Speaker’s Child – A Short Fantasy Story by Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on September 2, 2009

Speaker’s Child

By

Kelly D. Tolman

Almost with awe, the young mother held her first child to her breast. The smile she wore was bright despite the sweat that clung to her forehead, and the exhaustion that wrapped her body in silence. In her arms the baby slumbered, and for one moment the darkness and chill of the night were swept out of the little one room cabin.

“How do you feel now?” asked Alaina, the young midwife with fiery hair and quick eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. “He put up quite a fight, didn’t he?”

“He’s so beautiful, I never imagined he would be so . . .” Gerna trailed off as the grandeur of the moment overcame her.

“The first one’s always the worst,” said Belna from where she sat across the room. Gerna’s old grandmother smiled also as she remembered the lost moments of her own children’s births. “After that, they all come a little easier. But then, each is a little different in their own way, and you certainly can never tell how they might turn out in the end.”

“Carn,” began Gerna on a wisp of thought, “will be a fine farmer like his father. Honorable and good to the land. He will always have water, and the High One will bless his heart with the courage to face the light and not burn. He will be a fine man.”

“Of course he will,” agreed Alaina heartily. “But that is a long way off still. For now, you should rest and recover your strength. Brand will return soon with a Speaker, and you will need to be strong for him then, and for the Speaker. Belna and I will see that all is in readiness.”

With those words, Alaina immediately began making her way around the room, reordering the already impeccable cabin. Brand would likely come with the dawn, and would expect everything already arranged for the Speaker. Even if it were no more than a tiny farm near a tiny village, appearance and custom were important for the city grown Speakers. So when Gerna finally dozed a little, Alaina carefully put little Carn in the cradle that Brand had so laboriously made months before, and lit the guardian candles on either side. The speaker would not be pleased if homage to the High One was not properly paid. As if the High One had ever blessed the village with more than famine. As if the Speakers did more than take their children, or steal their hard earned harvests. Alaina paused a moment as she realized her knuckles were turning white with the force she used to grip the dust cloth. She felt the lump in her throat, and the burn begin to build in her eyes.

As if reading her thoughts, Belna asked, “how long has it been now? Not yet a year?”

“A year next month, yes, since they carried off little Stev.” A tear trickled down Alaina’s fair chin, and she turned to face the mantle, letting the heat of the flame cover the rush of blood she felt in her face.

“I am sorry that you were reminded like this. They will not take Carn.” Belna trailed off. Gerna would be hurt too badly. She could not have that, not after all she had faced. No more, not after losing Father and Mother, and already a widow once.

“The gift,” murmured Alaina, interrupting Belna’s thoughts.

“What, child?”

“They said that he had the gift. Strong and clean. He would be strong as day, they said. The gift is rare, they said. The High One had blessed our house, they said. They said so much, and still I live with need, without my Stev. You will have others they said, but I do not want others. I want my boy, my darling. That is the blessing I wait for from the High One.”

“One day,” was all the old woman could respond, and Alaina slipped into her own mutterings. On the bed, Gerna slept quietly. Would she wake for the Speaker? Please, as the water runs, let her sleep. Then Belna too slept in the old chair her own hands had helped create years ago.

The sound of horses woke Alaina just as the first parts of sky were turning gray in the distance. She sat up slowly from the place she had taken next to Gerna, careful not to wake the young mother. She checked the infant in silence, and added a new log to the fire. The teapot was quickly set to heat, and a half a loaf of good brown bread and half a round cheese were set out to serve as breakfast. That will have to do, she thought, may the Speaker be pleased. No, not pleased, just content.

Brand held the door as the Speaker entered. A short man, shorter even than Alaina, with a close cut beard of graying black whiskers, and thick curls on a round head. The familiar black garb of the Speakers seemed to fit him, seemed appropriate even from the way he walked. His boots were silent on the wood floor, and his dark eyes shifted and danced to take in the entire room even as he smiled and greeted the woman beside the fire. “May the rain fall always on your house, mistress,” he said in a very formal voice, “and may the light shine only to guide your path.”

“And may the rain follow you, Speaker of the Prophet, and may the High One open your tongue to the prophecy,” Alaina nearly choked on the words even as they came, but somehow the years of form and custom overcame the hatred she had been breeding inside herself. “A meal is ready, Speaker, and every comfort should be satisfactory.”

“That is the woman,” more an observation than a question. He looked a moment at Gerna’s tired face and still form in the bed. “She has strength,” he said after a moment, “great strength. She will have born a strong child, and has the strength to bear many more. The High One has blessed this house much already.” The dark little man took his breakfast, and made pleasant company. Brand seemed ready to collapse after the long midnight journey, but made every effort to hide his exhaustion and be a pleasant host. None of them noticed Benla slumped in her chair near the bed.

“Shall we see the child?” suggested the Speaker as he finished the last of the loaf. “The sun rises already, and soon travel will be difficult. I must make an early start.” Without waiting for a response, he rose and moved to the cradle between the two long ceremonial candles. “Your devotion to the Goddess will not go unnoticed, ” he observed quietly. May the daylight burn you and your Goddess until they cannot find even your ashes, thought Alaina as a foul taste entered her mouth. “You were the mid-wife,” the Speaker said, casting a glance at the flame haired woman.

“Yes.” She kept her voice cool.

“Was it a normal birth?”

“Everything was normal. He came out strong and feisty.”

“How do you mean feisty?”

“She was in a great deal of pain. The labor took longer than expected, but he did not seem to suffer from the struggle. He did not whimper, just clung to his mother’s breast and eventually slept.”

“Was there anything else?”

“No.”

“Are you quite certain?” Alaina nodded finally, and he turned to Belna. “And her? Who is she?”

“That is my wife’s grandmother,” offered Brand helpfully.

“Wake her, I must know what she saw.”

Brand softly shook the old lady in an effort to wake her easily, but his blood froze when he felt the cold of her skin and saw that the gleam in her eye had gone.

“What’s the matter, Brand?” asked Alaina. “Is she ill, it was a difficult night for all of us.”

“Not ill, Alaina,” mumbled Brand. “She has returned to the shade of the Goddess.”

“The High One protect and comfort,” echoed the Speaker.

Alaina sat down at the table, her stomach turning. She felt dizzy, but even as the room swayed, she found herself and managed a little control. The Speaker seemed to ignore Brand and Alaina, and turned once more to the child. Kneeling beside the cradle, the Speaker raised his arms and began to pray, “High One, Goddess of the Shade, shed now the guidance of thy shadow on this thy Speaker’s tongue. What may become of this thy newest child?” Though Alaina neither saw nor felt anything, the Speaker seemed to tense where he knelt. His voice took on a monotone when he continued, but a hint of pain, and what seemed fear or anger edged his tone. “This child, blessed of the Goddess, has born within him the greatness of farmers, the strength of legends, and many precious gifts. Carn, Child of Shade, come to dwell beneath the sun filled with the gift of cool healing, long running, and the power of legends long dead. Thy heritage will not be thine to keep, but thine to give. Blessed child of the High One, thou shalt face the day, but do not flinch, the light does not burn the gifted.” Suddenly the Speaker sloped forward. He let out a long sigh, as if breathing for the first time, and clutched his chest. Alaina almost sprang from her chair. Brand’s face had turned to ash.

“Will he be taken, then?” asked the farmer.

“Yes,” choked the Speaker as his breath returned. “There is no other way to ensure his training and safety. I will take him with me.”

“What about his mother? What will we tell her?”

“She is strong, she will have others. The gifted are few, and never have I seen one with so much strength, so much power of the Goddess.”

“Never?” questioned Alaina, her face filled with skepticism and anger.

“There is a rumor that another with great strength was found near here a year or so ago, but I have never seen the child, and I can not say, but I doubt he could be stronger, or even the equal of this one. This house will be blessed for its sacrifice.”

Alaina felt sick. Her legs were weak and the burning in her cheeks told her that her rage was visible. With a harsh grunt she lifted herself and stormed out the door. She did not hear Brand call after her, or see the shock in the Speaker’s face.

Alaina stumbled blindly past the horses and began running toward the thin road that lead to Trickend. The sun had risen but the dawn was yet cool and grey. The hard, baked earth felt cool beneath her feet. Alaina did not stop running when she reached the road. The broken stones cut her feet in places, but her senses were numb to all but the image of the Speaker. That man, standing there with his easy smile and devotion to the invisible Goddess. His Prophet’s religion, his search for the faithful, all caused her stomach to turn. The sound of hooves on the road ahead brought her to a walk. Sweat had formed on her forehead, and the subtle sting in her feet quickly became a nagging throb. How long had she been running? She was standing near a cluster of rocks at the only place the road curved until it reached Trickend. Around the corner emerged a heavy set man in his middle years, dressed gaily in a bright red shirt, and driving a slow team of four horses. “Ho, Alaina,” he called when he saw her. Apparently he did not notice her feet or sweaty brow, for he continued in the same pleasant tone. “Coming from Brand’s? So, she finally had him? It is a boy isn’t it?”

“Yes, Master Tooksn, it is a strong baby boy. The Speaker is with them now.” Alaina’s tone was colder than she intended, and she could feel herself losing control again.

“Oh, perhaps then I should wait before I see the new parents.”

“That would be wisest,” agreed Alaina as a new thought entered her head. “I was just on my way to Trickend to get a few things for the child, but if you wouldn’t mind, perhaps you could go to the widow Harla, and tell her of the birth. The Speaker should be done before you return.”

“Harla you say? Will you need anything else?” Master Tooksn looked for a moment into his wagon, and said, “I was just bringing along the ceremonial gift of the silver knife and wisdom cakes. It wouldn’t do to have them in the sun, if you would take them ahead for me.”

Alaina accepted the small bundle of cakes, and the silver sheathed knife graciously, and turned back toward the homestead. The beating of hooves faded with the creak of the wagon, only to be replaced by the sound of another horse coming from the farm. Alaina composed herself quietly, and looked up to greet the Speaker. He held the child close to his breast, and rode only as quickly as care and good sense would allow.

“We meet again, miss,” said the Speaker when he saw her, “I see you have the gifts for the Goddess, I shall take them if you please.” When Alaina didn’t respond, the dark man dismounted carefully, his silver earrings reflecting quickly in the growing light. The baby whimpered softly as he balanced the bundle on the saddle. The cry was quiet, and not prolonged, but the sound reached Alaina, and as the memories of her own Stev’s quiet cries returned. The Speaker looked at her with a slight frown. Beads of sweat had begun to form on his forehead, and he seemed oddly uncomfortable in the dark clothes beneath the morning sun. Alaina barely noticed as the ceremonial knife slipped from the silver sheath, and she didn’t see the paleness come over the Speaker’s face, or hear his final gasps.

Alaina left the child with Brand, whom she found sobbing quietly in a corner of the tiny cabin. His eyes brightened briefly at the sight of his son, but became once more grave as the midwife left, and he put the boy on his mother’s breast.

THE END

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The Dancing Bird – A Short Fantasy Story by Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on August 28, 2009

The Dancing Bird

by

Kelly D. Tolman

Firelight reflected dimly from Garen’s face as he peered out from the deep woodland shadows. He tipped his hat lower to cover more of his face. In the meadow blazed a large fire, shedding a reddish hue across the glen. Around the fire a slim figure spun and swirled sharply, casting faint reflections of sliver buckles out into the night. From his place in the trees, Garen couldn’t see the figure’s face; only the buckles and the dance. The rhythm was almost hypnotic, the movement delicate yet complicated and intricate, following the subtle cadences of the evening breeze as image shifted through the forest boughs. Garen lost track of the pattern quickly as his gaze became welded to the willowy figure. Without thinking, he felt himself drawn toward the dance, and took one step out of the shadows towards the fire. The dancer made a last turn, and brought herself face to face with him, but when she saw the intruder, she let out a gasp and fled the meadow. Garen watched as she left; still captivated by the magic of the moment before he too finally turned and left.

In the blackness of the forest, Garen felt his palms grow sweaty as he reflected on the image of the dancer before the fire. He wandered slowly through the forest until he finally came to his own camp. Garen his father stooped over the fire, cooking the evening meal. “Didn’t find much in the way of firewood, I see,” said the grizzled man when he saw his son.

“I saw something tonight,” began Garen quietly.

“We all see things sometimes,” responded his father, handing him a plate of stew. “What was it?”

“There was a woman dancing around a fire in the evening light, but when I came near she ran off, like she was frightened of an ordinary woodcutter.” Garen took a mouthful of the stew and began to chew without tasting it.

“Really, now.” Garen’s father contemplated his son, and said, “you don’t suppose it was a wil o’ wisp do you? There are a lot of strange things out there, some of them just illusions sent to bend our minds.”

“No, father, she was very real.”

“Then what are you going to do about it, son. You can’t just go chasing vanishing females in the night. Better to think on it after a good meal and a good night’s sleep.”

Garen took his father’s words to heart, and ate the rest of his meal in silence, and bedded down without commenting on the scene again. But the image continued to return in his dreams, the dance, the shifting pattern and then the one shadowy glimpse of that mysterious face just before it vanished into the shadows.

The morning labor was much more monotonous than usual for Garen. Although he had been a woodsman all his life and he enjoyed the time he spent alone or with his father in the wild, that day he found something missing. “Pining away for the shadowy lass, are you,” said his father when he noticed Garen slacking in his labor. “Worry about the day’s work, son, and tackle the mysteries of the night another time.”

But Garen couldn’t clear his mind of the rhythm of her feet, or her swaying to the silent music of the forest. “I’m sorry father, but I just can’t forget what I saw. There was a look about her that I’ve never seen before. It was something sad, horrible. But beautiful too.”

“A forest spirit, son, forget her and be happy with the good things you have here. Tomorrow we’ll go into town to sell what we’ve gathered so far, and you’ll see that there are other girls to look at.”

That evening Garen returned to the spot where he had seen the dance. Once more the fire burned dimly in the darkening forest shadows, and once again the seeming patternless dance began. Garen watched, enchanted for several moments as she spun, slowly at first, and then more quickly and surely about the ever changing flames. Almost as if part of the fire, her body turned and twisted dangerously, and once more Garen was drawn from his hiding place beneath the darkened boughs. Three thoughtless steps, and he had crossed the clearing, and of their own accord his feet joined hers, marking the pattern, and for a few brief moments they danced beneath the rising moon. When the rhythm stopped, they found themselves standing breathless in front of each other, their faces filled with fear and wonder.

“Who are you,” asked Garen when he finally found the ability to speak again.

“My name is Arieta. I come here to dance for my mother. She was a daughter of the forest, and promised that if I would remember her, she would protect me. Do you come from the village?”

“No, I am a simple woodsman,” responded Garen as he looked for the first time into her dark eyes, and reached out to touch the dark hair that fell straight and soft to her shoulders. “My father and I gather wood and hunt or fish to sell what we find to the villages around. Why is your dance so sad.”

Arieta dropped her eyes quietly, and Garen felt his heart thump. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Arieta had already begun to cry softly, and turned to face the fire. In a very quiet voice between sobs she began, “I come to mourn my parents. They died from the sickness that passed through the villages. Now I care for the house of my brother. But he is a cruel man.”

Suddenly they heard the sound of a branch cracking in the distance, and Arieta’s eyes once more rolled with fright. “He is coming,” she said, “quick, you must leave.”

“But . . .” stammered Garen uselessly as she pushed him toward the edge of the clearing. “Where can I find you,” he whispered, but it was no use. Arieta had already returned to the fire, and begun the dance again. Wordlessly, Garen turned and went to find his father.

This time his father was waiting with their supper already prepared. “Visiting your dancing shadow again?”

“Her name is Arieta, father,” said Garen defensively. “She dances to mourn her parents who died in the plague that has cursed these villages from time to time.” Garen fell sadly silent with a dark frown on his face.

“So, she is no spirit after all.” The grizzled woodsman recognized the pain on his son’s face, and also fell silent. They ate together in silence for several moments before anyone spoke again. “Arieta is a gypsy name, son. What did she look like?”

“She has dark skin and dark hair, like the gypsies, father.” Garen looked into the fire, and chewed his food thoughtfully. “I know that the gypsies aren’t accepted in the villages father. . .”

“Not everyone thinks alike, son. Don’t worry about the shade of her skin so much as the nature of her heart. Tomorrow we will go into the village and see what we can find.”

Garen’s heart was heavy as they brought their goods to the village, as he knew that he would not have the chance to see Arieta that evening. The Fair had arrived once again to celebrate the year’s harvests, and everyone had turned out to celebrate with the farmers. Garen’s father decided to sell to their usual buyer, a middle-aged merchant who in turn distributed the goods to the villages further down the river. As usual, the price was only moderate, but more than enough to provide the two with the few supplies the forest hadn’t given them. By noon their work was complete.

“How about a turn around the Fair grounds to see the games, and maybe buy something other than new ax blades,” asked Garen’s father. Garen’s eyes lit up at the thought of spending a little time in the village. He wanted to look around, and maybe find a small gift for Arieta. “You go on alone, I’ve got another man I want to see on the other side of town.”

“You mean the pub,” laughed Garen, and his father smiled broadly.

“You can find me there a little later if you like, you know the place.”

Garen wandered off quietly, passing the booths of fresh produce that had once seemed so exciting. A few games were being played by stray children, and a strange tune wafted over the crowd from a young group of musicians. The music seemed almost discordant, yet there was a familiar rhythm about it. On the far edge of the fair grounds, Garen found a brightly painted wagon where an old gypsy lady was telling fortunes. The woman had a familiar look about her eyes, and Garen caught himself wandering toward the wagon.

“Shall I tell your fortune, child,” said the woman when Garen stopped and looked at her. “A good fortune you must have, one so strong and young. Surely there are great things ahead for you.”

Garen smiled at the woman, and nodded, “I’ll hear my fortune, though I doubt you’ll find much glory in it.”

Garen followed her into the little red and yellow tent set apart by the gypsies, his eyes darting every direction. A little wooden table was set in the middle of the tent behind a low stool. A worn tablecloth covered the table, and a large crystal ball was set up in the middle. “Be seated, child,” said the woman in soft, yet commanding tones, and Garen silently sat down.

As his eyes adapted to the dark, Garen picked out the frayed ends of the purple table covering, and the scratches on the crystal’s wooden stand. The stiff chair bit into his backside and Garen felt immediately out of place. He stared around in quiet confusion at the dimly lit, yet easily discernible tent interior. The carpet was almost shiny orange and yellow, and the walls were a contrast of green and purple that had been patched in several places with pieces of plain homespun cloth.

“The forces of the universe are gathered here to tell what might come,” intoned the woman in a quiet chant. The light in the tent became even dimmer, and Garen felt lost in strange shadows. A dim glow started at the base of the crystal ball, and began to brighten throughout the rest of the room. Garen crouched closer to the table, and leaned in to see the ball. “The power of destiny has been called,” continued the fortune teller, “look into the ball, and see what may become.” Garen peered into the soft glow of the crystal, but he couldn’t really see anything. “I see fame and fortune,” the woman said in a voice with a strange garbled accent, “greatness and riches beyond the simple life you have enjoyed.”

Garen continued to look into the ball, but his mind began to wander a little. The woman’s voice became a blur similar to that of the glowing ball as she continued in the strangely accented account of his future glory. Suddenly a movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned and saw a dark figure duck into the recesses of the tent with a brief flash of silver buckles. Garen stood up quickly, and dashed after the shadow, shaking the table violently, and nearly toppling the crystal ball on its stand. “Arieta,” he called, and she paused for a moment, half turning back to look at him. “Wait a moment, Arieta.” The fortuneteller stood up behind him with a strange, confused smile.

“Do you know this boy,” asked the woman.

“Oh, no,” answered Arieta, but her eyes gave away the lie. The fortuneteller raised a brow, and Arieta continued, “we met in the forest, Maelena, I was dancing the mourning of my parents.”

Maelena turned to Garen, “did you see her in the forest, child.”

“Yes, we met in the forest,” answered Garen, his voice choking a little, “we danced together under the rising moon.”

“Where did you learn the mourning dance,” questioned the fortuneteller, her voice taking on a tone of bitterness.

“My feet moved of their own accord,” said Garen looking at the ground, “I didn’t understand it all myself, I just followed the music the forest played.” Garen lifted his head and looked into Arieta’s eyes.

“Then you weaved the spell of willows to deceive him in the shadows,” said Maelena in a stern voice as she stared with cold eyes at Arieta.

“No,” mumbled the girl, her face downcast.

“What?”

“It was a simple dance of mourning. Though my heart desired comfort, the dance was simple. Nature . . . my mother’s spirit . . . the magic just happened,” stammered Arieta defensively.

Maelena’s face changed suddenly and her smile beamed brightly. “I just wanted to be sure, child. These are the true forces of the universe, Garen, not just the gibberish of fortune tellers.”

Garen reached out and took Arieta’s hand, squeezing it gently, and pulled her closer. “I don’t know what has caused it, but I love you,” he said.

A rough voice came from outside the tent, “Arieta, Arieta, where are you? The chores are not done yet for this morning.”

Arieta’s face lost color at the sound of the voice, and she looked around the tent for a shadow to hide in. “What is it,” asked Garen.

“Styven,” answered Maelena, “Arieta’s guardian and brother. You will have to speak with him if you really think you love her.”

A dark face with long mustaches poked through the flap at the back of the tent. “There you are, sister. What are you doing here?” Styven’s voice was tainted with unconcealed anger. Styven noticed Garen holding his sister, and the scowl on his face deepened, “who is this?”

Maelena reached a soothing arm out and pulled Styven into the tent. She gestured toward Garen, and explained, “Garen was brought by the powers of nature to ease your sister’s mourning.”

“The only forces of nature are those we create and control ourselves. His kind took our parents away. I will not allow this one to also take my sister. Come, Arieta.” Styven’s voice carried a tone of finality, and Garen had no response.

“I can’t leave him, brother,” said Arieta, “we were brought together for a purpose. Would you deny the blessings of our parents’ spirits.”

“That is nonsense for fortune tellers and fools. I forbid you to be with this creature.” Styven grabbed Arieta’s arm, and pulled her roughly toward the back of the tent. Garen reacted instinctively, and swung wildly at the other man’s face. His blow connected, and the gypsy fell back, tearing a hole in the tent and scattering Maelena’s mystic symbols.

“No,” called Maelena as she stepped in front of Garen, “do no more violence here, please. There are laws and customs. You can not take her by violence, and she would not go with you if you tried. Styven will set the terms, and if you accept and meet his terms, Arieta may choose you. By custom, he cannot forbid her, but you must be very careful.”

Styven fumbled his way out of the torn tent, and looked angrily at Garen. “Custom says you may meet the terms,” he said angrily. Styven grabbed Arieta and pushed her roughly out the back of the tent. “Come to your place in the forest tonight, and we will discuss the terms.” With that Styven turned and disappeared in the jumble of gypsy wagons.

Garen grumbled angrily to himself, and turned to leave the tent. “Garen,” said Maelena, “he will not give her up lightly, and although she loves you, she still loves him too. His terms will be difficult for both of you.”

Garen looked soberly at the gypsy woman. “I know.”

“Styven is a sort of magician among us, no matter what he says is about fortune teller nonsense,” continued the Maelena, “he may try to use certain spells.” Maelena held up a long dagger with leaves etched into the blade. “This will break any spells he weaves with his magic. It won’t affect any other spells, or be more than a knife if he doesn’t use magic, but it might help. Be very careful.”

Garen left the tent with a heavy heart, his head down as he wandered across the village to the pub where his father waited. The fair continued in all its frivolity throughout the afternoon. Gay tunes played in the evening air, and all around people danced merrily or played at the games. A bawdy song rolled out with the warm light from the pub, and the strong scent of alcohol and tobacco reminded Garen that time was short. He found his father with a group of local farmers whose faces were familiar from past fairs, singing merrily over pints of ale. Garen was handed a mug almost immediately, and was pushed into a stool beside his father.

“Welcome, son, and join the revelry. The harvest has been good to all this season . . .” but the merry look faded quickly when he saw his son’s eyes. “What is it, boy.”

“You can guess, father,” said Garen. His father nodded and frowned. “I have something to do tonight. It might be dangerous, I’m not sure.” His father looked into his eyes, smiled softly, and nodded again. Without touching the ale, Garen left the pub quietly, and wandered into the darkening forest. Behind him the party only grew louder.

The shadows lengthened significantly as night approached, until Garen could barely see to place one foot in front of the other. When he finally arrived at the clearing, the moon was high in the starless sky, shining only dimly behind the thin clouds. A fire burned brightly in the center of the clearing and a dull red light reflected like blood from Styven’s face as he waited for Garen’s approach. Behind him huddled Arieta in the black mourning gown, her hands bound by a white cloth.

As Styven began to speak, his voice was dark and menacing, and the fire seemed to burn hotter and higher as he continued. “So, you would have my sister, the gypsy princess, go with you to the life of a simple woodsman, and forsake the tradition of her people. Arieta, do you want this?”

The raven-haired woman looked defiantly into the eyes of her brother. “You know that I do. I cannot deny what has happened, or what I feel.”

“And you, woodsman,” sneered Styven, “are you prepared to pay the price.”

Garen stared defiantly back at the gypsy man, giving only a slight nod to indicate that he was prepared to accept the challenge.

“Very well,” continued Styven, “the terms are simple. We among the gypsies have a magical, a bond with nature. Within each of us is the spirit of a protecting force, which can change us and bond us forever with nature. If Arieta is allowed to bring out magic within herself, and bond completely with nature, you may have her.”

“What will happen to her?”

Arieta spoke up, tears coming to her eyes. “I don’t know, Garen, but I will be changed forever, bound to the forest.”

“Do you agree,” snarled Styven, those are the terms.

Garen looked away from the angry gypsy, and his eyes met Arieta’s. The tears had dried on her cheeks, but the look of fear was obvious. He could see something else in that gaze, though, the unmistakable look of passion, and Garen felt the sweat forming on his palms. “Agreed,” they said in unison, and Styven stepped back in surprise.

“Very well, I will begin the spell, but Arieta must finish it.” Styven began to chant in a low voice, and did a quick dance around the fire. As his voice oscillated, the fire rose and fell, and his body moved in a smooth rhythm. Seemingly from nowhere Arieta’s voice joined his in a high discordant tone. As the flames rose, and the red glow brightened, their voices formed a cacophonous union until Styven’s dance came to an end, and he collapsed in exhaustion to the ground. Arieta’s song continued to rise, and a soft blue glow, like an intense reflection of the moon surrounded her. As if compelled by an outside force, she lifted herself from the ground, and stood, looking into Garen’s eyes. The song rose higher, until the notes were like birds crying in the night, and the blue light became too bright to look into. With a flash, the crescendo died slowly into a lower hum until the light dissipated and the song was finished. Where Arieta had been, a beautiful white bird flapped its wings nervously, and then flew over to Garen. He took the bird on his arm, and as tears streamed down his face whispered, “Arieta.”

On the ground Styven writhed in perverse joy. “Behold, your love, the dancing bird of youth.” The gypsy’s face broke into a vicious grin, until he realized that his words meant nothing to the woodsman. Garen stood, enchanted, a look of joy playing on his face. Styven stood angrily, and let out a rough grunt. “You will never have her,” he cried, and leapt toward Garen. The woodsman turned to face the attacker, but he was too late. Styven tackled him, and they flew together toward the fire. Garen turned, and rolled away from the flames, preparing to defend himself, but Styven was no longer moving. Carefully the woodsman rolled the gypsy over, and found Maelena’s knife lodged near Styven’s heart. Behind him he heard a quiet sob. Garen turned to see Arieta kneeling and crying in the shadows.

“The spell is broken,” said Garen, as he embraced his beloved.

“Yes, and no. Under the light of the moon I am free to roam these woods, but I can never leave them, and when the moon is gone, I will be the dancing bird again.” Arieta sobbed, but Garen tenderly wiped the tears away, and embraced his dancing bird.

The End

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A Six Day Journey – A Short Fantasy Story by Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on August 26, 2009

A Six Day Journey

by

Kelly D. Tolman

Two days without food is bad; even one always hurts. By the third day the headache is usually gone and the pangs lessen, but those first six days were utter agony.

For want of bread I left my home. The cottage itself was nothing special; little more than a few boards held together with mud and false hopes. The captain came, and promised bread, so mother put me out of doors with our last half loaf. The captain laughed, but he didn’t send any of us away. Even starved farmers in drought-ridden desolation can carry spears.

The early summer sun was my cloak and cap, while the stars and moon formed the walls of my tent. At once we marched from the tiny collection of ruined houses I had called home. Nearly every man from the village marched with us, and although I was the youngest of the lot, I could tell they all felt as thrown away as I.

The first night was not so bad. There were plenty of others willing to talk, and even some willing to share a sip of wine with an outcast boy. I took what they offered, and listened to their stories. Only a few of us had ever been beyond the last of the fields, but even they did not know the reason for the battles. “There must be trouble in the capital,” was all they could tell me.

“Is that where the king lives?” I questioned.

“Aye,” responded Syven, the shopkeeper, “and all of the princes and lords you could imagine. Not like Craverton. In Harperston, there are merchants and tradesmen, and people so wealthy they ride in golden carriages, and drink fine wine all day long.”

My eyes grew wide at the tales of fabulous golden carriages, and my bread turned to sawdust in my mouth at the thought of fine soft pastries and wonderful golden goblets.

The first day, a corporal in chain armor handed out long wooden spears, and exhorted, “these will save your lives. Obey the captain, and the horde will be conquered.” I didn’t have time to ask the corporal who the horde were, or why we were fighting.

The captain ordered us to march, and we continued on the north road, past the struggling fields of grain, and into the hills. When we reached the hills, the fields disappeared completely, and tall forests of dense trees surrounded us on all sides. The road continued north, and we marched in columns, each man carrying his own spear, and looking as much like a soldier as he could. Towards nightfall, the captain ordered us to create an encampment.

“You men from the village,” he growled, looking at our group of recruits, “you will be known as Eagle platoon. Anik will be your leader,” the captain pointed at the corporal, “do what he tells you to do. Is there a blacksmith among you?” Garold, the village smith raised his hand and stepped forward. “You will not be part of this platoon. Bring one assistant, and come with me.”

Garold looked around our group of village outcasts, and then stopped at me. “Come with me, boy, and do what you are told.”

I nodded, and followed Garold to where the captain waited. The captain nodded to the corporal, and then left the Eagle platoon. We followed him towards the center of the encampment, and he explained to Garold the company’s need for a blacksmith. “We have been without a smith for nearly a month. The last battle was very costly. The dark horde continues to grow in strength while our army continues to slowly weaken. We managed to salvage some equipment, and we took all of the tools from the shop in the village. We will get more iron with time. For now, we need more spears, and our swords need repair. As long as we march, you will march close to my guard. We cannot afford to lose another smith. Your assistant will be trained to handle arms when he is not with you. While we camp you will work. If you must work all night, then so be it. You may sleep in the wagons while we march.” We reached a wagon with a team of oxen nearby. “Set up your shop here. You will have to work as best you can. Treat the horses before the men, and the officers before the recruits. Have you ever made armor before?”

“I have repaired armor before, but I have never made it from the start,” replied Garold.

“And swords?”

“I have made some, a long time ago. I have been with an army before.”

“Make sure the officers have the best equipment you can provide.” As the Captain spoke, another man joined us. His hair was gray and curly beneath a round metal cap. “This is the Quartermaster, Ben. You will do what he tells you to do.” The captain left.

Garold waited, neither smiling nor frowning, until Ben spoke. “You will work at night while we are camped. The animals will be cared for first, then the officers. In two days we will reach a friendly town, where you will find better equipment.”

Ben walked away and Garold told me to help him unload the wagon. We began moving equipment and set up a makeshift forge as best we could. “All we will be able to do, for a while, is sharpen knives and shoe horses,” said Garold. “Pay attention to what I do and say and you will learn what it takes to be a good smith.”

I nodded despite not understanding.

“There will always be wars as long as there is evil in the world, boy, and as long as there are wars soldiers will need blacksmiths. You will learn soon enough that it is better to forge the blade than it is to wield it. You will thank me for saving your life.”

I nodded and said simply, “Yes sir.”

“Do what your officers tell you to do,” he continued as we worked. “How old are you now? Sixteen?”

“Thirteen.”

“Very young. Anyway, do what the officers tell you to do. Learn how to fight; to defend yourself, but do not get caught up in the battles. These men will die because they will fight. We will survive because we will not fight.”

I listened to Garold as he talked, not understanding half of what he said. I did not feel like speaking, so I listened as we worked. Late into the night, by the light of a lantern, he showed me all about horseshoes and all about sharpening knives. I learned about metal, swords, and about his times in the village. Garold knew my mother and my father.

Before daylight we packed everything back into the wagon and prepared to move on with the company. I had never felt so tired as I did after that first night and when the last of the equipment was in the wagon I fell asleep almost immediately.

The second day continued like the first. We marched, and as we marched, Garold and I slept. At times I woke and saw the dust and the soldiers and wondered why we marched. After noon Ben ordered me to drive the wagon. “Just follow the wagon in front of you and stop when they stop.”

Ben was about to leave when I asked, “What is the horde?”

Ben laughed. “The horde is evil, boy.” Then the stout man turned serious and looked at me in the eyes. “A thousand, thousand years ago the wizards conducted experiments in mountain castles far to the north, then they disappeared. The kingdoms to the north died. Starvation spread and the wizards were not heard of, except in stories, where they appear mysteriously to play tricks on good men. One of their number, Pasav, is said to wander the northern wastes. Now monsters issue from the mountains and destroy the towns and villages. The horde is a collection of these strange creatures. If we do not stop them, they will overrun all of our lands. The king has summoned armies from all corners to stop the horde.”

Twisted images of dark shadows crept over my mind as he spoke and I began to feel his fear grow in my heart.

There were no supplies the third day, so Garold and I performed our duties in hunger. My loaf of bread was long ago spent and I resorted to drinking water anywhere I found it.

By the fourth day, I found myself helping Ben during the day almost as much as I helped Garold at night. I slept when I could, and found my body growing weaker by the minute. When the company stopped on the fifth day I felt my spirits rise in hopes of a good meal and a warm place to sleep. Although we saw the village just a short distance away, we did not approach it, and I was not permitted to leave the camp.

A group of armored men on horses came into our camp on the afternoon of the fifth day, and a large man with a short beard went directly to the Captain’s tent. The rest of the horse soldiers stationed themselves outside the tent, and waited for their leader to return.

Another rider came a little while later and waved the guards aside with his hand. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and long beard.

Ben called me to assist him with the chores before I could see anything else, but he in turn was called away by the Captain before we had completed our tasks. I saw the last rider leave the Captain’s tent in a hurry. “Fools,” he said as he went, but he was gone before I could get a good look. When Ben returned, his face and voice were grim.

“The horde is heading towards this village. They will descend from the hills to the north, and overrun the village in the morning. Our general has developed a plan for the battle. We are to gather with the other foot soldiers to the west.”

The Captain had all of the men collected together shortly afterwards, and explained to us the situation. “We will strike the horde from the west, penetrating the flank, and throwing their ranks into disorder. After we attack, the Knights of our King will strike from the east, and together we shall drive a wedge between them. On the morrow, victory will be ours, and the horde shall be driven back into the pits of the north.”

The Captain’s voice gathered energy as he spoke, and the men’s spirits lifted. When he gave the order to march, everyone moved swiftly to obey, and before nightfall we were camped near the top of a hill to the north of the abandoned village below.

Night descended over the camp and the pit of my stomach had still not been filled. Exhaustion overcame me as I had never before felt. I collapsed in a tent near the wagon and did not stir until late the sixth day.

When I woke, the clatter of battle rang in my ears through the soft sound of falling rain. Men screamed and other things snarled. The ringing of metal on metal echoed and re-echoed in my head, mixing with the sounds of death and anger. I searched the barren camp for some spare crumb, but I found nothing. I drank from the tracks the wagons had left and shivered in the cold. Finally, without hope, I took up my spear and went to the top of the hill.

Below me the valley was a writhing mass of men and creatures. Black blood had turned the ground into gore and the gentle rain made the ground slippery and thick. The armies trampled the summer wheat beneath their feet. Untrained spears desperately attempted to hold back fangs and razor-sharp claws. At the bottom of the hill the Captain stood with his sword drawn, shouting orders, and urging the men to engage the enemy wherever possible. My heart sank and I could not bring myself to join the men in the field.

Across the valley, men on horses chased the horde from skirmish to skirmish. Everywhere the horses rode, fresh courage rose in the hearts of the men. I felt energy rising in my own weakened bones as I saw them ride. I was about to rush onto the field of battle when I discovered another great force. Far to the north, I saw a great black beast, dwarfing the horde around it, storm onto the field of battle. Around it fires sprang up and its roars and snarls could be heard easily from my position on the hill. Below me, the hearts of the soldiers faltered. They felt their empty stomachs and sore feet and their spears fumbled in their hands.

Seeing the new threat, the brave horsemen charged their way across the field of battle, leaving behind a trail of carnage. The details of the conflict were difficult for me to see through the rain and cold, but I knew when the general met the beast. A cry of anger rose from the horde, something like a thousand snarling, barking dogs, and the entire battle paused. Around the two, a wide circle opened and then, as if breathing out again, the battle re-commenced. The soldiers fought, and as they fought, the general seemed to gain strength. The horde weakened, but the huge beast seemed to ignore the fierce slashes of the horsemen’s swords.

Before the end of the afternoon, the general’s entire bodyguard had been slain. He fought alone and on foot against the giant beast. Exhausted men weakly lifted spears and swords to fend away the frenzied horde. Within moments, the general fell and the beast began to gorge itself on his crumpled form. The spearmen broke first and fled into the village or up the hill or simply fell where they were. Like a shiver, the fear rippled across the battlefield and men everywhere turned and fled.

In fear and confusion I gripped my spear, not knowing what else to do. Men fell beneath the hungry claws of the horde and within a few moments the black mass reached the desolate village.

When the first beastly form crossed the highway gate it was engulfed immediately in a searing flame. Snarls rang out as flames spread from that one form to every other member of the horde. Like a bright red wave the field became engulfed in fire. The rain turned to steam in the heat and I buried my head in my knees and held my breath to avoid the smell. Had I been able, I am sure I would have wretched a hundred times on the hillside.

When I stopped trembling I looked. Below the fields of wheat were ash and blood. Smoke rose and danced with the steam over the charred bodies of beasts and men. All around me I saw no one.

“You are safe now, boy,” came a deep voice from behind.

I started from my place and nearly fell with my spear down the hill. Behind me stood a tall man in a wide brimmed hat leaning on a sword in a fancy scabbard. I recognized his long beard and the tall horse beside him. I opened my mouth but no words came out.

“The horde is destroyed for a time,” he said. “We have been a long time trying to right our wrongs and today we managed a little. I am sorry that your general did not listen to my warning. Much death could have been avoided.”

I did not understand his words, but I could feel the kindness in them. Finally I muttered, “who are you?”

“Me?” he looked surprised. “I am one of the ancient power, come to dispel the evil we unleashed on this land so long ago. Your general . . .” the man stopped a moment, and looked at my face for the first time. “Of course you do not know your general,” he laughed. “I am a wizard. Pasav is my name. I have come to destroy the horde. What is your name?”

“Kyven,” I said. I looked into his eyes, and he seemed to read my very thoughts.

“Kyven, I have bread and cheese and many other good things for you. Come with me, and leave behind your blacksmith’s hammer. I will show you how to be a good man in the wide world, and how to best serve your village. You will not starve as long as you are with me, but you will earn your bread.”

With a gentle hand Pasav lifted me from the ground, and I let the spear fall. With a willing heart I left the battlefield, and returned only many years later to my village.

THE END

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The Shadow Bender – a short fantasy story by Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on August 19, 2009

Moira Hatfield twisted a shadow for the first time while watching television on her night off.  She enjoyed working nights.  Daylight offered so little for her imagination.  Even as a child she never used the pink nightlight her parents gave her.  Instead she preferred to let the subtle light of the stars and moon filter through her windows.

Moira pressed the mute on the remote and looked again at the corner of the table.  No she wasn’t imagining it.  The shadow actually lifted off the wood.  Now that was cool, just the sort of thing her mother would warn her about.

“Okay,” she said.  “Let’s see if you can do anything else.  How about a little twist?”  The black fragment of nothing turned as she concentrated.  Moira felt a rush of excitement.  How long had she been reading about the shadow plane?  Wow!  She raced to the bookshelf to see if anything there could offer an explanation.

Moira spent the rest of the night alternately perusing for answers and trying to lift more shadows.  By the time her roommate, Jill, got up she could cause a shadow to turn or lift at will but nothing more.  Unfortunately no one seemed to have written a guide about how to control shadows, so she resolved to hit the library after class.

Jill and Moira shared two classes, and as usual she caught a nap during the American History lecture.  The tests all came out of the book anyway.  Almost all general courses today.  Why did engineers have to take history again?

“You coming to class tonight?” asked Jill.  Jill stood a stout five feet even of solid athleticism.  Moira couldn’t help but be a little jealous of those baby blue eyes and the bouncy blonde hair.  Her own hair never seemed to do anything right.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Moira.

“You really seem to be getting into it.  Who knew martial arts would be your thing,” said Jill.

“It’s fun, but it’s a lot more interesting since Dane starting coming,” admitted Moira.

“You better get some sleep if you want to impress him,” said Jill.  “You look like a zombie.  Are you sure you can handle working nights?  There’s an opening at the greenhouse, I’m sure I could get you in.”

“It’s no big deal.  I got to get to the library before I catch my nap.  See you later.”

Moira had no luck at the library, just a few vague references about the fourth dimension, but nothing about actually controlling shadows.  Her personal collection of books centered more on fiction.  At least they sparked her imagination, although they offered nothing more than possibilities.  Eventually she gave up and drifted into sleep.

Hank’s Kenpo Clinic squished between a narrow side street and a condemned bookstore across the alley from The Pancake Emporium.  On a good night two or three people could find decent parking.  Tonight Moira decided to walk the ten blocks rather than fight the evening pancake crowd.  Crime near the university generally tapered off during the cold months, and November offered plenty of shadows for her to play with along the way.

If only she could carry a shadow with her, it would save time and give her something to do during history.  Of course she had a shadow.  Everyone has a shadow.  Why not?  She stopped just at the edge of a streetlight and looked at her own shadow.

“Okay,” she mumbled, looking around to see if anyone was watching.  She concentrated on the outline of her hair.  A few wispy strands lifted off the concrete.  A tingling sensation shot through her head.  She caressed more of her shadow off the pavement.  The tingling became an itch.  When the tip of the shadow of her head finally slipped from the sidewalk she felt something slap the back of her head.  Pain shot through her eyes and she staggered, losing control of the shadow.

She turned around as quickly as she could, but saw no one behind her.  No footsteps.  No sound of any kind.  In the parking lot across the street a man held the door for his date.  The pain in her eyes felt real enough.  Either her mind had loosened a bit too much or something about playing with shadows could hurt her.  No point holding back.

She held out her hand and concentrated on the shadow of her pinky.  As soon as the shadow lifted from the ground a sharp pain shot through her finger.  She immediately let the shadow return to normal, and massaged her pinky.  Lesson learned; don’t mess with your own shadow.

The pain in her head subsided by the time she joined the class.

“You’re late,” said Jill when she came in.  “I’m glad you made it.  None of the other girls showed.”

Moira knew what a pain it could be sparring with some of the guys in the class.  Most of them treated her nice.  They went out of the way to be helpful.  Tonight, though, Moira spotted a couple of the regular jerks.  At just over six feet Matt had longer reach than anyone in the class, and he liked to spar hard.  Neither he nor his friend Ty worked hard enough to develop the skills to handle more experienced opponents, so they preyed on the weaker and newer students whenever possible.

“I wish Hank would just kick those creeps out,” said Moira.

“They pay just like everyone else,” replied Jill.

“That doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it,” said Moira.

“At least it’s practice in case we have to deal with some guy on the street.”  Jill winked.  She always had a way of finding something positive.  “Let’s get warmed up.”

That night they practiced throws and close quarter defense against attackers trying to grab from different angles.  Moira worked through the moves automatically, not really thinking about it.  By no means had she become proficient and she knew she should be trying harder, but she couldn’t stop thinking about her discoveries.

“Sorry to break you up, ladies,” said Hank with less than ten minutes of time left.  “Throwing around someone your own size is one thing, but if you want to be able to handle someone bigger than yourself you’re going to have to practice it.  Are you up for it?”

At first she paired with Dane.  He started coming to class less than a month ago but had already passed all of them.

“You sure learn this stuff fast,” she said.  She couldn’t help looking him over.  At five foot nine, he wasn’t overly tall, but he had a confident muscular build that he carried easily.

“I’ve trained in some other places,” he said.  “There’s no wrestling team or boxing team at the college, so this is my way of working out the stress.”

He guided her through the motions of the moves they had been practicing.  Somehow his touch seemed electric.  Maybe she just imagined it.

“Time to trade up,” said Jill.  She leaned over and lowered her voice to a bare whisper.  “Your turn with the beast.”

Jill had been paired with Matt.  Moira glanced over at the clock.  She could handle two minutes, besides Jill was right, if she wanted to be able to deal with a creep on the street she needed to learn to deal with one here.

They practiced defending a basic grab from behind.  The first time he groped her, it could have been an honest mistake, but nobody makes that mistake twice.  Moira fumed.  She opened her mouth to swear at him when she thought of a better idea.

As they clinched again she concentrated on the shadow near his foot.  Angrily, she bent it off the floor.  Matt gasped in pain and dropped to the ground.  He rolled away grasping his foot and cursing.

“Foot cramp?” asked Moira innocently.  “You should drink more water.”

Moira sipped some water as class wound down.  If bending someone’s shadow off the floor could do that, what else could she do?  Jill wandered over.

“You really are out of it,” said Jill.  Moira realized she had been daydreaming again.  “Want to get something to eat?”

“I got work,” said Moira, a lie, but she needed time to digest what just happened.

Moira waited for Jill to leave before picking up her backpack.  The moon outside had risen full and pale, but bits of cloud covered it from time to time.  The wind smelled of snow, the first warning of winter, but the air felt clear and cool.  Moira cut through another alley behind a couple of small stores.  Everything seemed a little more quiet than usual, but not much happened in this town.

“Interesting work,” said a voice in the darkness.  Moira stopped.  Her heart jumped.  She didn’t recognize the voice.  It rang out low and resonating.  “Shadow bending is nearly a lost art in this world.”

Moira watched as Dane stepped from the shadows about ten feet ahead of her.  She hardly recognized him.  His vacant eyes stared past her, and his skin appeared pale.  Perspiration clouded his face.

When in doubt, ply for time.  “What are you talking about?” she asked, checking the distance to the end of the alley.  It would be closer to turn around if she decided to run.

“No need to play games,” said Dane.  No, not Dane.  That was definitely not Dane’s voice.  “We felt the energy shift and have come to negotiate.”

“We?  Who are you?  Where did you come from?” asked Moira.  She shivered.  “What is it you want?”

“I gather you have seen through the disguise, your powers must be greater than we thought.”  Suddenly Dane opened his mouth and exhaled a thick gray mist for several seconds.  The last of the mist escaped and Dale collapsed on the pavement.  A misty, legless figure, almost the shape of a man with glowing eyes hovered before her in the alley.

Her mind raced.  She choked back a scream.  She glanced at Dane, but she couldn’t tell in the half-light if he was breathing or not.  Whatever this thing was apparently it thought she knew more than she did.

“That’s better,” she said, trying to sound confident.  “Now what exactly do you want?”

“We want you to join us, of course,” said the figure.  “We seek allies in the shadow war.  We are, of course, prepared to barter.”

“First of all, I don’t know who you are.  Secondly, I don’t know anything about any war, and even if I did I don’t want any part of it.  You have the wrong person.”  Moira tried not to sound panicked, but her heart wouldn’t slow down.  Instinctively she looked to the shadows in the alley.  The creature had a faint shadow that shifted as the mist within its body billowed.

“My name is not important,” said the creature.

“It is to me,” replied Moira.

“Very well.  Call me Kierzax.  Enough games.  Name your price.”  Kierzax definitely sounded impatient now.

“Look Kierzax, I already told you, I don’t want any part of your war.  I’m going home now, and you should to,” said Moira.

“I’m certain we can reach a bargain,” said Kierzax.  He pointed a misty finger at Dane.  “I can offer you him.  I believe you find him appealing.”

Moira thought for a moment.  Whatever was happening had gone beyond serious.

“Is there something else you would prefer?  Perhaps some sort of influence here in your home world?” said Kierzax.

“Anything worth that is definitely something I don’t want to do,” said Moira.  “For the last time, go home.  Find someone else.”

“We cannot allow you to join the others,” said Kierzax.  “I have been fair.  If you cannot be persuaded, then you must be eliminated.”  Kierzax’s eyes flared with a sudden inner flame, casting a dim red glow across the alley.

No point stalling now.  Either fight or run.  Moira hesitated only a second before ripping his shadow from the pavement in one swift thought.  Kierzax groaned as his shadow now stood next to Moira, but seemed otherwise unharmed.  He opened his mouth, and fire erupted towards Moira.  She dodged behind Kierzax’s shadow, trying to find some cover.  The flames hit the shadow and Kierzax wailed in agony.  Smoke peeled off his shadow.  The smell of sulfur and burning trash filled the alley.

Desperately Moira tried to think.  Some good Hank’s self defense techniques did now.  If an assailant breathes fire, do I try a wristlock or a hip toss?.  One shadow stopped his fire, so maybe a lot of shadows could stop him.  She pulled the massive shadows from the buildings together.  All around, she quickly wove a semi translucent wall of darkness.  For the moment it seemed to be working.  The barrier stopped a second spout of fire.

Time could not be on her side.  Kierzax started to rise into the air.  She built her wall higher, but he just moved faster.  Soon he would be over the buildings.    She added a ceiling to her wall, and instinctively stretched the shadows to add three more walls, effectively sealing Kierzax in.  What would happen if those walls suddenly collapsed in?  Could she crush him, whatever he was?

Keeping the box together as she collapsed it proved to be more difficult than first imagined.  Shadows by their very nature tend to move, and managing the complex geometry of a shrinking cube required skills she hadn’t yet mastered.  At the last instant, just before the walls completely closed in Kierzax managed to thrust out one smoky claw and grab Moira’s shirt.

The shadows closed in on themselves and Moira found herself spinning, flattening, and lost to any reality she had ever known.  She didn’t lose consciousness, the pain felt too intense.  She closed her eyes and covered her ears against a powerful blinding wind that battered from all sides.  Finally she dropped onto the cold hard pavement.

She opened her eyes.  Kierzax had disappeared, but the faint scent of sulfur hung in the air.  Dane was gone.  The alley looked different, felt different.  The buildings loomed black and flat, not just dark, but blacker than any night she could remember.  No sounds came from the street behind her.  Moira walked back towards the Kenpo Clinic.

Everything appeared washed of all color.  All of the buildings, signs, even the litter varied from black to gray or darker gray.  The streetlight switched from one gray dot to another, emitting no real light.  Moira saw nobody else anywhere.  The silence felt so complete she heard her heart beating and the soft rhythm of her breathing.

A chill wind broke the silence, making her shiver through her winter coat.  Nothing moved with the wind.  The few scattered autumn leaves, the dead grass, and the litter ignored the breeze.  Even her hair seemed unaffected.  The moon floated overhead a pale disk shedding no real light.

She ran to the Kenpo Clinic, then to the Pancake Emporium.  Flat black and gray cars cluttered the parking lot, but no people filled the restaurant.  Suddenly a car door opened.  A dim shape, like an erased pencil drawing seemed to get into the car, or did she imagine it.  The door closed silently.  A few seconds later the car backed out of the stall, though the engine made no sound.  The car pulled away and melted into an unseen fog.  After only about fifty feet it completely disappeared.  When she looked back, the car had returned to the parking stall.

With this many cars, people had to be eating in the restaurant.  Moira went to the front door.  Through the glass she saw nobody.  She pulled on the handle, but it refused to move.  It didn’t feel locked.  The deadbolt would have at least wiggled a little.  She simply couldn’t move it.

“I see you are new to my world,” said a voice behind her.  Moira turned and saw a figure cloaked in blackness.  It had a humanoid shape, but she couldn’t make out any distinct features.  She half expected to see it carrying a scythe, but it had no real hands and held nothing.  Two large black dogs with sleek bodies as if cut from pure obsidian waited only a few feet behind the figure.

“Where?” asked Moira, but she had a feeling she knew exactly where she was.

“The realm of shadows, of course,” replied the figure.  “Odd that you would not know where you are.  Most visitors come here with a purpose.”

“It was an accident,” said Moira.  “I was fighting Kierzax and then I was here.”

“The legion is not welcome here,” said the figure.  The dogs spread out from the figure, baring black teeth.

“Who?  I don’t know anything about any legion,” said Moira.

“Unlikely,” replied the voice.  “All who enter this realm know of our long hatred of your war.”

“I’m not fighting any war,” said Moira desperately.  Realization of her situation seeped in slowly.  Somehow Kierzax must have pulled her into the shadows.  “I just want to go back.”

“You have brought your war here.”  The voice rang sinister.  “It will end here, for you.”

The dogs slowly circled into range to attack.  Moira thought quickly, and saw that the dogs did not cast any shadow, nothing here cast a shadow.  She grasped one of the dog’s legs with her mind.  She focused so intently that she didn’t notice her hands come up to make a twisting motion, as if she held the leg in her hands.  The shadow substance conformed to her will.  The creature let out a hollow, haunting howl as its leg warped suddenly out of shape.  The second dog leapt at her, but she pulled it out of the air with her mind and sent it painfully to the ground.

“A bender with some skill,” said the figure.  “You could abandon your war and help me here.”  The two dogs melted into nothing as it spoke.

“I don’t have a war,” said Moira.  “I don’t want anything to do with your war.  I’m going home.”

“If you intended to leave you would already have gone,” replied the voice.  “If you aren’t here for the war, what is it you want?”

Before Moira could respond, the powerful odor of sulfur washed over them all.  Kierzax seemed to appear out of nothing just a few feet from the figure.

“You can’t have her, Vorgos,” said Kierzax.  “If she will not join me, then she will join no one.”

Kierzax opened his mouth.  Moira expected fire to stream out.  Instead he began coughing violently.  Vorgos raised a hand and a sudden black shape slapped Kierzax in the head.

“You will find that fire requires elements we do not have,” said Vorgos as Kierzax wheeled backwards.  “Your war is unwelcome here.”

Kierzax collapsed into a thick strand of smoke and dodged the blows of the nearly shapeless shadow weapon.  Moira chose this moment of distraction to flee around the corner and back up the alley towards her apartment.  If those two wanted to fight she wasn’t going to get in the way.  Behind her a roar of rage and frustration rang out, but she couldn’t tell which of the two it came from.  As the roar died down, Moira hit a full sprint.

Five blocks later she slowed to a jog, and eventually a walk, breathing heavily.  “Starting tomorrow, I am definitely doing a cardio program,” she thought.  She stopped and leaned against a building to catch her breath.  What had Vorgos meant?  Clearly he, or she or it, thought Moira could leave at any time.

Moira milled this thought over for a few seconds until a column of sulfurous smoke streamed up the street behind her.  Moira caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, and turned to face Kierzax as he took shape.  She didn’t have the energy to run anymore.

“You can still join us,” said Kierzax.

“Not interested,” replied Moira.  She was starting to breathe a little easier now.

“You were a fool to bring us here.  Vorgos will hunt both of us now.  You’ve trapped both of us into a fight that neither of us needs.”

“So,” she said.  “I can’t take it back now.  What do you want?”

“A temporary alliance,” said Kierzax.  “Together we might be able to escape Vorgos.”

“No thanks.”

Kierzax swung a smoky fist towards Moira’s face.  Instinctively she dodged the blow, grateful she had at least learned that much in class.  He tried again.  This time she pulled the sign from a storefront, using her mind to make the shadow block the blow.  Moira gathered substance from all around the street to defend the constant onslaught of sneaky attacks.  Bit by bit she tore up the street as she backed her way up the block.

Suddenly a black shape took hold of Kierzax.  Another of Vorgos’ dogs materialized behind him.  Kierzax writhed in agony as the creature clamped down where his leg should have been.  Then he pounded the dog’s head with a smoky fist, forcing it to release the hold.

Moira used the opportunity to think.  Obviously Kierzax couldn’t escape or else he would have by now, which meant that her instincts were right.  He was just trying to use her.  That didn’t tell her how to get out, though these two seemed to think she should be able to.  An idea finally came to her.  Vorgos walked into view behind his dogs.  The dogs kept Kierzax fully occupied, so once again Moira slipped away down a side street.

Thinking back to her first encounter with Kierzax, she thought how the process could be reversed.  Starting with the ground, she pushed all of the shadows away, building an empty black cylinder around herself.  Light broke through the bottom of the cylinder, nearly blinding her after the constant darkness of the shadow world.

Once again she felt herself falling, being pushed, and thrown into a new world.  Intense pain shocked her again as she found herself sprawled on the sidewalk.  A hundred different smells seemed to reach her at once, but not a hint of sulfur.  Snowflakes glittered in the moonlight as they drifted down the lazy breeze.  Moira stood up slowly and dusted off her pants and coat.

In a building’s shadow across the street, she thought she heard a muffled growl.  Tired or not, she broke into a sprint back to her apartment.  She slowed once to catch her breath, but didn’t stop until she reached the door.  The door was locked.  Moira fumbled for her key.  Inside she found Jill watching television with the lights off.

Moira flipped the light switch, causing Jill to blink a little.  “Who do I need to talk to about that job?” she asked.  “I think I’m done working nights.  I need a little more light in my life.”

THE END

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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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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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