Here's an excerpt from the next Noggle Stones book, "The Tattered Knight".
The rider eased his pale horse to a halt. Through the visor of his
helmet his milky yellow eyes regarded the old farmer on the side of the
road. He was hammering a spoke back into a broken wagon wheel. The rider
found this curious… something mundane, yet somehow profound. There was
something about wheels that he found magical
or holy. Their round shape. Their ability to make things move. Their
place in history, second only to fire, as man’s weapon in an endless war
against nature.
And here was this simple little man doing the
work of gods… forging this holy relic on the side of a dirt road
outside a drowsy little village.
The farmer looked up as he
heard the murrd-ghoraa stamp its hooves. “Oh, howdy there, stranger!” he
chortled as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “Yes sir. Howdy.”
The rider nodded.
“Something I can help you with?”
The rider cocked his head. He swung from the saddle and landed on the
dirt road, his worn leather boots kicking up dust and pebbles. He slowly
walked towards the old man, the bits of rusted and mismatched armor on
his body clinking and clanking like an out-of-tune wind chime. The rider
stopped before the farmer and looked down at him.
“Caer Coblyn,” he hissed.
“Caer Coblyn?” the old man repeated. “That the goblin town? Caer Coblyn?”
The rider nodded.
“Well, I ain’t been that ways myself,” he answered. “But I understand
it’s between here and Gary. You keep on this road and I reckon you can’t
miss it. Yes sir. Can’t miss it.”
The rider nodded again and turned about to remount his horse.
“Wait a second, Mister!” the old man called to him.
The rider turned about.
The old man smiled and held up a hand. “Just a second. Yes sir. Just a
second.” He scurried to the buckboard of his wagon and snatched a brown
jug from underneath. “Share a drink before you go? Before you go? Yes
sir.”
The rider paused. His breath was heavy and uneven. This
was a ritual among these kinds of folk, he recalled. Something about the
sharing of fermented beverages created a kind of symbolic bonding.
Engaging in such socializing might provide valuable insights into the
culture of man.
“Yes,” the rider said as he strode towards the farmer.
The farmer laughed as he uncorked the jug. He handed the jug to the
rider and smiled, exposing more gum than teeth. “You first.”
The rider took the jug and lifted just enough of his visor to expose his
mouth. He put the rim to his lips and took a long draw. He lowered the
jug, wiped his mouth, and handed the jug back to the farmer.
“Good stuff, right? Good stuff?”
The rider nodded.
The farmer laughed and took a sip. He let out a loud “ah” after his
drink. He smiled and pointed to the rider’s armor. “Quite an outfit
there. Quite an outfit. That Ayis dannie? Or maybe dwarfy? The duster
there looks Texas, I reckon. Yep. Texas, I reckon.”
“It is all,” the rider replied.
“Oh, well,” the farmer said. “You a half-breed then? A half-breed? Not
that there’s anything wrong with that. Nothing wrong with that. No sir.
I’m with Roosevelt on this. With Roosevelt. We all gots to get along,
we does. Yes we does. So you part human and part Ayis dannie?”
“I am all,” the rider replied.
“All?” the farmer gasped as he took another swig of moonshine. “All,
you say? Well, I didn’t think the worlds was joined long enough for one
half-breed to be born, let alone a half-breed that’s all-breed. But I
reckon them fey folks work fast. Born fast. Grow up fast. Live fast.
Yep. Fast, I bet. Yes sir.”
“We all get along,” the rider said.
“Yes, sir. That’s exactly right. Yes, sir. Just like in this here
book.” The farmer reached around to his back pocket and removed a worn
and tattered dime novel. “Just like that Asherby fella what fought the
Baymaari with his goblin friend. He was fighting for a better world, he
said. Yes, sir. A better world, he said.”
The rider’s eyes narrowed. He reached out for the book.
“You want to see it?” the farmer said, handing the book over. “Careful. I ain’t finished it yet. Ain’t finished.”
The rider held the book in his hands. He flipped through the pages and
saw the strange words, and stranger pictures. Humans, goblins, dragon
brides, ogres, dwarves, Aes dana. They were working together. Like
spokes holding a wheel together, they were holding their world together.
“It’s something, ain’t it,” the farmer said with a mostly toothless
grin. “Yes, sir. I’m looking forward to this better world. Looking
forward to it. Long as no one raids my crops or rustles my cattle that
is. None of that. No, sir. None of that.”
“You are for unity?” the rider asked.
“Sure am. Yes, sir. Sure am.”
The rider removed his leather gloves. He offered his pale, purple veined hand to the farmer.
“Why yes,” the farmer beamed. “Yes. Let’s be friends.”
The farmer grasped the hand. The rider gripped it hard, squeezing until bones and flesh began to crack and pop.
“What are you doing?” the farmer screamed. “That’s too hard! Too hard!”
The rider continued to squeeze until the farmer fell to his knees. And
then like thick, knotty roots, the veins in the rider’s hand throbbed
and turned black. The essence flowed from the man to the rider… all
knowledge, emotion, and self. The farmer started to shrivel, turning
pale, then gray, then black. His flesh withered and wrinkled, stretching
over his bones. And finally he collapsed into a pile of black soot.
The rider put his gloves back on his still throbbing hands. He picked
up the jug of moonshine and took another long draw. He sighed and looked
off to the setting sun.
“Unity,” he hissed. “Fighting for a better world. Yes, sir. A better world.”
