A Night At The Bouncing Archer - A Short Fantasy Story by Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on July 1, 2009

When a lanky seven-foot troll, albeit small and clad in mail, pushed open the door to the Bouncing Archer, Vera hardly gave him a second glance over her serving tray. In general, trolls in the nearby wastes had bluer skin and a stockier build than the deep green and warty complexion of this one.

The astounding woman with the deep green skin at his side caught more than a casual glance, not only because at nearly six feet she stood taller than the gentleman who followed her, but also because even beneath her well oiled armor the patrons could see that nature had endowed her magnificently. The gentleman, who was dressed in expensive, custom-tailored traveling clothes, led the group. His steel-blue eyes seemed to take in everything in the room. Vera knew every rogue and adventurer in the country, and hardly expected anything unusual from them.

The man waved at Vera, who politely smiled and called, “One moment.”

The troll stared nervously around the room. His yellow bloodshot eyes blinked in the smoky lantern light. After the autumn harvest, more locals than usual crowded into the room eager to catch a tale from some stranger. Dock workers and riverboat hands gambled and drank away their wages, filling the normally calm tavern with raucous, lively laughter.

“Do you have a back room?” asked the man when Vera finally managed to reach them. “Someplace a little more private and less exciting. My friend gets nervous easily.” He gestured to the troll.

“I’m Vera,” she replied. “Follow me.”

“Harbeard,” said the man. He pointed at the troll who appraised Vera as she expected a man would judge a steak. He glanced at the troll. “He’s Turogg, or just Rogg. This is Maritz.” Harbeard jerked a thumb towards the woman. “Just point, we’ll find it.”

Vera pointed across the room to a doorway atop a short set of steps. “In there.”

Harbeard handed her a gold coin. “We’ll have some special needs later. For now send in a barrel of ale, and some wine for me and the lady.”

“Anything to eat?” she asked.

“The best you have,” he replied. As they walked away, he called over his shoulder, “Don’t bother cooking Rogg’s.”

They found the back room both cold and empty, though tinder and kindling lay ready to light in the fireplace. They placed their packs along the back wall. Casually, out of long habit, Harbeard helped Maritz with her chair, though she seemed unused to the attention. Turogg sat with his back to the wall opposite the fireplace, looking suspiciously at the unlit logs. He had some difficulty managing the sword strapped across his back and finally removed it.

“So far so good,” said Maritz. A hint of music carried in her accent. She pushed a few strands of sea-green hair behind her delicately pointed ears after placing an elegant longbow in the corner. “I can’t believe you brought him here.”

“It’s not like we had anything else to do,” said Harbeard. He tossed a bag onto the table, and the coins inside clanked. He smiled back and relaxed with his elbows on the table. He kept his own sword within easy reach and sat where he could watch the doorway. “He was getting worse, and we need supplies anyway.”

“I thought you had a house in town. Why bring him here?” asked Maritz.

“I also have neighbors,” replied Harbeard. “Some would object to trolls, and some who would tell others that I am back.”

“Eat,” growled Turogg.

“You’ll eat soon enough,” said Harbeard.

Three young men wheeled a large barrel up to the steps and with the help of a dolly placed it next to Turogg’s chair. They placed three sturdy mugs on the table and Harbeard handed each of the men a coin as they left. Turogg sniffed the barrel. Before Harbeard or Maritz could stop him, he smashed an enormous fist through the top of the barrel.

“That comes out of your share,” said Harbeard with a chuckle.

The troll either didn’t understand or didn’t care. He eagerly dipped his mug and gulped the ale, casually spitting out the splinters. In the next room a table of dwarves with thick beards and bright clothes watched the action with envy. The Bouncing Archer always met the needs of its guests, and Harbeard noticed the shorter table and wider chairs fit the dwarves comfortably. For a moment Harbeard thought the nearest dwarf, a happy fellow with a finely combed blonde beard, might venture to fill his own mug at Rogg’s barrel, but after a second glance at the troll he turned back to his conversation.

“I see you managed to open it yourselves,” said Vera as she brought in the wine. She put a tray with two loaves of bread and a large cheese on the table. “I can bring some fruit if you like. We have harvest stew ready, or we can bring you steaks if you would prefer to wait.”

“Fruit please,” said Maritz.

Harbeard sniffed the wine, and carefully tasted it. “I believe I asked for your best,” he said. “This is second grade, and I happen to know that Tomlin keeps a much better vintage for those who can pay.” He placed another gold coin on the serving tray next to the wine. “A meal we don’t have to scrape together ourselves sounds wonderful. I see the harvest is in, do you have anything to serve with the meat?”

“Anything you like,” said Vera, smiling broadly.

“I can’t remember the last time I had a vegetable,” said Harbeard.

“Nor I,” agreed Maritz. “Anything you have, but no beans, and no soup. I’ve had enough of your road stews to last a lifetime.”

Suddenly Turogg reached a long arm out and groped Vera’s rump. “Goura,” he growled excitedly.

Instantly Harbeard’s sword flashed out of the scabbard. With precision born of long training and harsh experience he brought the blade down, severing Turogg’s arm just below the elbow. The troll howled in pain and anger as he picked his hand up from the floor. Harbeard’s sword burst into flame. “Try that again and I’ll make it permanent.” Turogg whimpered and shied back from the flames. He carefully held the twitching arm to the bleeding stump.

“Thank you,” said Vera. “I see you’re a gentleman.”

Maritz took the towel that Vera tucked into her apron and began to clean up the mess.

“Don’t bother miss, I can do it,” said Vera.

Maritz waved her away. “You’re working hard enough,” she said. “An expecting mother should take her rest.”

“Am I showing already?” A proud smile crept onto Vera’s face. “I knew it would sooner or later. Time flies, as they say.”

“Only if you know what to look for,” replied Maritz. “I’ve no children of my own, yet.”

“Time enough for that miss.” Vera winked. She bent in and whispered in Maritz ear, “He’s a nice looking gentleman you’ve got there.” Maritz blushed and giggled. “Now I am forgetting myself. Steaks all around. Will there be anything else?”

“You better get Rogg something sooner,” suggested Harbeard. “A pig’s leg or something.”

Vera excused herself and disappeared among the crowd in the main room. Harbeard watched her leave, and scanned the room for familiar faces.

“Anybody you recognize?” asked Maritz.

“Of course, but I’ve changed since I left.” Harbeard did not look at Maritz as he spoke. He noticed a man wearing fine black velvet toss dice with a group of riverboat workers in a far corner. Harbeard brought his attention back to the table, but looked out on the other patrons from time to time.

“I don’t believe that Rogg’s the only reason you didn’t want to go home,” said Maritz. She grinned. “Nobody with a clear conscious acts the way you are.”

“Purely habit, my dear,” he lied. She rolled her eyes in frustration. “Fine, I’ll tell you. There is a lady here, and I very much do not want her to know that I am here.”

“I didn’t know you had a woman,” said Maritz. Her eyes danced mischievously as she spoke.

“Only among the trolls do the women decide who marries whom,” said Harbeard. “We have more civilized ways.”

“Such as?” Maritz teased.

“Such as my parents choosing for me,” he replied.

Vera returned with another bottle of wine and a large rack of uncooked ribs, probably pork. “You must have been in the wild a long time to consider food here a change for the better,” she laughed. Turogg began chewing the ribs practically before they reached the table.

“I’ve been away for a few years.” Harbeard sighed. “There are some new warehouses near the docks. Trade must be good.”

“That it is,” replied Vera. She smiled a broad smile. “I myself only settled down about a year ago. I did some wandering before that.”

“Wandering can be lonely, can’t it Harbeard?” said Maritz. She half concealed a laugh. Turogg tossed a rib into the fireplace.

“Let him finish his dinner, at least,” said Harbeard.

“I’m sure he will be easier to handle with a full stomach,” said Maritz.

“Your dinners will be ready soon,” said Vera. “I am sorry, but we are much busier than usual.”

“No hurry,” said Harbeard, glancing at Turogg. “I’m sure we’ll enjoy them more after he has finished.” The troll appeared unaware of the conversation.

“You might as well make arrangements now,” said Maritz. “It won’t take him long to finish eating.”

Harbeard gave her a sideways glance and sighed. “Does Tilly still operate her business next door?” he asked Vera.

The waitress blushed in spite of herself. “I wouldn’t know about that, sir,” she replied.

“Nonsense, it’s no secret,” said Harbeard. “Just get her word that our friend here is lonely. We can’t very well take him through the font door of her place, he’d go wild.”

“A troll!” said Vera much louder than she intended. The shock clearly showed on her face.

Harbeard reached into the bag and took out five gold coins. “Just tell her. And bring him some more food.”

“Will there be anything else?” asked Vera. Maritz choked down her laughter. Turogg tossed another bone into the fireplace. The gentleman in the corner left his dice game. Harbeard thought he saw the man look his way as he stepped out the front door.

“I’m sorry to upset you,” he said, bringing his focus back to the table. “He’s been pining lately. Practically no use to us at all.”

“I’m not as shocked as Tilly will be. No girl in her right mind would. I can’t even think about it,” said Vera.

“I wouldn’t try,” said Maritz.

Vera slipped quietly away from the table. Maritz used Vera’s towel to push some of Turogg’s ribs away from her portion of the table. She noted that his arm had healed nicely.

“I think your friend at the dice game recognized you,” said Maritz.

“I didn’t know you were watching,” replied Harbeard.

“You hoped I wasn’t. You know better. Do you think she will cause trouble?”

“You’re assuming he went to tell her about me,” said Harbeard.

“Isn’t he?”

“Probably.”

“It’s my fault for talking you into this,” said Maritz. “We shouldn’t have brought him into a town, he’s not ready yet.”

“He’s doing fine,” said Harbeard. “My troubles have nothing to do with him. And yes, I think there will be trouble. The question is whether she will wait until morning to start it.”

“She must really hate you.” Maritz laughed. “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” said Harbeard. He could tell by her look that she did not believe him. “Honestly, I haven’t done anything to her. I just haven’t married her.”

Maritz nearly choked on her wine with laughter. A few faces looked up at them from the next room. “You skipped your wedding? If you tried that with a troll she’d hunt you down and eat you alive. If you tried that with a troll she’d hunt you down and eat you alive.”

“I’m afraid it’s not much better with our women,” said Harbeard. A frown spread across his face. “I didn’t actually miss the wedding. I left right after it was arranged, long before we were to be married.”

“Of course that makes it all better,” said Maritz as she rolled her eyes again. In spite of himself Harbeard found her teasing attractive.

“She doesn’t want to marry me any more than I want to marry her. Our parents arranged it,” said Harbeard

“Then why not just break the arrangement?” asked Maritz.

“Because she can’t legally inherit my property unless we’re married or I’m dead,” said Harbeard. “From what I’ve heard, she moved into my estate as soon as I left town.”

“Strange customs you humans have,” said Maritz.

“I’m not entirely human, thank you,” said Harbeard. “I doubt anyone would notice. I’ve even managed to fool you, and you’re quite the expert on the mixed races.”

“Being half troll doesn’t make me an expert,” said Maritz.

“But being half elf should,” replied Harbeard. The wine tasted good, and he felt lighter in spite of the situation.

Vera returned followed by a plump dark haired woman with a motherly face. “Tilly sends her regards, Harbeard,” said the woman.

“I had no idea you were still in the business, Ann,” replied Harbeard with a smile.

“I help manage affairs now. I finally scraped enough together and bought a share of the place.” She smiled pleasantly. “You’ve not introduced me to your girl.”

“This is Maritz,” said Harbeard.

“And a handsome lass at that,” said Ann. She bent down and kissed Maritz on the cheek. “Keep your eye on that one, miss, or you’ll lose him. More than one girl has tried to tie him down.”

“I hope you aren’t being literal,” said Maritz. The women laughed while Harbeard fumed and turned red.

“Can you help my friend?” asked Harbeard, trying to steer the conversation.

“He’s a regular beast, isn’t he,” observed Ann. “Won’t be cheap. Ten gold will buy you an hour, if he’s civil.”

Harbeard drew the sack from the table and counted ten gold coins. Then he stacked ten more next to them. “He’ll finish when he finishes,” he said. Harbeard counted out ten more coins. “He knows eat, drink, and goura, which is troll for woman.” He counted out ten more coins. “Keep him fed, drunk, and away from any fires. When you think he’s done, you’ll be able to find me. Charge what he eats to my bill here.” He scooped the coins into Ann’s pouch and then added a few more.

“I see you’ve done well for yourself,” said Ann. “To bad you didn’t hit it off with Darla. I hear she’s been looking for you everywhere.”

“You’re too late to try and sell your silence,” said Maritz with a laugh. “But if you stay around you might be able to watch the fun.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Ann. She smiled and laughed a little. “It’s been good to see you again, Harbeard. I’ll keep an eye out for Darla just in case.”

“Tomlin won’t like it if you start trouble in his place,” said Vera.

“I won’t start anything,” replied Harbeard. Ann led Turogg through a side door. Vera knelt at the fireplace and replaced the tinder and kindling.

“You’ll want a fire,” she said. “Night is setting in to be cold.” She lit the fire with a candle. “Your dinner should be just about ready.”

Vera left them alone. The dwarf with the blonde beard approached with his empty mug. “Mind if I have a dip,” he asked, gesturing to the half-empty barrel.

“Help yourself,” said Maritz. “Take it all if you like.”

“Hey lads, give me a hand,” called the dwarf. A half doze of his companions jumped up and together they carted the barrel into the next room, sloshing ale into their beards. The dwarves broke into song as soon as they set the barrel down.

“What did you have to do that for?” asked Vera as she set down their meals. “All I need is a pile of drunken dwarves.”

“They’re helping celebrate Rogg’s birthday,” said Maritz. “It’s not often a troll remembers he has a birthday. He needs all the help he can get.”

They ate quietly, savoring the simple taste of good food they had not enjoyed for many months. Vera scooped the remaining ribs into the fire. The comforts of civilization did not dull Harbeard’s senses so much that he did not notice Vera lingering at the fire longer than expected. He caught Maritz’s eye but she had already noticed.

“Perhaps we should join the party,” suggested Maritz. Someone began piping a lively tune, and the free ale had spread beyond the dwarves’ table. Harbeard hesitated only a moment before catching Maritz’s hand and pulling her into an energetic dance. Though she did not know the steps, and had never heard the song before, loud cheers greeted their performance for the locals loved all things exotic and exuberant. Harbeard found himself carried into happier times when dancing and music marked the end of a hard week’s labor, and he fought only for recreation with the other wild youth in town.

“I never knew you could dance,” said Maritz when they caught their breath.

“Once my dancing was the talk of the town,” replied Harbeard. “You caught the tune quickly yourself. I had no idea the trolls had such entertainments.”

“They do not, as you well know,” said Maritz. She frowned at the thought of Turogg dancing. Then she winked. “Among the elves we have many dances for many occasions.”

“I had no idea you were with them for so long. When I found you I would hardly have guessed you could be so refined,” said Harbeard.

“I was born among the people of the moon, and I lived a gentle life until my cousins, the descendants of my father, raided the village.” Maritz spoke as one who had seen and done enough in life to accept its tragedies.

“And then I destroyed your cousins.” Harbeard did not know whether to be proud or sad. “All but Turogg of course.”

Maritz laughed out loud. “That lout better be having the time of his life, or we’ve wasted a lot of hard earned money.”

“If I know Tilly, he’s in good hands.” Harbeard winked. “Besides it’s all coming out of his share. Another round! We’re celebrating my good friend’s birthday!”

Nobody cared whose birthday they celebrated, only that someone else bought the drinks and that the music hadn’t stopped. The local music gave way to a resonating dwarfish melody when a pair of bearded merchants began playing long stringed instruments that neither Harbeard nor Maritz had seen before. They stopped to listen only long enough to catch the rhythm before joining the dwarves in their own strange dance. Local musicians competed with foreign singers and dwarfish players until Harbeard and Maritz found themselves sitting back at their table with Vera. One remaining dwarf attempted to out-drink Maritz. The other patrons had either left or fallen asleep on the floors.

“Tomlin will charge them a copper for staying the night,” laughed Vera. “Less expensive than going across the street to a real inn, but certainly not as comfortable.”

“Liquor doesn’t affect her the way it does you and me, my friend,” warned Harbeard uselessly.

The dwarf attempted a reply, but collapsed after managing to say, “Nobody drinksh.”

“What about you two?” asked Vera. “Shall I add a copper each to your bill, or will you cross the street?”

“Join us for some wine and conversation,” said Maritz. “Surely you aren’t in a hurry to find the straw pallet Tomlin lends you.”

Vera looked at her, but didn’t ask how she guessed. However Maritz found out her situation could not be changed. Instead she opened a bottle of the less expensive vintage and poured a glass for each of them.

“What happened to your husband?” asked Maritz. Though he generally preferred to avoid personal entanglements, Harbeard listened with interest.

“He died in a duel,” said Vera. “It seems so foolish. My old friends have returned to the adventuring life, but I can’t, not with my child.”

Harbeard noticed a strange shape, like a bony pig’s head, steadily forming inside the fire. Several of the discarded bones appeared to be slowly stretching and bending to create other sinister forms. A low growl erupted from the flaming pig’s head.

“Somehow I don’t think this is entirely healthy,” he said, pointing at the fire. Vera choked back a gasp.

“I had no idea this would happen,” said Vera.

“So this is what you were doing with the fire,” laughed Harbeard.

“I was just trying to get rid of the stuff. Brolas gave me a coin to put it in your wine,” replied Vera.

“Any idea what it was?” Harbeard directed the question as much to Maritz as to Vera.

“You’re the local,” said Maritz with a smirk. “None of the poisons I use would do that.”

A tiny skeletal pig with an oversize head jumped out of the fire and snapped its fangs at Harbeard. He pulled his sword and swatted the creature back into the fire. The bones shattered against the stones at the back of the fireplace, but immediately began to grow together again.

“Inconvenient,” said Maritz when she saw the bones reforming.

“I’ll say,” agreed Harbeard. “If I ever get my hands on Brolas I’ll …” Harbeard trailed off, unable to find a suitable solution.

“Hit him with a thick cheese?” suggested Maritz.

“Funny.” Harbeard scowled at her as he swatted another skeleton back into the fire.

“Why would Brolas want to hurt you?” asked Vera, lifting an axe from the sleeping dwarf so she could help bash skeletons.

“I’m engaged to his girlfriend,” answered Harbeard. He kicked one of the animated bones back into the fireplace.

“I thought he was just trying to get me into trouble,” said Vera. “He’s been harassing me since my husband challenged him.”

“He’s the one that killed your man?” asked Maritz.

“No, he isn’t man enough for that. He is good friends with Darvuth, the swordsman,” said Vera.

“Perhaps we should visit Brolas,” said Maritz. She smashed the last of the pig bones with a chair. “That was a very annoying trick.”

“I would like to get some of my own back,” agreed Vera.

“We shall need your largest sausages,” said Harbeard with a wink. “As I recall Tomlin cures his own hard summer blend.”

Vera gave Maritz a questioning glance, but the taller woman just shook her head in confusion.

“I’ll be sure to add it to your bill,” said Vera as she went to the kitchen.

Harbeard handed Maritz her pack and then shouldered his own. They waited for Vera in the common room. Before heading into the cool autumn night, Vera handed each of them a pair of enormous hard-cured sausages. Harbeard led them quietly through the dark streets. The occasional dog barked at them or the other passing scoundrels. Nobody gave them a second glance; the town seemed busy for such a late hour.

“Unless I am mistaken, Brolas will have joined my fiancé for the evening. I know a hidden way in the back,” said Harbeard.

“You seem to know a lot about the estate,” said Vera.

“I should, I grew up here, and unless the laws have changed I still own it,” replied Harbeard.

He led them through a hole in the hedge and down a hidden path behind the stables. Though the horses caught their scent, either the stable master did not notice, or more probably did not care about the noise the horses made. The door to the cellars creaked loudly when they forced it open, but nobody from the house came to investigate. Harbeard lit a candle, and Maritz and Vera followed him through the cobwebs and shadows to an old wooden staircase.

“Now for the tricky part,” he whispered. “Step where I step. These stairs can make a noise like a banshee.”

Carefully he placed one foot on the first stair. It made no sound, so he tried the next. Slowly they climbed to the top.

“I see you’ve done this before,” whispered Maritz to Vera.

“I haven’t always worked for Tomlin,” she replied softly.

The bolt on the door at the top of the stairs had rusted through and Harbeard opened it easily. Harbeard poked his head out and checked that none of the servants had heard anything. He waved them forward, and they quietly crept down the hall to the master bedroom. He signaled to Maritz to listen at the door. After a few seconds she placed her hands next to her head to indicate that the occupants were sleeping.

“Now to give them the drubbing of a lifetime,” said Harbeard as he raised his sausage.

Harbeard tore back the covers, and the women commenced hammering with their improvised weapons. They managed a few solid blows before Brolas disarmed Vera. He attempted to strike back, but Harbeard’s sausage caught him directly in the temple and he staggered to his knees. After a brief flurry the fight ended, saturating the room with the smell of cured meat.

“I believe you will find that infidelity breaks the contract,” said Harbeard to Darla, who was nursing a welt on her cheek where Maritz had connected. “This is my house, and you are unwelcome guests.” He menaced his sausage once before Brolas and Darla scrambled to the front door. Maritz and Vera broke into wild laughter as they watched.

“Now what?” asked Vera.

“Now I am going to bed,” said Harbeard. “Ah, look here, a nice feather bed conveniently empty.”

“Sounds like a good idea.” Maritz gave Vera a wink.

THE END

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A Troll For A Bridge - A Short Fantasy Story By Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on May 27, 2009

Gorbon sat under the shabby stone bridge, contemplating. The late sun had just set, and the world was settling into a calm, dark quiet. A large trout broke the surface a short distance upstream and the songs of frogs along the bank were rising with the clouds of mosquitoes. The troll sighed and frowned and looked up at the bridge. His wide, yellow eyes noticed the moss over the stones and the broken gate with the tumbled toll sign. The once white paint was chipped and worn where it was not covered with moss and lichens. The troll put a stumpy fist under his warty chin and slipped into misery. “No one uses my bridge anymore,” he sighed.

At length, when the stars were high in the summer sky, and the moonlight danced on the stream, Gorbon sat up straight and exclaimed, “I’ll get ‘em to visit me.” He fished around in the dark for a moment, until he caught a slimy treat, and then, with a wink at the dark he clambered his way out of the ravine.

To the east lay a wide field of wheat set on gentle slopes. To the west was the dark forest where the woodsmen went to labor. “I’ll find the way the woodsmen use,” thought the troll as he turned north along the river, following close to the forest. A mile or two was all he traveled when he found another bridge. In the dark he heard a ruckus louder than the frogs, so terrible it shook the ground. A mighty nose snoring beneath the bridge. Undaunted, Gorbon went ahead, until he saw the fiend, a squat green troll with a mangy mane asleep beneath the bridge.

The gate on top was clean and neat, and the stones were painted bright. The roadway up was paved and even. A high railing had been set along the bridge to keep the travelers safe. “Isn’t that sweet,” growled Gorbon to himself, as he set about his work.

In the dead of night, until the light of dawn, Gorbon labored on his bridge. He scraped the moss and mended the gate while the stars twinkled in the cloudless sky. But the next morning no one came to his bridge. Angrily, Gorbon spat and growled at the lazy stream. “I’ll show ‘em yet,” he cried, and that night once more he went upstream.

The nose continued to sleep an easy sleep, but now Gorbon turned mean. With the stealth of a master thief, he crept to the enemy bridge, and one by one he moved the stones. At the base of the bridge with his mighty arms, Gorbon undermined the foundations. At last, with a shout of glee, the bridge began to tumble. The nose awoke with a start, but too late, as the bridge toppled over him. Gorbon giggled to himself as he tore down the gate, and broke the paving stones. And then he wandered home.

In the early dawn, a steady clop, clop was heard on the roadway overhead. Gorbon awoke with a start, and rubbed the sleep from he bleary eyes. “Who is it that disturbs me sleep he called, on this misty morning?”

The woodsman stopped his cart, and stared about in fright. “I am but a simple woodsman,” he said, “and meant no harm. I come to cut a living for myself in the woods beyond.”

“Simple or not, the toll is for all. A penny to cross, or I’ll eat your bones.”

“A penny,” said the woodsman, “I’ve but half that much, and must get to the woods to live.”

“The toll is fair,” replied the troll, “and will be justly used.”

Sadly the woodsman turned away, and the clop was heard fading in the distance. Gorbon giggled to himself in the water under the bridge. The day was cool, and the muddy banks seemed merrier than they had been in years. “Torment is gladness to my heart,” he laughed, “and the woodsmen will soon pay tribute to me!”

Not an hour passed when more carts clopped their way along the newly paved road to the troll’s painted gate.

“Who is it that disturbs my peace,” growled Gorbon angrily.

“We are but simple woodsmen,” came the shaky reply, “come to seek a living in the woods on the other side.”

“A penny each wagon,” said Gorbon, “and you shall see the other shore. Or I’ll eat your bones and cook your skins for my dinner.”

“We’ll pay, we’ll pay,” the woodsmen cried, “don’t eat us yet.”

Gorbon laughed aloud on the muddy banks below, and giggled as he lifted the lever to open the gate. The clink of cons hit the box, and Gorbon frolicked in the water. All that day Gorbon laughed, and as the woodsmen came, or the hunters on their proud horses, he growled and snarled, and made them all drop in their copper penny. When night came he washed the bridge and mended the stones, and locked the gate tight.

Then under the bridge in the dank shadows he slept, more peacefully than he had slept in years, and dreamed of new torments for his visitors. In his sleep he giggled, and snickered out loud. The frogs became annoyed with his sounds, and moved their songs to other parts. The fish and the night birds took their homes to quieter ground, and left the troll alone. Gorbon paid no head to them; glad he had scared them too.

Each day the woodsmen came, and each day the toll they paid, and if they argued, Gorbon laughed and growled, and scared them away. For a week or so, Gorbon was happy and content. Then one night as he slept, he heard a scrape and a laugh. He woke in time to see the last stone pulled, and the bridge came tumbling down. He heard a raspy, nasal voice, “now, thief, that’ll teach you to meddle with my things.” The raspy laugh disappeared, and Gorbon was covered in rubble.

The woodsmen came in the early dawn, as Gorbon crawled from ruin. “We’ll pay no toll,” they cried, “to a master who cannot keep his own.” And in the dim gray morning they steered their carts to the north.

Gorbon looked on the wreck of his home and snarled at the sky. His broken bones felt sore inside his body, so he found a cool pool in the shadows beneath the stones and nursed his anger. Gorbon waited, and rested for three days while his bones mended. His mind was busy planning a fitting revenge. “That old nose will pay,” he grumbled, and the men will mock me no more.”

In the cool of the night, Gorbon built up his bridge again. He labored carefully, and kept a watch for any enemy who might try to stop his work. Deep in his memory he sought the learning of his youth and all the craft of the ancients was poured out into the bridge. At long last, when summer was failing, the bridge stood tall and strong. Gorbon paved the road, and raised a new gate, and waited for the woodsmen to come.

The dawn brought no one. Gorbon waited, plotting carefully. “The nose has them,” he grumbled, and slept the rest of the day.

That night he stole his way along the woods to where the nose was hid. The enemy bridge stood tall, though less tall than it once did. The gate was broken, and moss grew where the paint once was. Gorbon looked with surprise on the scene, and approached cautiously. The frogs and night birds sang heedless of the troll, and nowhere could the nose be found.

“Nose or no nose, the bridge must go,” hissed Gorbon angrily. Gorbon knew that he must hurry, for already the night was getting old. He heaved at the rickety stones, and clawed through the mortar. At first the stone resisted, but soon the foundations fell. The gate toppled last, and Gorbon slipped silently back to his home.

The morning dawned, and soon thereafter the wagons came. One by one Gorbon stopped them, “a penny, or I’ll munch your bones,” he growled.

“You’ll munch nothing, troll, and soon you’ll see that it’s better to leave simple men alone. We’ll pay today, but tomorrow you had better be gone.”

Gorbon laughed loud and long at the frightened men. With a growl he sent them on their way. “Tomorrow I’ll be waiting,” he scoffed, “and tomorrow you will also pay.”

He watched and waited all through the night ready for any enemy. No one came. With the sun, the woodsmen returned. Their frightened faces told the tale, and Gorbon collected his penny from each. Giggling he found a cool shadow beneath the bridge and fell asleep. Gorbon kept one eye half open, though, and both ears cocked for danger.

The afternoon brought a clatter to the bridge, and Gorbon started awake. “Who is it that stomps on my roof,” he growled, “and ruins my daily rest?”

“’Tis I,” rang a proud voice from above, “Sir Derrol, come to avenge thy wrongs to the simple woodsmen.”

“Go away, human, before I eat your bones,” snarled Gorbon, “I’ve no time to waste on you. It is a penny to use this bridge, now pay or go away.”

“I will not go until you take down your gate,” said Sir Derrol.

Finally Gorbon clambered his way from beneath the bridge, squinting in the sunlight. “I gave you warning,” he said, “now I’ll eat your bones.”

Sir Derrol waited on his charger, with his lance and sword ready. Gorbon licked his lips, and cracked the knuckles in his fingers.

“Your large nosed friend was as discourteous as yourself,” said Sir Derrol, “but I’m sure you’ll give me no more trouble.”

The knight charged, and Gorbon leapt out of range of the lance. With lightning speed, and granite arms, he grabbed the horse’s hindquarter, and threw him to the ground. Sir Derrol came away unscathed, and drew his sword. The knight moved quickly, and his sword bit into Gorbon’s leather hide. Undaunted, the troll continued the attack.

“Yield, troll,” Sir Derrol cried, “and I’ll spare you and your bridge.”

Gorbon hesitated, but he caught the pant in the knight’s voice, and noticed the slowing of his blows. “I am no nose,” he growled, as he leapt one last time, and Sir Derrol fell.

In the morning, the woodsmen came, and found the troll laboring at the gate, removing the last stains of the battle. “A penny from each wagon,” he growled, “to cross my land and abuse my labor.” The woodsmen looked about in fear, but at last they paid. Over time they grew used to the growling troll, until they came to expect his angry voice in the morning. Never again did Gorbon wander from his happy bridge or let it fall into disrepair.

THE END

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The Keep Of The Black Crag - A Short Fantasy Story By Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on April 29, 2009

“The horde is not mindless,” said my master abruptly. “Each creature within the writhing mass can think and act, and each bears deadly weapons. Like men, they have fears and desires. They can be manipulated as easily as the kings of your land.”

“I’ve never know a king,” I replied. Pasav chuckled to himself.

“Of course not.” He paused, looking amused as he walked. “I have known too many.” Again he laughed, “and each one a bigger fool than the first.”

Pasav delighted in confusing me. We were far from any land I had ever known before. Day after day we rode through forests and over hills. We rested some days, and some days we did not. “Why don’t we take the plain roads,” I once asked.

“Because there is nothing of interest for us there,” was the reply.

The old man spoke in riddles or spouted legends. But his food was plentiful and easy enough to cook. Despite his strange ways and lofty manner, I like the old man. He was as kind as he was mysterious, and his discipline came only when necessary.

Truly I did lose interest in the affairs of the villages we passed. My own home in Craverton faded into a distant memory, where my withered mother’s face looked out on the dusty streets, waiting for a change that would never come. Pasav taught me to hold my spear, and to ride tall in the saddle. When we camped, he handed me a practice sword, and bade me learn to use it properly. Aged though he was, Pasav moved faster than a cat, and I found myself gently bruised by his hard teaching.

“There is no softness in the blade,” he chuckled. Then he put his arm on my shoulder and held up my chin. “Pain is everywhere in the world. We all feel it. The sword is hard, but the healer’s hand is soft and strong, stronger than the mightiest steel.” Then he showed me how to tend the bruises with herbs found in the hills, and where to find blossoms that brought hope and comfort. Day after day the lessons continued, tirelessly. Each moment he opened my mind, and each moment I found that I knew less than I ever thought possible.

After three weeks’ journey, we reached the foothills of the Tarangorn Mountains, far to the north of my village. By now I rode comfortably in the saddle, and the practice sword felt as comfortable in my hand as the crumbs of bread I used to crave. The end of summer was upon us, and the weather turned each hour a little colder. Before me the peaks rose blue and then white. A chill wind crossed our path, and I shivered in the saddle.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Nuriath, the ancient north realm,” responded Pasav. “No one lives here now.”

I looked about the barren hillsides all around us, and confirmed his assertion. “Where are we going?”

“A long time ago King Eirionoth built a fortress on the very edge of the mountains. He called it the Keep of the Black Crag. After our fall, the Horde overran the keep, and the kingdom fell into ruin. Many foul things lurk in the lower halls of the keep, but the upper portions are still well maintained. We will dwell there for some months this winter. I have a large store of provisions waiting there, and it is better housing than this open land. The Horde will move again this winter, and we must be prepared to meet them.”

I held my peace, although many questions still lay heavy on my mind. In another two weeks we came to the first of the mountains. In a narrow pass, high on the eastern face of the cliffs overlooking the valley sat a black fortress. Its dark spires stabbed into the sky like black spears pointing angrily at the gods. A narrow road cut into the face of the mountain and worked its way to the edge of the pass. The sunlight seemed to disappear into the shadows of the fortress, and no sound came from its dark windows.

“Once the keep was a fair place, full of laughter and feasting. Eirionoth was a powerful wizard in his time.” Pasav seemed lost in his deep memories as he spoke. “In those days the mountains were not as cold as you see them now. We worked many wonders in our seclusion from men, and they treated us with proper respect. Freely we shared with the kings all that we knew, indeed, the very foundations of the Keep of the Black Crag are imbued with mystical powers; and kings ruled from here freely. No army could ever assail it. In later days, though, its power failed. My brethren failed.” My master looked suddenly sad, and he stopped his horse and stared blankly at the castle above us.

“What happened?” I asked. “Did the Horde finally break down your defenses?”

Pasav half smirked and half sighed. “The more powerful of our order were able to summon servants from other spheres or to imbue dead things with life, or alter existing creatures so that they could learn intelligence. These servants were employed to build the keep, as well as to discover many new secrets. The gods blessed us as long as we were kind and gentle, and did not attempt to bring evil into the world. Some were tempted for greater power. The strongest of us, Niersath, summoned demons that taught him how to twist and torment the flesh of men and beasts. Together with some followers who also sought power, they created the creatures of the Horde. In the end, all of our creations turned against us. Our power failed, and their wills were made their own. The creatures overran all of the mountains. Most of my brethren were destroyed. Those who remained were summoned by the power of the gods to the Oracle deep in the mountains. We were charged with undoing what we had done. ‘You shall remain in this realms until all are destroyed’ they said. So we began to walk the earth in search of the Horde, attempting to undo our wrong. As long as even one of the creatures remains, the wizards do not age. But many of my brethren have been destroyed. I am the last of our order to continue, unless the rebel Niersath still lives. The horde has a power that I do not understand to continue to thrive. Each year thousands are destroyed, and each year their power grows.”

My master stopped speaking, and urged his horse up the narrow path towards the castle. I followed quietly, and watched the valley floor grow steadily further away. The roadway was broad enough for the two horses to walk side by side, but I chose to ride behind, as close to the mountain as possible. The pavement was black, and polished as if it had been laid just the day before. No fence or wall had been made to protect the edge, and the stone of the cliff face had been polished smooth as glass to the height of several men above the road. A chill wind beat against us from the north as we reached the top, and I pulled my cloak over my face. In the sky overhead, thick gray clouds gathered.

Pasav rode straight up to the castle gate, and finding it open, passed inside. I followed cautiously, but found no danger inside. “Shut the gate, Kyven,” he said. I dismounted, and began to labor with the enormous metal doors Pasav continued up towards the castle entrance itself, and soon disappeared inside. I managed to close the gate, and let down the bar to lock it shut before going inside of the castle myself.

My master had lit torches and built a small fire in a small room near the entrance. “There are many inhabitants of the castle now,” he warned quietly. “Most of them will not trouble us until we trouble them. They know that I use the upper portions of the castle, and are afraid to disturb me. Do not go down to any of the stories below for any reason.”

I nodded that I understood, and began taking out provisions to prepare a meal at the fire. “How long will we stay here?” I asked.

“We will stay through the winter. There are only a few passes through the mountains, but from here we can watch them all. In the ancient days, we built two other fortresses, greater than this to watch the other ways. Ardinan Tower and Castle Tirimbil are both still held by living kings. The Horde does not challenge those paths often anymore, for the warriors there are valiant and cunning. When you are ready, perhaps you will got to Ardinan Tower and train with the king’s guard.”

“I do not wish to be a warrior,” I replied. “I would rather be a cook.”

Pasav laughed, as merrily as I had ever heard him laugh. “Then you had best practice a great deal more.” He gestured at the fire, and the meal I was preparing. Rarely did anything I cook taste very good. Suddenly his manner changed, “but I am glad to hear your words. There is wisdom in them. Choose always not to want to be a warrior, even when you must take up a sword.”

“I had no trade before, though I was apprentice blacksmith for a while. What trade will I learn from you?”

“I also have no trade,” replied Pasav. “I am a wizard, a scholar, a thinker of great things.” He laughed out loud, “and mostly now I am an old man. You will learn no useful trade from me. I will teach you to be a warrior because I do not want you to be killed by the Horde. But I require an assistant for a time. You will know when you have learned enough, and then you will find your own way in this world.”

“Then I will learn to cook,” I replied. I finished preparing the meal, and we ate together in comfort. The dark castle was the first roof I had felt in several weeks, and I was glad for it.

“In the morning, we will find more comfortable quarters,” said Pasav, “but we will probably have to relocate some of the current inhabitants of the castle. With luck, we will have a few more weeks before the Horde tries to move south for the winter.”

The morning found the castle courtyard covered in a light layer of snow. There was no sign of any other creature beside us outside, and no sounds came from within. Pasav showed me around the ancient rooms and halls. He carried a set of keys, with which he opened several doors and showed me where he had stored provisions. The throne room was barren except for the ancient throne, and a few other chairs. The bedrooms were also empty. In a far corner of the castle, he showed me a locked door.

“The stairs beyond go down,” he said sharply, “do not go down them.”

The tower stairs and ramparts were free and clear, and from the highest towers the entire valley below for many miles was visible and open. Pasav had me put our gear in the bedrooms, and showed me where the kitchen was. After a tour and another lesson with the practice sword, Pasav took me to the north wall.

“From here we will see the approach of the enemy. The snow has come early, so we may expect them very soon. I hope that there will not be so many because of the losses they suffered in the summer, but we must try to destroy them all in this one pass. If any escape, then we will have to hunt them throughout the south all winter long.”

“Don’t they know that the pass will be guarded?” I asked.

“Of course, but they must chance it. Their numbers increase so rapidly that some of them must leave sometimes. In the winter, food is scarce for them, so they come south. We will stop them here. Come with me.”

I followed Pasav to the back of the castle, where the rampart met the mountain. A small path wound its way up the mountain, and eventually into the snow. The snow and ice grew deeper and more dangerous as we went, and several times I slipped. Eventually we reached a point where the path disappeared entirely. Pasav turned, and pointed to the valley below.

“I have more than food stored in the castle. When the Horde comes, we will let fall the snow into the valley, and they will be stopped. We will take turns watching. Your job will be to run up the path as quickly as possible, and wait for my signal. I will show you how to let the snowfall. Then you must hurry back to the castle. Whatever else happens, when the Horde comes, do not leave the ramparts, or go back inside the castle until I come for you.”

I was not sure that I understood everything the wizard wanted to explain, but I nodded my head. “I will let the snow fall, and wait for you on the ramparts. What will happen if the Horde gets into the castle?”

Pasav laughed openly. “That will not happen. But some creatures may come up from below, or out of the mountains when they hear the noise. Carry your spear, you should be able to protect yourself well enough while I am gone.”

We walked back down the mountain, and Pasav began to show me where his magical devices were stored, and how to use them. Each morning before any of my other duties, he made me run to the top of the path with a torch to light the fire that would let the snowfall. Again, before every meal, and sometimes during the day for no apparent reason Pasav would have me make the run. When I was not running up the mountain, I walked the ramparts, watching the valley and carrying my spear. Pasav spent nearly all of his time on the mountain with his boxes and barrels. Many times I carried supplies up for him, and still each day he made me practice with the sword.

After three weeks, the valley floor was also covered with a layer of snow, and the mountain path had become a trench through the ice. Finally, in the afternoon, I saw a black mass appear far north in the narrow valley. “Pasav,” I yelled, “Master, they are coming.”

The wizard joined me quickly on the rampart, and looked at what I saw. “Get your torch, and be off. Remember, do not light the fire until you get the signal.”

I had run the path so many times now that I needed no further instructions. I carried the torch quickly and without difficulty, and stood at the end of the path waiting. I couldn’t see much in the valley below, only a distant mass growing steadily larger. Eventually the mass disappeared beneath the shadows of the mountains, and I waited for the signal. My heart pounded, and I gripped the torch and my spear impatiently. After many minutes, a little ball of fire shot up into the sky, Pasav’s signal. I knelt, and used the torch to light the fire. When it began to burn steadily, I turned and made my way quickly down the path.

I reached the ramparts of the castle, and Pasav had already left. Below us, in the valley, the Horde approached. The mass of dark, beastly bodies moved quickly, yet quietly over the snow-laden ground, kicking up gusts of white powder as it went. High above, in the mountain, nothing stirred for a long time. I began to fear that the fire had gone out, when suddenly a resounding explosion shook the mountain and the castle. Almost instantly, the Horde stopped moving forward. Several animalistic voices cried out as the mountain began to drop vast amounts of snow over them. Across the valley, the echo shook the other mountain, and it too began to cast its wrath down upon the Horde. I fell to the ground, covering my ears, and hoped beyond hope that the castle would remain on its perch on the cliff.

After several minutes of rumbling and terror, the mountain stopped moving. I picked myself up, and ran down the rampart into the courtyard, “Pasav,” I called, “Master, where are you?” No one answered. I reached the castle entrance, when his words of warning returned to my mind, but too late. A large creature, like a dog, though slavering and covered with hard scales leaped out of the darkness. I raised my spear, and tried to jump out of the way. The beast knocked me over, and I crashed to the ground. Before I could react, it was on top of me. With the shaft of the spear I was able to protect myself from its angry fangs, but my strength was no match for its fierce wrath.

Suddenly the beast faltered. It turned its head, and I saw Pasav bring down his great sword. The beast died and I rolled from beneath the corpse. “To the rampart,” he said in a stern, commanding voice. I did not hesitate, but flew to the top of the stairs. In the courtyard below, I heard the sounds of battle as Pasav faced the creatures that were fleeing the castle.

I looked out over the castle wall, and for as far as I could see; the valley was filled with deep snow, and the twisted bodies of dead creatures. Black and broken, they littered the horizon. My arms and face were cut where I had been attacked, but I did not feel the sting. Suddenly a hand was on my shoulder, and I heard Pasav’s voice, “we have stopped them again, for a time, but our work is not yet done. Help me clear the courtyard, and then we can rest.”

THE END

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Greg Cum Ira - A Short Story By Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on April 17, 2009

The great advantage of being a scientist is that you see the world for what it is, as it is, and you maintain no bias one way or the other about how it is. The great advantage of believing in something is that no matter what you see or hear or are told, you will find what you are looking for. Greg’s advantage laid in a unique combination of belief and science sometimes labeled insanity. A thin, elderly man with only a few strands of gray hair, thick glasses, and a penchant for polo shirts; Greg hardly presented an imposing figure.

Seventy-three years is not too long a time to spend conquering a planet. Nearly everything imaginable had been invented during his lifetime, and each new product both created a new niche in his plan and fueled the fire of his disappointment in humanity. A race of people willing to spend their lives in front of a little box of glass and plastic is not fit to govern the planet I live on, or so he believed. The television and personal computer, however, were wonderful devices for restraining humans and Greg had every intention of utilizing them to their fullest potential.

The major side effect of wanting to dominate a planet populated by six billion people is that you either have to delegate some of that power, or you have to limit the numbers of slaves. This particular point had bothered Greg for several decades; at times even affecting his ability to work. Killing people (or anything else), was not something he was good at; it wasn’t even something he had ever done. In then end, however, he had given way to human nature and decided on the easy way out; eliminate the excess. So, down to brass tacks, start by eliminating (without destroying the planet) approximately six billion people. Step two; convince those who remain that you are the rightful ruler of the planet. Step three, live happily ever after.

Step one, as Greg viewed it, was the most difficult, (after all who wouldn’t want to follow him after everyone else was dead). Naturally if he didn’t plan on keeping anyone alive it would be much easier. Of course it would have been even easier still if he had amassed a following of individuals to help him. Once more the problem of working alone on such projects with a limited budget remained unsolved. This time, however, it would definitely work.

Greg had great faith in human incompetence, having experienced it first hand on several occasions. There is no fool like the one who believes the system works, he had often taught his children. Despite his efforts, however, they still paid their taxes and held down regular job.

Once more Greg worked furiously at his basement computer, attempting to simultaneously monitor the working of the World Health Organization (WHO), and NASA. Launching your own satellite into Earth’s orbit can be difficult; doing so undetected and without cooperative outside help took nearly a decade. Doing it twice more was, as Greg put it, “beautiful.” Others may have dubbed it insane, but then their vote didn’t count much at this point anyway.

With a nudge hand here and there, he had managed to keep news of his biological attacks in South America and Africa sufficiently shrouded in confusion as to render the opposition incompetent. Developing the proper virus to do the job was almost as difficult as launching satellites. Information is plentiful and easy enough to gather, but acquiring the proper chemicals can get you arrested, and Greg was passionate about his criminal spotless criminal record; not so much as a parking ticket (not that he drove much these days).

Greg’s attention diverted from the WHO to the internal proceedings at the European Union, and the United Nations. Cracking the control of a single government was easy enough; he had, after all, helped to break and built several countries over the years, but simultaneously eradicating government heads around the globe was a true challenge. The first key is unrest, always unrest. Start with the people and then slowly let the level of discomfort rise until those at the top could feel it; then remove the top. Full-scale cyber-attacks on the European and Asian economy would begin tomorrow. He had tested his methods in the past, gradually fluctuating the worldwide economy; a lifetime of preparation for this moment.

He smiled to himself, scratched his scraggly beard and balding head, and pressed the enter key.

To continue to divert attention away from events in the third world, Greg unleashed a pair of new electronic viruses that would distribute themselves throughout developed countries, keeping businessmen and employees equally busy for a few days. He transmitted an email to a doctor in the Congo (who by now was certainly carrying the biological virus), recalling him to his home in northern Europe. A similar message found a doctor in Nicaragua, and the doctor returned to Australia. Greg reached for his coffee mug, empty. All right, get some coffee and then tackle North America.

Greg got up from his swivel chair, his thin frame leaving a shallow impression, and stretched his arms and back. Books lay stacked all around him, notepads, pencils, files containing all imaginable information; and over all of it sat the strong odor of coffee and meticulous malice. Greg whistled quietly to himself as he skipped up the stairs. Eighty-six and still more fit than any television raised punk. At the top of the stair he met his daughter. “Going on a coffee run, you want anything,” he asked.

“Dad, its midnight, I was just headed to bed. Don’t wake the kids when you come in, ok.”

“Sorry, Mandy, I’ll be quiet when I come in.” Grandkids were great, if only their parents weren’t so annoying.

Thirty years ago a doctor twenty years his junior told him to give up the coffee, alcohol and late nights (he never did smoke). Greg sent flowers to the doctor’s widow, but secretly he didn’t feel much remorse. Destiny decides how long you live, and you decide how much you enjoy it. Greg was destined for greatness, and immortality. The garage was full of the keys to immortality. Experiment upon experiment latched together in a careful chain, all to produce panacea. The rats, dogs, and neighborhood bums who were now cured (one way or the other) of their ill health were all greatly appreciated. A super immune system combined with genetic anti-aging created an agent that cured just about everything, including the common cold and cancer.

The Go-mart, or whatever they called the place these days had the best coffee available at midnight (or any other time), and Greg found the crust on the nacho cheese particularly appetizing. The hired help, as usual, reminded him of the reasons behind his never-tiring quest, but then so did pretty much everyone else he met. He used his credit card to pay for the order, after all the transaction would simply ‘disappear’ by morning anyway. Greg sipped his coffee smugly on the way home.

Back at the lab he checked his resources and progress. He didn’t have enough money to manage a full-scale release of the virus in North America, or Europe, and a partial release would only give the Americans time to find a cure, so an alternative must be found. Fortunately, a lifetime of planning allows one to consider these possibilities beforehand. Greg rummaged around in his desk until he found the correct set of cables, and connected a small device to his computer. He quickly loaded a new program, and giggled slightly as the green light on his gadget sprang to life. Radiation emissions on computer and television screens around the world, but most heavily concentrated in the United States, would now reach toxic levels. By the end of the week video game geeks would be dropping like flies.

Enough damage for the moment, he decided. Time for a drink and some light reading. He found a bottle of beer in the mini-refrigerator, and opened a thick file labeled space exploration. The improbability of humans discovering extra-terrestrial life always amused Greg. If only they really tried. Of course, if they really tried I could stand them. Greg continued to peruse his various files for over an hour, lost in the possibilities of what could be. The world was finally becoming a unit bound by more than just gravity. The potential for world cultures to merge, language and customs to join, and new leadership to be defined was being fulfilled. All too slowly. With the right people, living forever, all of the waste and laziness and destruction would be eliminated. Six billion to find a few thousand; at least he had good odds of finding decent help.

Time for more nachos. Compulsively, he swiveled the chair around to check the progress. His chair bumped against the transponder, and the device fell to the floor. “Damn!” he exclaimed. Greg picked up the box, noting that the case had cracked. He shook it a couple of times. The rattling told him soldering was in order, and Greg let out a soft sigh. “I’ll fix it when I get back.” He left the broken equipment on the desk and stopped at the bathroom on the way out the door. The convenience store was only a few blocks away, and the night was warm, Greg walked, as usual. For a change, there was another customer, obviously in a hurry. The engine of their beat-up Toyota was still humming, and the lights were on. Some punk kid, as it turned out, harassing the clerk. Why don’t people just let people do their jobs, he thought. Greg opened the door and headed to the coffee.

“Hey old man, where you goin’” the punk accosted him. Greg gave him a stern look, failed to see the gun, and proceeded to the coffee. The clerk screamed, the punk fired, and Greg’s panacea failed to stop the bullet.

In other news, a doctor in the Congo discovered a cure for a mysterious virus believed to have been transported through insects in third world countries, saving the lives of thousands. He had received a message recalling him earlier, but stayed to finish the job anyway. NASA discovered yet another mysterious satellite, believed to have been launched by a terrorist group, and destroyed it. The department of defense announced a new cyber-security system. The European Union managed to quell fears of instability, and the United Nations reported that political unrest was at an all-time low.

Prospects for the world in general looked good, although crime in some suburban areas appeared to be on the rise.

THE END

Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman

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The Treasure of Priamos Island - A Short Fantasy Story By Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on April 1, 2009

Anneke pulled the boat as far up onto the beach as she could before she grabbed the small bag of food and continued on. The sun was moving steadily towards noon overhead. A cool sea breeze blew the smell of salt all around, and the sand felt warm beneath her toes. The beach ended abruptly in a high wall of jagged cliffs about fifty meters from the waterline. A few meters away, Anneke spotted another boat, also beached. Anneke went to the boat, hoping to find some sign of her betrothed. The boat was empty, except for rigging, but footprints were still plain in the sand leading towards the cliffs.

Clutching her small bag of provisions, Anneke followed the trail of footprints towards the cliffs. The base of the cliffs was jagged, and steep. The cold stone felt sharp and menacing, and she followed the footprints for nearly an hour before a suitable pathway was found through the rocks. An ancient gate was broken at the opening of the path. Its iron bars had been rusted completely by the briny air. The path itself had once been paved with polished stones, and set about with flowers. Now the flowers had turned to tangled weeds, and everywhere the stones were broken and tumbled. The way narrowed where vines had encroached from tall trees that now grew on either side of the path. Birds and monkeys chattered back and forth in the morning, but Anneke paid them little mind.

Two days ago Siamul had crossed to the island in anger at her father. “You have no worth to take my daughter to wife,” her father had said in anger. Siamul replied that he would provide greater treasure than any in the village, and had disappeared. Only by questioning Siamul’s closest friends had Anneke been able to learn where he went, and what his intentions were. Priamos Island contained the treasures of the ancient kings. Heroes once lived here, who strove with the gods, and won for themselves power and wealth beyond any man. But the same legends warned that the sons of the kings fell into displeasure with the gods, and tried to cheat them. Fierce beasts were unleashed on the island, and the treasures were cursed to any that sought to wrest them from their hiding places.

“Siamul,” called Anneke, as she neared the top of the cliffs. “Siamul, where are you?”

The only reply was the chattering of the monkeys in the jungle.

The path ended abruptly at the top of the cliffs. Another broken, rusty gate lay near the end of the path, and a wide stone courtyard opened before a once beautiful palace. Through a break in the trees, Anneke was able to look out over the edge of the cliffs, down on the beach and sea below. In the distance, she could barely perceive the dim line of her home shore. Quickly she turned away from the sea and headed across the courtyard.

The courtyard was dotted with life-like stone statues, each in a different pose. Most wore a surprised expression, some seemed afraid, while others seemed casually walking from place to place. Many of the statues were overgrown with vines now, so that the sculptor’s art could hardly be discerned. Some had fallen and broken. Anneke stopped at the palace stairs, and sat down for a moment. At her feet was a statue of a palace guard. He had tumbled over, and his head lay shattered on the stairs. His sword was rusted completely through, but his spear remained unbroken at her feet. From her bag she ate a quick lunch, and quenched her thirst from a water skin at her side.

“Siamul,” she called without hope. Her voice echoed across the courtyard, and rang mute on the palace. The jungle paused a moment, as if to listen, and then the chatter of birds and insects resumed. A small monkey approached and picked up the crumbs she had dropped, but Anneke did not like the look of the animal. Its fur was falling out, and its hide showed through, flaky and scabbed. With a start, she picked up the spear, and chased the creature away.

“Siamul,” she called again, and then to herself, “if I find you, you’ll wish I hadn’t.”

Angrily she mounted the palace steps, and passed through the rotted entrance. Inside, the palace looked much the way it had from outside. Vines and ferns covered everything from floor to ceiling, or at least what remained of the ceiling. Shattered stones and rotted woodwork were scattered across the floor, and the sun shined steadily through the roof. Many birds had formed habitations indoors, and they raised a warning cry as Anneke entered. “Siamul,” she called. Her voice echoed in the decaying chamber, and clattered through the palace halls. She waited, but no response came. In the distance, she thought she heard the sound of something falling, like a dish, but it was faint. She clutched the spear a little tighter for reassurance, and looked for another exit.

Across from the main entrance lay an arched doorway leading into a dim hall. Rotted doors hung at either end of the chamber, but they looked as if they had not been disturbed in ages. If Siamul had come here, then he would have taken the archway. Anneke used her spear to brush the vines aside, and went through the arch. Here, as in other places, the ceiling was mostly gone. The stones were cracked, and vines grew down the walls, but the sounds of the jungle were quieter in the hall than they had been outside. She could see no trail, or signs that anyone else had come this way, but she hurried along anyway. The passage went only a short distance before it branched. An opening appeared at her right where a tall door had once stood. Anneke looked through the door, but found only a small wrecked room. A group of birds chattered noisily inside. She continued down the hall. More doorways opened to either side, but none of them appealed to her. At three spots, branches appeared in the passage, but Anneke did not like the look of them, and continued on until she reached the throne room.

Past a pair of wide, rotted doors opened a large room, nearly as large as the courtyard. On the far side waited a high throne. Three steps led up to the throne, and two tall pillars reached up to the ceiling on either side. Bits of rotted furniture lay scattered about, and the tile beneath her feet was cracked in many places. Anneke went to the throne. The dirt had recently been scraped from the seat, and some of the vines were torn away, but otherwise there were no signs of Siamul. Suddenly, she heard a scraping sound behind her. Anneke turned and raised the spear defensively, but saw only the scabby monkey. The animal had followed her through the palace, looking for crumbs. Anneke chased the monkey out into the passage, and then stopped to consider her own course.

All of the legends told of vast treasuries built deep under the palace. The kings had delved and created wondrous forges where gold and silver were molded into intricate shapes. Anneke decided to look for a stairway down. In the distance she thought she heard a scream, as if someone had fallen. “Siamul,” she cried, “is that you?” Her voice echoed a little in the stone hallways, but was not answered.

To her left the passage branched, and faded into darkness. She followed the branch, looking for stairs, or signs that someone had been there recently. Eventually the passage ended in a dark stairway, going down below the palace. Anneke had no real light, but she followed the stairs down, and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. Holes appeared at intervals through the ceiling, and there was enough light to find her way. “Siamul,” she called, “where are you?” The echoes faded and she moved on.

Below the palace, the passage twisted into a maze of corridors. Anneke wandered without direction for some time in the darkness. Rooms opened before here without doors, and closed again behind her. Each one appeared empty, but in the dark she could not tell what lay at her feet. Sometimes she stumbled over rubble in the dark, and heard the scrape of something on the ground. In the distance, she heard an echo of something else moving, but she could not tell what it was. “Siamul,” she called. Her voice echoed, but no one replied. Something crashed to the ground ahead, and shattered. Anneke jumped back, but then grasped the spear, and stepped in the direction of the noise. Her pace quickened, and her heart pounded inside her chest.

Something else scraped the ground. Anneke turned another corner and called, “Siamul, is that you?”

When she heard no reply, Anneke continued forward. She kept moving in the darkness for several more minutes, but she moved carefully now. The sound of another creature in the darkness did not comfort her, and her fear over Siamul was growing with each step. Her throat was a little sore from shouting, and the thick, dusty air. Anneke paused to take a drink of water from the skin at her side. Suddenly a loud rumbling shook the passage, and Anneke backed into the wall, and pressed against the stone. A rush of air blew past her, and the passage filled with a cloud of dust. Anneke began to cough and choke on the dust, and tried to find a way out. She moved as quickly as she could through the passage.

She had not gone far when the rays of the sun began to shine through the cloud of dust. She heard the sound of someone gasping for breath ahead. “Siamul,” she called, “is that you?”

“I am here,” came the hoarse reply.

Anneke ran forward, and found Siamul nursing a gash in his arm.

“I am alright,” he said when he saw her. “The passage collapsed. I think there was some sort of mechanism that I tripped.”

Anneke poured water into the cut, and bound it with strips of her food bag. “Let’s go back,” she said.

Siamul stood up, and replied, “I don’t think there is any treasure here anymore, and if there were, we will never find it like this.”

The cave-in had blocked the passage ahead, and the hole in the ceiling was too high for them to reach. Siamul turned and led Anneke back down the passage. The dust was settling now, and they could breathe easier in the darkness. In the half-light, they could not recall all of the turns of the ancient maze, and quickly lost track of the stairs out. Finally they stopped to rest and catch their breath. In the darkness, they heard distant scraping sounds, and a crash of something falling.

“We are not alone,” said Anneke.

“Probably just the monkeys playing,” replied Siamul, but he remained unconvinced. “I think the stairs are further to our left. If we take the next left turn, and follow a straight line, we should come there quickly.” Anneke nodded her agreement, but both remained doubtful.

After another minute of rest, they pushed on. They passed several more chambers, but no passages opened to their left. The air became noticeably warmer after a short time, and the holes in the ceiling disappeared. The darkness became more complete as they moved on. Anneke took Siamul’s hand, and they moved through another doorway. Ahead, they could see a vague red glow, and the heat intensified. Siamul clutched the spear, and they moved towards the light.

After a time, they came to a wide chamber. In the center of the chamber an enormous beast slept quietly amid shallow pools of bubbling mud. The beast looked like an enormous cat, and slept curled like a kitten, its tail lashing about calmly. The tail splashed sometimes in the mud, and sometimes batted a stone across the chamber. When the creature stretched, its enormous claws scraped the walls of the chamber. The giant cat rolled over, and as it did, a tunnel was visible on the other side. Cool air swept into the room, and both Siamul and Anneke sensed that it lead to the outside.

“Now we know what destroyed the kings,” whispered Siamul. “If there are anymore of those things living here, then the palace would have been emptied in minutes. Let’s try to cross and get out of the tunnel.”

Flat stones appeared in the mud in places, and together they picked a path. Siamul went first. The must was not deep, although it steamed and bubbled. They were very careful not to slip into the puddles. As the beast turned in its sleep, Anneke noticed that it was not entirely covered in fur. Patches of hair had fallen out in many places, and a scaly hide was visible underneath. The creature’s claws were as long as her hand, and the ground shook when it moved. Finally, they neared the tunnel and the exit.

The tunnel was not long, and a fresh breeze blew softly over them. Moonlight glimmered over the treetops just meters away. Siamul reached the tunnel entrance, and turned to help Anneke through. Anneke stepped across, and took a few steps towards the exit. Siamul did not follow. She turned around, and found Siamul kneeling at the edge of the mud pots.

“What are you doing,” she whispered. Siamul did not answer, so she turned and crept quietly back to him. Siamul was looking at a glint of gold that was just visible at the edge of the mud.

“There is the treasure,” he breathed. He glanced quickly up at the beast and then back down at the gold. Slowly he put his finger to the surface of the mud, and groped for the gold. Quickly he jerked back the finger, and stifled a gasp. “It’s hot,” he said lamely.

“Let’s go,” whispered Anneke, and she stood up.

The creature stretched and clawed in its sleep, but did not wake. Siamul had not moved. Anneke was about to grab him when he took a deep breath, and plunged his hand into the mud. His face twisted in pain, but he triumphantly brought up a golden platter. His hand was red and swollen, but he managed to stifle his cry. Anneke pulled him to his feet, and they moved towards the exit.

The tunnel opened into the side of the cliff. A narrow path streamed down the edge to the beach. In the bright moonlight, they could see their boats not far away. As they stepped onto the path, they heard a loud scraping above them, and a noise of the beast waking. Anneke flew down the path, ignoring the danger of falling. Siamul kept close behind her. The path stopped abruptly two meters above the beach, and Anneke balked. Above them, the beast emerged from the tunnel. It let out a terrifying roar, and began climbing down the face of the cliff. The jagged stones had no effect on its thick hide. Anneke screamed, and jumped to the beach. She hit the ground and rolled, but got up again and ran towards the boats. After a few steps, she realized that Siamul had not followed. Above her, still on the path, Siamul turned to face the creature. The beast clung from its claws to the rocks, and approached her betrothed.

“Jump Siamul,” she called, but he did not respond.

Siamul raised the golden platter in defiance, and cried, “its mine.” His voice had taken a hysterical tone that was totally foreign to his nature. The beast fixed its eyes on him, and Siamul still waved the platter. Abruptly the beast’s eyes glowed a fiery red, and Siamul was covered in an eerie light. His flesh turned gray, and his body froze where it had been. Siamul became another statue, like the broken soldier in the courtyard. The beast deftly flicked the platter from his hands with a claw, and caught it on its tongue. Anneke did not wait for it to pursue. She turned and fled back to the boats, and rowed with all her strength towards the village. High above her on the cliff, the beast slipped with its treasure back into its lair.

THE END

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Of Crucibles and Creatures - A Short Fantasy Story By Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on March 6, 2009

After all the warnings Pasav gave, I never thought he would take me down the staircase. “We must locate Kirien’s crucible. I have waited long for such an opportunity, and with the Horde delayed for the long winter, we will have time to recover it.

“What is the crucible?” I asked.

Pasav chuckled softly in the dim light. “I forgot, Kyven, that there is so much history you don’t know. Many years ago my comrade, Kirien, constructed the crucible to help us with our on-going battle with the Horde. The artifact was completed, but Kirien died before we could activate it. Those who still dwell in these halls were once Kirien’s servants or slaves. His experiments, if you will.”

We had already met a few of the inhabitants. Strange beasts, distorted combinations of animals. The keep itself was built into the mountain, with a small courtyard and well surrounding a small outer structure. The bulk of the keep was deep underground, hidden in darkness and evil now. Evil and danger so thick I could feel it clinging to my lungs as I breathed.

A small globe of yellow green light floated near Pasav’s pointed hat. He carried a longsword, sharp and expertly handled. I favored a shortspear myself, although a sword also hung clumsily at my belt. I was tall at fourteen, but far from brave.

Suddenly a shadow scraped against the stone just out of sight. My heart stopped, but Pasav’s voice was calm. “Show yourself. There is no safety for you in darkness, nor danger for you in the light, unless you bring it.”

I tightened my grip on the spear. Into the shadowy green light stepped a scaly gray creature. It walked a hunchbacked gait, supporting the weight of a pair of twisted wings that would not properly fold on its back. A bony ridge ran from its head down its spine and formed a short whip of a tail. When it spoke, its voice was like a rusty chain being dragged along the dungeon floor.

“You are a friend of the master?” It asked.

“I was,” replied Pasav. “I seek the crucible. Do you know where Kirien hid it?”

At the sound of its master’s name, the creature began to grovel on the floor, whimpering and muttering, “master is gone, master is dead.” I noticed for the first time the claws at the end of his fingers, and that two of the fingers from his left hand were half missing. The wings did not fold as they should because one was broken and had never been properly set.

“Do you know about the crucible?” my master repeated.

When the creature did not respond, Pasav appeared ready to move on. Then, to my surprise and shock I heard my own voice asking, “Do you have a name?”

The muttering stopped, and the creature raised his head. Briefly its eyes flashed green, and it answered, “Borlock, Keeper of the Laboratory Key.”

Pasav stopped in mid-stride, and then turned to face us both. I stammered, but couldn’t think of anything else to say. Pasav chuckled once again, and the glow atop his hat brightened, showering us all in a soft pool of light. “Well, Kyven, you started this conversation, you really ought to finish it.”

As infuriated as I was with my master for once more making me his joke, I lost track of my fear. “I am Kyven, and this is my master.” I almost said Pasav’s name, but something in the wizard’s eye told me not to go that far.

“Kyven,” Borlock repeated.

“We need the crucible to stop the Horde. Did your master keep it in the laboratory?”

Borlock looked suddenly both excited and unhappy. I could only guess how long he had been trapped here, and how long he had been since anyone spoke to him. “You have come to stop the Horde? You are a friend of my master?”

“Yes, I’ve come to stop the Horde,” I said, “although I never knew your master.” I looked the creature over, and after a moment said, “If you help us, you can come with us. Show us where the crucible is, and we will help you get out of the dungeon.”

Pasav’s chuckled turned almost into a laugh at my words, but weather because of my idiocy or some other reason, I couldn’t fathom. Borlock, however, seemed to become both more excited and yet more sad. “I cannot leave, I must yet serve my master while I live, but I can show you where the crucible waits.” Now Pasav placed his eyes firmly on Borlock, and the creature became suddenly fearful. “But it is guarded. Evil enemies broke the locks and hold the laboratory. The crucible they do not touch, for it is powerful and they fear it, but none else may touch it either.” He gestured to his broken wing and scars. “I have tried many times to get it back.”

Pasav seemed suddenly cheerful. “Not to worry Borlock,” he said, “just show us where it is and you’ll have your lab back. But first lets rest a bit and then we’ll be off.” The old wizard sat down next to the wall, and fished some food from his pack. Warily, I did the same. This would not be the first time I had witnessed Pasav lure an enemy into a state of security, and I could not sense if his motives were genuine. Borlock seemed impatient to be going, until Pasav invited him to share our meal. From the squeals of joy and delight, I can only guess that Borlock had not tasted real food since before I was born.

Within a few moments we were on our way again. Borlock seemed eager for us to rid the laboratory of its current occupants. I felt queasy at the idea of fighting whatever had already bested the nightmare leading us through the dungeon. In the time that had passed since we first entered this dungeon – I could only guess that it had been days – I had come to understand that not all darkness is evil, but I never imagined anything as hideous as Borlock could be so helpful. He knew his way without error, and lead us several times past danger. As we went, he taught me a great deal about how to use my spear, and the tactics to use when fighting beasts and men. We scoured the dungeon for another day, each moment delving deeper, and in that time I made a close if somewhat odd friendship.

“What sort of creatures hold the crucible,” Pasav asked as we descended what I hoped was the final set of stairs.

“Denizens of Morthol,” replied Borlock grimly. “They are but lesser servants, but the crucible gives them power I do not understand.

Pasav let out a loud “harrumph” and muttered something about “bungling with the powers of the seven hells.” I knew from past experience that Pasav was expressing his utter distaste at another’s “complete incompetence” despite having achieved impressive results. Morthol, I would have to assume, would not be a pleasant home, and its dwellers were likely not on speaking terms with surprise visitors. I had heard of demons from my mother, and didn’t doubt they existed, and although this seemed just the place for them, I couldn’t help being taken aback at Borlock’s reaction when we reached the bottom of the stairs. He stopped quite suddenly, and began quivering with obvious fear. From a tattered belt pouch he slipped a slender gold key, and held it out. Pasav took the key, and the creature said, “The leader is Galyra. They will sense my approach, if they haven’t already. If I come with you my terror will surely be the end of us all. Take the first corridor to the right and you will find the laboratory.”

For once, Pasav didn’t chuckle, although I did catch a smile breaking briefly across his face. Borlock seemed anxious to retreat back up the stairs. I knew my master would never let such a valuable resource go so easily. “Borlock, if they know that you are here, then we should just as well make use of it.” The creature’s fear intensified, and a look of confusion spread across his face. “Your terror has indeed boggled your wits,” said Pasav gently, “but my wits are still about me. How many of these lightbreakers are there?”

Borlock calmed visibly at Pasav’s words. “Galyra, and a half dozen others. I managed to slay several of them a long time ago, but they have destroyed my weapons and traps, so I can no longer fight them. They know better than to venture above these stairs, where I still have some surprises, but this entire area is under their complete control.”

Pasav looked thoughtful, and mused, “if things are as I believe they are, then we needn’t worry too much about the lightbreakers. Our primary concern is to activate the crucible. Once that happens, I believe you will find the keep a much nicer place.” Although he could see the questions on my face, my master continued without pause. “Kyven and I will wait in the darkness where the laboratory corridor begins. Borlock, you simply need to snoop around the laboratory. Go scout them out, but the moment you sense danger, get out. Run back up the stairs, and find a safe place to hide and wait. Kyven and I will handle the lightbreakers, and whatever else comes out to find you.” As he spoke, Pasav untied the sash around his robe, and then re-knotted it so that a good length hung out at the end, which he handed to me. “Don’t let go of this, my boy, or you will perhaps not find your way out of this darkness again.” The light suddenly winked out, and I grabbed tightly at the sash, wrapping it a couple of times around one hand, and clinging to my spear with the other. The darkness was absolute, and with it also came a silence deeper than sleep, so deep the breathing of my companions sounded as loud now as the cries of battle that had brought me to my master. I followed the tug of the sash, my eyes splayed wide in a vain search for anything to see.

After a few moments of slow walking, the sash went slack, and I heard the muffled whisper, “sit down.” I quickly and quietly did as told. My eyes attempted to penetrate the blackness, but the effort was fruitless. I heard Borlock shuffle away, but within seconds there was nothing but silence and darkness. The sound of my heart beating, and Pasav’s breathing.

Imperceptibly, a shadow approached, and only after several seconds did I realize that Borlock must have been returning. I recognized the sound of his movement, but only as he passed us by in the corridor. He left a familiar chain-rattle whisper, “two follow,” as he left, and I nervously repositioned my spear. In the distance, a faint light became visible, outlining the shapes of two demonic humanoids. Their heads were outlined with spiked horns, and their bodies covered in a thick leathery hide. A thick mane of black fur clung to their necks and arms, and each carried a large flame bathed broad sword.

I have often asked Pasav why he didn’t just blast the lightbreakers with fire, or put them under a spell or something, and all he ever says is “I always needed an extra scar.” Of course, to my mind, trying to leap up and attack a pair of beasts while a scared boy is clinging with all his strength to your sash is probably not a good idea. In any event, Pasav fell on his back, giving the tusked demons both our location and a tactical advantage. Some instinct inside of me tore my grip from the sash at that moment, and I quickly launched my spear at the nearest enemy. The sharpened blade pierced the demon breast, and as it did an unearthly heat or acid began to consume the shaft. The lightbreaker toppled and landed on top of my master. As Pasav struggled to free himself, the second was quickly upon me, attacking viciously with his sword. I defended the blows with all my might, but strength seemed to dissipate from my limbs with each parry. My own sword’s weight grew with each pass, and I knew I could not hold out for very long. I had never been in a position to run away from a battle before, and now that the opportunity presented itself, I realized for the first time that I was willing to fight and die for the old man who had given me a life. That thought gave renewed strength to my limbs, and I fought back just long enough for Pasav to gain his feet and finish the fight for me.

My master’s left arm and chest were torn where the demon’s horns had cut him, but perhaps the largest smile I had ever seen on his face beamed back at me through the dying iridescent glow from the lightbreakers’ bodies. He put his arm around my shoulder, and the little globe of light appeared over his head. “You fought both bravely and well,” he said, “now let’s finish this nasty business so we can find a comfortable place to eat and rest.”

His calm demeanor penetrated my mind, and I walked coolly towards the laboratory door. The door itself, though outwardly unremarkable, bore the unmistakable mark of magic that I had grown used to around Pasav. There was a keyhole just below the handle, which perfectly fit Borlock’s golden key. Pasav muttered some arcane words as he unlocked the door, and motioned me to step back. There was a quick flash of light from within the keyhole, but the door did not move until Pasav pushed the handle, and it swung open easily.

The scarred and burned bodies of three more demons writhed on the floor not far from the door, and a fourth was crawling desperately toward a corner on the far end of the room. The stench of burning flesh reached my nose, and I stifled my vomit by looking elsewhere. On a pedestal at the far end of the room, beyond a table, sat a large steel vessel. The power radiating from that portion of the room made it unmistakable that this was indeed our quarry. In front of the pedestal, however, stood one last obstacle, perhaps the most beautiful obstacle I would ever face, and certainly the fairest I had encountered then. At fourteen, a boy is likely to have known few girls, and even fewer women. Certainly he would never have met a creature perfectly formed in every way, or one who possessed such a sultry and magical voice. The dark hair and lips contrasted stunningly with the ivory skin, and only the smoking dagger in her hand betrayed her innocent appearance. She dressed in burnt leather, whose purpose was more to reveal than to conceal or provide comfort, and when she spoke her authority was unmistakable.

“Finally, someone has come to save me,” she said in perfect innocence.

True to form, Pasav chuckled to himself, but tears welled up in my eyes for pity. Trapped here among these demons, enduring terrors I could hardly imagine. I moved forward, to help her, but a firm hand restrained me.

“I had not expected to find you here, Galyra,” said Pasav, “although I imagine you have indeed found this more of a prison that you thought it would be.”

“You mock my suffering. Why? Set me free and I will help you. I can tell you many secrets of this place, but we must hurry.”

She sounded reasonable to me, and I didn’t understand why Pasav chose to ignore her pleas. “No time for that,” he said, and quickly he raised his hands. As he did, the glow about his head became a blinding light, and he shouted words of power. The steel vessel screamed in response, blasting out a shriek of grating metal. A fire consumed the pedestal, but the crucible continued unmoved, floating above the flame.

Galyra screamed in anger, and flung the dagger unerring towards my master’s throat. At the last instant, Pasav moved aside, and the weapon clattered to the floor. Galyra flung the table aside, and prepared to assault without weapons, when suddenly she was lifted as with an unseen rope and dragged towards the crucible. A blue light erupted from the vessel, surrounding the seductress and consuming her. The whimpering lightbreaker in the corner was likewise lifted and dragged into the crucible, and together their cries of anguish crushed against my ears. I covered my head in fear, but Pasav made me lift my eyes and witness the transformation. Everywhere that darkness had been was replaced with light and splendor. The dull gray stone floors of the laboratory in the proper light became polished marble. The otherworldly evils everywhere within the keep began to be consumed.

“Kyven, my boy,” I believe we made some progress today. As we turned to leave, we met Borlock. He looked just as hideous in the light of the crucible as he had before, if not more so. Yet now I could discern the wisdom in his eyes, and the kindness born of long suffering.

“You are the true masters of the keep now,” he said, “and I will serve you while I have life.” The wretched gargoyle then bent his scabby head and knelt. Pasav raised him gently, and smiled softly.

“You have a great deal of work to do here. Rally the loyal servants, and rebuild the keep befitting the wizards of old,” he said.

“What about us,” I asked.

“You and I have shall just have to wait until the next adventure to answer that question, and with any luck it will be a long time coming.” Something in the twinkle of my master’s eye told me that our adventures would come far more often than I would ever get used to.

THE END

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Harperston - A Fantasy Short Story By Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on January 14, 2009

I have always found it odd how a person never truly gets used to discomfort. I didn’t like starving any better after having starved, eaten, and starving again. I didn’t like fighting any better after having learned to do it properly either. In fact, I would go as far as to say I just don’t like being uncomfortable in any way, but in particular I don’t like being cold and wet and hungry while hunting a pack of vicious beast-men. My companion, a small, yet unnervingly vicious, boar-dog (what else do you call a failed wizard’s experiment), seemed equally annoyed at both the weather and the mission. “You must warn the King,” my master had told me, “the Horde is moving.” That was before we discovered this scouting party, and now I had two missions to accomplish (discounting the part about staying alive).

The tracks were easy enough to follow in the light snow of early spring. Two years of hunting these beasts from place to place had trained me well to know their marks. “Do you smell them, Grunter?” I asked. She raised her tusked head in response, and let out a soft whining grunt. “I know, they aren’t far now. We’ll catch them tonight, in the light of the moon.” Grunter wagged her squiggly tail with excitement, and dashed ahead along their trail. We had not gone far when I spied a lone buck scouring the hillside for food. My first instinct was to draw my bow and get some food, but I knew that it would only slow me down, and that I had to stop the scouting party before they reached the mountains proper. I knew better than to chase the horde into the mountains, in their own festering realm; that would be a task for another day.

True to form, I found them just after sundown. Two days without sleep, and nothing but a night of violence to look forward to. Unfortunately, as fate would have it, I wasn’t able to catch them in the wild as I had hoped. We were close to a village, and the beasts had discovered one of the outlying farms. I found them by the light of the fire where the barn was burning, and the sound of the violent screams, of torture and battle.

From their tracks, I knew that there were at least six in the group, and from experience I doubted there were more than ten. Grunter saw the fires and noise, and charged into the fray before I could stop her. I hesitated only long enough to loosen my sword and string my bow. Darkness was my ally at the moment. I could see their black shapes easily in the firelight. Two were busy slaughtering animals as they fled the barn. I could hear the others in the farmhouse. I lodged an arrow in the nearest beast-man’s breast, and hit the second in the left leg as he charged. These beasts are vicious when cornered, or in numbers; but wounded and alone they tend to flee, as this one did, to wander off and die alone and painfully in the cold hills.

I ran to the house. Inside I could hear Grunter’s barking and grunting as she grappled with her foes. I heard the sounds of metal clanging, and knew that someone was putting up a fight. I cast my bow aside and drew my sword as I entered through the already destroyed farmhouse door. Inside I found the farmer and his two children, a young man and woman fighting with the four beasts. The good wife was already lying on the floor, and the humans had sustained several wounds. The nearest beast had a large gash in his arm and leg, and was not able to turn and react as I finished him. In his shock at seeing my entrance, the farmer’s son dropped his guard, and a beast-man tackled him, quickly rending out his life with his claws. The two others turned to face me, and used their weight and strength to force me back out the door, where we could fight on open ground. Pasav, my master, and Borlock, my good friend had taught me through daily drills over the past few years how best to deal with both beasts and men, and stiff experience had confirmed their teaching on several occasions. I felled the first as he stepped from the farmhouse, and the second put up only a meager fight before I removed his claws and head. I re-entered the farmhouse to find the daughter struggling to keep the final beast at bay with a broken chair. He either didn’t see me enter, or didn’t care, as I was able to dispatch him without effort.

The farmhouse was the shambles, a mess of blood and broken clutter. The barn burned freely, although we managed to save a horse and an ox, and most of the chickens escaped alive. We worked hard to save the livestock and grain before I remembered to ask her name.

“Alandra,” she said, stifling back both grief and fear.

“I am Kyven,” I told her. “I am sorry that I did not catch them sooner.”

“So am I,” she replied. Her face was covered in soot and dust, hiding the fading freckles of youth and covering the soft highlights of hair that would have been a soft blonde; but even the tattered and dirty rags could not hide her girlish figure just on the brink of womanhood.

“Where is your shovel,” I asked.

“We have a shed for tools and things, I’ll go and get it.”

“Take your time. Just get it and bring it here. I will bury them behind the house.” She left for the shed, and I began the gruesome work of dragging the bodies to the back of the farmhouse. The beast-men I simply heaved onto the burning timbers of the barn, unceremoniously removing their weapons and boots as I went. I found Alandra weeping near the farmhouse door, and my heart felt about to burst with grief and sorrow. I knew the pain of losing a father, and I would never forget the day I left my starving mother to join a war I still don’t understand.

“I don’t have a tent or other shelter,” I told her, “and it would not be wise to leave here tonight.” She looked at me with glazed eyes, hardly hearing or seeing. “I noticed the house has more than one room, why don’t you get some sleep. I will bury your family, and if you have a god, you can reverence them in the morning.” She did not seem to want to move, so I lifted her and helped her into the house and past the violence to a room with a bed. I had tried to clean the blood and mess, but nothing I could do would ever remove all the signs of violence.

I spent several hours in the night digging graves. The ground was hard and my limbs worn, but I knew that we would need to leave the farm in the morning. Kindness does not come easily to me, I lived a hard life, but I knew that I must help Alandra, if only in part to repay the kindness my master had shown me. Some few hours before dawn, I collapsed next to Grunter, wrapping my cloak around me for warmth near the still warm embers of the barn.

The day dawned bright and clear and warm, the first of the true spring, the spring that brings the flowers and new life. As luck would have it, the farm was still rather well stocked for the winter, and I enjoyed a good meal. I often fancied myself a cook (after all Pasav couldn’t cook edible food to save his life) but Alandra showed me that I would need more than a campfire to rival the great chefs of the world. Grunter was cheerful; still exhilarated from the events of the night, and continuously bounced and sought affection. A night’s sleep had done a great deal to calm Alandra, and she and Grunter became quick friends. But the uncertainty of losing her home and family loomed heavily on her mind. After the morning meal she went to the graves and commended their souls to eternity. I watched and waited in silent patience.

“Alandra,” I asked, “do you have any relatives in the village?”

“No,” she replied. “My family was new to this valley. We came here, to Amsterhome, after the last war with the Horde. Where are you going, Kyven?”

“I am taking a message to the King, and then I suppose I will return to the Keep of the Black Crag.”

“Where is that?”

“West, and North, in a pass high in the mountains. The King is to the east, I have never been there before.”

“Me either. Can I come with you?”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to put her into danger, and I didn’t want to have to take care of her. The mountains were dangerous, and the going would be hard and slow. She noticed my hesitation, and my eyes must have betrayed my feelings.

“I can cook, and I know how to work hard. I won’t slow you down. We can take the horse, and we can sell the ox and the farm in the village. We can bring the chickens and I have blankets and supplies.” I had lived a solitary life the past few years, and the few women who now lived in the Keep were certainly older than Alandra, but they seemed to share her need to chatter, and the tendency to jabber when they felt nervous.

“We will see what we can find in the village,” I said. She broke a half smile, and I continued. “There may be a place where you can stay and work.” Her smile disappeared. “The mountains are dangerous.” She glared at me and crossed her arms, and I felt suddenly small and weak. “I won’t leave you stranded,” I said at last. “If there is nothing in the village, then you can travel with me until we find something better.”

Alandra did not seem totally convinced at my compromise, but she didn’t argue much either. “Don’t just stand there like dolt,” she said, “help me get my things together, and round up the horse.”

I complied without question. Of all the things I knew, I knew how to follow directions best. The Keep was a large place, and required a great deal of cleaning, especially after fighting off the previous inhabitants, and Pasav made entirely sure that I was familiar with both broom and mop. Before noon we had packed the horse with sufficient provisions to last several weeks, and bound everything else of value to the ox, and were on our way to Amsterhome.

Amsterhome was just a simple village then, not yet grown, and had but one in and a shop that supplied the farmers. We traded what we could for gold and clothes. Alandra had no boots, and she refused to wear those I had taken from the beast-men. Their weapons brought a nice price, a fine horse; and the village constable treated me with great kindness after hearing the story. I cautioned him to post sentinels to watch the foothills since more scouting parties might come from the mountains; a piece of advice he took to heart in the weeks and months to come. Although there were many willing to take Alandra in, she refused to stay, insisting that there was nothing left for her in the village, and that she didn’t feel right about just taking their charity. I must admit I enjoyed having someone to talk to (if only once in a while), and Grunter would have been upset to see her go.

Harperston was several days’ journey east of Amsterhome, but a winding road eventually met up with a winding road that eventually turned into a winding highway patrolled by the King’s guard and repaired by the King’s serfs. We followed that winding road together. I had studied the maps of the northern kingdom, sometimes referred to as the Old Empire, and knew that we would pass through many villages and farms. Since I had accomplished the first part of my journey, this second leg seemed a joy in comparison, and our hearts were light and easy.

Alandra and I quickly became good friends. It seems the gods have always blessed me with good companions. She was merry, even when speaking of sad things, and told me of her family, and the struggle they had fought to earn some bread from the stubborn soil. I recounted to her my days of smithing and of following my master, Pasav, the sometimes haphazard wizard. “I don’t believe in magic,” she said, and seemed disappointed when I told her that I was not a wizard and didn’t know any magic.

“I know how to sweep and clean,” I told her, “and I thought I knew how to cook until I met you.”

“You also know how to fight,” she said, “and that is something very few know how to do.”

“A useless skill,” I replied. “There is no glory in death, and besides, I don’t like it. I prefer to hunt game in the woods, or help with experiments in the laboratory. At least then I know I’m not going to get killed, and usually there is food around.” Alandra laughed wildly at my remarks, but I failed to see the humor, after all I was a simple person.

We reached the King’s Road ten days after leaving Amsterhome. We struck north, and within a few hours the landscape began to change. The haphazard farms turned into well-groomed fields surrounded by low rock fences and crowned with large farmhouses and fine barns. Hedges sported spring growth, and traffic on the road thickened with each step. My eyes darted everywhere to take in the new sights, and Alandra gasped at every bright color and new sound. Neither of us had ever seen a nobleman’s carriage before, nor seen a courtier dressed in their fine clothes. Those who saw us generally gave way, as I sported a sword, and we had horses to ride. The majority of the peasants were as dirty and ragged as those I had always known, and the only horses they used were those on the farm. Grunter drew more than a handful of stares and gasps of surprise, and she seemed thoroughly content to puff out her chest and strut next to the horses playing queen of the road. Once we passed a group of men bound at the throat in steel collars to a line of chain. “Who are they,” asked Alandra, “what have they done?”

“Pasav told me about the slaves that they bring from the southern lands. They bring them here to toil on the roads and keeps, and to serve the mighty warlords. Some, of course, are simply criminals; thieves and robbers.”

Alandra’s face turned suddenly cold and thoughtful. I looked at the slaves, and noted their dirty blonde hair, a stark contrast to the dark browns and blacks that dotted the heads of most people we met. “My grandparents came from the south,” she said, “or so my mother used to tell me. Your hair is light as well, Kyven, she said, although not as light as mine.”

“I come from Craverton,” I replied, “a starving village, crushed by war. I do not know anything else. I am from the Keep of the Black Crag now.”

The paved highway led straight to the wide city gates at the south end of Harperston. Tall, sturdy buildings loomed over us from behind the city wall. From inside the gate we could see a mighty castle rising on the far end of the city. I supposed that if we were to find the King we should go there, so we made our way along the main street until we came to the castle gate.

A balding, stout man in a uniform sat on a little stool in the shade of the archway of the castle gate, and watched our approach with amusement. The gate itself was flung wide open, a large construction of oak and steel. The castle wall was a good four meters tall, build of stone and mortar; just as impressive as the Keep of the Black Crag. A few soldiers wandered the battlements, but in general the fortress carried a calm, sleepy feeling.

When he realized that we actually wanted to enter the fortress, the guard stood up and blocked our way. “Now what would yourselves be wanting in there,” he asked.

I had not often dealt with men, but I knew that most were stupid, and rest easily swayed; and I had a mission to complete. I removed a small medallion Pasav had given me, and showed it to the guard. “Lord Pasav, my master, sends me with a message to the King.”

The guard chuckled, “Oh, Lord Pasav, now. And where from does the mighty lord hail?”

If every guard was going to be this much trouble, I decided, I might just as well go home. “From the Keep of the Black Crag,” I replied calmly. “It is an urgent matter, regarding the continued onslaught of the horde.”

The mention of the Horde seemed to take the guard back a step, and he scratched his head a moment. “Hey Garf,” he called, and a scrawny man in a dirty uniform appeared from a door just inside the archway. “Watch ‘ese two a moment, will ya’. I’m gone to get his Lordship Sirus.” Garn appeared as disinterested in us as we were with him, and he took his place silently on the stool and drooped his head for a nap.

Three quarters of an hour later, the chubby guard returned followed closely by a tall, wiry fellow clothed in a long black robe with silver trim. This new gentleman appeared as sour and stern as a constipated gargoyle, and his voice was both stiff and sharp.

“You have a message from the wanderer Pasav?” he inquired.

“Yes,” I replied, “it is for the king.”

“Then give it to me, and I shall take it to the king.” It was not a question, simply an order delivered to an underling. Grunter barked and growled, and Alandra rolled her eyes.

“My directions were explicit,” I answered. “I must deliver it to the king in person. Not to anyone else, and especially not to anyone claiming to be able to take it to him.”

The stern exterior cracked a little as he placed his fingertips on his temples and closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them again. “Very well, wait here with the guard, and I will speak to the chamberlain.”

Three quarters of an hour later, a man in a fine silk shirt and fine trousers, leaning on a stout oak staff and wearing a thick leather purse made his way towards the gate. He was of average height and build, but his smile was contagious and made his otherwise plain face more attractive than it should have been. “I understand you would like an audience with the King,” he said as he approached.

“Yes,” I said shortly, “I have traveled these weeks from the Keep of the Black Crag to bring it.”

“And your tokens?”

Again I removed the silver medallion and showed it to the chamberlain.

“Very well, if you will give me the message . . . ” he caught my scowl mid-way through the sentence, and quickly changed tactics. “The guard will see to your weapons and your horses, come with me.”

We followed him through the outer courtyard, which was more like a little village in itself, with smithies and various shops inside crafting supplies for the soldiers. The inhabitants seemed oblivious to our presence, despite our frequent staring and wide eyes at all we saw. “There are more shops in this courtyard than people in my entire village,” commented Alandra at one point. Eventually we came to a small room, with a fine polished pine table, a sofa, and four cushioned pine chairs.

“Wait here, and the steward will come and get you soon,” directed our guide and then vanished out the door.

A quarter of an hour later, a young woman with yellow hair and a dirty, long, black dress appeared holding a tray filled with cups and cakes. She seemed taken aback by our appearance, but nevertheless stated, “Would your Lordship and Ladyship care for any tea and cakes while you wait?” Alandra looked at me, and I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t imagine they were trying to poison us, and after the things Pasav had tried to feed me, I couldn’t imagine this would be worse.

I smiled, and said, “yes.” Alandra, sensing a person of her own status, began to bombard the girl with a myriad of questions as she poured the tea and served us. Her name was Anlaw, and she was indeed from the southern lands. Her family was captured in ‘the war’ and she was purchased as a house slave to work here in the castle. Anlaw seemed overwhelmed by the attention and retreated as quickly as possible into the depths of the fortress kitchens.

Three quarters of an hour later, the door opened, and short man with a long gray beard, clad in a silk shirt and fine trousers said, “Come with me please. His majesty is rather busy, but has granted you an audience.”

We followed him to yet another room, not much different from the first, except that the table was much larger, and there were several more chairs. At the head of the table sat a powerfully built man with a short-cut beard, streaked with gray. His head bore a thin gold circlet, and a great sword hung at his side. Pasav taught me to bow when I met the king, and to show respect, so I did.  Alandra followed my lead, and we waited for him to rise and address us.

“Very well then,” he said. “Stand up and give me your message.”

We stood up, and I removed a roll of parchment and handed it to the king. The seal of the Keep was still intact, and the king seemed amused at seeing this. “So, the Keep is alive again,” he asked.

“Yes, majesty,” I said, “Pasav, Borlock, and I have worked hard to put it in order.

“So, Kirien’s steward is more than just a legend. Did you hear that Lars,” laughed the King, “legends are coming to life again. Indeed, the times are changing. Now, lets see what we have.” He cracked the seal and unrolled the parchment. I did not know the full content of the letter, but I know it contained a great deal of important news. The king studied it with particular intent, and then asked, “Did you have anything else to report, Kyven?”

For a moment I was taken aback that he knew my name, but I quickly regained my composure. “I tracked and killed a scouting group for the horde, eleven days ride west of here, at a farm near the village of Amsterhome.” The king raised an eyebrow at my statement, but seemed to brush the information away as inconsequential.

“And do you know the contents of this letter?”

“No, your majesty.”

The king let out a long and loud laugh then. “That is just like Pasav, send the poor boy on an errand he knows nothing about. Very well, we shall make the shock a complete one, for all parties involved. Let us retire to the royal court.” He seemed to muse for just a moment, and then shook his head, “no, better they appear as they are, give all my kin a surprise they won’t forget. Lars, summon my court. Ring the alarm. Pasav has decided to provide us with some entertainment.”

Somehow the glee in the King’s voice did not provide me with any comfort. Lars quickly swooped us together, and pushed us out of the room. As we were leaving, I heard the king say, “Lars, fetch the boy’s sword, he will need it.”

A short time later we found ourselves standing before a dais, atop the which sat a pair of large thrones. A middle-aged woman who would have been stunningly beautiful in her youth, with long black hair now streaked with silver sat in the smaller chair. At either end of the dais were somewhat smaller chairs, filled with young men and women bearing a striking resemblance to the King and Queen. All around us people in finely dressed clothes were forming ranks along the walls. The hall was a great bustle of chatter as people tried to guess what was afoot, and we were the subject of many stares and sideway glances. After a time trumpets rang out, announcing the arrival of the king, and quickly silencing all the chatter.

The king entered, now bearing a larger crown on his head, and dressed with a flowery robe of state, crested with a lion and eagle, the symbols of the empire. When the King spoke, his voice was calm, yet tinged with humor, and the entire hall received his words in abject silence. “My lords and ladies, the time of legends is upon us. Our fathers unleashed evil upon this world, and now we are beginning to remove it. Before you now we have a champion in this great cause. I present Lord Kyven of the Keep of the Black Crag, Knight of the Old Empire.” A stir shook the room at his words, and more than one gasp of surprise. “And as a knight, Count Kyven has exercised his right to accuse my champion, the Lord Dracum and general of my armies of treason to the crown for sloth in the exercise of his duty to eliminate the forces of the horde.” Now the courtroom erupted with shock and anger. More than one foul word reached my ears, and more than once I felt myself becoming angry. I took Alandra’s hand and shrugged. I could see the questions on her face, and the fear, but I had no answers. I gave her the most re-assuring look I could and waited for the moment to pass. A trumpet rang out and the hall became quiet again. A large man, clad in armor for battle stepped out to stand next to me near the dais. He smelled of ale and sweat, and the scowl on his face froze my heart. “A trial of single combat will decide his guilt or innocence,” said the King.

Dracum’s voice was deep and heavy as he addressed his liege. “You majesty, these charges are false and foolish. I have lived my life in service to the crown and dedicated it to the destruction of the horde. What proofs does this boy offer?”

The king took on a slight smile as he replied. “The charge has been stated, and the sentenced passed, but I shall humor you. Three years ago did you not face the armies of the Horde near a village here within my own province?”

“Yes, my lord, of course,” stammered Dracum, “and they were destroyed.”

“Indeed, they were destroyed, and so was your army, was it not?”

“Well. That was that bungling meddler. I warned him not to interfere.”

The king’s tongue turned sharp as a razor. “You were ordered to cooperate with the wizards, were you not?” Dracum made no reply. “Indeed, it is our tradition to fight the wizard’s curse with the wizard’s weapons. He delivered a warning to you that day as well, a warning you ignored. Thousands of men burned that day and joined the horde, and today the Count of the Keep of the Black Crag has come to challenge your allegiance and test it with the sword.”

“Very well,” said the General, “I do not wish to destroy the boy, but if that is your will. My sword,” he boomed, and shocked silence penetrated the court. A page’s footsteps were heard running to the door.

My heart sunk. Was I doomed to always wield a sword? I did not wish to die here, before Alandra, with a sword in my hand, in dirty clothes before people I did not know. I could only trust that my master would not have me killed without cause, although what good my death would bring I did not know.

In a few minutes, the page returned, bearing a broadsword of the finest quality. Lars took Alandra by the arm and escorted her to a chair at the edge of the dais, away from the combatants. “Remove your armor,” stated the chamberlain. “The boy has none, and the rules of etiquette state equal ground. The combatants are granted a moment to prepare their estates and settle their affairs.”

Having no one else to turn to, I went to Alandra and said, “I’m sorry I brought you here. I didn’t know I was just coming here to be killed.”

Alandra cried and hugged me close and whispered, “you aren’t dead yet, Kyven. You saved me once, I’m sure you can save yourself now. What was it that you say Pasav always told you? Fighting is a job best done quickly. Anyone who can kill six beast-men can surely handle one fat dullard.” She gave me a wink and a smile, and I knew Pasav hadn’t sent me here to be killed.

“Combatants approach,” rang the chamberlain’s voice. I obediently took my place before the dais. “No quarter shall be given. Cowardice punished with death.” Two meters away stood my new enemy, gripping his sword and cursing under his breath. A trumpet rang out and the general was on me in an instant.

His blows came like lightning, but I danced away easily, letting my sword direct his energy safely away. “The key to single combat, Kyven,” always said Borlock, “Is patience and cunning. You have to wait for the mistake and wear the opponent down. Constantly attack but never over commit.” As usual I followed the advice I received, never allowing the larger man to use his full arsenal of attacks by forcing him to defend. We fought back and forth for several minutes, neither gaining an advantage, until his face was drenched in sweat and his beard clung to his face and head. Now he kept his guard only through shear determination, but his attacks had become both infrequent and ineffectual. I recognized now the cold calculation I had seen on Pasav’s face in so many past encounters. I understood the endless drilling and why battle after battle Pasav had made me chase beasts from the Keep at sword point rather than using his magic. There was a job here to do, no different than sweeping the kitchen cellars, and no more difficult. I allowed my foe to overextend, and danced aside. Without passion or malice I brought my sword down on his neck, once more realizing how much I hated fighting.

THE END

Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman

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Greg Cum Ira - A Science Fiction Story By Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on December 19, 2008

The great advantage of being a scientist is that you see the world for what it is, as it is, and you maintain no bias one way or the other about how it is. The great advantage of believing in something is that no matter what you see or hear or are told, you will find what you are looking for. Greg’s advantage laid in a unique combination of belief and science sometimes labeled insanity. A thin, elderly man with only a few strands of gray hair, thick glasses, and a penchant for polo shirts; Greg hardly presented an imposing figure.

Seventy-three years is not too long a time to spend conquering a planet. Nearly everything imaginable had been invented during his lifetime, and each new product both created a new niche in his plan and fueled the fire of his disappointment in humanity. A race of people willing to spend their lives in front of a little box of glass and plastic is not fit to govern the planet I live on, or so he believed. The television and personal computer, however, were wonderful devices for restraining humans and Greg had every intention of utilizing them to their fullest potential.

The major side effect of wanting to dominate a planet populated by six billion people is that you either have to delegate some of that power, or you have to limit the numbers of slaves. This particular point had bothered Greg for several decades; at times even affecting his ability to work. Killing people (or anything else), was not something he was good at; it wasn’t even something he had ever done. In then end, however, he had given way to human nature and decided on the easy way out; eliminate the excess. So, down to brass tacks, start by eliminating (without destroying the planet) approximately six billion people. Step two; convince those who remain that you are the rightful ruler of the planet. Step three, live happily ever after.

Step one, as Greg viewed it, was the most difficult, (after all who wouldn’t want to follow him after everyone else was dead). Naturally if he didn’t plan on keeping anyone alive it would be much easier. Of course it would have been even easier still if he had amassed a following of individuals to help him. Once more the problem of working alone on such projects with a limited budget remained unsolved. This time, however, it would definitely work.

Greg had great faith in human incompetence, having experienced it first hand on several occasions. There is no fool like the one who believes the system works, he had often taught his children. Despite his efforts, however, they still paid their taxes and held down regular job.

Once more Greg worked furiously at his basement computer, attempting to simultaneously monitor the working of the World Health Organization (WHO), and NASA. Launching your own satellite into Earth’s orbit can be difficult; doing so undetected and without cooperative outside help took nearly a decade. Doing it twice more was, as Greg put it, “beautiful.” Others may have dubbed it insane, but then their vote didn’t count much at this point anyway.

With a nudge hand here and there, he had managed to keep news of his biological attacks in South America and Africa sufficiently shrouded in confusion as to render the opposition incompetent. Developing the proper virus to do the job was almost as difficult as launching satellites. Information is plentiful and easy enough to gather, but acquiring the proper chemicals can get you arrested, and Greg was passionate about his criminal spotless criminal record; not so much as a parking ticket (not that he drove much these days).

Greg’s attention diverted from the WHO to the internal proceedings at the European Union, and the United Nations. Cracking the control of a single government was easy enough; he had, after all, helped to break and built several countries over the years, but simultaneously eradicating government heads around the globe was a true challenge. The first key is unrest, always unrest. Start with the people and then slowly let the level of discomfort rise until those at the top could feel it; then remove the top. Full-scale cyber-attacks on the European and Asian economy would begin tomorrow. He had tested his methods in the past, gradually fluctuating the worldwide economy; a lifetime of preparation for this moment.

He smiled to himself, scratched his scraggly beard and balding head, and pressed the enter key.

To continue to divert attention away from events in the third world, Greg unleashed a pair of new electronic viruses that would distribute themselves throughout developed countries, keeping businessmen and employees equally busy for a few days. He transmitted an email to a doctor in the Congo (who by now was certainly carrying the biological virus), recalling him to his home in northern Europe. A similar message found a doctor in Nicaragua, and the doctor returned to Australia. Greg reached for his coffee mug, empty. All right, get some coffee and then tackle North America.

Greg got up from his swivel chair, his thin frame leaving a shallow impression, and stretched his arms and back. Books lay stacked all around him, notepads, pencils, files containing all imaginable information; and over all of it sat the strong odor of coffee and meticulous malice. Greg whistled quietly to himself as he skipped up the stairs. Eighty-six and still more fit than any television raised punk. At the top of the stair he met his daughter. “Going on a coffee run, you want anything,” he asked.

“Dad, its midnight, I was just headed to bed. Don’t wake the kids when you come in, ok.”

“Sorry, Mandy, I’ll be quiet when I come in.” Grandkids were great, if only their parents weren’t so annoying.

Thirty years ago a doctor twenty years his junior told him to give up the coffee, alcohol and late nights (he never did smoke). Greg sent flowers to the doctor’s widow, but secretly he didn’t feel much remorse. Destiny decides how long you live, and you decide how much you enjoy it. Greg was destined for greatness, and immortality. The garage was full of the keys to immortality. Experiment upon experiment latched together in a careful chain, all to produce panacea. The rats, dogs, and neighborhood bums who were now cured (one way or the other) of their ill health were all greatly appreciated. A super immune system combined with genetic anti-aging created an agent that cured just about everything, including the common cold and cancer.

The Go-mart, or whatever they called the place these days had the best coffee available at midnight (or any other time), and Greg found the crust on the nacho cheese particularly appetizing. The hired help, as usual, reminded him of the reasons behind his never-tiring quest, but then so did pretty much everyone else he met. He used his credit card to pay for the order, after all the transaction would simply ‘disappear’ by morning anyway. Greg sipped his coffee smugly on the way home.

Back at the lab he checked his resources and progress. He didn’t have enough money to manage a full-scale release of the virus in North America, or Europe, and a partial release would only give the Americans time to find a cure, so an alternative must be found. Fortunately, a lifetime of planning allows one to consider these possibilities beforehand. Greg rummaged around in his desk until he found the correct set of cables, and connected a small device to his computer. He quickly loaded a new program, and giggled slightly as the green light on his gadget sprang to life. Radiation emissions on computer and television screens around the world, but most heavily concentrated in the United States, would now reach toxic levels. By the end of the week video game geeks would be dropping like flies.

Enough damage for the moment, he decided. Time for a drink and some light reading. He found a bottle of beer in the mini-refrigerator, and opened a thick file labeled space exploration. The improbability of humans discovering extra-terrestrial life always amused Greg. If only they really tried. Of course, if they really tried I could stand them. Greg continued to peruse his various files for over an hour, lost in the possibilities of what could be. The world was finally becoming a unit bound by more than just gravity. The potential for world cultures to merge, language and customs to join, and new leadership to be defined was being fulfilled. All too slowly. With the right people, living forever, all of the waste and laziness and destruction would be eliminated. Six billion to find a few thousand; at least he had good odds of finding decent help.

Time for more nachos. Compulsively, he swiveled the chair around to check the progress. His chair bumped against the transponder, and the device fell to the floor. “Damn!” he exclaimed. Greg picked up the box, noting that the case had cracked. He shook it a couple of times. The rattling told him soldering was in order, and Greg let out a soft sigh. “I’ll fix it when I get back.” He left the broken equipment on the desk and stopped at the bathroom on the way out the door. The convenience store was only a few blocks away, and the night was warm, Greg walked, as usual. For a change, there was another customer, obviously in a hurry. The engine of their beat-up Toyota was still humming, and the lights were on. Some punk kid, as it turned out, harassing the clerk. Why don’t people just let people do their jobs, he thought. Greg opened the door and headed to the coffee.

“Hey old man, where you goin’” the punk accosted him. Greg gave him a stern look, failed to see the gun, and proceeded to the coffee. The clerk screamed, the punk fired, and Greg’s panacea failed to stop the bullet.

In other news, a doctor in the Congo discovered a cure for a mysterious virus believed to have been transported through insects in third world countries, saving the lives of thousands. He had received a message recalling him earlier, but stayed to finish the job anyway. NASA discovered yet another mysterious satellite, believed to have been launched by a terrorist group, and destroyed it. The department of defense announced a new cyber-security system. The European Union managed to quell fears of instability, and the United Nations reported that political unrest was at an all-time low.

Prospects for the world in general looked good, although crime in some suburban areas appeared to be on the rise.

THE END

Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman

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Waiting For Havarfast - A Fantasy Story By Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on December 10, 2008

Six years, Jarak thought; six years, three months, and nine days. The cell looked much the same as it had six years before. The straw on the ground had changed intermittently, but the stones were the same dull gray they had been, and the smell of unclean bodies was the same, if only less noticed now. Six years in Havarfast’s dungeons was a feat accomplished by few, although Jarak was not particularly thrilled about being among the select crowd of criminals who managed to survive that long in the wizard’s grasp. Jarak slipped a knife from inside his tattered tunic, and began prying loose a stone in the ground beneath the straw. Most men died from despair in the dungeons, not from the venomous food, or the miserable rats. Jarak giggled to himself as he felt the stone move, hope kept him sane, and sanity kept him alive.

Beneath the stone a dark hole opened, and Jarak quickly dropped himself under, and slipped the stone back into place overhead. The tunnel was completely dark, but Jarak didn’t mind at all. For almost six years he had been visiting the tunnel as frequently as he could, each visit bringing him a little closer to insanity, and a little closer to freedom.

Six years was too long a time for the master thief to spend wasting his life when adventures abounded at every turn in the outside world. One petty mistake, and Havarfast locked him in this miserable dungeon, simply to save face. Jarak had worked for Havarfast on many occasions, indeed Jarak had stolen many of the elements that had allowed Havarfast to rise to his new position, including his prized staff and crown. In return Havarfast had betrayed him, and withheld payment. The guards caught him trying to escape Dyrwater after pilfering the wizard’s treasury, and that final chance had ended him in the dungeon.

Jarak slipped stealthily down the tunnel, to its blank end. Behind him a cord stretched in a straight line back to his cell. At the tunnel’s end, he came upon a worn spade, which he used to chip his way towards freedom. He took the shovel, and with one nudge broke through the wall. Cool air filtered in, and Jarak broke into a frenzy, digging and clawing his way into the moonlight. He breathed the fresh air, and stifled a shout. Within moments he managed to drag himself out of the hole. The castle sat atop a large hill, and Jarak began to pile stones over the hole to cover his exit. The work was finished long before the sun rose, and the thief slipped quickly into the night.

Dyrwater, the town that had grown up at the base of the castle, would have to offer Jarak refuge for the night, until he could find faster transport to some other region. Jarak slipped over the wall at the edge of town, and stole silently through the predawn shadows to the center of town. Many new buildings and streets had been built over the years, including a number of taverns and inns. In the back of his mind he hoped the inn he looked for still remained. He worried in vain, for prominent on the main street of town, near the center, still stood the Blue Drake, its delicately painted sign slightly iridescent in the moonlight. The first rays of sunlight were sneaking over the mountain peaks that surrounded the town and castle as Jarak knocked at the front door. “If Darnum has rented my room, I’ll strangle him,” mumbled Jarak to himself.

After knocking loudly a second time, a husky voice growled at him from behind the door, “I’ll open in a moment, be quiet or you’ll disturb the guests.” Jarak heard the bar being lifted from inside, and a key turning in the lock. After a moment, the doors swung out and wide open. Jarak stepped back, and looked at Darnum’s unchanged face. The innkeeper was still as stout and bald as ever, and his long beard covered almost his entire dirty apron. Darnum held his silence when he saw Jarak’s face.

Jarak looked quickly up the deserted street, making sure no lights had appeared in the gray, and that all of the windows had remained closed, and then he slipped quickly past the innkeeper and into the inn. “How did you escape,” asked Darnum, “and what are you doing here. The guards will search here first, you must leave at once.”

The common room was empty, but the smell of breakfast had begun to drift in from the kitchen. “Let me into my old room,” Jarak began. He saw the concern and confusion on his old friend’s face, and assured him, “I won’t stay long. Give me some food, and I’ll be gone before the guards arrive.” Darnum hesitated, but then retrieved a key. Jarak bounded up the stairs, his heart pounding inside of his chest. The old room, at the very top of the inn was small and cramped, and seldom used unless the inn was filled beyond capacity. Even the bed had been removed in recent years, and a thick layer of dust covered the floorboards. Jarak quickly found the loose board in the windowsill, and moved it aside. From the hollow of the wall he retrieved a small leather bag filled with jewels, and a few gold coins. Just as he returned the board to its place, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“I didn’t know you’d hidden it here, of all places,” said Darnum. “I would have spent it had I known,” laughed the innkeeper.

“I know,” replied Jarak. Darnum carried a tray with food and drink, which he proffered. Jarak ate gratefully, and quickly.

“Where will you go?” asked the innkeeper.

“I’m not sure, north probably. I need to see what’s changed in six years.”

“The color of gold hasn’t,” was the dry reply, “and neither has Havarfast.”

“Still bitter,” laughed Jarak.

“Don’t let him catch you again, or you won’t live to escape a second time.”

Jarak quickly ate the meal, and dropped a few jewels and a gold coin onto the tray. He tucked a half a loaf of bread and some cheese into his tunic. “Havarfast won’t see me again,” he chuckled grimly, “and I doubt anyone in this town ever will either.” Jarak opened the window, and slipped onto the roof of the inn and towards the edge of town.

*

The north shires were peaceful lands, where a prosperous merchant, such as Jarak, could ply his trade and peaceably enjoy a free life. Two years after his escape, he had not returned to the land of Havarfast’s reign, and had made a flowering business for himself as a jewel merchant, and expert trader. He owned a little shop in the quiet town of Eastonshin, where bandits were few, and the farmers fat. His evenings he passed at the local pubs, in particular The Glass Tavern.

Travelers were rare, but in recent weeks many had passed north (or south) as Kings and Wizards sought to expand their influence. Jarak sat at a table near the hearth, enjoying a game of cards with a few dwarven merchants plying their trade in the south. There’s no need to pay for what you can get for free, Jarak thought, as he dealt another hand, and found the pile of treasure growing steadily before him. From his vantage, Jarak could see all who entered the tavern from the main door, and when a thin stranger clad in a dark green cloak walked in, his attention left the game for a moment. Valsh, the barkeep sent a spindly maid to take the order, but then followed closely himself to inquire if the stranger would require a room, or other refreshment. Of a sudden, Valsh pointed a stubby finger towards Jarak’s table, and pocketed a coin. The stranger rose, and Jarak indicated to his companions that they would soon have company.

“‘Tis a private game,” suggested Dalhern, a broad dwarf with a thick yellow beard as the stranger approached, “and we’ve only begun.”

“Cards are not my strength,” replied the stranger, his voice smooth and relaxed, the words dripping from his mouth easily, “I would rather speak a moment with the jewel trader.” The stranger eyed Jarak closely, and smiled, “perhaps there is business that we may accomplish before the evening is done.” Jarak noted the stranger’s fine clothes, and rings beneath the worn cloak. The dwarves grumbled loudly as Jarak rose, but calmed noticeably as he left a fair portion of his winnings sitting on the table.

“Come with me,” Jarak said, “and we’ll see what can be done.” Jarak went to the bar, and tossed Valsh a coin, “we’ll need the back room for a time, send Jeanne in with the good wine.” Valsh nodded and laughed, then yelled for the maid and jerked a thumb at the back room. “Do you have a name,” asked Jarak as they settled into the thick smoky shadows of The Glass Tavern’s back room.

Jeanne entered with a tray set with goblets and bottle. The stranger waited for her to leave before replying, “Tellus. I have heard that you can identify any jewel carved from the Auvul Empire to the Free Lords in the south.” Tellus spoke calmly, but Jarak noted the earnestness behind his eyes, and slight desperation at the corner of his mouth.

Jarak chuckled. “That is an exaggeration, albeit pleasant, but far too much.” It wouldn’t be the first time in the past two years, or several years before, that someone had come with questions about his past; or a grudge. “I take it you have a question about a jewel.”

Tellus removed a pouch from his tunic, and opened the contents onto the table. “Tell me why I haven’t been able to sell these in any of the lands south of here, and why I have had to flee for my life to these freezing lands.”

Jarak quickly identified some of the stones he had stolen from Havarfast, as well as a few other more common trinkets. “You must be some kind of thief,” laughed Jarak, “indeed, there is only one other who would dare lay his hands on those.”

“And who would that be?”

“The tale is common enough,” laughed Jarak, “of the only thief who ever pilfered that treasury and escaped. Jarak was quite famous until his death. The guards of Havarfast searched for him in every corner of the kingdom. Rumor has it that the old wizard himself has even searched for Jarak. But he died when bandits fell on him. Most of the jewels were recovered over a year ago.” Jarak finished his tale quietly, and looked Tellus in the eyes. “Where did these come from?” Jarak drank deeply from his goblet, and filled it again.

“Bandits fell on a traveler in the south, they fled when they saw my approach, but they left behind a small pouch. Its owner was a paunch, balding man, with a long beard. He died with me looking on, cursing the name of Havarfast. Inside the pouch I found the jewels. Can you help me distribute them?” Now Tellus waited, and as he did, he too drank from his goblet. Jarak chuckled softly.

“Of course. Come to my shop at midnight.” Jarak drained his goblet once again, then stood and left the room. He left the tavern quickly, and laughed out loud as he left, and hurried along the dark streets.

Promptly at midnight Tellus appeared, knocking at the door of the shop. Jarak opened the door quickly, and let the stranger in. A tallow lantern lit the room where a small table was set with wine and cakes. Jarak sat quickly down, and gestured to Tellus.

“Two years is a long search,” Jarak said softly, “I’m almost surprised at your persistence.” Tellus looked briefly shocked, but quickly resumed his calm.

“Then you’ve guessed,” he said menacingly. Jarak nodded, and poured himself a glass of wine, and then filled his companion’s cup. “Then you know why I’ve come.” Again Jarak nodded, and sipped at his wine. Without breaking his smile, he offered Tellus his cup. The stranger batted the cup away angrily, “I haven’t come to drink, particularly not with a thief and assassin.”

“You were always rather disagreeable, Havarfast,” laughed Jarak. “I only took the wages you cheated me.”

Tellus pulled back the hood from his cloak, and mumbled arcane words. As he did, his face shimmered, and Havarfast took his place. The Wizard’s short cut beard and dark eyes were unmistakable in the lamplight.

“You should have been content with what you were paid.” Havarfast was growing angrier by the moment, and his eyes burned with fury. Jarak managed to remain calm, quietly sipping from his cup. “And now, my revenge will be complete.”

“Don’t you mean my revenge?” said Jarak. The mage balked. “I believe our contract for the assassination of your brother was complete freedom to run the underground in your realm. The contract for your staff was for an unofficially sponsored assassin’s guild. And finally for your crown, the source of, or at least proponent of your power, was to be delivered in exchange for the smuggler’s guild. Perhaps I would have cut my losses if you hadn’t put me in prison. Perhaps I would have let you live if you hadn’t murdered Darnum.”

Havarfast cackled, “that fat oaf. You should never have left the sorcerstone with him. Without it you have no protection from my powers. And you should never have trusted him, he told me where to find you even before we burned his inn to the ground.” Havarfast suddenly stood up, and waved his arms, screaming arcane words of power. Iridescent streams of energy cackled at his fingertips as he unleashed a bolt of power at Jarak. The magic fizzled, and evaporated when it touched the smiling thief, and the wizard stepped back, babbling.

“Two years is a long time to set a trap, Havarfast, and, contrary to what you may have been told, yours wasn’t the only sorcerstone. The assassin’s guild here in the north has been very helpful, and will probably be my greatest support when I take your crown. You should have tried the wine, it is much less messy that way.” Jarak slipped a knife from his boot, and quickly lodged it in the wizard’s throat. As he did, the wizard caught a glimpse of a small blue stone on a chain around his neck.

THE END

Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman

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A Jungle Spirit - A Short Fantasy Story By Kelly D. Tolman

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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