In honour of ol' Drax's birthday, an excerpt from...
The Sword of WelleranWhere the great plain of Tarphet runs up, as the
sea in estuaries, among the Cyresian mountains,
there stood long since the city of Merimna wellnigh
among the shadows of the crags. I have
never seen a city in the world so beautiful as
Merimna seemed to me when first I dreamed of
it. It was a marvel of spires and figures of bronze,
and marble fountains, and trophies of fabulous
wars, and broad streets given over wholly to the
Beautiful. Right through the centre of the city
there went an avenue fifty strides in width, and
along each side of it stood likenesses in bronze
of the Kings of all the countries that the people
of Merimna had ever known. At the end of that
avenue was a colossal chariot with three bronze
horses driven by the winged figure of Fame, and
behind her in the chariot the huge form of
Welleran, Merimna's ancient hero, standing with
extended sword. So urgent was the mien and
attitude of Fame, and so swift the pose of the
horses, that you had sworn that the chariot was
instantly upon you, and that its dust already
veiled the faces of the Kings. And in the city was
a mighty hall wherein were stored the trophies of
Merimna's heroes. Sculptured it was and domed,
the glory of the art of masons a long while dead,
and on the summit of the dome the image of
Rollory sat gazing across the Cyresian mountains
towards the wide lands beyond, the lands that
knew his sword. And beside Rollory, like an old
nurse, the figure of Victory sat, hammering into a
golden wreath of laurels for his head the crowns
of fallen Kings.
(...)
