A six-member rock band, having achieved fame and fortune, and having ‘danced’ with the ‘dark side’ and New Age, are starting to have second thoughts after undergoing trials and tribulations.
Battle of the Band is © Deborah Lagarde, 1996. Rights Reserved.
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Note: Parts of Prologue and Chapter One included in this preview:
On the eve of apocalypse
A private 747 jet began its descent into Heathrow Airport from Waco, Texas. Six male passengers–members of the greatest rock band ever–sat aboard.
Twenty minutes later, the plane landed.
The passengers were missing.
Through a white mist up a long spiral walked the men. High above, the soul-faces of teen music legends looked down at them biding their time to award judgment.
And I, Counselor-angel to The Creator, watched the band ascend to meet their Maker.
A lead singer with dark brown mid back-length hair accentuated by sensuous bangs on a baby-face was slender, thin-lipped and of medium height. Voice a Godly gift–yet, some said, the devil’s tool.
The tall, dirty-haired guitarist possessed an angular face and had hair growing on once-shaved sides of his head. Now without the screaming instrument he fired into immortality.
The dark, strapping bass player with Adonis black curls and eyes as black as Tyne Valley coal walked without his trademark gold chains.
The tall, lanky, beak-nosed, ringlet-haired master of many guitars worried over his past perversions.
The pot bellied, bikeresque synthesizer player famed for red hair wild as the wind, fiery as his brew, bore a downcast of regret.
A short, curly-blond percussionist once angered by lost love approached with the others to an unknown destination, glad with a full life behind him.
For they knew Who sat ahead…
The Beforetime. The Creator. Sons of The Creator.
The light. Then…
The dark. When Corion, His ill-begotten son, used his serpent fire to make off with the Light, his Father banished him.
“Begone to the Darkness, Evil one, where your only sight will emanate from this.”
A gold chain from which hung a red crystal beacon was flung around Corion’s neck.
“But you will not be alone, errant son. Your Demons will sit beside you. And you will use your crystal sight to capture fellow souls–playthings for your evil designs. To make sure you can’t wage war on Me again, My angelic muses, The Tooters, will guard over you.”
The Tooters three sang as Corion and his Demons were cast into the Abyss forever,
Livin’ fast and full they forgot one rule.
For every pleasure there’s a measure of life
So slow and cruel.
Corion never escaped the Abyss. He grew in strength and prospered there, the world below unknowing of his Evil.
Until one day in 50 A.D. when Crynnwagg, High Priest of the Celtic Crag-Dwellers of Wales, came back from the dead, his blood having been drained by Druid priests.
Crynnwagg brought back from the Abyss Corion’s legacies. And with the red crystal, the Crag-Dwellers dealt retribution on the Druids. They tied fourteen children to fourteen trees and burned them.
In the unification of Norman-ruled Britain in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, the First Duke of Effingchester stole Crynnwagg’s treasures–and with it, the power to summon The Evil.
Within his bed chamber, the Fourth Duke of Effingchester knelt before a stone altar. A pagan cross radiating from a sun-circle encasing a snake had been carved on it. He put his red crystal medallion around his wrinkled neck and called forth The Creator’s outcast son, a god of darkness born in light.
“Corion, hear my prayer for help to defeat the Hovel Dwellers of the Wall Town. Send your legions to burn the victorious peasant army, and I will pay with my soul your allegiance Oath.”
As The Demons crossed the dimensional barrier headed for Walltown to wreak havoc on the poor Hovels dwellers, The Creator called upon The Tooters.
“Make haste to the World beyond, to the Tyne River city of Walltown, where you will finally defeat Corion’s minions. The men there are building a statue of winged trumpeters in which your beings will inhabit to watch over the Hovels and its Demons.”
“How will we defeat The Demons, Our Creator?” Tooter Two, a mere child amongst its elders, asked.
“Understand The Plan, young Tooter. You three will wage protracted struggle without victory as The Demons capture wicked souls and grow stronger until both sides are evenly matched. More than eight-hundred world years will pass. Then, before the third millennium is upon this world, you must enlist a band of earthly troubadours to give our Message of Good to the world’s youth and destroy the Evil of The Demons, who will also attempt to win this band. You must accomplish your task before The Evil unites the young and terror reigns.”
Into the fire The Demons cast the Hovels. The Duke and the English king divided the spoils so that the Duke owned most of the land and its people.
An old witch protected and gifted by The Tooters with supernatural vision and hearing listened to The Demons vocalize the final verse of their Song over the smokey pall around her.
A song from Hell is learned so well
By all the wicked spirited.
They’ll burn in fire and moan with ire
The Demons’ sound, unlimited.
“You, old woman.”
The witch of the Hovels turned her head upward when The Tooters spoke to her.
“You will be with us into the final battle to help our troubadours. Your survival to strengthen them in the face of The Demons that await them is our prophecy to you.”
The witch then heard The Creator tell The Tooters, “Henceforth, you must enliven the souls of the people with The Word of My Spirit.”
“The Code,” wise Tooter Three said with hushed tones. “Loyalty, Honesty, Love, Good Will, to self, to thy neighbor, and, above all, to The Creator. Our troubadours must abide it, or their souls will perish.”
The old woman heard The Creator tell his angels, “For this band and all men will come to believe their souls will rot in Hell who defile My Word.”
She heard Tooter One ask, “Creator, what will this band be called?”
“They will be called the greatest rock band there ever was.”
“Their name will be sound, unlimited.”
That is, Sound Unltd….