Tug Mugwart and the Book of Power

By Emil Donatello III

The Dark Lord Belzigarth has found the ancient book of power, known as the Book of the Dead. Its foul magic has woken many malevolent beings that have been sleeping for centuries: the fron giants, the gnarl demons, dark wraiths and much more. With his army of darkness and the rise of evil across the land, he has begun his attack upon the peaceful races of man, elf and dwarf. Already many western Dwarven cities have fallen. But this storm of darkness encroaches ever closer upon the world of man and elf. Old magic that had once laid dormant, only known in legend, is finding its way back into reality. The prophecies of old - of a time of great evil rising - have come to pass. Belzigarth, with the Book of the Dead, wishes to break free the evil dragon Singe and release him from his eternal prison. With this awesome creature, along with agents of darkness and his massive army, nothing can stop him. Already the land is slowly turning beneath the power of the darkness. Is there any hope?

Now some have chosen a fool's quest. To look for lost artifacts of power to aid in the destruction of the Dark Lord. Tug Mugwart, a simple Timmren, finds himself caught up in this quest for the Book of Power and with it its secrets of ancient elven magic. With the help of a mage, archer, warrior, assassin and others, he faces evil in the dark woods, on the battlefield and within his heart. Happy endings are for fairy tales - Tug's journey is filled with death, pain, struggle and perhaps redemption. But can anyone face such things and be unchanged? Join me as we explore a classic tale of good and evil, darkness and light, magic and sword.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emil Donatello III
• Release date: Feb 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465711601

Emil Donatello III

Raised in the rugged, historically-rich countryside of New Hampshire, Emil Donatello III has always had an appreciation for imagination and storytelling. A graduate of William Paterson University in Wayne, New Jersey, he has been writing for over two decades. Most recently his poems were published in "Symphony of Shadows" in 2007, a collaboration of works by him and other high ranking members of the Black Rose Poet’s Society.

Book preview

Tug Mugwart and the Book of Power

By Emil Donatello III

First edition, December 2011.

Copyright © 2011 by Emil Donatello III.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced without express

permission from the author.

Dedicated to my wife Christine who helped edit this project and walks with me along this grand journey. To my children Adira and Emil IV. Stay on the path and always allow for a little magic in your life.

CHAPTER ONE: THE TIMMREN’S QUEST

The chosen one, he laughed to himself, breathing deeply. The bearer of the sacred marks of Elkimar; what good is that all now? He could smell death coming as much as he could the unclean scourge beating on the crumbling walls. Goblin blood dripped from the ancient dark blade Tug held firmly within his small, dirt covered hand. The old sword seemed to crave the warm liquid, absorbing it into its shining blue gray metal. He wielded the ancient blade of the nesfaratu king, taken from its undead vampiric master. Tug had stolen the sword from its lord months before while wandering lost within the underground tombs beneath the twisted dead trees of Blackmore forest. That and the lord’s secret ring. He shuddered, remembering the pale blue glowing eyes of the creature he had stumbled upon within those ancient tombs, and dreaded the evil he had unwittingly let loose upon the world. But that was then and this was now. The Timmren collapsed to the wet granite floor of the ancient moss-covered castle. His hands were shaking, his body ached from battle, and his soul felt heavy. He could hear the frantic calls coming from the injured warriors as they cried out for help from the walls of the besieged castle. Their armor was splintered and torn from the fowl beast and agents of the dark lord. He could also hear the insane screams of the Fron Giants from the plan of Gethana below as they approached the castle beating their giant drums of war. Their massive bodies, covered in tribal tattoos, digging pits filled with wood to feast upon the fallen. Tug could smell, drifting over the castle’s ancient walls before him, the stench of burning Goblin hair that rose from the blood-stained fields of battle. The weary archers had almost exhausted their supply of arrows, the battered walls were crumbling, and Tug knew it was only a matter of time before the castle would fall. The chosen one of power, he laughed to himself again.

What power, what magic? The prophecies were nothing more than tales. He whispered to himself.

Exhausted and unable to stand, he crawled to a course woolen blanket in the corner and laid down on it to rest for just a little while. His brown eyes closed tightly as his mind drifted back to how this all started. How the Great War began. How he had come to know such things as battle, evil and monsters.

He lived just beyond Danner’s Lake in a small wooden shack that was covered by a straw thatched roof nestled within the sprawling rich green meadows of Timmren’s Falls. The little village was located just outside the vast pine forest of Beladin and west of the great white peaked mountain ranges of the east. The valley of Timmren’s Falls was inhabited by a gentle and simple race known in that region as Timmren. He was an illustrator and map maker by trade, often reproducing plain drawn maps into grand pieces of art. He illustrated books on occasion, as well, for the human clergy and all that needed his services. This took him to the man town of Ithiwan often as it was a trading town and many Timmren took their wares to market there.

Tug sat back in the worn wooden oak chair sipping his buttermilk dark beer from an old green mug that was too large for his one hand to hold. The dark walls were weathered and held the horns of deer and pelts from local animals hunted and trapped in the nearby woods. Oil lamps were few and far between, muting the lighting of an already dark establishment, instead casting long shadows across the bar. The Drunken Crow was a pub within the man village of Ithiwan. A seedy place where many a drifter would stay a night or two on the cheap. It had a small bar and dining hall with dingy tables, and a few rooms for rent on the second floor. One did not even want to think of the activities that took place up there.

Tug grabbed his mug and took another sip. He often did work within this town but normally it was under nicer conditions. Brother Elice from the church of Ithicus often hired him as scribe and illustrator. They were a sect of humans that followed the teachings of The God of the Wind. The church grounds had many beautiful gardens and wide-open spaces, nicely landscaped attended by the monks. They used Tug for many projects, taking sacred scrolls and turning them into illustrated books. The church grounds, though old, were a far cry from this place. The abbey had small stone rooms with stain glass windows overlooking the small mountains to the east where Tug often worked while at the church. Being in the Drunken Crow was Tug’s first time to this side of town. Perhaps his last as well. He nervously opened the letter he had received some time ago. It was written from an Alkabar of Shian. Apparently, he had received Tug’s name from one of the local bookstores as an illustrator and wished to meet about a project that promised good coin. Why he wished to conduct business here Tug could not understand. He looked around the darkened room listening to the drunken banter of drifters and trappers. None seemed to take notice of him and for that he was happy.

The bartender was a brutish man. Six foot two, well over a foot taller than Tug and he must have weighed three hundred pounds easily. His wrinkled shirt was stained and his hair shaggy and disheveled. He was barking out orders at a young man with blond hair who was cooking in the back when a tall fellow entered the bar and walked up to him. Tug could see the bartender pointing over in his direction. Maybe this was the person in the letter finally. He was very tall and thin and his cloak and clothes looked traveled in. As if he had come a long way. The tall man turned and walked toward Tug. Mr. Mugwart, I presume, he said in a thick deep voice.

Tug reached out his hand which was engulfed by the large man’s hand. Alkabar?

The man nodded and pulled up a chair to the table. His hair was long and peppered as was his beard. His forehead was heavily lined and his face had sharp features with a long straight nose. His grey slate eyes looked to the door for a second and then back to the Timmren.

My two associates will be in shortly.

Associates?? asked Tug. "What exactly is this about?

Your letter referred to an urgent lucrative project? Tug said as he took a sip of his dark brew.

In a moment, Mr. Mugwart, Alkabar stated as he looked to the door once again.

As he did, Tug observed two figures enter the inn. He immediately recognized their race as they were seen far and in between this far into the land of men. One was thick with massive shoulders and arms, which protruded from beneath his weathered brown cloak. He was shorter than the others but still taller than Tug. His black, fierce eyes seemed brooding and dark, penetrating from beneath thick black eyebrows. They lay separated by a wide, scarred face and furrowed heavy brows. His nose was bulbous and round. His hair was raven black and his beard and mustache grew thick and tangled. He held a long scar from his right cheek going down his face fading into his unkempt beard. He was of the race of the mountain cave dwellers, the Dwarves. He had heard that their kind was sought for their prowess of metallurgy and craftsmanship.

The other fellow was slightly taller, thin and wispy with a pleasant pale clean-shaven face. His hair was golden, short and combed forward and his eyes were a deep azure blue. He could pass for a short man if it was not for his pointed ears. Tug had read about this race but had no contact with them at all. He was Elvish from what he could determine and very far from home since they hailed from the far south. Most of the dwarven nation hailed from the west or at least west of the race of men. In between there were many other minor races like the Timmren who lived in scattered villages.

Tug’s heart was beating fast as he looked at this strange cast of characters that walked over and sat down at the table. Their kind rarely came to Timmren’s Falls and Tug wondered what could bring them so far from home.

Let me introduce myself and my friends once again, said the human. I am Alkabar, and these are my companions, Ilem and Bongor.

The one he called Ilem was the Elven fellow. The thin, pale creature looked toward Tug and smiled at the Timmren. His blue eyes glowed against his fair skin like two sapphires set in snow. Tug was fascinated by the Elves oblong pupils. He had read somewhere in one of the books he was illustrating that Elves had keen vision beyond many of the races. It was rumored they could see at night and even zoom their vision into a target. This allowed them a special prowess with a bow.

The Dwarf named Bongor pulled his thick black hair from his hood stretching it down the center of his muscled back. He stroked the dirt of the road from his wild beard and mustache, which fell almost to his waist. He shook his head toward the Timmren with little trace of a smile, nor general manner of civility. His black eyes were piercing as if he saw through Tug and was looking at a distant object or place on the other side of him. His eyes were filled with sorrow and anger that Tug did not yet understand.

Tug nervously introduced himself extending his hand as he stood up from his chair. I will formally introduce myself. I am Tug Mugwart, illustrator of books and map maker extraordinaire. The Timmren smiled slightly as the three nodded their heads in recognition. Now, formality aside, what brings us together at this hour?

Tug could feel his stomaching growling. In all the waiting he had forgotten to eat anything. At home he could whip up some hot cakes with bumble bee honey and raspberry jam. But man, inns like this held no convenience of home which Tug was now missing more than ever. He was missing the warm dark comfort of his cottage lined with books and scented with his favorite apple wood tobacco. Instead he smelled stale bear and the scent of unwashed man. Timmren have very sensitive noses as well as sight.

Alkabar looked at the far wall, which held a map of Ithiwan on it. That is what has brought me, Mr. Mugwart. We were given your name by the book keeper at Grey Fangs Scrolls. He said you were a maker of maps and illustrator possessing a rare talent.

I am not a ‘maker’ of maps, per se. I illustrate them using grand lettering and all manner of the best inks and parchments, producing pieces of exquisite art. Tug rubbed his chin as if pleased with himself at his rare display of haughtiness. You have come to have a map copied or perhaps a book illustrated? That will cost six silver pieces for most work, but I will have five pieces before I even look at the original, he grinned while stroking his quill case which he held within his pocket.

Alkabar looked at the little fellow with some discontent as the others rolled their eyes. I don’t think you understand, he said.

Tug quickly countered, Well, maybe I can help you for four silver pieces and five copper. He looked at the shabby clothes of the travelers and added, If my price is not too grand, that is. He smiled again; this time broader.

Alkabar stroked his long graying beard as if deep in thought, his massive fingers moving through his thick graying hair. He moved closer to Tug. His large smooth hand grabbed Tug’s shoulder gently, easily covering it. Tug looked uneasily at Alkabar’s hand, swallowing a small gulp as Alkabar applied some pressure to his arm. The middle-aged gentleman looked at the Timmren from under his thick brows with an air of seriousness.

I think I can do better, friend. said Alkabar.

Tug leaned back stretching in his chair. As he did his sleeve pulled down and Alkabar noticed a birth mark upon Tug’s forearm. One he had read about; one he was told about but never believed he would see. It was like a wine stain of a shooting star traveling over a crescent moon. It was true he thought to himself. The Timmren held the mark upon his arm. A high-ranking member of the church of Ithicus had sent word to the council months ago. Now it was confirmed. Many would pay dearly for this information. While others would kill for it. Alkabar looked around the room nervously, but no one had taken notice of them. All these years he thought and it’s finally happening. The sacred text talked of these days and now they are here.

Alkabar, Illem and Bongor looked at one another knowing what must be done. But for now, they needed the Timmren to remain in the dark. They needed to protect him as well as convince him to join their sacred quest. The chosen were few and many had perished already.

So, you were saying you could do better? The Timmren yawned as he took another sip of his beer.

Suppose, just suppose, Alkabar said, nodding toward the Timmren, that I was to pay you one bag of gold for your services instead of your paltry five pieces of silver.

Tug nearly fell from his chair in laughter. His large round belly bounced up and down. A bag of gold for a map - more joking indeed? Then I would call you crazy, sir. He continued laughing, slapping his round belly with his small hand until he noticed the strangers were not laughing. They were merely exchanging knowing glances with one another. The Dwarf sat back in his chair letting out a sigh of annoyance as he scanned the bar as if to see if anyone had noticed the Timmren’s outburst. But thankfully in this dank cold dwelling the few that remained in the bar had their beards deep in their mugs or filling their faces with mutton.

Tug asked again, Did I hear right sir? Did you say a bag of gold? He would not have to wait long for an answer. He again looked at their manner of dress and inwardly wondered what had really brought these strangers to this meeting. One looked like an old professor or teacher and the other a cut throat. Not exactly nobility or the kind that could raise that kind of money in a life time. Tug was shrewd normally at negotiations though he did love to outwit others out of their money.

Alkabar nodded his head yes in response to the little creature’s question.

A bag of gold could last a Timmren a lifetime, Tug thought. He wondered how many buttermilk cakes and plum tobacco could be bought with such money. With that money he could build a larger cottage, one with a shop attached just for making illustrations and maps. He could add a large wing onto his house and create a personal library of rare books. Collecting rare or old books was one of Tug’s favorite hobbies.

The Timmren rubbed his chin while thinking of all the grand things he could buy with that amount of money. Then his thoughts came back to reality. A bag of gold was a lot of money. For that kind of money, he realized he would have to do more than just illustrate a few books or draw a few maps. A look of apprehension came over his face. This look did not go unnoticed by Alkabar.

Yes, my little friend, a bag of gold, responded Alkabar. You see, he said waving his hand at the others, We seek to hire you for a few months’ time or so. We have come a long way and head east. We seek a mapmaker to record the journey and the land we cross to accurately mark the land and keep an extensive journal of our travels for posterity. I also understand that you are familiar with many ancient languages from your interest in rare books.

You want me to map the land? Tug asked, pausing. But I redraw maps, I don’t create them.

He thought to himself for a moment Well I guess I could map the land…I mean I have seen enough maps, but I don’t journey beyond the village much. I am not really one suited for long journeys. He spoke while thinking to himself of the gold. Those gold glittering coins were so precious. Did he really have a need for such money? A whisper came back from deep within. Yes, yes indeed he did. He not only needed it, but craved to feel the gold between his greedy fingers. Its slick cool touch. He loved the way the sun glimmered off it and how heavy it felt between his fingers. He smiled at the large man. So, Alkabar, he asked, what lies to the east that you need mapped so badly? For hasn’t most of it already been traveled?

Most, spoke Alkabar as he whipped the dust from his cloak. But have you ever heard of the Gates of Akesh?

Tug thought for a second but could come up with nothing. No sir, I can’t say I have.

Alkabar moved closer as if he did not want to be heard by some unseen entity. The small fire glistened off his gray eyes giving him an added air of mystery. The Gates of Akesh are a secret pass that lies to the far north east, near the Norgon Mountain Range. Beyond the gates somewhere lays an old ruin, and within this ruin treasure of untold magnitude.

Tug grinned keenly and said, The only thing that lies far to the northeast are the Norgon Mountains and they are impassable. The legends say that they have peaks of solid ice that even the eagles cannot fly above. I know this area well through map and book, but have never heard of the Gates of Akesh. Tug sat back in his small chair arrogantly crossing his arms.

Alkabar beckoned to Ilem with a sly look in his eyes and a small hand movement. The thin Elf walked over to a worn satchel and pulled out a rolled yellowing parchment. Alkabar took the ancient scroll and opened it. He unrolled the scroll across the table. It seemed to be an aged journal of some type made of a dark parchment. Tug instantly realized that the parchment was very old and though he could not read the language he surmised it was an ancient dialect from the lettering, and the writing on it was very old. It did not appear to be a forgery, but an original scroll. Tug recognized some of the sketches in the scroll as the Norgon Mountains and a drawing of a gate.

Alkabar proceeded to tell him that it was written in an ancient Elven dialect and that it described a hidden path through the Norgon Mountains leading to unimaginable treasure.

It is a secret journal, Mr. Mugwart, one that was found quite by accident by my Elven friend here. He purchased some old documents and such from an estate sale and hidden within one of them was this scroll. This journal reveals the way to the Gates of Akesh but not beyond. It is a diary of a band of Elven thieves who long ago captured some ancient treasures of gold and silver and buried it. It tells of most of the way to this pass, but much is left out other than the description of a ruins in a distant land beyond the gate of Akesh wherein they buried their treasure. But you see these men were caught and killed, not revealing the hiding place, even under torture unto death. But now with this journal and other information I have located I believe we can find this place, but we will need you to map the way in order to record the journey of this historic quest for future generations.

He rolled the scroll up tightly giving it back to the Elf. As quickly as he had showed the journal, he even more quickly hid it. This gate is a pass that will lead us beyond the Norgon Mountains, past the ends of the known world to a great Elven treasure.

The large man peered at Tug. Now time runs short, and I have no more of it for you. We seek you to map our adventure beyond the Gates of Akesh and pen our story upon a scroll, for bards to sing our names in years to come, of conquering the Norgon Mountains, finding the gate, and gaining the lost treasure. You will share in our quest and in our treasure, and once the journey is complete you shall be paid one bag of gold for your trouble. Alkabar moved closer staring into Mr. Mugwart's greed filled gaze.

How say you, Mr. Mugwart? Alkabar asked, stroking his beard as he did.

Tug’s thoughts were filled with gold once again. Gold, the beautiful shining metal that has brought kingdoms to their knees and has made rulers out of beggars. He sat back in his chair thinking to himself. These strangers seek treasure, as do most fools. But the journal did look very old, very authentic. Beyond the known world, he thought. How wonderful it would be to travel through strange lands if they did exist, to run my hands through those golden coins. He scratched his curly thick brown hair weighing the decision before him even more. He could journey all that way to the Norgon Mountains and find nothing. He could run into robbers or trolls along the way and be killed.

Or worse, his newfound companions could kill him once they have his map and finished tale. His father’s gentle image filled his head like a guardian spirit trying to guide his choice. The specter of his mind was heeding Tug to stay home and draw his maps, to be safe, not to risk everything for some fool’s errand with a bunch of strangers.

Tug thought of the shining coins rolling from his fingers as he purchased a new harvest festival hall for the entire town. He could be a hero, a king within Timmren’s Falls. Beyond the gold, beyond the admiration of the Timmren, it was the adventure of going beyond the village that made his stomach tingle with excitement. His thoughts filled him with fear, yet it was that very fear that excited him more.

How say you? Alkabar asked even louder, being more insistent.

A feeling of greed and want of adventure took the Timmren over. I say yes! exclaimed Tug, the words leaving his lips with a feeling of dread in his belly as they did.

Good! Then sign here, Alkabar pulled an agreement from his bag. It was written with small print and encompassed many pages. Tug began to read quickly… make maps…one bag of gold… Well it seems in order, Tug thought, as he picked up his quill and penned his name.

Good, spoke Alkabar, looking at the others with a smile. We will see you in the morning, Mr. Mugwart. Be ready.

The morning? spoke Tug. So soon…

It’s in the agreement, Mr. Mugwart, You must start the journey the following morning. Alkabar smiled through his thick mustache and beard. He pretended to read from the pages: The party of the first part shall start immediately keeping a log of the journey as well as any maps of the land, and other duties as seen fit by the party of the second part…. etc. You, Mr. Mugwart, are the party of the first part.

But…But….

No buts, Mr. Mugwart, we shall see you tomorrow.

Bongor and I have supplies we must gather tonight but Illem has a carriage to take you home as a courtesy, Alkabar stated.

With that, the tall man stood and mumbled something to Ilem. Bongor stood from the table and followed Alkabar out of the Drunken Crow disappearing into the late afternoon. Tug went uneasily with Ilem in an old carriage that looked like it was about to fall apart. They traveled most of the night through local woods along the thin old road until they entered the small Timmren town. Tug lived on some farmland on the outskirts. It was there Ilem left him promising to return in the morning to begin their journey.

Tug waved to the elf and turned, closing the door behind him. He looked at the cozy little room, and it was quiet. Tug thought to himself, What have you gotten yourself into, Mr. Mugwart? Are you a fool? Leaving your warm, nice cottage for adventure, for gold, and with three odd characters, no less. These three looked like they could throttle you in the night or sell you to some foreign ogre for feasting. The image shook him to his core. Not like a Timmren at all, not at all, Mr. Mugwart. His father’s comments came back to him in a flash once again.

He looked at his table pilled with work to be done. Parchments of all types lay thrown about and inks overflowed their wells. There were customers waiting on his wares, people counting on him, and a stack of orders in his workbox. This was highly unlike him, but the gold, all that money. He had always wanted to go beyond the village on a real journey he convinced himself, a real quest for treasure, and now fate had given him the chance. In life fate rarely smiles more than a few times on any one person, so you should grasp it while you can.

Well too late now, he thought while packing his unused traveling bag. He stuffed it with several changes of clothes, two of his favorite pipes, his tobacco bag, a water bag, two cloaks and of course a second satchel to carry delightful treats to eat along the way. He also loaded a bag with quills, inks of many colors and fresh parchment to record this journey. He walked to the door placing the bags beside it. He turned and with a nervous sigh went to the oil lamp and put it out. He laid his head down on his soft feather pillow and slowly drifted into an uneasy sleep. No time to be afraid, he thought…. No time to be afraid. As he drifted off, he could hear the word ‘gold’ echoing in his mind and a smile came across his face.

CHAPTER TWO: A SECRET MEETING

The morning brought a heavy knocking on the door. Tug stretched his arms yawning out a Hold on, please. The knocking was louder as he slipped on his trousers and his favorite pair of walking boots, as he called them. He rushed to the door peering through the small opening. His gaze was met by that of the gray-eyed stranger, his head covered with a large gray hat that shadowed his already secretive face.

Mr. Mugwart, the day is wasting. It is time to go.

Little Tug, still rubbing his eyes, opened the door. It was barely dawn; the sun had not risen across the nearby field lighting the corn nor the morning dew burned off of the wet meadow grass.

I haven’t eaten my cakes, nor had a smoke of my pipe yet, good sir, retorted Tug in an angered voice. Pushing him to go on this journey for treasure was one thing but it was quite another to forget one’s manners.

There is no time! The road waits for no one, Elven gold awaits us. Alkabar pulled Tug from his house by the back of his cloak, nearly picking him from the ground. Here, have a sweet cake on me, his voice was stern and left little interpretation.

Ilem and Bongor grabbed his bags and strapped them to the pony they had purchased for Mr. Mugwart. He was a gentle creature, white with cream polka dots along his side. Tug patted the pony’s long white main. Hello, boy. Good boy, want an apple? Tug disappeared into his cottage again and returned with a small red apple, which he gave to the excited pony.

Mr. Mugwart, please. Time is wasting.

Bongor glanced over at Alkabar, speaking with a rough and thick voice. We must go now.

Indeed, Tug thought, how rude. He turned, wondering if he had forgotten anything, wondering what he was doing with these strange fellows. He shut his door behind him, which had no lock, and angrily mounted the white pony. It had been years since he had ridden, and as he recalled, he didn’t like it at the time nor did he care for it now. The wagon or carriage was the gentlemen’s way to get around. Not galloping away on horseback along muddy trails. Well, there was nothing to do now. He turned and looked at his small cottage one last time as he swallowed another piece of his sweet cake down. Goodbye friend, I will see you soon…. I hope, he whispered.

Alkabar sat upon a white and brown mare. He grabbed the worn leather straps and slid his gray booted feet into the stirrups. He turned, beckoning Ilem to follow with a movement of his large hand. The Elf saddled a white and brown horse, which could have been the other’s sister, though much smaller. He began to move her along as Bongor followed on a large gray horse. He looked odd sitting astride such a massive horse, well large for his size anyway. But his rugged demeanor made up for the difference in size. He growled toward the horse to move, pulling its head to the side to make him follow the others. Behind them were two pack mules bearing large bags, satchels and trunks wrapped and tied down neatly. Tug wondered what was in those suspicious looking bags, but kept his thoughts to himself.

Come then, Mr. Mugwart. Let us begin our adventure, Alkabar turned the reins of the horse heading slowly down the dirt path, as did the others. Tug pulled the reins and dug his heels into the pony to get him moving. It was coming back to him, the way of riding, and so was the pain in his hindquarters. He moved alongside Alkabar to get a better view of the countryside.

The sun shone gloriously through the distant trees as it edged above the foggy horizon, slicing a golden swatch across the valley. The fresh green stalks of summer corn were covered in the early morning dew, spreading droplets to the ground for the earthworms to bathe in. Fresh daisy seeds floated through the air along the path like snow on a winter’s night. Tug breathed in deeply the pure crisp air. It smelled sweet like honeysuckle.

Alkabar continued down the dirt path, avoiding the fork in the road that would lead through the main section of town. Instead he turned onto Pumpkin Patch Lane, a small dirt road that wove over the nearby hills and ended in the gray woods near Panamore. This was another Man town, though very small, that traded with Timmren’s Falls.

They passed Mr. Bombweather's estate. He was a crotchety old Timmren who always scolded the town children for stealing his pumpkins. He sat outside, smoking his pipe, eyeing the strange group that passed him by. His long unkempt beard went past his belt, resting on his rather large belly.

Good day, Mr. Bombweather, waved Tug, remembering his manners.

The large overall clad Timmren replied back, wary of the unfriendly strangers, with a grunt and warning. Don’t you nor your strange friends trample on my daisies. Damn Dwarfs…, he whispered. Bongor shook his head slightly and let out a sigh. They just continued on ignoring his ranting.

I say sir…. what is your last name again? asked Tug of Bongor. Bongor did not reply to the Timmren’s question.

Do you not say good morning from where you come?

Bongor looked back at the Timmren, his eyes fixed on him for a second. They were dark, hard eyes. Eyes that Tug was not used to seeing. Now that he thought of it, they all had eyes that seemed hard and callous. The Dwarf looked at him briefly and then looked away. Tug also just looked away, pretending that he had never asked the question in the first place. Instead, he concentrated on the road ahead and the beauty of his village. They rode for several miles until they rounded the last bend of Timmren’s Falls before entering the forest of Panamore, which was named after the town.

He had never been beyond this point to the east, for he had little business with this Man town. It was considered quite a low-end town and of little use for books and maps. Panamore was a town known for its many sleazy inns, bars, and brothels, where rough men often met a bad fate, tested by another’s sword. It was a town known for drinking, fighting and cheap women. It was a place that is an in-between rest area that one finds along the way to somewhere better. It lies just west of Blackmore, an evil and dark woods that surrounds Panamore and the whole northeast like a giant horseshoe, which many say is haunted. Those that venture to Panamore are often outcasts or adventurers hoping to find treasure in one of the old ruins that lie throughout the northeast area, or rough and tumble sailors on their way to the north lake regions to look for work on fishing boats and trade barges. Most stay clear of Blackmore all together, but a few have found themselves lost within the black woods. Those that have lived to tell their tales are never the same. Blackmore is a place of fear, filled with stories that it is haunted by ghosts, witches, and goblins. It is filled with the power of the dark

Reviews for Tug Mugwart and the Book of Power

[Cory Cates · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Tolkien would roll in his grave at this poorly written plagiarism!!!!! SHAME on the author of this one. Grow your own imagination.