by Troy Osgood
The Skeleton Stone is a dream come true, to see something I wrote get published. Yeah, this is not the first thing I’ve had published (two prior short stories and a bunch of stuff on Kindle Worlds) but this has been years in the making.
Writing is something that I’ve always done. I’ve found that I’m more of a creator, a world builder, than an actual writer. I have so many concepts that I’ve always found it hard to stay pinned to one project and see it all the way through. Being my own harshest critic is part of that reason as well.
This book was something new and different for me. The idea came about not that long ago and the writing just flowed out of me. I wrote it as scenes, filling in between them and adding transitional scenes. I had the opening before I had much of anything else, so then came the task of figuring out just why Culann (along with who he was, as I really only had part of an image, more on that coming) was on that mountain plateau fighting skeletons.
The idea for the Skeleton Stone, these random skeletons that just appeared, came because of Ultima Online. UO is an MMORPG (Massively Multi-Player Online Role Playing Game) that I started playing back in the mid to late 90s and returned to off and on. I returned towards the end of last year and started playing on the Great Lakes shard (server for non-UOers) and built a house for my characters on this road between the towns of Minoc (could that have been the origin of the village name of Minoda?) and Vesper (which is another town that I love and a version will make an appearance soonish). What I found about the location in the game was that these three or four random skeletons would spawn (appear) in the woods. It was weird because everywhere else in the game skeletons only appeared in cemeteries or dungeons. So why this location?
And that is where the Skeleton Stone was born. Why were these skeletons appearing in a random location? I had to figure that out and I did (just not in the game, where I still don’t know why they are there, and no, I’m no longer playing as just don’t have the time). The rest is, as they say, history as the story developed quickly and in a relatively short time.
Inspiration comes from the unlikeliest of places sometimes and that’s been true for The Skeleton Stone. The next book, The Orc Plains, doesn’t have as interesting story but the two main characters, a husband and wife team, should be familiar to many of you reading this. Culann Hawkfall (who went through a couple name changes) started as an image. That image was of a man wielding two hand axes and was created at the same time as Ameir, which was where Culann (born Vanin and with a different accent) was originally slated to appear. He wasn’t a bard at that time but he was still a Far Rider (but with a different name to the group).
And don’t ask me where Culann’s unique form of bardic magic came from. That one I really don’t know.
I have to give thanks to everyone that helped me out with this, whether it was feedback or encouragement. This won’t cover everyone but extra special thanks goes out to Kat Howell, for putting up with me and loving me. Special thanks to my great editor (thanks to Justin Bell for the reference) Kelly-Ann Green of KA Editing (www.facebook.com/KAEditing). Thanks to Shauna Mobley (http://shaunamobley.com), for the awesome cover and logos, and Jason Thees for connecting Shauna and me. Additional thanks to Jim Beard, Bill Nedrow and Justin Bell for the little writer’s group thing we have going on. And I have to give thanks to Hasbro (yes, the toy company), specifically Derryl DePriest and Mark Weber and whoever else was involved, for putting G.I. Joe on Kindle Worlds.
For whatever reason, writing and publishing on that platform proved to be what I needed to get over the wall and finish a project and start publishing my own original works.
I should also apologize to my dogs; Moley, Geisha and Smokey. They had to endure some late meals and late outings as I sometimes got into the writing groove. It was worth it girls. Right?
I hope that The Skeleton Stone is the start of bigger things to come. I’m not going away and just getting started. I have a lot of concepts that need (want) to see the light of day.
I really have to thank all of you for picking up, reading (and hopefully liking) The Skeleton Stone. Please provide reviews and feedback on Amazon and Good Reads. That will help me grow as a writer. I hope you’re looking forward to more, as I am looking forward to writing them.
Thanks for listening to my rambles,
Troy Osgood
Started: November, 2015
Finished: March, 2016
About the author
Born and raised in the granite state of New Hampshire, Troy is a lifelong and avid reader of comic books and novels (mostly in the fantasy, sci-fi and adventure/thriller genres). The ongoing serial storytelling methods of comic books and television has always fascinated him and provided inspiration for his writing. He’s always had a love of creating and world building and dreams of someday seeing his creations expressed across all media: books, comic books, movies, TV and even toys.
When not writing, Troy can be found outside hiking, kayaking or out back at the bonfire with beer in hand. Don’t expect to bother him during football season, especially when the Patriots are playing.
Troy is a regular contributor to the Geeksverse pop culture site (www.geeksverse.com).
He still lives in New Hampshire.
Follow Troy on instagram (troynos), on twitter (@troynos) and visit his website: www.ossywrites.com
Contact Troy via e-mail: [email protected]
EXCERPT FROM:
The Gnoll Tracks
A tale of theWarders of the Way
short story
Summer 2016
Jaken Cobb coughed, clutching his side, feeling the blood leaking out between his fingertips. He spit, a great glob of blood landing in the grass at his feet.
He hurt.
He clutched the broken spear in his right hand, the shield held loosely in his left. It was taking all his strength to stand, to hold the weapon and shield up at all.
On the ground, a couple feet away, face down, was the body of Garrick Tonnove. Cobb couldn’t tell if the man was alive or dead. Tonnove lay so still, not moving, blood pooling on the ground underneath him.
Cobb couldn’t see or hear the others. He knew that of the original six Warders, one was definately dead. The others, he did not know.
There were other bodies around the clearing. All dead or almost bled out.
Gnolls.
Four of the beasts. Tonnove and himself had given a good accounting, just the two of them.
But it was the fifth Gnoll that could prove the victor.
Across the clearing from Cobb stood the largest Gnoll the Warder had ever seen.
Easily eight feet tall, where the race of canine humanoids usually topped out at seven feet. The beast was massive. Bare chested, showing multiple scars through the fur, it wore ripped and torn leather pants. It carried a large club, more a piece of tree broken off and wrapped in leather to allow for gripping. Knobs and spurs where branches used to be, and were forcibly removed, covered the length of the two foot long weapon.
The beast’s fur was brown with black markings. It resembled a large, shaggy dog standing on its hind legs. The back was hunched, giving it a stooped appearance. The arms and hands, covered in fur, were more like a humans with the fingers ending in sharp nails that were like claws. It wore a necklace of animal bones that clacked together as it moved.
Blood dripped from a couple of small wounds on its chest and arms, but the great beast did not notice.
It barked and growled, words that Cobb could not understand.
Then it laughed, or what sounded like a laugh, coming from the canine like mouth.
More barks and growls.
“Shut up,” Cobb said coughing up more blood. “Not like we can understand each other you filthy mongrel.”
The gnoll cocked its head to the side, turning it on an angle like Cobb had seen dogs do. It gave one more bark, a sharp and quick noise.
“Enough of this,” the Warder said, grimacing as he took a step forward, holding the broken spea
r before him. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
The gnoll seemed to understand him.
It banged the tree trunk of a club on the ground a couple of times, barking wildly.
“Come on,” Cobb shouted at the monster.
If he was to die, he’d die fighting and not bleeding out.
Cobb set his feet, pulling his shield arm away from his body, more blood falling to the ground.
The gnoll barked and growled and charged, holding the club over its head and ready to swing.
EXCERPT FROM:
The Orc Plains
A tale of theFar Riders
Fall 2016
Osten Niklas slid forward along the ground, keeping as low as possible. His cloak, patches of different shades of green, spread out over him. He had the hood pulled up, covering his head in shadow. He inched forward, slowly and carefully. Moving, stopping and listening.
The ground gently sloped up, a small hill overlooking the small valley below.
At the ridge, he paused, head low to the ground, slowing his breathing and listening.
He heard the sounds of a camp below. The smell of cooking fires came along the breeze. Different smells, meaning different fires. Animals, the crackle of the fires, the snap of hide tents flapping in the breeze and the sound of voices. Loud, gutteral growls and deep throated words. Not in the trader’s tongue. The voices below were speaking orcish.
Moving slowly, keeping low, he poked his head up over the ridge. He could see the camp spread out over a large area. A brook ran through the middle of the valley, the land rising up on all the sides, the water running over rocks and creating a pleasant sound that was in sharp contrast with the noises from the camp.
About two dozen tents made out of animal hide were staked out in a haphazard fashion. There was no organization to it, the structures just put down wherever. Small fires burned outside most of them, with a larger fire in what looked to be the middle of the formation. The hides for the tents were loose, gaps in the stitching between pieces. Some still had fur attached. No two tents were alike. Some were large, some small. Red hides, tan, gray. All different colors.
Sitting around the fires, alone or in groups of two or three, were orcs. The monsters were all around the same size, short and stocky, heavily muscled. All wore mismatched and rough leather armor over skin in various shades of green. Crude weapons, swords and axes, were casually laid on the ground near.
Osten counted over two dozen of the creatures. All appeared to be male, no women or children. A scouting or hunting camp, settled in for the coming night. There were no sentries except at the far end of the encampment.
In that far edge, tied close to the water, six large wargs could be seen. The beasts were tied to a cluster of trees and were snapping and growling at each other. Three orcs could be seen standing lazily around the animals, barely paying attention. They all carried long poles and occasionally one would poke one of the wargs with it, causing the beast to bite and snap. The orcs would laugh.
The wargs themselves were large animals, looking like wolves but twice as big and twice as muscled. The snouts were shorter, wider, with long front canines that extended past the jaws.
Wargs were stronger than horses and over rough and hilly terrain like the plains, they could be faster. Osten had faced wargs before, and it was not something he was interested in doing again. Not if he could help it.
He glanced towards the brook, at the bushes on the other side. He thought he could see the shape of the large fox, Dusk, moving stealthily through the grasses. Dusk, all gray except for the white patch on his chest, was crouched low to the ground and moving slowly. All but invisible and it was only Osten’s deep connection to the animal that allowed him to notice the fox at all.
Even from this distance, Osten could see the fox’s head whip around towards the wargs. One of the beasts had stiffen, sniffing at the air. The others paused, each starting to sniff, one after the other. The first warg faced towards where Dusk was hiding, the hackles on its back standing up.
In the back of his mind, Osten could feel a growl building. He heard it in his head and ears, as he growled towards the warg along with Dusk. He had to force himself to push the urge away.
The wind shifted and with a last sniff in the fox’s direction, the warg’s went back to eating the fresh carcasses the orcs had thrown down. A couple laid down, starting to fall asleep.
One of the orcs on guard looked towards the bushes across the brook, shielding its eyes against the glare of the setting sun. Its companions started talking to it, the creatures too far away for Osten to understand. The monsters argued back and forth with the watcher finally turning away and back to the pile of wargs.
Osten watched the camp, the movements of the orcs bedding down for the night. He didn’t see any that seemed the obvious leader but there was a larger tent in the middle of the cluster. There was a banner stuck into the ground outside that one. A bark covered pole, really a large branch with some smaller ones still attached, held a piece of tattered cloth that was blowing in the breeze.
He studied the symbol crudely painted into the blood red cloth. The lines, all black and probably made from dried blood, looked like a badly drawn bear’s head. He knew very little about the various tribes of orcs that lived on the plains so the sigil meant nothing, but the presence of a smaller banner set into the ground on the other side worried him.
The pole for this one was better made, all the bark from the smaller branch removed. Not carefully, but the wooden shaft was bare. The cloth used, black in color, was in better shape as well. The sigil on this banner was in red, and it was similar to the bear’s head but with some icons, lettering and other symbols, arranged around it.
It was the banner of a shaman.
He concentrated on the large tent. There were no markings on its surface, nothing in the dirt that he could see. There was no smoke coming from within the tent and the small fire outside had the blackish gray smoke of wood burning.
There was a shaman there in the camp, but was not in the act of spell casting. It had even put up any protective spells. Which was odd.
This band was far south and west of where the orcs normally roamed. The Fastflow River was not that far away and the barbarians of the Jangor Plains were known to wander its banks hoping to run across a band of the creatures. The orc tribes tended to stick towards the eastern part of the Plains, as well as north.
Because of that, he would have thought the shaman would have put up some basic protections.
A noise from down the hill, behind him, caught his attention. He stared straight ahead, not giving an indication that he had heard it. Something moving through the grass, rustling. The thing was moving slowly and carefully, barely making any noise. But Osten still heard it.
In the back of his mind, he felt Dusk react. The fox moving away from the bushes but with its own caution. It sent reassuring impulses back to Osten.
He smiled within the depths of the hood.
He waited, not moving, as the sounds came closer.
Someone, or something, walking up the hill towards him. Each step was carefully placed, taking time to not break a twig or step on a loose patch.
Osten slowed his breathing, focusing, blocking out everything but the sound of whatever it was that was approaching.
Step, pause. Step, pause.
He tensed as the pause lengthened.
With a great rush the thing ran towards him, covering the last of the distance, no longer bothering to be quiet.
Osten reacted quickly, rolling to the side, pulling the green patchwork cloak tight, as a great trunk of a club smashed into the ground where he had been. He rolled to a stop, facing where he had been, and pushed himself up, letting the cloak billow around him. He kept hold of the front edges, not letting it open to show that he was weaponless.
Before him, at the edge of the ridge, stood a large orc; easily one of the biggest he had ever seen. How the creature had managed to move so quietly was
a mystery. It was stocky, like most of its kind, but seemed as if it had been carved from solid stone. Scars crisscrossed it’s dark green skin. Cords, tied around its heavily muscled arms and legs, held strips of leather armor in place.
The orc was old, streaks of gray running through its dark hair, the face cragged with age. It was missing an eye, nothing where the orb should have been, just a pit. It held the large club with two hands.
“Yech fast lit’ man” the beast said in heavily accented trader’s tongue.
Osten glanced down into the valley. He could see the orcs below reacting. Some were pointing up at him, others were grabbing their weapons and looking for the quickest way up. Luckily, none were grabbing bows, not yet.
That wouldn’t last.
He had to end this and get away. Quickly.
And he was weaponless, having left his two swords back at the horses with Bethel and Kathwen. He couldn’t move through the tall grass, crawling on his stomach, with the two swords strapped to his waist.
He wished he had them now.
Even for its advanced age, this orc was fast and strong, but Osten knew he could have taken it. Easily. If he had his swords.
He kept the cloak across his front, still hiding the lack of weapons from the orc. He took a couple steps back, never taking his eyes from the creature. It moved with him, staying parallel, keeping the same distance between them.
It was stalling. It knew there would be others there soon.
“Don’t make me kill you,” Osten growled in orcish, the words hard to get out. The gutteral sounds left a bad taste in his mouth.