A Fantasy Story, Instalment 4

Hello faithful readers!

Today I have two new scenes for your entertainment.

Let me just contextualise: the first of today's scenes takes place after the last scene you read, where Malvarl and Myrna dress in southern costume and enter Fort Gal-Ga-Rok. The second of today's scenes takes place way before that, after Myrna stumbles across the Nybelingnau encampment in the forest at night.

One more thing before you read on: I'd like to apologise. These two scenes are two of the most emotional scenes that I've dreamed up but I feel like I haven't really captured that in the writing of them. So... sorry. :( If you agree, would you mind terribly much sending me a quick message detailing where you think I went wrong? I'm wondering if maybe I "told" too much, breaking that ever-important show-don't-tell rule. Hmm :S if you disagree and are moved by the EXTREME FEELS caused by these scenes, please feel free to tell me that too. :P

Anyways, enjoy!

♥Nancy♬

The great expanses of grey rock that made up the throne room walls in Fort Gal-Ga-Rok looked as if they should be harsh and cold, but the room was actually quite a pleasant temperature, with more than one roaring fire contributing to the warmth.

 “Stop,” said Gal-Ga-Wak, and we did. We stood in the very entrance to the throne room, staring down towards the throne of the Treacle King. We’d heard tell that the throne was made from human bones, but it was covered by so many furs that it was impossible to see if this were true. On the throne sat the biggest barbarian I had ever seen. He seemed to be naked, but an animal-fur blanket protected his modesty, or rather, ours.

 “You listen at Gal-Ga-Spayk,” growled our escort.

We heard the sound of a throat being cleared. It took a moment for me to identify the source, out of all the barbarians crowded around the walls of the throne room. By the side of the throne of the barbarian king stood a normal, human girl. She was wearing a linen shift, stained red - I could only assume with blood - and over it she wore rabbit furs arranged to keep her decently clothed, by barbarian standard at least. Looking around at the other barbarian women, it was clear that the presence of the shift was a rarity. Most of the barbarian women simply wore animal furs down around their waists and up over their shoulders, covering sometimes both, but more often just one breast. I couldn’t fathom how they survived out in the cold.

The woman beside the throne spoke, in clear English. “Princess Mirella from the South, you will approach the Great King Gal-Ga.”

I walked towards the throne. Malvarl followed close behind. Remembering our previous discussions, I went all the way up to the throne until I was within arms reach of the Treacle King himself. He smelt of unwashed man and stale blood. I did not bow. Instead, I held out the precious glass and wood box that I had carried all this way.

 “For King Gal-Ga, southern pearls harvested from poison snap-clams.”

The human girl, Gal-Ga-Spayk, stepped forward, bowed low to me in the southern fashion, and accepted the gift. King Gal-Ga turned towards the girl and spoke in his guttural barbarian tongue.

Gal-Ga-Spayk translated: “King Gal-Ga appreciates this product of brave deeds. He names your Nissetrold warrior a devil-creature. As a courtesy to you he offers a gift to appease the demon’s appetite...” Her voice trailed off, and I heard it catch in her throat. She coughed. I saw the movement of her jaw as it clenched and then watched as she forced herself to relax. She finished translating: “bring the devil-marked babes.”

A barbarian woman stepped forward, cradling a baby in each arm. At first I was silent, still waiting for the courtesy gift to arrive. When I finally realised, my mouth dropped open. Staying perfectly calm, Malvarl stepped forward and retrieved the babies. Figuring that the babies were safe with Malvarl - despite what Gal-Ga the Treacle King thought - I turned my attention back to our translator.

 “Devil-marked babes?” I asked.

A series of grunts and growls passed between the King and his herald.

Then Gal-Ga-Spayk said to me, “they believe that twins are devil-marked and weak. They are happy to feed them to your servant. They go to great lengths to appease the Nissetrold.”

Her voice cracked.

 “Nissetrold? The Nybelingnau, of the south and west?”

Gal-Ga-Spayk nodded. A tear rolled down her cheek. She ignored it. I took a step towards her.

 “The babes are yours?” I whispered. She nodded.

 “We can return them, in secret. I won’t take your babes.”

She shook her head violently.

 “I wouldn’t dare,” she whispered back to me.

I looked into her eyes. There was so much that I wanted to communicate to Gal-Ga-Spayk. I wanted to promise salvation from the barbarians. I wished I could promise her a safe life with her babies, far away from this blood-stained fortress. I ached to pass on all the wisdom I had acquired on my journey so far. But our perilous situation was too constraining.

I whispered back to her, “I’ll take care of them, I swear it. He won’t eat them.”

 “Thank you,” she mouthed, with a smile on her face but her eyes full of tears.

Then she turned and grunted at King Gal-Ga. He laughed a deep belly laugh. I wondered what she had told him about our whispered exchange.

Composed again, Gal-Ga-Spayk announced, “King Gal-Ga is pleased. You may state your business.”

This was it. We had rehearsed this speech in private, trained me in the southern accent and prayed to our gods that I could pull this off. I straightened my ridiculous southern headdress, breathed as deep as I could in the restrictive gown and spoke.

 “Dread King Gal-Ga, word has reached my southern principality that the terrible rogue Darach,” King Gal-Ga furrowed his brow when he heard this, and spat over the side of his throne, “has been seen in your lands. This man is my property, marked for death by the hand and teeth of my bodyguard. If you have him, I demand that you transfer him to my custody to deal with as is appropriate in our southern custom. If you do not, I humbly request any information you may possess.”

Gal-Ga-Spayk grunted and grumbled at the Treacle King, relaying my wordy message. Then he grunted and grumbled back. And then there was more grumbling and grunting and even some growling.

The real me, average everyday Myrna, would have waited patiently. The woman I was pretending to be, the fictional Princess Mirella, would not. I began to tap my foot.

King Gal-Ga paused, mid-grumble. He glared at me. I raised one eyebrow at him.

A moment later, Gal-Ga-Spayk turned back to me and said, “King Gal-Ga concedes to give you information. He will not give you Darach.”

King Gal-Ga spat again at the sound of Darach’s name. He growled at his herald.

 “King Gal-Ga wishes to inform you that scum-of-the-earth Darach-” King Gal-Ga spat on the ground a third time - “is in the custody of the Baron o’ Mines. He will never be released. He says...”

Gal-Ga-Spayk paused. She turned to King Gal-Ga. She grunted at him. Even in the guttural tongue of the barbarians, I could hear her upwards inflection and knew that she was questioning him. King Gal-Ga let out a great roar. It was so loud that I had to cover my ears for a moment, but I watched as Gal-Ga-Spayk cowered from the barbarian king’s terrible roar. The throne room was utterly silent as the echoes faded away.

Gal-Ga-Spayk cleared her throat and said, quietly, “he says, scum-of-the-earth Darach is not even good enough to be food for the Nissetrold.” There was a long pause. Then she added, quieter still, “that was the barbarian’s worst and cruelest insult.”

I kept myself composed. I held up one finger to King Gal-Ga, in what I hoped was a universal gesture for “just a minute please.”

I turned to Malvarl. I didn’t have to pose the question that was on my tongue. Malvarl said, “no,” in the Nybelingnau tongue. I was confident that no one else in the room understood, nor did they want to.

I turned back to King Gal-Ga and delivered another speech, “my gratitude knows no bounds, Ferocious King Gal-Ga. There is no better place for scum-of-the-earth Darach. My bodyguard thanks you for sparing him from consuming something so base. Our quest achieved, we will depart your northern realm.”

I nodded at Gal-Ga-Spayk, trying to convey all the things I wanted to say her in a single glance. Then I turned on my heels, letting my southern gown swish around me, and walked past Malvarl towards the doorway to the throne room.

Before I knew it we were back inside a carriage, heading down the mountain path, barbarian-free. The gong boomed five times and the sweet wind blew in from the Sugar Hills.

“This is a fool’s errand, Myrna. Forget the man who sowed his seed and focus on your child.”

I looked into Malvarl’s big, whiteless eyes. Who could tell if they seemed sincere or nasty? But there was something about the timbre of his cacophony-of-a-voice that made me think he was just trying to be kind.

 “He has a right to know that he’s a father. I’m not asking him to marry me.”

 “The way is dangerous, Myrna, and worse still for a woman and worse still for the child. And what will you do if you don’t find Darach at the Leaping Griffin?”

 “I’ll keep looking, o’ course. I’m nothing if not persistent.”

 “Which is how you ended up here,” Malvarl replied, flatly.

I could leave anytime. Despite the terrible stories I had heard of the Nybelingnau, I now knew that they would never eat me or even keep me prisoner. Still, convincing Malvarl that I should leave the Nybelingnau caravan to adventure into the Far North seemed somehow important.

And so I said, “can you imagine not knowing your children, Malvarl?”

His tattered ears stopped twitching and his many piercings fell silent - a telltale sign of Nybelingnau fear, although of course the stories try to pass it off as sneakiness and cunning.

 “A convincing argument, Myrna,” Malvarl admitted.

I smiled in triumph.

 “I will accompany you.”

My smile dropped. I didn’t need a travelling companion. It was a ridiculous idea!

 “I do not like to consider life without my children, Myrna, so I appreciate your quest. But I also do not like to consider my Charna travelling so far, alone and with-child. This time, Myrna, it is my argument that is convincing.”

The next thing I knew, Malvarl was packing a travel bag, chattering away to his companions as he did so. My grasp of the Nybelingnau tongue was much too flimsy to understand what he was saying.

 “Myrna,” he called, in a sudden burst of English, “prepare yourself, we leave as soon as possible.”

I had little to prepare; all my food was long-since eaten and I’d barely brought anything else. I packed my blanket away in my bag and decided that I was ready. I sat down on a wooden stool beside the still-smoking coals of last night’s fire.

 “Myrna,” Malvarl called, “one moment, and then we leave.”

I watched across the clearing as Malvarl turned around from facing me to find himself nose-to-nose with Charna. She screeched at him, in pure, soul-destroying Nybelingnau. Malvarl chattered back at her. His voice, which still conjured up images of serpents and harpies and hell’s worst creatures, was a sound I had almost grown accustomed to. Almost. Malvarl reasoned and pleaded with Charna and she ranted and raved right back at him. Although their speech was totally foreign, the positions of their lanky alien bodies seemed close to human. When Charna began to cry copper-coloured tears and covered her face with her hands, I had the utterly absurd thought that she could have been any wife from my village, instead of a creepy Nybelingnau female. She grasped Malvarl’s shirt with her three-jointed fingers and pulled him close to cry into his neck. It was all so human...

Malvarl took a step back from Charna. I continued to watch, captivated by their exchange. Malvarl dropped to his knees on the grass in front of Charna. Even from afar I could see his eyes fill with copper tears. He began to tear at her dress, ripping through the weave of the fabric with his sharp nails. For a brief moment I wondered whether I should leave - I didn’t want to be witness to a Nybelingnau mating.

But Nybelingnau anatomy is humanoid and Malvarl stopped ripping Charna’s dress apart after he had exposed her stomach. He put his hands around her waist. I realised what was happening a split-second before he kissed her now-revealed skin. I watched in awe as Charna cried copper-coloured tears onto Malvarl’s bald head and Marlvarl kissed her belly, his eyes leaking tears too, kissing her belly again and again as if... as if he couldn’t bear to leave her and their unborn babe.

I stood up and walked away from the campfire, to wait with the Nybelingnau until it was time to leave - and time to tear Malvarl from his family indefinitely.

A Fantasy Story, Part... err...?

Hi everyone!

You really seem to be enjoying the story that I'm working on at the moment so I figured I ought to share the latest parts with you.

My numbering system has fallen apart somewhat. You remember how Part 2 consisted of two separate scenes? Well, the two scenes that I'm about to share here fall IN BETWEEN the TWO SCENES from PART 2.

I hope no one misses that because these scenes are not going to make much sense at all if you don't realise where they fit... Heh.

Also some information that will become useful here: Myrna's accent is essentially Scottish and her usual style of clothing is something similar to early 15th century clothing (but imagine it however it works for you, of course). Malvarl wears a similar style of clothing but his accent is indescribable because he's this weird creepy goblin-like-humanoid-fantasy-creature. A "southern accent" in this world is meant to sound something like a rhotic New York accent, if you can imagine that. Like... Fran Drescher, but more R-ful. And southern garb should remind you of 16th century Italian. Because... that combination makes sense, somehow? :P

Anyways, enjoy! And feel free to approach me with questions and comments - for example, what's in the box in the second scene here, where do the babies in Part 2 come from, what happens next, etc.? I might even tell you!

♥Nancy♬

Even before we went inside, it was clear that the Leaping Griffin was a very different place from the quiet Flaxen Apple Tavern back home. The size was the most obvious feature: the Leaping Griffin was two floors high and seemed to stretch backwards forever. There was something else about it, too, perhaps the odour or just a... sense... that it was a significantly more foreboding tavern than I was used to. The door was propped open but it was too dim inside to snoop before entering. A sad fiddle cried a tune inside the tavern that flowed out into the street. I sighed. Despite the dull tone of the tune, I was glad to hear the music. After these long weeks travelling with the Nybelingnau, the sound of the violin was medicinal, and quite literally music to my ears. I strode toward the open door of the tavern.

 “Ah!” I squawked, as a set of three-jointed fingers pulled me back by the shoulder, “what are you doing?”

 “It would not be wise for me to enter this establishment, Myrna.”

I hesitated. Malvarl had been nothing but honest and concerned for my safety so far. Would it be wise for me to enter the tavern if he could not?

 “I’ve no choice, Malvarl.”

Malvarl hesitated too; I wondered if he was reconsidering coming into the tavern. But he said, “I will be at the smithy. Be safe.” And he turned and walked away down the street.

I put my hands on my belly and took a deep breath to steady myself, and entered the Leaping Griffin Tavern. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom. In the back corner sat the man with the fiddle, playing his mournful tune. A woman sat at a table with a bottle of something strong and brown; her belly was gigantic and I wondered if she was trying to drink the babe away. The bar was much busier than the rest of the tavern, with a swarm of men calling for more ale and tipping their fellow drinkers off their stools. I reached into the opening of my top skirt and pulled up my leather purse on its long cord. Trying to be surreptitious, I slid a few metal coins from the purse and dropped it back down to bounce between my skirts.

Feigning nonchalant confidence, I approached the bar and slid my way in between burly men until I was pressed close against the sticky wooden counter. The smell of ale, both fresh and stale, filled my nose, as did the smell of meat.

 “Barkeep,” I called out, straining to be heard over the noisy bustle of drinking men, “a meal, please?”

 “What can you pay, girl?” he called back.

I rubbed my coins between my fingers, feeling the metal and size of them.

 “An iron dram for some bread,” I replied, “and another for some of that meat I smell. More again for information.”

 “I’ll take your drams for bread and meat,” the barkeep said, “but you’d best ask your question before we charge you for answers. Not all information comes cheap at the Griffin.”

He took my tiny iron coins and came back with some chunks of stringy meat and half a loaf  of day-old bread. Back home it wouldn’t have been more than a snack, even in the middle of a hard winter. After spending some time with the Nybelingnau, I was glad of any bread available to me.

 “Ask your question, lass,” the barkeep said, but I guessed from his tone that he didn’t much care if I asked or not.

In light of his disinterest, I took a moment to linger over my mediocre meal. It was barely worth the drams but at this point of my adventure I had learnt to take what I could get. I ate my stringy meat and half my bread before the barkeep made his way back towards me.

 “Go on, girl,” he grumbled, “or get outta the way!”

 “I was just wondering m’lord, if you know of a man who might have passed by this way recently?”

 “Don’t waste my time, girl, you can see for yourself the men who pass by. Who are you looking for?”

 “Darach,” I said, clear and loud. The violin in the corner screeched and every mouth in the bar fell silent. A burly arm grabbed me around the shoulders and pulled me backwards towards a muscled male body. I felt the cold kiss of a blade against my throat.

 “Who’s asking... lass?” growled a hoarse voice in my ear.

I realised, absurdly, that I had dropped the remainder of my bread. I almost laughed.

 “Hey,” growled the man with the knife at my throat, “speak quick lass, or never again.”

 “My name is Myrna,” I mumbled, “I heard he’d been through here, that’s all. Don’t hurt me, please.”

 “Myrna, eh? Who do you work for, tell us now, quick.”

The knife was serrated and I could feel it grating against my skin.

 “I don’t work for anyone, I just want to find him.”

 “Let her go,” said one of the other men, breaking the silence that the crowd had held thus far, “she’s not our concern.”

 “Aye and she’s pregnant,” said another, older man, “like is, it’s Darach’s.”

 “We got a duty to do,” growled the man who held the knife.

The barkeep chuckled. “A girl with a baby won’t change your duty. No woman would ever worry the Treacle King.”

For the first time, I noticed that the barkeep had a southern accent, his voice full of Rs and stretched out vowels. I knew he was no danger. The real danger, the knife, slid away from my throat and the burly arm that grasped me disappeared. I felt myself drop a good foot to the ground, but I stayed upright. The man with the knife shoved past me to brandish it at the barkeep.

 “Southern scum,” he growled, “you’re as bad as Darach himself you are!”

I touched my hand to my throat and felt the warm, wet touch of blood. I didn’t think that the cut was bad, but the sight of red on my fingers was enough to make my head swim.

 “Thank you,” I mouthed to the barkeep, who caught my eye and grinned. I slid away out of the crowd of rowdy men, just as the violinist began to play again - a much jollier tune this time, that made me imagine griffins leaping...

“Can’t we loosen it just a little further?” I grumbled, “that’s why they make ‘em this way, with all this lacing! You could just let it out a little around my belly.”

 “No,” said Malvarl, “you’re not so large with the child that you can’t play this part properly.”

His hands tickled their way up my arm and suddenly the ties to my sleeve were all fastened in neat bows. Three jointed fingers are defter and faster than our measly human fingers.

 “And you’re sure they won’t balk at your presence?”

 “No, I am sure that they will. The barbarians share your fear of my kind. It is a mutual fear. They will respect you for travelling with a dangerous creature. Remember, Myrna, only the richest merchants trade with the Nybelingnau.”

I stayed quiet. We’d been over this twice before and each time Malvarl had explained it in detail, in his perfect, if disturbingly accented, English. The plan had been my idea in the first place, but somehow Malvarl had become responsible for its execution. He looked ridiculous dressed in southern garb. The puffy trunks didn’t quite fit his abnormally slender frame and his tattered ears stuck out from under his cap. His whiteless eyes were not southern eyes.

 “Myrna,” he said, catching my attention.

I looked up to see, not the Nybelingnau in southern garb, but myself, in a mirror. My mouth fell open. I had never worn anything this beautiful in my life. I had never looked this beautiful in my life. They say clothes make the man, but right now these clothes were turning a simple village lass into a southern princess. I was clad in a dress made from red silk, with freshwater pearls sewn over every inch of it. A string of pearls hung at my throat and my hair fell around me in hundreds of braids that Malvarl had fashioned with those quick fingers.

 “Oh,” I said, in awe of myself. And then, on further thought, “won’t I freeze?”

With an uncharacteristic flourish, Malvarl produced a pile of furs. “These wolves hunt in the south,” he said, and draped a fur coat across my shoulders.

 “Well, Mister Malvarl,” I said, emphasising my R sounds, “shall we meet with the Treacle King?”

Malvarl offered his arm silently and together we strode out of the room, out of the inn and into the waiting carriage.

 “Are you well-prepared, ma’am,” asked Malvarl. His attempt at a southern accent was more disturbing than his normal accent. I held up the little glass-and-wood box that I was holding and shook it. It rattled satisfyingly, proving that its precious cargo was still inside. The carriage took off, pulled by two horses.

Halfway up the hill that led to Fort Gal-Ga-Rok, we heard the deep booming of a giant metal gong. One, two, three rings, we counted. A few moments later, as the sound of the gong died away, the strong odour of burnt sugar filled the carriage.

From outside the box in which we sat, our barbarian driver laughed. Malvarl handed me a fine lace handkerchief that had been drenched in lavender oil. Rumour had it that southerners wouldn’t risk smelling the sweet wind of the north, so I breathed into the handkerchief like the precious princess I was meant to be.

As the carriage came to a stop outside the giant iron gate of Fort Gal-Ga-Rok, the gong sounded once and the sweet wind faded away with the echoes of the sound. Malvarl took the handkerchief back; I was glad to breathe clean air again. We made a stately exit from the carriage, with Malvarl lifting me gently down to the ground.

 “Nice gate,” he said, in his atrocious combination accent. I could see spittle glistening on his pointy teeth. The smell of the iron in the gate must have been making him hungry; I only hoped that we could use that fact to our advantage.

The rusty creak as the gate swung open chilled my bones, but not as much as the sight of half an army of barbarians streaming out to greet me. They each held a weapon - axes, swords, maces - and were dressed in still-bloody furs. The biggest barbarian of them all towered over his brethren at nearly seven feet high and held a great axe. He was wearing a black bear skin that dripped blood with every step he took.

As he stepped out of his place in the rigid formation, I watched the blood drip and drip onto the stone floor. “Me captain,” he said, “you call Gal-Ga-Wak. I escort.”

He reached out a grabbed my arm with a huge, ugly hand.

Malvarl made a hideous sound, deep in his throat. My weeks with his people had taught me that this was the word for, “no,” in its sternest and most urgent sense. I didn’t flinch at the sound.

Gal-Ga-Wak, with a great axe in one hand and his bear skin cloak leaking red down his legs, made a high-pitched noise and took a step back. He looked at Malvarl, straight into his all-blue eyes. Malvarl stood his ground, and a moment later Gal-Ga-Wak withdrew his hand from my arm.

It was time to play my part. “Next time, you won’t have the chance to try that again,” I said, looking up into the eyes of the now-terrified barbarian captain. “Malvarl here,” I emphasised my Rs, playing up the accent, “will escort me. You may lead.”

The pause that followed was more pregnant than I was.

Eventually, Gal-Ga-Wak turned around and made his way past the army, through the gates. I smiled prettily and took Malvarl’s offered arm, and together we walked through the iron gates of Fort Gal-Ga-Rok to meet with the Treacle King.

A Fantasy Story, Part 2

Hi everyone!

I've had some really nice comments about the first part of this story so I'm now really excited to see what you'll think of the rest of it :D many thanks to those who did some reading, btw.

It's assumed that a bunch of stuff happens in between Part 1 and this part. Feel free to imagine it yourself, or just suggest what might have happened and maybe I'll write it! :P

Also, a bunch of stuff happens in between the two scenes that you're about to read. Again, just imagine it or ask me to write something, I guess. Or if you're cool with a slightly-nonsensical jump then you could always ignore it!

Anyways, hope you enjoy Part 2 as much as you seemed to enjoy Part 1! :D

♥Nancy♬

The night was dark, the trees were huge and the road was uneven. I tripped over yet another tree root and my horse spooked at the unexpected tug on his reins.

 “No,” I yelled, as he darted off between the trees. My voice echoed around my head. I was glad I hadn’t fallen; the light was bright enough that I could see the rocks and roots on the ground and knew for sure that I wanted to stay afoot. When it came down to it, I barely even knew which way I should be going. Nevertheless, I didn’t have much choice... I kept walking.

After only a few hundred metres, I realised that I wasn’t alone in this forest. In the distance, I heard the faint sound of not-quite-music. It was some kind of rhythmic cacophony, meandering its way through the dark and the trees. I had never heard a sound that made my toes curl and my stomach churn and my ears ache quite as much as this sound.

I tripped over another tree root, almost landing flat on the forest floor. My hand darted out and grabbed a low branch to steady myself. As I regained my balance, a flicker of light caught my eye, far off between the trees. Instinctively my hands curled around my belly.

 “Any companion would be better than stayin’ here all on my lonesome, right love?” I whispered. I felt a little crazy, talking to a baby I hadn’t yet met in the middle of the woods at night. I headed in the direction of the was-it-music? and the flickering lights.

As I got closer, the flickering light turned out to be a flickering campfire. The music grew more disturbing as it grew louder and I started to think that I could hear words in among the sounds, but they weren’t in any language I’d ever heard. The light of the campfire cast shadows all around, revealing the silhouettes of tents and travelling wagons in what must have been a large clearing among the trees.

Each step that I took brought me closer to the campsite in the clearing, and brought a new detail to my attention. The fire was definitely big, that’s how I’d been able to see it from so far. The tents were decorated in wild colours and patterns that made it look as though terrible creatures were inside them. They made my heart skip every time the flickering fire brought them into new focus. I could see the people - were they people? - in the clearing, too, although their faces were hidden in shadows because they were all looking in towards the fire. Many of them held instruments, but from where I was I couldn’t make out what the instruments were.

With my next step, I tripped. The ground was so uneven here and I fell onto my knees, landing hard right behind a small, wooden stool that formed part of the circle around the campfire.

The music stopped. For a moment I was simply relieved that the assault on my ears had ceased. And then I looked up and took a good, long look at the people surrounding me.

 “Oh gods,” I breathed. I clamped my hands around my belly and closed my eyes tight. “Please don’t eat me, please, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt my wee babe before it even meets the world.” If I had been surrounded by humans, my reaction might have been different. But as those faces had turned towards me I had seen some unmistakeable features. Their ears were pointy and thin, with raggedy edges and multiple earrings all up the edges. I’d seen the light glint off an eye and there had been no white to the eye at all. And I’d seen the tattoos all over their faces and I knew for certain exactly what these people - not people, creatures - were and exactly how much danger I was really in. I’d heard tales, from my da and from old people in my village, about the Nybelingnau, but I’d always believed that they were nothing more than tales.

One of them, a particularly tall, slender male, began to usher the others back. He spoke in the discordant tones of the Nybelingnau language, but his motions were quite human as he urged his comrades back towards their campfire. I whimpered and huddled into a tiny ball where I knelt on the forest floor. I had my hands clasped around my belly. It seemed so wrong, that we had come so far and here we were about to be eaten by Nybelingnau, a fairy story monster, of all things. The creature that had shooed away the others turned to me.

 “Please don’t eat me,” I whimpered again.

The creature spoke. He spoke in his own language, in sounds that burned my ears and maybe me think of serpents and hell-dogs and harpies and other creatures that weren’t meant to exist, just like the Nybelingnau. I shuddered at the sound and curled tighter into myself. The silence that followed his speech was unbearable. I could hear my breath, coming faster and faster, and the crackle of the campfire, but all the other creatures were silent and waiting. Until the creature spoke again.

 “We will not eat you,” he said. He spoke in a hissing, clacking accent, it was like nothing I’d ever heard before. But the words were English. I looked up.

 “Sit by our fire, eat of our food. I, Malvarl, from the lands that now house the Province of the Three Markets of the humans, offer you the hospitality of clan-” he said a word that I couldn’t understand, clearly the Nybelingnau name for their clan. I flinched at the unfamiliar sounds but the meaning of his words was beginning to sink in.

 “You’ll not eat me...?” I whispered, “but you’re Nybelingnau...”

The creature, Malvarl, made a sound that was almost close to a human sigh.

 “We will not eat you. I offer you the hospitality of my clan.” He was annunciating more clearly now, as though I were a child who couldn’t understand. “Sit by our fire, eat of our food.”

I uncurled myself a little, straightening my back. I kept my hands clasped tightly around my belly.

 “We are bound by the laws of hospitality. Rise and be warm, human.” A hand appeared in front of my face. I stifled a scream - it was as if his hand had taken no time at all to lift from his side. But it was open and inviting, despite the knobbly fingers with one joint too many, and the tattoos up his thumb and across his hand. I raised my own hand, and put it in his.

Somehow, I tuned out the sounds of men - if they were men - screaming, moaning, crying, and the sounds of their chains rattling inside those cages and the sounds of the bars of the cages rattling and grating deep inside the stone where they were set. I concentrated on the faint drip-drip-dripping from the ceiling, the slow trickle of I-hope-it’s-water down the stone walls and the almost soothing sound of the barge pole propelling us smoothly along. I counted, silently, the cells as we floated past.

 “Soon,” I whispered. Malvarl nodded once.

Our torch shed only a little light ahead, but I knew Malvarl was keeping his sharp eyes wide open when he suddenly stopped paddling.

 “Are we...?”

 “There is a turn up ahead. Close your eyes,” he warned, and moved his arm to bring the torch round next to my head. He needed the light to read the cell numbers, but I’d learnt the first time to keep my eyes closed like he warned - that first look into one of the cells had been enough to teach me that lesson.

Our boat slowed almost to a stop in the thick water. We’d navigated two turns already in this maze of a dungeon and I knew that Malvarl was not looking forward to a third.

 “Myrna,” he whispered, “to our left there is number two hundred and thirty five. Stare straight.”

I did as I was told, looking straight ahead. I could only see gloom, I couldn’t even make out the turn we were apparently approaching. But eventually out of the gloom I saw the dull glint of our torchlight off iron bars, and then there was a cell behind them and then, in cell two hundred and thirty six, I made out the shape of a man.

The closer we got, the more details were revealed to me. At first it was just the blurred figure of a man in the cage, then I noticed that he was hanging, held upright by chains. As we got closer I saw that they were heavy iron chains and that as well as holding him up, they were also holding him still in the cell. Malvarl brought our boat to a stop just before it bumped into the stone wall ahead of us. To our right, the dungeon stretched on and on... But in front of me, was a cage that held a man I knew. Malvarl moved the torch so that we could see better. The man in the cage groaned and stirred, and looked up into the light.

Our eyes met. His face morphed into shocked recognition and then into his trademark grin, albeit more tired than I had seen before. His face was almost unrecognisable, scarred and caked with blood as it was. But it’s hard not to recognise the face that haunts your dreams... And apparently the case was the same for him.

 “Myrna,” he said. He was not using the same hushed tones that we had chosen for our journey through the dungeon. His voice was so loud that it almost hurt my ears.

 “Darach,” I replied, at a normal volume as well. My voice bounced off the walls and the other cages released a bellowing of rattling chains and humanoid moans.

In the boat behind me, a baby whimpered.

 “No, no, no,” I pleaded. The stable boat rocked as a I turned frantically behind me to snatch the baby up into my arms. “Shh, hush little one.”

But of course, when one baby begins to fret the other one has to as well. Malvarl picked up the other baby in his spindly arms and whispered to it in his own language, in words and sounds that I could never understand or replicate.

 “You brought babes to this hellhole, Myrna? Are they yours, pet? Did you make ‘em with this fella? Or are they mine?” he gave a hollow laugh.

 “Malvarl has tastes in a rather different area,” I said.

Malvarl looked up from the babe in his arms and grinned at Darach. The torchlight sparkled on the tips of his pointy teeth. The menace in his eyes sparkled even more. Darach’s eyes grew wide as wagon wheels.

 “Myrna, what do you think you’re doing? Travelling with one o’ them, and with babes along, too. Whose are they?”

 “Malvarl has kept me safe, Darach. You’ll be nice to him or you’ll stay in that cage. And the babes ain’t mine and they ain’t yours neither.”

 “Not these ones,” said Malvarl, and swung the torch so that I was in the light.

Darach gasped.

 “Myrna, you’re pregnant? Is it mine?”

 “Aye,” I sighed, feeling reluctant to tell him now that I’d finally found him here, “they’re yours, Darach.”

 “They? You’ve two in there?”

 “Aye, or three, maybe. It’s a little early to know for sure.”

 “Early? But it’s been so long...”

 “Not that long, Darach, not that long at all.”

 “How long have I...”

 Malvarl interrupted, “I’d say you’ve been here two moons, at the most. Shall we get you out?”

 “Aye,” Darach said.

 “Hold the babe,” Malvarl said, handing the second baby to me. I cradled the tiny twins and watched in awe and horror as Malvarl set about freeing Darach from his cage.

He reached a slender arm out to the cage and grasped an iron bar. Keeping his feet firmly planted in the boat, he leaned towards the bars of the cage, opened his mouth, and bit an iron bar. The iron crumbled to rust where his spittle touched it. He jerked back towards the boat, ripping out a huge chunk of that first iron bar as he did so. It fell into the murky water below us. I shuddered.

I can’t judge how long it took for Malvarl to eat through the bars of Darach’s cage. Over an hour, I’m sure of that, but three or six or twelve... I’ll never know. Eventually, he stepped off the boat and into the cage, to chew away the heavy iron chains that held Darach in the cage. When the last chain fell to the ground in rusty pieces, Darach slumped to the ground with it.

 “Up,” Malvarl said, and Darach obeyed. He dragged himself up and stepped onto the boat, where he collapsed again at my feet. Silently, Malvarl made his way back onto the boat, facing in the opposite direction this time. He picked up the bargepole and began to paddle.

A Fantasy Story, Part 1

Helloooooo everyone!

First things first: yes, I'm sorry I didn't blog last month. Forgive me? :3

Now that that's out of the way... WRITING! :D I've been doing some, believe it or not. A few weeks ago an idea popped into my head and I started to write. I haven't been working to a plan or even chronologically so the story is currently a story in parts. The plan is to post the first few scenes here and then post the rest of what I have in a few days.

Here's the thing: I can write more, or I can stop with what I've got. I'm going to leave that up to you (in a desperate gambit to get some reader interaction here). So if you read the first 3 scenes and come up with a brilliant idea for what should happen next, let me know! If you read the final scenes that I post in part 2 and come up with a brilliant idea, let me know that too! If you think of a scene that needs to fit somewhere in the middle, I'm happy to write it. Basically, I'm happy to let the story move in different directions after you read my pre-written stuff.

Anyway it's all useless until you actually read something, so without further ado I present the first 3 scenes of Miscellaneous Fantasy Story.

(Comments welcome!!)

♥Nancy♬

I twirled until I was dizzy, drunk from the heat of the fire, the sound of the fiddle and just a touch of apple cider. My skirt was tucked up into my belt to keep it off the ground, my feet were dirty and my hair was coming out of its braids. It had been a big day, the last day of the planting festival. We’d finally sowed the last field, with everyone pitching in. We’d been lucky this year, with the weather and with the number of available hands. A few people had come from neighbouring villages, looking for work. And a group of travellers had been passing through and had stopped to help. They say that many hands make light work, and they’re right. A hand grabbed mine and dragged me from the dance, and I found myself standing in the arms of one of the young travellers.

 “You’re drunk, lass,” he said, “I ought to take you home to your father.”

The way he was holding me made it seem unlikely that my father would ever know about this little meeting. I relaxed against his chest. I’d never been this close to a man before and the feel of his muscles was more intoxicating than the cider I had tasted earlier.

We’d spoken in the fields, over lunch and cold cups of water. He’d been to cities I’d heard of and some I hadn’t. He told tales of fantastical creatures and evil warlords and kings with too much power. Figuring out what was true and what wasn’t was I game that I don’t think I won. But this game, by the bonfire in the pale moonlight, this game I thought I might win.

 “I think you’d rather keep me here,” I said, rising up onto my toes. I kissed him on the cheek, quick and light. I felt his hand flex against my back and his arms pull me in a little tighter.

 “You’d be smarter if you didn’t, miss Myrna,” he warned.

I kissed his mouth. It was meant to be quick again but he held me up in his arms and deepened the kiss. He tasted like apples.

I awoke to sun streaming through the cracks in the barn wall. I stretched out, fingers to toes, and sighed into the straw below me.

 “That’s a fine sight to wake up to,” said Darach. His voice was husky. It made me feel squirmy inside and wish it were last night again.

 “Where are all my clothes?” I murmured.

 “You don’t even care, lass,” Darach told me, and wrapped his warm arms around me. I sighed against him and relaxed while he nibbled on my neck.

 “You’re not staying, are you Darach?” I asked, sadly.

 “Not all my stories were stories, Myrna. I’ve a life to get on with, people to find and others who I don’t want to find me.”

 “Aye,” I said, “I thought as much.”

Darach disentangled himself from me. I watched as he dressed, quickly but methodically. We’d been quick last night, with clothes flying everywhere. Slower the second time, when there hadn’t been any clothes to lose. Nevertheless, it was almost more enjoyable watching him dress now, in the streaks of light in the barn. He picked up my shirt. I saw the way he held it, as if it were delicate and made of silk instead of linen. He brushed the straw of it.

 “Up you get, lass,” he said. I did, and took my shirt out of his hands to get dressed. He laced my dress for me and kissed my neck some more.

When we were both dressed and I’d lightly combed my hair with my fingers, we left the barn. It was quiet outside. We held hands outside the barn doors.

 “I’ll head west,” Darach said. His voice was low and quiet. “West all the way through the forest and then north over the mountains, or through the mines if I can afford it. The last place I’m sure I’ll stop is the Leaping Griffin, the tavern in the foothills on the north side of the Sugar Hills.”

 “I’ll remember.”

 “I’m not good for you, Myrna. You shouldn’t come looking for me.”

 “You’re underestimating me, Darach,” I told him, “I’ve no reason to look for you.” I stretched up on my toes to kiss his cheek. “Head west, if you must. Seek me out if you ever pass back this way.”

He swept me up in his arms. For a moment, I felt like a lass in love. Then he placed me gently upon my feet again.

 “I’m a lucky man, Myrna.”

 “Aye, that you are,” I agreed, and farewelled him with a chaste kiss.

“Myrna,” called my da, “a word, lass.”

Tired, with my hands sore from stitching, I rose from my seat and left my half-finished dress behind.

 “Yes, da?”

My da is slow, at everything he does. He tends our animals slowly, he moves slowly and he speaks slowly. This conversation was not about to go quickly.

 “Those men that came into town today,” he said, as slowly as if he’d carefully considered each word, “those men, Myrna, I think you ought to stay away from them.”

 “They can’t touch me, da, with this babe in my belly already,” I said.

 “They’re from afar away, Myrna. You mustn’t trust anyone from so afar away. The other side o’ the forest. The other side o’ the mountains.”

 “I’ll be careful, da.”

 “You’ve got the babe to think about now.”

 “I know, da. Thank you.” I kissed him on the cheek and wandered off before he could talk at me further. I collected my half-finished dress on the way past and went into the house to put it away. Out the window, I saw da climb back up his stepladder to continue picking cherries from the wild tree beside the house.

I crept out of the house again, making my footsteps as quiet as I could. My feet were bare and I hitched up my skirt so that I could move faster, and I rushed away from my house and past the neighbour’s house until I was well clear of my da. Panting a little, I slowed to a walk.

 “Myrna,” said the barkeep as I entered the Flaxen Apple tavern, “you’re not in a state t’ be drinking, lass, and not at this time o’ day either.”

 “I heard you had some guests.”

The barkeep nodded towards the back corner of the tavern and I nodded my thanks.

The men were big and burly and overly rowdy for the early afternoon. Fear rose up in my throat.

 “Afternoon, m’lords,” I said, with a curtsy towards them.

 “Lass,” said one, with a nod. The other three just looked at me.

 “If you’ve a moment to spare,” I said, “I’ve just a quick question.”

One man said, “will you make it worth our while, lassie?” He grimaced at me and revealed that he was missing a number of his teeth. I tried my hardest not to recoil.

 “Aye, maybe if you let us each have our turn we’ll entertain your quick question,” said another, leering at me. He had more teeth than the last one.

The one who had greeted me at the start put down his tankard onto the table. “How far along are you, lass?” He gave another nod, clearly towards my belly.

 “Three moons or so, m’lord.”

 “My wife’ll be having our third right about when I get back. What’s your question?”

I smiled prettily at this man, trying to ignore the hungry stares of the three other men.

 “All I want to know is if the name Darach means anything to you? He was heading west through the forest and north over the mountains.”

 “Aye, we’ve met Darach. He’s well on his way to infamy.”

 “You’d be better off with me, lass,” said the one with missing teeth. “I’ll warm your bed hotter than Darach ever could.”

The fourth man, who had stayed quiet thus far, finally spoke. “I last saw Darach a days travel from the Leaping Griffin,” he said, “but you won’t find him there, lass. He’s made some powerful enemies along his way. I heard tell that he pissed off the Treacle King. I met a soldier from the court o’ the Baron o’ Mines and he was looking for Darach at least as wide-eyed as you are. You’ll not find him again if the Baron o’ Mines has him.”

 “Aye, I’ve heard tell o’ this Baron. Not the Treacle King though.”

The friendly man, with the wife, spoke again, “King Gal-Ga, lass, the barbarian king. He rules the lands north of the Sugar Hills and his belly’s so big he moves so slow as treacle.”

 “Aye m’lord, thank you m’lord,” I said, and curtsied again.

 “Lass,” said the helpful man, “be careful which questions you ask and which people you ask ‘em to. You’re lucky today. We’re naught but two drunks, a married tinker and a soldier loyal to Good King Ethere. But imagine, lass, if we hadn’t been.”

The look in his eyes made my own eyes widen in fear.

 “Thank you m’lord,” I said again, and ran from the men, all the way out of the tavern and back home, before my da even noticed I’d been gone.