Berserker Part 5

“Hold!”, bellowed an accented voice in front of Jarn. Suddenly he was looking down the shaft of a crossbow. His eyes followed down the crossbow and rested upon his assailant. He was a tall blond young man, wearing an out of place coat of animal skins over light leather armor. He also carried two sabers in sheathes at his waist and what looked like a spear across his back. Jarn looked up to realize that he was surrounded by a group, equally armed with crossbows.

Well this is the end of me. Funny, after surviving the goblin warriors I’m going to be shot while leaving after a terrible battle. The irony was thick enough to be cut with a knife. Jarn heaved a resigned sigh. “Hurry and finish it.” he said, suddenly feeling very tired. “My people haven’t made much headway in the next world, if you hurry I can catch up to them.”

“Wait”, said the man. “We’re not going to kill you if we don’t have to... understand?”

“You’re not with the goblins?”, Jarn asked hesitantly.

“Not at all”, replied the man, bridling under the suggestion he would be affiliated with such loathsome and depraved creatures. “Is that what happened here? Goblins attacked?”

Jarn nodded his head, shuddering at the memory of such carnage. “Aye”, he said. “Those little cowards attacked during the night and gutted the lot. They must’ve known the men were away at the time. When we returned everyone was dead, except for the goblins. I’m the only one left.” He fell to his knees and openly wept, exhausted beyond words.

The man guffawed with laughter. clearly not believing him “You jest, yes?”, the man asked incredulously. “Why do you live and nobody else does? What is special about you?” He raised his crossbow and released the safety pin for emphasis.

“I wish I knew”, Jarn said. He lowered his head and waited for the arrow to come.

“Stop!”, cried another man’s voice beside Lars. “Don’t shoot him yet!” He addressed Jarn. “What clan does this town belong to?”, He asked. His voice is familiar, where have I heard it before?

“This was the only home of the Flameheart clan”, Jarn replied.

“Jarn!”, the voice cried. “I thought it might’ve been you! It’s me, Karnar!” Jarn felt a tendril of hope worm through him at the man’s statement. He looked up to confirm it. Despite himself he smiled, he knew this man. They had been good friends since they could walk, Karnar had married Jarn’s cousin not more than 3 years ago. He was from the Crushbone clan, just south of the Goblin mountains. They were notorious for reclusive behavior, so it was strange to be seeing one anywhere from home, but Jarn’s eyes couldn’t be tricked. He stood there, plain as day. His short stature made him easy to pick out when compared to others of his clan, it had also made him the target for a lot of bullies when they were very young, but he made up for it by being more than twice as thick as anyone Jarn had ever known.

“Karnar!”, Jarn shouted back with as much force as he could muster. “It’s good to see you, but do you think you could get him to keep from shooting that thing down my nose before we get aquatinted? I’m going cross-eyed looking at it.”

“Go easy Lars”, Karnar said with a huge grin plastered across his features. “I know this man and personally vouch for his trustworthiness. Although I wouldn’t exactly be sure of that when he’s drunk.” Oh no, not this again.

“Oh not again”, Jarn moaned, wondering if he was dreaming again. “Just because I got drunk and woke up next to a sheep doesn’t mean I did anything.” This had haunted him for years, and he could feel the blood rising to his face.

Karnar’s wedding was a time where he indulged in a little too much merrymaking. When he was walking back to one of the Crushbone villages from the wedding site, he tripped and fell. Being very tired and more than a little inebriated, he decided to stay where he was for the night, on second thought, Jarn wasn’t really sure he had a choice. Anyway, when he woke up, he found that he had wandered into one of the livestock pastures and a flock of sheep had bedded down next to him. Needless to say, when the shepherd got back to town with this news, nobody could stop laughing. Except Jarn of course, he had never been so embarrassed in his life.

Lars reluctantly complied with Jarn’s wishes, as did all those around him. Jarn rose back to his feet, not bothering to brush the mud from his legs or the tears from his eyes. He walked over to where Karnar stood and clenched the man in a bear hug that would’ve surely crushed a lesser person. Karnar returned the gesture and held the other man back to get a look at him. Jarn’s face was haggard and pale from little sleep or food, it looked as if he hadn’t attended to any of his wounds either, the number of infected cuts on his arms and legs must’ve been weakening him too. The dazed sense of prolonged horror that seemed to hold his facial muscles in thrall made him look years older, and nearly unrecognizable. His eyes had changed too. At one time they showed the great inner peace and happiness that made Jarn such a good person to know and be around. His eyes now held such a desperate ferocity, they belonged to someone who had flown over hell and made the devils run for cover. Karnar was strangely frightened by them.

“What happened here?”, Karnar whispered in Jarn’s ear.

Jarn broke away from the man. “I told you” he said, obviously frustrated. “Goblins came and slaughtered them all.” He turned around and started jogging down the line of huts. “If you don’t believe me then follow!” He called over his shoulder. Stopping at one particularly large hut, he beckoned to the group to look inside.

Karnar cautiously poked his head inside the hut, withdrew it with blinding speed, spun to one side, and vomited. The group quickly clustered around the grounded man after he finished. “What was it?” Questioned the old man.

“Goblins.” Came the weak reply. “Dozens of corpses. Must’ve been dead for some time, that was what we smelled earlier.”

Jarn leaned against the hut. “Believe me now?” He asked.

The noble looked inside the hut as well, wrinkling his nose in disgust but managing to hold onto his meal. “You mean to tell me that you have killed all of those goblins? He asked in wonder.
“Not all of them,” Came Jarn’s reply. “The other warriors vanquished roughly half before they were killed.”

“But that leaves at least 20 that you killed.” The noble gasped, his eyes big as plates.

“What of it?” Jarn asked.

“Oh, nothing.” The noble said, edging away, making sure to keep his guard between him and Jarn.

“It’s all a kind of haze.” Jarn said. “I can remember fragments, but I’m still not sure why I’m alive.”

“You look like you’re are traveling somewhere.” Karnar put in, indicating his traveling pack. “Where would that be?”

“There is nothing left in this village.” Jarn replied. “I intend to take revenge.”

“You mean you haven’t already?” asked the noble dryly, indicating the hut full of decaying goblins. “Hey!” He shouted at his bodyguard. “Get away from there!” The bruiser had been investigating the hut further and already carried three pairs of rather small boots, some assorted bits of jewelry, a few knives that might fetch a good price, and his purse looked a little bigger than it had been.

The bruiser looked over at the group and grinned. “It’s not as if they’re going to need anything.” He said. “Yet I found something strange, all of the goblins had tattoos.”

“Tattoos?” The woman in the group said. “I didn’t think goblins would trust anyone with a needle. What did they depict?”

“A small copy of the world,” the bruiser replied. “With a fist of smoke holding it tight.” He looked back in the hut to confirm his thoughts. “They all have the same mark” he reported. The idea that goblins had anything in common with one another was disconcerting. Although lacking in combat skill for the most part, the only reason their sheer numbers hadn’t overrun half the Dominion yet is that they were such untrustworthy, backstabbing, and disorganized little whelps, and spent most of their time squabbling amongst themselves and trying to keep from being killed in their sleep.

“I took note when I moved the bodies,” Jarn interjected. “Whoever could get goblins to submit to wearing that mark probably sent them this way. If I’m right, then that’s the bastard I’m lookin’ for.” He picked up his fallen pack and made to leave. “If you have no more questions, I’ll not take any more of your time.” He said acidly.

Jarn faced to the north and began walking away. Karnar ran to catch up to him. “How will you find this person?” He asked. “Its not as if you have a definite idea.”

“I’ll head up to the mountains and ask the goblins.” Jarn replied.

“What if they don’t want to tell you.” Karnar asked.

“I’ll insist.” Jarn said, with an evil glint in his eye and a cruel smile that frightened Karnar more than the prospect of facing down any goblin.

“What if they really have no knowledge?” Asked Karnar, playing his final card.

The horrible glow of bloodlust in the dirtied and disheveled youth’s eyes faded, showing only fatigue, pain, and how desperately he was clinging to one coherent thought.

“I don’t know!” Jarn screamed, his shoulders slumped and his head lowered.

“Come with me, come with us, we’ll help you.” Karnar replied gently, leading the boy back to the caravan, the other fighters in tow.

Jarn’s lips parted slightly, Karnar thought that on the cusp of hearing he detected the whispered words, “Thank you.”

Berserker Part 4

Millienya had been traveling long and hard. She was originally from the Klav region and the fact that it wasn’t constantly snowing here was still a little disorienting, she had never left her homeland up until now. She was forced from her village by attackers from the Iceflows to the north, large misshapen beasts seemingly composed of snow, sleet, and frost. They came in all shapes and sizes, moving south like a sentient avalanche, destroying everything in their wake. No human could even be near them to fight, the intense cold radiating from them froze any would-be attacker solid.

She and her brother, Lars, had volunteered to undertake the long trek to Kastontel, in the Gath region, to plead with king Terkin for assistance. Their clan had maintained a steady trade agreement with the city state, and it was hoped that Terkin would think it wise to protect his investments.

It seemed that everywhere she went, towns, villages, and even walled cities were under attack by something or other. Many others were on quests similar to hers. They tended to hire out as mercenaries for trade caravans such as she was doing at the moment. She had signed on at Pelse in Kormusleiv and started walking. Aside from her and Lars, three other men were hired in Pelse as well as a young wanderer they encountered while crossing the tedious Goblin mountains into Jeriscar.

There was an old man that tended to keep to himself. Despite his age he still carried himself with an air of confidence. Because of the ornate longsword and poignard on his belt people whispered that he was once a knight, but Millienya guessed that he was a poser, that the old man had scavenged the weapons from a lifeless battlefield somewhere in the war torn world.

Then there was the pair that seemed inseparable. One claimed to be a noble, by the look of his fine chain mail coat and how friendly and knowledgeable he was about social etiquette, Millienya would believe it. His companion on the other hand, she doubted could even spell “cat” let alone “etiquette”. He was a big, one-eyed, bruiser she would expect to see trying to rob the caravan, not protecting it. The noble claimed he was a bodyguard and vouched for his trustworthiness, but she still kept an eye on him.

The newcomer she didn’t really see too much of, he usually was too dispirited to talk. Millienya thought that maybe he was in mourning for someone, so she kept her distance.

The caravan was currently making its way out of the swamps which were at the feet of the mountains. They were all very happy to be done with trudging through the knee high murk, braving snakes and leaches to make sure the way was clear for the main body of the caravan. It was disorienting being back in the sun, the trees and overhanging growth of the swamps and bayous completely blotted out the sun, forcing them to carry lanterns and torches the entire time. Millienya was still scratching new bites from the insects they attracted.

The swamps gave way to seemingly endless hills and valleys, not large enough to inconvenience the wagons, but people on foot were not so lucky. Just she, Lars, and the newcomer were on guard. Everyone else was napping on the wagons. Lars, who was ahead scouting, crested a hill ahead of them, took one look, and immediately spun around, running for the wagons.

“Guards! Arm yourselves!”, Millienya shouted. “The scout’s got wind of something!” She grabbed the crossbow the quartermaster had issued her, and sprinted for Lars. Covering the ground between them in seconds, she spun around and ran alongside him. “What is it?”, she asked, a note of hysteria in her voice.

“Village”, he panted “On fire....Must’ve been attacked....Attackers might still...be there”. He reached the wagon and fell to his knees wheezing. The hills really take a lot out of you. The rest of the guard had awoken, taken up their crossbows, and clustered around Millienya and Lars, who then relayed what had been found.

“Best investigate”, stated the old man with the ornate sword. “There could be someone in need of help”. As always, he sounded like some hero from an epic tale.

“Or someone who don’t mind letting go of valuables,” muttered the one eyed bruiser. Even his voiced leered with anticipation. It was disgusting to hear, and Millienya knew that he would do it too. She had seen him loot the corpses of a few orcs that had attacked the caravan a few weeks ago when he thought no one was looking.

The group crept up to the hill and looked for the village. Sure enough, there it was. A tiny village, with houses all pointing inward toward the town square. From that square a huge pillar of smoke emerged. The town wasn’t on fire, but it definitely looked dead. No livestock could be seen, nobody was visible, and carrion birds circled overhead.

“Wait”, whispered the noble, startling Millienya out of her thoughts. “If the village was attacked and its denizens slaughtered, why were the houses not destroyed by the invaders?” He had a point. If a group intends to completely decimate another, one would logically set the homes afire during the raid to cause confusion and panic, as well as to be sure that no one was hiding.

“Could they want to take the village for their own?”, suggested the old man.

“Possibly”, countered the noble. “But why is no living thing visible then? Surely the livestock would’ve been taken by the invaders back from whence they came? Who’s keeping that fire as well?”

“I think the livestock was taken by invaders”, Lars interjected in heavily accented and broken Common. “They split into two groups, one stays here, the other goes back home. Fire is a signal to home of victory.” Millienya smiled at his statement. It was so very like him to take two different ideas, mold them together in any fashion, and claim the results as his own. Funny that it often made sense.

“Fine, fine”, said the old man, the impromptu leader of the band. “We go in silence, assuming Lars is correct. If wrong, we come out none the worse for wear. If his guess bares fruit we will be prepared for the worst.” With that said, he checked his weapons and strode off to meet the enemy.

His leadership skills never ceased to amaze Millienya. Normally Lars would have challenged anyone to fight simply for considering that he might be wrong. He had been hotheaded all his life, which would probably be a lot shorter if she wasn’t always there to keep his temper in check. Now, he followed the old man like a puppy. So did everyone else, for that matter.

The group quickly made their way down the hills, approaching the town. The fire seemed to grow as they came closer, only then did they understand the magnitude of it. The air had the stench of death and decay. Even from a distance they could see that what they had mistaken as a signal fire, was really a funeral pyre. One larger than any other they had ever seen. It looked like the ground had split open and the inferno of the underworld had found a way out.

Just then someone walked out of the hut closest to Millienya. It was possibly the largest man she’d ever seen. He stood nearly seven feet tall, her head wouldn’t even come up to his chest. Despite his size, he looked very skinny, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. His torn clothes were of a thick wool common to these parts and were covered in dried blood and crusted gore. He had peculiar twin burn marks on the backs of his hands, they looked very fresh and were blistered and weeping. He didn’t seem to pay it any attention. What caught Millienya’s gaze were the large, wicked looking axes he hung on his belt, and the sword as big as she was that he swung over his shoulder nearly frightened the life out of her. He turned and began walking down the road, directly toward their position.

The group hastily flattened themselves against the huts, out of the giant’s sight. Millienya looked over to see what the old man had decided to do. He motioned with his crossbow to the noble and his guard to move around from behind, and then pointed to the rest and gestured with his crossbow. It was clear what he wanted, they were going to ambush the man and kill him if necessary.

Berserker Part 3

“Awake boy”, a voice said in the dark. Jarn had felt something prod his ribs. Slowly he opened his eyes, banishing the darkness. He looked around to see the inside of his father’s hut. He had lived here since he could remember, and would continue to do so until he took a wife. His gaze swept over the dilapidated cot which served as his father’s bed, the table in the middle of the single room, a few hunting trophies on the wall, and all the other normal household items he was used to. Slowly his eyes came to rest upon the towering figure that was as much a thing of this place as the table, his father. “You’ve slept gone past noon”, came the harsh growl. “Would you want to be late for the festivities?”

“Festivities?”, Jarn groaned. He was becoming increasingly aware of the powers of the elder’s spirits that new initiates were required to take, as well as a growing respect for the elders, who could slug it back all night without any noticeable effects.

“The harvest celebration. Is there nothing you can remember?”, replied a voice like two stones grinding together. Kathur left the room to allow Jarn to get ready for the coming day.

Jarn slowly got out of his bedroll, aware of every ache in his body with painful clarity. Was it possible for your hair to hurt? He staggered over to the wash basin in the corner of the room and promptly threw up. Now he was fresh and ready for the new day. If someone speaks over a whisper I really will kill them.

Jarn walked shakily over to the animal skin flap that served as a door, swept it aside, and left the room. What sights he saw outside brought him to his knees in fear.

Maggot infested corpses all over the place, the huts he knew would be there to greet him were burned out ruins. The short grasses which were abundant around them were stained red with the blood of his peers. In the center of it all, a single figure stood. His features were obscured by long robes, fouled by all manner of bodily secretions. Around him goblins danced, flinging themselves about with a wild, unholy energy, carrying gory trophies of their kills and driving themselves into bloody frenzy.

“Come no closer weakling”, shrieked the robed figure. “Lest you should end up like the others. The only reason you live now is by our hands, you were spared so that you may spread the word of our master’s coming. It is you that shall bring him into the world of man.” The figure slowly brought its disfigured hands to its hood and threw it back with a flourish. Underneath was a rotting parody of humanity, its facial features had disintegrated into a single mass, bone was clearly visible beneath the near translucent skin.

“The coming of Beleth!”, It shrieked. A sickly green flame that surely could not exist in this world began to appear where the empty sockets of its eyes once were. They grew and grew until Jarn was forced to look away. Half formed creatures slipping and sliding through each other, seemingly trying to get at the figure were visible in the glare’s aftermath.

Jarn felt his very skin begin to sizzle as he tried vainly to shield himself from the terrible wyrdlight emanating from the dead thing. He was paralyzed, unable to move, speak, or think of anything except of his fear of the monster and his apparent demise.

Just before the unholy light totally consumed him, he screamed. A long wailing scream that went on longer than humanly possible. It seemed that everything in Jarn was behind that scream, his mind, his feelings, his very soul.

Berserker Part 2

“Awake boy”, a voice said in the dark. Jarn had felt something prod his ribs. Slowly he opened his eyes, banishing the darkness. He looked around to see the inside of his father’s hut. He had lived here since he could remember, and would continue to do so until he took a wife. His gaze swept over the dilapidated cot which served as his father’s bed, the table in the middle of the single room, a few hunting trophies on the wall, and all the other normal household items he was used to. Slowly his eyes came to rest upon the towering figure that was as much a thing of this place as the table, his father. “You’ve slept gone past noon”, came the harsh growl. “Would you want to be late for the festivities?”

“Festivities?”, Jarn groaned. He was becoming increasingly aware of the powers of the elder’s spirits that new initiates were required to take, as well as a growing respect for the elders, who could slug it back all night without any noticeable effects.

“The harvest celebration. Is there nothing you can remember?”, replied a voice like two stones grinding together. Kathur left the room to allow Jarn to get ready for the coming day.

Jarn slowly got out of his bedroll, aware of every ache in his body with painful clarity. Was it possible for your hair to hurt? He staggered over to the wash basin in the corner of the room and promptly threw up. Now he was fresh and ready for the new day. If someone speaks over a whisper I really will kill them.

Jarn walked shakily over to the animal skin flap that served as a door, swept it aside, and left the room. What sights he saw outside brought him to his knees in fear.

Maggot infested corpses all over the place, the huts he knew would be there to greet him were burned out ruins. The short grasses which were abundant around them were stained red with the blood of his peers. In the center of it all, a single figure stood. His features were obscured by long robes, fouled by all manner of bodily secretions. Around him goblins danced, flinging themselves about with a wild, unholy energy, carrying gory trophies of their kills and driving themselves into bloody frenzy.

ith the most puzzled look in its face, the lower half stayed standing, as if nothing had happened. This weapon has existed for several centuries and still retains its edge! Heavy, but sliced that bastard right in half.

As Jarn continued to hack and slash at the few members of the raiding party that were still standing, he dimly became aware of the wounds that the goblins were inflicting upon him, they were learning to wait until after he swung the heavy sword. They would then attack while Jarn tried to regain his balance. He forced the idea that such vile creatures could learn from his mind and concentrated on his swings, yet the goblins kept scoring hits. His frustration slowly gave way to anger, the sword suddenly seemed lighter in his hands. The annoying cuts were now being scored less often, those that did make it past his defenses fueled his rage until he became that unstoppable berserker he once was.

Time passed without Jarn’s permission, the light of day, which had once made the ruby red blood of his enemies sparkle, began to wane. Even though Jarn barely felt tired, his limbs began to slow, he started to control his thoughts, and the pain of his wounds returned. It wasn’t until this happened that Jarn realized that the goblins fled long ago. All that kept him at everything in Jarn was behind that scream, his mind, his feelings, his very soul.

Berserker Part 1

The following is part of a novel I first started writing when I was 14. I quite liked it, though I ran out of steam about a quarter of the way through because I couldn't figure out a way to advance the storyline. Keep in mind it's got terrible punctuation and probably uses far too many passive sentances, but it's still quite enjoyable. Maybe someone will have an idea or make a suggestion that might help give me some idea where to take the story. Comments of any type are, as always, quite welcome. (Please bear in mind that if you've a mind to insult it or mefor no reason, I am chronically ill person with not much to lose. Flame at thine own risk)

“No!,” Jarn, screamed. Watching helplessly as the rest of the Flameheart clan’s warriors were cut down around him, slowly succumbing to the onslaught of the Bloodthorns. Alternately crying, hurling imprecations, and hacking blindly at enemies too numerous to count, he caught a glimpse of his father next to him. The man was at the front of a failed V shaped wedge in the middle of the single road which ran straight through the center of their small village. His hulking frame being pulled down by the seemingly endless goblin hordes. All the while, his father, the clan warleader, swung his gigantic broadsword, cleaving through droves of the dirty, green-skinned monsters.

Jarn, now the last of the Flameheart clan, was surrounded. He raised his war axes high, waiting for the first Bloodthorn to rush him, knowing that while goblins fought with an unheard of ferocity when in large numbers, none were courageous enough to make a sacrifice by starting the assault. Also hampering them were the numbers of slaughtered bodies on the ground, goblin and warrior alike. The Flameheart warriors had fought valiantly and had taken a fair number of the enemy to the grave with them, but there were too many of the damnable goblins for the once mighty tribe.

“Fight me!”, he screamed “Finish what you bastards started!”. The unexpected raid had come in the night. It was thought among the elders that the mountains which were home to the Bloodthorn goblins were at a relatively safe distance from the village. The goblins would have been desperate to brave the dangers of mountain and swamp that lay in their path.

Their clan’s sentries had been overtaken with no apparent signs of struggle or shout of warning, the women and children had been murdered in their beds. Their bodies, or what was left of them -the Bloodthorns had a nasty reputation for cannibalism, understandable given their gnashing and rotted teeth- were found strung up by the roofs of their homes. The men had found them in the morning, when they had returned from the celebration of inducting a new warrior into their fold.

If the warriors hadn’t been away, conducting my blooding rite, they all would’ve died too, Jarn thought. Well, sooner at any rate. I guess I’ll be seeing them all soon. With this thought and that of the extinction of the proud Flameheart clan, Jarn felt an overpowering rage filling every fiber of his being. Jarn had felt anger before, his people were known for their battle rages, but unlike the slow fires of anger that were more common, this feeling had become a white-hot inferno, threatening to consume him. The elders had talked of this. They said that it was the gods’ gift to the Flamehearts in times of war and pain, a force they spoke of could make one man as powerful as a hundred, driving him to feats thought impossible by any other.

Jarn’s vision dimmed and turned red, he started breathing hard, as if he was pumping the bellows of the giant forge for the village smithy. This time, the flame he fed was inside. Obviously frightened by his twisted visage, some of the goblins fell back, but not far enough. Seemingly without having to move , Jarn had already overtaken them. Emitting a scream of rage and pain suggesting whoever did so was intent upon conveying that pain to others as quickly as possible, he became a whirlwind of flashing steel. The two giant axes he held seemed to weigh nothing for the speed and accuracy with which he ripped through six goblins before the rest had time to react.

The goblins quickly readied their clubs and swords, and began circling Jarn. This didn’t seem to worry him much, he was content for the moment to hoist his kills into the air, and throw various appendages with great force at his enemies. Although this did no physical damage to the Bloodthorns, being pelted with parts of their neighbors, friends, and possible spouses -it was hard to tell with goblins- had some psychological effect on them, two score flung their weapons to the ground and ran away screaming, heads down and legs pumping for all they were worth.

They have killed everyone I knew, everyone I cared about, and they have defiled the homes of my ancestors! Jarn, last of the Flamehearts thought. Taking their lives won’t be enough.

Throwing his great axes with unerring aim, they whirred end over end, barreling through arms and legs, finally finding homes in the chest and neck of two goblins in the rear. Jarn charged as soon as he released them, putting him in the middle of the Bloodthorns. He tore apart the wretched creatures, unarmed. Snapping necks, crushing throats, pulling off limbs, and ripping apart their chain mail and dirty leather armor as if it were paper. The shrieking of his victims only drove him to greater heights of brutality.

Amid the carnage, Jarn’s mind surfaced from the turbulent waters of his rage, he realized that despite the damage he was causing, he was sustaining wounds that would eventually drain him. A nick here, a cut there, slowly sapping his strength. A surge of panic sent ice water through his gut and dissolved his courage, he immediately broke and ran from the fray, searching for any weapons he could find.

Please god, let me find something, anything! I can’t go to meet my ancestors after making such a stupid mistake! A shield, a knife, a club.... Anything. What? Despite the closing tsunami of biting teeth, stabbing knives, and pounding clubs about to overtake him, Jarn felt the world disappear as he gazed upon the torn body of his father, his expression was unchanged, seeming ready for anything even in death. He still held onto the broadsword that marked him as clan warleader. It seemed that his father, Kathur by name, held the weapon out to his son.

He took it reverently, having remembered how he was belted the one time he dared touch it without his father’s permission. He had been knocked straight through the hut’s thin wall. Kathur had been an imposing figure while the child was young, his dear mother having been killed during his birth, but he was not an unkind man, and Jarn respected him for it. He never knew his mother, but from the way Kathur had acted whenever she was mentioned, he had loved her very much and her loss pained him deeply.

Jarn jerked away from his nostalgic revelry as he was knocked to the ground from behind. One of the goblins must have worked up the nerve to attack. How dare they make me defile my father’s weapon with their blood! This is his and his alone, they will die by my hands just as others did at the hands of my father! He rolled and quickly brought the broadsword to bare, never realizing how heavy it was. Barely managing to dodge the next club swing of his now-visible assailant. He whipped the blade of the weapon around with all his strength, passing right through the midsection of the goblin. The upper half fell cleanly over with the most puzzled look in its face, the lower half stayed standing, as if nothing had happened. This weapon has existed for several centuries and still retains its edge! Heavy, but sliced that bastard right in half.
As Jarn continued to hack and slash at the few members of the raiding party that were still standing, he dimly became aware of the wounds that the goblins were inflicting upon him, they were learning to wait until after he swung the heavy sword. They would then attack while Jarn tried to regain his balance. He forced the idea that such vile creatures could learn from his mind and concentrated on his swings, yet the goblins kept scoring hits. His frustration slowly gave way to anger, the sword suddenly seemed lighter in his hands. The annoying cuts were now being scored less often, those that did make it past his defenses fueled his rage until he became that unstoppable berserker he once was.

Time passed without Jarn’s permission, the light of day, which had once made the ruby red blood of his enemies sparkle, began to wane. Even though Jarn barely felt tired, his limbs began to slow, he started to control his thoughts, and the pain of his wounds returned. It wasn’t until this happened that Jarn realized that the goblins fled long ago. All that kept him company was the corpses of his enemies, it looked as if they had not only been killed in a gruesome fashion, but deliberately tortured beforehand. Some had arms and legs removed, others had seemed to have been flayed alive, their skin hanging off their bodies in strips. Recollecting what he had been doing for the last couple of hours was impossible. Jarn shivered at the thought that such violence could have been committed in front of him and he had not seen it. Who could have done such things!? Even to goblins. My god, what am I going to...Jarn never finished that thought. He fell, exhausted and bleeding, lying with the corpses of his people.

Hollow Earth

Hi all,
I've decided to take a bit of a breather, what with that last story being finished and all. I wrote a second version which changes how the ending is portrayed, but keeps the same basic concept.

Below is an analysis I did last year for a lady who found what she thought was a diary kept by Richard E. Byrd, Rear Admiral and the first person to fly over the North Pole, among other things.

This journal supposedly was written as he flew over the North Pole for the second time. The man was a navigator rather than a pilot, so he had someone flying the plane for him while he took notes presumably.

My job was to compare it to the official diary of Richard E. Byrd and decide whether or not it was genuine. The work, which you'll find in the title of this post's link, was supposed to give some credence to the Hollow Earth Theory. Personally I don't believe in the theory, but I wasn't even aware of it until after I finished reading the journal and started looking for inconsistencies.

In any case, read and enjoy:

Richard E. Byrd was a child born to a prestigious Virginia family in 1888. He was raised in the utmost privileged company of the genteel south, attending Shenandoah Valley Academy as a young boy, eventually moving on to join the navy and training in Annapolis.

He spent several years prior to World War 1 as a navigator for the navy’s newly acquired seaplanes, pioneering the many uses of aircraft in a military support capacity. Unfortunately a serious injury received during his time in college made him unable to stand the long watches required of all naval personnel, severely hampering his chances of promotion. As a result he requested early retirement and was discharged with honors in 1916. Unfortunately as the United States was gearing up for war, he was not allowed to rest long. As a retired naval officer he was charged with the administration and overseeing the training of the Rhode Island militia.

He did so well that he was commissioned to do the same with several other New England states.
After the war he was free to engage in his real passion, exploration. A trip to the Philippines at the age of 12 had sparked a burning wanderlust in the young man, which drove him to seek out others with similar inclinations. This led to several expeditions, for which he was most famous. He was the first successful man to head an expedition and navigate a plane over the North Pole. He attempted to cross the Atlantic in a similar model plane and was beaten by Charles Lindbergh in this triumph by a matter of days.

He continued these expeditions, both public and government funded, for the remainder of his life. At the time of his death he left numerous notebooks and diaries, and a paper trail of his exploits numbering over 1.5 million documents. However there is one discrepancy that has historians stumped. He left no information regarding the government funded Operation Highjump in 1947, a year long mission of exploration into Antarctica which brought over 4,700 men occupying 13 well supplied vessels. Curiously this expedition was ended six months early with no official explanation of why or what their findings were. Conspiracy theorists propose that it was an attempt by the US government to hunt down a secret Nazi stronghold located beneath the ice of Antarctica.

A diary has recently been published which is supposedly that of Richard Byrd, who by then had been given the navy title of Rear Admiral. It’s been published under the simple name of The Missing Diary of Admiral Byrd. It is the goal of this document to assess the possible validity of this diary based on differential analysis with the proven diaries of Admiral Byrd from previous expeditions. These methods include comparisons in writing style, prose, grammar, as well as psychological inferences based on what is actually known about the man.

The most immediate discrepancy that jumps out from the first page of the unofficial diary is the introduction. There should not be one. This is supposed to be a personal diary and has no need of an introduction to the reader. This is not in keeping with Byrd’s solemn and businesslike demeanor, which is so well portrayed in his verified diaries from previous expeditions, all of which lack introductions.

The overall feeling in this diary is inconsistent with the mindset of his previous journals. He was known to be an intelligent, detail oriented, man of action. Though not particularly religious, he was somewhat superstitious, looking for patterns in the world around him. Above all, he had faith in the basic good of the human race. The introduction was written from the point of view of someone who does not have this faith. It also charged certain words for dramatic effect by capitalizing them, such as Faith, Greed, Exploitation, and Truth. This is obviously not in keeping with him, as he lacked a sense of dramatic altogether.

Certain details which Byrd would, as a habit, include are missing. The rest of the diary is apparently written during Byrd’s flight over the South Pole, a flight which officially does not exist according to any of the personal journals or diaries of those who were a part of the expedition. Byrd’s previous flight logs always included the date, time, place, weather conditions, names of other passengers in the plane, as well as the type of plane that was being flown. No such information is given in this log.

A serious discrepancy involves Byrd’s place in the plane. The log later suggests that Byrd was flying the plane, despite the fact that he was navigating, as well as writing in his log at the same time. Historically he was a navigator who had not flown a plane since his first attempts as a junior naval officer. In truth, would not have been flying the plane, which would’ve accommodated a separate pilot. Even if he had, he would not have been able to fly while performing the necessary navigational calculations. Also he mentioned a radioman with him, whom he once referred to as Howie. The duty roster of Operation Highjump, which has since been made public, does not include a radio operator by the name Howie or Howard.

Aside from all this, both the content and the structure of the individual log entries arouse the most suspicion in regards to their validity. Byrd was in the habit of shortening his sentences by cutting out such words as “I, We, They, It, etc”. Even then, he was very sparing with what he wrote, using one or two sentences in an entry to convey the facts and let one draw their own conclusions. The sentence structure of the unofficial log is both whole and far too excessive, using whole paragraphs to convey meaning and including emotional content. The presence of emotion was not something seen in any of his previous diaries. Being raised in rural Virginia around the turn of the century, it was likely he was well trained in equipoise, a sublime mixture or balance as well as an iron grip over one’s emotions that allow one to hold fast against all disasters. It may be a bit dated, but the best example of a master of equipoise is Confederate General Robert E. Lee. As such emotion would have no place in this log.

Furthermore, Byrd was very sparing in his use of punctuation, particularly exclamation points. In all of his official diaries combined, he used only three exclamation points. Again this is indicative of his businesslike demeanor. Often a life threatening situation or even the triumph of having reached the North Pole was not sufficient for him to use an exclamation point. While the contents of the unofficial diary are fantastical and far fetched in the extreme, it’s likely he would’ve faced them with the same stalwart demeanor. In this log there are upwards of fifty exclamation points, not at all in keeping with his personality.

Based on this evidence it’s only logical to conclude that this unofficial diary is just that. Unofficial. The use of prose, sentence structure, punctuation, and mindset is far too different from works which are known to have been written by Rear Admiral Richard E. Byrd to validate the claim that he wrote this diary. In fact, the inconsistencies with his modus operendi as well as the facts known about him compared to the erroneous details in the diary suggest he most definitely did not write it.

Situation Report

Howdy yall. It’s been a while. I’m trying to post at least once a week to my other site, as well as 5 times a week on this site. The last time I posted anything about myself was some months ago, and a lot has happened since then.

First, I successfully completed all four cycles of my chemotherapy. I had a CT Scan done a few weeks ago and my oncologist says the cancer is gone.

Before all you start cheering, both of you, I should say that the doctor expects the cancer will come back before the year is out. Apparently this type of carcinoma has a 70% relapse rate within the first few years. To that end I’m getting scans and blood work done every 10 weeks.

I had a bit of a scare a few weeks ago, just as I was recovering from my last cycle of chemo. I was very tired and couldn’t stand for more than a few seconds. Any more than that and I felt a strange heaviness in my chest. Not good. Like an idiot I tried to wait it out. I mentioned it to my folks and they shanghaied me into going to the emergency room.

Turns out it was a pulmonary embolism. You see, I developed blood clots in my arm from the induction port they stuck in me several weeks prior. My arm swelled up to twice its normal size and it felt like someone was ripping the veins out of my arm with red hot fishhooks; not pleasant. My oncologist gave me a few shots of a blood thinner, removed the port, and sent on my way. My arm shrank down to normal and stopped hurting. The down side to this was that without the induction port, I had to receive my last week of chemo intravenously. I have extremely deep veins which are so thick-walled that they tend to roll out of the way whenever a needle pokes them, consequently I get stuck 3 or 4 times before they successfully get an IV going. This wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t have to do it everyday for a week. That’s a lot of needle marks people.

In any case, I thought the clots had been broken up. I was wrong. One of the blood clots migrated to my right lung, where it took up residence and threatened to break free, travel to my brain, and either kill me or leave me a drooling vegetable. Fun stuff.

I spent a week in the hospital, where they monitored me and put me on blood thinners. Again I had to have an IV going 24/7, though my veins were already trashed from the chemo the week before. Let’s not forget the blood they drew every 4 hours to make sure it was thin enough. I’ve got an idea for them, how about we check to see if the poor bastard’s bleeding like a faucet from his open wounds? (I was, lost half a pint on my first day before the nurse could waddle in with a compress. 20 Fricken minutes after I screamed for help, even though my room right against the hallway nurse’s station. I just ended up using my pillowcase) What a freaking concept, might even have saved them the time it took to do the blood tests.

What really gets me is that, on my second to last day in the hospital, they told me my blood levels were low. Of course they f---ing were! They were taking it all! Some blank eyed cow-like wage slave with a 12 gauge needle speared me in the arm every couple hours for a week and my bone marrow was shot from the chemo. What the hell did they expect! So I ended up staying an extra night while they gave me blood.

I don’t know which I liked more, the hallucinations from sleep deprivation, or the guy next door hacking up his lungs. Normally I’ve got a bit more compassion for the ill, though if you’ve been following these rants, you’ll know not by much. But this guy was unbelievable; it was the most fake cough I ever heard, a wall-piercing shout. After about the second day of this non-stop phlegm fest, I started paying attention to the pattern. This moldering old bastard only every made a peep when someone walked by his door! Damned faker was looking for attention.
When I was finally discharged I took the time to poke my head in his room and tell him to get better, die, or shut the f--- up, but quit making everyone else miserable. The look on his face made me feel better than anything I’ve known in years!

You may be wondering about the sleep deprivation thing. First off, I’ve never been able to sleep on my back… ever. With an IV in my arm constantly, I couldn’t really roll on my side. Also, remember I’m getting people coming in to take blood every 4 hours. On top of that, I’ve got a pressure cuff on my other arm taking my blood pressure every 15 minutes, and an LPN coming in every 15 minutes to chart it down. What’s more, and possibly most annoying, is that the night nurses gossiped like hens. They wouldn’t shut up for their entire 12 hour shifts. Keep in mind that the nurse station where they hang out is right next to my door, to the degree that, whenever they rolled their chairs back to stand up, the chairs would hit the wall, creating a noise identical to a gunshot. Every…Damn…Time.

I’m still keyed up from having lived in Orlando, meaning I still reached for weapons every time I heard these noises. It was probably best my folks dis-armed me before having me admitted; else I might’ve taken a slice at a couple of the less pleasant people I was subjected to.

I think things came to a head when the night LPN, a pale little blond girl that looked younger than me, came into my room around 7 AM to ask me how I’d slept, as she was about to go off shift and had to hand the charts over to the day nurse.

Hollow eyed, tired, and infinitely frustrated, I smiled, showing teeth grinding against one another so hard they squeaked. “I would’ve slept better if I didn’t have to listen to your conversations all night.”

She smiled and laughed, waving her hand in airy dismissal, as if I were joking. “You couldn’t have heard us. The wall’s too thick.”

“Oh, no?” I said. “Well then, I suppose I’d sound crazy if I said that I hope that infection clears up for you.”

The look on her face was magic. Her jaw dropped, mouth forming a dumbfounded “O”. A moment later she colored a bright shade of red and covered her mouth with her hands as the horror of her embarrassment sank in. She turned and ran out of the room, and I never saw her again.

Had I not been so tired I would’ve laughed. It was her fault for talking so loudly about such private things in a public place. Did she honestly think no one would overhear?

Why didn’t I just sleep during the day, you ask? Because I received roughly 5 visits an hour from: candy stripers, nurses, LPNs, medical technicians, doctors, phlebotomists, bureaucrats, well-wishers, cleaning staff, cooking staff, people wanting to change my linens and ordering me out of bed, the senile, the mentally ill, patient’s so zonked on pain meds they had no idea where they were, and random passersby looking for other patient’s rooms who somehow thought I was some sort of freaking directory. I was a bald, half-naked, pale, bloodless, and supremely pissed of twenty-something with more drugs pumped into him than Keith Richards; how the hell should I know where their great aunt Flo was?

With that being said, this happened almost a month ago, and my arms are still nothing but black and purple blotches from all the blown veins. Apparently I’ve developed so much scar tissue that some of them can never be used again, I don’t know whether to be annoyed or relieved by that.
I’m still on blood thinners, which is incredibly frustrating as there are certain things I can’t do, drinking being the foremost among them. Normally I try not to drink frequently or heavily, because it can become too much of a habit very easily, but I felt that I was allowed a small reward given that I’d gotten through this medical hell. A glass of bourbon or two didn’t seem like such a terrible thing. Unfortunately I’m still waiting for that glass, and I’ll have to wait another few months.

On a side-note, while my eyes are by no means cured, my new ophthalmologist has given me a prescription for a new type of eye drop which seems to be helping the pain and dryness. Too bad they cost more than the national deficit. Oh, did I mention that they’ve also been linked with glaucoma? Yeah. But that’ll come in a couple decades. Surely by then I won’t have need of my eyes, right? Cure is worse than the damned cure, every time.

But hey, at least I’m cancer free for the moment. Well, not quite. Turns out that my CT Scan which my oncologist said was clean wasn’t clean. That really increases my confidence in her, I can tell you. The bargain basement physician at the free clinic who is my referring doctor noticed it. Apparently I’ve got a mass in my gall bladder, the technical term for which is a “Soft Tissue Opacity”. The report said that it did not match the profile of gallstones. So I’m scheduled for an ultrasound this upcoming Thursday to see if this is what I think it is.

I researched what can cause this “Soft Tissue Opacity”, and have found little in the way of conclusive information. Apparently most hystemic cancers are characterized by hard tissue opacities, the soft tissue opacity being a minor secondary characteristic for such cancers in their latest stages. But the CT Scan didn’t show any hard tissue opacities, which would’ve showed up much more clearly than anything else. So the question remains, what the hell is it? I’ll find out Thursday.

Your normal story posts will resume Monday.

Update Update

Well folks, it's been a while. Don't know if anyone's still hanging around to read this after being gone so long, but I'll write even if no one else ever reads it, I'm either that stubborn or stupid; you decide.

First, the good news. I am currently cancer free, which is a huge weight off my mind. The bad news is that my oncologist says that the cancer's likely to come back within the first year. Visions of IV fluids and bags of chemo drugs are still keeping me awake at night. I tell you, if it weren't for the dying part, I'd say the cure is worse than the disease. On top of that my last round of treatment resulted in a couple blood clots in my arms which migrated to my right lung. Can you say Pulmonary Embolism?

So now I'm on blood thinners for the next three months with strict instructions not to smoke or drink. That kinda kills my cancer-free celebration plans, but I suppose it could be worse.

Anyway I spent my down-time coming up with more story ideas, actually managing to write a few, and increasing the size of my rejection letter collection. I'm at about 60 now, which is pretty decent when you consider I haven't been trying to write professionally for all that long.

Most of my stories, the good ones at least, tend to be around 10,000 words long. The real kick in the teeth is that most magazines won't consider any story over 5,000 words. I tried trimming one of my stories down today. It didn't work out so well. The story is still readable, but frankly it lost all of the qualities that made it interesting, at least in my opinion. It's tough to present a meaningful story in such a short space. Practically no room to develop characters so you care about what happens to them.

The thing that gets me is that most of the short stories that I read are much longer. The shortest HP Lovecraft wrote was almost 15,000 words long. So why is there such a discrepency between what they'll print nowadays and what they printed back in the heyday of speculative and science fiction?

Anyway, moving on. I've come up with a number of other ghost stories featuring Miyamoto Musashi, the storylines atleast. Ideally I'll compile them in a book in which each story occurs at a different time in his life, showcasing how the man changed and grew. I've already researched the man's life and mentality in some detail, but I'll need to find reference material for life in Japan during the early 1600s as well as the story locations. I've got a really good one in mind which takes place in Himeji castle, where he designed its world-famous gardens. The castle is so old that I figure a few buried seals keeping long-dormant demons would be plausible, thanks to Joilene, a good friend, for the demon ideas.

I've also done a story featuring Heaven's bounty hunter. I like it, but since it pulls from Judaism rather than Christianity, most people who read it think that the portrayal of angels doesn't fit. Think "The Prophecy" set in the Old West and you won't be too far off. I've got to let it sit for a week or two before I go back and start chopping. Frankly that part is tougher than writing it. It always irks me, having to wait, leaving the story to sit. I've got about a half dozen stories sitting, and I'm champing at the bit to get at them, but for one reason or other I can't. Sons of Odin is a great example of this. People read it, they like, but something's always missing. I've decided to try to turn it into a full length novel as it shoves so much information at the reader that most of it is missed. I haven't even begun to collect research material for it yet, so I don't imagine it will be done for years to come, if ever.

I was working on scripting out a full-length novel, kind of a Dean Koontzish style supernatural murder mystery. Includes some of the local Native-American beliefs in the Orlando that only people who've lived there know. Unfortunately I've had to put that on hold for the forseeable future until I can get back to work and start making some money. I should be working on getting the bills paid right now, but the wrtiting bug has got me firmly by the lugs. It's all I can think about, all that I do, all that I am. I've got to wait on the local library to get my research material for most of my promising stories; I don't have the money to go out and buy them, and the waiting is driving me crazy...Well, crazier.

In the meantime I guess I'll just make the rest of my household nuts as I talk incessantly about my work, bouncing ideas back and forth until they want to scream.

I don't know how often I'll be updating. I've got a goodly amount of time on my hands while I recuperate, but not much more to talk about. When I'm working I may have something to talk about, but probably not the time to do so. Oh well, we'll see how things go.