This story was created as part of my interview for a writer/editor position at Sierra Studios. The producer gave each applicant a piece of instrumental music and asked us to write "the song's story". The catch? We only had one night to finish it. I think I put the final touches on my tale at about 3AM.

The Crags-Kinde

Names can be very important things, you know.

Far south from our city, in the wilds at the foot of the Empire’s land, was a mountain called Mother. No one was certain how the mountain got her name, although it suited her nature admirably. Her streams were as pure as a mother’s heart, her climate as forgiving as a mother’s smile, and her sheltered plateaus as protective as a mother’s circled arms. And like a good mother, of course, she had many, many children. Crags-kinde, they were called -- Children of the Mountain -- and their name suited them as well. Not foothills or valleys, as one might think, but flesh and blood children, boys and girls, men and women, who bore no names but the one they all shared, crags-kinde. Each had been left on the mountain’s knee as a baby, that they might not burden their parents with their very existence. Unwanted children, they were raised by each other and by the nurturing Mother, and there they found a home all their own.

So it was that on a particularly fine day, as the sun was beginning to set and the massive mountain rams settled down on their bellies to enjoy the evening breeze, a crags-kinde sat at the edge of his plateau and spun a melody for the Mother. His song was full of all the things he’d seen and done that day... of warm sun as he drove the rams to their grazing place, of sweet grass and tart vineberries, of the burr-bugs’ dance in the shallows of the mountain stream. As he sang, the valley below began to fill with horses and men, and the crags-kinde smiled. He often dreamed of armies, of red soldiers and gray soldiers, of their banners and their tents, and their curving blades of bronze. In his mind he spun visions of glory, as rank upon rank of proud men in armor marched to the battles ahead. It seemed a most marvelous and exciting thing to be part of such a shining herd of men, to be loved by your brothers and your king, and to see the world from edge to edge. But such was a destiny too bold for a mountain child, so dreams would have to suffice. And dreams were in ample supply on the mountain.

But, then, sudden as the sound of thunder, a mighty brass war-horn broke the evening’s tranquil splendor and announced with a resonant wail that the army was no mere vision. Leaping to his feet, the crags-kinde gazed out at the valley and saw the stuff of his dreams made real in the glorious multitude of red-clad soldiers. He watched, wide-eyed, as they marched through the valley and began to encamp, right in the shadow of his own plateau! And there, just as he had seen them -- in so many idle reveries, in so many nighttime wonders -- were the bright banners and the rainbow tents, the shaggy war-horses and the trundling siege wagons. And the crags-kinde’s heart soared with the sight of them, all spread out below his home as if they had come simply to fill his eyes with color and his head with awe.

But, yet... there was something wrong. From the heart of his darkest dream rose a memory, a vision, of terrible import. Men and horses, he saw, broken and bleeding, crushed by falling stone and tumbling earth. So he looked to the south, through the needle’s eye of the Grumbling Pass, and from his high plateau he could see his fears made flesh. Men and horses, the rest of the army, were encamped upon the distant plain, but close to the Pass, as if they intended to cross through and rejoin their fellows. The crags-kinde knew the true danger of the mountains, and knew that the Pass was far too treacherous to cross with loud voices and heavy hoofbeats. And he knew, with the certainty of many dreams, that the distant men would die in the attempt.

So the crags-kinde stood, lost in worry, as the mountain rams rolled on the swiftly cooling ground and the warblers sang their last notes to the gathering shadows. He gazed down at the valley and watched the tiny figures scurry about the camp, and asked the dream what he should do. And whether the dream somehow replied, or whether he discovered in his own heart the answers which needed to be found, the crags-kinde set his feet on the mountain path and walked down the rocky trail towards the army.

The army which, somehow, he had always known would come.

His descent was neither an easy nor a rapid one, and the darkness was complete by the time he reached the valley floor. But the dream led him onward, until he found himself at the edge of the army’s camp, and he smelled the faint miasma of cooking meat and sour sweat, and he saw the flames of the campfires and the silhouettes of men playing games of chance inside their bright silk tents. And the crags-kinde felt a very great excitement, as if he’d finally found a part of himself which was lost for many years. He walked through the camp as if guided to its very heart, and somehow the guards looked around him, or through him, and he passed them as if he were the dream itself. And when he came to a tent much grander than the rest, and a campfire much larger, he knew that he had arrived.

A man sat just outside the tent, resplendent in his red lacquered armor and feathered mantle. He watched the soldiers who bragged and diced by the fire... reveling, like the crags-kinde, in the sights and sounds of the camp. A noble, obviously, but one well-beloved by his troops, and one who spent little time behind the lines of battle, as his nicked and grooved armor could easily attest. And the crags-kinde, drawn forth like a lodestone to a pot-metal ring, stood before the noble and suddenly found that he had no voice. The noble looked up, with no small amount of curiosity and a glimmering of alarm, at this unaccountable stranger in the midst of his camp.

Although the crags-kinde’s eyes would not meet his own, the noble seemed to find something auspicious or reassuring in the mountain child’s face. He asked what mission would bring an innocent down from the heights to walk among such a rabble as his. And as if the noble’s question had freed his tongue, the crags-kinde replied, though apprehensively, that a great danger awaited the soldiers on the other side of Grumbling Pass. And he told what he had seen.

Then the noble smiled a very grim smile indeed. And he told the crags-kinde that the soldiers were none of his men, but an invading army come to ambush them in the night. He praised the crags-kinde for his keen eyesight and his welcome warning. The noble’s own soldiers would be ready, he said, and would fight the invaders as they crossed through the Pass. No enemy would set foot on Empire soil, even if the bodies of fallen defenders at the mouth of the canyon were the only thing walling the invaders out.

Then the dream spoke to the crags-kinde again, or it could be that he simply had an excellent notion, but he spoke up, surprised at his own boldness. Perhaps, he said, if the battle were to be very loud, and the defenders were to cry out and bang their shields to make it even louder, the Pass would grumble and shake rocks down on the invaders. And, perhaps, if he were to drive his own flock of mountain rams across the upper wall of the canyon, he could knock down more stones and help to drive the enemy back.

The noble was mightily pleased at this suggestion, and he gave the crags-kinde a great brass war-horn. He commanded the mountain child to blow that mighty trumpet from the heights of the plateau when the rams were ready to drive across the canyon wall. And the crags-kinde, feeling somewhat frightened but immensely proud and unexpectedly important, turned and began the long climb home.

The mountain ascent was never easy at the best of times, but in darkness it was positively treacherous. The uneven ground seemed almost alive, reaching up to bruise unwary toes, or dipping suddenly to snare an unsuspecting ankle. And so it happened that the crags-kinde was but halfway home when the first clash of battle sounded. The song of sword on shield and the cries of the soldiers were unmistakable. And the crags-kinde, desperate, called out to the dream and began to run. Whether the dream again guided him, or in his fear he somehow remembered the way from his earlier journey, or whether, perhaps, Mother mountain herself gave her child the strength he needed, his strides became longer and his steps unfailing, and he flew up the mountain like a harvest-hawk. Only when he reached his plateau did he stop, but still he had breath in his body and he yelled and clapped and woke the sleeping rams. Alarmed and puzzled, they grunted and clustered together, the whites of their eyes showing in the moonlight. And still he yelled and stomped towards them, moving them in the direction of the canyon wall. More afraid of his strange manner than of the unaccustomed darkness, they warily trudged ahead of him.

And as they reached the head of the treacherous canyon trail, the crags-kinde could hear the din of battle far below. Looking down, he saw the dance of torches and the blaze of bonfires, and in that flickering light the soldiers of both armies fought and died. The echoing sound of their cries and their clashes had begun to work its will on the walls of the Pass, and small rocks snapped from their places to fall on the fray below. And the crags-kinde knew the time had come. Raising the war-horn to his lips, he blew a single note, powerful and resounding. It took the last ounce of breath from his body, and the world swam before his eyes, but the sound was well-heard in the chasm below. A ululating howl arose from the assembled defenders, and the crash of their shields on the rock rolled like thunder through the canyon. As if awakened now, and angry, the Grumbling Pass began to roar. Boulders, ledges, sedge, and trees... all rained down from the canyon’s walls, dashing the hopes and the bodies of those soldiers unfortunate enough to stand below. And the invaders turned like frightened children and ran towards the safety of the southern plains.

But the dream had hold of the crags-kinde now, and he lifted the horn again to his lips and blew a mighty sound. The massive mountain rams, terrified beyond measure by the shouts and the stench of battle, broke from their protective huddle and ran from the sound of the horn, along the canyon rim, their hooves pounding like war-drums on the packed earth and stone. And the crags-kinde knew, in a moment of pure exultation, that this was the reason he’d been born. Again and again he sounded the horn, until the blood pounded fierce in his ears and the blackness stole his legs from under him, and he heard the screams of the rams as the canyon wall gave way below them, crashing to the chasm floor and shattering the army beneath it.

The last sound he heard before exhaustion claimed him was the victory howl of the red-clad soldiers.

It was there, on the ruined trail above Grumbling Pass, that the noble’s soldiers came to find him. They made him a litter from their pikes and their cloaks, and they carried him down to the jubilant camp. And as he slept in a healer's bright tent, the soldiers laughed and sparred and reveled in the realization that they had outlived their enemies. When the crags-kinde awakened on the following day, he found himself surrounded by smiling people, who greeted him warmly and offered him beer-baked bread and potato soup, and he almost cried with the sheer joy of it all.

After he rose, he wandered the camp, enthralled but somehow lost. For the dream had left him with the sound of the horn, and he found himself alone, without the feel of Mother mountain under his feet or the quiet lowing of the herd in his ears. But the men of the camp treated him like a brother, and they told him tales of war and honor, of danger and glory, of kings and of heroes. And they brought him that evening to the battlefield at the canyon’s mouth, where the engineers had built a short stone tower. There, on the top, stood the red-clad noble and his proud commanders, and the soldiers assembled below.

Then the noble spoke of valor in battle, and he spoke of sacrifice and loyalty. He praised his men for their determination, and they cheered his words and his name. He spoke of the families each man had left behind, and the family they all shared in the brotherhood of arms. He spoke of the Empire and its shining throne, and he spoke of the courage found sometimes where it was least expected. And then he grew silent. The crags-kinde, enraptured by the words, found himself suddenly pushed forward, towards the tower. Frightened, he tried to melt back into the crowd, but smiling men on all sides half-prodded, half-carried him to the tower stairs. He looked up, and saw the noble’s hand extended to help him climb. Embarrassed beyond measure, he took the hand and stumbled up. The soldiers cheered and howled, and the crags-kinde looked to mother Mountain as if she would spirit him from this overwhelming throng. But it was the noble who waved his arms to quiet the crowd, and with their shouts, somehow, faded the last of the crags-kinde’s fears.

So it was that one of the proud commanders, resplendent in his battle finery, gave the mountain child a bundle of brightly hued silk, the blazing standard of which he’d dreamt so many times. And the other commander, as stately as the first, hung about the crags-kinde’s neck the mighty brass war-horn he’d blown on the mountain, now polished and glowing as brightly as the soldiers’ bronze swords. And the noble himself, as pleased as a cat in the butter-churn, turned the crags-kinde’s head and kissed him upon the brow, a soldier’s welcome. And he shouted to his men, and to the watching Mother mountain, that here was a brother in arms to bring pride to a soldier’s heart and honor to his family. With the standard in his hand and the war-horn at his lips, he would drive them to battle and to triumph. And for all the rest of his days, in honor of a glorious deed, the crags-kinde would finally be granted a name of his own.

"Victory".

For names can be very important things, you know.