Tag: Writing a novel

Chime the bell

“Don’t ring that bell!”

Her first words, or at least what I think she said. My mind from the time mainly remembers the grip around my wrist. I didn’t realise at the time, but she had the knack to not actually break the skin and cause bleeding, but to get her nails close enough to make it feel like she did.

It was odd for such an item to get so much attention. It was hidden if you didn’t look. It was just dirty and could be mistaken for anything other than a bell.

“If you want to have a consequence that is not your friends being thrown out, I suggest you stop here.”

I admit, my words that I used next would horrify me today. But back then I knew less. I hadn’t seen the next few years of my life, me those I would meet. I was still believing that a hand without blisters meant I was an expert with a sword. “Oh really? What is it to you then Gobby?”

The scent of blood filled my nostrils as her grip tightened. I can still see the marks on my wrists today, among the others, from that day. They are set evenly apart on the underside of my wrist, most people see the rope and burn marks. But that day was where I was first to see my own blood come out of my body. It might not be a story that many would tell, but most stories get embellished as the truth is often, too often, far less entertaining, or worse, too mortifying to remember.

A goblin face hung from above me with a smile that did not even attempt to hide the teeth, or the piecing red eyes looking at me. “You may be right. But then again, maybe you need to think about why the captain has it there, behind the front, high up on the shelves.”

It took me 3 boxes to be able to even think about reaching it. I was never seen as short in my class, and I never thought the boxes would hold my weight when I moved them. My best hope when I started was, I would crush the first one and retire with ale to say I tried. Somehow, 3 boxes high, I was becoming aware that I might be in trouble.

Threatening while giggling is how I would describe her later to people. The Goblin of The Bell in the town of Coo’mbe. “Oh, and call me ‘gobby’ again, and you won’t have a need to return to your friends in the corner.”

I never did see how she made the boxes move underneath me. What I do remember, still to this day, is how I had a sudden feeling of flying, followed by everything looking fuzzy and a pain on the front of my face matched with the bad of my head. Along with what felt like a broken wrist. First blood and first bone on an attempt to just ring a bell on a dare. There was little chance I would get away from not being laughed at when I got back to the table.

Her eyes were still glowing red when I came to properly. One foot was definitely on my chest, the other may have been but my main attention on trying to move my fingers.

“Now, there seems to be 2 choices, you can either walk away from this situation, and leave. Or you can pay for the damage to those boxes, buy a round and hear why that was a stupid thing to have attempted.”

Indignation was my chosen way to communicate at the time. I wasn’t used to people telling me no. “What do you mean to speak to me like this?”

The hand appeared in front of me again, but unlike her grip around my wrist, I found I was suddenly on my feet as quick as I fell. She later told me that she intended to pull with my uninjured wrist. Never apologising for not doing this though. Apparently, she felt I was in need of some learning, and not a beating, that day. She always was a clever one.

Fortunately, the other tapster on shift, Philta, helped me with bringing the ale back to the table. One at a time may have taken me a while after my trip.

My friends looked at the goblin, having seen what happened they took the safe route and gave her room to sit. Smirking, Jorna couldn’t help to push the conversation back to me. “So you failed to ring that bell?”

With her calm tone, which I would later realise was more of a warning than politeness, “You ring that bell and almost everyone in this tavern will throw you out.” Jorna attempted to laugh it off but quickly found a knife in the table between his fingers. I had never seen him so pale before. “You don’t know what that bell is, and that is just shown by thinking about ringing it.”

History was never a strong subject of mine. Learning about the intricacies of why a tower is set where it is, the impact of a river on how a battle ended for some Lord. Or worse, why a town has thrived through economic troubles over time. Well, hearing about a bell in a tavern did not sound like it was going to be a fun one. Fortunately for me, the idea of moving was as the bottom of the pile of things to do so I sat there. It was a story she told us that still makes me shiver today.

“The phrase is Chime the Bell, and that bell has more value than this entire tavern for what it means.

Did you know an arrow will find the most efficient way to fly through the air. The skill of the archer, now they need to find the right path for the arrow to hit the target they want to hit.

Most archers may spend days with a target at a set distance, shoot and hit to feel they have had a good day. The target may get moved, the distance changed, multiple targets may be set up to give ease of practice for those who have space, and more likely, the money.

But it is those who have seen war, that get the most practice. Those who survive were normally the ones who were able to hit a moving target, before the enemy reached them. There was a time when, before the unified kingdoms, humans went to war with humans. Before they went to fight my folk. War was not uncommon, but they were getting bigger. So for those who lost, a choice had to be made about them.

Let the defeated go home could mean they may rise again. Kill them all, well that would mean no one would know but those left behind would no doubt hear the stories and wish to rise again. A middle ground had to be found. A chance to leave some to live, to share the tale of the victor, but not one that made the survivors wish to rise again.

For any rebellion, no matter how small, just needs a small amount of courage to say ‘no’ to those who are ruling.”

Jorna, finding his courage again, jumped in, “Sorry, as much fun this history lesson is, but who are you?”

“Kajuna, and if you interrupt me again, my knife won’t sit next to your pretty little fingers. Now where was I. Ah yes…”

This courage, just like your finger boy, may come from ale, hunger, a sense of injustice, or a wanting of something else. But to stop this courage, a consequence needs to be known.

This was how the phrase Chime the bell came around.

No one is quite sure who began the tradition. Someone lost, someone won. What more does a tale need.

The army that won was facing a dilemma. What to do with the remains of the army who had nearly defeated them. Each day they were kept alive, meant more food being given to them, more water to share and more trenches to dig. To enslave them was too costly and risked someone trying to rise up, to free them would mean they were likely to rise again. But no one wished to kill their kin. So the commanders drank and waited for someone to make a choice while their own King was off somewhere else.

There was, most likely, yet more ale involved, all good ideas can be linked in some ways to it.

Someone, a rising squire is often suggested, eventually walked out into a field with a stick and one of the warning bells. Some say it was around a hundred paces. From the stake, the soldiers in the enclosure could see a stake being hammered into the ground. They probably couldn’t see the bell, but the stake and rope had their own meaning. Beyond the stake, the trees loomed with moon light spraying over them.

The bell was then hung from the stake and the squire wandered back. Where it stayed.

With the rise of the sun, the bell dripped with the morning dew. The red eyes of a commander looked on at the defeated enemy sat there in the mud. Bleak eyes looked back, hands tied behind their backs with loosely tied knots. All eyes saw the bow and arrows in the commander’s hands.

“We have decided, there has been enough death.” His voice carried over the heads of the men who had been left outside behind a set of fences. “There is one way this can happen.”

A groan of murmurs from the soldiers wondering what this generous one way might be.

“All you need to do, is walk to our commander and say you will not rise again, then get from that post over there.” All eyes followed his finger to see a post near the tents of the commanders and army looking on. “To the post over there. If you ring that bell. You can walk into the forest a free person. You can return to your families safe in the knowledge, should you live as you did before, there will be no follow up.”

Carefully, a lone figure stood. “You just want us to walk over there, and ring that bell?”

A smile and a chuckle followed. “You can get there however you want. Ring that bell and you can go home. Now who is your commander here?”

Eventually, eye turned to the lone figure who stood.

“I guess that means it is you. So, give me a number.”

It is said he was waiting for some time before answer, but then gave a number. Fearing what it might me. He may have asked what the number means but all he was told was, “Give me a number.”

The lone figure was told to go first. He walked over to the other Commander, said he piece, and walked to the stake. The field was silent. The bell was chimed. All eyes watched and saw him walk to the trees. Where he waited for his troops to follow.

Slowly, a second walked over and repeated. The bell chimed out. Another followed and slowly those who were defeated began to queue up to walk. Two attempted to go together and no one stopped them.

With each chime, a cheer followed as they waved back.

Eventually, when the number was reached, an archer stepped forward to release an arrow. Narrowly missing the man but hitting the stake, just before the bell chimed.

The chime spread over the field with all soldiers looking at the archer.

The line paused, but the commander motioned for the next. The next soldier walked slowly and the arrow landed by his foot. He began to run but the next arrow was not a miss and went square into this back. Lying in the middle.

All it took was a slither of steel to be shown of his sword and the defeated settled back to the floor.

“Who is next to Chime the bell?” The commander stepping forward. When no one moved a pair of soldiers went to pull the next in the line that had formed.

They walked over said they would not rise again. This time the soldier ran, a few arrows feel near him but the bell chimed. It was then he saw the arrow in his leg as he limped to the tree line.

Again, and again, people ran to chime the bell. Slowly, the field turned to mud, slowing the others who came after. Blood spilled as the bodies littered the field. Causing others to stumble as they tried to run, to turn, to miss the arrows when they fell.

It is said the archers kept a tally, but not for those who they killed on that day, but for how many arrows they could hit on target, but still get the bell to chime. A point for each arrow. But minus if the person didn’t make it.

By the end of the day, those who had called their fellow soldiers on, but seen them fall, left through the forest wanting to never see death again.

As the day passed, more ale was drank, more arrows fired. But many got to go home.

Kajuna drank her ale wiping her face clean from the ale before she spoke. “You may believe that humans haven’t had to have a big battle with humans for a long time, but that doesn’t mean it is true, or that those who have been punished have not been given the opportunity to chime their own bell.”

I was not sure when, but I realised at some point through her story, I could not take my eyes away from the bell. It was hidden if you didn’t look. It was dirty and could be mistaken for anything other than a bell. The more I looked, the more I felt I could see finger marks on the outside.

One of my friends, Hrika, was the first of us to speak. “Is that the bell up there? From that day?”

Kajuna laughed as she attempted to drink her ale. “Don’t be silly. That was long ago.”

“So it’s just a symbol, to like remember it or something?”

“Oh no, that’s a bell from something else. But I wouldn’t ask the Captain about it. But if you idiots try that again, that table over there will be the least of your worries.”

It was then I realised, 4 people dressed in Town watch markings were sat watching us. I would have thought it was the goblin sitting at the table that drew their attention, but all 7 eyes were on me. There was not a smile among them.

Volunteered

Where does the world end?

This surely is a subjective question for many. To many, it is where the physical plane of earth, the rock and the mineral ceases (if it does, unless it just goes around and around). To some, it can be where the last tavern sits before the gates and walls of the city they call home. Some cities have been known to have multiple taverns of similar name, causing many to attempt to trace a route to go drinking through each tavern and establishment through the city as they go. For those poor souls, the end of the world is not normally found in the drink that they choose that evening, but the feeling that they suffer the next morning.

For Roke, the 3rd Commander of the Goblin Guard of the 2nd shift, who had been called into the office of the representative of the Protector of the City Haven, he felt his world coming to an end when given the task of what is commonly called the, ‘Legacy of the King’. Which normally would mean everyone would hate you and you have to build something big enough to leave a mark at the great Goblin Gate, or have an impact on people’s lives that would mean the King, or some rich benefactor, could be remembered long past their final day. Few would ever remember the person who was given the take of administrator. A cursed role that few voluntarily wanted in any organisation, and no one was able to turn down without risking banishment, or worse, a never ending shift on the furthest outposts outside the Goblin Gate itself.

The only solace for Roke when being told his new brief, was that he had actually felt worse. A similar end of the world feeling when he finally, although supported by a few drinks at his local tavern, plucked up the courage to ask his the future Mrs Roke for a casual game of Siege. If she said no, his friends would laugh at him, but it would also mean his own world would collapse as he had dreamed of asking her to play a game for about 5 years, ever since his own growing changes began. It had always been her and nothing but, her.

Thankfully, she said yes, and despite his nerves, he even managed to win the game. He didn’t realise that she wanted to let him win as she knew he had been wanting to ask for at least 3 of those years as he hadn’t stopped staring at her when she worked the in the bakery stretching out the bread each day to be baked.

It is worth noting that it would be the only game she would let him win in their entire life together. “Let them win the first one,” her mother told her when her changes were starting. “That way, they will always feel they can beat you again, and keep trying to get one over you again.”

As a person who had herself, failed to keep any partner for more than 2 seasons since her late husband died in a goblin raid many years before, the advice was weighted, but no one could compete with her father, so her mother’s advice was kept. As has Roke.

So it was today that Roke was being asked, or more being volunteered, “You are being given the honour of reinforcing the 3rd tower of the second line young Commander.” The representative sat proudly, waiting to be thanked. “The village of Pillo have saved for the past 5 seasons to donate this, and we feel this will be rightly spent there, to rename it, the Pillo Tower.”.

Roke stood for a moment wondering how much a small village could actually save when he realised that he wasn’t actually saying anything. “Thank you, uh, Representative. I am sure that we will be able to make great, umm, improvements, to the 3rd tower.”

“Of the second line”.

“Of course. Thank you.”

“The money is being brought in with the volunteers from the village, so they will be eager to see where there money is going.”

This, was in one way great news. As it meant he wouldn’t be needing to now go around making people volunteer. Or worse, volunteer his own friends to support the project. This does mean that they volunteers from Pillo will now see where they money is going to go. But as Roke was about to be dismissed from the meeting, one small thing at a time. 

The 6 seats of Pazgaa

Been a while since I shared something I have written. Life has a habit of giving other things for attention.

So while I get back to writing again, and looking at my humans, goblins and dwarfs. Here is a piece of history I wrote about the Goblin Wars I stumbled upon that I wrote nearly a year ago. Hope you enjoy.

—//—

There are 6 Great Goblin Chiefs who are buried together, they fought to unite the goblins under one banner. They believed that together, their kin could finally be strong and stop the oppressors of magic ruling them. That a bright future of Goblin kin would come their way and be able to rule for themselves.

It was during the Goblin Magic wars that they banded together to fight off the humans, led by those who used magic, to push them back through the hills and to begin the period they hoped would be freedom. But they were tricked, magic was used to dispel their reality and what was seen as a final victory, was not.

The final act of those with magic was to make the goblin leaders believe they had won, no one is sure how, and they were ambushed by the few remaining followers of the magic folk. At their victory meal, the Goblin Chiefs were killed and slain. Their bodies hanged and marked with images to curse their souls, just in case they have any. Humans believed they didn’t but wasn’t worth the risk.

On hearing this, the goblin horde marched on and, under the leader of a hobgoblin who had betrayed the chiefs, brought forth the horde to attack. After the battle, the 6 chiefs were settled into the ground, in the 6 seats of Pazgaa, the place to rest and watch over their kin for the future. A 7th seat was made for visitors who passed into these lands to mark their respect to the 6 chiefs.

Slowly, the humans forgot the use of magic, the past of the wars became legend and the fear of the gobilns overtook the fear of magic. A brighter time was described, ruthlessly cut down by the gobilns who were jealous, or angry, at the prosperity that the time period saw. Some knew the truth were in books and tried to decipher them, but most writintgs have either been lost, or precious few ever existed.

The time of magic wealders for the humans is one of mystery and misdirection to those today.

The 6 seats of Pazgaa to the goblins, is seen as a holy place in legend, one that should be respected by all. To some this means to remember those who died in war and betrayal, to some means there are to be no humans. The stories over time have been lost, the march to Pazgaa has become legend, and some humans do not believe that they even existed. But he spirit of such a time, a united Goblin, is one that many still believe could happen. The are those who see the decendents of those 6 chiefs, as something that should be followed. But there are also those who wish to see every last decendent destroyed, but for what cause is unknown. Even to them.

Beginning the world

In a quiet, vacant part of space, there is a brightly shining sun. Using the scale of comparison, by those who can see such things, it is a rather small burning ball of hydrogen with a mixture of other things that can be seen when they come to the surface in an array of colours. Some have suggested it was an early attempt by the Gods to get objects going around in the same direction. Others consider it was a place for those deemed worthy to be placed away from others. Although the opposite has also been suggested by those who might feel this world is more of a punishment than salvation.

Around this sun, often called Miriam, spins a planet. It spins happily, if planets could have feelings apart from dizziness and the mild feeling of being sick. (Why else would volcanoes explode). But on this planet is all the known life that exists around the sun. The only other known celestial bodies is the 6 faced moon and 3 comets.

For about 450 generations, the dominanting belief has been the moon has 6 faces, each one coming out on a different night. This has, naturally, been analysed to have some meaning to those born under each face. For many have tried to predict what they may be when they are older. With many leaders across the world being born under a late summer moon the idea has stuck. Few have suggested that the pressing winter fuel and cold nights have had a notion to be a cause, but it has never taken with the masses. Needless to say, children of the ruling families have often been born at that time, and first appear after the 3rd face, where the crater is seen at its fullest. Symbolizing the great impact a child might have on this world.

Within this small system, there flies 5 comets, although only 3 have been correctly identified. Some have also tried to track these in the fear of predicting when the gods have doomed the planet to end and collide together, killing all life as it is known. The closest estimations are, not soon.

The original investigation came when a Prince had heard it might be the next time the comet called ‘the Shining light of the Mother’ was set to collide. Using his wealth, he set up what was to be called the Watchers of the Sky. From their work, mostly from old scrolls as opposed to tracking the stars, they told the Prince the comet would come by in 2 and a half years. The main reason behind this, was not for him to know how long he would live for, nor was it to create a lasting institution. But it was to find out whether he should marry the heiress of a neighbouring kingdom or flee with his childhood sweetheart, risking his life of luxury and ignoring his duty.

Being a Prince, he heard what he wanted to hear, so left his bride who was said to have a beauty that eternally matched the size of the Kingdoms wealth. In the end, his actions may have made her beauty frown slightly, but the Assassins Network was born from the eloping to find him and bring him back to to deal the Kings revenge for the his public snub. The Prince did not last until the next coming of the shining light of the mother, which did not end the world as he thought.

Despite this failed attempt of counting the stars, it made more people wish to track the wonderous things to see what could be predicted. This, at the very least, found that the ‘Shining light of the Mother’ flew past exactly every 12 years. Setting up the foundations for an agreed calendar that would eventually take hold for many.

The death of a king

Death was always seen as a women, they bring life into the world, it should only stand to reason that they should be the ones to collect life when it has run its course.

This is a scene that is part of something bigger. In theory it is the start of it, and thinking about all the mistakes writers do (so many blogs on this topic!), making it the beginning makes sense, to paraphrase the advice many have said, ‘start with the action… not describing a person’s day’.

So here is a scene where the passing on stability leads into what to do next?

Just to help make it make sense, the title ‘Utwelda’, roughly translates to King of Kings. It is meant to symbolise the unifying person who have had oaths of loyalty to from the different kingdoms of man.

As always, hope you enjoy and please share any comments.

—The Death of a King—

The clouds gathered around the tops of the mountains, slowly they marched down the slopping sides. An old saying is ‘a battle will come to end when one side has lost their troops’. It is not a very good saying, but as no one is able to show any reason why it is not true, it has stuck around. However, it is the battle with the weather that came to the mind of the dying Utwelda. He has seen armies rise, troops come at him with sword, axe and hammer with all failing. He was still there, breathing. Just. 

Around him stood the myriad of people he had known for many years. Some were his close true friends, some were his council from the Kingdoms who advised him and others were those waiting to see who would respond but also felt a sense of duty to be there. The chill in the room was held a bay with the layers of animal furs helping to keep the Utwelda warm. By his side where his children and wife. His wife, who had long brown hair tied behind her, sat holding his hand. Her clothes were made of browns and yellows showing her modest side that had been with her all her life, all except for her necklace. This was a gift form her husband and the bright colours stood out as it hung in the air from her neck. With each breath the Utwelda took she held his hand, remembering how he had united the human Kingdom, but still had time to teach their children to ride a horse, drive a cart and wield the weapon of their choice.

They would never be able to marry someone who might be Utwelda, a blessing and a curse of being their fathers children, but one that had stopped any one family taking control of the Kingdoms of men should they be united. A decision their husbands took to not allow power to be within on family. But they were ready, they had been brought up to be in a world without their father should he have fallen in battle. But now, he was slipping away on a cold night to age. 

The clouds, like the true enemy to life, continued its march down the hills. She was on her way. Death was always seen as a women, they bring life into the world, it should only stand to reason that they should be the ones to collect life when it has run its course. Men, end life early, often in battle but it is often seen as man’s duty to protect life but in doing so, often seen to end it before She can come to collect her children.

As the Utwelda managed to open his eyes he could see his wife and children there with those behind a blur. Those closest to him smiling and holding back tears. He had lived a long life. The goblin horde had been kept at bay when the winter pass opened across the sea. He held his wife’s hand, and with just his eyes managed to say how much he loved her, how proud he was to be able to be her husband and how happy he was to be there with her through it all. 

To others he was the Utwelda, but to his wife, he was hers, no title was needed nor did a title change how they were with each other. Equal partners together. Slowly, she bent down and whispered into his eye, ‘You have one rule remember’.

The Utwelda coughed and the sign of yet more blood was quickly whipped away by the First Chamber Guard. Ever faithful soldiers who swore protection to the crown. They had stood watch for their King, and stayed when he was crowned Utwelda. They knew they would soon perform their last vigil together and it would be an honour so few had seen. How often do kings survive to see Her come to collect him? But those thoughts were for another day, another time.

‘Your one rule, in all of this’, the Queen continued to whisper just light enough so only he could hear. ‘You were not to die on me’.

The silence of the room broke as the Utwelda began to laugh, his body heaved with all the energy he had left. His smile came bright as so many had seen before. He looked at his wife in the eye and, unable to speak, gripped her hand. 

Later She came to take the Utwelda away. The room filed out slowly as the physician checked for any final signs of life. Soon only the family and the Chamber Guard remained. Outside those who had been called to prepare to look after his body for the funeral waited for the family to leave.

However, for those who filed out to share the news of his passing, to begin each Kingdoms remembrance traditions, thoughts about who would, or who could, replace the Utwelda rose quickly. Some considering if one would even be needed if the period of peace within the Kingdoms of men was secure.