down their spirits? Whether the first or the last one to die, Dandelion wished for neither.
A few Keltoi had gathered behind him, knowing death was at hand yet willing to strike back with a sword and a cry as loud as possible, even if their hearts and throat were ripped apart. One by one, the blades stopped pointing downwards and were now set to thrust, though the enemy was not even close.
Someone was approaching Dandelion, who now was seen as the chieftain. Instead of a word of hope, the warrior had simply dropped a large stone in front of him.
He looked at the stone on the grass, meaningless, crude; perhaps it could be used for a cairn instead of smashing a head. He knew the men behind were not enough to stand a chance. He could not feel them closing in but already guessed their thoughts. Then, he only gave three steps forward and knelt at once. The Easterlings on the vanguard, those with sharp sight, laughed at him.
There was nothing in his mind to imagine, the uproar that was to be unleashed. His body shivered, and he knew not if it was fear or cold that had him frozen. When at last he drew out the sword from his back, he held it with the point touching the stone, closed his eyes and whispered:
“This is the true chant of the sword, loud and reckless to the foes and glorious to the friends. Ears will be pierced before heads are cut off with ease. Curses and roars cannot drown it, for when the sword is swung all foes must beware, for its warlike song will chase them even to their graves...”
The Easterlings had stopped laughing and taunting. They were soon to fall upon the Keltoi like wolves on lambs. And Dandelion, now looking at them while still knelt, shouted from the depth of his lungs, his face red and trembling:
“And let the ruckus be heard!”
He rose up and bumped the sword on the stone once.
The clank of the metal sounded normal for him, yet there was a faint sound that kept lingering. There was no thunder, nor a sudden wonder of magic that rent asunder the ground. Instead, the Easterlings were at first unmoving, and all of a sudden, their heads were pulled back. Here and there, many of them had collapsed, plugging their ears with trembling hands, cursing and rolling on the ground.
Now the Easterlings had become a shameful spectacle to the Keltoi. They also had heard the clink, out of the thin air, it beckoned them, while their hearts started beating a little faster, and the clasp of their swords became tighter. Those who had been the lambs to be slaughtered now heeded a mysterious call, like a bell. Instead of a shepherd they found a warrior, just as astounded as they were.
“All their might and fury has been robbed because of a sound...” muttered Dandelion, holding the sword with both hands, looking at the enemy host becoming a mess.
“Make them hear it again!” cried the warriors behind him. “Let them hear this song, our first song of victory unlike any other!”
Thus it was how the battle started, the army possessing Ruckus had just to move forward and begin taking lives, without much effort, for as long as the sword kept bumping into a surface, the noise would keep the enemy into submission.
Dandelion now held high the sword with one hand, tip ahead, and facing to the army behind him with a big grin, called them forth:
“This is the true chant of the sword! No blades will be raised against you anymore. Come, come turn the tide as we send them screaming and deaf away from our land. And should death truly reach them, the uproar will remain in their dead ears. And let the ruckus be heard!”
This was a rush the Keltoi thought they would never feel. In past battles, of which many of them ended in defeats, even if a retreat left behind fallen Easterlings bloodied or dead, when the fight became so violent, they felt the battle was far from over, for the scars left on their beating hearts were the shameful reminders of a victory that never came. Not today, for this had been the moment when the fearsome had its bloody jaw torn apart by the sword that never expected to rise against it.
The battle still was not as one sided as it seemed, for the Easterling chieftain, with his hands stuck to his ears, sprinted around, urging his men to fight. His words became roars, and in his roars there was a hint of fear every time he looked at the Keltoi army approaching. When the first wave came crashing down on them, he went berserk and faced them head on.
Dandelion had yet to kill the first man with Ruckus. His warriors were doing most of the fighting, for now the presence of the man who wielded the deafening sword turned and fled, without ever clashing their swords against his. Not for the Easterling chieftain, and as soon as he saw him, he shouted:
“That sword will be no match for Flammifer! Not even your ashes will remain when the blazing fury comes to you!” shouted the Easterling chieftain, his face trembling, even redder as blood seeped from his ears.
But Ruckus cut him down, from head to waist, and the Easterling collapsed. That was when the enemy host realized this was going to be more than a downfall at the hands of those who had been their prey.
As the chant of the swords kept sounding, the one that truly gave its loudest note was Ruckus. When Dandelion had the chance to help his men in the fight, every time it parried a strike from any other blade, the sound it created was heard by the one who attacked, leaving him stunned long enough to be killed.
For every bang of clashing swords, only the Easterlings bowed, cut down and stabbed. Neither Dandelion nor his men were affected, for the sound was not the usual uproar but a mysterious, faint ringing that inspired them to raise their swords and join the chanting for the greatest victory ever.
And just as it had been told, the few Easterlings that were spared, as they fled, Dandelion knew the noise that only they could hear was one that would keep ringing for a long time, even in the afterlife. It mattered not how the enemies found out about Ruckus, sooner or later, they would end up deaf before they received the fatal blow.
After the battle, there were dead to be mourned, houses to be rebuilt and wounds to heal, but never again would they hesitate at the sight of any enemy that dared to invade their land, or of those they held dear. Instead of a sorrowful voice they now had a defiant one, for which all hearts beat faster, inspired to join the fight.
It had been, for the first time, a victory song that graced their ears: a blessing to some, a curse to others... and it lay at the tip of a sword.
Hence that day, there would be no attack unpunished against the Keltoi. To whoever meant any harm in spirit and body towards them, they’d better heed the warnings of those who had gone deaf before a cold kiss of iron was granted upon them. When the moment came, before the waves were unleashed, before the bloodletting began, these words would be uttered:
“And let the ruckus be heard!”

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I sincerely thank to any reader who have found and reached the end of it. It's been a long time since I've written something and found a renewed spirit for writing. =D]
https://ibb.co/ggHhNpc (Art by Kari Anne Haland)