Banished Hex

A Tale of Blue

Photo: Terry Tabors/Dash Files

“Kill them all!” King Dzat yelled from his mounted throne of horns and feathers. Covered in black wool and furs, the king commanded his army from atop the back of a great mammoth standing larger than the walls that stood between his army and a multitude of riches. Due to the untimely death of Lord Hortix, the Kingdom of Tarpie was defenseless save for a few men who had given their souls for the sacraments to defend their homeland. It was known to all that a man who coveted a sacrament could waste a battalion of armed soldiers with relative ease. King Dzat, however, arrived with a battalion plus one.

Riding on a tusk of the great mammoth was a man clad in blue garments of wool, silk, and steel. He was taller than most men and as broad as an oxcart. He wore no helm; brown strings of hair covered his head from scalp to neck. His beard seemed as rough as his wool cloak. It looked as if he was asleep, arms folded to his chest and eye closed. He rested on his back with his feet placed where the mammoth’s tusk bent upward. A grey-blue broadsword peeked from behind his shoulders. Hundreds of men and horses raged below in a twister of battle cries and steel swords begging for blood. None seemed to affect his rest. 

As the battalion reached the closest wall, the uncrowned king looked down upon his army. “This is it, my future knights and lords. Take this city in my name and the kingdom is yours!” A yellow and brown smile stretched across his thin pale face. Beady eyes that matched his hair and clothing jittered from left to right in anticipation. Suddenly, they were stilled by an explosion that came from within the wall.

KKAAABOOOOOOOM!

 Pillars of red and orange flame erupted from the stone structure that protected the Kingdom of Tarpie. In one loud burst of energy, dozens of the king’s fighters greeted death. The closest ones to the wall were disintegrated, while others burned alive. Some lay trapped underneath remnants of the barrier. The warrior in blue remained undisturbed.

“Blue,” His Grace called down, “it’s time that we dealt with those tricksters.” The warrior opened one deep blue eye and looked upward. With a sigh, he jumped down from the mammoth and walked into the fiery breach of dust and smoke with broadsword in hand. As the king’s army retreated, some stopped long enough to look upon Blue.

“A-are yo-you a Hex, m’lord?” a bloodied soldier asked as he tried to gather enough strength to stand. He never took his eyes off the warrior’s weapon. He watched blue glyphs swirl within the metal of the sharp blade.

“Go home,” Blue responded in monotone. “Go home, love your wife, and raise your children. Tell the others to do the same. You are worth more alive rather than a corpse for the Ventriloquist King.” The soldier took his advice and ran in the other direction.

“…I’m afraid that is all I have time for today, my child,” the old man said between coughs. 

“No, grandfather, you promised to tell the whole story! What happened to the Blue warrior?” A boy of nine peered inquisitively into the old man’s blind eyes. “Did he die?”

“Yes…in a sense. Everything has died at least five times since the Origin, you know. This is the sixth version of the world.” The old man lifted his head and slowly pushed his hunchbacked body up from his chair. He tiptoed to his bookcase and grabbed a dusty volume with a spine as warped as his own. He began to turn pages that seemed older than him, every flip sent dust particles dancing around his face. “Each time the Banished One destroys the world, new Hexes are summoned to keep the balance.”

“The balance?” the boy asked with wide brown eyes. “What balance?”

“The Banished One is the god of this world. Each and every sacrament comes from and empowers Him. As a cosmic defense mechanism, there are six people that are burdened with power to restrain the Banished One just long enough to bring peace to the world for a century or so. The six band together and create something called the Banished Hex to destroy Him…and the world.” The old man closed his cataract eyes for a silent moment. Then he turned one more page. “Ah, here it is.”

The boy jumped to his feet and gazed at the page. “Wow. Is that the sword from your tale? Is that truly the Blade of Blue?”

“A crude depiction, but yes,” the old man muttered. “Do you want to see it for yourself? The blade rests at the bottom of the Sea of Atir. Do you know where that is? The youngsters call it the Dream Pond.”

“Yes, I know of it,” the boy stated. “But it is several miles from here. Are you certain the sword is there?”

The old man coughed and a thin finger of blood escaped from the corners of his mouth. He closed the tome and set it carefully in its place on the bookcase. He turned his head to the boy, smiled, and said, “I am certain.” The boy could almost see a hint of blue within the endless grey of his grandfather’s eyes.

 

- Terry