Excerpt from Noggle Stones Book III: The Tattered Knight

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.”