Short Story - The Moonlight Path

A tale of the growing distrust and conflict between two mountain tribes, one a tribe descended from refugees of the original space farer invasion, the other a secret satanic cult who are refugees of the second crisis.
To the North and West lay the mountains that imprison the valley of Cedarwood, the mountains that some say were risen by the children of the gods to hide it away from the world, fearful of the land itself. The paths cling like claws to the sides of the rockface, a snarling visage of death. Step by step, a shrouded figure climbed ever upwards, any sparkle of his blade hidden well by a dark cloak, covered from sole to brow, wrapped like a dead man, the spring breeze cold as a winter. Gravel shifted beneath his feet, shaking him, constant warnings of the nature of the mountains, yet he had grown up on stories of this place. From the great forest below he had looked skyward and seen rock, traced the routes in daydreams, in his mind he had been here a thousand times before. He turned to peer over his shoulder, gazing lazily at the valley he called home. In the distance the city sprawled over the plains, as if it had fallen from the sky and split outwards, broken as stream water on a boulder, as flesh splits from metal. Further still lay the entrance, enclosed by an iron gate spanning the river, decorated in banners of the other men, arrogantly displaying their pride in the colours and patterns of a rag in the breeze. Flyyal had seen many folk perish in the name of rags, a sentimental embodiment of some creed or greater purpose. They fell as any other. Trees swaying in the whispering winds, the forests of Cedar, from which the valley took name, lay wide and true from rockface to river and onward still. Their dark shadows covered mayhap half the grounds, split into clusters a plenty.
 A whistle shot down, snaking it's way into and out of the cracks of the great rock, startling the men. Unfamiliar surroundings of this kind were rightfully feared. It had taken great deliberation from the newly formed council to sanction such an endeavour. Flyyal had lead his party some some three days, leaving first the mines at Vermillion, crossing the ford nearby, winding up the paths of the ancient Cedran forest then unto the mercy of the mountains. The last of the dry mud had scraped off his nailed boots that morning. A pair of brutish mercenaries were, as per usual, lagging behind, as for what they offered in presence and armament, they lacked in pace and wit. The first carried on their back a pack made of leather, filled predominantly with a large cask of ale, with the rest of the 'essentials' shoved carelessly down the side. Underneath were hooked two axes with curved handles and a series of flowing streaks etched into the faces. Flyyal look the strange creature up and down. Horns poked out of a rough cap, the scruffy rags clung loosely to the broad shoulders of the cattle-man. Bull-man? It mattered little. Even since their gradual rise to acceptance amongst the common folk of the Cedrans, the stomach of many noble folk still churned at the thought of laying trust in the lap of a changeling On the matter however, he was still somewhat unsure, jingling the coins left in his top pocket surely made the whole ordeal a lot more comfortable thinking of money saved for a rainy day. He turned his attention back to the path.
A short while later, an edge came into view.  "You reckon that's the top then?" called the cow-man. His incredulously low cunning once again at the forefront of the goings on. "If you have yet to see a fort cut unto rock, metal walls of silver and red and the sparks of lightning flying through the air, then close your mouth and save us your prattle, dear cattle-man." replied the imperial envoy. A silence fell over the party once more. The empire had a way of creating animosity with little effort. The envoys embodied the state, and the state was above all, especially changelings. It is said that those who face real turmoil open themselves to otherworldly forces, and they change forever in the process. The cattleman grew up poor on a farm at the bottom of a far off valley, tending crops and caring for his aging parents. One summer, the harvest had failed. Blight in the crops. With nothing left, his parents bedbound, the farmer had left in the night. Fleeing in the night to seek a better life elsewhere, but not before slaying his family, that they might not suffer the curse of starvation. It took almost everything. When he had appeared in the town, he no longer resembled the man he was but the day before, and as the townsfolk looked at the oncoming stranger they saw a crying wreck of hoof and horn.

Related Locations

• Cedarwood Valley