Times of Change

A young bard with the world at his stubby fingertips must decide if said world is really worth saving.

Times of Change

Chapter 1: Far Above

The snow fell slowly, with caution, from the sky as if each flake knew it would meet its end when it finally touched the earth below. Grass was just a memory as flakes piled together to create mounds of white; burial mounds for the memories of spring and times past.

Sitting upon one such grave of snowflakes was a small creature that resembled a man that had been squished under the weight of a mountain giant. Short and stocky with oddly handsome features for one of dwarven ancestry, Rolan sat atop the mountain range distracted by his swimming thoughts. He had come to this very spot far above the tundra to be away from the bustle of Bregan, his home away from home, and the unending chatter of the inhabitants of his birthplace far below a nearby mountain, Sarenthal. One venturing into the bowels of Sarenthal and into the home of clan Stonesong would be met with the voices of hundreds of dwarves sharing tales of adventure and performing sonnets and songs alike. Clan Stonesong was a clan of dwarven bards.

Rolan, understanding the intensity of Sarenthal, made the journey to the peak of the mountain range on a daily basis preferring to share his thoughts with the wind and stars instead of his loud-mouthed clan below.

A sound akin to fresh snow being disturbed woke Rolan from his peaceful trance. Eyes darting back and forth between his peripherals, Rolan chanted under his breath, bringing forth an ethereal dagger. These mountains were inhabited by whole tribes of goblins. Youths of Bregan made it a test of strength to visit the peaks of the “accursed” mountain; a test that seemed all too absurd to Rolan. He knew better than to fear any goblin, yet he was a creature of survival, thus one who didn’t enjoy gambling with his life.

Keeping still as if still entranced by the view, Rolan brought his hand up toward his chest, then, without a sound, whipped it sideways, sending the dagger flying straight to the left and ending with a thud as it struck a tree. A most foul human curse from the side of the tree gave Rolan pause. Where had he heard that curse before?

“Stefan? What in seven hells are ye doing here? And can ye humans move at all without makin’ sixteen different sounds each flex of a muscle?” Rolan asked to the darkness as he moved back to his comfortable position.

“I was sure you would be near deaf with that monstrosity of a hat adorning your head. Come now, Rolan, you look as if you’re off raiding with a group of pirates when you aren’t defiling the daughters of Bregan’s council members.” Stefan chided as he moved closer to the dwarf’s impromptu seat, eyeing Rolan’s widebrimmed and feathered hat with little affection.

“Is that what this is about? Old Salavar needs to focus on the more pressing issues of Bregan, not what his daughter may or may not be doing in an alleyway with some handsome dwarf.” Rolan replied as he combed his gloved fingers through his meticulously groomed beard. “Plus, the girl was on me the entire night. Before me third drink, after the eighth, she was a persistent lass, I tell ye’.” His gaze went to the sky as Stefan sat, quite loudly, next to him.

“Can you not go a day without capturing the heart of some young doe with intentions so foreseeable that a blind man would wag a finger your way?” Stefan asked with a sigh. “He wants your head; and the council, full of fathers, would sleep much sounder if they knew their daughters were safe from the ‘lecherous dwarf and his evil charms’.”

“Lecherous? If he knew what his daughter could do with her tongue…” Rolan’s comment fell away to nothingness as his gaze passed over a cloud of smoke in the distance. “Is the town throwing a festival tonight?”

“Festival? In your time, when have you ever seen the council spend gold on anything that could be considered remotely exciting, my friend?”

“Plus, there were scant few lights in windows even before I closed the tavern.” Stefan supplied with a curious look.

“Fire.” was all that Stefan heard over the quick, crunching footsteps of Rolan as he made his way down the steep mountain slope.

“Fire.” mouthed Stefan before he finally comprehended the reason for Rolan’s intensity.

***

The moon hung far above the trees as Stefan tried his best to keep up with his surely friend. Between the dimly lit surroundings and thick underbrush, the only way Stefan knew where he was going was Rolan’s absurdly colored hat. Nearly the width of his shoulders, Rolan’s hat was an antique of sorts. The color most of all uneased Stefan; bright red with gold runes along the rim and adorned with a light brown, almost orange feather. Though he liked it not, the hat acted as a beacon in the dark. Reflecting moonlight with each movement, it lead Stefan to Rolan’s side as the forest contracted behind them.

Moving through a snow-covered field the two friends made their way toward the outskirts of Bregan, or what appeared to be a hellish misrepresentation of their beloved town. Only the screams of countless women and the sounds of battle filled the air. Clangs of sword on shield rang throughout the mountain range as flames licked at the roofs of buildings.

“What fresh hell is this?!” Rolan cried as he summoned another of his trademark daggers seemingly out of thin air. Stefan merely let out a small cry as he fell to his knees.

“M..My tavern. My gold!”

Stefan began pounding the ground in seething defeat.

“The show has just begun, me friend. Go, run to Sarenthal and seek grandmaster Rothar. Tell him to muster as many warriors as possible and to march post-haste!” Rolan ended his order with a pat on his friend’s back. “They shall bleed.”

With that, he was off toward the town’s eastern gate as fast as his stocky legs could carry him.

***

Smoke clung to Rolan’s cape and hat as he traversed the twisting streets of Bregan. The sounds of battle as his guide, he ran on, mouth and nose covered by his thick woolen cloak. Eyes stinging, he made his way through an alley and caught his first sight of the attackers. Short creatures with thin limbs and horns adorning their heads rode atop the largest monsters he’d ever seen. One such duo further from the rest towered above a small child seemingly shielding his infant sibling behind him. Four times the size of any human, the creature stood on all fours with a large horned head and covered in a red, scale-like hide. Worst of all, though, were its morbid, piercing red eyes. The eyes! Oh those petrifying eyes!

Rolan couldn’t work up the nerve to move. Every muscle in his body tensed, frozen, as the creature eyed the child with hunger. The imp-like creature on top of the beast smiled a wide grin that stretched to its ears, revealing rows of sharp, pointed teeth. It was a grotesque sight, the likes of which Rolan could never have dreamt up.

Racking his brain, he remembered a tale told to him by old Gar, the leader of his clan; of devilish creatures that walked Reduun a millenia ago. Horror stories of man-eating beasts and bat-like creatures came rushing into Rolan’s mind. These were koth, creatures of the abyss, or demons to some religious-minded individuals. He had to think fast or the blood-stained walls would be the only sign that these children had ever been here.

After only a moment of chanting, the dwarf steeled his gaze toward the beast.

“And they say dwarves have hearts akin to stone.” Rolan mused to himself as he ran at full sprint toward the children.

***

The large demon saw Rolan running its way and welcomed the idea of another fine, if not small, meal. As it began to raise its taloned hand to swipe Rolan into even smaller pieces, two knives slammed into its head; one blinding its right eye. With a roar of pure rage, the behemoth turned on its heels and eyed Rolan with its one good eye.

“Long way from home, eh beastie? I can get assure ye that the return trip will be quick!” Rolan assured the beast as he charged the creature, a knife in each hand.

Rolling to the right as he came upon the behemoth, Rolan sunk one dagger clean through its thick hide. Hot blood poured from the wound, scorching his face as he climbed, knife over knife, the beast’s side in an effort to reach the imp above.

“Why can’t demon invasions occur on a day when I ain’t wearin’ me finest cloak! Damn it all!” Rolan seethed as the warm blood stained, and burnt, his latest purchase.

Understanding the dwarf’s intentions, the imp issued a stream of terrified orders to its angered mount.

“Khash inaseq nzarma k’tornak!” the imp cried as a dwarven form pulled itself over the behemoth’s shoulder.

“Nowhere to run, eh? Sad day, indeed.” Rolan remarked in feigned sadness. “But alas, how may I acquaint ye with death this fine da-”

The beast bucked its hind legs, sending the bloody dwarf flying. The last thing he saw before he was thirty feet in the air was the imp’s large, toothy smile.

With a few minor hand movements and chants, Rolan was gliding slowly toward the ground completely unnoticed by the koth.

The behemoth, angered by the interruption, turned back toward its original victims trapped against the wall. Too petrified to move, the children hadn’t the sense to run away while the koth were distracted. Death was all too near as the towering fiend walked slowly toward them with hunger in its eye.

“Ye won’t be rid of me so easily, ye big b*****d! I’ve still got plenty a’ fight in me!” Rolan cried from a nearby wall.

Sheer anger welled within the beast as it let out a sudden, deafening roar and charged, to the dismay of the imp, toward the cause of its animosity.

Instead of a flattened dwarf, the behemoth met with a stone wall adorned by outward-facing aetherial daggers, successfully impaling itself on the wall. A loud crunch signaled its gruesome demise. The imp, with enough sense to jump from its mount’s back midway through the charge, found itself lying on the stone street staring into the smiling visage of the burnt and blood-covered dwarf.

With one hand, Rolan lifted the creature by the neck, locking eyes as it swayed, its feet inches from the ground. Eyes open to the widest possible position, the imp began whimpering.

“And the winds turn a blind eye to cruelty’s demise. Woe, to he, that at the end of his life cries.” Rolan quoted, with a grin, from an old tale of a murderer who faces the guillotine with tears in his eyes. A moment later, his muscles and fingers tensed, breaking the creature’s neck with a loud crack.

Author's Note

Tell me how you like it and how I could potentially better the whole thing. *Note, This is the first part of many. After a time I plan on patchwerking(is that a word?) the whole set into a novel.