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Enedentian Epic: Canto VI

In distant parts, in days of old,
when trees were tall, and mountains cold,
when young was fire in the sky
above the northern mountains high,
beneath the cruel, eating ice        5
was delved a home for Aladice.
The ubeline, the mighty race
descendent from their fallen grace
crept into Avra's northern parts
by tricks of slight and uncouth arts.        10
And there, defeating mighty lords
in armour clad, with cruel swords,
there dug the deepest, vastest hold
beneath the roots of mountain fold.

In Hamclad's subterranean pit,        15
amongst the countless treasures sit
two holy gems of purest black
undented by no sullying mark.
The legend of their birth is told
of mighty lords in days of old,            20
and of the strife amongst those kings
that lonely roaming minstrels sing.
Yet of their coming to the halls
beneath the mountain's stony walls
is hushed by minstrels of the vale        25
and seldom sung is this great tale
of wickedness and rank malice
wrought by the hand of Aladice.

Yet of those times there still remains
the dreadful scars upon the plains            30
born of great malice from afar,
bred under light of hateful star.
Arising from beneath the ground
they woke from their unholy mounds
and gathering, they issued forth        35
from pits into the icy north.
Then to the west, from pits of Hell
the creatures slunk through plain and dell.
Into the north they went with war,
to ruin mountain, field to mar,            40
and Hamclad's gates to fall upon,
against the sons of Ubelon.

After the long and fruitless war
that did the peerless beauty scar,
where lies, beneath the grinding ice        45
the dolven caves of Aladice,
with jewels twain hung by his throne,
behind the mighty walls of stone?
With Ides raped of joy and pride,
the weela in green forests hide.        50
Those creatures sleep in secret lairs
where light is dim and foul is air.
Yet some, with most malicious hearts
when stirred by dark, unwholesome arts
will decimate both field and glade;           55
from such was Cancalon's hoard made.

The dreadful master of the east
and keeper of a thousand beasts
was once a captain in command
of hosts that ravaged sea and land.            60
Yet proud was he, who sought to lead;
the armies of his Lord to head.
He rallied then a rebel force,
that sent him down a ruinous course
and fearing punishment, he fled            65
down hidden roads his hoard he led
until beyond the rolling hills
o'er which he soon would bring new ills,
he settled in a hiding place
forsaking pardon and disgrace.            70

While in his hole, he waxed in pride
from whose long arm he could not hide
and so he called for hand and aid
from distant field to nearby glade.
And if provoked to force of might            75
would set his beasts to gruesome fight.
By such was built beyond the hills
a fort of dread, a home of ills
with poisnous fumes to choke and burn
the blooming fields of grass to turn            80
to blighted lands of dust and death;
much havoc wrecked by foul breath
of dreadful creatures bred within
the mighty gates of Gemelin.

Yet in the west, beyond those hills            85
of deathly plagues and brooding will
was planted new the fairies home
sepulchered by a mighty dome.
There, hidden in the watery caves
Esteletine sat lone and grave            90
as telling winds within his hall
blew tidings new upon his walls.
The fairy lord sat on his throne
as waves beat on the ancient stone.
The music of the maiden sang        95
as lashing waters leaping rang.
In chorus sang the crashing waves
upon the gates of fairy caves.

The rumours of the stirring wind
unsettled heart and limb and mind.        100
The chorus that the waters wept
far in the hidden cavern crept
and stirred the young and noble heart
to pity with its subtle art.
And so arose Esteletine,            105
and went he to the sacred shrine.
There stood he with the crashing waves
that beat inscessant on his caves.
The fairy lord of Tirilien;
The master of the fay therein,            110
Esteletine, the fairy lord
took heed of wind's foreboding word.

Yet these same treacherous winds would spread
to Cancalon, the mighty dread
the passing from the distant west        115
at King Anelion's behest
of fay unto the eastern shore;
Those same of famed enduring lore
that distant legends often sing
of mighty lords, of ancient kings        120
and fariy maids of blood divine.
And also of Esteletine,
the steward pure, commander fell
and of the caverns where they dwell.
Commanding fay, the steward pure        125
who keeps that fairy homes secure.

But Cancalon, the eastern woe
was unperturbed by seeming foe.
The whispering winds he trusted not
for of the malice that they wrought        130
his blackened heart knew well their ploy
and of the schemes that they employ
his memory would not forget.
Yet in his heart, he felt the threat.
The dreadful fairy king he knew            135
and soon, the fear within him grew.
The eastern lord, the wrathful king
knew what the hand of fate would bring.
And Cancalon the eastern lord
feared most the blade of fair sword.            140

Of old, when he, awash with pride
could not his captain's words abide
inspired revolt, dissention wrought
amongst the ranks that he had bought.
When battle raged and war was dire            145
he fell to his most base desire
and fleeing from his lord and host
he ventured south to fairy coast.
There met he King Anelion
whose graces he had long forgone:        150
A faithless knight, a great disgrace
once warred against the fallen race,
who fled the field of loss and blight
now faced the wrath of fairy might.

For glory in the fruitless war            155
he rode with kings whose crests he bore,
when with their brands to war they led.
Now from the battle fields he fled.
A mighty throng was in his train
was they traversed the blessed plain.        160
Yet there stood tall Anelion
and at that meeting, thereupon
his train withdrew to darker shades;
the faithless rebel lord betrayed.
For who can stand the fairy lord,        165
with blade unsheathed and ready sword?
Who can abide that righteous glare,
the light of his consuming stare?

Now that same light burns in his eyes.
He contemplates the starry skies        170
as bright the fateful sickle shines
as though held by Esteletine.
And with much brooding on his seat,
and memory of that retreat,
with hatred of the fairy folk,            175
the tidings of the winds provoke
desire in the faithless heart
of him who rules those dreadful parts.
Arising forth, he gathers round
the creatures from unholy grounds.        180
Within the gates of Gemelin
is raised a violent, woeful din.

They beat the drums and blare the horns,
and weeping winds cry out, forlorn!
The gates beyond the ruined hills            185
are opened with a chilling thrill.
Out comes a dark and mighty force
that treads on foot and back of horse
and snaking through the valley grim
they skirt where starry light is dim.        190
The winds cry with foreboding howls
as venture they, ill bred and foul
from Gemelin's tormenting gates
with fearful pride and burning hate.
And Cancalon, the summons heeds,        195
the army to the west, he leads.

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
Last few words: 
Canto Six of the poem. In this canto, Cancalon, the dreadful king introduced in the previous chapter considers assailing the newly established fairy realm in the west of Enedentia.
Editing stage: 


I think this is terrific, but quite a lot to take in on one reading. But this fair knight promises to return and read again. Regards Roscoe...

Roscoe Llane,

Religion will rip your faith off, and return
for the mask of disbelief that's left.

For making time to read this poem. It isn't the longest single part I've written, but more of that later.

I'm glad you thought it was worth the read. The references in the poem should make it difficult to follow for those who re not familiar with the world I'm writing about. I'm the only one who is, for now.

No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job. - TS Eliot

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