 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
"Legend of the Twelve Regions"
Kybar's Teeth... "Maybe they thought we'd allied with the Core, and were launching a joint attack with the Shadow Magi," observed Barak. "After all, I was in the Core for a while. But if they persist in wanting a war, we'll be happy to give it to them." Targ'n sat moodily in his rough-hewn stone throne in the heart of the castle of Yark Eyrie. His eyebrows furrowed and knotted over his wide nose, he stared at nothing in particular in the empty throne room; what he saw was held in his mind's eye, and his bearded chin worked back and forth with the tension the vision evoked in him. He'd been having dreams, and he replayed those dreams over and over again in his mind. The dreams had begun shortly after he had stood atop Kybar's Fang and seen the fall of Naroom. Kazm had brought news of an eruption of dark creatures, and the two of them had ridden the great Fang to the northernmost point of the Teeth to see. Using their magic, they were able to watch as the great shadow had swarmed over Vash Naroom and the surrounding woods. They had stayed in that spot for days as the blight slowly covered the majority of the great forest. Then Targ'n had returned to Yark Eyrie. The dreams, apparently, had followed him home. They were essentially the same dream, differing only in unimportant particulars. A pair of great shadowy hands rose up from Naroom, great paws made of twisted branches and wilted vines. They reached out, groping for the gigantic granite slabs of Kybar's Teeth. He saw the shadow of those great hands reach across the bright, solid stone bastion, and then, all at once, the clean, light-gray stone turned dark, all at once. Not from the touch of the hands... from within. Targ'n's hands clenched into fists, vowing that this vision would not come true, yet having no idea how to prevent it. |
His people respected strength; they always had. That was largely why he was the elder: he was stronger than almost anybody in the Teeth. True, there was one person stronger, and although Targ'n had bested T'lok at the Test of the Elder, he had won not because he was stronger, but because he was smarter. Not that he'd ever admit that to the other Kybarites. The problem was, the Kybarites were not entirely discriminating in whose strength they respected. That was why they often had a huge but dim-witted elder leading them. And that, in turn, was largely why the rest of the Moonlands considered them backwards barbarians. For many long centuries, the Kybarite elder had spoken in one-syllable words, and now the other elders showed surprise when Targ'n showed himself to be quite literate. The Kybarites had a saying: nothing overpowers strength. That's why the dreams bothered him. The Dark Twins were coming. They would attack Kybar's Teeth. And when they did, Targ'n had to show himself to be stronger than them. But deep in his heart, he knew they were the stronger. He would need help. But how can a Kybarite ask for help, let alone the elder of Kybar's Teeth? "There's nothing for it, then," grumbled Targ'n. He stood up and strode out of the throne room to one of the balconies atop the castle. He wanted to spend as much time as was left looking at the pristine gleam of the granite pinnacles.
Read:
|
Magi-Nation and all properties shown on this page is © Interactive Imaginations 2000 - 2010. All Rights Reserved.
All artwork on this site are copyright their respective owners.