LoS BB

Jagg made his way back to Coral, slightly battered and with only a few choice goodies in his possession. Still, they would fetch a few gold at the pawn shop, so he made his way up the high street to Assoun's establishment and went in. Dumping his belongings on the ground, he began rummaging through and sorting out what to sell and what to keep. The shopkeeper cast an appraising eye over everything and enquired, "Getting rid of that sword, sir?". Jagg, distracted by the other things he was sorting through and having no use for another diamantium longsword, grunted in agreement and continued to put things into the 'sell' pile and 'keep' pile. The shopkeep quickly took the weapon and retired back behind the sturdy grille that separated the front of the shop from the stockroom. A bag of gold was proferred through the hatch, and Jagg, hefting it and feeling its satisfactory weight, smiled happily then made his way to the centre for his minor injuries to be attended to.

Once in the centre, Jagg chased out the annoying inhabitants who were wandering about and settled down to rest. Idly he rooted through his belongings again, wondering as always what some of the obviously useful things actually did. Perhaps this evening he might find a trade for one of them... His brow furrowed in surprise as he came across a diamantium longsword, and in pristine condition as well. He shrugged, after all, he did come by them reasonably frequently. He must have forgotten to sell this one from the last time, but another trip to the pawn shop would soon yield another bag of gold to add to his already considerable stash. Wielding the weapon, he admired its fine edge and balance. He ran through a few practice moves with considerable skill, sadly unwitnessed by anyone, but by any standard this sword bore no real comparison to the blackstar sword he kept for special fights, nor to the Weaponmaster's sword he'd received by order of the Blademaster himself. The Weaponmaster's sword that he always kept in the scabbard at his hip... ready for instant use when inferior weapons let him down by breaking... in the empty scabbard on his hip... An uncomfortable sick feeling started to creep over Jagg as he looked dumbly at the empty scabbard. With a growing sense of unease, he searched through his possessions, once and then again. No Weaponmaster's sword! How could this be?

*****

The door to the pawn shop flew open with a crash. Jagg stormed in, with a look of fury on his face. There was a solid-sounding clunk, as of a thick bolt being thrown home behind the grille. "Wer me SWORD?!" roared Jagg.
"Sword, Sir? I'm afraid I have no idea what you are talking about. Can I interest you in some fine chainmail?" commented a calm, disembodied voice from the depths of the shop's secure area.
"NO. Me Sword! Wot u took jus a minute ago! U got rong wun, meant ter sell dis diamantium wun!".
"Ah, a fine weapon Sir. I would be delighted to give you a good price for it.".
Jagg smashed his polearm into the heavy grill, shaking dust from the rafters but making little impression on the defense, obviously crafted with large irate customers firmly in mind. "Not want ter sell nother sword, well, later." said Jagg, getting distracted, "Jus WER me Weponmaster's sword? I buy back, wotever it cost.". The voice sighed, "Ah, unfortunately that will not be possible, I'm afraid. A fine weapon like that, even in poor condition, well, they just don't sit on the shelves. I am no longer in possession of it.". Jagg raged and cursed, his anger stoked fully once more. He pounded hard on the grille, sending spiders running for cover to the dark corners of the shop.
"Now, now, you wouldn't want me to call the guards, would you?" enquired the shopkeeper. Without a target present to slice, Jagg's temper began to subside. He sadly shook his head. "But wot about me sword..." he complained.
"Well, I would hate to leave such a good customer dissatisfied." said the voice behind the grille. A shadow of movement could be made out, reaching to a high shelf. "Perhaps I could offer something else, a special item for a special customer...". Jagg's ears pricked up and his face unscrewed itself from its expression of rage and frustration. "This came in only very recently, my friend...I would be delighted to sell it to you, as a worthy future owner of it." Jagg pressed his nose to the grille, eager to see what was on offer. Despite the phenomenal enchantment of his helmet, his attention span could still be measured in heartbeats and all thoughts of swords and dead shopkeepers were ebbing from his grey matter in the face of temptation.
"Ah yes... a book of knowledge and lore. A fine addition to the collection of any adventurerer. I have it on the best authority that the knowledge contained in this book will elevate and guide even the strongest in the land to greater triumphs!". Jagg wiped his chin. "Book of wot?" he asked, but the wheels of cognition were turning slowly. "Book fer knowin fings?". The shadowy shopkeeper nodded silently. Jagg was already rummaging in a fat purse and when the hatch opened, he stuffed the whole fat bag of gold through with haste. A book of only moderate size was returned through the hatch and Jagg grabbed it with both hands. He stroked the plain leather cover, briefly wondering what beast that skin came from, then tucking it under an arm he recovered his poleaxe. With an offhand wave at the grille he sped from the shop, all thoughts of his lost sword completely vanished and wholly intent on studying the book at the earliest opportunity.

The shopkeep breathed a deep sigh of relief.

*****

Jagg squatted down on the floor of the Centre, for once ignoring the drunks and vicars wandering around. As he held the book in both slightly-trembling hands, he thought, "I 'ope it got pictures"...

(to be continued)

Brilliant
Well I'm ready for Part 2 now

Nice....i should write stories in Dutch. Only then i can put more atmosphere it as my english skills are not that well that i know all those words and how to use them grammaticly right. Maybe Valiant can translate those

*cough* Now, a story like this should earn some nice points I think. Amazing. Jagg your word usage is phenomenal even to people that speak American. Are you an English professor or something? Your vocabulary and word usage is outstanding. I agree with Qoith, I'm ready for part 2...

jagg wrote:"I 'ope it got pictures"...

Very nice touch

Ghandi wrote:Nice....i should write stories in Dutch. Only then i can put more atmosphere it as my english skills are not that well that i know all those words and how to use them grammaticly right. Maybe Valiant can translate those

Well, maybe if you ask really nice

Gotta admit though, I think writing straight in english is a lot easier than translating from dutch (never actually did the translation method though).

In his younger days, Jagg had never really had much truck with books. In fact, pretty much his only brush with the written word was during those trips to the privy, when a few soft pages would always come in very handy if you know what I mean. Dusty scrolls for preference and definitely NOT vellum unless there was absolutely no alternative. However even Jagg had come to realise that useful knowledge was often committed to paper. He and Keezheekoni had recently solved the log of Deldan, a feat which would have been nearly impossible without the directions recorded by that eminent explorer. And if a few crumpled fragments could yield such rewards, Jagg was understandably excited when faced with a book which (it was claimed) was packed from cover to cover with useful knowledge. Even the prospect of the inevitable headache that would result could not deflect him from his intent to devour the book’s contents at the earliest opportunity. He squatted on the floor of the Centre and regarded the book.

It was neither a small book, such as might be slipped into a pocket, nor of such a size and weight that would earn it a permanent place on a reading desk in some well-endowed library. It was covered in leather, although which beast originally possessed the skin was obscure. There were intricately-carved silver clasps at each corner, and the volume was further secured by a peculiar binding that stretched from the lower end of the book's spine and was then wrapped around the book several times. It put one in mind of nothing less than a rat's hairless tail, and it would have to be unwound before the book could be opened. About a third of the way down from the top edge there was also an odd horizontal slash, as if someone had drawn a blade across almost the full width of the cover. Well – too much reading could do strange things to people, Jagg knew this for a certain truth, and perhaps this would explain the book’s unusual construction. Taking off his clumsy gauntlets, he flicked the clasps loose then took the end of the binding between finger and thumb and started to unwind the three or four loops that encircled the volume. He frowned a little as he did this, for this binding seemed to offer firm, springy resistance, more than might have been expected. When it was fully unwrapped, he tucked the end under his knee to prevent it from recoiling, and then the book lay on the floor of the Centre unbound and ready to reveal its secrets. A shiver of anticipation ran through Jagg as he wondered what lore he might learn from these pages.

Jagg rubbed his hands together, and then flipped the book open part way through. He peered at the first pages so revealed and the writing on them. The hand in which this was written was minute and ornate, and what was that? A diagram of something? A map? Jagg leaned further forward and squinted at the tiny script, putting his thick finger on the page to keep place. He started to form the words with his mouth, frowning with the effort of concentration. Then the book snapped violently shut without warning! Jagg leapt up in surprise and stuffed his pinched fingers in his mouth. The binding, now released, coiled again like a live thing. It rewound tightly around the book in the blink of an eye, then with two sharp noises, the clasps closed once more. As Jagg gaped at the book, the edges of the slash in the front cover stirred with a small flicker of movement, and pulled apart from each other to reveal a single flat green eye the size of a human's outspread hand. The eye's gaze seemed to lack focus for a moment, then fixed itself with obvious intelligence on the fighter standing there dumbstruck. It bored into Jagg, who remembered to close his mouth at this point, as if it were measuring his worth in minute detail with its unblinking regard. There was a moment’s silence, then a high-pitched voice screeched, “Stolen! Thief! I have been stolen!” Jagg’s brow furrowed at the accusation.
“Yer mine. I buy!” Jagg roared back.
The voice rose to a shriek and continued:
“Lying cur! You cannot possibly be my legitimate owner!”
The voice, despite the lack of an obvious source continued its lament, “Purloined! Fallen into the hands of a barbarian! Return me this instant, you unworthy vagabond!”
By now several of the other occupants of the Centre were looking over and whispering to each other. At this, Jagg smoothly unslung the battered heavy crossbow which he always carried cocked. A dangerous practice, some might say. Others might say that given Jagg’s sporadic bursts of violence in some of the otherwise more peaceful parts of the civilised towns, the prospect of an accidental discharge didn’t really add much to the hazard he represented just by his presence. Anyway, no-one had felt the need to press the case for greater safety up to this point. The vicars who had been showing an interest in the disturbance promptly about faced, hoisted their cassocks and departed in haste.

Jagg returned his attention to the book in front of him. Poking it with a toe, he said, “I pay bagful of gold fer u book! Yer mine! Shut yer noise, yer gonna git read. Open up!” He squatted down and took the book in both hands. If a book could cringe, it seemed to do so now. He grasped the end of the tail-like binding, which drew itself tighter about the book. Despite a good tug, it refused to come loose again. Always prepared to resort to violence when thwarted, Jagg threw the book down and rooted through his weapon collection. With an evil grin, he drew his sharpest blade, a knife which had graced the hand of no lesser killer than the master assassin himself. It was relatively tiny in Jagg’s large hand, but it was more than capable of separating a foe from their last breath.
“Open up or else.” grinned Jagg.
“Do not be so foolish, you thick-skulled monster.” replied the book, its single eye fixed on the blade.
Kneeling beside it, Jagg slipped the blade between the pages’ edge and the tightly-wrapped binding. The book emitted an “eek!” and in the blink of an eye, the cover undulated and writhed briefly. With a wet plopping noise, a ball of paper flew from beneath the cover and landed on the floor. Jagg paused briefly, scowling.
“Do you know what was on that page?” shrieked the book.
“No. Wot?”
“Well you never WILL know! Unhand me or you’ll never gain my secrets!”
Jagg’s mouth dropped open as anger surged through him, but his hand stayed where it was.
“A map to great treasure!” cackled the book, “Gone! GONE! Do you understand me? Violate my pages and you will learn nothing!”
A vein started to pulse in Jagg’s forehead. He picked up the soggy mass of paper and started to try and smooth it out. It tore in his clumsy fingers, and the ink had become mere blobs devoid of meaning. He turned to the book, speechless with rage but torn between his natural productive desire for violent vengeance and the concern over how much the book could destroy if he gave in to his urge.
The book continued in a softer, malevolent whisper, “Oh…here’s an interesting chapter…and that is a POWERFUL spell! Must I chew that up too? No? Are you feeling calmer?”
Actually Jagg wasn’t much, but when faced with problems that couldn’t be solved by vigorous application of the poleaxe, he always felt impotent and helpless. Life was much easier when negotiation could be conducted with force of arms, and concluded with the spilling of a foe’s blood. He petulantly kicked over a bench, having to give vent to his anger in some form.
The tone of the voice became more wheedling. “Come now, pick me up. Perhaps we can have a civilised discussion about this.” Jagg’s temper was subsiding, and he stooped and grabbed the book from where it lay. He held it in front of him, looking into its monocular visage.
“It seems like you can behave yourself. Now, it also seems like you might have a tiny shred of potential, after all I can’t be owned by just anyone. The knowledge I possess is only for the few, the strong – the greatest! ARE you the greatest?”
Jagg couldn’t understand this, it was all too much. He thought he had a book with secrets to study, and now it was asking lots of questions.
“I weapon master. Dat pretty gud, u kno”. Jagg shrugged.
The book seemed to digest this for a few moments, “Well if you are to be my owner, you will have to be able to prove your worth to me. I can make you great, with the things that I know. With my guidance, you can stand astride the world like a mighty colossus!” The pitch was rising once more. “But I think you are weak! Unworthy! You are unfit to possess my knowledge!”
“I not weak! I show u I gud fiter!” shouted Jagg. “An I show u dat, u tell me fings?” This sounded at last like a deal he understood.
“Yes! Do as I say and you will be a god who walks the earth! That power can be yours!” The book dropped its voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Now, if we have a satisfactory arrangement…the first thing you must do is…”

Bravo ... can't wait for the next installment...

Wish I could write like that - great "English" prose

Not "american" as Sothis said

Mmmm.. Interesting that book is *grins evilly*

Jagg was beginning to wonder about the deal he’d done. The book had promised to yield its treasure store of knowledge, if he could but prove himself worthy of it. Unfortunately the book seemed to have rather high standards… Like a crooked shopkeeper with a thumb on the scales, the measurement never seemed to be in Jagg’s favour. He had occasionally come across duplicitous dealing of this kind, though it was a brave merchant who tried to fleece quite such a large and heavily-armed warrior. The usual policy of taking the shopkeeper outside and giving him a good hiding with the haft of his poleaxe to ensure honesty, not to mention generosity, was not working in this case - any threats fell on deaf (whatever passed for) ears, or produced a snide warning about how much knowledge could be destroyed before the cover was ever forced open. He’d even waited until the book’s single eye was closed, perhaps indicating a period of sleep, hoping to be able to sneak a glimpse at a page or two. But either the tome was a light sleeper, or did not need to rest in such a manner, because it would reopen its eye as he approached the table where the book lay and regard him with a mixture of suspicion and disdain.

Jagg had tried to impress the book with his martial prowess. He’d taken it with him on his tour of the Lands and defeated many strong enemies. It seemed singularly unimpressed. Every time he failed to land a blow, the book would screech its disapproval. The same if he failed to circle and hamper his opponent’s attacks. No instructor at the academy had ever judged his fighting performance so harshly! Under the pressure of its constant criticism, he’d taken to abandoning the book in his room to give himself a respite, but the book merely redoubled its shrill sniping efforts on his return. ‘Worse dan ‘avin a wife…” Jagg could be heard to lament more than once.

***

One of the things which had been nagging at Jagg for a long time was the location of a juicy spell from the astral realm. He’d found his way to a strange place and had spent a long time mapping and remapping the confusing paths. Still the spell eluded him. He almost gave up in frustration, the task seeming to be far beyond his meagre mental resources - even with the assistance of his Fast Finkin Helm, which grew excessively warm whenever he consulted his almost-illegible and incomprehensible map. Still, what he lacked in brains, he more than made up for in a streak of stubborn that you could drive a cart and horses along. Again and again he visited this place, but then on one occasion like any other, some quirk of chance or inspiration led him to what he sought. After a brief one-sided battle, he was left gaping at the spell he had sought for so long and so hard! Surely – that couldn’t be it? He couldn’t have – actually found it, after all this time? With trembling hands he grabbed it, and fortunately remembering to commit it to memory rather than simply reading it, he learned the spell he had searched for for so long.

***

Jagg raced back to Dwar’s tavern and took the stairs to his room three at a time. A new spell! The book was sure to be impressed with that. Flinging the door open, he squeezed into the tiny bedroom between the large numbers of mahogany trunks and looked at the book sat on the desk, which looked back at him for a moment then started to berate him with enthusiasm.
“Where have you been then? What have you been doing – no, wait, don’t tell me, I’m sure it was PATHETIC!”
Even this inhospitable greeting could not dent Jagg’s enthusiasm. With a grin on his face, he replied:
“Got me new spel! Gud spel an all!”
The book was not to be deterred:
“Pah! Found your way to the bookshop finally then? Don’t tell me, you learned waterbolt, and one day you might even be able to cast it.”
Jagg was somewhat stung by the harsh criticism, but replied evenly:
“Naw, got me avalanche. Wot u fink about dat den?”
The book replied in a voice dripping with scorn:
“Am I meant to be impressed? You’re hardly the first adventurer to discover that!”
Jagg’s mouth dropped open at this point. The countless battles he’d been through to acquire this spell came to his mind. The effort. The frustrations. The times he’d thought of giving up, then gone back to try again without success. Something snapped. Without another word he seized the book in both hands and raced to the bar downstairs. Dwar always kept a good fire roaring in the hearth there. Jagg slapped the book down on a table next to the fireplace and upended a basket of logs on the already substantial fire. Dwar looked over at the unusual scene from behind the bar, but Jagg was oblivious. Grabbing the poker, he viciously poked at the smouldering wood and stirred up a mighty blaze. Perhaps something in his manner suggested finality. This was no mere threat, a bluff to be called or countered with a threat of the book’s own. If a book could sweat, it would be doing so now.
“Now Jagg, let’s not do anything hasty. Calm down and behave yourself.” offered the book, in a nervous tone. Jagg shot it a glance that was pure hatred then continued to prod the coals into fiercer flames.
“I mean, it IS actually quite a decent spell after all. I might have judged your efforts a little harshly”
Jagg span round and planted his hands on his hips.
“Dat spel from Flint ‘imself! I see ‘im wiv me own eyes wen I git it! U rite it a gud spel!”
The book’s gaze flickered from the large fire to Jagg’s fierce expression, then back to to the flames. It continued hastily:
“Now let me see, for such a great achievement, it would be curmudgeonly of me to not reward your hard work in some minor way.”
Jagg threw the poker down and grabbed the book.
“A MAJOR way, I meant, something worthy of your truly heroic efforts!” shrieked the book.
Jagg narrowed his eyes and looked into the book’s single orb.
“Oh yer? Like wot?”
The book thought fast:
“Well, we shouldn’t discuss it here.”, taking in the rest of the room with a roll of its eye. “Perhaps somewhere a little more private?”

***
Jagg looked at the chest in front of him. The book had actually been as good as its word. He knelt and opened it with care, then peered into its glowing interior. “Ooo…” went Jagg.

The journey had been long and hard. The battles had been numerous and fierce. Even with the book’s guidance, few could have made such a trek. Now, the prize lay before Jagg. He peered into the interior of the chest, which was lit by a faint glow of magic. On a velvet cushion lay a mask of fearsome appearance. It looked to be constructed of bone, stained a dark rusty-brown colour and bound with a silvery metal. It plainly represented a stylised bear of ferocious appearance. Two pairs of dagger like canines protruded from a thrusting muzzle. In the dim light, the eye slits were fathomless dark holes.

He reached for it eagerly as the book piped up, “Perhaps you should check it for…”. Jagg disappeared.

***

“…traps.” he heard, as if from very far away. Jagg’s hands flew to his weapon as he looked around. No trace of the barrow in the mountains that he had earlier entered remained, and he seemed to be on a hillside which was only dimly lit, as if at dusk or dawn. The sky was overcast and the sun could not be glimpsed. Underfoot, the grass was coarse – no rich meadowland this. Finding no immediate threat, he straightened from his fighting stance and looked about. Down slope, he could see more rock-strewn hill pasture fading into the darkness, with possibly a forest or woodland beyond? Turning his gaze up the slope of the hill, he saw that the ground became more rocky, turning to boulders interspersed with narrow grass-covered trails. “Gud fer ambush”, thought Jagg. Still, it was likely to give a better vantage point, so he first checked his armour, and finding it secure, he hefted his poleaxe and set off upwards with a large degree of caution.

***

The path twisted between two boulders the size of houses. As Jagg crested the rise, he saw that the ground opened out into a flatter area containing a circle of stones embedded in the earth, each roughly the size of a barrel. In the shadows on the far side of the clearing, a hulking form could just be made out, seated on one of these rocks. Jagg carefully stepped from between the boulders, warily making sure not to step into the ring itself. Closer now, he could make out a few details of the seated figure. At least as large as Jagg, he sat with his head bowed and hands on knees. A horned helmet covered the beings head, and a shaggy bearskin cloak was draped about its shoulders. Jagg thought he was still unobserved, but tightened his grip on the shaft of his poleaxe as he pondered the scene. He briefly reviewed the locations of his best weapons, although he might as well review where he kept his legs, for long familiarity would bring them readily to hand. Without warning though, the figure’s head raised and slowly turned in Jagg’s direction.

“Who disturbin me rest?” grated a deep voice. Only the fact that the two of them seemed alone in the clearing allowed the source to be placed. The figure stood with the soft clank of shifting armour plates, and the metallic chime of chain mail flowing beneath.
“WHO!” bellowed the figure.
Did Jagg feel the icy hand of fear stroking his spine? Not in the slightest. Jagg possessed a natural caution born of long experience, but he would not shrink from a fight. He took a step forward and roared back at his loudest.
“JAGG! An wot it ter you?”
The warrior, for a warrior he surely was, chuckled. Jagg could see him more clearly now. A half-giant, as plain as the rocks and stones. Old too, with the leathery skin that comes from a lifetime’s caress by the wind and sun, but with a palpable vitality. His arms were bare apart from some battered bracers, and the sinewy muscles beneath betokened great strength.
“Wot u been doin den, Jagg? Don’t lie ter me, I felt it. I fink u been robbin me grave!”
Jagg felt a small flash of shame. He’d done one or two bad things in his lifetime. Well, maybe lots of bad things, and grave robbing wasn’t the worst. It was another matter to be confronted by the angry former owner though.
“You dead den?” asked Jagg.
The warrior cackled. “Yer, dead… An neva felt betta! I fite long an hard all me life, an wen me life really dun, fer gud, I git me reward!”. The warrior gestured about. “Afterlife in mountains. All the bear u kin wrestle, deer in the wuds wen u git tired of eatin bear. Bein dead agree wiv me an no mistake!”
The warrior paused. His brow furrowed. After a few moments he continued, “But u not dead. I kin see dat. Wot u doin here den?”
Jagg shrugged. “I dunno. I woz after sum treasure, wot mine by rite I shud add. Next fing I kno, I here.”
The warrior seemed to think for a long moment then exclaimed, “Blood! Dat got ter be it!”. He seemed to find this intensely amusing. “You kin? Yer must be, no way else fer u ter be here! Who yer pa?”. He fixed Jagg with a steely gaze, who felt like he’d been caught with a half-devoured cherry pie (like his Ma used to make) in his hand. Trying vainly to shake the feeling off, he replied.
“ Me Pa Fegg. You kno ‘im?”
The warrior shook his head. “Naw. Mor far back. Granpa? Befor dat?”
Jagg wracked his brains. “Urm, me Granpa…woz…Agog. Yer! Agog. Course, I neva met ‘im. Wen family gittin bigger, wel, got ter go find yer own place. But I sure me Pa say dat woz me Granpa.”
The warrior seemed to find this even more amusing. “Agog? You sure? I fink I kno Agog. Little ‘un, wiv snotty nose. An he woz…um…wel he… Oh I don kno. Mebbe I his Granpa, or Granpa of his Pa.”. The warrior looked thoughtful. “Dat lot of littul uns between u an me.”
Jagg shrugged. “So yer me Granpa way back? Wot dat mean den?”
The warrior stretched lithely.
“Wel dat mean, if yer wantin me stuff, it yers by rite. ‘Course, der must be, um, lots of little uns who cud say dat. Mebbe I shud giv yer a bit of a test, see dat yer deservin it.” He turned and stepped beyond the ring of stones. In the dim light, Jagg could just make out a small hide tent. The warrior stooped and reached inside the flap to retrieve a hefty club. He stood, then faced Jagg once more while giving the weapon a few experimental swings. With his practiced eye, Jagg could see that he was facing no novice. In addition, while the club appeared to be a crude instrument, it was well balanced. Jagg suggested, “I don want ter hurt u, Granpa.” but the warrior merely smiled.
“I fink u shud worry bout gittin hurt yerself, me boy. You the wun robbin me grave, afta all.”. With that he hefted the club and adopted a guard.

Seeing that a fight was inevitable, Jagg readied his poleaxe reluctantly. The warrior was suddenly in motion, almost a blur across the centre of the ring. Jagg barely managed to parry a flurry of blows while being beaten back to the edge of the stones. Clearly this half-giant knew a vast amount about the use of his weapon. He sensed the smallest of openings, and made a desperate stab – only to receive a blow to the head that left his ears ringing. Staggering back, he regathered his balance then launched an onslaught of his own. Disappointingly the warrior seemed to meet each blow with an almost lazy parry – then a sudden riposte had Jagg ducking to save his head once more. This was followed by another painful blow to the body which had Jagg retreating again. He dug deep into his reserves of experience and made a slashing series of feints while reaching with his left hand into a chest tied to a sling about his neck. From this he pulled a hammer of dwarven make, then with a practiced flourish this weapon was transferred to his main hand and swinging fiercely at the warrior. Jagg however had never seen a half-giant move so quickly, as his opponent ducked aside and replied with a series of wicked blows that he scarcely kept from landing. As the combatants danced apart, he drew a breath before launching himself back into the battle. He swang a blow, then another – each easily parried or avoided, then as he swung again and the hammer travelled towards his foe, he spoke the words of a binding spell. There was a look of brief surprise on the warrior’s face, then the hammer caught him full on the nose. Blood flowed, but such a spell would never hold such a consummate warrior for more than an instant. Despite the heavy hammer blow, he twisted and struck back. The shift in his weight betokened a blow which Jagg raised his shield to defend, yet as he completed the move, his intincts screamed “Feint” and at that instant the true attack struck home, unblocked. A massive blow struck Jagg in the chest, lifting him bodily off his feet and throwing him from the circle. Jagg struck one of the surrounding boulders solidly, and as he slipped to the ground, consciousness fled.

***

Jagg felt pain. He opened his eyes reluctantly and found himself lying adjacent to the hide tent he had seen earlier. The warrior seemed to sense his return to consciousness and waved happily then turned once more to a small pile of branches, where he struggled with flint and steel. Jagg raised himself to his elbows, causing yet more discomfort, but he continued and managed to regain his feet. The warrior was still busily striking sparks from his flint. Jagg wobbled over and looked at the wood, then laid a hand on the warrior’s shoulder. Waving his other hand, he tried to fire a burn spell into the kindling. Scowling, he tried again and this time succeeded. He smiled happily as the fire sprang to life. The warrior chuckled and said thickly, “You got a trick or two up yer sleeves, I fink.”
Jagg chuckled too, then thought better of it as it hurt his ribs too much. “Yer, I got wun or two trick. How yer nose?”
The warrior laughed heartily. “Bin long time since nose git broken. I fink u straighten it out wiv yer hammer, so I ‘appy!”. He continued, “Yer not bad fiter, u kno. Got a bit of skill der. ‘Course, you kin always lern mor.”
Jagg winced as he recalled that deceptive feint. The warrior went on, “Got sum mead in tent. Go git it.”
Jagg briefly rooted in the tent and pulled out a skin containing some liquid. The warrior nodded, so Jagg tossed it to him. He pulled the cork with his teeth and spat it to the ground, then took a long pull on the skin. He tossed it back to Jagg, who raised it to his lips and took a good swig himself. The liquid burned as it passed his throat, but the warmth spread through his body and seemed to drive his aches aside. Now the fire was well alight, the warrior parked himself on the nearest stone. Jagg settled heavily to the grass and threw the drink back.
“Wel den Jagg. Wot wiv dis magic yer usin? Neva fink none of me family be doin dat sort of fing.” His brow creased as the old warrior contemplated the recent events.
Jagg shrugged and replied. “Fitin an castin make me gud fiter. Magic elp lot in sum fite.”
“I see dat, yer. ‘Course I leave all dat ter shaman. I lot ‘appier wiv good club, none of dat fancy stuff.” He stretched out his hands to the fire and continued, “Still. Git fire goin gud, eh?”
Jagg smirked. The warrior continued, “Wot woz u takin from me tomb den? I not mad, got everythin me need here. Wot dey bury wiv me, in the end?”
Jagg muttered quietly, “Sum kind of mask. Looked fierce.”
The warrior’s face cracked into a grin. “Me War Mask? Oh, now dat is a nice fing. U wear dat an half yer battle wun befor u start.” He gazed off into the distance. “Wore dat fer big battle wiv goblins. Me leadin the clan down ter wer dey massin. I giv dem a snarl an der front rank break an run straight off.” He grinned fiercely. “Sum work woz dun dat day an no mistake. Mor dead dan u kin count, us an dem both. Sent ‘em back ter their holes wiv a lesson dey not fergit!”
The warrior turned to look at Jagg. “Well now. Mebbe it rite fer dat mask ter see sum fitin agin. Not fer jus anywun ter hav, but you wear dat an mebbe you not shame yer family.” He seemed to reach a decision and rose to his feet. “Come on. You shud be goin. Dem bear not hunt demself, u kno.” Jagg stood and scratched his head. “How I git back?” he enquired.

***

“yer already der”, came a voice that sounded as faint as a breeze. Jagg’s hands completed the movement he started what seemed like hours ago and closed on the sides of the mask. “wear it gud, jagg… don make yer granpa Braak sorry fer givin you it … i be watchin…” The voice tailed away to nothing, though perhaps a trace of a presence lingered still. Jagg lifted the mask. He unbuckled his dragonscale face protector and replaced it with the War Mask. It fitted as if it had been made for him. He sensed a fleeting impression of hills and rocks, forests and bears. It felt as if a tremendous current of energy was passing through him, and there was only one way to release it. Jagg threw back his head and roared.

*smiles broadly*

as always, brilliantly written

Jagg paced his small room in Dwar’s, with an uncharacteristic frown on his big face. The book was acting up again, after a welcome lull in its previously constant cajoling. After his victory against the dragon, it had seemed satisfied and subsided from its usual incitement to bigger and greater achievements. Now however, it had resumed its perpetual complaints in an unceasing diatribe. Jagg had taken to stuffing it in a pillowcase to muffle its bothersome nagging, but its high pitched whining could still penetrate the feather muffling to make itself audible, like the annoying whine of a buzzing insect. He suspected this resumption was also a consequence of the renewed interest that Kampfer had shown in the book. Since his return (after a welcome absence), the Dark-Knight had demanded the book, making promises or threats in equal measure, even offered tempting trades, but Jagg knew all too well that Kampfer wasn’t to be trusted. Wiser heads than his had also expressed very deep concerns at the book’s existence, and even if Jagg couldn’t exploit any capabilities it possessed, he wasn’t sure if such an item should be allowed to fall into the hands of someone as plainly ready to chew through the straps as Kampfer appeared to be.
He wracked his brains to think of the safest way of keeping the book out of Kampfer’s hands. Was there anyone he could give it to, for safekeeping? He thought of the few he trusted enough to hand it over to, but eliminated them one by one. How could he give something so sought after, so potentially dangerous to anyone he trusted and considered a friend? He considered the Lionhearts for a moment, but they were always so far up themselves he wasn’t sure they were a good solution. From what he’d heard, they weren’t necessarily even up to the task of fighting off the Dark-Knight.
Thinking further on the matter, hiding the book seemed like a good plan, but exactly where was a question that caused his brow to furrow. Kampfer would turn the Lands upside down to find the book, and perhaps no place could be called safe. Could he destroy it? Yet while he was very tempted by this prospect, he was also loathe to cast away such a potential treasure. It had yielded him the merest sliver of its store of knowledge, yet Jagg had benefited greatly from it. Even faced with the awful prospect of the book falling into the hands of the evil one, Jagg, couldn’t quite bear to destroy it forever.
Jagg looked around the room. He wasn’t even sure he could keep the book here, in his room. He’d never heard of anything being taken from Dwar’s, but perhaps even Dwar had a price… It was no good, there was only one way he could be at all sure that the book was safe. Taking a large sack, he stuffed the book and several pillows into it, and tucked it under his arm. He wasn’t letting it out of his sight. He’d just have to keep it in his possession at all times, to make sure that it stayed safe.

Awesome!