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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Chapter Fourty One – The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep by Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on July 6, 2009

The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep is a fantasy novel describing the adventures of Colter Halfspear as he becomes a man and an initiate of magical powers.

I had prepared to say my name, but my heart froze as I looked into the pale dead eyes that stared unflinching back at me.  Once a fat priest, now the flesh had faded into nothing by thin gray whiteness and the wispy hair drifted into smoky etherealness from behind a once balding pate.  The dead eyes had no pupils, only rolling cloudy orbs above a clear-white face.  As I looked into those eyes I saw not only the depths of fear, anger, and pain, but also the walls and decorations of the temple.  Weapon or not, this foe I could not destroy in battle.  I could not speak for a long time for it held me transfixed in anguish with its stare.  The creature appeared to be waiting, but for what I could not tell.

As if in response to my thoughts the temple door opened and slowly a procession of other smoky-white entities began to file into the large worship hall.  Though many seemed still to be dressed in clear or white versions of their earthly clothes, most had torsos and legs that faded into wispy nothingness with only faces and arms bearing their human resemblance.  Slowly I began to understand.  The eyes of long dead nobility focused on me and the simple offering I had made to my goddess.  Though they barely filled the hall a quarter of the way, the procession ended and the door closed behind them as suddenly as it had opened.  I felt at once trapped, frightened and exhilarated.

I stood, a mere spectator, as events beyond my control unfolded.  I suddenly felt the chill in my blood give way to warmth that encompassed my entire body.  The bright, snowy light I had seen only once before suddenly surrounded the offering pit and began to fill the entire chamber.  Against that brightness the angry spirits became nearly invisible.  The threatening eyes recoiled in confusion and awe.  The majestic, sublime and simple voice addressed them.
“Give way now, my loyal children for the time has come for the world to be healed again.  Your vow to protect my holy place is fulfilled, come now and enter my rest.”

Just as suddenly as it had appeared the light began to fade, but behind me my little fire flared into life beyond its means.  One by one the specters moved forward.  I stepped aside though they now seemed oblivious of my presence.  Each in turn entered my fire, and as they did it flared up until the last, the deadly priest that first addressed me vanished in its heat and the fire died suddenly into cold black ashes.
For the briefest moment I stared about into the encroaching darkness.  I found that I was covered in sweat and grime from the day’s labors and from the intense heat of the fire.  I could not separate the confusion swimming in my head.  Clearly Tylos wanted me for something, but there, alone in a forsaken dead city I could not have guessed my future.

Much later, long after dark I reached our camp.  I approached silently, for that had long become my habit and found them guarding a little fire.  Dina jumped in surprise and fear when I stepped from the shadows but Pascalli merely smiled and quipped, “I see you’ve done well lad.”

“Is there any hot food,” I asked, for I felt my strength had all drained away.  Something about those garish faces seemed to have stolen the life from my limbs.

“Not yet, though we got some meat today,” winked Pascalli.  Dina will cook.”  Dina glared at the wizard and clearly meant to refuse.  I shrugged and went to find their kill, but Pascalli called me back.  “Sit down, Scratch.  By the look of you I’d say you’ve seen death, or worse.  Now go one girl, I’m sure you can manage.”

I found a comfortable spot out of the smoke near our fire and waited.  Dina retrieved a scrawny rabbit, which Pascalli helped her prepare.  After they had it roasting she looked me over, and with some hesitation asked, “What happened?”

I didn’t mean to ignore her, but I couldn’t begin to describe anything.  Pascalli gave her a disapproving look, but said nothing.
“Is there some secret?” she asked.  I sensed the frustration in her voice.  “I feel like I have a right to know what’s going on.  I’m out here too, you know!”

I turned away from her, numbly staring into the flames, but I quickly found that too horrible as my mind kept conjuring images of the dead as they walked into a different fire.

“There are some questions, which cannot be answered,” said Pascalli.  “There are some questions that should not be asked.”

Dina glared, rolled her eyes and sighed.  “Did you at least open the gate?” she asked.

I did not answer, I was still lost in thought, but Pascalli brought me to my senses.  “I believe the young woman asked a question,” he said.

I didn’t care for his tone, but then I didn’t much care for the conversation.  “It’s open,” I said simply.

Pascalli forced me to eat before going to sleep.  I ate mechanically, tasting nothing.  Dina had never before cooked during our journey together, so it should have been a memorable moment, but it was lost to me.  I saw the hurt in her eyes as I ignored them both, but lacked the strength of will to respond.
“Whatever evil remains we will have to face ourselves,” I mumbled.  “The dead have gone, but they left their work behind.”

So many of my memories have been lost in the well of time, but I can never look at a fire without seeing the dead or recalling the night of nightmares that ensued.  If Pascalli or Dina asked me more that night, I didn’t answer.  I drifted into exhausted oblivion, chased by the images of the dead.  For days and nights afterwards I slept only fitfully, and Pascalli did not let me stand watch alone.
Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman

On to The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep Fantasy Novel Chapter Fourty Two

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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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Chapter Thirty Eight – The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep by Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on June 15, 2009

The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep is a fantasy novel describing the adventures of Colter Halfspear as he becomes a man and an initiate of magical powers.

My first impression of Darnuth Keep remains forever implanted into my memory.  The great towers, like icicles rise triumphant from the mountainside.  True to the name, the towers are constructed of ancient clear-white crystal that shoots into the sky like diamond.  A winding, narrow road that has remained undamaged cuts a path up the edge of Mount Hansfor.  After hours of labor in thinning air we turned a final sharp corner and saw it rising both ominous and beautiful over the valley and pass bellow.  The Hansfor River begins atop the mountain and runs swiftly down, cascading over steep falls before it fills the lake in the valley and races south and west towards the empire and the sea.

“Our destination,” said Pascalli thoughtfully as he scratched his beard.  “Perhaps not a destination,” he contradicted almost immediately.  “Perhaps a starting point.”  He seemed to be lost in his own world for a long moment, until Dina began moving her horse forward.  “You’re right, there’s no point standing outside.  After all I’m sure we’re expected.”  He winked and grinned viciously.

As though time did not exist in the valley or on that mountain, the gates stood tall and clean against the autumn sun.  At least three times the height of a man, the polished white crystal of the main gate seemed impregnable at first.

“How do we get in,” asked Dina.  I was glad she had asked the question, though it echoed my thought.

“By walking, child, of course,” replied the wizard.  “Unless you have learned to fly, which I doubt.”

I managed to fake a cough in order to stifle my laugh, but Dina gave me an angry glare anyway.  Pascalli lead us very close to the wall and over to a path, just wide enough for one horse to go at a time.  The path ran directly beneath the battlements with the sheer face of the wall on one side and a steep slope up the mountain on the other.  I observed that although an army might attempt to approach the fortress from behind, the steep edges sloped just enough that the best they could hope for would be to slide down to the path we now walked where they would be crushed by boulders or burned with oil from the parapets.
At the very back of the keep waits a door just large enough to admit a horse, if it is not a large horse and it is not carrying a great deal of bulk.  Pascalli produced a key and opened the door and we began the time consuming task of unloading our horses to get them through the door.  The door leads through a dark tunnel to another door, which opens into Darnuth Keep.

Many dozens of buildings without roofs lined the barren streets of the lowest level, bearing silent testament to the greatness of the city’s past.  Small doors opened directly into small rooms within the outer city wall.  I estimated that the wall spanned some thirty meters across at the top.  The ancient city guard must have had their barracks either in the low buildings near the wall or in the small rooms inside.  Not a single stair or ladder of any kind graced the sheer surface outside of the wall, the only way up or down came from the inside.  Many pools and fountains still danced in the setting sun as we entered, and I felt as if the ghosts of an age long past laughed at us through the water.

“At last, a bath,” said Dina.

“Yes,” agreed Pascalli.  “Though the water will likely be icy cold.”

“No fires then,” I suggested.

“Here in the lower city we probably haven’t been spotted yet, although to be perfectly honest I’m not sure what or who watches the surface these days.”  Pascalli once again seemed distracted, as if calculating a difficult sum in his head.

“I would very much like a warm meal and a warm bath,” said Dina.

“At what cost,” I said sharply, though she had not been speaking to me.

She turned abruptly to face me.  “I am not your charge,” she said.  Needles seemed to pierce me as she spoke.  “I do not need your counsel.”

“It seems, my dear boy, that the lady will not be denied her pleasantry,” said Pascalli.  His tone neither mocked nor condoned, but simply stated a fact.  “Go and fetch some water, Scratch, and dig up a pot for heating it.  I should like some proper dinner as well, see what you can do about that, lad, if you don’t mind.”

I opened my mouth to disagree when I saw Dina’s look of triumph, but shut it again quickly.  “Will you at least help with the fire,” I asked.

“Sorry Scratch,” he said.  His voice was suddenly quite serious.  “I’m off scouting for a bit.  There are plenty of dry timbers around that should burn well enough.  Seasoned wood burns the best.”  I grabbed my spear and started towards the nearest building.  “Find a place with half a roof if you can,” called Pascalli behind me.  “Don’t get into trouble.”

By then I absolutely fumed inside.  Dina proved to be a hindrance in every possible way.  She outright demanded I build a separate fire for her in a separate building where she could heat water and bath herself properly.  She did not move a single finger to help.  I realize now that once again Pascalli was giving me a simple test of self-control.  The danger of our situation was no less now than before, but I guarded the camp alone.

Rather than use two buildings, I waited until Dina seemed content and then built our cooking fire just in front of the abandoned house she had chosen.  I stacked our gear just outside the door and began preparing a stew of dried meat and herbs.  Dusk already began to drift over us as I began to light the fire, and the shadows seemed to bring with them a quiet that even stilled the tinkle of running water.  Dina hummed an unfamiliar but content tune from within the house.  My stew simmered very quietly.  I heard the soft scrap of something on a stone.

I crept as quickly as I dared, making no noise and grabbed my bow.  Finally, after what had seemed like ages of practice I could move almost silently when the need arose.  I peered through the depths of darkness for the enemy that surely stalked either my fire or Dina.  Dina would have no weapons, and even an unintelligent attacker would deem her the easier target.  I went inside the house.

I heard Dina finish her humming and fumbling around for a buffalo hide.  She saw me against the light of the fire and shouted.  “Scratch, get out of here!  I’m bathing.”  When I didn’t move she became really angry, and I think she reached to find something to throw at me.  Truthfully I couldn’t say what she did because at that moment I caught the movement in the shadows along the roof that I had been looking for.  I loosed an arrow, and a piercing shriek, very similar to Dina’s, tore into the night.  Something large and black fell into the building and growled in pain.  I sent a second arrow past Dina and into the enormous black cat.

“Supper is ready,” I said, and turned and walked out.
Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman

On to The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep Fantasy Novel Chapter Thirty Nine

Back to The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep Fantasy Novel Chapter Thirty Seven

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Chapter Thirty Seven – The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep by Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on June 8, 2009

The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep is a fantasy novel describing the adventures of Colter Halfspear as he becomes a man and an initiate of magical powers.

We lit no fires.  Dina complained about this the first night, until I warned her that we were being watched.  At first I think she wanted to argue the point until Pascalli nodded his agreement with my assessment.  “Don’t be foolish,” he whispered.  “He may be a farmer, lass, but he knows the wild.”

After we abandoned the wagon I did not see any signs for two more days.  I thought that whatever was following us had lost interest.

We huddled together for warmth, our backs to each other taking turns nodding off in the night.  I saw a flicker of luminous green in the dark.  Then it disappeared.  An eye most likely, reflecting the dim moonlight.  I gently prodded Pascalli and Dina.  Pascalli prodded back.  He also had noticed something, a shadow perhaps.  Dina breathed in sharply and jerked her bow up off her knees.  It must have been her sudden move that drew the attention of our attackers because they concentrated on her.

The attack came sudden and precise with all the cunning of a master bandit.  Four shapes blacker than the darkness came at us, their pale green eyes the only warning a split second before fangs and claws tore into us.  Dina’s arrow caught one in the chest, while mine found a mark in the throat.  Behind me I heard Pascalli crack his staff hard into a third.  The fourth had caught Dina across the chest with a claw and she fell hard onto the stony earth.

I knocked and loosed a second arrow without hesitation, before it could either flee or attack someone else.  The creatures were similar in body to the tigers of the east, with cat-like claws and long tails, but I did not understand the elongated bear-like faces and fangs.  Neither bears nor cats hunted in packs, and certainly they would not take unknown prey like this.

“They are not entirely animal,” said Pascalli. “Look.”

Before my eyes the dead began to shed portions of their furry skin.  The faces melted into something almost human, black like the monkeys of the south, but still with the pale green eyes.

“What evil is this?” asked Dina between painful breaths.

“A remnant from the breaking,” I answered.  “This is why we have come, to make things right.”

Fortunately, Dina’s wound was not as serious as it could have been.  The claws had cut cleanly enough, but I knew that I would not be able to see the source of infection and sickness until after it started.  I found my bag of herbs and began cutting bandages.

She still did not trust me, and when I moved to help her she shied away.  “I will be fine,” she said.  “I am not hurt badly.”

“That is something for the healer to judge,” I said.  The teeth or claws had rent her leathers and I could clearly see the wounded flesh beneath.  “We do not know these creatures.  There may be poison in the wound.  It needs to be properly cleaned anyway to prevent sickness.”

“I wish we had a proper surgeon,” she said.

“Scratch has experience enough with mercenaries and outlaws,” said Pascalli.  “I’m sure he can manage to stitch together a lady.”

I had never before laid eyes upon a woman’s breast, and I daresay that I was very glad for the dim, shadowy light of the one candle Pascalli allowed me to work by.  I discovered that she was very beautiful, although I had never really thought about it much.  I treated the wound with much more care and tenderness than I believe I had planned, and I am sure she was grateful for that care in the end.  I had a bit of tyrnwood that I used to make a poultice to deaden the pain and soak any poison.  I am sure that in the cold night air my indelicate fingers did not feel pleasant, and I regretted not having something better for the pain.  Three cuts ran around the edge of her left breast, claw marks, and all three required stitches.  Afterwards we bundled her in several blankets and sat back to back watching over her the rest of the night.

Once again the wonders of tyrnwood proved useful.  By morning Dina practically bounced out of the blankets.  Though her arm was still too weak from the torn chest muscles to properly manage a bow, she willingly helped with chores she had complained about only the day before.

After that incident Pascalli pushed us harder to reach Darnuth Keep.  All thought of practice or training of any kind vanished.  For the first time in what seemed forever I did not rise each day to be soundly beaten by a solid oak staff.  Pascalli knew that we would need the protection of the battlements as well as a base from which to hunt and gather supplies for the coming winter.  Dina had often hunted for sport with her father and brothers but was unused to surviving in the wilderness without the comforts of her station.  She did not know how to cook, though most of our food at the time was cold.  She did not find sleeping under the stars comfortable and did not understand that we would be easy prey inside of tents.

“I don’t think Dina is made for the wild,” I observed to Pascalli on evening.  “I don’t know if she is strong enough to make it out here.”

“Don’t judge her too swiftly Scratch.  There’s a strength there that you don’t see yet.  Remember all that you’ve done and seen since leaving home.  There were times I wondered about you,” he said.

“I’ll do my best,” I murmured.

Pascalli smiled at me.  “A friend is a friend and a good friend even better.  She’s a part to play yet.  Give her time.  Someday you may come to understand the sacrifice she has given to join us.  She has freely left behind much that others would struggle their whole lives to gain.  We’ll reach the keep in another day.  I’ll be relying on your help when we get there.  Make sure your head is clear.”

Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman

On to The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep Fantasy Novel Chapter Thirty Eight

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Chapter Thirty Six – The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep by Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on June 1, 2009

The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep is a fantasy novel describing the adventures of Colter Halfspear as he becomes a man and an initiate of magical powers.

We sat, both of us staring at the leaf for a long time.  I wondered what it meant, how it was possible, and if Pascalli would teach me more.  I can only imagine the thoughts he had as the full realization of the power of the curse he had been given settled on his mind.

“At a glance I could have destroyed a forest,” he mumbled bitterly.  The look in his eye burned with a hatred that sent shivers down my spine.  I had never before seen him filled with dread or indignant anger.  That moment was the only one in which I feared for my safety while in his presence, but the moment passed quickly.  “Matters have changed, Scratch,” he said with a finality that brought me quickly to attention.  “Now you must become fully my apprentice, at least for a short time, until I can find a more suitable master, which I am afraid may not be possible.  Clearly Tylos thrust you upon me to break my heart again.”  He winked.  “On a more serious note, if it is possible to be more serious, I must take you even more into my confidence now.  First, you must not share this experience with anyone, ever.”

I already knew that much, and had not intended to tell anyone anyway.

“Second, you must understand that this means that the enemy can use magic.”

That too was obvious.

“Also that these enemies, for there will be more than one of them, will have had probably eighteen or nineteen winters more than you to learn magic.  That is to say that there is at least one Kaarum shaman in this world who has been practicing magic since before you were born.”  He seemed completely distracted as he spoke.

“What does all this mean for us here and now,” I finally asked him.  “Are we still going to Darnuth Keep?”

“Yes, my boy, oh yes,” he replied.  “We very much need to get there, now more than ever.  You’ve managed to get a decent handle on that pig-poker, but unfortunately I won’t have time to really train you up properly in case of a real duel.  Pray, lad, pray.  In the meantime our plans do not change, other than you will have to work extra hard.”  He caught my resigned sigh.  “I don’t mean cooking and cleaning, Scratch, although there will be plenty of that to go around.  You’ll find that these old hands can be useful sometimes, and we’ve a third pair now.  I hadn’t counted on using magic until now, so you’ll have to learn to deal with that before you’re really ready.”

We rode into last gate early in the morning.  The mud houses looked golden gray in the reflected sunlight.  Smoke from cooking fires drifted through the still sky.  Though a few dogs called out to each other, only our slow wagon stirred the streets.  The village seemed as undisturbed by time as by our small intrusion.  The enormous wall, built centuries before, loomed like a large dark hand over even the tallest of the buildings.  A wide, worn highway wandered north and stopped abruptly at the enormous black gates.  Soldiers sat idly atop the parapets, smoking pipes and watching our approach.

Getting the guards of Last Gate to open their ancient charge proved to be much more hassle than anticipated, but Pascalli took it all in with a laugh.  Listening to Pascalli haggle with the gate captain did nothing to ease the building sense of dread inside me.

“The Last Gate has not been opened in over a thousand winters,” said Garret, leader of the guards.  “Our law strictly forbids it.”

“I know the law,” said Pascalli.  “By the light of Tylos, I made the law.  I closed the gate.  By the demons in Hieron I made the wall.”  His eyes were a blaze of fury that quelled the other man.  “Now open the gate or I will, and for good measure I’ll leave it open too.  Send word to your master that a ragtag named Pascalli has run off with a bandit and the daughter of the great Taradurk through the Last Gate.  Have me hunted if you dare, but do not impede me today.”

In the end Pascalli had his way of course.  Only the very stubborn and stupid could repel him for long.  The great iron gears, whose teeth were each larger than a man rolled painfully along a course they had not traveled in a millennium.  A small crack, just wide enough for our wagon, and then they lurched and yelled and slammed shut, leaving us in silence to face a path that no longer led anywhere.

“I had hoped to go on ahead,” said Pascalli.  “There is much to be done before winter, but I dare not delay your training Scratch.”  He surveyed the broken, overgrown land ahead.  The foothills of the Northern Crown lay covered with thick shrubs and tall unhindered timber.  Finding a path for the wagon would be both cumbersome and slow.  “We’ll try it this way for a day or two and see how it goes.  Once there was a very great highway that ran through here, perhaps it has survived the test of time.”

Only long summers of hard labor would uncover the remains of that ancient thoroughfare.  We managed to stumble on an occasional brick, but that was more inconvenience than help.  The wagon proved to be utterly useless and an even worse hindrance than first thought.  After two days the decision became clear.  Either we abandon the wagon and make haste to Darnuth Keep or we keep battling the wagon and risk reaching our destination after the first snows.  Either way we would be faced with a lack of critical food-stores.

“Well, what shall it be children?” he asked, though I am sure he guessed our thoughts.

“Ride while we can,” I answered.

“I am a huntress,” said Dina.  “We can hunt food when we get there.”

“Perhaps we can,” said Pascalli.  “If there is anything fit left to eat in these parts.  So be it.  Pack all of the grain and blankets, the salt, sugar, gear, and as much of the dried meat as possible.  We’ll walk if we have to, but we must make haste.”

Something picked up our trail almost immediately after crossing the Gate.  I imagine that our entrance into that solitary territory disturbed a great many creatures.  I knew that a skillful hunter tracked us nearly from the beginning.  A shadow would move, or occasionally a leaf shuddered against the wind behind us or off to one side.  Never close enough to hear, always near enough to make me very nervous.  Pascalli also knew immediately that we were being tracked.  Only Dina appeared oblivious.  The first day Pascalli tried to get me to concentrate on the air while we rode, attempting to repeat the same lesson as before.  The lesson proved a complete failure as neither of us could divert enough of our attention away from our followers.
Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman

On to The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep Fantasy Novel Chapter Thirty Seven

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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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Chapter Thirty Three – The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep by Kelly D. Tolman

Posted by admin on May 11, 2009

The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep is a fantasy novel describing the adventures of Colter Halfspear as he becomes a man and an initiate of magical powers.

I worked at the forge until late in the evening.  I found Tarkin, Pascalli, and Dina just finishing a fine meal.  “Sit down, lad,” invited Tarkin.  “You’ve worked yourself over-hard since you came.  I can never repay such kindness.  Enjoy some of this roast.”

I knew that I smelled of the forge and that my unwashed face must have appeared rather unruly to Dina.  I became conscious for the first time of how graceful she truly was.  She had tied her hair in a tight knot at her neck.  Her eyes were a penetrating shade of jade, almost like a cat’s that still glared at me across the table.  In her boots she stood as tall as me.  I noticed that she kept her cutlass and bow close by.

“I believe that you have not been properly introduced,” said Pascalli casually.  “This is my knight and protector, Sir Lanseg.”  She nodded.  “And this is Dina, third daughter of Lord Taradurk.”  I bowed deeply, remembering my manners.

I had not learned to speak with much grace and I felt my cheeks flush, so I did the only thing my mouth was good for and stuffed it with food.

“Her ladyship has come to avenge the loss of the blacksmith, Sir Lanseg,” said Tarkin.  “She is a very great hunter of evil, both of men and creatures.”  The farmer seemed genuinely excited about the arrival of that surly girl.  “She was just telling us of a particularly nasty creature.  Please continue.”

“There really isn’t much more to it,” she replied.  “We came upon them just after dawn and slew them quickly.”

“What sort of creatures were they?” asked Tarkin.

“Beasts that walk like men, with horns and claws.  One had the head of a dog, the other the head of a goat.  Both were covered in black fur and scales.”

I opened my mouth to say Kaarum, but caught Pascalli’s eye and stuffed it with food instead.

“When was this?” asked Pascalli.

“Two markets ago, near the great wall,” she replied.

“Do you hear that Lanseg?” he said.  I nodded.  “We will have to make haste.  We must be at our destination before winter arrives and already the hills grow dangerous.”

“After we solve the murder,” I said bluntly.

“Oh, of course,” he continued casually.  “We were just discussing the matter when you arrived.  I have done some scouting, and I believe we will be able to take care of that problem without too much trouble in the morning.  Then it will be a small matter for the farm to find a new smith and we can be on our way.”

“Where are you going?” asked Dina.

“Why, to Darnuth Keep, my dear,” said Pascalli as casually as if we were taking a summer stroll to go fishing.  My jaw dropped.  My fork dropped.  I did not have the presence to even hide my surprise my stuffing my mouth again.  Winters now of traveling in secrecy and he just spouted it off.

“You are joking of course,” replied Dina, her voice betraying her shock.  “That place is haunted, filled with deadly evil beasts.  Legend has it that it was cursed from the breaking and can never be made whole again.”

“Never is a very long time,” said Pascalli.  “Despite the dangers we are going there.  I am surprised at you, Dina, frightened of mere stories when you have yourself fought and conquered evil.  I should think you would want to come with us.”  Now I really was struggling to keep myself composed.  The last thing I wanted along was a silly girl who couldn’t take care of herself, let alone help out in a tight spot.  But my fears were unfounded.

“I have other duties,” she replied.  “I am not always free to chase my quarry or to follow fools into darkness.”

“Of course,” replied Pascalli, and as far as we were all concerned the matter was closed.  The conversation turned to more mundane topics until I drifted to sleep at the table from exhaustion.

The morning found us looking for over-sized gopher holes.  “What we are looking for, are holes about this large,” described Pascalli very carefully.  He held his hands apart to form a circle about the size of my head.  “They will be surrounded by the burrowed out dirt, and probably by a sort of yellow slime or yellow dirt.  I have already marked three of them, but there should be a few more, possibly as many as ten or twelve.”

“What do we do when we find them,” I asked.

“Just mark them with a stick, like this, and a bit of cloth.”  He handed each of us a few strips of cloth.  “Whatever you do, do not put your hand or foot inside one of these holes!  The creatures inside can be very dangerous, as you will soon see.”

As Pascalli had guessed, the work was relatively quick and easy.  Both Tarkin and I had experience hunting vermin of this sort in the fields, so we knew what signs to look for.  Dina learned quickly what we were searching for, and in less than an hour we had all nine burrows marked.

Pascalli gathered us together with several of the other farm workers.  “Now for the fun part,” he said.  Each of you put a generous amount of this powder down a hole, all except one hole, which Lanseg and Dina will watch with their bows.”  He passed a generous round of reddish powder to eight different willing parties.  “When I give the signal, put your torches to the powder.  Mind you be careful, and if you see any creature coming out of the hole run back away and call out for assistance.”

“What are we to do?” asked Dina.

“Shoot them as they come out, of course.”  Pascalli winked.  “I did say this was the fun part, didn’t I.  Oh, but be careful not to get bitten.  I believe you will find that they move spectacularly fast when frightened, and their venom is quite deadly.”

Just as planned, eight torches set off fire and smoke in unison and a few short seconds later out crawled seven enormous lizards.  I call them lizards but truly they were more like giant centipedes with lizard-like heads.  They sported just one vicious fang, almost like a horn.  Their mouths opened with rages of fear, pain and anger as they emerged, and their bulbous eyes blinked in the morning sun.  One by one we shot them with our arrows as they emerged.  Most of them required more than one shot to stop.  They had some inner desire to keep moving, to keep attacking that went far beyond normal instinct.  The last one very nearly reached Dina’s legs before I put an arrow through its eye.  She gave me a grudging thank you, and turned to survey the situation.

After a few moments, the fury was over and I began skinning one of the creatures.  “What could you possibly want with that,” asked Dina, a look of disgust on her face.

“New boots,” I suggested, indicating my worn footwear.  I’m not sure what made me continue, “I can make a pair for you if you’d like.”  The words seemed to escape my lips before I knew I was even speaking.

She looked at first taken aback, and then wary, then replied, “I’m sure you’ll be long gone before you can finish them.  Besides I have business.”

“Then I will send them to your father as a trophy of his daughter’s triumph.”  To my surprise there was no note of mockery in my voice.  She had done very well that day and I did want to make up.

“Thank you,” she stammered.  I believe that was the first time someone had sincerely complimented her in her life, if not, it was certainly the most powerful.  She was used to the idle prattle of hangers-on and the expected kindnesses of servants.

“Taking trophies already I see,” interrupted Pascalli.  “Wonderful.  I could use a new belt, but mind the fangs and let me know if you see any of their eggs.”

“I’ll be careful,” I grumbled.  “The hides are already spoken for.”

“Oh well, another time then,” responded Pascalli cheerfully.  “Ho, Tarkin, come see what we’ve managed.”  The farmer was already halfway to us of course.  “Now mind you that we may not have gotten all the eggs.  If we didn’t you’ll see a few young come out in one or two markets.  The young will be looking for mice or frogs, whatever they can get.  I suggest you set some traps around the burrows at night.  Go ahead and plug as many as you can.”
Copyright 2008 Kelly David Tolman

On to The Cleansing of Darnuth Keep Fantasy Novel Chapter Thirty Four

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