First of all,I'm sorry the title is pathetic in the extreme but it was all I could come up with spur of the moment. It will change when a better name comes to mind. (suggestions??) This is a new way of writing I'm trying, so mostly I'm looking for opinions.
Does it catch you?
Does it confuse you?
Would you read on? Advice on plots and characters and flow and all that stuff is what I need, but if you find mistakes feel free to point them out. Enjoy!
It had been many years since the lands of Calman had known true peace and steady leadership. Corruption and deceit had, after a long struggle, overtaken the last king of the Faright family line, whom had lead their nation justly and honorably for the last century. At the king’s death, a gloom fell over the land. Every lord, official, or noble of power was pitted in a vicious struggle of politics and power, each vying to place themselves upon the ancient throne.
The people were forgotten, left to fend for themselves, and society disintegrated. Gone were the soldiers, the armies, and the peacekeepers of the kingdom, for there was no one to pay them. City crime rose and highway robbers thrived. With no single person or family able to take the throne, those in a position of power were forced to protect those in their care. Soon the high throne was all but a memory, the once great country now hundreds of competing areas of influence.
The elves retreated to their beloved forests, to protect them from the invasion and destruction of turmoil. The dwarves also left human lands, no longer finding themselves welcome. No living human memory had ever seen any other race, aside from an occasional grandparents’ childhood reminisces. Yes, the other races had been driven away in the dark times.
Such was true in the growing fortress of Westpoint. The run-down castle had been abandoned until just recently. Whispers said a young, dark lord had come, and born at the heart of it all were tales of brute strength and spreading darkness. The locals feared him, but there was one they feared more.
Some called him the assassin, some the monster, and some the secret weapon to the new lord’s continued success. He was a common sight in the surrounding land, a figure people began to associate with coming trouble. Rumor said he was a man twisted to the new lord’s will, his heart as cold and merciless ice in the heart of winter. He had carried out many sorts of dark deeds to bully, intimidate, and force people to the new lord’s plans. To listen to the talk in any nearby tavern would convince you of a towering, bulking monster of a human whose eyes of ice could stop a man’s heart on sight, who was scarred from a hundred battles and lived for the pain of others. It was no wonder this dark new lord was on the rise.
~~ ~ ~~
Gorath swung his giant mace first one direction, then the other, each time crashing it into the small, green bodies of his assaulters. A screech from behind warned him- Gorath whipped around, the mace making contact in the air. He shuffled his feet nervously. Goblins, though not much brighter than a firefly on a foggy night, were vicious and quick and well practiced in taking down their targets in groups. Suddenly Gorath wished he had a pair of eyes at his back.
He was as tall as an elf, though much broader, and gangly in the extreme, but one didn’t need much strength to lay out goblins. Gorath was proficient with a battle axe, mace, and broadsword, but hadn’t mastered the skill of watching his own back. Grey eyes scanned the forest around him. Dusty brown flyaway hair covered his head, accompanied by a sparse beard and mustache.
Suddenly five or six of the small green bodies burst out of the trees all around him. Gorath’s mace was ready, striking out at two as he dodged a third. He heard metal grate on metal and was glad he was wearing his mail shirt and leggings.
Then he heard a couple solid thuds, and everything was still. Turning around, Gorath was surprised to see a dwarf standing behind him. Standing at about three and a half feet, the stout dwarf had a rusty beard and hair covering his head.
“You looked like you needed a bit o’ help there, lad,” the dwarf commented, wiping the blade of his dwarven battle axe off on the grass.
“Aye, that I did,” Gorath agreed, dropping his mace into its holder. “I just have too much fun playing with goblins.”
The dwarf snorted. “Pests of the world, aren’t they? Name’s Halbeard Ironhand, by the way.” He offered his hand.
“Gorath Plainsview,” Gorath returned, engulfing the dwarf’s small, strong hand in his own. “You are welcome to join my campsite. It was quite pleasant until the little greens showed up.”
“I’d be glad to,” Halbeard said gruffly, following the towering man back to the fire-to-be. Halbeard dropped his pack and plunked down on a stump, watching as Gorath tried to coax a flame onto the wood with his flint and steel.
“Have you spent much time in the area?” the dwarf asked.
Gorath shrugged. “Here and there, and everywhere in between. Wherever suits my fancy.” A small spark finally caught the wood, and he took a deep breath and blew. The spark died.
“Ah, drat. I do that every time,” Gorath muttered. “Doesn’t help the wood’s still wet from last night’s rain.”
“Have you noticed anything different?” Halbeard asked quickly, ignoring the failing fire. “Any change?”
“What sort of change?” Gorath returned, glancing up.
“Any. Just anything… different. Unusual,” Halbeard said with a shrug.
“Well, no. Not so far as I’ve noticed. Though it sure seems like there’s been an explosion in goblin population,” Gorath answered, finally getting a small flicker of flame on his wood.
“Exactly!” Halbeard exclaimed, sitting back and looking triumphant. “I’m a smith, see, and I’ve been to a lot of local villages lately. There’s something in the atmosphere. Something heavy, and tense. And everyone’s worried over these sudden more organized goblin attacks.”
“Did you just say organized goblin attacks?” Gorath asked, his eyebrows raising.
“Yep.”
“Goblins?”
“Yep.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Gorath objected. “They aren’t that smart- they live on basic instinct and a crude language.”
“Yep,” the dwarf repeated. “Which means either one of them’s finally developed a brain-”
“Wouldn’t that be scary,” Gorath muttered, adding more wood to his fire.
“-or someone’s organizing them.”
“Gotta give it to the man who does that,” Gorath commented dryly, “he has patience like no other.” The two chuckled a bit before falling silent, watching the fire grow and crackle.
“So, if you don’t mind my asking, are you an overgrown human, or of some other stock?” Halbeard asked eventually.
“Part giant, in truth,” Gorath said proudly. Halbeard snorted.
“I thought the giants had died out.”
“Nah, but they tired of the area and moved on, beyond the charted world we know. All that’s left on our continent is my home village, far to the west, a bunch of us of mixed blood. I’m proud of it, but I’m out to see the world,” he explained, talking easily. “You?”
“All dwarfs like to explore,” Halbeard said shortly. “Who crafted that fine mace you’ve got there?”
~~ ~ ~~
“You may enter.”
“Sir Sagon. You are to report to the Lord Commander at the evening meal tonight,” the footman said curtly.
“Why now?” Sagon asked in exasperation, glancing up from the book he’d been glaring at. A smirk crossed the footman’s face at the sight of the open book, but was gone in a flash.
“It is not my place to know,” he replied, then bowed stiffly and stalked out of the room. Sagon growled under his breath. Glaring one more time at the shapes on the page, he closed the book. If he was supposed to ‘report’ at the meal, he’d better make himself presentable.
The mail shirt went on, followed by the sleeveless blue and orange tabard and tall leather boots. There was an inch and a half wide leather band on his left wrist that stayed there- Sagon had worn it as long as he could remember. He figured he’d put it on when he was young and had grown into it, as it no longer could come off over his hand.
Sagon scarfed down some bread he’d taken from the kitchens that morning- being called to dinner didn’t necessarily mean he’d get to eat. Briskly he ran a comb through his relatively short blond hair and was just buckling on his sword belt when there came a rap on the door.
“You may enter,” Sagon said absently, knowing who it was.
“I am here to escort you to the dining hall,” it was the same footman, his nose still in the air.
“I am perfectly capable of finding it myself, thank you,” Sagon said shortly.
“But sir-”
“You are excused,” Sagon interrupted firmly. Once the servant left, Sagon took a couple of steadying breaths, preparing himself. Keeping his face expressionless, his body language assured and confidant, was the only way he could go about without crumpling.
The footman glared at him as he entered the dining hall, but Sagon ignored it- most of the servants hated, feared, or awed him, and often a combination of the three. His back rigid, Sagon strode to the front table, where the lord and his highest officers proceeded over the meal. The lord sat at the center, and as the chairs to either side of
him were filled, Sagon knew he had been right in assuming he was not here to eat.
“Ah, the colt has arrived,” the lord said softly. Sarcasm, as usual, was thinly veiled in his voice. Sagon bowed stiffly, ignoring the nervous laughter of the lord’s top men.
“And how did your assignment fare, yearling?” the lord asked. As if he didn’t already know the full details.
“As according to plan, my commander,” Sagon answered. The lord did not continue, and Sagon did not elaborate. He never could remember the details of his assignments- he was sure he didn’t want to, anyway.
“A boy of few words,” the lord commented dryly, rousing laughter from his men again. Sagon’s face was as hard as stone. So like the lord to play with him. “Come stand at my chair,” the lord commanded offhandedly, returning to his food and his conversation. Sagon did as he was told, standing impassively just behind his lord, knowing his purpose for being there would soon be revealed.
PLOT
