Wednesday, January 29, 2014

1/29/14

1 comments Posted by E.S. Wynn at 12:00 AM

Rockeater
By James R Waggoner


     “A’Har!” he barked as his head popped up out of the hole and saw the little girl. The steel helm squeezed his head tight, and made what little of his face she could see, puffy and pink. The rest of his head was a mass of matted brown, wild with dirt and debris.
     Startled when she heard the sound, Kimie stared back in disbelief at the weird looking man as he clambered out of the hole. Her father always spoke of the dwarves, how they were fierce and scary, how they were known as Rockeaters by all the other races. He stood up with a worn looking ax, all squat and blocky.
     To her young mind, he looked more like a beggar than a scary warrior.
     Behind her, the creek bubbled and ran over rocks and small stones. This was her preferred place to be alone, for the turquoise and black dotted rocks were her favorite to collect, and this was the only place she knew of that they were still readily available. Her father had always warned her to stop collecting the rocks of color, “The Rockeaters might just come and find you for your incessant collecting”
     Whenever she wandered off and got lost in the woods, she could easily find some pile of stone that produced another gem. Just before the dwarf popped up and scared her, she had dug up a handful of the turquoise rocks and dropped them into her purse.
     “A’Har!” barked the dwarf again. Suddenly, her fathers warning made her begin to worry.
     “He…hello,” Kimie said nervously.
     “Baroo!” croaked the dwarf.
     The young girls heart began to pound and her only thought was to flee. Her fathers voice gonged in her head, ‘ The Rockeaters will come for you if you keep taking their stones!’
     “I’m sorry, Mister Dwarf! Please don’t hurt me!” she begged.
     The dwarf glared back at her for a moment, “Baroo! Nar Doro!” His large nose flared red as he spoke, and he put his hand on his side.
     Kimie stood and shook from head to toe. All she could think of was the horrible things the tales said of the dwarves. Not only were they eaters of stone and dirt, but they drank the blood of their enemies, and cooked their heads as a delicacy, and used entrails to string their harps.
     Terrified, Kimie took a step back. The dwarf scratched at his beard and leaned on the handle of his ax. He pointed a squat, thick finger at her, “Nar doro barmoon!”
     Her purse abruptly felt as if she was carrying a boulder. She fumbled with the tie as she watched the dwarf; her fingers felt as if they were blocks of ice. Kimie kept looking at the dwarf, then to the purse attached to her small belt. Sweat beaded on her forehead and her mouth went dry.
     Taking a step forward, “Baroo? Nad roola?” said the Dwarf.
     Remembering the tiny dagger that her father had made her just weeks ago, Kimie began to pat her body in a frantic search. She found it in another pocket inside her tunic. She plucked it out and held it awkwardly in a half threat, half not sure what to do with it stance. The dwarf scratched at his beard again.
     As if her father was standing right next to her, she heard him speak, ‘Give him back his stones, Kimie!’
     Taking the knife, she slit through the leather strings and grabbed the purse. With all her strength, she heaved the purse at the dwarf and fled back towards the village with a horrible scream. The trees licked at her face, scratching her porcelain, young skin. Kimie didn’t care; she wanted to be as far from the dwarf as possible, as soon as possible.
     Opening at his feet, the purse spilled its contents. The Dwarf watched her run screaming until she rounded a massive, gnarly oak, and then picked up the rocks. He left a few of the blue-green stones in his hand as he watched her fade away. When at last he heard no blaring scream, or snapping of branches, he popped them into his mouth and walked towards the nearest maple tree. Crunching away, the dwarf lifted his tunic and took a long, relieving piss.
     Letting out a sigh of relief, he walked back towards the hole and stopped at the edge. With a last look around,“A’Har!” barked the dwarf, and dropped into the hole.


- - -
My love of fantasy and all things sarcastic helped develop this story. Being the same size and relative shape as a dwarf, I am compelled to help the world better understand them.

 

Labels:

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

10/10/12

5 comments Posted by E.S. Wynn at 12:00 AM

The Oath
By James R Waggoner


Bodies trimmed in blood filled every nook and cranny of the fired village. Remains of homes, barns and livestock still glowed a ruddy blush when he stepped out of the thinning layer of smoke and gave himself a congratulatory nod. Horses with red speckled men thundered by as they left the carnage they created while their leader breathed in the sooty air. He held up the severed head of Menon Allar to his face and broke out in a raucous laugh. 
     Calbar Mal Aryans was no man to ignite in anger, for his temper and cruelty were already legendary within the Pict clans. This day culminated the argument began by Menon Allar in the last gathering of chiefs. Menon accused him of raping many of his women while they held a truce, and went so far as to strike the elder Calbar in protest and challenge. Seeing the angry glare in the high chiefs eyes however, the other chiefs turned their backs to Menon, removing themselves from the responsibility of decision.
     Squatting behind a still burning pile of timbers that once was his home, a red haired boy glared out at the man holding his fathers head. He welled with rage and utter hate in that instant, and spoke an oath to the dread god Belatu. He promised the god of war a soul, a wretched soul he said. The soul of the warrior Calbar.
     Five years had passed since the boy spoke the oath, and in the meantime, Calbar had risen from high chief to absolute leader of the Pictish Nation. His craving for battle and murder served him well in removing the other clan chiefs, for the five years after the death of Menon were forever known as the Scarlet Years. Calbar’s name became synonymous with fear, doom, and death.
 
     As Calbar sat atop the clans as supreme chief, a name constantly crossed his ears from the north. A man called Bloody Red was carving his own brutal path through the Pictish world with vicious intent. He was a tall, well-muscled man who was said to come from the mainlands of the east. It was there he honed his dreadful skills with the tribes of the horn and earned his terrible moniker.
     At first Calbar thought nothing of the tales, but as the stories came more frequently, he began to take notice. His heart pumped as he thought of the day he would meet the warrior, for no other could match the vile nature of his own mind he thought, and that pleased him greatly. Calbar thought of the destruction he and this Bloody Red would rain down on the world; the thought of kingship entered his head. He would rule with an absolute iron fist, and the man called Bloody Red would be his death angel. Calbar knew that his days of riding into battle and whipping his ax around were slowly coming to an end, and the news of the destructor in the north was a tantalizing way to keep what he murdered for.
     Six years after Menon had been decapitated, Calbar and his army met the advancing horde of the Bloody Red on the plain of Dekmar. It was the flattest plot of ground in all the Pict nations and extremely suitable for open combat, for there were no trees or natural fortifications around for miles.
    The two leaders met under the banner of talks, as was custom before blood flowed. Calbar was in a jovial mood, because he thought this man was as he was, and would join with him in his plot to rule. He was innately wrong.
     As the parties stopped and the spokesman for Calbar began to speak, the red-haired man called Bloody Red brained him to his teeth with a mace. Spattered with brain and bone Calbar was shocked at his attack, and before he moved, the other two men of his entourage were chopped down. For the first time in his life, Calbar Mal Aryans fled from a fight.
     Bloody Red watched with a snarl.
 
     “For the life of my clan and of my father, I will shove my fist down your throat and rip out your heart, Calbar! I have come for one thing, your head!” shouted the wild haired man.
    Reining in his mount, Calbar instantly knew who the Northerner was.  The man was none other than Vogel, son of Menon Allar. Pushing away his nerves, he turned for the youth with a roar and held his ax high. Vogel bolted from his men with a howl, heeling his horse into a fierce gallop. They met with a clang, and Calbar was on the ground with blood streaming down his face.
     Vogel was off and running towards the elder Pict instantly. His blue war paint caused even the fierce Calbar to flinch, and he was thrown back from a weighty punch. Wild eyes led the Bloody Red’s attacks; Calbar could barely defend against the strength of the young man. His thrusts were easily swatted away, and his heavy drops of sword missed their mark entirely. Vogel was toying with him.
     “I swore to Belatu that I would give him a contemptible soul, Old Man. Today I give it to him!” screamed Vogel.
     Calbar had no words. He was so unprepared for the fight that he almost couldn’t think. He dropped to his knees a moment later and tossed his ax away. He removed his helm and threw it aside in defeat.
     “Then fulfill your oath!” he growled.
     Vogel was lost to rage and revenge, and stepped forward swinging wildly. Ducking in a blink and releasing his sword, Calbar rolled, stood, and removed Bloody Red’s head as he staggered by off balance. Calbar stood wobbly from his many wounds, glaring at the body of Vogel.  
     He raised the severed head of Vogel Allar to his face and broke out in a raucous laugh.


- - -
I have been writing seriously for the last five years after an injury at work gave me the time to get going. I write mostly fantasy and dark fantasy with an occasional stab at Sci-Fi. In my short career, I've written two novels that I hope to publish, and a host of short stories and flash fiction.

 

Labels:

;;
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)






- - -



Help keep Yesteryear Fiction alive! Visit our sponsors! :)



- - -

Blog Archive