Posted by admin on November 28, 2008
Homeless dance the pastures green;
free of dusty bonds or slavers mean.
The fields all glow with warm moonlight
the day I feign embrace my Lady Night.
Tho’ dark and thick as ink or embers cold,
her locks prss down with heat untold.
The latter end of sweet emptiness
goes to touch her saintly tress.
In peace she waits impassive.
Dead to my pleas wrought whole in massive
sorrow, I find my need to pass
the chance to cut the veins of tainted grass.
Lady Night n bland triumph takes my hand,
cold and trembling, where a good man
can see the sharp grass that poisoned cows,
and view skulls of broken vows.
The death fields above me soar
and stagger, then rise to flight once more.
I, with grace my cold libation
lat at the alter of her damnation.
I’ll not be taught to sing the silent death
song through bleak mankind’s breathless breath.
Night and those whose blackness round her shines,
with my fields of patient kine,
ponder the chance life has laid,
to give each of us a place pre-paid,
and we say “no,” or so it seems,
until sweetest Night and I dream our dreams.
Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman
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Posted by admin on November 26, 2008
Vociferous emancipation,
Hard gained through long toil,
Boils down the shafts of history.
Ebbing at imprudent intervals,
Freedom’s voice resurges,
Emerges without mystery.
The heart of man,
His brain and tired soul,
Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman
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Posted by admin on November 24, 2008
The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep is a fantasy novel describing the adventures of Colter Halfspear as he becomes a man and an initiate of magical powers.
Once the young son of the lord of a small holding required his sword be sharpened. He brashly approached Iven and demanded, “My sword needs work, see to it.”
“Put it with that lot,” Iven grunted. “It will get its turn with the others.”
The noble had not heard of Iven, and had not learned his manners, and replied, “Perhaps you do not understand. I require it immediately.”
“Perhaps, you are deaf, blind and stupid,” said Iven. His tone was matter of fact.
“You are mistaken.”
“No mistake. It is obvious that I gave you instructions, obvious there is a great deal of work to be done, and obvious you cannot reach the conclusion that you will have to wait your turn. If you can’t see the obvious, you must be blind. My wage is the same no matter whose blade gets done first.”
In that moment I discovered that Iven actually knew how to fight, though I saw it seldom enough. That noble drew his dull sword and threatened my master. Iven brushed the sword aside with his hammer with one swift, masterful stroke, and grasped the man in his great arms. Then he lifted him like a child and tossed him head over heels.
On it went, Scratch this and Scratch that until blisters had broken through my calluses and every bone ached to move. Then finally, mercifully we received the order to move out. At least I believed it was mercy that let me stay in a wagon all day. After all, we couldn’t very well build a fire.
Crack! For the hundredth time Iven’s leather thong snapped across my knuckles. There is more to armor and weapons than simply beating metal as I discovered. Even without furnace and fire we had plenty of work. Hardened leather breastplates needed repair or needed fastening together. At home my mother quilted to keep us warm in winter. Now I quilted thick padding, carefully stitching tight seams. Often recruits brought pieces of old armor which needed repair. Tools needed cleaning. And again crack! Iven could spot the tiniest flaw with my work and he disliked shoddy craftsmanship. “Do it right, Scratch. Lives depend on it,” he bellowed again.
When we reached the main camp I hoped for liberation and a reprieve from the constant work. A pair of familiar faces greeted me as we unpacked the wagon with Iven’s tools. Lyekal waited with a sword I had seen hanging over their mantle in Dunston. Behind him Wess leaned against a long spear, watching the swirl of recruits.
“Ho, Colter,” called Lyekal. “I see you haven’t managed to escape the forge. That’s not a job I would return to for all the money in the empire.”
“You best not let Iven hear that,” I replied. I cast a look in my master’s direction, hoping he would not be cross for me pausing to talk to my friends. “I see your father finally let you come.”
“We heard the council said you were of age,” replied Lyekal. “After that there was nothing they could do. Both Wess and I are older than you, and Wess has been on his own since last winter anyway.”
“I though you were going to farm, Wess,” I said.
He looked at me for the first time, and I saw the frown in his eyes. “I couldn’t pay Trakkin’s rent.”
“He’s a hard man,” I agreed.
“First time in four summers the place looked to have a good harvest and he turned us out. My sister went with a merchant traveling west. He paid Trakkin the rent in exchange for her services. I either joined up or became Trakkin’s slave.”
Two markets of marching did nothing to lighten my master’s disposition. “I’ve told you a thousand times, every chink, Scratch! Is that armor you would wear into battle with a thousand angry beasts trying to kill you?”
I had learned by then that his ranting was mostly rhetorical, and largely for his own amusement. In truth he was much softer than he let on, for though he cracked my fingers and let on when I made a mistake, he never did whip me as he warned. When we made camp north of Havensod he gave me a full night of rest and said, “Use the sleep, lad, for tomorrow the real work begins. The lads will begin dying soon!”
True to his word, the real work began in earnest. We joined the main camp where thousands of soldiers waited and trained to battle the Kaarum. Our small force suddenly became a large bustling, noisy clash of shouts and drills. Many of the recruits had never held a weapon before, and of those who knew something of fighting, only a very few had ever seen a Kaarum. For me my drillmaster was the forge and my weapon the bellows. “Hotter!” yelled Iven. “Hotter and higher!”
Though the new furnace was a little more to Iven’s liking, and he now had a half dozen experienced apprentices, I still had no time for rest. I labored along with the others, churning out lengths of wire, or casting bronze blades. We filled canvas bags with rings cut for mail. The grindstone sent a constant shower of sparks. I learned the art of turning a spear shaft on the large machine powered by driven oxen. Iven finished each piece personally. Into each long shirt he beat his particular mark, four brass rings, each inscribed with the names of his sons.
The moment we finished a blade a soldier snatched it. We made spears for the footmen, swords for officers, and lances for cavalry. I quickly decided I could live perfectly happy never seeing another weapon again, and that spear poles would better serve as bean trellises. Swords had no use whatsoever beyond decorating the mantle, and they were ugly enough at that. Iven showed me a secret that few armor smiths understood.
“After the mail is done, we bake thus, in hot coals and peat. Then it gets a bath in vinegar. This will make it harder and yet tougher. It is a trick I learned at home which I’ve not seen another do. With time and tools I could show you how to make such beautiful breastplates of blue and gold as to cause even that pimple Kelsin to blush. I’ve done work for the emperor himself, and all the great lords. You’ll notice that Kelsin’s armor doesn’t fit him quite right. That piece I made for his father, and his pride won’t let me alter it. The weight of it will throw him off in battle. Mark my words. Before they finish spilling blood he’ll wish for my hammer.”
Often the most difficult part of soldiering is the dread of waiting for danger that may come at any moment. The hours pass slowly when there is little to do but drill and watch the horizon for enemies. Iven had little patience for those whose hands remained idle. Most of the soldiers had no motivation to do anything beyond follow directions. “Look at that lazy lot, Scratch. They wouldn’t know a day’s work if it hit ‘em with a hammer.” I’m certain he meant for it to be his hammer, though gratefully there were no more interruptions by uncouth young nobles.
Though Iven never scolded me for talking with Lyekal or Wess so long as my work didn’t slacken, I knew he disapproved of the smith’s son. Both of them practiced hard, but even my untrained eye could tell that they hadn’t the time to achieve the skill of a true battle. Lyekal never tired of hoping for glory.
Within a five market, virtually every scrap of metal in the region had been accounted for. The work began to slow, and once more I found myself sleeping long enough to do more than drone through another day. I had learned to take pride in my work by then. I gained satisfaction looking at something I made with my own two hands being carried about and used by someone else.
“You’ve done well by me Scratch, now let’s see about that shirt of yours, and bring that pig poker with you too.”
I can still feel the excitement of working on my own armor for the first time. In later winters it became more drudgery than anything, until finally it was simply a routine that happened everyday. My weapons were already excellent and needed no work beyond the time to sharpen and polish them properly.
“Not much work to be done with it,” said the smith with a frown as he held up the mail. “Pretty shoddy work if you ask me. It’s not even been welded together. But it should at least fit you proper. Stand straight and let me get a measure.” He took my measurements and then watched as I started the pattern. Of course I had already been through it a dozen times, so there was really little left to learn. He surveyed the blade on the spear and took a moment to grind a small dent.
“Once you’ve got the pattern together, I’ll show you how to do the welds. Now sharpen it up Scratch, and work on those chinks. I don’t suppose you’ll ever need ‘em, but it’s worth having just the same.”
Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman
On to The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep Fantasy Novel Chapter Ten
Back to The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep Fantasy Novel Chapter Eight
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Posted by admin on November 21, 2008
Joao Sebastian looked over the quiet waves to watch the longboat that was moving steadily toward the ship that waited at anchor. “Cao Italiano,” he said, and spat to accentuate his words. “He leaves us here to rot, on this forgotten island, while he goes to find the gold on the continent.”
The sun weltered, and the sea breeze died silently. Even in the shade of the tall trees, the jungle still burned. The noise of insects infected the air with a constant buzz. Joao Sebastian felt the anger see out at him from the crew behind him, searing into his back as hotly as the sun on his face.
Joao heard Vasquez grunt indifferently and say, “Dios quiere.”
“Yes, Vasquez,” agreed Joao Sebastain, “this is exactly what God has wanted for us. We are to wait here and die on this forgotten place while that Italian dog returns to your Queen with the glory and the gold. I did not leave prison to face this, Vasquez. I did not cross these waters to face the savage spirits here.” Suddenly Joao Sebastian’s face changed, and he smiled. He turned to Vasquez and with a friendly gesture said, “but come, my Spanish friend, and we will find the treasures that Nuestro Senor has provided.” With that Joao Sebastian rubbed a leather hand across his brown face and started across the beach toward the jungle.
-*-
“They are coming, father. I have seen them. They are covered in odd clothes, and they turn at the sound of a cricket. Birds flee before them; the jungle is silent. Even the trees do not know how to receive the strangers. These can not be the spirit sons which the gods promised to send us. They are dirty.”
“Do not judge too quickly child. The spirit children of the gods are unused to our world. Only by their hearts can you tell them from the deceivers that the Dark one may send. Go and watch them, and pray to see their hearts.”
-*-
Four months of storm and hell for this. To be left at the end of the earth where even the devil will not come. To purge the ignorant pagan of his beliefs and cure him of the evils of gold and silver. Four years in a Spanish prison to spend four months in a Spanish hell with only an Italian dog to turn to. This is not why I left my motherland. To see the ocean, that is what I told my mother. Yes, to see the ocean, but also to have a little bread to eat. What is an orphan to do? Sail away to cut timbers in the burning jungle.
“Cut faster you dogs,” growled Joao Sebastian. “El Capitan wants this fort built and dedicated to Nuestra Senora La Virgen before he returns from the mainland.
“You screech for nothing,” replied Vasquez, “El Capitan isn’t coming back tomorrow. We have time. Or do you fear El Capitan more than Nuestro Senor, the King of our souls. God will provide for the righteous.
“El Capitan killed Nuestro Senor a long time ago. El Capitan is your god now, and he has already sent us all to rot here in this hell.” Joao Sebastian pointed to a dark rock that knifed above the trees, a hundred meters over the calm waters of the bay. “There is where we build the temple to our golden god.”
-*-
“They are attacking the forest. All day, like animals, they have cut down the trees in the sun-god’s shadow, and carried them to the holy grounds, father. They burn fires there now, and stink of sweat and anger. Animals they have killed, and they burn them on the fires and eat them. I do not like these spirits. The leader, he works and does not perspire. The others, they fear him. They do not speak to him.”
“Have you seen their hearts, child? Only when the gods open your eyes to see their spirits will you know them. Of course if they are spirit children of the gods they will go to the holy places and offer sacrifices. You must watch them and learn their rites. Of course they must seek nourishment in our world somehow. And we, unworthy souls have not offered them anything because of our much fear.”
“And what if they are deceivers sent to defile the holy grounds?”
-*-
At least there is meat in this lost place. Joao Sebastian looked around the skeleton of a building they had managed to erect that day. Not the worst structure he had ever seen, but hardly a fortress. “Vasquez,” he called, “set up a watch. Have the men take turns. I don’t want anything from that jungle to find its way into our new home.”
“Of course, Joao Sebastian,” said Vasquez, though his tone clearly indicated his low regard for his leader. “We’ll protect your fortress with our lives.”
Joao Sebastian turned his eyes from the fire with effort and wrapped his eyes around Vasquez’ mind. “Of course you will because it is all you have,” replied Joao Sebastian. “This is all you have anymore, this jungle and me. If the fort goes then we die.” Vasquez scratched his lice nervously and stood up to leave. “Do you think the Capitan will come back for us? Eh, Vasquez?” Joao Sebastian rained laughter on the Spaniard, until Vasquez opened his mouth to respond and Joao Sebastian cut him off. “We were left here because that perro was running out of supplies and he never liked any of us from the start. If he could have afforded to get rid of me sooner, he would have. But no, I was too valuable, until he realized that I’m not as stupid as the rest of you. There is no gold on this island, only mosquitoes. On the continent there is treasure, but when he comes, what will he say to us? Eh Vasquez? Will he say, ‘look, we’re rich, what a fortune we’ve made,’ or will he say, ‘Nuestro Senor has not been as kind as I had hoped my friends, perhaps fortune will treat us better another time.’ Well, Vasquez?”
Vasquez turned his eyes from Joao Sebastian’s dark glare. Vasquez ran a nervous hand through his dark curls, scratching where the lice bit, and answered, “I don’t know Joao Sebastian. Either way this is better for me than dying in a prison. I had a sentence of death in Spain. I had no hope.”
Joao Sebastian’s voice became suddenly calm and quiet as the sea breeze. “And here you also have a sentence of death, and I am your only hope. If it is not starvation or disease, then surely the savages will take us. Yes, Vasquez, they are watching us, waiting, and surely they will come.” Joao Sebastian suddenly let out a raucous laugh that filled Vasquez with terror. His dark eyes danced wildly in the firelight as he looked ofr his secret bottle.
No, I did not leave my Portugal to live with Spanish dogs. If only Nuestro Senor has been kinder, perhaps then I would have been the Capitan instead of just a Portuguese dog that knows the stars and the savage ways. Yes, I know the savage ways. I can steal form them and use their women and make them slaves as well as any. And the gold. Yes, I had gold, enough to get a ship of my own perhaps. Yes. More, enough to have a good crew, not like El Capitan, scraping the prisons. And all lost for the death of a nobleman’s whelp. Joao Sebastian took another pull at his secret bottle.
-*-
“Some sleep, and some watch the night, father. The leader, he does not sleep. But he does not watch. He is like in the gods’ trance, but his face is full of pain, not joy, father.”
“Have you seen his heart, child?”
“I have prayed and watched. Others also watch. They say we should kill them, that they defile the holy ground. Others say we should give them gifts, that they are the spirit children. I pray. I wait. But the gods do not answer. If these are the spirit children, why do the gods not reveal their glory to us?”
“The gods sent them here to try us. Be careful, so, to choose correctly, or the whole village will feel the gods’ wrath.”
-*-
Joao Sebastian slipped out of his trance with the first indifferent rays of the sun. Already the sweat of his companions was beginning to stink as the company roused and resumed the building. Joao Sebastian noticed for the first time in the dawn light the ghostly angular shadows cast by large stones that surrounded the camp. The stone they were building on was covered with sod, but a circular section near the center had been cleared away, and holes had been drilled at symmetrical points into the rock around the central pit. What the sailors had naturally taken for the best spot for a fire contained more ashes than Joao Sebastian remembered burning the night before. In the pink dawn the jutting rock seemed a bloody crown for a savage dead king.
“Vasquez,” he called, “what do you make of these holes?”
Vasquez looked with interest for the first time at the holes in the ground. He was obviously confused for a moment, until he saw what Joao Sebastian saw, and his face wound itself into a deep frown. “We are not alone,” he said flatly.
“Very good, Vasquez,” mocked Joao Sebastian, and then his voice curdled, “call the men.”
-*-
“They stand around the holy place, father, talking in strange tongues. The leader has strange crystal eyes. He does not sleep. He marks our sacred places. He walks a careful pattern and does not put out the holy fire in the sacred place. They burn the sacred fires, but heir sacrifices are not accepted. The spirits do not approve, that much I can feel. These creatures cannot be the spirit children of the gods. I have prayed, and their glory has not been revealed.”
“You say the leader has strange eyes, child. That can be dangerous or glorious. Perhaps the fair ones are the spirit children, and he has deceived them. Take the sacred lance and kill him. Then try the others. A trial will tell all.”
-*-
“El Capitan said here,” retorted Vasquez angrily. “Here is the spot. We’ve already started. We’ve ammunition and powder. I’ll not leave.”
“Then rot,” growled Joao Sebastian. The wiry Portuguese sailor grabbed a pistol and tucked it into his belt. “I’ll be back to bury you.” With that he turned and stomped angrily into the jungle. Yes, I am dead, but you are dead too, Spanish dogs. They will come and eat your hearts. I have seen their angry spirits watching us, waiting in the night. Now the time for waiting is over.
The jungle received his intrusion in cruel silence. Save for the subtle buzz of mosquitoes the jungle was quiet. Joao Sebastian felt eyes on his movements, but he didn’t take out his pistol. After he had gone perhaps a hundred meters he heard a hushed whistle in the distance from the jungle behind. But he hadn’t seen a bird all day. Strange eyes seemed to bore into him, until Joao Sebastian finally grew weary of his stalker. He changed course, casually turning for the beach. A muffled crack behind him, and Joao Sebastian sensed his hunter’s frustration. Another moment passed in silence, two, three. Now! Joao Sebastian heard the swift movement of the arm before the spear actually took flight, but his reaction was slow. He turned and ducked in one smooth motion, but the lance grazed his left shoulder. He pulled the pistol out and fired as his attacker screamed a war cry. Joao Sebastian couldn’t tell if his shot was good or not, but the attacker didn’t come again. Joao Sebastian crawled his way to the base of a tree and sank down to look at his wound.
The obsidian point had dug deep, and he could tell from the burning that he had been poisoned. At least the bone is intact, but what does it matter. I am dead. In an hour or a day, if not the poison, the gangrene, the spirits.
-*-
“I have broken the deceiver’s spell, father. His magic was strong, he used the dark fire, and I am burned, but the spell is broken. The wound is deep, but I have seen them all unveiled. They are stupid and slow without his magic.”
“Very good, child. The gods will reward your valor.”
-*-
Joao Sebastian passed the afternoon beneath the shade of a palm tree near the edge of the beach. Even from the beach he could feel the jungle come alive with the savage spirits. The same dark magic that had struck him would strike again. As the shadows fell across the jungle, an even darker shadow came over Joao Sebastian. Vasquez will curse me before he dies. All those dogs will curse me, but it will not save them. God will strike them down with the hand of the heretic.
-*-
“There is a note, Capitan, here on his body. He scribbled something, but the writing is faded. “Mueran Perros . . .’ is all I can see. He must have fought the savages here, cursing them even in death. There are no other bodies.”
“Did you search the rock, did they build the fort?”
“There is nothing Capitan. Not even one timber is there. There are signs of chopping and hauling, but even the tools are gone. We found a spear near the skeleton with an obsidian head and a few feathers, but that is all.”
“Fate is fickle, a few more shares for us. Too bad for them. Let’s go.”
THE END
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Posted by admin on November 19, 2008
There are several ways to write a fantasy novel and most of them will work out just fine in the end. The real trick of course is then turning around and selling your novel. Assuming you have that little point covered, let’s discuss how to write a fantasy a novel.
The biggest ingredient is effort. I say that now so that it doesn’t get forgotten. Write every day. Be consistent. Put in the effort.
You’re ready to put in the effort – ok, here are a few other pointers.
- Tell a story. Don’t build a world. This is not a Dungeons and Dragons game you are about to run. Nobody is really that interested in the torrid details of your world. Yes those details are important, but not as important as the story. A story has a hero, an antagonist, a love interest – all those things that we enjoy reading about and watching in the movies.
- Show your story, don’t tell it. You have a love interest and a hero. Don’t say “and he fell in love with the princess.” That is kinda blah. Rather show his/her actions and words as they interact.
- Write your story. All too often I talk with would be novelists who don’t actually write anything. They tell me all about the world, the characters, the concepts, but on paper they have nothing more than a few notes. Not one word of dialogue, action, nothing.
- Keep writing your story. Yep, keep at it. Sure you may take a break now and again to go through your notes and revise your ideas, but KEEP WRITING THE STORY. Otherwise you’ll just end up with a pile of notes.
- Finish the story. It may sound a bit strange but it can be hard to just call the story done. Figure out where the climax is, tie up the loose ends that actually need tying up and finish it. Call it good. We don’t need to read about the hero’s sixteen grand children and their battles with the Dragons of Orgnark. Save that for another novel. Finish this one.
- Go back a re-write your story. You thought you were done didn’t you. Go back and cut out half of everything you have written. Hack it. Slash it. Get mean with that red pen. Then re-work it again. Go through the whole book, sentence by sentence and word by word.
- Take a break. Now is a good time to get away from it. Let your girlfriend read it. If you don’t have a girlfriend then now would be a good time to get one. Let it sit. Let it stew. Let people whose opinion is worth anything take a look at it and then listen to them.
- Revisit step 6. Be sure you have taken at least a couple of weeks off. Then go back and do step 6 all over again.
- Repeat steps 6 through 8 a couple of more times.
- Call it good. No it isn’t perfect. It isn’t the greatest thing you have ever done. You are still unhappy with it. You are still disappointed. You still want more. Too bad. It is done. You are finished with it. Accept that and go on to write the next novel.
If you were expecting something more directly fantasy related – tough. A story is a story is a story. The setting is less important than the story. If you haven’t figured out how to write a story then you should quit now. Learning how to write a fantasy novel is no different than learning to write any other story. Odds are that if you want to write a fantasy novel then you already understand how fantasy novels work and have a good idea of what to put into your world and charaters. The rest is just writing a good story.
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Posted by admin on November 17, 2008
The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep is a fantasy novel describing the adventures of Colter Halfspear as he becomes a man and an initiate of magical powers.
In the morning our portion of the army marched north to join the main army commanded by lord Kelsin. A few days south of Havensod recruiters ran out to gather in those hapless souls who would rather face certain death with the possibility of food than certain starvation. I learned a great deal in those few days from Daven, who tended my wounds and kept me company while I watched the army gather.
“This ragtag lot will need all the help of Tylos,” said Daven as we marched along.
“Don’t you think our army is strong enough?” I asked.
“Drunroust, the imperial regent, has failed to maintain the army here in the east. Anybody can slip through the borders these days,” he said.
“What will happen when we find the Kaarum?” I asked.
“Only Tylos knows that, but I’m sure it won’t be pretty,” he replied. “Three passes lead out of the Northern Crown, one near Darnuth Keep, one near Dynwater, and one in a small gap where the Shadowspine Mountains split from the Northern Crown. The Kaarum pour out in massive hordes every few winters through one of these openings and if they escape unchecked they ravage across thousands of kilometers in the empire pillaging all they find. The Eastern Watch, as the regent calls his army, has orders to ambush and contain any attempt at the Shadowspine pass.”
“How many of them are there?” I asked.
“I don’t know, lad,” he answered. “I’ve never fought the Kaarum before, though my father did. Usually they have very large armies. We will march north to Havensod, and join another army before continuing north until we find the Kaarum.”
My days of rest were short lived. Lord Kelsin rode into camp at a thunderous charge. He was a tall, young man who reflected the image of knighthood. He kept his breastplate polished brightly, and rode a white stallion that tolerated nothing from other horses. To my surprise he came directly to Daven’s tent, but rather than speak to the priest he questioned me. Torbridge escorted the priest out of the tent.
“I understand you saw Kaarum as far south and west as the village of Dunston,” he said.
“I killed one at our farm near there,” I replied.
“Kyven Halfspear was your father?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why did you join the army? Who sent you?”
“The village council decided,” I said. “I’m not sure why.” I couldn’t admit that nobody wanted me at home anymore, and I didn’t really want to talk about my father. My answers seemed to satisfy him, though he said little and I couldn’t tell exactly what he thought or felt.
Lord Kelsin left the camp as quickly as he had appeared. Anyone who could, watched him exit the officer’s tent and then gallop away north. Then Torbridge found me and told me, “You’ve been given a new assignment, specifically by Lord Kelsin.”
Daven watched as I followed Torbridge to a wagon that smelled of soot and sweat, apart from the rest of the camp. I wanted to ask what was going on, but decided to be quiet. The captain had little patience and much on his mind.
“Remember what I’ve told you. Keep out of trouble. Iven will teach you a trade if you do as he says. I’ve no time to explain, and there are too many ears about. Be patient. Everything will become clear in a few markets,” he said.
I nodded though I didn’t really understand. He seemed genuinely concerned about me, though I felt something worried him.
An enormous man with dark tan skin and a round bald head worked rhythmically beating a piece of iron on an anvil. He had more bulk and more muscle than any other man I have met. I had no doubt he could crush my bones with one hand. He stood covered from head to toe in soot and grime, and the look on his face as we approached reminded me of my mother after Betta chipped another of her cups.
He scowled at Torbridge and scowled at me and growled in a voice like a bear. “Is that the best you can do Torbridge?”
“It’s the best I’ve got and the best you’ll get. Now mind your manners. He’s been wounded and is under lord Kelsin’s protection.”
“Kelsin’s pet are you?” he asked me as Torbridge left. I felt in that moment that I had been trapped in a pit with a hungry dragon to be toyed with until he decided to consume me. “Scratched up by the Kaarum?”
I showed him my scars. I opened my mouth to talk, but his scowl cut me short again.
“Scratched or not, pet or not, if you’re lazy I’ll whip you red.” He saw that I understood. Torbridge rarely took the time to understand the soldiers in camp, and if he had he probably never would have left me with Iven. The blacksmith harbored no love for anyone born into a title and even less for a man unwilling to work the day through. To him Kelsin was both. Fortunately for me, I was neither. “Stow that lot in the wagon, Scratch,” he said, indicating my weapons. “Then take off that ridiculous shirt. We’ll fight no fights here, not on my watch. You can be a prancing pony for the mighty lord another day. Hop to lad! Get your rubbish into the wagon, and mind you don’t touch my tools!”
I nearly jumped out of my skin in my scramble to please him. At every turn I found something new to be done. A war is a prosperous time for an armor smith, even for a blacksmith who can sharpen swords. For a master like Iven, it is simply demanding.
I knew the use of some tools already. Before he died my father kept a busy shop at the farm. Only for a difficult job would he seek the help of the smith, and I aided him at every task. I had never known the drone and ache of hard repetitive labor, and Iven’s introduction was hard and fast.
“I know you can fetch and carry, Scratch, but I need more than just a pair of hands just now. I need your back and your mind as well. In a few days we’ll move the war north, and without the proper tools we’ll need more time than we’re given.”
He had a small furnace suitable for turning small blooms of iron which he taught me to load with the raw metal. I fetched the coal and worked the bellows until the fire was just the right temperature. He carefully beat the iron blooms into thin plates, which we cut into wire suitable for pulling through plates prepared with small holes for the purpose.
His mastery of the hammer amazed me. He allowed me to try my luck, and I quickly learned that time and the weight of the hammer were my enemy. I sweated and ached at each day’s end.
“Put your back into it Scratch,” he bellowed. “It’s the fire what’ll end the war, not the metal. Even filthy beasts can dig it up, Scratch. Anyone can dig. But can they melt it, cure it, purify it and beat it into something useful? I can do that much Scratch, but only if you give me that blasted fire.”
I pumped as hard as I could, but his words rang a constant melody. “By Tylos, Scratch, don’t you know the fire needs air. Blast it! Pump boy, pump.”
When the fire wasn’t burning I found myself busy at a dozen different tasks. Without the right tools we were unable to pull the wires properly and Iven eventually gave up and pounded each one by hand. I wound the wire around rods and cut the rings for making mail. I was no stranger to work. I had worked many summers on the farm, but there is a difference when you have a hot meal and someone to talk to when you come in from the field. After endless hours at the grindstone nothing waited for me but Iven and more chores. Fatigue and sore limbs were my constant companions.
“At home I’ve the tools for making fine wire,” said Iven. “Though the work is hard it goes much faster and the line doesn’t break nearly as often. Here I’ve no proper furnace. No real tools. Hardly the means to harden steal for a proper blade. No man should be made to work in such conditions. If ever I get my hands around Kelsin’s neck he’ll never start another war unprepared.”
But as hard as I labored Iven drove himself harder. I blazed the fire, but his hammer beat a constant rhythm that could be heard throughout the camp. No one approached his wagon unbidden because there is a certain respect that can only be earned by truly being the master of one’s domain. The size of the holding does not matter, but the sure knowledge that you are truly its master means that others simply know. Even Torbridge treated the smith with respect. Most of the other soldiers simply feared him.
Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman
On to The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep Fantasy Novel Chapter Nine
Back to The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep Fantasy Novel Chapter Seven
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Posted by admin on November 14, 2008
I blogged about becoming a widgeteer a couple of weeks ago here. Today I wanted to give an update on my experience. Well I’m going to be absolutely honest.
It is the best program I have joined! The affiliate program is awesome. The ads are almost too easy to set up and use. I am quite frankly very happy with the program and the service.
Now don’t get me wrong their web site still needs a bit of work, but if you get into the forums you can see that the owners and administrators take feedback and comments very seriously. This is a very good sign, it means that they take their members seriously rather than just looking to make a quick buck and jump ship.
If you are into doing affiliate work at all then the widgeteers is a great program for you. Even if you join the free program you are still eligible to make affiliate earnings if you sign up members for the paying program. Sound good? It is.
And the paid program? Guaranteed views for your ads at a very reasonable rate. If you are a blogger looking to get exposure and maybe make a few bucks then try out the widgeteers.
If all of this sounds like hype then you got me. I really am excited about this program and I can’t help but blog about something this simple and effective. Even if you never spend a dime for your membership, you are essentially guaranteed some degree of traffic increase.
I hope you try it and I hope you like it. And either way I would love to hear your opinion.
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Posted by admin on November 12, 2008
Waiting for Spring is a long time since chrome flew and landed in the blue on the other side of purple. The light on the wump cousins differed from the needle-sticker lamps more than Los Angeles differs from Chicago. Since the pills, though, the wumps do not come and the wump-leader does not laugh with Charlie. Only sitting and rebuilding, within the needle-sticker softness, mean, and move time to time, or wear hats. Perhaps Charlie can visit in the Spring and drink the pill free air while the wumps play in the sun.
The needle-stickers say Charlie passed away when the Rolls jumped. The car fell sixteen stories, or about that from a building in Los Angeles. After that the needle-stickers seem to have lost the license plate in the fog until even the building has blown away. How the wumps will manage to get a car through the door before visiting in the Spring is rather confusing.
The wumps are pondering now, with their dark hats pulled low covering their glowing faces from the prying fingers of the moon. Four of them pull, and scrape the paint from the Rolls Royce, chewing the silver siding while the last laughs and tinkles the starlight. Charlie goes into the garage, wearing his driving gloves and hat, smiling and breathing the fumes of Sherry. Some of the purple wears off on the silver. The wumps get involved personally.
The purple bodies will press the silver clanger into the street, and eventually up the elevator. They will be strong and fast, and well timed, so that although Charlie will believe he has finally tamed the silver beast he will really only be entering the mystified trance the needle-stickers will call passing away. The wumps will guide the flashing metal to the high up place where sixteen different stories will be told by the wumps to pacify the needle-stickers into forgetting the pains caused by the pills. The car will scream and fall; Spring will arrive, and the needle-stickers will go.
But Charlie was mad, wine-mad or red-mad before the passing-mad or awa-mad that holds him now. The wumps were also mad; red-mad or fight-mad, and when he flew over the edge into the emptiness of the dead city an odd smile crossed his bent nose. The Rolls shot in crystalline glory from the window where the wumps laughed, and Charlie’s teeth glittered in the night. The wump cousins, dressed in blue and wrapped in red and yellow light found Charlie cased in silver. Confused, they waited and the wump leader mixed purple and silver until the needle-stickers came and washed their white on Charlie. A sheet or a blanket or paint washed them and the wumps went away until Spring.
Until now, the after now of the needle-stickers, the wump leader sits, wrapped in purple perfection, repeating the chant that leads the drive, waiting for Spring. Her golden tresses have rubbed into purple, where remembering mixed with pills creates Chicago crossed with wumps in Los Angeles. The silver streak in her hair is no the same silver in Charlie’s hair before the wumps took him. It is the silver of chrome touched with dark purple.
The needle-stickers smile and frown, and are altogether unpredictable. They enter and exit, and say that the wumps have also passed, and that Spring is and has been, and that wumps will is have never known them. And the wumps do not visit. The needle-stickers say this though they do not like the wumps. They do not fly or eat silver, and they have not tasted the pills of the wump leader’s memory.
In a corner where the needle-stickers have not come, she has waited for the wumps. In a voice which the needle-stickers have not wanted to hear she has called for Charlie and pulled at the silver in her hair. With a nightmare which has not forgotten itself the car hurtles again and again, and the seering purple hat she once wore has become tatters in her hands. A silence which burns soft and heavy has not stopped shouting as the needle-stickers and Charlie to stay and touch the green with her in the Spring.
Spring will pass, passes, has passed, merrily, until the hat has tattered the hands as well, and the silver is flecked with gold, dimly where the wumps came.
THE END
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Posted by admin on November 10, 2008
The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep is a fantasy novel describing the adventures of Colter Halfspear as he becomes a man and an initiate of magical powers.
Even summer rain can be cold and miserable, especially if you are caught in it afoot and in the dark. My companions trudged in silence once the sun began to set, and I caught more than one envious look from my perch on the horse.
“Perhaps the hero would lend us a ride on the pony,” said the darkunder as the rain dripped from his nose.
“If you gambled less you could have a mount of your own,” said Jarkin.
“My mother told me the same thing once,” replied Harry.
“A wise woman for sure. You would have done better to leave your spear and stay closer to home,” said the farmer.
A sudden noise startled my horse in the fading light. I had just enough time to guide my horse out of the way as something leapt out of the shadows. “To arms! To arms!” I heard someone calling. I managed to pull out the spear and turn my horse. I wasn’t sure what had attacked us until I charged. The distinct and awful smell of the Kaarum hit me full force. They say that smells can remind you of so many different things. They can take you back to a place of your childhood or give you the same feeling you had on your wedding day. The smell of vomit always reminds me of that moment, when I first charged down a Kaarum in the rain. Naturally I fouled the attack, but not as horribly as one might suppose. I had been riding since before I could walk, so fighting from the back of a horse felt almost like play. I hadn’t counted on the weight of the beast, or the power of my horse. I skewered it thoroughly enough, but then forgot to let go of the spear, and it was a simple matter of leverage. In an instant I found myself sprawled in the mud.
I looked up in time to see one of my companions cut down by the horns of a Kaarum. I tried to turn my head, but froze in place, transfixed by the moment. The first time you see death, if you ever see it, is something you never forget. A sharp bull’s horn ripped through his throat and sent him gurgling and choking into the mud. I struggled to my feet and retrieved my spear. The creature snarled at me, and the scents and sounds of battle rushed through my brain like a tidal wave. I screamed and charged, lost to the rushing energy of the battle. The Kaarum turned and lashed at me with its claws. Though I had no real skill with the spear, Tylos protected me. The Kaarum overextended its stance in the mud, putting it off balance. The claws reached my arms, but then it slipped and I stabbed it without difficulty.
There were only two Kaarum left then and five of us. They didn’t have sense or knowledge of how to surrender, and Torbridge had no intention of taking prisoners. Naturally they panicked. Harry and Jarkin were at least experienced, if not professional soldiers and Torbridge handled his blade expertly.
“Are you hurt, boy?” Torbridge wasted no time getting to the point after the battle.
“He cut my chest, sir,” I replied, my breath short and painful.
“Break out a light,” ordered the captain. “Come here, boy. Let’s see what happened. And you. Where are you hurt?” he barked at Jarkin.
“My arm, sir,” replied the farmer. “I fumbled the rotted spear. It’s been too long, sir.”
The captain chuckled a little in his grim way. “You’ll get plenty of practice soon enough. I’m glad you at least knew how to hold the blasted thing. Take off your shirt, boy, let’s see the damage.”
“You ride well,” commented the corporal. I believe that was the only thing he ever said to me. I never saw him after the battle of Havensod.
“I can ride,” I replied. “I lost my spear.”
“A sword is a better weapon,” commented Harry, with a smirk. “You’ve a nice blade. You should have used it.”
I admit I would have risen to Harry’s bait that time. I was ready to attack him. I hate killing. I hate spears and swords and everything they do to men, even then I hated it, but I hate feeling useless even more. I at least wanted to be able to say I didn’t need to use it, not that I couldn’t.
Torbridge intervened. “The boy’s alive,” he said. “He took down two. You’re a grown man, Darkunder, and this is not the first battle you’ve faced. You killed one, and his charge saved your skin. You owe the boy your life if you value it.”
I think Torbridge actually may have had a soft spot somewhere in his battle-scarred heart. He tended my wounds with efficient hands. What the bandage lacked in beauty it made up for with comfort.
“You should have worn your mail shirt,” he advised me. “And you should let go of the spear when you skewer it like that or you will be pulled down every time.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I’ll try to remember.”
“Don’t try,” said the captain sternly. “Either do it or next time you will die.” Some of the soundest advice I received from anyone of a military persuasion. “There is no room for error in battle. I fought the Kaarum in the north and trailed them to the west. I’ve seen many good men who were careless for only an instant cut down.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
He glanced around, and spoke so that only I could hear. “I didn’t know your father, but I know he didn’t allow mistakes in battle. Your life is more important than you know so be careful what you do with it. Stay out of the way until you learn to handle that spear properly. You’re no good to anyone dead.”
The darkunder watched the conversation closely, but said nothing to me about it. If anyone else cared they said nothing. The reality of death and loss sapped the spirit from everyone.
We gathered the human dead and tied each one behind a saddle. I didn’t like the idea of walking through the mud so that a corpse could get a ride, but I knew better than to argue. Harry changed his own worn boots for a slightly better pair that one of the dead men had worn. We dragged the bodies of the Kaarum into the woods away from the road and piled them on top of each other. I put on my mail shirt while the others tried to clear away the mess of the battle.
We rode into camp about two hours after sundown. The sentries slouched in the rain and barely offered a protest as we passed. A few dozen soldiers slept in shabby tents or crouched in shelters hastily built from the forest. I saw only a few other horses and a team of oxen near some wagons.
“You’ve come in late,” said one of the sentries. “We expected you earlier.”
Torbridge ignored the man and rode ahead. Harry whispered, “Kaarum.” The soldier stiffened in response, but didn’t ask any more questions.
“You two take the dead over there.” Torbridge pointed at a wagon at the south end of camp. “Daven will look after them. We can bury them in the morning.” Harry and Jarkin dragged them off and Torbridge turned to me. “Daven’s tent is over here, follow me. You’re to stay with him. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I replied.
Torbridge parted the flap to Daven’s tent without asking or waiting. A stout man with graying hair and a clean shaved face rested on a cot. He looked up as we entered and waited patiently for Torbridge to explain himself. “We brought some dead,” said the captain. “The boy’s been hurt. I want you to look after him for a few days. He can help you with whatever you need.” Torbridge parted the tent and left without another word.
“Come here, boy,” said Daven. “I suppose you have a name, though doubtless Torbridge has forgotten it if he ever listened in the first place.”
“Colter Halfspear,” I replied with a yawn. I rubbed my eyes, and the movement sent a spike of pain across my chest. I winced instinctively.
Daven looked at me closely. “No, I suppose he wouldn’t forget that name. Very well, let’s have a look at your wounds.”
Reluctantly I pulled my shirt off. Blood had seeped through the bandages, but I felt more tired than hurt.
“At least the man knows how to dress a wound,” said Daven. “I am a priest of Tylos, in case you haven’t guessed. I know you country folk see us seldom enough. I am going to offer a prayer of healing. Then you can rest while I see to the dead.”
He softly chanted, so low that I could not make out the words as he gently removed the bandages. He passed his fingers a hair’s breadth from my wounds, and as he did a tingling itch erased the Kaarum scratches. My flesh repaired itself beneath his hands, and the smell of indistinct flowers replaced that of blood and sweat. I felt both rested and healed.
“Remarkable,” said Daven. “Tylos must have something very special for you. In time I hope you find it.”
Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman
On to The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep Fantasy Novel Chapter Eight
Back to The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep Fantasy Novel Chapter Six
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Posted by admin on November 7, 2008
Mired in blackness, running within
Surrounded, beseeched, and alone.
Have I failed? Have I won?
Why don’t I know?
I can’t see the end or beginning
Of my time here. The stinging
Of my soul has roots in eternity.
Unbroken, unfettered, they cleave me.
Gaunt, pale, shunning life and light,
A creature huddling in the dark of noon.
No solace saves. No heroes fight.
Only monotony’s horrific boon.
Is today really different from his predecessors
Who brought me, rambling, to this place?
No. No different, only repetition.
Blunt, hard, slipping through mind’s recesses.
Light. I have seen, but not today.
Light. I have touched, but not now.
Only dark and coarse and slow
I wind myself along the blackened way.
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