Fantasy - Music of Dreams

Foreword

By S.E. Babbitt

Greetings, Reader.

Being thirteen years
old, I obviously am not the type to be writing a lengthy, preparatory
introduction. For this reason, I will be brief; and you will have to
pardon a poor and useless but creative and artistic musician/novelist
if my introduction does not follow the precepts of other
introductions. My point, here, is primarily that I do not care to go
to the trouble of finding out the proper propaganda needed to satisfy
a know-it-all. I do not wish to sound arrogant or willfully ignorant;
it is merely that it is most likely impossible to please a
know-it-all, and I have no use for pleasing know-it-alls in the first
place.

Rather, my book,
including this introduction, is made for a quite different audience:
the role-players of the Internet, my own friends from youth, and any
other avid readers who are not know-it-alls. In fact, forget the
know-it-alls. I won’t mention them again, because they really
don’t annoy me that much, except that I will ignore those
who attempt to critique my so-called introduction. There: that
was the point I was trying to make for two paragraphs.

My second and last
point in writing this is to let you know that I am not lazy –
at least, not in the common sense of the word. I do believe that it
is possible to write a fantasy novel like this one without doing any
research whatsoever. I was about to say that I fully intend to do so,
but it’s too late: I have done some research on
the Germans, Welsh, French, and Irish, the ancestors that I and
Archie have in common. But only a small part – about four
percent (maybe I’m wrong – so sue me) of my research was
not on the Welsh. I was forced to do some research in this area, for
reasons understandable once one has read the rest of the book.
Despite this research, I am overall only an artist: the fact that I
draw with sounds and words rather than with paints and pencils makes
no difference.

Scene
10

The sun rose bleakly
against a long, snowy range of huge mountains, dotted with groves of
pine trees. Three horsemen rode fiercely in dogged pursuit of their
prey, digging in their simple spurs and clenching their teeth. Their
fur cloaks spilled out and over their horses’ backs, and their
bows and quivers bobbed at their horses’ sides. Ahead rode a
fourth horseman, draped also in a heavy cloak of bear’s fur. He
looked back fearfully as the three riders closed the gap between
themselves and him. Their leader, riding low in the saddle, clung
tight to his horse and drew his already-strung bow. Sliding an arrow
out with a rasping sound of smooth wood against worn leather, he set
it on his bow-string, pulled back, and fired.

The arrow pierced
the fourth rider’s side. He cried out and glanced at the shaft,
which bounced up and down painfully, its flint head buried in his
body. His face paled as blood wet his fur cloak and a drop of blood
trickled down the shaft itself. Looking behind him again, he saw his
pursuers’ faces: grim and relentless. Ahead he saw a grove of
trees on the mountainside he was cresting. He goaded his horse up the
hill and towards the grove, gasping from pain and loss of blood.

“Do thyselves
go ‘round the grove on either side to cut off yonder knave’s
escape,” said the lead pursuer. The other two wordlessly
obeyed, drawing bows and arrows in preparation.

Panting and gasping,
the hunted rider looked at the tempting, needle-covered ground. If
only he could lie down, and rest. The thought of it made him forget
his pain briefly. But then another sharp pang stabbed his side as the
arrow hung down, its flights nearly touching his horse’s rump.
No! He must ride on and carry word to the High King ––
danger was abroad in this vast kingdom of theirs: the land of the
Francdains, which once had been called Idrinthyr by its proud and
civilized former inhabitants.

Edan was the man’s
name. He had come from Caer Brochtan, stronghold of King Galvin of
the mountain folk. No longer was it a stronghold; no longer a place
of refuge. It was empty of inhabitants, gutted and smashed. The
draig, the drach: Bergen, Hoher Konig der Drachen ––
he ruled there, now, proclaiming himself High King of Dragons, as his
Francdain title meant in the Common Speech.

Edan paused
momentarily, lingering and hoping for rest. But, no: he must ride on
to Cair Asgaloth. The mountaineer patted his pony’s flank. He
was not used to riding, for the mountain folk rarely did, but he had
ridden ponies before, and all the mountain folk, though not often
riding their ponies, used them as beasts of burden. The ponies were
descendants of horses that had been brought into the Gogledd Valley,
and were calm, reliable beasts. But Edan knew his pony could not
outride the Francdain horses. Nonetheless, he rode on through the
trees.

As Edan broke out of
the pine grove, he saw, below, the two horsemen who had rode ahead.
He glanced worriedly down at his short sword: the favored weapon of
the mountaineers. Smooth steel slid out of old leather as Edan drew
his sword and charged down the hillside. An arrow took him in the
shoulder with a sickening, ripping thud. Edan roared in pain, but he
had come down to the riders now. A second arrow flew up, but it was
poorly aimed in the rider’s panic, and now Edan was upon them.
His long, unkempt hair splayed over his shoulders and back as he
swung his sword, striking one of the riders’ hands. The man
yelled and attempted to turn his horse about. But Edan struck again,
hitting the man in the back. The injured rider yelled again and
slumped down in the saddle. The other archer had drawn an arrow, but
with a final cry against the arrow protruding from his shoulder, Edan
swung and cut the man in the throat.

I have won!
thought Edan, Now, to Cair Asgaloth. A whistle, and a thud:
Edan cried out and slumped down on his horse’s neck. Behind
him, his pursuers’ leader rode down the curve of the
mountainside, his bow-string of goat sinews still humming. Edan’s
body slid down the horse’s side and fell to the rocky ground,
his right foot still in the stirrup. Thus died Edan, last man of Caer
Brochtan and a soldier in the dead King Galvin’s service.

Scene 2

“I can’t
–– I don’t have the imagination to. I can’t
do it anymore. It can’t really be from me.”

“It’s
not my world! It’s ours! You can do it, too. I know you can;
I’ve seen it.”

“But that was
before –– before I turned seventeen. I don’t know
how to anymore.”

“Yes, you can!
It doesn’t matter whether you’re seventeen…I know
you can.”

“I could, I
know –– I could do it, but it wouldn’t really be
me. It wouldn’t be part of me. Not like Lilianna…”

“Then let
Lilianna grow! Build on her.”

“No. I can’t.
You don’t understand. I know I can’t. It wouldn’t
be real.”

“Real? It
never was real. Its just a make-believe, imaginary, fantasy world.
But you still have that –– that –– that
ability, that youth, that imagination…”

“No, Archie. I
don’t have it any more. I just don’t.”

“Then ––
then maybe He’ll give it to you. Just ask. Please, Gwen. Even
if just…for me.”

“Okay…I’ll
try…” The girl’s ruby lips moved silently along
with the voice in her heart, which cried out to Him. But after her
lips had ceased their movement and she paused for a moment, Gwen
sobbed again. “No. I don’t know what it is. He won’t
let me have it. It’s –– it’s something about
being mature. I’m not allowed to anymore, Archie. I’m
sorry. I can’t tap into it.”

Archie’s blue
eyes fell. “All right…I’m sorry I yelled at you…I
guess I’ll have to make it myself. Can I keep Lilianna?”

“Yes. And her
unicorn. And her bow. And –– and all of her that you
know. And I think she does love him –– what’s-his-face;
Delwyn, I mean.” Gwen’s eyes looked up and lit up just as
Archie’s had when he mentioned Lilianna. “Are you going
to keep his name? I like it.”

“No, I don’t
think so. I’m going to find something more German, or Saxon, or
something –– he’s not an Idrinthyrian, after all.”

“But you could
have it as his Idrinthyrian name,” suggested Gwen.

Smiling weakly,
Archie nodded. “Yeah…I guess. See ya. I gotta go. And
I’m sorry…for everything.”

“All right.
Bye.”

Archie turned and
left. They had been talking just inside the doorway of a white,
green-trimmed house on a neighborhood street. A truck growled up the
street and past Archie as he made his way down the sidewalk to his
own house.

Scene 13

Bannog Brenin Delwyn
ap Ioseff accepted his long sword as his squire offered it, and,
sheathing it at his side, strode gravely to the narrow window and
looked down at his army. Emblazoned on flags that waved high above
the men’s heads was the golden ram’s head, Delwyn’s
symbol. No person from our world who had seen him then would have
recognized him as Archie Davies; his young face, though cleanshaven
and fair, was pale and stern, crowned by straight, dark brown hair.
Bobbing at Delwyn’s hip was a leather, steel-trimmed helmet
with a steel nose guard. His arms, coming out of a red tunic, were
sheathed in fine, Idrinthyrian chain mail.

Delwyn bore an
Idrynthirian title, but his own people called him Hoher Konig
Dagobert von Joseph, or Dagobert das Starke; and now as he spoke,
they looked up and chanted, “Dagobert das Starke! Dagobert das
Starke! All hail, Hoher Konig of the Francdains!”

When the army had
ceased their chant, Delwyn smiled politely and spread his arms to
silence the last chanters. “My army! We march north to the
Twyscart Mountains! For a danger and evil has entered our land:
Bergen das Drach! Alas for King Galvin: this monster has devoured
him, and destroyed his fortress Caer Brochtan!” By now Delwyn’s
brow was furrowed, and his mailed arm reached and drew his long
sword. “Death to Bergen!”

The army, clad in
leather jerkins, red tunics, and short cloaks, raised a flashing
assortment of javelins, bows, shields, and spears and echoed Delwyn,
“Death to Bergen!”

Delwyn turned to his
champions behind him. They, too, were clad in the rare Idrinthyrian
chain mail under their tunics, and bore long swords at their sides.
“Come,” he uttered grimly, and, along with the ten
warriors, strode down stairways till they came to a small door
leading out of the keep. There horses were ready for them. All eleven
mounted and rode to the head of the army. “To the north! To the
mountains! Death to Bergen!”

Scene 9

Before Archie fully
realized what was happening, he had stepped into the web and was
falling into an even deeper sleep. But Archie did not know he was
sleeping –– he knew only that he was happy once again,
for his quest had succeeded. He was Delwyn again, clad in a brown,
woolen tunic and a short cloak of brown wool. At his side was a
rustic, broad-bladed knife with a thick wooden handle.

A little gnome sat
on the top of one of the boulders, clad in leather armor with a
quiver at his shoulder. His honest face looked up with an expression
of sheer joy when he saw Delwyn, and he nearly slipped in his
struggle to get up and wind the horn at his side. An answering horn
called, and, with a veritable roar of joy, Francdains, gnomes,
fairies, mountain-folk, Southlanders and unicorns surged across the
boulders from a small camp on the edge of the marsh nearest the
boulders.

Taken by surprise
again, Delwyn found himself stripped of his cloak, which was replaced
with a great, green, fur-lined robe. Golden and silver rings studded
with jewels were hastily slipped onto his fingers, and bronze and
golden bands onto his arms. The belt on which Delwyn’s knife
hung was unbuckled and replaced by a belt with a sword in its
scabbard. The belt, sword hilt, and scabbard were fashioned of gold,
studded with rubies.

With many neighs,
giggles, deep laughs, and sour cackles, Delwyn was placed on a
unicorn’s back and escorted through the marsh (everyone was so
joyful they hardly noticed the mud splattering their legs) and west
towards his castle, Cair Asgaloth. No one had explained the situation
to him, but Delwyn gathered at least that they knew him from the last
time he had come. This was quickly remedied when the Francdain kings,
riding happily neighing horses, made their way between the other
people and to Delwyn. Amidst chants of “All hail the High King,
Delwyn of the Francdains!” one of the kings hastily and
joyfully explained.

“Your Majesty,
my lord and king,” the king stammered.

“Why are all
these creatures here? Where are you taking me?” demanded
Delwyn, somewhat angrily.

The king can be
excused for laughing at that moment. “Your Majesty, we go to
your castle! Ever since Your Majesty left the land of the Francdains,
we have mournfully kept up a watch near Spider’s Gate. None
dared go into your land, and for it we were sorry. But now Your
Majesty has returned to us, and all shall be as it was!”

Delwyn’s face
brightened in recognition. “You’re King Frain, of Cair
Neldor by the sea!”

“Yes, Your
Majesty! And here are the other kings: King Llwyd of Cair Dellryn,
King Thain of Cair Redinar, and even King Galvin of the
mountain-folk, come from Caer Brochtan in the Gogledd Valley. But
where is the lady Lilianna? Did she not come with you?”

“Alas, no; but
let us speak of happier things here. Lady Lilianna is not able to
come to the land of the Francdains,” said Delwyn grimly.
Already his speech was becoming finer and he rode high in the saddle
with a proud face.

“That is a
shame; but, as you say, let us speak of happier things. We were
forced to drive the goblins away in order to set up our camp here,”
said King Frain, looking somewhat guilty.

“Fie, and
shame, Frain! My command has always been to leave the goblins to
themselves. But you did it out of love for me, and for it I forgive
you –– though I doubt they will. Galvin, Your Majesty!
Welcome!”

Galvin was shorter
than the other kings, though older, but very burly. His graying hair
was long and shaggy, and his curly gray beard hung to his mail-clad
chest. His face wrinkled into a smile as he kissed Delwyn’s
forehead and bowed his head quickly. King Galvin did not owe
allegiance to Delwyn, but Ioseff Delwyn’s father had made peace
with the mountain-folk long before. “Welcome into your kingdom,
Your Majesty. Long live Delwyn, Bannog Brenin of the Francdains!”
The happy people about them echoed the cry.

“How goes it
with the mountain-folk?” asked Delwyn.

“They are
simple, but independent folk, and have lived well even without their
great ally,” smiled Galvin.

After they rode on
for some time, talking and laughing, it began to grow dark. The
gnomes wanted to make camp at the Emerald Wood, on the edge of
Delwyn’s land; the unicorns said they preferred to sleep in the
open; the mountain-folk wanted to press on and make camp in the hills
south of Cair Asgaloth; the Francdains did not care, nor did the
fairies. The end of it was that they decided to camp in the Emerald
Wood. This pleased the gnomes a great deal, and no one minded.