Queen Maenia Meets with Sala Ayyubi

The queen sat in the center of her inner chamber on the highly polished wooden floor. It was dark but for one candle burning on an altar, an altar the queen had constructed with her own hand. The inner chamber was a rectangular room with luxurious furnishings fit for a queen. She had designed the space after marrying the king. The king's first wife had died in childbirth. She had married him to insure an alliance between the Fifth and Fourth Realm. As the new queen, she hated the furnishings of the inner chamber she inherited and spent time and money on decorating it properly. She made sure to leave space for her altar.

She hid her worship practices from everyone, bringing out the altar only when alone. The altar piece was simple and easily assembled. She must keep secret that she was a devoted follower of the Ayyubi, a cabal of outcasts who resided in the Fourth Realm. The Ayybuian sect was hated and feared among the Five Realms. The altar was a way to communicate with her fellow Ayyubi, using the ancient rites as portal to communicate with other devotees hundreds of miles away. 

Queen Maenia closed her eyes and began to chant the ancient tongue of the Ayyubi. The words were couched in tonal vibrations, her voice humming with a songlike moan. Her musical rhythms would have been pleasant to most ears, even though they represented the darkest creatures of nature: the hiss of the snake, the growl of the wolf, the chirping of the Cromonian beast.

"I'm here," a voice from the dark filled the room. "Why has Maenia summoned me?" The voice was deep and guttural, unpleasant to the ear. "Have you news to share with me?"

"Praise to you, Sala Ayyubi," the queen said. "I would never contact you unless it was important. Our plan is coming together nicely. We have an opportunity to take the next step." Queen Maenia was careful not to move or turn her head toward the figure standing behind her in the dark. Sala Ayyubi was a powerful being and she knew it was easy to anger him. 

"We must be careful," Sala said. "Are you sure circumstances warrant it?"

"The king is leaving tomorrow to battle the Nprudi," she said, looking at the candle as it flickered in the dark. The low light was soothing, and she felt comfortable in the presence of the Lord Sala Ayyubi. "We have this opportunity to strike a blow."

"Very well. Proceed." Sala's voice was firm and unyielding. "Do not fail." 

 

A Quick Update

 A quick explanation for the reader who has found their way to my so-called blog (I dislike the term, blog, by the way). This blog served me well years ago when I was traveling and writing, back in the Dark Times when people read blogs and the Internet was bit younger than it is today.

At any rate, I now use this space to post excerpts of passages from a novel that is churning over in my brain. I am writing a fantasy novel. Therefore, I hope these posts make more sense to you. 

Follow along with me as I go. Some of these passages are "warm ups" and may or may not find their way into the novel. 

The King and Ghelfunn Have a Good Day

The king stepped back as he received a blow from the enemy's sword. He took the defensive stance his training required, bringing his shield high with his weak left arm and shoulder. Using his right hand, he thrust his sword downward in a sweeping move to cut the legs of the approaching Nprudian warrior. The Nprudi were excellent swordsmen but were careless in their close-order attacks. Their aggression was uncontrolled. They often would move into the opponent's killing zone too soon or too quickly. This Nprudian was in a hurry to finish off the king, perhaps a reward being his motive.

The king's sword sliced into the left thigh of the rushing enemy, blood quickly spurting from the wound, spilling onto the Nprudi's cuisse. The Nprudian armor had weak plating, especially on the legs. Speed was a Nprudian trait, leg armor was designed to allow quick and decisive moves. The king knew this, of course, and thus the attack to the lower body. The Nprudi hit the ground hard, falling on his left side. The king raised his sword and took a downward blow toward his opponent's right shoulder, finding a soft spot just above the pauldron. The Nprudian's neck was exposed, just enough to end his life. 

The Nprudi have yet to improve their armor, the king thought.

Ghelfunn ran to the king and stood beside him just as the Nprudi slumped over dead. "Is your Greatness okay?" Ghelfunn asked. The comment was inappropriate, but the king liked Ghelfunn, so he let it pass. 

"I'm fine," the king said. "Don't worry about me. I was fighting the Nprudi while you were still sucking your mother's teat."

"I apologize sir," Ghelfunn said. "I meant no offense. You know my solemn oath is to protect you." 

"Kings are nursed by those who look out for him," the king said. "I find it irritating. I accept your apology but remind you I've killed my share of Nprudi." 

The king looked eastward over the battlefield before him and smiled. Ghelfunn knew at that moment they had won the day, the Nprudi were finished. The sun was sinking beyond the horizon, the golden glow that was common for that time of day began to enlighten the battlefield. The trees and all the surround plants were shining with that golden hue as blood and pieces of body parts settled into the fertile soil of the plateau. The king was happy. Ghelfunn grinned and said to the king, "I do love to fight." 

Dham Drathoy

Dham Drathoy sat at the large wooden table in the center of his cooking den. He placed the dirty dishes from the morning's breakfast and placed them in the water tub to be cleaned later. Just now he had something else on his mind. He's in trouble. Today is the day he must decide what to do.

Drathoy walked into his upstairs bedroom. Above his clothing cabinet was a framed drawing of his dead wife, Syentha, Ghelfunn's mother. He carefully removed the drawing from the wall. He placed it on the small table near his wooden bed. Hiding behind the picture frame was a small metal door with a locked latching. Drathoy installed the small safespace after he purchased the house fifteen years earlier. He kept his important documents in it. At the bottom of a pile of papers Drathoy gripped a small square-shaped note:

Dham Drathoy, the noted began. Remember you owe me a great deal of Koines. Interest is getting higher by the day. You must pay your debt by the end of this week, or someone will suffer the consequences! I would hate to see your son pay for the sins of his father. Don't make me come see you in person. It won't be a friendly visit.

Drathoy folded the note and held it to his breast. What am I going to do? He closed the metal door to the safe, locked it, replaced the drawing of his wife, and stuffed the note in his vest pocket. He looked at the drawing of Syentha. Wife, he said, if this crook believes he's going to extort me, he's crazier than I give him credit for. Drathoy was being threatened by the district tax collector, to pay money he did not owe. He was not going to put up with it any longer. 

Ghelfunn and Tooloo

_{Scene 3}

Ghelfunn awoke like most mornings, with his tweedmouth goosican licking his face. The goosican was the friendliest breed in the Fifth Realm, beloved for its hunting abilities and loyalty to its owner. When born, the four-legged goosican would emotionally attach itself to whomever it first licked, in an instant. Luckily, Ghelfunn passed that test and for the last four Winters has been at Ghelfunn's side. 

"Get off me, Tooloo," Ghelfunn said with a yawn. "Silly beast. I'm awake." Ghelfunn sat up in his bed, looking tired. Tooloo looked at Ghelfunn with that soulful grin on his face that meant let's eat.

Ghelfunn's father, Dham Drathoy, found a shop in the marketplace set aside for various kinds of animals. He wanted a tweedmouth for Ghelfunns' sixth Winter Celebration, a time when a child in the Fifth Kingdom began to take on certain responsibilities. Caring for a goosican would be the first step in a long journey to manhood. At least that was Dham Drathoy's plan.

Ghelfunn dressed and walked into the cooking den. His father was making breakfast. Tooloo quickly found his bowl of mashed gruelshu, wasting no time gulping it down. The cooking den was Drathoy's favorite room in the house. He loved to cook. 

 "Sit down, son," Drathoy said. "Your breakfast is getting cold. Did you sleep well?"

"I was sleeping great when Tooloo decided to lick my face off," Ghelfunn said. "I wish I could train that tweeder to obey me. He won't listen. I say let me sleep and all he does is look at me. I know he's laughing at me." Ghelfunn took a bite of his father's bread, the best bread in the Fifth Realm according to those who were lucky enough to get a bite.

"It takes patience," Drathoy said. "You can't give up on him. He's still young for a tweedmouth. I'm patient with you, right? I will never give up on you. Training takes patience and time. He loves you. A day will come when you will be thankful Tooloo was licking your face." 

After breakfast, Ghelfunn prepared for studies. In the Fifth Realm, the young studied together in a nearby temple complex. Tooloo, of course, was never allowed inside. This irritated him greatly. On this particular morning, however, Ghelfunn was going to skip his studies and run to the market. If his father found out, then Holy Grief would ascend on him like a smothering blanket. He had to be careful.

Ghelfunn prepared for a day of study at the temple as he always did. He packed his satchel with writings and books, said good-bye to his father, then walked out the front door with Tooloo lagging behind. Drathoy said goodbye and looked at his son leaving the house, then returned to the cooking den.

Is father still looking? Is he suspicious? Ghelfunn thought. I feel so guilty. Looking at Tooloo, Ghelfunn said under his breath very quietly, "We need to hurry. I must do this. I have no choice. My life, and my father's life, is at stake."

Ghelfunn walked down the street from his house and saw his friend, Stoyvit, standing in the front garden of his house. Stoyvit and Ghelfunn had been neighbors since both were born, close friends whom often spent days playing together in the grasslands east of town. Stoyvit was bigger than Ghelfunn, had long blonde hair streaming down to the mid-waist which was typical for his family's tribe. Ghelfunn often teased Stoyvit about his height and weight, mostly because he was jealous. To be a warrior, Ghelfunn often thought, I need to be as tall and strong as Stoyvit.

Ghelfunn and Cilghor

_{Scene 2}

Ghelfunn stood his ground. No more running. If the demonlord chased him into the alley for a showdown, so be it. The dark, wet, and crusty alley floor was dirty with garbage, mostly tossed from the windows overlooking it. A pile of old shells was stuffed into one corner near the entrance, a broken gate hung loosely on its hinges creaking in the wind. The smell of rotten food filled the air. 

The rains have subsided at least, Ghelfunn thought. He didn't mind a fight in the rain, but he preferred to stay dry during a fight. The battle with this demonlord was going to be tough enough. He didn't need the rain adding to the mess.

Cilghor the Infected stood in front of him twenty feet away. Cilghor had been chasing Ghelfunn for days but could not catch him. As a swiftfoot from the hills, Ghelfunn ran like a deer. Cilghor was slow, like an oxbeast. Cilghor knew he must trap Ghelfunn in a place like this, in an alley with no exit. The two enemies knew each other from the Old Days when they fought on opposite sides of the Pilgrim Wars. Cilghor hated Ghelfunn's guts and wanted to spill them out and take a bite, as was the manner in which demonlords celebrated a victory. Eating a piece of one's enemy was sacred duty.

"You have decided to fight," Cilghor said. "Tired of the chase?"

"Not tired. Just bored," Ghelfunn said, stiffening his muscles. "I'm hungry, but I don't mind killing a demonlord before dinner." He offered Cilghor a smile.

"The others I killed were not smiling," Cilghor said. "They were not bored, either. They died under my gaze like slaughtered pigs."

Slowly, methodically, the demonlord raised his four arms and took an aggressive posture that Ghelfunn had seen many times. Cilghor showed fisted claws at the end of each upper arm. He was ready to punch, like a fighter entering the arena. His two lower arms were outstretched, each hand holding a blade. The knives glistened in the darkness of the alleyway from the shining lamps nearby. Ghelfunn had seen knives like this before, but usually much larger. Cilghor's blades were smaller and seemed more dangerous. Demonlords were known for their skill with the blade. Their four hands could expertly handle swords and knives of every kind. The blades were made of the finest metal.

Cilghor began to swing his lower arms, cutting the putrid air with each blade as if swatting flimens. The blades moved so fast Ghelfunn could hardly see them. A blur of steel and wood protruded from Cilghor's lower arms as his upper arms tightened and bulged with blood pouring into his large veins, making them pulsate with each heartbeat.

Ghelfunn did nothing. He stood his ground like a stone statue. The smile left his lips, but that was the only sign he was ready for a fight.

At that moment, Cilghor stepped forward quickly and began his assault. The demonlord's clinched fists targeted Ghelfunn's upper body and face. His bladed lower arms were aimed at the waist and below, hoping to critically carve a thigh tendon or perhaps slash the groin. In the old days as a soldier, Cilghor quickly overcame an enemy this way, by pounding the head, strangling the neck, stabbing the lower extremities, using his four arms to punch, grip, strangle, slash, and stab an enemy from head to toe. 

Ghelfunn knew these tactics. He was ready.

As Cilghor came forward, Ghelfunn immediately hit the ground in a slide. Using the wet surface to move smoothly and quickly like a snake, Ghelfunn slid under the demonlord's lower arms and their knives. Cilghor harmlessly slashed through the air making no contact. Cilghor's upper arms were also useless, having nothing to punch. Ghelfunn's slide took him straight through a path between Cilghor's enormous legs. Once through, now behind Chilghor, Ghelfunn swung to his feet facing the back of Cilghor's agitated body.

The entire movement took Ghelfunn seconds to execute. 

Ghelfunn quickly reached for a circlespar hanging on his belt. He had to hurry. With his right hand, Ghelfunn tossed the circlespar like an arrow tip directly at the back of Cilghor's neck. Before the demonlord could turn around and face Ghelfunn, the circlespar entered Cilghor's neck and sliced its way through the throat, completely separating the demonlord's head from his torso. Cilghor crumbled to the ground in a heap of sweaty bewilderment. Ghelfunn had moved so fast, with such confidence, Cilghor never had a chance. The fight was over in less than thirty seconds. 

The small, thin, cylindrical circlespar took a reverse path to Ghelfunn's waiting right hand. Ghelfunn placed the deadly serrated blade back on his belt. Cilghor's blood dripped from the blade staining Ghelfunn's pants.

Ghelfunn stood over the dead carcass of the demonlord Cilghor the Infected. He removed the two blades firmly gripped by Cilghor's lower hands; the tendril-like claws still wrapped around the hilts. Ghelfunn placed the blades in the small of his back beneath his cloak, snuggly using his belt to hold them in place. He smiled at his old enemy.

"Time to eat," Ghelfunn said. 

 

++++++++++++

_{The Coffee Shop}

Noname sat at a coffee shop patio table, shivering. Damn it's cold. Why does it have to be so cold? It was the wind. It would have been much warmer had the wind not blown so hard. This time of year, it was normal, so he accepted it.

The Standard Coffee Shop was like a thousand other coffee shops in LaLaLand. People standing in line, workers behind the counter running madly to keep up with the growing crowd, filthy bagel crumbs and dirty napkins littering the counter top. The place smelled like the inside of a coffee cup that had been sitting in the sun all day. When Noname purchased his large cup of coffee he thought about leaving. This place is a dump, he thought. Instead he took his coffee and found an empty table outside on the patio.

Noname needed to work. He was by nature lazy, but a writer must work no matter how much he wanted to be somewhere else. Words had to hit the page consistently no matter what, day in and day out, or the bills would remain unpaid. He had no choice; he had to write at least five hundred words or feel like more of failure than he already felt. Writing kept him sane. 

His novel had no title. In fact, it had no setting or plotting or even a good character. Not yet. Noname's favorite professor, Dr. Asswipe Numbnuts, taught him to begin a story with either a strong character or an interesting setting. From these starting points, a plot would emerge like a string of vines growing on a brick wall. Dr. Numbnuts knew how to write, Noname was sure. The professor was popular among his students and was respected for having written fifty-four novels over a span of thirty years. Dr. Numbnuts was tall, lanky, had huge hands and liked to play the banjo. Yes. The banjo. When Noname visited the professor's home recently he had seen an expensive looking banjo in the corner of the living room. Ivory frets decorated the finger board, walnut being shined to a high brilliance. The well-worn drum head showed grease and dirt from the constant strumming of the professor's right hand as he finger-picked the five strings that were tightly stretched along the length of the instrument. For a banjo, it was beautiful. Was it possible for a banjo to be beautiful?

Five hundred words. Noname was stuck. He stared at the computer screen waiting for something, maybe a word to magically type itself into the manuscript from an unseen hand. He drank some coffee. It was getting cold now, too. I'll start with a setting, he thought. I'm at a coffee shop, so why not write about the coffee shop? I need to write five hundred words. That's all for today. Just five hundred words.

Noname began to write, forcing his hands to hover above the keyboard. He waited. Soon his fingers began to tap the keys and words began to fill the page. Suddenly he glimpsed downward toward the word count on his manuscript. Five hundred and twenty seven words.