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Tag Archives: Shattered

Shattered – Episode 2: Benson Jyri #5

04 Wednesday Apr 2012

Posted by Aaron Brander in On Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Fiction, Shattered, Writing

***************************************

Here’s another scene fragment from Episode 2.  I hope you like it!

Just a note, this is still very rough. I read through it and pulled out a few big mistakes, but you will find typos and things that do not quite make sense.  Just roll with it!

For the entire first Episode and other posts from Episode 2, see this link: https://aaron-brander.com/tag/shattered/

***************************************

DARK, MENACING laughter chilled Eli’s spine and stopped him dead in his tracks.  Next to him, Jyri looked deflated. The long years suddenly visible on his countenance.

The swarm of goblins came to a stuttering halt, ranging around the courtyard and trapping Eli and Jyri against the temple. Their wailing cacophony assaulted his ears and drowned out the temple’s still ringing bell.

From the west, the goblin horde parted, and through the gap slid a nightmare.  Goblins were a smelly beast, their sweat, grime, and the juice and grit from past meals combining into a pungent perfume that Eli could smell from where he stood.  But the creature that came forth now was preceded by a stench so foul, it knocked the breath from him.

The laughter came again, and with it, an icy wind of sorrow and despair washed over Eli. His body was unwilling to move and attack or to turn and flee.

The thing was taller than Eli and slender.  It did not so much walk, as glide sinuously over the glittering courtyard toward Eli and Jyri.  Its body was hidden in a billowing, black cloak. The hood cast a deep shadow over its face, but the outline of it’s skeletal face was visible beneath the glow of its red eyes.  It was terrifying.

JYRI STARED uncomprehendingly at the stalking nightmare.  How could a dreadmach have returned?  Surely they had all been wiped out at the Battle of Utand when justice and peace prevailed over the evil of the world.  And yet, the dreadmach was there, as was a horde of goblins the size of which he had only previously seen at the Utand.

His powers had failed him, and he had no more fight in him.  He could trust only to Balim, and hope that he would provide a way out of this predicament, because there was little he could do to fight the dreadmach.

“Benson Jyri,” the thing spoke, its voice as oily and sinuous as its movements, “I have been told much about you.  I have desired to devour your soul and send you to serve my Lord, Memnon, since I was told of my task.”

The dreadmach had crossed most of the tiled, temple floor and was but a few steps from Jyri.  He glared down at the dreadmach, his eyes unwavering as he met the nightmare’s blazing, red eyes. The dreadmach reached out with its hand, the cloak falling back from its hand, uncovering a mangled mockery of a human hand; bent, broken, and gnarled with long, sharp claws.

Jyri grabbed Eli’s hand and took a knee, forcing Eli down with him.  The dreadmach reached forward, the icy blast of sorrow emanating from it pushed Eli towards the welcoming inane of death.

The claws brushed against Jyri’s hand, before caressing his face almost lovingly. Then the air pulsed, a bright white flash seared through Eli’s consciousness, and he knew no more.

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Shattered – Episode 2: Benson Jyri #4

28 Wednesday Mar 2012

Posted by Aaron Brander in On Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Fiction, Shattered, Writing

***************************************

Here’s another scene fragment from Episode 2.  I hope you like it!

Just a note, this is still very rough. I read through it and pulled out a few big mistakes, but you will find typos and things that do not quite make sense.  Just roll with it!

For the entire first Episode and other posts from Episode 2, see this link: https://aaron-brander.com/tag/shattered/

***************************************

JYRI LOOKED about in disgust.  Was this, then, the price of freedom?  A flock of sheep where once there were lions?  The calm had been nice for a generation, but the storm had arrived.  Jyri heard a familiar twang, and looked up to see a flight of arrows heading towards him.  He lifted his staff and willed his god-given powers of righteousness and justice into the weapon.  A blast of wind from Jyri’s staff disrupted many of the arrows, but the shrieks and cries of the wounded told him that some still got through to accomplish their vile work.

“Get to the temple!” Jyri cried, trying one more time to get the sheep moving.  There was no more time to play shepherd.  Jyri dashed towards the goblins and prayed the villagers figured it out and fled to safety.

As he ran, his battle chant spilled from his lips.

“Balim nu doct.  Balim nu molatting.  Solun imort belom, troi memnock dor faruck Balim!”

In the common tongue, it meant: “Balim is peace.  Balim is righteousness.  Through my arms, let evil know Balim is justice!”

To Jyri, the words felt like the embrace of a lover after a prolonged absence — or so he imagined, being a celibate monk after all.
He felt Balim’s power rush through him and transform his as he ran.  Jyri was a large man be any standards, but when Balim’s justice needed meting out, he grew to the size of a small mountain.

As a fisherman in a small rowboat looks upon the sea with fear and loathing as a tempest hits and the sea rages, so too did the goblins quake at Jyri’s approach.  No one had warned them that Jryi Benson, Balim’s Justice on Earth, would be crashing down upon them this day.

It would be their doom, for Jyri felt no mercy as his staff cracked down, pulverizing two goblins and knocking a dozen to the ground.  He waded in, knocking the startled creatures to the ground with each swing of his mighty staff.  But the goblin’s numbers started to bear down on him.  With the momentum of his charge spent, the goblins worked to slide in behind Jyri to encircle him.  Though each strike from the large, orange clad monk took down multiple goblins, there were just too many.  The little biters slipped sword thrusts past his defenses and nicked him.  Blood started to flow down from his legs and mix with the offal of dozens of destroyed goblins.

Jyri knew he needed to disengage from the fight and get back to the temple where its defenses and Maia could help him.  He spun in a circle with his staff held out low.  Four goblins were knocked back and a fifth, shorter goblin had its head staved in.

With room for a moment, Benson picked his unfortunate target.  Green Gummer was a model goblin: short, squat and surly.  Its moss-colored skin had a sickly pallor that was not completely attributed to its skin color, but may have something to do with its rotted teeth.  Black, patchy hair stuck out from under its misshapen helmet, which sported a blunt spike on top.  An equally battered breastplate covered its skinny chest.  In its hands, it hefted what appeared to be a sledge hammer, but with a vaguely pointed face where it would normally be flat.

Jyri noticed this all in a flash of insight.  He felt no remorse or recognition, he merely needed a target for his righteous fury.  Jyri snapped the staff above his head.  He took a deep breath, sent a quick, silent prayer up to Balim for strength, and smashed the staff down directly on the helmeted head of Green Gummer.  The squat goblin exploded in slimy gibbets of body parts.  As Jyri’s staff slammed into the ground, it sent waves of earth spreading out from the epicenter of the strike, knocking goblins into the air all around him.

Jyri did not hesitate, he broke into a run back towards the temple before the first goblin crashed back to the earth.  In the distance, Jyri descried the other goblin groups as they gained the edge of town.  The howls of enraged goblins behind him spurred him in his retreat.  The defenses of the temple were his only hope now.

ELI MAIA had sent one of the young men up to the bell, and it now rang with a desperate pealing that underscored the panic felt in the sanctuary below.  Maia stood outside the doors, his wooden staff in his hand, and herded the running villagers into the darkness of the temple.

The flow of villagers lessened, and still Maia had not seen his parents. He prayed to Balim that they had found a place to hide from the swarm of goblins.  And yet…and yet, perhaps it was best if they had been killed swiftly.  The world was changing. Maia could feel it happening in the air.  The peace they had known the last generation was not just ending, it was being shattered.  There were few people equipped to deal with this change and if this was just the tip of the shift, as Maia was beginning to fear, many would lament living through the desolation.

The last villager ran past Maia, and he turned to see Jyri Benson fleeing from a giant horde of goblins.  He slammed the door shut on the temple, and heard the locking mechanism rumble into place.  It was now just he and Jyri and their belief in Balim that stood before the goblins.

Jyri slid to a halt beside Eli, winked at him, and turned back to face the goblins while he leaned panting on staff.

“You know, young cub, I have not had this much fun in years.  It is lamentable that we were caught unawares, but we will crush these beasts for what they have done, and then we will find out what the devil is going on,” Jyri spoke sideways to Eli while not wavering from gazing a the goblins.  Eli did not know how to react to that.

The horde of goblins was an unstoppable flood of green limbs, gnashing teeth, and howling rage as it streamed into the courtyard.

Jyri raised his arms and intoned solemly, “Vintin sar malincardum”.

Nothing happened.

Jyri looked around, bewildered.

He spoke again, this time with angst edging his words. “Vintin sar malincardum!”

Again, nothing.

Jyri looked at Eli, shrugged, and said, “I guess the temple’s defenses won’t be helping us.  This just got a lot tougher. Get ready, we’ll have to do this the hard way.

Jyri picked up his staff, gave voice to his war cry, and ran to meet the raging green wall of goblins.

And then he stopped.  Balim’s power had not infused him. He remained merely Jyri, a large, overweight monk.

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Shattered – Episode 2: Benson Jyri #3

21 Wednesday Mar 2012

Posted by Aaron Brander in On Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Fiction, Shattered, Writing

***************************************

Here’s another scene fragment from Episode 2.  I hope you like it!

Just a note, this is still very rough. I read through it and pulled out a few big mistakes, but you will find typos and things that do not quite make sense.  Just roll with it!

For the entire first Episode and other posts from Episode 2, see this link: https://aaron-brander.com/tag/shattered/

***************************************

JYRI WATCHED and waited, the shock of seeing goblins in the world again was wearing off and leaving behind a good number of questions.  The most immediate was about to be answered.  How much had the villagers forgotten of the old ways?  The bell should bring them all running to the temple with weapons in hand.  Jyri was sure the other planned defensive measure had been forgotten.  Few had kept to the military traditions, for what was the need?

The villagers were achingly slow to respond.  Jyri saw them emerge from buildings across the expanse of the village and look around slowly like so many dumb sheep.  If they had heard the screams from the fields they gave no sign, and from street level he doubted they could yet see the smoke.

Jyri looked again to the fields and saw there were now three groups of goblins rampaging towards the city from different sides.  Two had paused to burn the crops.  Benson Jyri assumed those poor farmers in the fields had fallen like wheat before the scythe.

The third group of goblins had no farmers or fields to distract them from their dread purpose.  They were charging along the main road and would reach the town in mere minutes.

“Damn,” cursed Jyri.

Outnumbered three hundred to one and a half, he would prefer the villagers come to him.  The temple had defenses of its own.  But if he stood on the balcony and waited for the villagers, there would not be many left, if any at all, for him to protect.

Jyri took a deep breath and shook his head.  He should have been careful what he wished for.  It looked like he was to have all of the fighting he could handle.  With a rueful chuckle, he launched himself over the balcony.

He dropped like a stone and landed on one knee with his back bent and his arms outstretched.  Tile cracked and dust billowed up around him as he stood and surveyed the task before him.  His life’s purpose had returned.  He had innocent people to protect and evil creatures to pummel.

The man once know as Balim’s Judgement ran towards the knot of confused villagers to try and get them moving.

MAIA LET out a surprised gasp as Benson leaped off of the tower and crashed to the courtyard below.  He had three agonizing seconds to wonder how he could fend off the attack without his master’s aid before he saw Benson sprinting down the road towards the villagers.  A white light was building around Jyri as he ran. It must have been some magical aura as Maia could hear Jyri’s cries as if he was standing next to him.

“Run! Run for the temple!”

Maia could see the villagers look around alarmed, yet they were slow to react and flee for safety.  Further on, the goblins had reached the edge of town with their frenetic dash down the road.  Maia forgot all about the bell he was supposed to be ringing as he watched a group of goblins stop and load their vicious, small bows.

As the arrows rained down around the hapless villagers, they finally awoke to the danger.  For some, it was too late.  The murderous arrows found flesh with a sickening squelch.

Maia watched the tide of villagers turn and start running towards the temple.  With a start, he recalled his charge.  He gave the bell one last frantic tug and then ran headlong down the stairs in a mad dash to pull the villagers into the temple.

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Shattered – Episode 2: Benson Jyri #2

14 Wednesday Mar 2012

Posted by Aaron Brander in On Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Fiction, Shattered, Writing

***************************************

It has been a while since I have posted any of Shattered. But, since the new year dawned, I have written at least 5,000 words a week on this. So, I thought I would share out a few scenes or parts of scenes for your enjoyment.  I’d love to hear what you think as I’m writing through this novel.

Just a note, this is still very rough. I read through it and pulled out a few big mistakes, but you will find typos and things that do not quite make sense.  Just roll with it!

For the entire first Episode and other posts from Episode 2, see this link: https://aaron-brander.com/tag/shattered/

***************************************

“JANTOR WAS the last in a very long line of tyrannical rulers.  Evil had spread throughout the world and had a toe hold in all of the goodly races of the world.  Over long centuries, evil had been rooted out and destroyed –”

“Wait. Hold on master.  Goodly races?”  Maia interrupted.

“What? Oh, I had forgotten the depth of our deception.  This may blow your pea-sized brain, milking cow.  Humans are not alone.  Other intelligent beings are all around us, if you know where to look and they want to be found.  Elves, dwarfs, nymphs, centaurs, orcs, goblins, trolls, demons, angels, dragons – they are all real.”

“B-b-but …” Maia stammered.

“I know, a bit of a shock, is it not? This next one will really hit home.  The gods are real, and they walk among us.  Balim is real.  You met him not long ago.  His brother, Memnon, was just as real.  The two of them stalked the battlefield on the Utand Plain.  Good so far?”  Jyri asked.

“Um, I guess so?” Maia responded.

Jyri could see the questions in his eyes, but it was best to forge ahead and get the whole story out there. Well, at least as much as Maia needed for the immediate task at hand.

“Good. Just try and keep up.  As I was saying, evil had been rooted out and destroyed wherever it could be found.  There were sadistic satyr clans, demonic dwarven kingdoms, egotistical elven empires – actually, all elves are a little, er, a lot egotistical. Perhaps that should be evil elven empires, but I digress.  Perhaps you get the picture?  Evil was everywhere and I did not mention entire races that cannot be redeemed and of course, the inexhaustible supply of corrupt chiefs, wicked warlords, and dastardly dictators.  Perhaps you would be surprised that our allies often didn’t know where our race stood?”

“I…I…I don’t”

“Of course you don’t.  This real knowledge is a bit hard to grasp.  We kept on fighting, but every time we beat evil down, it would pop up again somewhere else.  It was a bit like plugging a leaking dyke with your thumb.  But we persevered.  With Balim’s guidance, we cut down potential evil leaders when they were young and weak.  It seemed like we were finally getting ahead.

“It was then that Balim brought us a prophecy.

“From the lips of my Father come words of deliverance.  One son shall be put to rest, and the other shall be raised up.  With that son, the world will revel in his splendor.”
“I don’t mean to interrupt, master, but that prophecy does not make a lot of sense and seems a little ambiguous. I thought the prophecy was:

The meek shall inherit the earth and peace and justice shall reign.

Maia was starting to catch up, but it was still hard to reconcile what he had known with what was now being told to him.

“You know little of what prophecy means, baby moose.  We convened with Balim and we all agreed that he was the son to be raised up, and that world peace would follow.  It was up to all of us to make sure the prophecy came true.

“So, Balim devised a means by which we could keep score.  He enchanted the courtyard of this temple to show the influence evil had in the world, and along with it, the good in the world.  We continued to combat evil, secure in our new knowledge that we would win.  And gradually, evil’s presence faded.

“The Battle of Utand was the largest battle of the long war, and the only one where all of the goodly races fought side by side.  We gambled that we could destroy the source of evil in the world, and we did!  Or, at least we thought so. The last time we checked the courtyard, after the Battle, evil was retreating from the scene.  Peace and prosperity reigned.  Disease and despair ceased.  The prophecy had come true.

“But I have cause to question if it is still gone from the earth, and so we come here today. I am sure you have more questions, but they can wait.  Right now, we need to check the balance of the scales.”

Maia followed closely behind as Jyri made his way unerringly out of the sanctuary and along dark corridors.  They ascended a steep staircase that turned sharply at a landing every ten steps.  At the tenth lending, Maia felt a slight breeze and sensed a change in the stale air.  At the eleventh landing, light started to show the way up the stairs.

On the twelfth landing, a spectacular view greeted Maia.  He could see all around the peaceful valley he had grown up in.  He could see the stream work its way down the mountainside in jumping cascades before winding peacefully through his village. He could see each home, the blacksmith, school, mill, tanner, and a dozen other public buildings.  He could even see the farmers toiling away in their terraced fields.

He was still taking in the breathtaking vista when a shocked cry broke his reverie.

“Master!  What is it?” Maia asked as he rushed to Jyri’s side.

Jyri looked like he could not decide between vomiting or fainting.  With a visible effort, Jyri willed away his anxiety and composed himself.

“It is worse than I could have imagined.  See for yourself while I try to figure out a plan.”

Maia moved away from Jyri and to the edge of the tower.  He looked below and gasped. Though he did not grasp the full meaning of what he saw, he understood enough.

In the center of the courtyard sat a majestic, red dragon.  Its wings were spread and one paw was held out with the palm out.  Its red scales sparkled in the sunlight and added to the air of tranquility on its face.

As grand a site as the red dragon was, it was not what caught the eye.  The rest of the courtyard was a pulsing, swirling black.  It was not quite solid, but rather looked like a fog in the distance.  Soon, the fog would settle and nothing would be seen through it, but for the time being a brisk breeze kept it at bay.

The red dragon did not see the fog, and seemed even less aware of the black dragon rising up from the swirling fog behind it.  Only the head and one arm was visible.  The black head sported two sharp horns.  A massive, opened jaw filled with teeth the size of spears, and two black eyes that sucked in the light around them making the eyes blacker than night.  They filled Maia with terror to his very soul, and he quickly looked away.

The arm was stretching out towards the red dragon’s neck, one of its five talons leading the way and looking to try and rip out the red dragon’s throat.  If this courtyard truly told the balance of good and evil in the world, it looked like the scales were about to take a serious turn.

Maia tore his gaze away from the troubling scene below him and turned back to Jyri.  His master was sitting cross-legged on the floor and appeared to be finishing preparations of some kind.  Jyri sensed his attention and looked up.

“Contacting Balim formally is not usually this hasty, but I fear we are short on time for formalities.  It is apparent that we have been fooled somehow. Memnon survived that fateful day and is paving the way for his return.  It is also apparent that Balim, and I believe all the paragon races, are completely oblivious.  Stand guard while I try to contact my Lord.”

Maia heard Jyri begin chanting behind him, the musical sounds bringing peace to his soul.

But wait.

Something was out of place in the melody; some discordant note creating a timorous harmony.

Maia looked out across the towns as he heard the discord again.  And then he saw it.

Smoke!

And that sound, it was a scream!

Maia squinted into the sun and could just make out hundreds of moss colored figures running through the fields.  More screams echoed through the valley to his right.  He looked and could see more smoke and figures.

Maia turned quickly to Jyri, too frantic to notice the irony of the situation.

“Master!” he cried as he shook Jyri’s shoulder. “We are being attacked! I think they are goblins!”

Jyri jumped to his feed and rushed to the balcony.  Maia sensed, rather than saw, the change that came over the big monk. It was if the air began to vibrate around him.  The screams reached his ears again and he could now see panicked farmers being overrun by goblins in the outer fields.  Fear and anger warred within him; his parents were in one of the fields.  Maia looked to Jyri for guidance and took a shocked step backward.  Jyri had grown and his face bore a wicked grin that seemed entirely out of place on the benevolent monk.

“Good With Wood, there is a bell rope one flight of stairs up.  Ring it with all of your might.  I will go down and help herd the villagers into the safety of the temple.  When the goblins get close, break off and help me with the fighting. You will find staffs at the main doors.”

Maia did not question and ran to the top of the stairs.

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Shattered – Episode 2: Benson Jyri

07 Wednesday Mar 2012

Posted by Aaron Brander in On Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Fiction, Shattered, Writing

***************************************

It has been a while since I have posted any of Shattered. But, since the new year dawned, I have written at least 5,000 words a week on this. So, I thought I would share out a few scenes or parts of scenes for your enjoyment.  I’d love to hear what you think as I’m writing through this novel.

Just a note, this is still very rough. I read through it and pulled out a few big mistakes, but you will find typos and things that do not quite make sense.  Just roll with it!

For the entire first Episode, see this link: https://aaron-brander.com/tag/shattered/

***************************************

BENSON JYRI motioned “Good With Wood” to follow him to the temple. They strode across the tiled courtyard as the sun played across the polished tiles, throwing a dazzling light of myriad colors.  Maia dashed ahead as they neared the great circular door that guarded the entrance to the sanctum.  He grabbed at the handle and pulled with all of his might.

The door did not move.

“Move aside, ambitious firefly, you know not the secrets of the temple.”

As Maia scrambled out of his way, Jyri stretched up to his full height.  He stretched out his arms and called out to Balim in the language of the righteous.

“Font sanzle walloon sah sante, Balim!”

Light radiated from Jyri’s chest and spread to his outstretched limbs.  Before Maia’s eyes, Jyri grew in proportion until he was bigger than the door to the temple.  Jyri then reached out with his supernaturally large hand and pulled gently on the handle of the door.  The portal swung open effortlessly.

“And that, baby squirrel, is how one enters the temple of the Iabro Monks.

Maia merely stared on in fascination as Jyri stooped to cross the threshold, returning to his normal, gigantic self as he did so.

“That’s one trick I need to learn,” he muttered to himself as he hurried to join Jyri inside. The door swung closed behind them.

Jyri stood waiting in the center of the room.  Glowing, red orbs punctuated the darkness and dimly revealed the far corners of the room.  Maia could make out no smoke or flames as the source of the light.  He could hear the sound of flowing water, but was unable to see where it was.  He could not see much at all, in fact, except for his master’s face. Somehow, it was still visible in the gloom.

“Eli Maia, what do you know about the battle for the soul of the world that took place on the scorched plains of the Utand a score of years ago?”, Jyri asked in a loud voice.

“The evil Lord Jantor had been cast out of Sanjing two years before the battle.  The countryside revolted against him.  Every man, woman, and child that could fight, did so.  His army was routed at Novant and pursued across the Utolla Desert until he was caught and surrounded on the Utand.  Our people were joined by a host of knights from beyond the Saltsprayer Ocean.  Their princess, the fair and beautiful Narral, had been kidnapped by Jantor and later murdered by his hand in a fit of jealousy.

“Our combined forces surround his army and destroyed it to the last man.  Since that time, our land has enjoyed peace and tranquility as foretold by our benevolent elder council.”

“Very good, industrious ant.  You are living proof that ignorance can be taught and laziness instilled at birth.”  Jyri looked pleased with himself; Maia, just confused.

“You have recited to me exactly what has been preached by the Elder Council since that fateful day.  You must forget it all, if you are to learn the truth.  Would you care to know it?”, Jyri asked.

“I …”

“Wait!  Before you answer, you must realize that knowledge changes everything. Your path, your faith, your very existence will be like the weather on a spring day.  All will change, and quickly.  But without this knowledge, you cannot join me.”

“I wish to know the truth, master,” intoned Maia solemnly.

“Very well,” Jyri began.  “Let the light of knowledge show you the truth!  Hmm. Alright, that was a bit over the top. The truth is dramatic, but it need not be theatrical.

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Shattered – Episode 2: The Mage

29 Wednesday Feb 2012

Posted by Aaron Brander in On Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Fantasy, Fiction, Shattered, Writing

***************************************

It has been a while since I have posted any of Shattered. But, since the new year dawned, I have written at least 5,000 words a week on this. So, I thought I would share out a few scenes or parts of scenes for your enjoyment.  I’d love to hear what you think as I’m writing through this novel.

Just a note, this is still very rough. I read through it and pulled out a few big mistakes, but you will find typos and things that do not quite make sense. Just roll with it!

For the entire first Episode, see this link: https://aaron-brander.com/tag/shattered/

***************************************

Percy heaved a great sigh, the force of which stirred up dust from the old parchment that he was studying.  The Farming Practices of the Mid-Velurian Peasant Class made for a long and boring day. And yet, his desire and his purpose was to learn all there was to know of the world.  It was the very reason he had constructed the Tower of Knowledge many years ago, when he was still a young man.

Percy was no longer that young man in physical appearance. He was not much in physical appearance at all.  Percy had left that all behind after helping his friends rid the world of evil at the Battle of Utand. Since then, his hair had grown stringy and wild with neglect. His body had wasted away until he was little more than flesh and bones. His gaunt aspect exaggerated the hook of his sharp nose.

He looked up from Farming Practices and out of the window to his right. He was in the room at the top of the tower and the views of the surrounding countryside from twenty stories up were magnificent.

Percy hardly noticed it anymore. He had no eye for the mountains rising magnificently on the horizon, the wide, brown river cutting across the landscape and past the tower, or the dark, full pine forest that radiated out from the tower.  Instead, his mind was on the hundred or so books in his reading room. They were the books that he was currently studying. His mind was quick and sharp, and he devoured the knowledge in the books faster than most would devour a good meal after days living off of roots and berries.

Most books, that was.  He had been working on Farming Practices for at least an hour now, and was barely half way through it. At this pace, he was starting to wonder if he would get the typical four books in today.

It was time for a change of scenery. That was what he needed to get his mind going again.

Percy stood, and walked slowly and painfully down the stairs.  He wondered where that unreliable apprentice of his was. What was his name again? Ah, yes. Petr.

Percy was so in thrall to his own thoughts that he once again walked right passed Petr and the breakfast that he held out to him.  Petr did his best to keep his master fed, but it was a rare success to bring the meal to bear.

Down Percy went, passing through floor after floor of reading rooms full of books and scrolls and parchments.   Percy passed his living quarters on the tenth floor, and Petr’s rooms on the ninth, and the kitchen, and the reception hall and the art gallery, and the treasure room. He did not notice where he was going so intent was he on his musings.  Petr trailed silently behind, ready to intervene if his master did not realize he was walking down the stairs or out a window.

Percy reached the ground floor and walked out of the tower towards the training ground.  Petr was surprised and a bit concerned. He had not tended to the training ground in years, as Percy had not paid attention to it in thrice as long.  Since the Battle, Percy had not trained once.

Percy stopped walking and blinked a few times. He looked around, clearly confused to be out of doors.  The wind rustled his stringy, white hair as absentmindedly as Percy himself.

“What a strange place to find myself,” Percy muttered. He looked at the training grounds, and smiled. The smile lit his face, and had Petr been close enough, he would have seen a glimpse of the man Percy once was.

Percy moved a few more steps and stepped in front of the training ground. He faced into what was essentially a large cave, except the cave was completely above ground and man made.  Inside the dome of the cave, half walls, barrels, crates and cliffs formed cover and variation in terrain.  The dome was solidly built out of stone, and invested with runes of power meant to contain the fury of Percy’s spells within the cave.  Percy wielded great power and he did not want to level the surrounding landscape when he was practicing.

Petr took a gamble on his master’s mood and muttered the incantation that brought the training ground to life.

Out of the dome, a dozen ugly goblins charged forward in a rough wedge. The leading goblin, a particular rough and dirty specimen hefted a giant mace as he bellowed.

Percy looked up and regarded the mass of marauding goblins. His bushy eyebrows raised up and he was genuinely startled.  Petr cringed and hoped that he had not overstepped the bounds. He readied the spell that would override the training spells and send the goblins back to whatever dimension they had been pulled from.

Then Percy turned to face them. His eyes lost their glaze of introspection and he focused intently on the leading goblin.

It exploded.

There was no sound. There was no fury. There were no screams.  One moment the ugly thing was charging and yelling. The next it was bloody, messy goo covering the the other goblins and stopping them short in their bewilderment.

Percy pointed at the next goblin, his focus never wavering. This time a narrow, controlled beam of fire drilled through its head.  Percy turned to the next and killed it with a beam of ice. It was light for the next, then wind flung a goblin hard against a wall. The earth opened and took a pair down before closing and crushing them out of site.  Percy killed each goblin with precision and control and gruesome variety.

“Thank you Petr, that’s enough for now.”

Petr regarded his master with awe and not a little fear.

“Master, that was astounding. Would you teach me how?”

Percy smiled. “Of course not. There is no need. What would be the point in learning destructive magics like those when there is no one that would benefit.  We must focus your learning and studying on farming and weather and government.  We will find ways to better the lives of our fellow men.”

Percy turned and began walking to the tower to begin the long ascent to his room. He wasn’t sure what it was that led him down to the tower.

“Was that you, Wodanaz?  I have not heard from you in many years.” Percy said to the air.  Like every time he had asked since the Battle, there was no response.

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Shattered #6

27 Thursday May 2010

Posted by Aaron Brander in On Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Shattered

*************************************
Aaron’s Notes: I wrote this short story on my trip to Glacier National Park last year.  It was intended to be 7 Episodes, with 1 Episode released via web and mobile every few months. I’m going to release Episode 1 on the blog a section at a time. I’d love to get your feedback as it goes along!
Shattered #1
Shattered #2
Shattered #3
Shattered #4
Shattered #5

Here’s the final part of Episode 1 of Shattered. Let me know what you think. Do you want to hear the rest of the story?
Oh, and this is at least PG-13.

*************************************

Brin drew a circle in the gravel outside the door of her home.  She set her bow on the ground outside of the circle.  Drawing her sword, she sat cross-legged within the circle.  She unhinged the sword and set both halves across her lap.  She made sure the bow was close at hand.  Pulling a few strands of hair from her head, she laid them in the outline of the circle.  As she laid each hair down a whispered Word transferred a tiny sliver of her being into the hair.  That essence would remain alert around her body while she was on the hunt.

The preparations complete, Brin closed her eyes and began to hum the Words that would free her spirit from the bonds that anchored it to her mortal shell.  Brin was an outstanding tracker.  She used all her senses and keen wits to unerringly track any creature that moved on the ground.  She was able to push any of her senses beyond her body to aid in tracking.  But there were times when the normal tracking methods were not enough. At those times, Brin had to spirit walk.

The bonds that tied her spirit to her body broke away silently.  Brin kept the strongest bond, that from her spirit to her heart, intact.  Without it, her spirit could not return, and Brin’s body would pass away, while her spirit would roam the earth for eternity; no ageless paradise would await her soul.

Brin felt herself rise up, and she turned to look back at her body.  The familiar thrill of freedom trilled through her.  Even the pervasive grief of her son’s demise diminished to an almost tolerable level.  In spirit form, there were few constraints. She could see the tracks of the swallow’s wings that flew by moments before.  She could travel swifter than the wind.  She could hear the snow melting on the glacier in the mountain.  Brin always had to be careful to remember her body and her mission. If she strayed too far, the tether to her body would snap and her body would die.  Her spirit would dwindle in power and the freedom she felt now would disappear forever.

Willing herself higher, Brin looked back once more.  She could see the vigilant power of the circle.  If anyone came close, she would sense it and return to defend herself.  It was time to hunt.  Faster than an arrow arcing in for the kill, Brin propelled herself high above the valley.  Her home was just a speck in the distance.  A network of energy wrapped itself around the valley and her secret home in seven increasingly large circles.  From here, the dweomers designed first to hide and then defend the valley looked intact.  She knew that was not the truth.

She willed herself down for a closer look at the inner circle.  There!  She spotted a tiny disturbance in the otherwise perfect integrity of the magic.  She darted in to inspect it. A hole had been cunningly wrought in the barrier.  Nowhere was the energy severed.  Rather, someone with great skill and patience had sliced the shield lengthwise, and carefully pulled it apart.  What remained was a very small hole the perpetrators were able to slip through undetected. Brin had never seen such a thing attempted, much less successfully pulled off.

There were no footprints or broken branches from which Brin could divine the path of her quarry.  Yet in her spirit form, Brin could detect fading signatures of energy, much like a bit of cloak snagged on a branch.  There were three different energies that Brin could sense. One was definitely human; the other two were similar to each other, and decidedly not human.

Looking closer, Brin was able to confirm exactly what she suspected when she awoke with a start in the night.  The dreadmach had returned.  In that moment, all the questions about how that was possible were thrust to the side.  Brin had their trail.

Like a braying hound catching the scent of a fox, Brin hurtled through the valley in pursuit of her prey.  The signs of her target grew increasingly fresh.  Brin sensed they were over the next hill and readied her swords for their brutal work.

Under a rocky outcropping, a mage sat tending his fire.  His black robe moved like oil in the wind.  Two dreadmachs flanked him, looking like nightmares come to life.

“That smug bastard thinks he has time for a spot of tea, does he?”  Brin couldn’t believe her eyes. “Let’s see if he takes his tea with a spoonful of cold steel.”  She willed herself faster and prepared to run the mage through.

And then she stopped, feet from her vengeance.  Brin felt a stab of pain in her heart. She had reached the end of the tether to her body.  She could push through the pain and bring death to her enemies, but it was likely she would lose contact with her body, and consequently, her life would end.

Brin waged a small battle with herself, but the outcome was not hers to decide.  Just then, the mage looked at Brin.  A smile cracked his pale, fleshy face.

“This guy is just full of surprises.” Brin thought.  No one had detected her in spirit form before.

“Well hello, Brin Heavyshield.” His voice sounded like rocks being crushed into gravel. “You must be losing your touch.  We have been expecting you all day.  It has been a thirsty job sitting here waiting, so I brewed some tea.  Care for some?  Just come on over and have a seat.  Oh, I’m sorry.  You are just about at the end of your rope, are you not?”  The mage chuckled fiendishly.

Brin stared silently and seethed.  How could this man know so much about her?  Even she didn’t know the extent of her range to within a few feet.

“Did you receive our message Brin?  I do hope we did not disturb you too much.”

Brin started to strain forward before realizing that was exactly what he wanted.  Separated from her body, she would bleed energy before they overwhelmed her spirit.  The dreadmachs would capture her soul and take it to Memnon.  She would be united with Max.

No.  It was not yet time for her to join Max.  Someone had to pay for his death.

“I promise you right now, your life is mine. I know your face and I know your scent and I will hunt you to the ends of the earth.”  Brin was starting to lose her tenuous hold on her emotions. Yet underneath the rage and grief, she could sense that there was more trouble brewing.

“Brin, I am sure you understand our reluctance to disturb you last night.  Even in the less than peak state we have found you in, you are more than a match for us.  I am man enough to admit that much.”

Brin sensed he was the type of man that could pay out praise only when he had the upper hand.  The thought chilled her.

“That is why we had to lure you into this trap.  I was told it would work, but I must say, I am a little disappointed that it did.  I mean, you are a legend!  Should you not have sensed it?  Even now, you still sit there with that dumb look on your face.  Ha!”

“What are you talking about little man?  There is nothing you can do to harm me,” Brin spit back at him.

“My, how the mighty have fallen.  We planted two earth trolls in your yard.  Even now they are digging out of the ground near your circle, which cannot detect them because they were there when you set the wards! Pretty tidy little trap, wouldn’t you say?  Your child’s killers so close, yet you are unable to reach them, and your helpless body is about to be demolished by two earth trolls.  It is perfect!

“I will admit you have come closer than most.  But you have neglected one tiny thing.”

“Oh?  And what would that be, Brin Heavyshield?”  The mage sneered confidently.

“I need not be next to you to kill you.”  With that, Brin pulled out the needle sharp whale bone pin that held the braid of her hair in place.  With a flick of her wrist, she sent it speeding at the mage’s throat.  It passed through him, drawing no blood and breaking no bones.  Being but a spirit weapon, it did not affect his body.  Brin saw his eyes go wide in horror and then go dim as his spirit, severed from his body by her dart, fled his mortal shell.

Brin did not stick around to gloat over his demise.  The land blurred beneath her as she followed the strand that connected her to her body.  She saw the huge, boulder-like trolls hammering her.  The protective shield from her helmet was failing quickly.  Brin plunged down towards the troll closest to her, swords thrust out before her.  She tore through the troll, separating its body from whatever life force animated it.  The rocks and dirt that formed its body crashed to the earth and fell apart.

Brin had aimed her dive so that she passed through the troll and slammed back into her body.  She rolled to her right immediately, narrowly avoiding the hammer blow that would have crushed the life from her.  She scooped up her bow as she regained her feet.

Brin pulled back the bow and an arrow of pure light materialized on the string. She let it fly.  The arrow flared as it hit its mark, washing the troll in a brilliant, burning light. But it had no effect beyond setting some mossy tendrils alight. The earth troll lumbered after her.  There was little Brin’s weapons could do to harm it.  She did not have the time or peace of mind to spirit walk again. She certainly did not have the strength to go blow to blow with it.  But she did have two things the creature lacked completely: speed and wits.

Brin replaced her bow and started a series of feints and darting attacks with her swords.  She danced and leapt around the troll, keeping just out of the way of the creature’s ponderous blows.  Steadily, she drew it on towards the stream.  As they neared the bank, Brin rushed in close, feet pumping, and ran straight up the front of the earth troll. Her swords drew sparks with each strike.  The troll tried to swat her, but it was too slow.  Brin jumped backwards off the trolls face, performed a back flip, and landed neatly on the other side of the stream.

The earth troll tried to pursue, but it slipped on the muddy bank and pitched forward into the water.  It struggled to rise, but the water was already wearing away the dirt sinews that held the rocks together.  It quickly became just another feature in the river.

“Well, not quite as slow as I thought I was.”  Brin had tracked down and killed the mage that helped the dreadmach into the valley, but that did not quench her anger.  Bigger events seemed to be happening to even allow the dreadmach to return to this world.  Brin needed to find out what happened, and figure out who was the mastermind of Max’s death and the attempt on her life.

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Shattered #5

20 Thursday May 2010

Posted by Aaron Brander in On Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Shattered

*************************************
Aaron’s Notes: I wrote this short story on my trip to Glacier National Park last year.  It was intended to be 7 Episodes, with 1 Episode released via web and mobile every few months. I’m going to release Episode 1 on the blog a section at a time. I’d love to get your feedback as it goes along!
Shattered #1
Shattered #2
Shattered #3
Shattered #4

Here’s part 5 of Shattered. Oh, and this is at least PG-13.
*************************************

A bright blue sky was overhead.  A fresh breeze blew in from the south.  Birds sang in the trees.  The world refused to reflect her black mood.  She had held Maximus’ broken body through the night, letting her grief consume her.  As the day broke clear and bright, she resolved to put an end to her grief.  The first step was to lay his body to rest.  She dug a grave beside an old oak tree near the stream where Maximus used to swing from a rope when he played.  The physical strain let her burn through the rest of her sorrow.  When she finished, she stripped off her blood and dirt stained night gown and threw it into the stream, letting the current carry it away.  She waded in, and the snowmelt stream’s icy water stirred anger out of the ashes of her grief.  She scrubbed her auburn hair clean and washed the filth from her body.

She emerged minutes later and walked back to the abode. There was a purpose to her stride and a cold, hard gleam in her eye.  Water ran from her naked body.  She had a long, lithe body of an athlete.  The hard, cut lines of her muscles had softened with the long respite from warfare and the years of motherhood.  The parts that used to sit high and tight were now a bit lower and looser. The long scar down the back of her leg had faded.  She was still beautiful, but no longer looked like she would snap a man in two for taking an unsolicited second look at her.

Reaching her home, she ascended the stairs to the attic, pointedly avoiding the hallway that led to the sleeping quarters.  She would not be going down that way again.  There was a secret panel in the attic.  She moved the crate that triggered the door.  It slid open to reveal an alcove, and she moved forward to claim its contents.

She started with the mundane, socks and underwear made of a light material that whisked away moisture.  Next she put on her armor, a pure white halter and light blue chain mail that was tighter around her midriff than it used to be.

“I’ve let myself go,” she thought. “They said we had purged the land of evil, and I believed them.  Hell, I wanted to believe.  I wanted to put aside my weapons and start a family.  There has not been a whisper of trouble for years.  So I let my guard down.  If I had not, this could not have happened.  Max would be…” She ruthlessly stopped that train of thought.  That was the way to black despair.  That was the way to her death.  And if that was the way she was going, she was dragging some others with her first.

Next was the pure white battle skirt.  Its mithril feathers hung nearly to her knees.  She’d taken many a mighty axe strike off of them before and they did not give.  Her shins and calves were left unprotected.  On her long, left leg she once suffered a sword wound that had almost proven fatal.  All that was left now was an old scar.

She pulled on her boots.  They too were white, but they were far older than the rest of her outfit.  They had been passed down through her family for centuries.  A subtle old magic had been infused in them.  When worn, the rendered the user silent when walking. They could also change the color and pattern of the armor she wore, thanks to a bit more magic that linked it all together.  She was nearly invisible when she triggered the boots’ magic.

Finally, the helmet.  It did not match the set, being red with black designs.  She had fought a long, hard battle with an evil mage to win that helmet.  When she put it on, she felt the protective field envelope her body.  Through it, no weapon could pierce, although its protection was finite.  A determined attack or lengthy battle could break through the shield. It was a priceless treasure that had brought her safely through perilous situations.

Thus dressed, she returned to the remaining three items.  First was an ebony bow.  She slung it across her shoulder and gave it a friendly tap.  She could drop a songbird on the wing at a hundred paces, not that she would. An arrow of light leapt to the string every time the bow was drawn.

She reached for her sword. It was about three feet long and razor sharp.  It still gleamed.  She gave the pearl handle a twist with both hands and the sword became two blades.  She gave them a practiced flip and the blades hummed through the air.

“I am so rusty.” She chided herself again. She snapped the blades back together and slipped the sword into the white scabbard that she hung at her hip.

Finally she brought out her most prized possession.  It was an unassuming metallic square, about a hand’s breadth in length.  It strapped to her left forearm.  She dropped into a fighting crouch and brought her arm up to ward off an imagined sword cut.  The shield flared to life.  It gained an inch in thickness and transformed into a tall rectangle two feet by four feet in size.

Quickly she put herself through some practice forms.  High, low, and middle she imagined attacks from different weapons and the shield responded by changing the size, shape, and thickness needed to protect against the attack.  She stood, panting lightly from her exertions.  The shield returned to its natural, unassuming shape.

Her eyes focused and determined, she gathered her supplies and made ready to begin her hunt.  It was time to find out how such a crime could happen in this golden era.  The life of tranquility that she had coveted over the war torn years was shattered. Brin Heavyshield was out for vengeance.

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Shattered #4

13 Thursday May 2010

Posted by Aaron Brander in On Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Shattered

*************************************
Aaron’s Notes: I wrote this short story on my trip to Glacier National Park last year.  It was intended to be 7 Episodes, with 1 Episode released via web and mobile every few months. I’m going to release Episode 1 on the blog a section at a time. I’d love to get your feedback as it goes along!
Shattered #1
Shattered #2
Shattered #3
Here’s part 4 of Shattered. Oh, and this is at least PG-13.
*************************************

The torch flickered, casting ominous shadows on the cavern walls.  The slow drip of mineral-rich water could just be heard over the tramping feet of the two dwarves.  They were deep beneath the earth, searching one of the myriad tunnels that twisted and turned between the dwarven capital under the Atlas Mountains and Deogar, the furthest dwarven outpost deep under the Fonus Range.

Both dwarves were lightly armed, at least in comparison to a fully equipped battle dwarf.  They wore leather jerkins that could slow an arrow, but would not do much to stop a determined blade.  Neither wore a helmet.  Most dwarves kept their hair too long to fit under any sort of headgear, unless there was a war to wage.  The ensemble was completed with leather pants and shoes.  For dwarves these two were dressed quite peculiarly.  A dwarf rarely felt comfortable without a full suit of mithril armor.  But these dwarves had need of speed and silence.

“Do you think something could have happened to them, uncle?” asked Deebl Lo’Atlassian. “They were supposed to be in Atlassian weeks ago, and we’ve been looking for a few days”.

The elder dwarf stopped and turned briskly towards Deebl.  He was neither tall nor short for a dwarf.  But then, they were a race not known for much physical diversity.  All dwarves had knobby noses, pale eyes, a strong jaw, big teeth, and black hair.  Their limbs were short but powerful, and ended in club-like hands and feet.

Sandin Furyaxe had a beard that was longer than he was.  He wore it in three braids, which was the mark of a warrior.  The braids were looped back upon themselves, twisted, and then tied into one.  The large emerald woven into his beard was the mark of a Hero of the People.  His face, arms, and chest were covered in scars.  On his back there was nary a scratch.

“Deebl, your incessant blathering is not making this go any faster.  I feel like I have answered this before, so I will keep it short.”  Deebl was believed to be Furyaxe’s sister’s son and had hardly stopped badgering him over the last three days.

“There once was a time that no less than fifty battle dwarves would accompany a courier when he made the three week trip from Deogar to Atlassian through the Deep.  Even then, not all would make it through since there were so many goblins and trolls and who knows what else.  But since the Battle of Utand, we have seen neither hide nor hair of any unnatural beast.  That is not to say a cave bear has not feasted on them or they have not been crushed in a collapse. Since just two or three make the trip these days, anything could have happened. We have ten other search parties out looking.  Someone will find them soon.  Now shut your trap and let’s keep moving.”  Furyaxe turned and started walking without looking to see if Deebl was following.

They travelled deeper under the earth for three more days with not much to distinguish one day from the last.  The torchlight shone around them for twenty feet in all directions.  Beyond the light lay only darkness and a lurking fear of the unknown.  They searched the main path between the two dwarven cities while the other search parties followed the countless side passages.

As they left a small corridor and stepped into a larger chamber, it was the smell that told them the search was over.  The stench of rotting flesh was keen.  Deebl put his hands on his knees and vomited.  Furyaxe was more accustomed to the odor, having been the cause of it many times in the past.  He strode into the room, assessing the situation.  Although he could not see them, he sensed three ways into the room. The way that he and Deebl used, a way to his left from which he could sense warm air flowing in, and cooler air through an opening straight ahead.  The way to the left led deeper into the broiling core of the earth.  Straight ahead was the way they would have continued. Furyaxe brought the torch to the center of the room.  Large rats scurried away from the light, startled from their feast of flesh.

“Is it them, Uncle?  Is it the messenger we were searching for?”

Furyaxe did not respond.  He bent closer to continue his examination.

“It must have been a cave bear, right? But….but…but wouldn’t the bear have eaten them?”  By the way Furyaxe was studying the scene; Deebl was starting to think there was more to this than a cave bear.

“Deebl.  I need you to stand still and listen to what I have to say.  Do not get alarmed.  There are four heavily armored dwarves here with weapons drawn.  It appears they died fighting back to back.  Yet there are no other bodies.  I do not know of anything that can destroy four war dwarves and not have paid a steep price in blood.  As impossible as it seems, I think they were killed by goblins.  Goblins carry out and eat their dead, and a large enough force could have done the trick.”

“But, Uncle, hasn’t evil been…” Deebl trailed off as a piercing war cry echoed up the deep passage.

The cry mounted as more goblins picked up the scent of fresh dwarf.  Deebl may have only heard about goblins from school, but Furyaxe had felled more goblins than any living dwarf, and likely any dead dwarf.

“Deebl.  Grab a helmet and a shield from the dead.  You have time if you hurry.  Then draw your sword and cover my back.  If you stay out of my way, I will get you home to earn your name.”  Furyaxe planted his feet and faced the tunnel the goblins were rushing up from the deeper in the earth.  He figured he could take out ten of the nasty little creatures before they broke into the room and it became a free for all.

The ululating goblin war cry crescendoed as they neared the opening.  Furyaxe cracked his neck and limbered his powerful right arm.  He reached back and drew his axe.  Deebl, through the narrowed perspective of his helmeted vision, saw the axe come free of the sheath.  A blue light shone from it, harsher and brighter than the torch Furyaxe kept in his left hand.  He had seen the axe before, and heard its exploits sung in taverns, but when he had seen it, it was rather plain and unremarkable.  But now, in their hour of need, it shone with a blue brilliance.  Its razor sharp edge glinted in its own light.  The weighted ball opposite the blade looked murderously heavy.  And then the axe sang.

The axe sensed its master’s need.  Light to fight by it gave.  Waves of rage and strength it poured into the dwarf.  It heard the cry of the goblins and quivered with anticipation.  It had been so long since it drank the blood of its nemesis.  There was nothing the axe liked better than to drink deeply of goblin blood.  The axe sang a song of blood and death in the goblin’s guttural tongue.

The song broke the goblin’s cry and caused the charge to falter.  They had not forgotten the legends of the weapon they called Afiada Morte.  The leading two goblins tried to stem the tide and retreat so great was their fear.  Instead, they stumbled as those in the rear pushed them on.  They died first.  Furyaxe cocked his arm and let the axe fly.  It flew unerringly into a goblin skull, splitting it in two.  Furyaxe reached back to throw again, and the axe heeded his call.  It vanished from the goblin’s head and appeared in Furyaxe’s hand in time to be hurled forward at the next small, wiry, vicious creature.  Six times in six seconds it hurtled through the cave to send another goblin back to the abyss.

A few goblins broke into the cavern.  Furyaxe charged the first, bringing his axe down from right to left.  The axe tore through the goblin, spraying gore in every direction.  Sparks erupted from the impact as the axe nearly buried into the granite floor of the cavern.  Furyaxe wrenched it free and whistled the axe in a low, sweeping arc.  Two goblins did not jump fast enough and found themselves a foot shorter before they bled out and died.  Furyaxe heard the twang of a bow and brought the axe back to center in time to bat the arrow aside.  He spotted his attacker and flicked a quick backhanded toss, willing the axe into a tight circle.  It lopped off three heads on its circuitous route back to his hand.

An enterprising goblin had sprinted away from the door into the dark recess of the cavern.  It worked its way along the edge of the light and waited for the right time to attack.  As Furyaxe engaged four goblins at once, parrying attacks before dealing in cold steel, the goblin launched itself towards the dwarf’s back.  Deebl saw the attack out of the corner of his eye and shook himself from the hypnotic skill of the elder dwarf in time to lance out with an awkward thrust.  He caught the goblin behind its knee, drawing blood and sending it sprawling towards Furyaxe.  The goblin’s sword spent itself impotently on Furyaxe’s jerkin as he obliterated the fourth goblin. He pivoted and sliced the nasty beast’s skull like an overripe watermelon.

Furyaxe whirled back, but there was nothing more to fight.  He could hear the remnants of the goblin force scurrying away to find some dark hole to hide in.  Of the previous moments’ desperate din, only silence and heavy breathing remained.

“You still alive, Deebl?”

“I uh, I uh, I uh,” Deebl stared unbelievingly at the carnage around him, his brain numbed by the bloodshed.

“Great job with the sword there.  That nasty might have ruined my new leather jerkin.  Thanks for the help.”

Deebl was still in shock.  Furyaxe grabbed the message container from his dead kinsman and turned to leave.

“Deebl, let’s move before they have a chance to breed or however they find more of the slimy bastards.  We have got to round up the rest of the teams and report back.”  Deebl still didn’t move.  He was stunned to immobility, but his addled brain was starting to function.  He managed to count goblin heads.  There were about twenty-five.

“He, hea, heads…” he managed to stammer.

“Good thinking kid.” Furyaxe picked one up by its greasy hair and tossed it at Deebl.  It bounced off his chest and he stared at it with horrified eyes.

“Don’t just look at it. Pack that thing away.  It is evidence that the goblins roam the deep passages again. Now get moving before some big cave troll decides it is not extinct either!”

With that, Furyaxe was off towards home.  Deebl, not wanting to be left in the dark with all that death, picked up the still-dripping head and hustled to catch up.

It was a grievous seven day journey home.  Furyaxe lit the signal flares to recall the search teams at each side passage they had taken.  Only two parties came back whole not having encountered a goblin raid.  Three parties had fought their way out and were mostly unharmed.  Three parties had just a sole survivor.  Those three heroes had finished off the goblins and managed to pull out their fallen comrades.  The final two search parties did not respond.

Furyaxe led some of the healthy dwarves into the passages to recover the grisly remains of the parties that did not return.  The dwarves carried the bodies back with them.  Furyaxe knew he needed to alert the city, and then find a way to determine how this evil had come to roost once again in their domain.

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Shattered #3

06 Thursday May 2010

Posted by Aaron Brander in On Writing

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Shattered

*************************************
Aaron’s Notes: I wrote this short story on my trip to Glacier National Park last year.  It was intended to be 7 Episodes, with 1 Episode released via web and mobile every few months. I’m going to release Episode 1 on the blog a section at a time. I’d love to get your feedback as it goes along!
Shattered #1
Shattered #2

Here’s part 3 of Shattered. Oh, and this is at least PG-13.
*************************************

“Ha HA ha ha!”  Benson Jyri’s hearty laugh boomed through the courtyard.

“Come, my tiny friends. Let us try it again.”  Four young monks circled Jyri’s gigantic frame.  Jyri towered over most any man he met.  He stood nearly seven feet tall, with girth to match.  Though he appeared rotund, powerful muscles lay hidden beneath the layer of fat and his voluminous orange robe.  His limbs were like tree trunks, not even thinning at his wrists or ankles.  His shaved head perspired in the sunlight.  Sweat dripped down his face, catching in his bushy eyebrows and his full, black goatee.  His skin was tanned from hard work in the light of day, yet still smooth owing to his nearly enlightened state of being.  In his powerful hand he gripped a great, oak staff.  It was an ancient weapon instilled with the force of justice by the benevolent god Balim. Jyri twirled it carelessly, though most men would do well just to lift it from the ground.

He was sparring with the monks to test their use of the staff, although he suspected he really was reliving the glory days.  Eradicating evil and injustice from the land may have been his calling, but frankly the last ten years without strife had been quite boring.  His once small layer of fat was a bit more insulating now than it was then.

Jyri tensed himself for the monks’ attack. He did not know their names, but even if he did, he would not have used them.  Jyri used a secret trick of the Iabro monks that allowed him to instantly assess the threat level of those he fought, or that he may someday fight.  When he assumed his fighting stance, he used his divined knowledge of his opponents to assign them priority and often amusing nicknames.  After all, when one risks one’s life, one ought to have a good time doing it.

One of the monks was much more efficient with the staff than the others.  Jyri dubbed him “Good With Wood”.  Good With Wood stepped forward to engage him, swinging the staff over his head like he was chopping wood.  Jyri waited until the last second before stepping quickly to his left. He rotated to his right, Good With Wood’s staff whistling past his head, and lashed out with his staff at knee level.  It cracked into “Slow To Learn” who had crept in close on Jyri’s right.  The same move took that monk out last time.  Had Jyri put the force of his righteousness behind the blow, he would have snapped the young man’s leg.  Wielded without malice, the staff lessened the blow of its own accord, leaving just a bruise.

Good With Wood’s staff hit the ground with a thump.  He swept it towards Jyri along the ground, a move designed to take out an opponent’s ankles.  Jyri jumped forward, rolling over the staff and landing on his feet.  He sprinted towards the smallest monk, “Size Does Matter,” and speared him in the ribs.  Size Does Matter flew through the air, a look of surprise on his face.  Jyri was much faster than anyone gave him credit for.

Jyri turned towards the two remaining monks with a huge grin. He thought it was great to be fighting again, even if it was just practice.

“You boys want to see something?” Jyri asked mischievously.  “I used to call this the Holy Tornado, though most everyone else just called it the Holy Shit! Ha HA ha ha!”

With that, the monk began to spin his weapon.  A glow suffused Jyri’s features as he called forth the god-given powers of justice within him.  The staff was a blur as Jyri grew in stature right before the eyes of the astonished monks.  As he neared ten feet tall, he let out a mighty roar.  Jyri’s robe snapped in the breeze as a gust of wind strong enough to smash buildings rushed past him.  Dust and debris kicked up and flew through the air with dangerous intent. The lightweight monk, “Pissing In The Wind”, was tossed across the courtyard and dumped unceremoniously in a fresh pile of horse manure, after bouncing off the stable roof.

Good With Wood had heard stories of the legendary Holy Tornado, and did his best to brace himself with his staff.  He was pushed backwards, but kept his feet.  With a triumphant smirk, he looked up at Jyri.

“You have been taught well, young one!” Jyri exclaimed with pleasure in his voice.

Benson Jyri took Good With Wood by the shoulders and steered him towards a bench in the shade.  The temple courtyard was paved with beautiful colored tiles.  From the ground, it was pretty, but there was no discernable pattern.  Observed from the bell tower, a red and a black dragon took flight within the pattern.  Few were allowed in the bell tower to see the true nature of the courtyard, and there were only a handful with enough arcane knowledge or personal experience to know that the pattern changed of its own accord.  In fact, it was like a sundial that, instead of telling time, told the score in the battle between good and evil.

After the battle of Utand, Jyri had climbed the bell tower seeking the state of the world.  Many believed the struggle with Memnon had finally ended.  When Jyri looked upon the courtyard that day, he was relieved by the change that took place before his eyes.

The red dragon, representing the god Balim, had grown and dominated most of the foreground. The black dragon of Memnon had turned away and seemed in full flight as it dwindled.  When he saw Balim’s red dragon lift its head and spout a brilliant yellow flame of triumphant fire, he ran to the bells and began ringing them wildly.  It was the signal to the world that an era of peace and justice had begun.

“Now look here young man.  Three days I have been here, and three times we have fought together.  I have knocked you down exactly zero times.  Did you know that only three people I have ever fought can claim I have not knocked them down?”

“No Master. I did not know that.  I am humbled by your praise.”  Good With Wood let a small smile touch his lips.

“Ha HA ha ha.  Do not be, you tiny whippersnapper.  It was not entirely true.  No man or demon has ever kept his feet when I have wanted him on his can!  Now, now.  Do not look at me like that.  You are the most capable young fighter I have seen in some time.  How old were you when we won the Battle?”

Good With Wood’s confidence returned as quickly as Jyri had snatched it away.  He, too, felt he was the best fighter under fifty years of age at the temple.

“Master Jyri, I was just nine years of age when evil was banished from the world.”

“A side affect to there being no evil, is that the number and quality of people willing to fight evil is greatly diminished.”  Jyri’s normally jovial demeanor changed.  “Do you know why I have returned to the temple, young caterpillar?”

“No master. I do not presume to know your mind.”

“Three weeks ago, I saw something that my eyes had grown accustomed to not seeing.  A son raised his voice and then his hand to his mother.  Ten years ago, I would not even have noticed it.  Then again, ten years ago I probably could have turned around and watched the second son murder the father.  Since the battle, I have not heard a raised voice except in song.  I had not seen illness, except in the very old.  I had seen no crime, nor heard of any death save that which comes in our sleep to us all at the end of the road.  So the actions of this one man stood out like, well, he stood out like I do in a crowd.  I yelled towards him and he backed down, shame faced and apologetic.  Yet it ate at me. If this one, seemingly innocuous event could happen, how many more small acts of evil have taken place?  Evil begets evil.  Once it has started, there are few ways to check its growth.  So I have made my way to the temple to consult the dragons.”

“Dragons?  What dragons, Master?”

“Do you think you are destined for great things, you green guppy?” asked Jyri.  There was no malice in his tone, just an intense desire to know the heart and mind of the young man.

Eli Maia, the given name of Good With Wood, turned his sight inward.  His round, animated face grew passive.  His mahogany eyes lost their focus as he searched his soul.  Jyri did not press him, for he knew the young man was earnestly searching for the truth.

Minutes passed.  A fly landed on Maia’s face, but he did not feel it.  Jyri amused himself by waving his hand in front of Good With Wood’s face.  He got no reaction.  Never able to pass up a chance at a joke, Jyri bent in front of Maia and mooned him.  A gaggle of young children that had been watching the monks train broke out in a fit of giggles.  Jyri put his robe back in place and winked at them.  He sensed Maia’s pulse begin to return to normal, so he quickly sat on the bench and assumed an air of quiet dignity.

Maia’s eyes regained their focus first, and then his spirit returned and brought life back to his body.  Jyri broke the silence.

“My young friend, you have the look of a man that has communed with Balim.”

“Master, I am not sure what happened.  I do not think that I have been asked a question before that I have wanted to think on so deeply. I felt my entire future hung in the balance.  I first prayed to Balim for guidance.  Then something remarkable happened.  I felt myself rising up, out of my body.  I looked down and could see you and me sitting on the bench.  The world grew hazy then, and I felt like I was passing through a cloud.  When my vision cleared, I found myself high atop a majestic peak.  The sky was a brilliant blue.  I could see a waterfall tumbling from an adjacent peak.  An eagle soared upon the wind.  Nearby, a cherry tree was in full blossom.  The aroma was more pleasing than anything I had smelled before.  A shining jewel of a pond was to my right.  I could see brightly colored fish swimming under the surface.  A small spring bubbled and sent fresh water spilling out of a crystal basin into the pond.

“I heard music behind me, so I turned towards it.  A man sat cross-legged beneath a beautiful marble veranda.  He was playing a lute.  I was enchanted by the sound.  I tried to make out more of his features, but he was obscured by the pure, white light that appeared to emanate from just between his eyes. I felt compelled to kneel, so I prostrated myself at his feet, relieved to take my eyes from the crushing magnificence of his visage.  Then he spoke.  His voice was the sound of liquid gold, or perhaps simply the sound of Peace.

“‘Eli Maia.  You have the capacity for great things.  Your heart yearns to bring joy and laughter to those less fortunate.  Your strong right arm wishes to defend the Realm.  And your mind wants to unlock the mystery of the stars.  You will achieve lasting fame if you follow their paths.  But I warn you now; you have the capacity for great evil as well.  Beware the black serpent, its wisdom will feel like righteousness but for the folly you see in your heart.

“‘Now it is time to return to your world.  Benson Jyri is a benevolent man, but patience is not one of his virtues.  Even now, he makes you the butt of one of his jokes.’

“Suddenly, it all disappeared.  I found myself falling back towards the ground.  When I landed, I was once again here with you.”  Maia finished and looked over to find Jyri asleep.

“Master?” Maia inquired.

“What?  Who is there?  Oh, it is just you, shiny beetle.  A simple yes would have sufficed.  No worries though.  The first meeting with Balim could set a dormouse to eloquence.”  Jyri thumped Maia on the head as he rose from the bench.

“Come. It is time you learned the secrets of the dragon.”

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