I plan to work on this more often, so hopefully you'll get more frequent updates. Anyways, here's chapter nine: Shadows and shades. Chapter one is here if you were looking for it.
Warning - there is some swearing in this one, so if you're prone to being offended by it, please don't read this post. Thankyou.
AEgon awoke, instantly at the ready. Grabbing the knife from under his pillow he jumped to his feet, ready to confront the intruder. Looking around, he sees no-one. Jarrod sits still, silent and awake. Then Jarrod speaks "Relax. There is no-one out there. The knights have all left." Jarrod spat the word, like an insult. "Don't know what it is about them big fuckers, but they irritate me." Jarrod spat the insult, like a word. "Something ain't right about them armoured men, gives me the creeps."
"Golems." Iryl muttered, still half asleep. "They were golems. Told you last night."
"They could be ghoul-fuckers for all I care, they freak me out."
As Iryl tried to explain to Jarrod what golems were, AEgon started cleaning up the campsite, eavesdropping on them.
"No Jarrod! They arn't people. Or elves. Or anything! They're made from magic. To follow orders."
"So, they're like elementals, what they summon?"
"No, they make golems. Sometimes they summon elementals into them. . . "
AEgon stopped listening as he put out the dying embers of last nights campfire.
Bjorn walked back into the camp, and looked at the newly arose party. "See you're still sleeping AEgon." Perplexed, AEgon aked why "Why shouldn't I have been?"
"Ya don' need it. It's just a habit of yours, most ghosts lose it after a few years." Looking down at the sleeping 'form' of Marie he commented "Looks like she hasn't been dead long either. Old habits an' all that."
After some more conversation the group was ready to continue. Following the aged map the priests of Morr had given them, they continued westward. As the day wore on the trees began to thicken, the meagre sunlight becoming weaker and less available.
********
Weary from a long days march the group slowed, wandering the dark paths under a night sky they oculd barely see. The party stopped as one, unconsciously coming to the decision that they had reached the end of today's treck. They began to make camp, setting up a campfire, Iryl and Jarrod setting up small tents to protect them from the elements. The firelight flickered, sending dancing shadows against the trees. The party sat down, staring into the fire; each was silent, their own thoughts filling their mind. Wondering on their futures, their pasts and their present.
Jarred tiredly watched the fire, staring into the licking tongues of flame with the fascination mankind has borne with fire since they discovered it. He began to think about everything that had happened to him since he left the Schola Magus with AEgon and Iryl. The bandits, the inquisitor and the following run-in with the white order, the escape and now a quest. Just like the stories old Vrin used to tell, of knights and chivalry. Of oaths of iron, and swords of steel. And the shadow-plays he used to narrate for the troupe. Jarrod's eyes moved to the shadows shifting against the trees. Jarrod and Iryl were on the same side of the fire, and their less corporeal companions on the other - so nothing blocked the light of the fire reaching the trees closest to the clearing.
Jarrod thought about his experience with the reapers of Morr. Shuddering he recalled their grim forms, and how even afterwards, how he could see them walking beside the people of Romah. He remembered them in the battle - even though he was focused solely on saving AEgon, his hindsight recalled the grim reapers' forms perfectly. He watched them cut them down, even as he himself cut them down. Unseen by all but him they danced about the battlefield, striking down each warrior as they fell. Even now he could see them cavorting in the trees, waiting for the hour of their calling, waiting to take the souls of his dead companions. He laughed to himself, shaking his head clear of the figures of his overactive imagination. "I'm wandering around some forest in the middle of nowhere with a necromancer, three ghosts - one of whom is also magical, and I need to imagine that we're being stalked by the personification of death to creep myself out."
Jarrod chucked to himself some more, before being startled by a form moving in the trees. Wary that it could be his exhausted mind playing him the fool again, he decided to check it out before panicking everyone. As he rose he saw more movement in the trees. Aware now that this was not his imagination he gestured to AEgon and Iryl to be ready. Announcing loudly that he would be back in a moment, he calmly walked towards the movement. Suddenly AEgon and Iryl leaped to their feet, yelling "We're surrounded!" The camp became a flurry of activity, Marie jumping to her feet, uncertain what to do, Bjorn howling dire threats to the attackers, his voice a vicious and terrifying threat from beyond the mortal coil. AEgon gathered what mana he could into himself, ready and looking for the first to enter the camp. Iryl did the same, watching the treeline with a steely glare. Jarrod, all pretence abandoned drew his sword, slowly stepping backwards towards the fire as he watched for an assault.
No attack came.
Bjorn's threats lost momentum, and they all stood still watching in the silence. Tension mounted. They watched. Nothing continued to happen. The forest was still.
The awkward silence reined a moment longer before a nervous giggle broke the silence. "Guess they ran off" Marie suggested. Suddenly the camp broke into laughter. Jarrod smiled to himself - at least tonight the drama would be put on hold.
*********
As they settled down for the night, Bjorn and AEgon both volunteered for watch. They talked throughout the night, AEgon learning much about life after life. As dawn broke the pair were still talking amicably like old friends, or perhaps reunited relatives.
Want to continue? Chapter ten is here.
Friday, 29 August 2008
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
Short one today: A Aliteration
Im an alliterative absolute archduke, always above any arguments, actively allocating awesome assonance attacks against aforementioned arguable agressors and associated angsty attitudes; actualy an artificial alter-ego; apparantly an alabi; anon, acting as an animated avatar of an alagamation of atoms attached alongside another, as an actual amature author called jack.
Read that and weep. ;) I am awesome. In an alliterative sence, of course. Next week, B.
Read that and weep. ;) I am awesome. In an alliterative sence, of course. Next week, B.
Thursday, 7 August 2008
Red Dusk - Harrok returns
I liked doing The Hunt, so I thought I'd do a sequel. This is Red Dusk, Enjoy:
Harrok moved slowly, the light of the falling sun beginning to fade. He lead his warriors through the twilight forest - the meagre light of the sun largely blocked by the sparse iron pines. Flashes of sunlight broke through the snow-covered boughs. Each of the warriors moved silently, troll skin boots muffling the crunch of fresh snow. The boots were made from the last fight with the trolls. Harrok remembered Bjard, who died in the last attack - ripped apart by a massive ice troll using only its bare hands. Grimacing he set his mind to the task at hand. They were approaching the ambush point, and Harrok signaled to his men. They all split up, binding their white furred pelts up, and stowing them in their war kits. They paired up, binding the war kits to each other's backs, and then began to climb the trees.
The first few feet were the easiest. They had to use their legs to grip the tree whilst reaching up and around with their arms to hold onto the tree. Then using their muscled arms they had to pull their legs higher, before gripping again, and reaching up with their arms. Their ascent of the massive iron pines was slow, but they slowly gained height. When they reached the lowest branches things became trickier. They had to move up as before, but avoiding the lower branches where some of the trolls would move through the forest. They couldn't leave marks where later snowfalls wouldn't cover their tracks. So they continued, until they were too high up to avoid the ever thickening branches. Here they wove themselves through the maze of branches, taking care not to break any. Finally they were high enough to not be seen from the ground, and they moved to a comfortable spot. Then they waited.
Hours later it began to snow, and still they waited, hidden in the upper branches of the massive iron pines, whose wood was uncuttable by any axes Harrok's tribe could fashion. Grund had a dwarf forged axe, that could fell them - but even then there was no point, they couldn't make spears from the wood, nor would it burn well. The wood was nearly impervious to fire, and the iron pines required fire to spread. Garrok remembered his father telling him how the mighty trees scattered their seeds. When lightning struck, it wouldn't burn the wood, but the highly flammable bark would catch and light. Within moments nearby trees would be aflame, spreading the fire until whole forests were alight, a gigantic firestorm which meant that any in the iron pine forests were doomed to a fiery death in god-sized pyre. The seed pods would then burst open, shooting the seeds all around. The firestorm would suck them in, pulling air into itself, and then they would be ejected up with the smoke and hot wind the inferno generated. They would fly high into the air, where the wind would scatter them across the mountains.
A sound shattered the silence. The bellow of a troll, still many leagues off. however trolls move quickly, and Harrok knew their wait was almost over.
The sounds grew more and more frequent, until the trolls were heard moving past the group, a long way to the north. Harrok sighed, in equal parts relief and disappointment. They would not need to fight today, by the time they arrived the fight would already be decided. However they wouldn't share in the glory or in the rewards. Trolls were rare, and their hides were much sought after by Harrok's tribe. Screaming out at the top of his lungs Harrok alerted all within earshot "North. Move." Without waiting Harrok jumped down out of the iron pine, dropping ten metred before he grabbed a branch. The rough bark of the tree tore at his calloused hands, but Harrok ignored the pain. When his momentum had slowed he dropped again, and repeated the procedure until he reached the bottom branch. Here he dropped to the snow covered forest floor and began moving north confident in the knowledge his men were following him.
Stealth was no longer an issue, the war party were moving in a high legged jog across the winter terrain. The wide soles of the troll skin boots made it possible for them to move across the packed snow, their feet only penetrating the soft layer of crunchy powder snow, allowing them to move at a reasonable speed across the difficult terrain. As the sounds of battle begun to drift acoss the still air, Harrok swifly but silently led his group towards the fray. Screams sliced the silence, daggers in the dark to dulled ears. As they closed in, the sounds of battle grew louder. An immence bellow of pain broke out, smothering the sound of battle in its volume. Nothing else could be heard over the echo in the trees, then even that faded leaving a muffled sound ringing in all their ears.
Moments after, disoriented and ears still rining from the intense sound, they were confronted by a massive troll. White fur covered its massive body, it looked like an unholy blend of polar bear, giant ape and deamon. Red stains showed where it had been cut, and half of a spear protruded from its stomach. Harrok didn't even check his stride, pulling a hatchet from his belt he leaped and grabbed the spear shaft with his free hand, and used it to pull himself up. His right hand however, sunk the hatchet into the beasts throat, reaching up as far as his hand would allow. Pulling the small axe clear he struck again, twice more, before letting go and dropping to the ground. The beast fell backward as Harrok hit the gorund, once more running.
The forrest was thinner here, and one could see the sun setting silently over the westward mountains, its light crimson, matching the growing snow-stain growing from around the troll's corpse.
Harrok barked an order, and his party split up, spreading out into a loose skirmish line. They moved forwards through the trees cautiosly, constantly aware of the possibility of trolls waiting in ambush, checking the trees as best they could, both for trolls hiding behind, and in them. They scanned the snow, trying to locate trolls hiding under the topmost layer of powder snow. Trained eyes looked less for outlines, and more for unusual contours in the snow. Suddenly one threw a spear into the snow, three metres in front of the slowly advancing line. The spear-thrower was rewarded with a scream of pain, and a troll running away from its attackers. The line spead up, looking as if it would chase after the fleeing troll, but was merely gaining momentum to throw the spears the furthest distance. The landscape suddenly sprouted spines, spear shafts protruding from the snow. The group let wounded trolls flee, but the few who made a dash for the line were delt with before they could close the distance.
Annother yelled order from Harrok saw the group pick up the pace, changing from a careful, cautious crawl on two legs to a paced run. Slower then the trolls , the group would be lucky to catch up with any - however they had to keep the preasure on. Now the trollish ambush was broken, there was little chance they would regroup to form annother. Spears disposed of, the group all carried hatchets and knives, ranging from crude flint tools to well crafted iron weapons.
Harrok moved slowly, the light of the falling sun beginning to fade. He lead his warriors through the twilight forest - the meagre light of the sun largely blocked by the sparse iron pines. Flashes of sunlight broke through the snow-covered boughs. Each of the warriors moved silently, troll skin boots muffling the crunch of fresh snow. The boots were made from the last fight with the trolls. Harrok remembered Bjard, who died in the last attack - ripped apart by a massive ice troll using only its bare hands. Grimacing he set his mind to the task at hand. They were approaching the ambush point, and Harrok signaled to his men. They all split up, binding their white furred pelts up, and stowing them in their war kits. They paired up, binding the war kits to each other's backs, and then began to climb the trees.
The first few feet were the easiest. They had to use their legs to grip the tree whilst reaching up and around with their arms to hold onto the tree. Then using their muscled arms they had to pull their legs higher, before gripping again, and reaching up with their arms. Their ascent of the massive iron pines was slow, but they slowly gained height. When they reached the lowest branches things became trickier. They had to move up as before, but avoiding the lower branches where some of the trolls would move through the forest. They couldn't leave marks where later snowfalls wouldn't cover their tracks. So they continued, until they were too high up to avoid the ever thickening branches. Here they wove themselves through the maze of branches, taking care not to break any. Finally they were high enough to not be seen from the ground, and they moved to a comfortable spot. Then they waited.
Hours later it began to snow, and still they waited, hidden in the upper branches of the massive iron pines, whose wood was uncuttable by any axes Harrok's tribe could fashion. Grund had a dwarf forged axe, that could fell them - but even then there was no point, they couldn't make spears from the wood, nor would it burn well. The wood was nearly impervious to fire, and the iron pines required fire to spread. Garrok remembered his father telling him how the mighty trees scattered their seeds. When lightning struck, it wouldn't burn the wood, but the highly flammable bark would catch and light. Within moments nearby trees would be aflame, spreading the fire until whole forests were alight, a gigantic firestorm which meant that any in the iron pine forests were doomed to a fiery death in god-sized pyre. The seed pods would then burst open, shooting the seeds all around. The firestorm would suck them in, pulling air into itself, and then they would be ejected up with the smoke and hot wind the inferno generated. They would fly high into the air, where the wind would scatter them across the mountains.
A sound shattered the silence. The bellow of a troll, still many leagues off. however trolls move quickly, and Harrok knew their wait was almost over.
The sounds grew more and more frequent, until the trolls were heard moving past the group, a long way to the north. Harrok sighed, in equal parts relief and disappointment. They would not need to fight today, by the time they arrived the fight would already be decided. However they wouldn't share in the glory or in the rewards. Trolls were rare, and their hides were much sought after by Harrok's tribe. Screaming out at the top of his lungs Harrok alerted all within earshot "North. Move." Without waiting Harrok jumped down out of the iron pine, dropping ten metred before he grabbed a branch. The rough bark of the tree tore at his calloused hands, but Harrok ignored the pain. When his momentum had slowed he dropped again, and repeated the procedure until he reached the bottom branch. Here he dropped to the snow covered forest floor and began moving north confident in the knowledge his men were following him.
Stealth was no longer an issue, the war party were moving in a high legged jog across the winter terrain. The wide soles of the troll skin boots made it possible for them to move across the packed snow, their feet only penetrating the soft layer of crunchy powder snow, allowing them to move at a reasonable speed across the difficult terrain. As the sounds of battle begun to drift acoss the still air, Harrok swifly but silently led his group towards the fray. Screams sliced the silence, daggers in the dark to dulled ears. As they closed in, the sounds of battle grew louder. An immence bellow of pain broke out, smothering the sound of battle in its volume. Nothing else could be heard over the echo in the trees, then even that faded leaving a muffled sound ringing in all their ears.
Moments after, disoriented and ears still rining from the intense sound, they were confronted by a massive troll. White fur covered its massive body, it looked like an unholy blend of polar bear, giant ape and deamon. Red stains showed where it had been cut, and half of a spear protruded from its stomach. Harrok didn't even check his stride, pulling a hatchet from his belt he leaped and grabbed the spear shaft with his free hand, and used it to pull himself up. His right hand however, sunk the hatchet into the beasts throat, reaching up as far as his hand would allow. Pulling the small axe clear he struck again, twice more, before letting go and dropping to the ground. The beast fell backward as Harrok hit the gorund, once more running.
The forrest was thinner here, and one could see the sun setting silently over the westward mountains, its light crimson, matching the growing snow-stain growing from around the troll's corpse.
Harrok barked an order, and his party split up, spreading out into a loose skirmish line. They moved forwards through the trees cautiosly, constantly aware of the possibility of trolls waiting in ambush, checking the trees as best they could, both for trolls hiding behind, and in them. They scanned the snow, trying to locate trolls hiding under the topmost layer of powder snow. Trained eyes looked less for outlines, and more for unusual contours in the snow. Suddenly one threw a spear into the snow, three metres in front of the slowly advancing line. The spear-thrower was rewarded with a scream of pain, and a troll running away from its attackers. The line spead up, looking as if it would chase after the fleeing troll, but was merely gaining momentum to throw the spears the furthest distance. The landscape suddenly sprouted spines, spear shafts protruding from the snow. The group let wounded trolls flee, but the few who made a dash for the line were delt with before they could close the distance.
Annother yelled order from Harrok saw the group pick up the pace, changing from a careful, cautious crawl on two legs to a paced run. Slower then the trolls , the group would be lucky to catch up with any - however they had to keep the preasure on. Now the trollish ambush was broken, there was little chance they would regroup to form annother. Spears disposed of, the group all carried hatchets and knives, ranging from crude flint tools to well crafted iron weapons.
Occasionaly lone trolls would attack, jumping out from behind trees, or a wounded troll would turn when it realised it could not outrun its persuers. These were short bloody affairs, the three closest tribesmen whould countercharge the troll, quickly going for the throat - the closet thing a troll has to a weak point. Usualy the troll would die quickly as a tribesman severed the throat and peirced the nerves in the neck; sometimes it would kill a tribesman as it charged, shattering ribs and turning organs to pulp with poweful backhand blows, or shredding limbs with wickedly sharp and large claws, or biting heads off whole (along with half a torso). Any tribesmen who had even a glancing blow from one of these creatures already belonged to Morr, there was nothing that oculd be done. In the far north, a wound that rendered one unable to walk, this far from camp meant death, even if he could be carried back to camp. Left on the battlefeild for the moment, the bitter cold would freeze and preserve them until the rites of death could be performed.
The snow was scattered with bodies, both in front and behind Harrok's war party. Left lying where they fell, they were a morbid testiment to battles fought. Crimson snow where blood had spurted from wounds showed the course of the battle, and the body at the end of each trail showed the result of each battle. In some areas lone trolls had fought groups of humans, usualy these had a troll corpse, but often enough it was acompanied by dead tribesmen too, often hurled some distance form the actual battle. Other places small groups had clashed, here troll corpses lay intermingled with human, both bloods mingling together and freezing together into slick red ice.
One such battlefeild lay before Harrok, as he pulled his men up short. A small group of trolls were holding a crude fort - made from fallen trees dragged across a rock fall. However it was manned by about a half a dozen trolls, and might as well have been a castle wall for all Harrok could do. He saw a group of tribesmen standing back from the fortified position, gasping for breath. The red snow, and the tribesmens' bodies scattered across the area far outnumbering the fallen trolls told a terrible tale.
Harrok lead his men to this weary group. One who seemed to be the leader was leaning hevily on a spear, a terrible gash across his left arm. A quick talk confirmed Harrok's suspicions, Bokkan, the 'leader' wasn't even the head of his war party, he assumed command when their leader had been cut almost in two by a wicked blow from an ice troll's scythelike claws. Half of the group were searching for other tribesmen, and gathering used spears, the others were picketed around the fortification, ready to call at the slightest sign of a breakout. In the open ground, the score of tribesmen would quickly overcome the heavily outnumbered trolls, particularly as the long limbed trolls fought best alone, undiciplened and wild in their attack, together in a tight group they would hinder rather then help each other. However attacking the fortifications would fail, as the supiriour numbers of men would be useless, and the trolls were spaced apart, so that they could each defend their part of the barracade.
One troll stood behind and above the defences, and was obviously the leader. Oddly for the northern trolls, who were crude, and rarely used weapons of any kind, he had a large iron war-axe, carried like a hatchet by the massive troll. Towering over the other trolls, even over the great trolls, this monster was 20' tall if he was an inch. He bellowed a crude challenge to the scattered humans in trollish. Although none understood the language, the intent carried clearly across the language barrier.
Harrok asked Bokkan for the spear he was leaning on. As soon as he got it, he charged across the gap between the them and the trolls, yelling a curt command for everyone to remain where they were. When he was close enough, he hurled the spear at the trolls. For a moment Bokkan thought that it would hit the cheif, but instead it dove deep into the throat of the nearest troll, killing it instantly. Standing thirty metres from the baracade, he stared down the leader. Closer to the trolls then any support, he would be run down if they tried. He yelled "Do any of you trolls speak Norscan?". Norscan was the most widespead language of the north, many tribes didn't speak common, and in the wilderness, some hadn't even heard of it.
One troll answered, in gutteral and crude, but understandable Norscan. "Yes, I speak Norse-tounge." Harrok inwardly sighed his releif. "We will let you get home, if you leave and go west." Muttering broke out amongst the humans, wondering why Harrok was letting such a bounty of troll fur escape. There were only six, the tribe would be turning up any moment now, why let them escape? At the same time the trolls talked quickly in trollish, until the lead troll spoke in trollish. The Norse-speaking troll relayed the message, "We go at sun-hide. Move your fight-men into the forrest-trees at sunrise-place. East." Harrok called a command to his men, who all fell back into the forest. Harrok lead some of the others back. Some came reluctantly, moving only when Harrok told them that if they were attacked, no help would be forthcomming.
One such battlefeild lay before Harrok, as he pulled his men up short. A small group of trolls were holding a crude fort - made from fallen trees dragged across a rock fall. However it was manned by about a half a dozen trolls, and might as well have been a castle wall for all Harrok could do. He saw a group of tribesmen standing back from the fortified position, gasping for breath. The red snow, and the tribesmens' bodies scattered across the area far outnumbering the fallen trolls told a terrible tale.
Harrok lead his men to this weary group. One who seemed to be the leader was leaning hevily on a spear, a terrible gash across his left arm. A quick talk confirmed Harrok's suspicions, Bokkan, the 'leader' wasn't even the head of his war party, he assumed command when their leader had been cut almost in two by a wicked blow from an ice troll's scythelike claws. Half of the group were searching for other tribesmen, and gathering used spears, the others were picketed around the fortification, ready to call at the slightest sign of a breakout. In the open ground, the score of tribesmen would quickly overcome the heavily outnumbered trolls, particularly as the long limbed trolls fought best alone, undiciplened and wild in their attack, together in a tight group they would hinder rather then help each other. However attacking the fortifications would fail, as the supiriour numbers of men would be useless, and the trolls were spaced apart, so that they could each defend their part of the barracade.
One troll stood behind and above the defences, and was obviously the leader. Oddly for the northern trolls, who were crude, and rarely used weapons of any kind, he had a large iron war-axe, carried like a hatchet by the massive troll. Towering over the other trolls, even over the great trolls, this monster was 20' tall if he was an inch. He bellowed a crude challenge to the scattered humans in trollish. Although none understood the language, the intent carried clearly across the language barrier.
Harrok asked Bokkan for the spear he was leaning on. As soon as he got it, he charged across the gap between the them and the trolls, yelling a curt command for everyone to remain where they were. When he was close enough, he hurled the spear at the trolls. For a moment Bokkan thought that it would hit the cheif, but instead it dove deep into the throat of the nearest troll, killing it instantly. Standing thirty metres from the baracade, he stared down the leader. Closer to the trolls then any support, he would be run down if they tried. He yelled "Do any of you trolls speak Norscan?". Norscan was the most widespead language of the north, many tribes didn't speak common, and in the wilderness, some hadn't even heard of it.
One troll answered, in gutteral and crude, but understandable Norscan. "Yes, I speak Norse-tounge." Harrok inwardly sighed his releif. "We will let you get home, if you leave and go west." Muttering broke out amongst the humans, wondering why Harrok was letting such a bounty of troll fur escape. There were only six, the tribe would be turning up any moment now, why let them escape? At the same time the trolls talked quickly in trollish, until the lead troll spoke in trollish. The Norse-speaking troll relayed the message, "We go at sun-hide. Move your fight-men into the forrest-trees at sunrise-place. East." Harrok called a command to his men, who all fell back into the forest. Harrok lead some of the others back. Some came reluctantly, moving only when Harrok told them that if they were attacked, no help would be forthcomming.
The red light dwindled and faded, the burning disk diving below the mountains, leaving a moment where the last rays of light streaked red trails across the sky. Then it went dim and colourless, the ice and snow slowly going from red and white to black in the darkness. Tomorrow they would gether the fallen trolls, skinning them for their warm, tough hides, and the fallen men, to be given their last rites. Tonight they huddled close together, waiting out the long cold nights in small comunal tent-huts, made from iron pine staffs and animal hides. They lit small fires, and watched the trolls stalk away into the darkness, each watcher silently thanking his gods that he was alive to watch.
Another sequel here.
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