Post by stobsy on Aug 22, 2007 8:47:37 GMT -5
Author's note: If you’re intrepid enough to read this sprawling fantasy then I doff my hat to you! I hope you enjoy this first chapter, I will post the others shortly - as I know how annoying it is to be left on a cliff-hanger, or a slight incline-hanger in this case! – Please feel free to give me your critique, no matter how damning or vitriolic! There’s only one way I’ll know how to improve, and that’s through criticism – and appropriate praise! So don’t hold back, I won’t cry, well maybe just a little. 
Chapter I - The Hobgoblin
The sun gleamed red in the fleshy sky like some hideous, circular wound. Its sunbeams dripped through the forest canopy like beads of blood, dappling the forest floor with scarlet puddles. One ray of dripping sunlight seeped into a thorny bush, causing two narrow eyes to glitter like flawed rubies. The eyes were attached, as most are, to a body, and this appendage was crouched amongst the dense foliage of the spiky shrubbery, covered in shadow. This silhouetted body belonged to Mabeaf.
A passer-by, perhaps some ardent hunter or exploring child, wouldn't have heard or seen the lurking Mabeaf, if they happened to walk past. The eyes, shining in the errant light like congealing blood, were trained on an arrow-shaped crack, partially hidden by ivy, in a short, vertical cliff-face twelve feet from the bush. The crack was big enough to swallow a ten-year-old child whole and yawned toothlessly at the watcher in the setting sun.
Suddenly out of the crack there came an unearthly cackling noise. A high-pitched voice, punctuated by croaks, echoed from out the chasm like some incarcerated crow's uncouth call for freedom. The speaker seemed to be singing.
The crouching figure of Mabeaf in the bush re-adjusted his weight carefully and silently like a patient hunter. The song was getting louder as its emanator approached. A slither of scarlet sunlight revealed an inhumanly long noise, hooked half way down like a boxer's broken schnoz and as pointed as a spearhead. The nose was followed by the rest of a face, two dark beadlike eyes glittering cruelly in the late light, curly, unruly brown eyebrows and side-burns framing the thin, pallid face. The creature was now standing outside the cave, he had stopped singing and had glanced up at the melting sun and shook his long, hideous middle-finger at the descending fireball.
"Damned treacle-tart!" he said snidely.
The Hobgoblin looked around at the glade he was standing in; he was wearing a red, pointy hat that curved downwards slightly towards his bent back. He was about five foot tall and clothed in a brown leather tunic, with a large red collar that circled his boney shoulders and thin neck. On his hunched back was slung a quiver full of brightly fletched arrows, an axe handle, bound inexpertly with shit-coloured leather, pointed out of a sheath lodged on a burgundy belt. A non-descript bag was also tied to his belt, which held up his knee-length brown trousers, below which were red and white striped stockings and pointy brown shoes on his large feet.
The Hobgoblin cocked his head to one side, gazing five feet from the unseen watcher at the foreground. He then flicked absentmindedly at his prominent, pointed ears and sat down on a stump a few steps from the crack.
The watching eyes stared intently at the Hobgoblin with the intensity of an egg-collector who had spotted a nest in a tall tree and was mentally scrutinising the possibility of a foraging climb. The watcher saw the Hobgoblin glance about the wood and look satisfied; throwing back his head again and releasing another gurgled chanson:
"Down mountain paths an' valley streams,
From babbling brook to wooded glen,
We'll pillage an' plunder what we deems
Is fit for loot and rape, yer ken?
Ole Cragput, Schnarls an’ o'course
There's me with vicious pick,
I'll kill man, woman, child an' 'orse
'Cause I'm the great, hobgoblin Ulric!
"I'll slic..."
The watching figure let out a gasp of joy, causing the Hobgoblin to abruptly stop singing and look towards the thorny bush with a shocked stare. The concealed figure stood up, revealing himself in the last, lazy light of the evening sun, startling the now standing Hobgoblin.
"Ulric!" said Mabeaf, "I command you to be my..."
"Nao!" interrupted the Hobgoblin.
"I, I command you to be my sherpa, to guide me across the foothills of Old Craggy and..."
"No!" the Hobgoblin intervened again.
"...through the low-lands and plains to the great city of Golport!" the watcher continued, slightly abashed by the Hobgoblin's strangled cry. "My name is Mabeaf, and I am your master!"
The Hobgoblin was clawing at his beady eyes like some starving cannibal. He had been so foolish. How had he become so cocky as to sing a song that let slip his own name? For it is an innate, if inane, part of Hobgoblin lore that a human can command him by uttering his name and ordering him. The Hobgoblin is obliged to follow the human's orders, but upon the utterance of his name a second time he is free from the curse.
Mabeaf, until now the pair of eyes in the thorn bush, was a gangly boy of seventeen years. He had tricked an aged and insidious Hobgoblin, after days of patient lurking amongst the foliage outside the crack. He had heard about the Hobgoblin curse many years ago from his brother Charl and it was a huge risk he had taken, for if it hadn't worked he would've certainly been chased by an enraged Hobgoblin with a good eye with the bow and arrow. However, Mabeaf was full hardy, verging on cockiness in his convictions, though this was rarely shown as outward arrogance.
Now Mabeaf had the Hobgoblin under his control, he could focus firmly on his escape, his escape from the shadow of the mountain Old Craggy, and the farm where he lived and toiled and burned finite days of life away fitfully.
"You tricked me, you, you lumberin' imbecile!" snarled the Hobgoblin in reply.
"Enough little man of the forest, we must follow the setting sun and journey to the east as fellow travelers!" said Mabeaf mockingly.
"You won't get away with this, I'll make sure of it." the Hobgoblin muttered under his breath.
Mabeaf ignored the last remark and coaxed the Hobgoblin along.
"Now," he began like a parent chiding his mischievous child, "you're to do what I require. I need you to take me to Golport."
"Release me! goat herder!" croaked the Hobgoblin.
"Let's go, now. We need to go under cover of darkness." said Mabeaf, his jovial attitude slightly diminished after the herder jibe.
The two set off immediately, Mabeaf had a sack with provisions and a few prized possessions, the Hobgoblin didn't take anything with him except the aforementioned utensils of his trade, including his spiteful remarks.
The sun had now set in a blaze of orange amongst the pines and the two set off in this direction, towards the east and Golport. The gravelly roads out of the area were marshaled by local watchmen and Mabeaf wanted to disappear from the village, The 'Let as it was known, as quietly and inconspicuously as possible, so avoided these. The forest and the dark provided by the sun's absence were perfect cloaks.
Mabeaf was a tall youth, thin and slightly lanky, but with the carrot-shaped body that comes from healthy mountain air and honest, hard work. He was a local herder, living in a sprawling farmhouse with his parents and two grown-up brothers and their wives. His job was to herd the goats - something he didn't mind so much, he had time to think and to analyse the local fauna, flora and landscapes. However, in only a week's time he was to marry the neighbouring farmer's daughter, Esme, and so unite the two families. The village of the 'Let was a perfect example of the feudal system at work, everyone had feuds. The best way to settle these farm-fence quarrels was to marry off a daughter.
Mabeaf didn't mind Esme, she was friendly and she wasn't unattractive with her fair hair and glowing smile, but Mabeaf didn't want to live like his parents and his brothers. After twenty-five years or so the people in the shadow of Old Craggy seemed to have a blight descend upon them, a blight that took away any youthful beauty and ambition, leaving time-worn and hopeless façades behind. Mabeaf wanted to get away, to live a better life and avoid the blight and the village's domestic drudgery. He didn't want conformity. Then he found out he could perform magic.
It happened when he was sixteen; he was lying on his side, with the goats grazing about him. He had looked at an oak leaf, and concentrating on the veins and features of it he had urged it, for some unknown reason, to levitate. It was a still day and he had made a leaf float! He had tried it several times successfully; to prove it was no fluke. His parents were unaware of this ability of his; he had kept it quiet, his secret and his unique attribute and now he wanted to up-sticks and become a wizard. The city of Golport he knew had magicians, he had over-heard a passing merchant bemoaning a cart collision with one when he was trading in Golport. So the great dock was his destination - get there and find someone to teach him wizardry.
Mabeaf followed the Hobgoblin as he trekked through the pine-needle strewn wood that caped the north-eastern foothills of Old Craggy. The two were an odd couple, Mabeaf with his long dark, bronze hair and the Hobgoblin with his ridiculously sharp nose and red and white stockings. The journey to Golport would take maybe a week and a half or two by foot. If they could rustle up some mules from a road-side inn once they had escaped the mountain's scrutiny, then a few days, perhaps a week at most.
After a few hours of walking the moon had risen high. The night sky was a rich, dark blue, with clusters of silvery clouds that shone ethereally in the moon's sleepy gaze. Moonbeams fell on Mabeaf's face, highlighting his high cheekbones and his thin face. He breathed the pine-fresh air into his long, narrow nose and took a look at the lunar disk. His dark brown, almost black, eyes glinted in the white light, they were like dark, concentrated wells of coal-coloured water. Below them purplely bags had formed due to the long nights spent waiting for the Hobgoblin to reveal his name. Above his eyes were two prominent eyebrows, not bushy, but large in width, and dark. They gave his face a brooding look.
An hour or so before dawn Mabeaf and the Hobgoblin stopped and sat down to an early breakfast of bread and water from the nearby stream. Few words had been said between the two except the goblin's random curses. An unspoken agreement seemed to have been struck, to get this journey over and done with.
Mabeaf was ever so slightly wary of the Hobgoblin, he knew their race to be cunning and knowledgeable, but he could handle it, he was sure. He was a six-foot man, and this was some hermit of a Hobgoblin, quite an old one at that. He licked his thin lips, safe in the knowledge that he was protected from physical harm from the Hobgoblin whilst the enchantment was in effect, so he curled amongst the pine needles peacefully in his sleeping-sack, whilst his companion sat upright, his crooked back against the trunk of a tree. Sleep took Mabeaf quickly, the excitement of the previous evening had worn him out, but the nocturnal Hobgoblin's eyes burned with hatred - revenge was his top-priority.
Mabeaf
By Alex James
By Alex James
Chapter I - The Hobgoblin
The sun gleamed red in the fleshy sky like some hideous, circular wound. Its sunbeams dripped through the forest canopy like beads of blood, dappling the forest floor with scarlet puddles. One ray of dripping sunlight seeped into a thorny bush, causing two narrow eyes to glitter like flawed rubies. The eyes were attached, as most are, to a body, and this appendage was crouched amongst the dense foliage of the spiky shrubbery, covered in shadow. This silhouetted body belonged to Mabeaf.
A passer-by, perhaps some ardent hunter or exploring child, wouldn't have heard or seen the lurking Mabeaf, if they happened to walk past. The eyes, shining in the errant light like congealing blood, were trained on an arrow-shaped crack, partially hidden by ivy, in a short, vertical cliff-face twelve feet from the bush. The crack was big enough to swallow a ten-year-old child whole and yawned toothlessly at the watcher in the setting sun.
Suddenly out of the crack there came an unearthly cackling noise. A high-pitched voice, punctuated by croaks, echoed from out the chasm like some incarcerated crow's uncouth call for freedom. The speaker seemed to be singing.
The crouching figure of Mabeaf in the bush re-adjusted his weight carefully and silently like a patient hunter. The song was getting louder as its emanator approached. A slither of scarlet sunlight revealed an inhumanly long noise, hooked half way down like a boxer's broken schnoz and as pointed as a spearhead. The nose was followed by the rest of a face, two dark beadlike eyes glittering cruelly in the late light, curly, unruly brown eyebrows and side-burns framing the thin, pallid face. The creature was now standing outside the cave, he had stopped singing and had glanced up at the melting sun and shook his long, hideous middle-finger at the descending fireball.
"Damned treacle-tart!" he said snidely.
The Hobgoblin looked around at the glade he was standing in; he was wearing a red, pointy hat that curved downwards slightly towards his bent back. He was about five foot tall and clothed in a brown leather tunic, with a large red collar that circled his boney shoulders and thin neck. On his hunched back was slung a quiver full of brightly fletched arrows, an axe handle, bound inexpertly with shit-coloured leather, pointed out of a sheath lodged on a burgundy belt. A non-descript bag was also tied to his belt, which held up his knee-length brown trousers, below which were red and white striped stockings and pointy brown shoes on his large feet.
The Hobgoblin cocked his head to one side, gazing five feet from the unseen watcher at the foreground. He then flicked absentmindedly at his prominent, pointed ears and sat down on a stump a few steps from the crack.
The watching eyes stared intently at the Hobgoblin with the intensity of an egg-collector who had spotted a nest in a tall tree and was mentally scrutinising the possibility of a foraging climb. The watcher saw the Hobgoblin glance about the wood and look satisfied; throwing back his head again and releasing another gurgled chanson:
"Down mountain paths an' valley streams,
From babbling brook to wooded glen,
We'll pillage an' plunder what we deems
Is fit for loot and rape, yer ken?
Ole Cragput, Schnarls an’ o'course
There's me with vicious pick,
I'll kill man, woman, child an' 'orse
'Cause I'm the great, hobgoblin Ulric!
"I'll slic..."
The watching figure let out a gasp of joy, causing the Hobgoblin to abruptly stop singing and look towards the thorny bush with a shocked stare. The concealed figure stood up, revealing himself in the last, lazy light of the evening sun, startling the now standing Hobgoblin.
"Ulric!" said Mabeaf, "I command you to be my..."
"Nao!" interrupted the Hobgoblin.
"I, I command you to be my sherpa, to guide me across the foothills of Old Craggy and..."
"No!" the Hobgoblin intervened again.
"...through the low-lands and plains to the great city of Golport!" the watcher continued, slightly abashed by the Hobgoblin's strangled cry. "My name is Mabeaf, and I am your master!"
The Hobgoblin was clawing at his beady eyes like some starving cannibal. He had been so foolish. How had he become so cocky as to sing a song that let slip his own name? For it is an innate, if inane, part of Hobgoblin lore that a human can command him by uttering his name and ordering him. The Hobgoblin is obliged to follow the human's orders, but upon the utterance of his name a second time he is free from the curse.
Mabeaf, until now the pair of eyes in the thorn bush, was a gangly boy of seventeen years. He had tricked an aged and insidious Hobgoblin, after days of patient lurking amongst the foliage outside the crack. He had heard about the Hobgoblin curse many years ago from his brother Charl and it was a huge risk he had taken, for if it hadn't worked he would've certainly been chased by an enraged Hobgoblin with a good eye with the bow and arrow. However, Mabeaf was full hardy, verging on cockiness in his convictions, though this was rarely shown as outward arrogance.
Now Mabeaf had the Hobgoblin under his control, he could focus firmly on his escape, his escape from the shadow of the mountain Old Craggy, and the farm where he lived and toiled and burned finite days of life away fitfully.
"You tricked me, you, you lumberin' imbecile!" snarled the Hobgoblin in reply.
"Enough little man of the forest, we must follow the setting sun and journey to the east as fellow travelers!" said Mabeaf mockingly.
"You won't get away with this, I'll make sure of it." the Hobgoblin muttered under his breath.
Mabeaf ignored the last remark and coaxed the Hobgoblin along.
"Now," he began like a parent chiding his mischievous child, "you're to do what I require. I need you to take me to Golport."
"Release me! goat herder!" croaked the Hobgoblin.
"Let's go, now. We need to go under cover of darkness." said Mabeaf, his jovial attitude slightly diminished after the herder jibe.
The two set off immediately, Mabeaf had a sack with provisions and a few prized possessions, the Hobgoblin didn't take anything with him except the aforementioned utensils of his trade, including his spiteful remarks.
The sun had now set in a blaze of orange amongst the pines and the two set off in this direction, towards the east and Golport. The gravelly roads out of the area were marshaled by local watchmen and Mabeaf wanted to disappear from the village, The 'Let as it was known, as quietly and inconspicuously as possible, so avoided these. The forest and the dark provided by the sun's absence were perfect cloaks.
Mabeaf was a tall youth, thin and slightly lanky, but with the carrot-shaped body that comes from healthy mountain air and honest, hard work. He was a local herder, living in a sprawling farmhouse with his parents and two grown-up brothers and their wives. His job was to herd the goats - something he didn't mind so much, he had time to think and to analyse the local fauna, flora and landscapes. However, in only a week's time he was to marry the neighbouring farmer's daughter, Esme, and so unite the two families. The village of the 'Let was a perfect example of the feudal system at work, everyone had feuds. The best way to settle these farm-fence quarrels was to marry off a daughter.
Mabeaf didn't mind Esme, she was friendly and she wasn't unattractive with her fair hair and glowing smile, but Mabeaf didn't want to live like his parents and his brothers. After twenty-five years or so the people in the shadow of Old Craggy seemed to have a blight descend upon them, a blight that took away any youthful beauty and ambition, leaving time-worn and hopeless façades behind. Mabeaf wanted to get away, to live a better life and avoid the blight and the village's domestic drudgery. He didn't want conformity. Then he found out he could perform magic.
It happened when he was sixteen; he was lying on his side, with the goats grazing about him. He had looked at an oak leaf, and concentrating on the veins and features of it he had urged it, for some unknown reason, to levitate. It was a still day and he had made a leaf float! He had tried it several times successfully; to prove it was no fluke. His parents were unaware of this ability of his; he had kept it quiet, his secret and his unique attribute and now he wanted to up-sticks and become a wizard. The city of Golport he knew had magicians, he had over-heard a passing merchant bemoaning a cart collision with one when he was trading in Golport. So the great dock was his destination - get there and find someone to teach him wizardry.
Mabeaf followed the Hobgoblin as he trekked through the pine-needle strewn wood that caped the north-eastern foothills of Old Craggy. The two were an odd couple, Mabeaf with his long dark, bronze hair and the Hobgoblin with his ridiculously sharp nose and red and white stockings. The journey to Golport would take maybe a week and a half or two by foot. If they could rustle up some mules from a road-side inn once they had escaped the mountain's scrutiny, then a few days, perhaps a week at most.
*
After a few hours of walking the moon had risen high. The night sky was a rich, dark blue, with clusters of silvery clouds that shone ethereally in the moon's sleepy gaze. Moonbeams fell on Mabeaf's face, highlighting his high cheekbones and his thin face. He breathed the pine-fresh air into his long, narrow nose and took a look at the lunar disk. His dark brown, almost black, eyes glinted in the white light, they were like dark, concentrated wells of coal-coloured water. Below them purplely bags had formed due to the long nights spent waiting for the Hobgoblin to reveal his name. Above his eyes were two prominent eyebrows, not bushy, but large in width, and dark. They gave his face a brooding look.
An hour or so before dawn Mabeaf and the Hobgoblin stopped and sat down to an early breakfast of bread and water from the nearby stream. Few words had been said between the two except the goblin's random curses. An unspoken agreement seemed to have been struck, to get this journey over and done with.
Mabeaf was ever so slightly wary of the Hobgoblin, he knew their race to be cunning and knowledgeable, but he could handle it, he was sure. He was a six-foot man, and this was some hermit of a Hobgoblin, quite an old one at that. He licked his thin lips, safe in the knowledge that he was protected from physical harm from the Hobgoblin whilst the enchantment was in effect, so he curled amongst the pine needles peacefully in his sleeping-sack, whilst his companion sat upright, his crooked back against the trunk of a tree. Sleep took Mabeaf quickly, the excitement of the previous evening had worn him out, but the nocturnal Hobgoblin's eyes burned with hatred - revenge was his top-priority.
