Nem tudom, hogy valóban lesz-e ebből "rovat" a blogon, de történt a minap, hogy nagyon kedves de jópár éve idegenbe szakadt kebelbarátom - a könyvkritikákat még mindig várom ám! - (egyenlőre maradjon névtelen) szólt, hogy ugyan még semmit nem írt nekem a megígértekből, de helyette írt egy kalandjátékmodult a Pathfinder szerepjáték-rendszerhez (én nem ismerem, de jól néz ki) egy amerikai játékfejlesztő cég felkérésére és CSAK ÚGY hozzá egy novellát.
A modult elfogadták tőle, de a novellával jelenleg nem igazán tudtak mit kezdeni, ezért elküldte nekem, hogy rakjam ki a blogra. Véleményezésre, meg csak úgy, miért ne? (Büszke vagyok Rád!)
Következzék tehát az Intro című fantasy novella (ne lepődjön meg senki, hogy az írás ANGOLUL VAN, hiszen külföldi "piacra" íródott - a fordítás készül). Jöhetnek a kommentek nyugodtan, senki nem fog megsértődni. Valamint, bár ez eddig bennem fel sem merült, de jöhetnek novellák és egyéb írások is, rajtam nem múlik, én kirakom őket - a blog stílusába valamennyire belevágóak legyenek, (romantikust ne is küldjetek)! Ha elég összegyűlik, akár még valami versenyt is kiírok közöttük. :D
Intro
Sun. Heat. Sand. Drops of sweat rolling
down his uncovered chest but he can’t be bothered to wipe them down
anymore.
Baltasaar, after a few minutes of
hesitation, has decided to have another helping of lemonade. That
would have been his fourth that morning. It was lukewarm and looked
like piss (he would have noted it tasted like that too) but it was
still better that the stagnant warm water it was made from.
He sat back in his chair in the
scorching desert-sun with the refilled mug, and begun to think about
what he will do with all that money at the end of this job. That was
the only thing that could still keep his spirits up, at least most of
the time. Buy a house? He always wanted a pub, he could rent one
afterwards. He certainly will send some home as usual. He had to
admit, Heruda was paying him generously and so far the work wasn’t
very exhausting.
He took the job as Heruda’s bodyguard
two months before, knowing well how hard and boring it would be but
the prospect of so much money was way too luring. He had well paying
assigments recently and he was never short of them but Heruda’s
offer got him in a spell of adventurous mood and after a dubious love
affair, unfortunately with one of his clients, so he accepted it. At
the time he wanted to get away from Mir for a while. And that, he
did.
Baltasaar at the humble beginning was a
simple doorguard at the Wheel of Fire, one of Mir’s hundreds of
pubs. He loved it. He enjoyed the crowd, the music, the smoky, noisy
atmosphere, the brawls. He was handsome, had the right mixture of
being subtly menacing but still tidy looking and was much more
intelligent than his job description required, so soon was found by
guests, mainly ladies, in need of a strong arm to escort them home at
the end of a long night for some cash. From then on it was an upward
spiral for him, he was handed from client to client, sometimes for a
night only, sometimes for weeks or months, for city visits or longer
travels. He was always grateful for his luck, never greedy and always
reliable, the ultimate recipe for a good name in business. So finally
after protecting, guarding and escorting merchants, judges and ladies
of various social standing, he got this offer from Jacob Heruda, one
of Mir’s richest and most influential people to be his personal
bodyguard on this long and tiring mission.
He knew that boredom was very
dangerous. It would dull his senses, rust his weapons, weaken his
muscles and ultimately compromise his efficiency. And that could mean
the life of his employer. So he did his best to keep himself in
shape. Exercised daily, kept his equipment in pristine condition and
checked the area a hundredth time.
There wasn't much to check, though. The
whole thing comprised of the interior of a large tent, some more
tents outside and endless desert beyond that. The perimeter of the
camp was guarded by a number of mercenaries, which really left him
an area of a size of a handkerchief to secure. Not much of a task for
his abilities.
This afternoon was the same as all
afternoons in the last two or three weeks.
His boss, Mr Heruda was having his
after lunch siesta in the tent, escaping the scorching sunshine of
the outside and choosing the oven of the inside instead, while
Baltasaar was sitting in front of the tent, doing his best to enhance
his already impressive tan, sipping lukewarm lemonade.
He was watching the workers. When they
left Mir he couldn't comprehend why Heruda wanted to take the
Frontier workers all the way from the city to the other end of the
world. The journey to the excavation site took over three weeks from
Mir. He could have just hired some peasants as they got there. Once
the excavation got underway though, he started to see his point and
his respect grew by the day towards these hardy men.
They were tough folk, probably the
toughest he had ever seen. They worked all day, stopping only for
moments to drink and wee. When the camp guards were nearly collapsing
in the midday heat, these guys seemed to perk up and pull it even
harder. They seemingly lived on some dry bread and thin air, as far
as Baltasaar could tell and did not even notice injuries that would
have crippled a normal man. He got fascinated by them. So as per
usual, he was watching them working from his post.
About two weeks before they dug out a
huge door-like something in the sand. Everybody got very excited,
Heruda was running up and down, had night long meetings and
consultations with his archeologist and the group of adventurers
accompanying them, who apparently had some sort of information about
the area,so they were all over the place. The door was round and was
made of some sort of ceramic material. They discussed this and
considered that, made drawings and descriptions then decided to open
it. Well, at least they tried. After a couple of days of futile
fiddling to open it up, Heruda got bored and ordered the workers to
break it in. That was nearly two weeks before.
So today, as for the last ten or so
days, the workers were banging on the door with their hammers and
chisels and other instruments, with one other group trying to dig
down around it, all under the guidance and supervision of Jeremiah,
the old task-master. He stood on a small sand dune, not far from the
door, crooked and dry like a vulture, organising his workers only by
a blink of his eye and a movement of his stick. They picked him up in
Talas, the last city before the desert, he was highly recommended by
their mayor and apparently not without a reason. He looked like a
retired beggar, one armed, one eyed and toothless, his face deformed
in an accident but all the workers and even Heruda himself was
treating him with deep respect and listened carefully when he, very
rarely, had something to say. He somehow radiated a sort of
confidence and power that Baltasaar had only seen in very few men in
his life, mostly in veteran warriors who had seen more than their
fair share of horrors of the world but managed to keep their sanity
to tell the tale.
Baltasar was thinking about these
things, slowly slurping his lemonade from the warm metal cup,when
suddenly a great shadow enveloped him, instantly easing the heat of
the burning sun, and a massive body blocked his view. Baltasaar
slowly lifted his head up, covering his eyes with his hand.
'Hello Baltasaar.' he heard from far
far above. The voice was deep, hoarsy and arrogant and belonged to
Samuel "the Butcher" Waxton, a member of the adventurer
team. He had a knack on Baltasaar since the beginning of their
journey, trying to wind him up, challenging him at every opportunity.
'So I surprised you? Now,That is not
very good from a bodyguard, is it?' - An evil grin spread on the
rough face. His numerous battle scars were jumping up and down on his
features. He was wearing filthy, blue gardeners trousers and no top.
The downrolling drops of sweat dug deep fissures in the sandcover of
his huge, fat upper body.
'You didn't surprise me, Butcher. I can
smell you coming from miles' -smiled Baltasaar back at him.
The grin melted instantly and he bent
down, his face almost touching Baltasaar's.
'We will sort our business Baltasaar.
Sooner or later I will get you' His mouth, filled with the ruins of
his teeth, stunk of alcohol.
'I've already told you: I will be happy
to knock your remaining teeth out as soon as this job is over.'
The grin returned: 'I can barely wait.
But don't run away. That would upset me. Byesy-bye girlie, catch up
later' and the huge man turned and walked away.
Baltasaar watched him until his fat
back disappeared behind a tent, thinking about the best possible
methods to beat him to pulp when the time comes. This mountain of fat
started to get on his nerves big time. Arrogant pig, thinking that
only because he calls himself "adventurer" and has scars on
his face like a cobweb, means that he can irritate him unpunished. If
it was up to him, he would be more than happy to double the number of
those scars by smashing his face through a glass window. But he had
to stay calm, at least until this job was over. He was about to drink
another sip of his warm lemonade when he noticed that sweatdrops from
Butcher's face were shining on his cup and hand. He sloshed the
lemonade out with disgust and with a big sigh he decided he will
leave to fill it up for later.
His attention returned to the workers.
They were still tirelessly banging on the massive door.
BANG,BANG
The ancient red dragon was disturbed.
The constant banging noise from outside snook into his mind and
stirred his sleep.
He was dreaming. He had no conception
of time, no conscious realisation but somehow he knew that he hasn't
dreamt for many many years.
In his dream he was flying over the
battlefield stretching out for dozens, maybe hundreds of miles over
the landscape. The huge battle was raging on for days. Clash of
massive armies and smaller scale fights were going on underneath,
skirmishes and ambushes, marching columns of soldiers, running
opponents or allies from a lost fight, little encampments and burning
tents. The siege machines of the enemy were vomiting boulders and
flaming rocks onto the defenders' numerous wood-and-earth field
towers. Ant-armies of unimaginable sizes moving on the scene, all
part of a big plan.
Two huge flaming boulders flew across
the field below.
BANG BANG
Just underneath him the walls of a
fortress finally gave in and the undead hordes of the enemy swarmed
over the first line of the defence almost the moment the last wooden
beam of the broken wall hit the ground. He felt the command of his
rider Dragonlord Dameon, but their harmony was such that even without
it he did instantly what the rider just started to think. With a
graceful swoop he descended onto the attacking enemy and, appearing
from behind the damaged wall, he bathed the bulk of the undead in
white-hot flames. Smell of burning and rotten flesh and smoke filled
his senses for a fragment of a second. By the time he noticed what
was happening further back in the ranks it was too late. One of the
siege machines still hasn't unloaded its projectile and its commander
was very fast thinking, releasing the huge boulder with perfect
timing as he appeared above the enemy lines. He dodged the shot but
the massive rock still managed to glance off his right side, ripping
off his arm and knocking him off the sky. He tumbled onto the ground
taking out even more zombies and other foul beasts as he came to a
halt. As he stumbled onto his feet, with numbed senses he realised
that he lost his rider and could hardly move. The horde now turned on
him. It was the fortress defenders' turn to lend him a hand...
BANG, Bang
The dream continued, swifted, swirled
out of focus then in again. This time he was standing in the main
fortress,still fresh injuries, missing an arm and an eye,jaw broken,
along with the other dragons and riders, on top of the guard tower.
They watched in horror as the gigantic incarnated god was spreading
death outside the walls. The creature was almost certainly mad and
most likely barely conscious. It was flailing his many arms blindly
around, hitting anything and everything that got in its way, be it
friend or foe or inanimate object. The summoner necromancers still
must have had some control over it as it was steadily heading towards
the main fortress.
Bang Bang
It finally reached the outer walls and
started to demolish the building. Each blow was followed by screams
of the dying defenders and the thunder of the crumbling stone.
Bang Bang
The eyelid of the sleeping wyrm
twitched.
Baltasaar stood up from his chair; he
needed a wee. All he was doing for the last couple of hours was
drinking that awful lemonade and this started to have its effect.
At this very moment, something happened
at the excavation site. He immediately forgot about the urge and
became alert. There was a sound coming from the direction of the
door, as if dozens of wheatstones started to turn at the same time.
Everyone stopped in their jobs. At first nothing noticable happened
but after a few seconds the noise became louder and the ceramic door
moved slightly. With increasing momentum, it slowly swung open,
revealing a steeply angled wide corridor leading down into the guts
of the desert. Nobody moved as if they got petrified. Baltasaar was
standing still but ready.
A slow gust of air emerged from the
deep, twirling a few grains of sand outside and Baltasaar could see
the expression of nausea and disgust on the faces of the men standing
close to the door. Then a few things happened very quickly at the
same time. Three or four shapes appeared in the opening, smoke-like
and bodyless, like ghosts. Baltasaar first thought that they might be
some form of gas or smoke from the depth. But they were moving
determinedly and steadily. They whoosed out of the darkness and
their grey masses engulfed a couple of workers. Almost at the same
time more solid bodies took form in the blackness of the corridor.
Humanoid figures appeared in the sunlight, wearing tatty armour and
rusty, ancient weapons, moving with surprising speed and agility.
Their flesh was peeling off their bones, their eyeless faces frozen
in the grin of death.
Baltasaar just have heard the first
screams of the unfortunates attacked by the ghosts as he was running
in Heruda's tent.His body was doing all this, his brain still frozen
in horror from the sight outside. He swept the hindrancing pieces of
furniture aside, gripping his always ready backpack and one handedly
pulling the sleeping Heruda onto his feet. His soft, fat face was
still wearing the expression of the innocence of a sleeping child. He
slowly opened his eyes, clearly not knowing where he was.
No time for this,- Baltasaar though and
slapped his face hard with an open hand.
Heruda woke up immediately.
'What...,what is happening?'
'We are under attack, we must run'-
said Baltasaar.
'Keep low and stay with me'-commanded
as he pulled Heruda to the back of the tent and slashed the leather
open.
'But.., who is attacking, and...'
'Quiet. No time to waste now!'
They stayed low as they run to the
fenced area where the horses were kept only a dozen yards from
Heruda's tent. The man was surprisingly helpful and although looked
scared, did exactly what Baltasaar told him. By then the camp was
echoing the noises of the ongoing fight. Baltasaar could see the
flashes of steel and muscles as the mercenaries were quickly jumping
through the gaps between the tents, running towards the battle. They
didn't know yet what they were going to see...
The horses were nervous from the noise
and it took them nearly a minute to grab a couple of them and get on
their backs, holding the saddles in their hands.
Baltasaar knocked off a section of the
fence and they started galloping towards the desert.
The undead attackers have swarmed most
of the campsite by then, breaking up the battle into individual
fights.
In the middle of the chaos not far
from where they were, he saw Butcher for a moment, surrounded by
undead, fighting for his life. He was doing it very well, Baltasaar
had to admit. With each swipe of this battle axe he broke necks and
sliced dry mummified bodies in half. Baltasaar almost felt sorry for
him for a second as he was fighting off waves of attacks in this
hopeless battle. A ghastly apparition choose this time to enter the
sight. It immediately enveloped Butcher with its black gray
smoke-tentacles and began to force them into his body at every
orifice, his ears, mouth and even the eyes. Butcher was screaming
like a pig as the tendrils entered him. In a second or two there was
barely anything left of the ghost. Butcher staggered a few steps, his
body shrinked somehow. His skin suddenly became too loose, like a kid
wearing his dad's clothes. His eyes filled with blood. He wasn't
screaming anymore. Then he slowly fell onto his knees and then
forward, onto his face. That was more than Baltasaar was willing to
see. Fighting an increasing sense of nausea he whacked his heel in
the side of his horse, dragging the other horse, taking Heruda with
him.
Moving swiftly, a whithered undead in
rusty armour jumped out from among the tents in front of them.
Flailing an old sword it was waiting for them to pass by, his rotten
face expressing an almost human grin of evil pleasure. As they
reached it ,Baltasaar kicked out with perfect timing. His heavy boot
smashed the wretch's face. The undead flew a few yards backwards and
landed on a tent. Baltasaar knew that this kick would have killed or
knocked out even the bull neck Butcher. He could hear and feel the
crunching of the shattered jaw bone and the crack of the neck. As
they flew by he had a glimpse behind just to see the dead warrior
climb up to its feet and launch itself after them, its head hanging
from the neck in an impossible angle. Luckily the horses were already
so terrified that they run at their absolute top speed, leaving the
creature easily behind.
After minutes of mad gallop, he stopped
the horses on the top of a dune in a safe distance from the camp.
Heruda, who was shocked by the sight of the undead was starting to
regain his senses and was mumbling something about his notes left in
the tent. Batltasaar looked back at the camp. He was expecting to
witness the last act of the massacre they left behind, as the undead
cleaned up the remaining resistance.
But he saw something even more
shocking, something completely unexpected instead. A gigantic red
dragon was flying above the camp.It was unbelievably large, nearly as
big as the campsite itself. It was in a terrible state, its right
side badly scarred, its arm and most of its wing on that side
missing. It was coiling in agony, like a worm on the fishing hook.
His remaining left eye was hazy as if he was only half conscious. As
his gaze turned downwards on the fighting below his body suddenly
stiffened. He stopped coiling and the pupil of his eye widened. Then
his face grimaced into an undescribable expression of hatred and
rage. Baltasaar could swear that even from that distance he could
physically feel the radiation of this anger on his skin. The
remaining fighters underneath, the handful human survivors and even
the undead stopped and looked up onto the dragon. It was hanging in
the sky above them like a giant red cloud of deadly rage, like an
avenging god ready to destroy the entire world below.
Then the creature opened its
scarred,toothless mouth and started roaring. It wasn't only a roar,
it was roaring and screaming and vomiting white flames, bright as the
sun onto the face of the earth, onto the camp and the fighters, the
undead and onto the desert. The sound of the roar and the sound of
the flames mixed into one almighty sound and heat and rage hurricane,
knocking Baltassar off his feet. He had to cover his ears and curl
into embryonic position not to start screaming in fear. He could
hear Hiruda crying and whimpering next to him. The horses whinied and
ran into the desert. He felt the waves of the unspeakable heat from
several hundred yards away on his skin like his arms were dipped into
boiling water. He reached out, grabbed Hiruda and rolled down on the
far side of the dune.
The screaming of the dragon just didn't
want to stop. Baltasaar thought it was raging on for hours or for an
eternity,couldn't really tell, but he felt if it doesn't stop soon
they will die. Then, after a lifetime, the terrible sounds muted. For
some time he wasn't able to move, his muscles simply weren't obeying
the command of his brain. Finally he managed to stumble upon his
feet, his legs weak and trembling like jelly. Heruda's body was still
shaking with crying next to him. He knew that he shouldn't leave him
but somehow he felt that they were not in danger anymore. Slowly
fighting his way up to the top of the dune he looked down onto the
former campsite.
The site was no more. In fact the
desert, where the site was, was no more. Down below, starting almost
at the foot of their dune, a mirror smooth lake of molten glass was
glowing, white hot. The dragon was nowhere in sight. The only thing
breaking the flawless surface of the glass was a large round item
where the camp was before. The ceramic door, closing down the undead
possibly for millennia under the surface, was still intact. It
blackened in the massive heat and as the sand melted underneath it,
it slowly turned on its side and was sinking into the glass.
Baltasaar couldn't stand the radiating
heat very long and slowly descended on the side, back to Hiruda. He
was getting himself together and smearing his tears from his face he
looked up onto Baltasaar.
‘The dragon..it almost looked like…’
‘I know, don’t say it or I’ll go
mad here and now…’
‘What do we do now?’
‘We wait until dusk. We will need to
find our horses or we are dead. But we must not leave until the heat
gets bearable. I have some essenial things.’
Together they quickly set up a shade
and sat down in the shadow. They weren't talking. There was nothing
they wanted to talk about. Not yet. Baltasaar knew that they were far
from being safe. They had to find the horses, survive the way back
home, but more imminently, keep sane. So he dug out his survival
whisky from his backpack, had a good portion and offered it to
Heruda. He looked at him gratefully and had a big gulp of it. Then
they were waiting.
As the sun set down behind the next
dune Baltasaar climbed up theirs, one last time. The glass on the
other side was glowing in dark orange, the big black mass of the door
was still standing, half sunk into the sand.
‘It Looks like a tombstone.’
Heruda was standing next to him, his
soft face bathing in the orange glow.
‘Yes. Let's hope it will keep down
the ones it should, this time.
Come on, let’s find those horses.’
Nekem tetszett, szerintem érdemes lenne máshol is "bemutatni", pl. itt: http://www.critters.org/
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