The Tales of Enderas: Ch 1 The Great Battle

A fun fantasy adventure that currently has very under-developed characters!

Vincent Wallace had been away from home for many years. He left shortly after his grandmother died, despite his grandfather’s wishes. He was very hurt since his whole life was spent with them and he never knew his parents. After the funeral, Vincent felt it was important that he go out to find himself and become his own man. To grow up as his grandfather plainly put it.

When Vincent walked up his old home’s drive way, a bit older and with a wiser man’s eyes guiding him, he saw an old man standing on the porch beaming at him. The house was a bit more weathered than he remembered but his grandfather looked exactly the same as when he left many years before. “Well, I thought you’d be dead by now!” his grandfather bellowed. “I should say the same to you, old man!” Vincent replied. They always spoke in this joking manner though most people believed them to be insulting each other.

It didn’t seem like it to some but they always had a good relationship, even during troubled times. To cheer each other up, they would sit together and make up a story, always adding bits for the other, always keeping the story going. Other times, Vincent would just sit and listen to one of his Grandfather’s stories. Never interrupting and always paying close attention. It was something they shared with no one else.

“You’ve been gone for too long you know. I’ve had no one to share my stories with.” Grandfather Wallace exclaimed rather cheerfully. “Well I promise to be a good set of ears for you then, provided you make some of your famous biscuits and gravy I grew up with.” A home cooked meal had been the only thing on Vincent’s mind for quite some time so naturally getting food was his first objective. “Food always was the first thing on your mind. Had I known you were coming I would have had it waiting for you.” Vincent replied, “Well I’m sorry but I wanted to surprise you.”

After a nice long meal filled with stories of travels, bad weather and a troublesome raccoon, they made their way to the attic, Vincent’s old room. “It looks exactly the same as when I left. I was certain you’d have turned it back into a storage room.” Vincent remarked. “I wanted you to feel at home as soon as you came back, though I haven’t kept it as clean as I used to.” Vincent began surveying his old drawings from his childhood that hung all around the room. He noticed one setting on his old desk of what looked like a dragon and a winged horse fighting. “I drew this shortly before I left. It was always my favorite story you told me.” His grandfather looked at the drawing. “Ah, yes! That looks like the Great Battle of Enderas between the Mighty Winged Horse and the Fearsome Dragon!” This story, above all others, he always spoke of with great enthusiasm and as if he were there, which could be why it was Vincent’s favorite. “Tell me again about the Great Battle.”

“Well, it was around dusk when the rain began to fall.” His grandfather began. “Enderas had seen its fair share of bad storms but this one was by far the worst. With the rain came a dark eeriness to the air, as if this were no ordinary storm. The Winged Horse soared through the air with a radiant glow about him. He began his descent, soaring down to the edge of the forest. ‘Where are you!?’ he bellowed. From the safety of the forest shadows, a large scaly black creature emerged, a sinister demonic animal with horns and bat-like wings.  A fiery glow within its eyes reflected the image of a small human child in one of its arms.

‘This is not how things are done, Dragon.’ The Winged Horse cried. ‘Since when have I ever followed the rules?’ The Dragon replied. ‘Even for rule breakers this is beyond madness! You’ve killed your brothers and sisters and now you intend to kill their young. Whatever evil that has possessed you; I will drive it out and eliminate it.’ The Dragon smirked. ‘To do so you must kill me and you are too weak, you’ve always been weak that’s why you were the human’s slave.’ The Winged Horse’s lip curls. ‘The only slave here is you to the Darkness. You are the weak one to be so easily corrupted.’ ‘FOOL!’ And the Dragon attacked, still clutching the child, knowing the Winged Horse would hold back for fear of harming it.

The Dragon had the horse backed to a cliff preparing for the final blow. With her final thrust, the horse took flight, as the Dragon slid off she lost hold of the child. The Winged Horse dove after but it was lost in the forest below. In a blind rage, he turned to the Dragon who had just climbed back up the cliff and charged after her. The Winged Horse had always fought for justice. For the first time, he knew the taste of vengeance. While lying in the mud, bleeding, the Dragon began to laugh. ‘The child is dead and you have lost yourself. I have won the war.’

With a horrified expression, the Winged Horse realized this to be true. He had become what he sought to fight against. He flew away in anger never to be seen again. The legend goes that the Winged Horse had buried the child in a hidden grave, for when the remaining humans looked for it, the body was never found. To this day some still search for the grave, hoping to find the Winged Horse and sway him to fight the Dragon again and end her rein.”

“Of all your stories, that one never gets old.” Vincent proclaimed. “So you’re saying the others do get old?” His grandfather asked. “Of course!” Vincent half smiled. “Come here, I want to show you something.” His grandfather led him into the study. He went to his desk and pulled from one of the locked drawers a stack of old papers. “Years before you were born, I had begun to write down all my stories but I never finished. I want you to take these and maybe finish the story.” He asked with great sincerity. “Grandpa I can’t!” Vincent exclaimed. “These are yours alone. I’m honored that you shared them with me but you should be the one to finish them.”  His grandfather sighed.

“Please, Vincent. You know the stories just as well as I do, you’ve heard them hundreds of times. What’s the harm?” Vincent began to get nervous. “I just don’t feel comfortable with this. They’ve always been you’re stories and I don’t want to take that away from you.” With a firry passion, his grandfather began nearly shouting. “Take them! I won’t live forever and you’re the only person I trust with these, so take them or I’ll throw them into the garbage!”

Vincent had never seen his grandfather get so angry so he gladly accepted the gift and held it with great care. It looked as if the shouting took a lot out of Grandpa Wallace. “I’m a little tired now I think I’ll go to bed.” “Goodnight Grandpa!” His grandfather skulked away, seeming to be greatly exhausted from the conversation. Vincent took a closer look at his grandfather’s papers. He read the top page aloud.

 

The Great Battle

 much turmoil is there at night

when the Winged Horse fights for Light

against the Dark Beast of sin

dragon’s Evil is within

only righteousness prevails

against the creatures from Hell

for eternity they brawl

neither lives and neither falls

the Winged Horse and the Dragon

warring for souls of thousands

the conflict will end in blood

as the dirt turns into mud

the rain will fall with the sun
a new era has begun

 

“I never realized he was so poetic. Maybe that’s why he was so passionate about it. I could never write it as well as he has, but he wouldn’t have listened if I told him that.”

 

The thought of how he may have hurt his grandfather’s feelings plagued Vincent’s mind so much that he found it very difficult to sleep. He had read the many poems of his grandfather’s several times and glanced at his own drawings of different scenes from the story. He was soon reminiscing of the times his grandfather told him the stories before bedtime. The stories were very interesting for a young child. He would beg his grandfather to continue, always asking to hear more and always hearing the same answer, “No more tonight, we’ll continue tomorrow, now go to sleep.” 

 

All the memories gave Vincent a warm feeling. This feeling was enough to relax him and he soon was yawning for rest. With one last glance at his drawing of the Winged Horse and the Dragon, his eyelids grew too heavy and the drawing faded behind the darkness.