The Eagle Sword-Sample

A sample from a book I am writing. It's rough, but any constructive comments would be appreciated.

Otebon found the note nailed to a signpost:

A DEMON LURKS HERE! STEALS OUR FLOCK AND HAUNTS US IN THE NIGHT! A GREAT DEBT WILL BE OWED TO ANY BRAVE ENOUGH TO FACE IT!

The village had been deserted, and its contents spilled all across the ground: pots, pans, silverware, furniture, and shattered glass. Cattle lay slaughtered in pastures, their mounds of flesh and bone calling out to the vultures. Their corpses stunk of decay, mixing with the stench of rotten food trailing from the wreckage. Otebon followed the trail to a nearby cave, where he found the “demon” to actually be an imp.

It was an ugly little creature; it had two long horns too large for its small head, with a wrinkled, boil-ridden face with mismatched eyes and brown teeth. The imp had a pile of empty wine bottles in its cave, which probably explained the massive gut dangling from its short body. Its wings were too tiny and weak to be able to carry him, and they more flapped around like a happy dogs tail would. Upon seeing Otebon, the imp attacked.

Otebon snatched it up from its hooves and dashed it against a rock, several times until the blood stained his shirt and the creature stopped squealing. The imp had been the most exciting work in ages, and though the fight was short, it felt good to lay waste to an enemy again.

Otebon remembered the old days; of trekking across the sands of the Southern Dunes, of castle sieges, of cavalry charges, and great battles at sea. How ashamed he was of now having to resort to manual labor, guard duty, even begging like some crippled peasant. In this little cave the imp salvaged a small feather bed, to which Otebon realized that his travel worn body was much more tired than he initially thought. 

He collapsed onto the bed, a welcome alternative than the last few years of sleeping on dirt floors and piles of straw. Otebon closed his eyes, ready to rest. When a light drizzle formed outside, Otebon began to dream:

He dreamed of his days at Honeyside Keep. He dreamed of warm nights looking out over millions of stars, he dreamed of misty dawns going out for the days catch, he dreamed of biting winters made bearable by a roaring fire, a good book, and wool blankets. He dreamed of once again having his beloved by his side, of making sweet love and sleeping together as the world vanished into the night. Though far gone, their recollection brought him rest.

---

Otebon found a quiet solace in his cave. It was far enough from the stinky animal corpses, and he could be alone with his thoughts without any of the villagers around. Perhaps he could spend the rest of his days chopping wood, building a walled fort around the town. He could sell the imps stolen jewelry and hire good men to serve him. He could mine in the mountains, trading the ore with caravans. He could build himself a great hall, living out the rest of his days as king of Otebonia. Yet he remembered the corpses, and knew the Feasters had caught the scent and were probably on their way. Few things were worse than a horde of Feasters, as Otebon had experienced. 

So he was on the road again. An amber morning sky rose over the Anduran hills. The orchards were in full bloom, producing the smell of sweet apples. Cool winds set the rainbow of flowers dancing: red tulips, pink roses, white pansies, and yellow dandelions. The imps wounds started to smell irony and gangrenous, black blood staining the trail as he walked. The smell must have attracted a crow, who perched itself in the middle of the trail.

“Caw!” it squawked. Otebon knelt down to greet it.

“Hello there, friend,” Otebon said.

“Caw!”

“Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

“Caw!”

“Found this little guy in a cave just up the road. I’m gonna sell him, maybe buy myself a nice meal and a nice room at an inn. I could use that.” 

Otebon knew the bird couldn’t understand him, yet he always found comfort in talking to animals. They didn’t judge you, they didn’t make fun of you or even particularly care about what you had to say. The bird flew away.

It was then that the road became rather quiet, too much for Otebon’s liking. It was then he saw three men up the road. One was perched on a tree stump sharpening a sword with a whetstone. He was a frail, ratty looking man covered in pimples. Across from him was a fat man with bright red hair, carrying a pike taller than he was. Upon seeing Otebon coming up the road, the third man blocked his path. He was bundled up to his chin in a green gambeson, with dull grey eyes and a complexion so pale not even the Anduran sun could brown him. Perhaps it was the large brimmed kettle hat he wore. He pointed his crossbow.

“Greetings, friend,” the crossbowman began. “This here is our road. You want to cross, you pay the toll.”

“How much is your toll?” asked Otebon.

The swordsman hopped down from his stump. “Let’s say, everything in your pockets. Go on, empty them out!” he said. The swordsman had his blade just an inch away from Otebon’s neck. A jagged, rusted old thing it was.

“How about this imp?” Otebon said. He took the creature from his waist and chucked it down over at the pikeman’s feet. “I can make him cheap, if you’d like.”

“An imp!?” the swordsman shouted. The trio had all began to howl with laughter. “Alright friend, lets have a look at those pockets!”

The swordsman reached his rusted blade at Otebon’s pockets, when Otebon brought down his mace straight to the mans elbow. It snapped like a twig and the man went wailing down to the ground. Just as the crossbowman was ready to fire, his weapon jammed on him. Otebon used the opportunity to smash the crossbow into a million splinters, and swung the mace back around to the crossbowman’s neck. The crossbowman stumbled back into the fat pikeman, who went tumbling down with him. As the pikeman finally got himself up, Otebon took the rusted sword and flung it at the pikeman’s throat. The pikeman burst with blood like a stuffed pig. 

The swordsman had been writhing on the ground, wimpering like a dying dog. He had been struggling to try to reach the knife off the crossbowman’s boot with his only good arm. Otebon placed his boot on the swordsmans hand.

“What did you say that toll was, again?” Otebon asked.

“No toll, just...leave...leave, damn it!” the swordsman said. He began to clench his broken, limp arm again.

“Crowns are hard to come by these days. How about you give me all you’ve got and I wont bash your brains in?” Otebon said.

When the swordsmans only reply was more whimpering, Otebon helped himself to the mans pouch. He came across 10 bright silver Crowns. More than enough for a featherbed, a hot bath and a nice meal. The day was looking up, and Otebon continued down the trail.