Driven Ch1

The Famous Forge Falls


Not holy men but men of war were the pilgrims to Sven Troll Hill;
For there the forge of Duraam Varg, widely known as ‘Singing Steel’.
Grandfather, father and three sons
Had worked within that shell
And all endowed with skills so proud, except the youngest - Kell.

The boy was scarce’ fifteen years old yet something in his eyes so dark,
Glistened bright, yet chilling cold - a fore-warning of the Fates’ own mark?
With his brothers, at the metal
He had spent his childhood years,
There he learned the true way of the sword, dagger, shield, the bow and spears.

But unlike his brothers and his sire, creation his attention barely caught,
Not for him the forging fire but the skill to wield he sought.
For his father’s finest work,
Masters came from far-flung lands,
And seeing nothing but a boy, put many sword tricks in his hands.

So it was, when fate’s axe fell and brought the tide that swept Sven town;
The boy did more than many men to slow the unstoppable enemy down.
Although his will was iron strong,
His body was still but a child’s,
And all too soon his strength was spent and without strength what use his guile?

Surely death must take him then, abruptly end his promising story
For he fainted clean away helpless in his first moments of glory;
But Grock, his father’s trollish slave,
Saw the young boy stumble and fall
Evoked in him the blood red rage - troll warriors are berserkers all!



Fearsome fury through the forge; using a bench to flail down!
Temporarily turns the swelling tide; grabs the boy and flees the town.
Into the mountains, Grock quick foot takes him
Beyond what men had claimed their own,
Shelters in a warm and secret cavern known to the race of trolls alone.

In the dark of night and cavern, Grock casts back his mind to find,
Pursuers are still creeping onward, something drives them from behind!
In their shadows lurks malignance,
Power Grock cannot define,
Drives the soldiers ever upward, despite their lack of skill to climb.

As he watches from safer quarters, sees one man fall and in cold die,
Then another loses his footing, he’s barely time for one curt cry.
Snow in blizzards now hard falling,
Wind that whips about with moans,
Chill of frost so hard bitten; Grock hears the moaning of the stones.

Sees men torn with indecision - can’t come on, yet can’t turn back;
Harsh as insects skewered on pins, he watches as they fade to black.
Still somewhere out there silently flailing,
From a dark a mighty mind,
Gropes about with hate and loathing; is it them it’s trying to find?

Despite the harshness of the worry, Grock now knows he must rest,
No threat near for close attacking, though only postponed, the harshest test.
Daylight brings a note of welcome,
Fresh deep snow has cloaked the scene,
No fear now of new pursuers, the mountain world, so light and clean.

Among the hidden valleys of the highlands, Grock cares for the orphaned son,
Teaches him the rules of the mountains and to do what no man had done.

Live among the peaks in winter,
Find the secret paths of Trolls,
Read the mood among the clouds
Easy as of reading scrolls.
Hide in the open, by mind-bending,
Read the Trollish words and signs,
Speak the lines of snow and rock song,
And many secrets of the troll kind.

Not a tear the young Kell sheds – nor a word speaks of his kin,
But an anger burns inside him, ice cold fire embraced within.
Every day before their hunting,
Kell must practise with his sword,
Hour on hour of hardworking, muscles turning to fine chord.

Every trek, Grock takes them farther, from the lands of man and… thing;
While weak old winter’s grip is fading and ebullient spring dethrones the king.
Fast heart beat of new life thrusting,
Mountains clothed in cloth of greens,
Sprinkled o’er with alpine flowers and foaming white the new born streams.



In a tiny sun-drenched, valley, Grock on edge - now makes them wait,
Long hours muttering, or sitting silence; Kell recognizes the inward troll debate.
Kell hunts and cooks and hard hands his sword,
But never to Grock speaks a sound,
Provides all needs while the troll is so distracted, seeming to argue round and around.

Three wry days the troll is haggling, sometimes as if to a dear old friend,
Finally shakes his head and growls derision, the deciding it seems is at an end.
With new vigour Grock now leads them,
As though upon a path of his heart’s fare,
While Kell for all his skill and training, sees no sign of a route… to anywhere.

Two days trekking, hardly stopping, across rougher country than any before,
Until the last short, hidden rocky tunnel, leads them to wide and graven door.
Haave-Loong Tarrfell, town out of legend,
The only town the troll race e’er conceived;
Repository of all troll’s ancient wisdom, so deep in mountains’ beauty wreathed.

Most secret valley, green and precious, fed by river through the year
Seldom felt a frost or snowflake, ‘though that atop the peaks was clear.
Hard the ways for those who knew them,
Never a lost traveller could wander in,
For the path wound through col and cavern, far beyond the eyes of men.
~



Humans had long forgotten the troll wars; a hundred years now slipped away,
Since they’d driven the trolls to the highlands, to mine the metals in sacred clay.
Trolls among men now considered useful
Beast of burden though slow in thought;
Bought and sold in some markets and even simple tricks were taught.

But the race of trolls had not forgotten, treachery and sharp broken vows,
So many of the wise elders slaughtered, many had harsh sayings now –
‘Check a man’s hand before you shake it.’
‘Never let him see your back.’
‘Every word they speak is poison, be ready for a sneak attack!’

Scarce inside the Holy Gateway, than the clamour’s first gruff words began,
“Why did you bring a man child to the city? Care you so little, for the Sage’s ban?”
Quickly gather the trolls of troll moot,
Faster spreads the scandal o’er,
All demand the rule of council, as if of an impending war.

One side says the boy must become troll - take the sage’s oath and fealty test,
The others say that the boy/man usurper, having passed the gates - MUST be put to death!
At first Grock faces condemnation
From the majority of his peers,
Then he tells them of The Forge, Kell Varg and his secret fears.

The sides now so evenly divided; the wrangling to and fro for days,
Until the Sage Master, Eero Cuthorn, suggests voting in the ancient ways.
Each of the council takes two stone spheres,
One of black and one of white,
The secret chosen goes into the count jar, the other in a bag out of sight.

Then begins the tensest counting, watched so close by every eye,
Ten declare the boy must become troll - a dozen that the boy must die!

Little ceremony, a troll execution, kneel to face the noontide sun,
One quick, heavy headed club blow; clean and swift the job is done.


The town of Haave-Loong spanned the valley, many buildings, although most hardly seen,
Blended into rock walls and caverns, nothing overt to disturb the scene.
And though food grown and in plenty,
Scattered o’er the veil’s haven sweet,
Hardly notice any disruption, scarcely even the mark of feet.
Grock walking with Kell in the valley, this coming night will be his last;
The boy seems strangely cool and easy, “Why so calm?” Grock’s forced to ask.
Eyes like drops of winter nightscape;
Look near through the nervous troll,
As to see his inner workings; even read his very soul.

“Why did you save me at the forge then? Just to die here, unwept, unsung?
Fate has marked me for her play thing, not so soon is she undone!
I know not how her hand is twisting,
Nor how she will, her will impose,
Only that such a time is coming and woe to those that interpose!”

Grock felt perilous shivers running, down his sturdy, rock like back
Caught between the hammer and anvil, every direction seemed now black.
The morning had dawned with glorious sunshine,
Hardly a cloud in mountain sky,
Like to the legendary soldiers of old… Today would be, a good day to die.

Stortfiil Knuk, bent back ancient leader of the troll moot, shuffles out,
Waves his stick to usher silence from the swiftly gathering crowd.
Before Stortfiil can speak the ending,
Before he’s even lowered his rod;
Somewhere from the crowd a voice cries, “Let him touch the gift of God!”

Stopped in his tracks as if struck dumb – the leader’s face a bluish blush,
Suddenly somewhere soft sound of weeping, drips into the unnatural hush.
“Far too cruel! Black hearted, Ayrin Stoneweld!”
Grock shouts back across the crowd,
“Destroy the body and the spirit, To praise your prize – you’re far too proud!”

“What does he speak of Grockmon Haarknet?” Kell demands with silken voice.
“Have I not yet proved my theory? Tell me quickly of this other choice!”
Grock too tongue tied to find his voice,
Stortfiil holds a hand in pause,
“I’d not have spoken of it… But now I must present this other course.”

“The legend of our forefathers has it, that in his most dire hour of need,
A’rmon Fill, the troll race founder, for the Star God’s help did plead.
The Star God, for its own amusement,
Sent the most deadly, two edged blade of hate,
But decreed it may only be touched by the chosen - any other – it would annihilate!”

“For not just their life is taken, but they are cursed so extreme,
That their spirit is also riven - undone as if they’d never been!”
Twice in history has it been touched,
Since the blade was recognized,
And according to the records, the deaths were too horrible to describe.”

“By no club blow, like a beast slain, will Kell Varg to shadows go!
Take me to the God’s own Star Blade, fate’s true power I’ll now show!”
Fast as shoal of fish or birds flight,
All the trolls move near as one,
Grock try’s begging to the cool Kell, but can see the deed is done.


In the ancient cavern chamber, lit by sunbeams from a crystal rill,
On an altar of polished granite, lay the sword of A’rmon Fill.

In a box of finest heartwood, cushioned in iridescent silk and glass,
Like some great fallen warrior’s body, resting as the mourners pass.

Kell stared down at that strange weapon; never had he glimpsed its like,
For the blade seemed to waver and oddly shimmer, despite the clarity of the light.
Ghastly green the pommel stone,
By far the largest that he’d seen,
Yet tainted with some eldritch mystery, the knowledge warped and unclean.

“Touch your hand upon the relic - if you really be so bold!
Be judged now by one who went before us, into the eternal realm of cold.”
Ayrin, the trollish shaman’s lip curled,
As if the man-child would dare his soul!
All the years he’d cared for the God’s gift, never realising its darkness or its cold.

Kell now felt his blood a chasing, as if he’d worked hard for an hour,
Senses in the blade some weird warping – could it be beyond fate’s own power?
All the cavern wrapped tight in silence
Not a breath or whisper breathed,
Watching the boy reaching outward; the shaman’s face a mask of glee.

As Kell’s hand closes on the ebony hilt, his fingers seized as if by cramp,
Fearsome pain his arm constricting, snatches it from off its silken ramp.
Convulsive grip without control,
Kell falls screaming to his knees,
The sword is held high above him, as if thrusting to the stars, he pleads.
Blue, ice cold fire flaming over, that broad shimmering deadly blade,
And glowing green the fiendish eye, casts a shadow of demons grave.
Somewhere subtle like a far song,
Growing swiftly as it nears,
Harsh harmonics, tortured music, jars the mind arousing fears.

From Kell’s throat bursts sneering laughter, basso profondo to falsetto, all as one,
Mocks the frozen watching troll race, as if their count of days is done.
Voice of an avenging angel
Or a demon from the ice-bound lake,
Holds the shaman transfixed before Kell – like a rat before a snake.

Flick – flick – flick, the blade fast flying, quicker than the eye can see,
Three thin lines of blood slow seeping, shallow cuts of mockery.
Snick – snick – snick, now deeper slashes,
Ayrin still can barely move.
Sudden unexpected lightening lunge, skewers that poor troll right through!

Impossibly with a single hand, the impaled troll lifted from the ground,
And all about that fiendish music of sirens’ song and thunder pounds!
Shrivelling now the twitching body,
Shrinking as the substance drains,
Softer sings the demented choir… as Kell flicks away the shrivelled remains.

Suddenly freed from the spell, the trolls in terror flee that place,
Now no control have they left them, despite the bravery of the race.
Gone the time for debating,
Passed the myth and mystery,
Now destroyed all strength and courage, nothing left to do - but flee!

Kell stares around the empty chamber, as in a dream he sees the altar stone,
In his mind it now appears like some dreary, dismal, dungeon home.
Without a thought the blade arcs over,
Flash of silver lined with blue,
Grinding scream of utter hatred, the blade clean cuts the stone in two.

In horror, Kell looks to the sword’s edge - broken, twisted, chipped deranged,
Out of focus for a moment; like summer heat haze on a desert plain,
Then Kell’s mouth drops wide open
And his eyes so wide and strange,
For the edge of the miraculous Star Sword, is restored to whole again!

Perhaps a moment but maybe hours, Kell stood entranced by that bizarre blade’s spell;
Whispered words of weird worlds of wonder, Or deep dark dimensions of demonic hell?
Slowly seeping into his being,
Craving for… Kell could not tell,
But a need to begin moving, after so long here he’d dwelled…?

Strange confusion for a moment sweeps across Kell’s dazzled mind
Then like a dog fresh from the water, shakes and puts it all behind.
First a scabbard to hold the God’s sword,
The armoury was open and unoccupied,
Several fine and ornate sheaths there - yet each seemed somehow flawed, in his mind.

Then he found a lattice framework, fits the sword as if it had been made to do,
Across his back he thinks to strap it, but somehow this though seems untrue...
Slides it down inside his clothing,
Strapped against warm living flesh,
Fells a soft charm through his body, alike to cold water’s power to refresh.

With one footstep, then begins the journey, of a thousand nights and days,
Before him ever lies an elusive lure, on his heels a nebulous threatening haze.
First away from Troll and Sven town,
Through the mountains to Khoolmarg
Where Kell is forced to kill in duelling…first whispers of the name - Kell Varg.

Moving, moving, seldom stopping here and there a job – to eat,
But always restless, searching - hiding, feeling somehow incomplete.
Sometimes the stalwart soldier guarding
Others a bandit cruel and harsh;
Oft times he works as a mercenary, anything that suits his steady moving path.

And for every moon he travels, two or three men count no more suns;
His reputation steady growing, as the list of Kell killed sons.
Never in anger or in drunkenness,
Frigid as iced steel from Trolls’ hell,
Soft whispered words of soldiers’ rising, use the phrase ‘As cold as Kell’.


Captain Neiman – infamous pirate, scourge of the western shores,
Sees Kell kill another swordsman, the pirate stands and applauds.
Takes the young man to his fortress,
On his leeward, island lair,
For he can always use a ‘new blade’ the finest material was somewhat spare.
Scare has Kell entered the main chamber, staring wide eyed at the treasure decked walls,
Than something hard slams into his back and to his knees the swordsman falls.

Before he can reach his mighty sword or even start to rise again,
Four sharp points from behind quick stab him, inflicting excruciating pain.
In both shoulders and each hip
Fire sears as from daggers glowing bright,
One brave moment Kell harsh wailing - then falls into moonless night!