Listen

“Listen, well, the Tale of Barkus,” the old wizard said, weaving his magic in the air. Motes of dust and light sprinkled forth from his fingertips, and a fire sprung to life before him. His voice was dry and withered, but eyes were alight with a youthful shine. He beckoned us closer to the fire and waited patiently as we sat ourselves around it.

Most of us gathered quickly, eager to learn from the old mage. As students of the Principal Arcanum, we all understood one unshakeable truth: Knowledge is Power. And being the Archmage of our school, his words would be foolish to ignore. I settled down on the ground near the fire, pulled out my quill, ink, and parchment, and prepared to receive whatever lesson he planned to teach.

But one of us was missing. The rest of the students and I all glanced around us, and when I spotted her on the far side of our bedding, I called out to her. When she didn’t respond, the rest of the students joined me in calling for her. I was annoyed at having to wait for her, and felt ashamed for her poor representation of our class of students in our meeting with our teacher.

But he didn’t seem to mind.

He conjured a sparrow from the flames; or rather drew a bit of fire and gave it the shape of a small bird. Waving his fingers, he sent it fluttering to the edge of our encampment, where a straggler sat, tending to her shoes. The bird circled her head a few times to grab her attention, and then led her back to take her place in our circle.

Once everyone was settled and ready, he began to chant. A rhythmic repetition of enchanted words filled the air around us, and the rest of the forest grew still. The fire flared brilliantly once, and then changed into a swirling pool of fiery liquid. He ceased his chanting, and exhaled a focused breath of chilled aim. When it touched the fiery pool, steam rose above us, and settled in a dome that covered our campsite.

And then the Archmage spoke, gesturing with every word. And the magic he created showed us the truth of his story.

***

“Their suffering was of their own doing; their misfortunes brought about by their own misdeeds. The blessings they received were rewards for their homage and obedience. The bounty they would reap was intrinsically dependent upon the toiling they put forth. It was this balance that had saved the continent of Barkus from destroying itself.

War had ravaged the landscape for nearly a century. So many countless heroes had given their lives fighting in short sighted wars. So many horrors had been unleashed. Every time that one faction of the war would near victory, a rival would let loose its newest abomination on the land; wizards, mortal beings, spent nearly one hundred years unlocking secret after terrible secret as they delved into power they did not have the strength to master.

One hundred years of families ripped apart to supply the armies with soldiers. Boys were born to widows, tempered in the strength of their mothers’ grim resolve, married to young ladies who had never known their fathers, and then sent to continue the fight, having blessed their new wives with children who would never know their fathers. That endless cycle of pain, loss, and suffering brought civilization to a halt. Every year there were fewer people to tend the crops, and so every year more people starved. And as they died, so too, did the future of their families.

Unions between the Barkusian men and women became less about love and family, and more about need and survival. Girls became mothers almost immediately after blossoming into women, and the boys were made fathers before they had grown into the fullness of their bodies. The resolve of the young women slowly turned into bitterness and rage. They hated the men who had made them mothers. They hated their mothers for forcing them out of childhood. They hated their sons; born with faces of men they had barely known, and destined to leave their mark upon the daughters they had been blessed to bear. But they hated themselves, for understanding the necessity of it all..and for raising their children to continue the cycle.

And so love became hate. Desire for peace was remade into a hunger for conquest. And happiness was only truly heard in bardsong, as they sang of death and carnage.

And humanity lost its way.

The gods, despairing for the world that they created, unleashed N’Gougul; The Drifting Despair. She was to unite Barkus’ people again, as the enemy they would face together, forming bonds that would outweigh the hatred they held for each other. But the gods made her too well. In their haste and arrogance, they crafted the perfect monstrosity, forgetting to allow an avenue for her defeat. And the mortals could not stop her.

She floated on wind like a dream, but the ground broke beneath her where she went. She was as terrible as she was beautiful, and her countenance was so fair, that the men of Barkus threw themselves upon their swords to offer her their pain. Her beauty held no sway over the women of Barkus, but her voice spoke the language of their anguish and sorrow. So when the shield maidens of Barkus made their stand against her, she sang to them. And they joined her in her Aria of Death; a chorus of wailing screams, echoing naught but pain and misery. Their skin rotted away and their flesh melted off, leaving nothing but ribbons of tough hide and fractured bone. And the Daughters of N’Gougul took to the sky to join their mother. And the Banshees cast Barkus into a nigh unending night.

The sun rose on Barkus when Robello, The God of Song, blessed a young maiden, Kara Oakley, with the power to stop N’Gougul. He gifted her strength of arm, for she alone could strike the blow to lay the Queen of Banshees down. He blessed her with beauty divine, that the young men of Barkus would look upon her and rejoice, offering her their loyalty. He granted her light, that the darkness of the night would not impede her. He fortified her heart, so that all within her presence would awaken from their maddening sadness. And he protected her. He made her impervious to the only avenue through which N’Gougul and her horde might cause her to falter.

Weeping, he touched Kara’s ear. He poured the infinite beauty of melody into her soul, enriching her. Entrancing her. Setting her mind and heart alight with the joy that music brings. And then he took that song away from her. Forever.”

***

The wizard’s story faded, as did the images that held us still. But though the magic stopped, his gesturing did not. His hands moved fluidly, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the straggler moving her hands as well. She rose, her hands sending messages only the wizard could understand, and walked over to take a seat beside him.

He placed his hand upon her back and said, “So when you meet a young man or maiden, who cannot hear you call their name, remember that they are a Child of Kara, and that they carry with them a touch of the divine.”