Jarn swiftly adapted to the life of a traveler, his clan had not had much belief in possessions, though it strongly urged being self sufficient, and this was something he was good at. In the morning he would awake earlier than the others and had learned after a few experiments that being in the front of the breakfast line didn’t necessarily mean that you would get the largest portions. Gerda had a network of cook aids, spies, and informants which allowed her to know at any time where someone was and how much work they had been doing. She was of the old school philosophy that the more work a person did, the more they deserved to eat. So Jarn would volunteer every morning to go out and cut firewood for her, he would return later with a cord of wood and, with a smile of gratitude and wink of approval from Gerda, would be given two-to-three times larger helpings than anyone else. With most people this would seem like gluttony, but because of Jarn’s impromptu starvation, massive size, and the fact that he worked harder than most anyone had ever seen kept him hungry too.
After breaking his fast, Jarn would load up his things into the guards’ wagon and go to see Terris, where he would then be given instructions for the day. At first they had tried to teach him how to use a crossbow. Things worked out very well and he could hit a target just as good as any of the others, but when he accidentally pulled the string back too hard when reloading one and ripped the crossbow in half, Terris had a fit and tossed him over to Kyle. Kyle was the caravan’s wrangler, he took care of the wagons and the animals that pulled them. Tragedy befell once again when a particularly nasty mule with an amazing sense of anatomy kicked Jarn as he was tying it up to the wagon with it’s team. The poor animal must’ve had at least three broken ribs from the punch Jarn sent it’s way.
Everyone was about to give up when Gerda commented on his ability with an ax. The idea of Jarn clearing and widening the trail, far ahead of them, where he could do no harm, was very appealing. So he would spend most of the day trudging ahead of the wagons with his war ax. Having accidentally broken through the wooden haft of one of the communal axes, he decided that the solid iron haft of one of his own beautifully carved masterpieces to be more sturdy and reliable than the dandy little things that the rest seemed content to use.
The scrub and pine which he was sweeping away was becoming less common. It was replaced by yew and other types of warmer climate trees. They were slowly working their way south. By the time Jarn would get to thinking about their destination and his strength would begin to flag, Kyle would call a stop to the procession and they would break for lunch.
One of the innumerable children Gerda had working for her would bring Jarn water and utensils for washing, she was a stickler for cleanliness and knew that he would work hard and stink bad enough to make the food gag by then. Lunch was normally salted pork with any number of pickled vegetables, hardly great fare but enough to keep a person going. Jarn would normally forgo the niceties of eating with the others and go back out to the clearing he had carved just hours ago. It gave him time to think and rest without being interrogated by the other, ever curious travelers. His only regret was not being able to see Millienya, she was in his thoughts more and more often. With her fine hair, blonde as cornsilk, and her radiant sky blue eyes.
After lunch, while he mindlessly chopped away at any offending plant matter in reach, a few camp followers or an occasional guard would visit him every so often to take away the fallen wood or bring refreshments. Sometimes he would get into a conversation with Seryan or Karnar as he worked, but the never once saw Lars though, somehow Millienya had managed to keep her word and Jarn did not have to worry about awaking with a knife stuck in him.
From these talks he learned a number of things. Seryan was from the distant city of Doneliss, a large city-state in southern Bretolia, which was the caravan’s destination as well as his. His father was a merchant that traded with a number of distant tribes in Kormusleiv. He had been sent in his father’s place to hammer out a new trade agreement with a tribe which had split off from another larger group. He was curiously reluctant to relinquish the details of his escapades. Jarn soon found out from Karnar that the reason he was so far from home and extremely quiet is that there had been a death in his family. His beloved wife and Jarn’s cousin-in-law, Katherine, had died while giving birth to their first child. What’s worse is that the child didn’t survive either. Karnar mourned for months, hardly sleeping or eating. Then one day he simply picked up his few belongings and left, he didn’t care where he went or how he got there. All he knew was that he couldn’t stand to live with Katherine’s death, so he ran away. A few days into his traveling he happened upon the camping caravan and joined them for lack of anything better to do.
Jarn didn’t move a muscle for the entire time Karnar spoke. It was absolutely awful about what happened. Jarn had known Katherine too and she was always in good health and full of life. Although he racked his brain, Jarn couldn’t think of a single thing to say that might possibly ease Karnar’s sorrow. All he could do was nod his head and go back to work.
Showing posts with label berserker. Show all posts
Showing posts with label berserker. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
Berserker Part 9
Among the cool intermittent plains and forests which dotted the mainland lies a small town. Named Halfway by some joker from times past, probably due to the fact that it’s one of the bordertowns which dot the countryside, between two different regions. It was a common thing to trick tax collectors by saying that they paid taxes to the other region’s ruler, no country was on well enough terms to question another about such matters, which neatly allowed the inhabitants to ignore the entire subject and continue making a modest living.
Halfway was exactly between the heavily forested, trading region of Bretolia and the near endless farming plains of Gath, which provided business for a little of the former and much of the latter. The town itself was surrounded by small walls on all four sides and most men were expected to attend militia drills and keep up archery practice whenever the fields allowed. In many cases this had saved the little town from roving bands of things passing through the Bretolian forests.
At this time of night, anyone who wasn’t in bed was at the Sign of The Castaway, the proprietor family had settled there after working on trading ships for so long the sight of blue made them sick. So they pulled up stakes, taking their newborn daughter with them, and moved inland, where they established a nice little inn, one of just a few two story buildings in town. The inn was a marvel of Hargram the owner’s craftsmanship, with not a single splinter or rough spot in the place. Made of the richest mahogany through and through, with beautiful trellised walls and frosted windows. It was more than sixteen years old, but the old wood structure still shone like new due to Silva’s, Hargram’s wife, constant scrutiny and care.
It’s large common room was full of bulky, heavily built farmers who’ve come to talk with friends, exchange gossip, and relax from the day’s work. Old men huddled around the fire, smoking and complaining about how nothing , not even fire was as good as they had in the old days. A pretty little girl, almost out of her teens, walked through the crowd, delivering mugs of beer and plates of food. She had creamy white skin, and stood a little over five feet. The most striking thing about her was her hair, black as a raven’s wing. She looked nothing like her parents. Her father, Hargram, who was busy filling glasses, was a man of average height with a look of wiry strength about his extremely dark, grizzled features, his only concession was his glittering blue eyes set deep into his skull, giving him a hooded, knowing sense. Her mother, Silva, was likewise short and heavily tanned with more normal blonde hair. They had both come from some island far off from the mainland and the inn had been made most famous by the secret of distilling rum which Hargram had brought with him.
As the girl passed a table on her way back to the kitchen, she was grabbed by the waist and pulled down face-to-face with someone she never saw before. He was dressed in stained and tattered, poorly stitched clothes, obviously some lowlife passing through and looking for a fight.
“Hi, there”, he said. The smell of alcohol nearly blew her over and she could see his eyes were clouded from too much of Hargram’s Finest. “Give us a kiss”.
She tried to pull away but wasn’t strong enough. Another man came up from behind the stranger and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Could you let Selenne go about her work?”, he asked calmly. His eyes were two chips of ice around a face that radiated disapproval.
“What’s she tyoo?” the man slurred, oblivious to the man’s anger.
“She’s my daughter, now get out or I’ll make you”, came a reply with snake speed.
“You’ll make me what?” the befuddled stranger said while still holding on to Selenne.
Most of the room had quieted down, Hargram was not a normally violent man, but he was extremely touchy when it came to his daughter. The silence buzzed with the single thought; this should be good.
“Leave”, Hargram said steadily, trying to help along the man’s slow witted brain. he had seen this man’s kind before. Cruel, small-minded men who were down on their luck and decide to spread the misery around.
“Why should I leave when I have done nothing wrong?!”, he screamed, tossing Selenne away and drawing a long knife, brandishing the cheap blade in the air.
Half the room backed up and the rest closed in, some wanting to help Hargram and the rest anxiously awaiting the ensuing climax.
The man lunged forward sloppily, giving Hargram plenty of time to sidestep the man. As the drunk regained his balance, Hargram pulled a cosh from his belt and smacked the leather bound length of iron against the back of the man’s head, dropping him with little more than a moan. This was drowned out by the groans of the spectators. They were disappointed for two simple reasons. While they expected a larger fight, it was a rule of Hargram’s that the minute a fight broke out within his establishment, it would close immediately for the rest of the night.
As Hargram walked over to help up Selenne, the drinkers and talkers took turns kicking the unconscious stranger on their way to the door, muttering about foreigners ruining things for the rest of them and complaining about having to go home to their families earlier than necessary.
Selenne said she would be fine, but her assailant wouldn’t. Almost every male in town resided in that inn, at one kick per person, the stranger would be mighty bruised by morning. Hargram was a smart enough man that he didn’t need to be violent.
The three worked in silence with a precision born of years of routine, locking the heavy oak door, taking up dirty glasses, cleaning tables, stopping up the beer kegs, and sweeping the floor before they blew out all the lamps and went upstairs to their rooms.
As Selenne dozed off, she reflected on her life and its direction. It wasn’t that difficult of a job and that day had been the one day in a long time when she had been assailed. Even strangers got word that to mess around with Selenne would mean to be black and blue for a month. Basically it was a peaceful life, basically.
Halfway was exactly between the heavily forested, trading region of Bretolia and the near endless farming plains of Gath, which provided business for a little of the former and much of the latter. The town itself was surrounded by small walls on all four sides and most men were expected to attend militia drills and keep up archery practice whenever the fields allowed. In many cases this had saved the little town from roving bands of things passing through the Bretolian forests.
At this time of night, anyone who wasn’t in bed was at the Sign of The Castaway, the proprietor family had settled there after working on trading ships for so long the sight of blue made them sick. So they pulled up stakes, taking their newborn daughter with them, and moved inland, where they established a nice little inn, one of just a few two story buildings in town. The inn was a marvel of Hargram the owner’s craftsmanship, with not a single splinter or rough spot in the place. Made of the richest mahogany through and through, with beautiful trellised walls and frosted windows. It was more than sixteen years old, but the old wood structure still shone like new due to Silva’s, Hargram’s wife, constant scrutiny and care.
It’s large common room was full of bulky, heavily built farmers who’ve come to talk with friends, exchange gossip, and relax from the day’s work. Old men huddled around the fire, smoking and complaining about how nothing , not even fire was as good as they had in the old days. A pretty little girl, almost out of her teens, walked through the crowd, delivering mugs of beer and plates of food. She had creamy white skin, and stood a little over five feet. The most striking thing about her was her hair, black as a raven’s wing. She looked nothing like her parents. Her father, Hargram, who was busy filling glasses, was a man of average height with a look of wiry strength about his extremely dark, grizzled features, his only concession was his glittering blue eyes set deep into his skull, giving him a hooded, knowing sense. Her mother, Silva, was likewise short and heavily tanned with more normal blonde hair. They had both come from some island far off from the mainland and the inn had been made most famous by the secret of distilling rum which Hargram had brought with him.
As the girl passed a table on her way back to the kitchen, she was grabbed by the waist and pulled down face-to-face with someone she never saw before. He was dressed in stained and tattered, poorly stitched clothes, obviously some lowlife passing through and looking for a fight.
“Hi, there”, he said. The smell of alcohol nearly blew her over and she could see his eyes were clouded from too much of Hargram’s Finest. “Give us a kiss”.
She tried to pull away but wasn’t strong enough. Another man came up from behind the stranger and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Could you let Selenne go about her work?”, he asked calmly. His eyes were two chips of ice around a face that radiated disapproval.
“What’s she tyoo?” the man slurred, oblivious to the man’s anger.
“She’s my daughter, now get out or I’ll make you”, came a reply with snake speed.
“You’ll make me what?” the befuddled stranger said while still holding on to Selenne.
Most of the room had quieted down, Hargram was not a normally violent man, but he was extremely touchy when it came to his daughter. The silence buzzed with the single thought; this should be good.
“Leave”, Hargram said steadily, trying to help along the man’s slow witted brain. he had seen this man’s kind before. Cruel, small-minded men who were down on their luck and decide to spread the misery around.
“Why should I leave when I have done nothing wrong?!”, he screamed, tossing Selenne away and drawing a long knife, brandishing the cheap blade in the air.
Half the room backed up and the rest closed in, some wanting to help Hargram and the rest anxiously awaiting the ensuing climax.
The man lunged forward sloppily, giving Hargram plenty of time to sidestep the man. As the drunk regained his balance, Hargram pulled a cosh from his belt and smacked the leather bound length of iron against the back of the man’s head, dropping him with little more than a moan. This was drowned out by the groans of the spectators. They were disappointed for two simple reasons. While they expected a larger fight, it was a rule of Hargram’s that the minute a fight broke out within his establishment, it would close immediately for the rest of the night.
As Hargram walked over to help up Selenne, the drinkers and talkers took turns kicking the unconscious stranger on their way to the door, muttering about foreigners ruining things for the rest of them and complaining about having to go home to their families earlier than necessary.
Selenne said she would be fine, but her assailant wouldn’t. Almost every male in town resided in that inn, at one kick per person, the stranger would be mighty bruised by morning. Hargram was a smart enough man that he didn’t need to be violent.
The three worked in silence with a precision born of years of routine, locking the heavy oak door, taking up dirty glasses, cleaning tables, stopping up the beer kegs, and sweeping the floor before they blew out all the lamps and went upstairs to their rooms.
As Selenne dozed off, she reflected on her life and its direction. It wasn’t that difficult of a job and that day had been the one day in a long time when she had been assailed. Even strangers got word that to mess around with Selenne would mean to be black and blue for a month. Basically it was a peaceful life, basically.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Berserker part 7
It was a beautiful morning, the sun was up and the birds were no longer singing, having been shot by Lars, who had been awake long before the rest, and were on their way to the spit. He walked through the camp, most of its inhabitants were just waking up. Gerda, the cook, would be happy to see the fresh game that he was carrying. He passed the clerks’ sparse and conservative wagon, as well as the normal congregation of camp followers and workers waiting for their wages.
“I told ya not ta hunt wi’ that crossbow!” growled a harsh voice behind him. “It’s too expensive to risk you losin’ or breaking on some damn fool jaunt o’ yourn!” Lars turned slowly with his hands raised in mock fear. It was Terris the quartermaster, also known as the Terror, and the rightful owner of all the bows that the guards carried. He was a short, stocky man, who was no stranger to hard work, and was very protective of what he issued, but kept them in excellent condition.
“Sorry”, Lars said. “Gerda said to find some fresh meat, we’re running low.”
“I’ll have ta talk ta her then”, Tarris responded, gruffly forgiving him for the minor infraction. Lars smiled to himself as he walked off, all he had to do now was make sure that the pheasants were cooked before Terris would get around to complaining with Gerda and finding she never said anything about needing meat. A little of Gerda’s heavenly fare was usually enough to appease him.
A few dozen more paces brought him to the ghost of a cookfire that the companions had all bedded down around. Millienya and Gerda were chatting and Jarn was still curled up on his bedroll. He had heard Jarn talking and screaming during the night, but with all that boy had been through, Lars was surprised he could sleep at all.
Gerda took the pheasants with a grateful look and began plucking and gutting them. “You had better go get some firewood unless you want to eat these raw”, she said as her scarred hands prepared the birds with blinding speed and dexterity.
“Aw!, I did it yesterday!”, Lars whined.
“Well take that sleeping giant with you”, Gerda said, jerking a thumb toward Jarn. “Looks like he could rip a tree out of the ground by himself. He has nothing to do around here anyway”.
Lars walked over to Jarn’s pallet and lovingly placed his boot in the sleeper’s ear. It didn’t even phase the boy, before Lars knew what was happening, he was on the ground with a massive set of hands around his throat. Only then did Jarn’s eyes snap open, signaling his waking. He looked down at Lars’ startled features, recognizing the man. Jarn quickly released his grip and slunk away, ashamed, embarrassed, and hastily wiping the beginnings of tears from his eyes.
Lars got to his feet. “What the hell was that about!?” he demanded. He made to follow Jarn but Millienya acted quickly and stopped him with a hand to the shoulder.
“I’ll go see what’s wrong”, she said.
“Alright”, Lars replied, “But tell him never to touch me again”.
Millienya quickly turned around to hide the smirk from her brother’s observant eyes. If he “touched” Lars again, Jarn would probably pop the man’s head off. She then followed Jarn to the rear of the caravan, he was rummaging through the workmen’s wagon when she caught up to him.
“Will you be sound?”, she tentatively inquired.
“Yeah”, he replied over his shoulder, still looking through the wagon.
“Is there something you need to talk abo-
“Where are the choppers?”, he interrupted, spinning around with a sense of urgency.
She pointed to the very rear of the wagon where the axes and saws were. He grabbed two of each and pushed his way past her.
“I told ya not ta hunt wi’ that crossbow!” growled a harsh voice behind him. “It’s too expensive to risk you losin’ or breaking on some damn fool jaunt o’ yourn!” Lars turned slowly with his hands raised in mock fear. It was Terris the quartermaster, also known as the Terror, and the rightful owner of all the bows that the guards carried. He was a short, stocky man, who was no stranger to hard work, and was very protective of what he issued, but kept them in excellent condition.
“Sorry”, Lars said. “Gerda said to find some fresh meat, we’re running low.”
“I’ll have ta talk ta her then”, Tarris responded, gruffly forgiving him for the minor infraction. Lars smiled to himself as he walked off, all he had to do now was make sure that the pheasants were cooked before Terris would get around to complaining with Gerda and finding she never said anything about needing meat. A little of Gerda’s heavenly fare was usually enough to appease him.
A few dozen more paces brought him to the ghost of a cookfire that the companions had all bedded down around. Millienya and Gerda were chatting and Jarn was still curled up on his bedroll. He had heard Jarn talking and screaming during the night, but with all that boy had been through, Lars was surprised he could sleep at all.
Gerda took the pheasants with a grateful look and began plucking and gutting them. “You had better go get some firewood unless you want to eat these raw”, she said as her scarred hands prepared the birds with blinding speed and dexterity.
“Aw!, I did it yesterday!”, Lars whined.
“Well take that sleeping giant with you”, Gerda said, jerking a thumb toward Jarn. “Looks like he could rip a tree out of the ground by himself. He has nothing to do around here anyway”.
Lars walked over to Jarn’s pallet and lovingly placed his boot in the sleeper’s ear. It didn’t even phase the boy, before Lars knew what was happening, he was on the ground with a massive set of hands around his throat. Only then did Jarn’s eyes snap open, signaling his waking. He looked down at Lars’ startled features, recognizing the man. Jarn quickly released his grip and slunk away, ashamed, embarrassed, and hastily wiping the beginnings of tears from his eyes.
Lars got to his feet. “What the hell was that about!?” he demanded. He made to follow Jarn but Millienya acted quickly and stopped him with a hand to the shoulder.
“I’ll go see what’s wrong”, she said.
“Alright”, Lars replied, “But tell him never to touch me again”.
Millienya quickly turned around to hide the smirk from her brother’s observant eyes. If he “touched” Lars again, Jarn would probably pop the man’s head off. She then followed Jarn to the rear of the caravan, he was rummaging through the workmen’s wagon when she caught up to him.
“Will you be sound?”, she tentatively inquired.
“Yeah”, he replied over his shoulder, still looking through the wagon.
“Is there something you need to talk abo-
“Where are the choppers?”, he interrupted, spinning around with a sense of urgency.
She pointed to the very rear of the wagon where the axes and saws were. He grabbed two of each and pushed his way past her.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Berserker Part 6
The group was asleep long before he decided it was safe to sneak from the clearing where they had chosen to camp. It was a clear, cool summer night. The greater and lesser moons chased each other through the sky as the stars twinkled above and the air was filled with the sounds of all the nocturnal animals awaking.
The smoldering embers of the cooking fire gave just enough light to see a rippling in the air, as a pebble is thrown into a pond. As his eyes lingered on the shimmering he could feel heat on the nape of his neck, he turned around and was nearly blinded by the flaring embers. They had risen off the ground and were swooping towards him! He threw himself to the ground and the hot coals soared over him and interposed themselves over the shimmering in the air, melding together to form a smoking and sputtering doorway. Inside was darkness, not the absence of light, but the essence of darkness. A sort of anti-light. The man quickly shielded his eyes, to look into that doorway was to brave blindness. Where it led could be found on no map or atlas, for it was a tear in the boundaries of this world. He ran through the doorway, making sure not to burn himself.
He floated through the void, on fire and frozen, dead and alive, his body was dissolved. Yet his thoughts remained. He thought of his lungs and there they were, he thought of his heart and there it was. Piece by piece he was reassembled, kneeling in front of a large stone table.
It looked as if this table was the very first ever created, covered with arcane symbols and patterns which glowed with an eerie inner fire and hurt the eyes when viewed, it was a proto-table. Of the gargantuan seats surrounding the table, only 3 were occupied. One was dressed in the skins of creatures that the world was thankful to have never known, a bow of black iron and a quiver close at hand. The other was cloaked and cowled, only his pale, gnarled hands were visible. His body shook and jumped like a man in the throes of a terminal illness. The third was sitting at the head of the table in a throne carved out of ebony, the semblance’s of screaming demons were carved into its surface and seemed to writhe when looked upon. His body was swathed in blood red armor, its surface had a glistening organic quality, seeming to sweat in the stifling air. Not even his eyes were visible through the slits in his helmet.
Lit candelabras surrounding the table burned brightly, but only served to further alienate the 3 from anything that could be considered normal. The room they occupied was absolutely cavernous. It was so large that the lights didn’t even illuminate the walls or ceiling. He fervently hoped that there were walls and a ceiling, that could surely be the only explanation for the oppressive gloom that weighted the air.
He took a few steps toward the foot of the table, after this didn’t make any real change in his distance from them, he realized how large the figures actually were. They seemed to have been constructed at a size one fifth larger than normal, and the furniture was equally cut to their proportions. It took him a few more moments to get to within easy speaking distance.
“What have you to report?”, demanded the armored being. Strange, he could’ve sworn that he never saw the knight move and his ears never heard a thing, but he knew the figure’s question. The being’s voice bypassing the ears and sending the question straight to his mind, there seemed to be a hollow, echoing quality to the words.
He forced himself to speak “The Bloodthorns have been stopped short of their goal, my lord”. His words came out thin and quiet, as if the oppressive weight of the air was trying to crush them. “They were destroyed in Jeriscar”.
A shrieking cackle was received in response. He looked over to see that it was the sound of the figure clad in skins laughing. It looked to the cowled being and said in a voice that altered pitch with nearly every word to the point where it could’ve broken glass at times, “I told you that those greenskinned runts would do no good Dommiel!” It was clear that this one had thrown itself into the pit of insanity and had dwelt happily in its bottom for some time. Thankfully, it spoke aloud rather than in that unholy mindspeech that was used before.
The cowled creature known as Dommiel just chuckled to himself and waved a clawlike hand in the air. The darkness was driven further away by the apparition which sprang forth there. It took the shape of a very large man, rail thin and tired looking, but with a fire of determination in his eyes. The prostating figure at the foot of the table gasped in recognition as he saw that it was Jarn.
Dommiel replied in a voice that was choked with the secretions and pustules of a thousand plagues, “I had hopes that they wouldn’t make it. It would’ve meant that my scrying led me astray. Seeing as it didn’t, let’s not trouble ourselves with such matters”.
“Who is he?”, intoned the suit of armor with the same hollow voice.
“I was just getting to that Zepar”, Dommiel said, bridling at having been interrupted. “This boy has a fire which drew me from leagues away, he will serve as the perfect vessel”.
A few moments of stunned silence followed this shocking news. The worshipper shifted uncomfortably, inadvertently regaining the attention of the three seated demons. “You will protect this boy with your life to make sure that he reaches the ancient place” , Zepar said. There was no arguing with his words, it wasn’t an order or question, it was a simple statement of fact.
The smoldering embers of the cooking fire gave just enough light to see a rippling in the air, as a pebble is thrown into a pond. As his eyes lingered on the shimmering he could feel heat on the nape of his neck, he turned around and was nearly blinded by the flaring embers. They had risen off the ground and were swooping towards him! He threw himself to the ground and the hot coals soared over him and interposed themselves over the shimmering in the air, melding together to form a smoking and sputtering doorway. Inside was darkness, not the absence of light, but the essence of darkness. A sort of anti-light. The man quickly shielded his eyes, to look into that doorway was to brave blindness. Where it led could be found on no map or atlas, for it was a tear in the boundaries of this world. He ran through the doorway, making sure not to burn himself.
He floated through the void, on fire and frozen, dead and alive, his body was dissolved. Yet his thoughts remained. He thought of his lungs and there they were, he thought of his heart and there it was. Piece by piece he was reassembled, kneeling in front of a large stone table.
It looked as if this table was the very first ever created, covered with arcane symbols and patterns which glowed with an eerie inner fire and hurt the eyes when viewed, it was a proto-table. Of the gargantuan seats surrounding the table, only 3 were occupied. One was dressed in the skins of creatures that the world was thankful to have never known, a bow of black iron and a quiver close at hand. The other was cloaked and cowled, only his pale, gnarled hands were visible. His body shook and jumped like a man in the throes of a terminal illness. The third was sitting at the head of the table in a throne carved out of ebony, the semblance’s of screaming demons were carved into its surface and seemed to writhe when looked upon. His body was swathed in blood red armor, its surface had a glistening organic quality, seeming to sweat in the stifling air. Not even his eyes were visible through the slits in his helmet.
Lit candelabras surrounding the table burned brightly, but only served to further alienate the 3 from anything that could be considered normal. The room they occupied was absolutely cavernous. It was so large that the lights didn’t even illuminate the walls or ceiling. He fervently hoped that there were walls and a ceiling, that could surely be the only explanation for the oppressive gloom that weighted the air.
He took a few steps toward the foot of the table, after this didn’t make any real change in his distance from them, he realized how large the figures actually were. They seemed to have been constructed at a size one fifth larger than normal, and the furniture was equally cut to their proportions. It took him a few more moments to get to within easy speaking distance.
“What have you to report?”, demanded the armored being. Strange, he could’ve sworn that he never saw the knight move and his ears never heard a thing, but he knew the figure’s question. The being’s voice bypassing the ears and sending the question straight to his mind, there seemed to be a hollow, echoing quality to the words.
He forced himself to speak “The Bloodthorns have been stopped short of their goal, my lord”. His words came out thin and quiet, as if the oppressive weight of the air was trying to crush them. “They were destroyed in Jeriscar”.
A shrieking cackle was received in response. He looked over to see that it was the sound of the figure clad in skins laughing. It looked to the cowled being and said in a voice that altered pitch with nearly every word to the point where it could’ve broken glass at times, “I told you that those greenskinned runts would do no good Dommiel!” It was clear that this one had thrown itself into the pit of insanity and had dwelt happily in its bottom for some time. Thankfully, it spoke aloud rather than in that unholy mindspeech that was used before.
The cowled creature known as Dommiel just chuckled to himself and waved a clawlike hand in the air. The darkness was driven further away by the apparition which sprang forth there. It took the shape of a very large man, rail thin and tired looking, but with a fire of determination in his eyes. The prostating figure at the foot of the table gasped in recognition as he saw that it was Jarn.
Dommiel replied in a voice that was choked with the secretions and pustules of a thousand plagues, “I had hopes that they wouldn’t make it. It would’ve meant that my scrying led me astray. Seeing as it didn’t, let’s not trouble ourselves with such matters”.
“Who is he?”, intoned the suit of armor with the same hollow voice.
“I was just getting to that Zepar”, Dommiel said, bridling at having been interrupted. “This boy has a fire which drew me from leagues away, he will serve as the perfect vessel”.
A few moments of stunned silence followed this shocking news. The worshipper shifted uncomfortably, inadvertently regaining the attention of the three seated demons. “You will protect this boy with your life to make sure that he reaches the ancient place” , Zepar said. There was no arguing with his words, it wasn’t an order or question, it was a simple statement of fact.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
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.”
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.”
Monday, May 25, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
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.
“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.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)