I didn’t schedule my story and I don’t have it saved on this laptop. I didn’t even have 3WT on my to-do list last week. I will be traveling all day but will get the story rewritten on one of my meal stops and post it whenever I find wifi — won’t be my morning stops though, because I am spending one with family and one with a fellow blogger. This will be the third week in a row I’ve done that. I’m getting to be a pro …
The good thing about having the post already written is that it’s a heck of a lot faster to recreate it.
Here is the 3WT sign in for those who were with it:
My Monday and Tuesday was all one really long horrific day. According to my mental clock, this is only Wednesday. Apparently my clock needs reset. Here is the 3WT sign up. Log-in and share. I am going to be late. Very late. Maybe even a couple of days late. We’ll see. I’ll let you all know when my story & next week’s words go up!
Welcome to Three Word Thursday #40. If you enjoy reading my story, leave a comment then click on the names of the other players and go see how they used these bygone words. You’ll be entertained (and possibly educated) all at once.
Evaard stood and watched the riders come. Behind him, still inside the house, Troga waited. Chevall and the boys had slipped from the cottage and, using the building for cover, made their way to into the woods. Ten war horses thundered up to the cabin, each of them carrying a battle scarred warrior. One man urged his mount ahead of the others and stopped less than a yard from Evaard.
Evaard and the warrior stared at one another in silence. The warrior wore black leather marked with hand tooled runes. Evaard recognized them as symbols of magic. These then were not mere warriors, but sorcerers trained in sword and spell. Now Evaard understood the theft of the dragon eggs. These men wanted to adimpleate themselves in dragon magic.
Just before the silence stretched to long for politeness, Evaard spoke. “Well met, wayfarers. What brings you to my home?”
“May we water our horses at your well?” The black clad mage-warrior asked.
Evaard gestured toward the pump. “Please,” he said. “Help yourself. You will find the water cold and sweet.”
With the exception of their leader, the men moved with lubency toward the pump. The black clad mage-warrior dismounted and remained with Evaard. “I am Ranold,” he said. “Mage Warrior to King DeMagik. We seek a rogue Knight and an errant dragon. Have you seen either of them?”
DeMagik had no mage warriors. Evaard was surprised by the man’s bold lie until he realized that he had left his cape and phalerae in the cabin. To Ranold, Evaard appeared to be a fighting man without allegiance. “It is unwise to hunt dragons,” Evaard spoke. “Especially dragons who willingly keep company with men.”
“I do as the king commands,” Ranold answered. “And you. Is this your cabin? Is your allegiance to King DeMagik?”
“I am simply passing through, ” Evaard said, stepping sideways so he could see both the black mage and his men who were stripping their gear off and splashing happily in the well. Evaard pointed at the shack. “I came upon this cabin empty and decided to rest for a couple of days. The roof is sound and as I said, the water is sweet.”
“I am afraid I must insist on checking the cabin,” Ranold said.
“By order of the king?” Evaard queried.
“Yes, of course. By order of the king.”
Evaard stepped aside, far aside, as Ranold approached the cabin door.
“Dragons are pamphagous, are they not?” Evaard asked.
Ranold paused with his hand upon the door latch. “Yes, they are,” he said. “Why do you ask.”
Evaard waved his hand toward the mountain. “It may not be related, but yesterday I talked to a farmer from the next valley and he said his cattle were disappearing.”
Ranold said, “Not an hour ago I talked to an old drunk who said the dragon came this way. Perhaps you are trying to distract me?”
Evaard laughed and motioned toward the cabin door. “Please, go in and you will know the truth.
Ranold lifted the latch and pushed on the door.
The 3WT #41 words will be: incompossible; harl; thropple
Got it? Good! In that case: Your story is due on: January 07th, 2010
3WT is on vacation for the Holidays. Enjoy!
Welcome to Three Word Thursday #39. If you enjoy reading my story, leave a comment then click on the names of the other players and go see how they used these bygone words. You’ll be entertained (and possibly educated) all at once.
yelve: A fork used to carry dung; such a fork used as a garden tool
Evaard left the drunk behind. He’d pretty much believed the old fellows story until he got to the part about the purple dragon. Since there was no such thing as a purple dragon, Evaard had to wonder exactly how much fantasy had made it into his drunken tale.
Evaard knew the boy and the war hourse to be reality. Everything else the drunk said was in doubt — but why would he mention dragons at all unless he had cause? Evaard chewed that thought all the way home.
When he topped the rise and looked down on his little shack, Evaard was pleased to see the war horse staked beneath the tree. At least he wasn’t going to have to tell the King he’d lost one of his prized chargers on top of everything else. A curl of smoke issued from the chimney and the little glen looked peaceful. Vernal came around the back of the shack with a yelve in his hands. Fencil followed with the garden cart. They stopped near the front door. Vernal climbed into the garden cart and went to work forking large brown clumps out of the cart and onto the doorstep.
Evaard was perplexed. The last time he’d seen the garden cart, it had been full of manure for the garden. There is no way the boys would be pitching that on the stoop of the cabin. The boys were so intent on their work — stomping in and pounding down whatever they’d shoveled from the cart — that they didn’t notice Evaard’s approach until he was mere yards away. By then he’d caught the odor of their labor and knew they were indeed smearing offal at his door.
Both boys froze with looks of horror on their faces. “I think an explanation is in order,” Evaard said.
Fencil and Vernal looked at each other and shrugged, then turned their wide eyed gazes back to Evaard. Vernal opened his mouth, but never had a chance to speak. The cabin door opened to reveal Chevall. His tunic sported dried black blood stains and an equally stained bandage swathed his head. “The boys are following my orders,” Chevall said. “Offal was the only thing I could think of that might cover the scent of the dragons.”
“Dragons?” Evaard repeated. “Here?” He looked around, even glanced toward the sky. There wasn’t a dragon in sight.
“You’d better come inside,” Chevall said.
Evaard lept over the manure and into his house. Going from the bright sunshine into the dark interior of the cabin left him momentarily blind, but Evaard could still make out the major shapes, including the tremendous form taking up the center of the room. Evaard blinked, knuckled his eyes and blinked again. As his vision cleared he couldn’t help but think he owed the drunk an apology. There was an adolescent purple dragon where his dinner table should have been.
“This is Troga,” Chevall said. “Seven eggs were stolen from the dragon caves just a little over a week ago. We know that at least three of the eggs have hatched. Patisserie helped Troga rescue them from, the tragematopolist. They kept the hatchlings secreted in Patisserie’s back garden for over a week.”
“Why!” Evaard demanded. “Surely that would bring the wrath of the dragon’s down upon the town!”
“The hatchlings didn’t have their eyes open and weren’t ready to fly,” Chevall said. “Patisserie, of course, told Jack what was happening …”
“Told who?” Evaard interrupted.
“Jack.” Chevall said. “King Vellum. Patisserie told Jack and Jack sent me to DeMajick …”
“The dragon King?”
“Yes,” Chevall nodded. “So DeMajick knew we were trying to save the dragons and gave us 10 days — a dragon can fly at 10 days old — to return the hatchlings unharmed. The only thing is, the hatchlings start trying to fly at about seven days old. There was quite a ruckus going on in Patisserie’s backyard.”
“So the tradgematopolist discovered the dragons?”
Chevall sighed and nodded again. “They raided Patisserie’s garden. Mrs. Patisserie came to tell me and a half dozen armed thugs jumped me in the alley. They knocked me out cold and the next thing I know I’m stretched out next to Patisserie — he’s dead bytheway — in his back garden. I’m sure the thugs thought I was dead, too. Troga was there as well. She’d been stabbed several times and was too weak to fly. We rested all day and then crept out of the garden just before dawn. Going was pretty slow since Troga is so weak. We stayed to the woods and circled town.”
“You were seen,” Evaard said.
“Yes, by a drunken sot. No one will believe anything he says.”
“The tradgematopolist will,” Evaard said. “Even with dung at the door, you will not be safe here long.”
“We need to get to the King,” Chevall said. “Four of the dragon eggs are unaccounted for and they will hatch soon if they’ve not done so already.”
The door opened and Vernal stepped into the room. “There are men coming,” he said. “At least a dozen of them. And they’re all on war horses.”
“What banner do they fly?” Cheval demanded.
“No banner,” Vernal answered.
“They are bandits then,” Evaard said. He pulled his sword free of his scabbard. “We will fight.”
Chevall loosed his sword as well. “Aye!” He cried.
Fencil and I have garden forks,” Vernal answered.
Troga rose to her feet. Her voice, surprisingly light and musical, echoed in Evaard’s head. “I am not strong, but I shall fight. I have an aeipathy to see the patration of this crime.”
Welcome to Three Word Thursday #35. This week our perspicacious and eloquent writers were free to choose whatever words they wished from the October word list. If you enjoy reading my story, leave a comment then click on the names of the other players and go see how they used these bygone words. You’ll be entertained (and possibly educated) all at once.
Evaard stashed a piece of the dragon shell in his cloak pocket, and banged upon the back door of the Patisserie cottage. It was more than apparent that somebody had desecrated the dragon caves. Evaard glanced nervously at the garden and cast his gaze toward the skies. The dragons would come soon and demand justice. He could only hope that when the time came, he would have justice to give them.
He pounded upon the door again. No sounds issued forth from inside. Even a house in mourning would assign a servant to answer the door – especially the back door where discreet deliveries would be made. Evaard grabbed the door handle and pulled the latch.
After the bright light of day, the tenebrous entry hall appeared sinister. Evaard unsheathed his sword and stepped inside. He proceeded slowly, his back pressed to the wall. The first door on the right opened to reveal the kitchen, which had obviously been deserted in the midst of meal preparation.
Evaard approached the table. It bore a platter of cheese, dried and crumbled around the edges. An ewer of milk, warm and yellowing, sat alongside a plate of sliced and drying bread.
The stove was cold to the touch. A pot of stew with puddles of congealed grease waited beside a kettle which had been left to boil dry. Apparently the kitchen help left in a bit of a hurry.
Evaard searched the rest of the house. Madam Patisserie and her servants were not at home and it seemed doubtful they’d planned their outing. Madame Patisserie’s cloak and reticule remained in the front hall.
The vacivity of the house posed a puzzle. Olaf Patisserie’s body posed a puzzle. The fact that he couldn’t find Chevall’s body posed a puzzle. Evaard patted his cloak. The dragon’s eggs posed a puzzle as well. He had far too many questions and no answers.
First Evaard wanted to speak to the tragematopolist and his servant boy – possibly the last one to see the Patisseries alive. Then he planned to re-question Fencil about the alley fight. And then, whether he had any utible evidence or not, Evaard knew he’d have to report to the King.