Heads up! Just posted a review of the Hobbit trailer. Head on over to In a Hole in the Ground to take a look!

In a Hole in the Ground

Hey gang,

I have a confession to make: my excitement over the Hobbit movies has reached an embarrassing level. And, in honor of that, I've started a new project on a little blog of my own. I'll be posting over there from time to time. Feel free to check it out:

In a Hole in the Ground

Later . . .

Epic 1

Ok, its taken forever . . . but here's the first EPIC cartoon strip. Now, I'm dissatisfied with a number of things with this first strip, but I wanted to get your general reactions to it. I need to work out a way to digitize the line drawing better, cause the way I did it looses too much detail on the panes that are more "zoomed out". And I think I'm gonna try coloring the next one in Photoshop instead of Illustrator. I also want to go for a bit more detail than I did in this one, both in drawing and coloring. But my biggest question is this: is this thing even remotely funny? Let me know!

If you click on this image it should take you to a larger version of the comic.

Later . . .

P.S. Anybody going to the release of Alloy of Law tomorrow?

Halfling Concept

Here's another one, not sure I'm as satisfied with this one:

What do you guys think?

Name ideas? Kylie says Fen or Toli (pronounced Tall-ee) or Steve.

Another EPIC sneak peak

Ok, still plugging away at this crazy idea. Here's the first of several character mock-ups.


Meet Turq, an exiled dwarf with a speech impediment:

A Hint of Things to come . . .

Just a little something I've been working on recently:

Another Post plus notes

Alright, business first. For this novel (Architect of Legends), I'm currently sitting on it at about 55k words, and am now running outlining and redrafting for it. I don't really like posting superfluous pieces, so I'll post what backlog i produce for Sanderson's class in part, but I'll also be posting from either my First Quarter wotf submission, or my Second Quarter Submission, depending on where I am with it.

I'm told by Mark Twain that my new redraft is "simply stunning", and Lord Tennyson claimed it was "marvelous".


Done with business, now back to business.

Previously: Saul and Mert came to Koldar's Hollow looking to recruit a former enemy general turned freelancer. The general signed on for shifty unexplored reasons and sent them to go fetch two of his... employees, Lilo, a marksman, and Malchanor, an alchemist who inhaled a few too many fumes. They killed some bandits who were more or less caught by surprise, and Saul gathered them back to meet with Sargoth who was dealing with several other matters. Now they're back at the town.

“I think you may have gotten relaxed a far bit too early,” Mert said.

Saul followed the man’s gaze to the collection of tall figures encircling the inn. Each sylthanian stood almost two feet taller than he did, and was armored head to toe in glittering scale plates. The imposing figures were wielding enormous weapons, and each stood poised, ready to obliterate anyone who crossed them. From their positioning, they were both blocking and guarding the entrance to the inn. No one goes in or comes out.

Saul paused for a moment where he stood. He turned to speak to Mert when the sound of clinking glass filled the air. Saul looked back to see Malchanor rummaging through his enormous pack. The alchemist muttered to himself as he rooted through his bag. Already looking for his explosives.

Thankfully, Mert took the initiative before Saul could say anything and grabbed the alchemists’ hands and withdrew them. Malchanor gave Mert a gaze that would melt ice and scare children, but he withdrew his hand. All I need right now is the crazy alchemist starting a fight by lighting someone on fire.

“You think they’re here for Sargoth?” Mert asked.

“Of course,” Saul said. “And I don’t think they’re here for him. I think they already have him.”

Prelate Sargoth walked out of the inn a moment later alongside both his life-ward and a tall sylthanian marked as an Executor, a specialist commander. Sargoth was comically shorter than the rest of the sylthanians, a fox among the wolves. Even so as he walked past the tall females, his stride and posture suggested a commander who would not be cowed. An interesting notion given sylthanian males are virtual breeding stock.

“Oh, so good to see you, Master Rawne,” Sargoth called out. “Apparently I’ve been activated and called to return home. As it turns out my commission never ran out and Executor Kayda here has come to collect me.”

Saul ignored the dripping sarcasm. “And so you’re gladly going with them?”

The one that Sargoth had named Executor Kayda walked up to him. The commanding sylthanian was a large warrior, easily two feet taller than Saul. In one hand, she gripped a sylthanian longsword larger than most greatswords. She looked down on him like a scholar scrutinizing an insect.

He didn’t back down from the intimidation. Unlike a gnome who would gut you for breathing too heavily, sylthanians shrugged off most insults and challenges.

“By order of the High Shamans,” Kayda said through the opening on the skull-faced helmet. “The Prelate has been remanded back into active duty.”

“Well you can tell your High Shamans to wander off a cliff,” Saul said. “The Prelate and I have prior business arrangements.”

Careful. Don’t push too hard. They may not be as touchy as gnomes, but they still had boundaries.

The Executor paused and then pulled her helmet off. When compared to Sargoth her green skin was darker in hue and her cranial spikes were far more pronounced. Her nauseating azure-colored hair was wrapped a tight bun at the back of her head. Sylthanians weren’t terribly appeasing to the eyes and this one was no exception.

“I’m not interested in beating your scrawny head in, but if you press me I will splatter you through this town,” Executor Kayda said
.
Saul was not impressed. “If you think to awe me, think again. I’ve killed dozens of your kind, and I’m willing to do so here. When I’m done with the Prelate, you can have him, not until then.”

She paused then spoke. “I figured as much. Why you Easterners always remain so resolute, I’ll never understand. If you want him, then we’ll make some sport out of this. I’ll try and bash your skull in. You do the same to me.”

A duel? What kind of a preposterous notion was that from a sylthanian? This sort of nonsense is something I’d expect from gnomes. Saul sensed a trap.

“And the winner gets Sargoth?” Saul asked.

“Exactly,” the Executor said. “Do you accept?”

“How enjoyable,” Sargoth said. “Being fought over like a piece of meat. This brings me back.”

“Fine,” Saul said to the Executor.

He flung himself at the sylthanian, warmace gripped in his hand. The Executer’s sharp reflexes were all that saved her from a headshot that would have pulped her brains. Her sword spun out in a flash of steel, knocking his mace away before it imbedded itself in her skull.

She took of her helmet; she gets to reap the consequences. I’ll take any advantage I can. Sylthanian Executers didn’t get to where they were by being poor fighters and if he wanted to break free of any sort of trap, he’d need to kill her fast.

Muscles that had been retrained over the past years burned with the fire of combat. He struck like a viper, hammering at her defenses. She easily dodged the blow but his strike had been a feint. As she ducked back from his attack, he dropped to one knee and spun like a top with one leg outstretched, knocking the Executor off her feet. She regained her footing a split second before she would have collapsed. Saul took advantage of her recovery to slam at her defenses like a blacksmith at the forge. Each blow he threw at her would have been enough to crush someone’s skull, and the Executor’s only saving grace was her reflexes and quick parries.

He spun and twisted as he struck at every opportunity he could find. His sudden onslaught had caught her off guard and she was paying for it. Her own strength kept back his hammer-blows but by the concentration on her face, she was on the verge of breaking. He feinted left then right, before striking home. His warmace caught only a glancing blow on her but it was enough to force her back.

As she moved, the Executor struck with her left leg. The well-muscled kick had a tremendous force behind it, like being slammed by a battering ram. Saul rolled with the blow, avoiding being knocked off his feet, but he skidded to a halt four paces away.

She paused, letting him take the offense which would force him to come within her superior reach. He grinned at her and threw his mace like a hatchet, aiming straight at her head. The mace scythed through the air, but the Executer deflected the weapon with her sword. It spun over the heads of the watching sylthanians and crashed through the wall of the nearest building.

Even while the Executor was still deflecting the blow, Mert had thrown Saul his claymore. He caught the big sword and slashed like a madman at the Executor while she swatted away the mace. She barely brought her sword up in time to parry his blows. She finally got in some attacks of her own, but Saul’s reflexes let him dodge or parry them away. For his trouble, he still got a gash down his cheek which ran red with warm blood.

He took advantage of her long reach and scythed in and out of close melee range. The constant shifting of angle kept her confused, judging by the desperation of her attacks. Saul moved to slice in a vertical swing. Her sword moved to parry and he shifted his strike into a horizontal swing. She leapt out of reach of the slash that would have cut her in half.

Her dodge moved her into perfect placement for his next blow. Saul put out a burst of speed and then high-kicked her in the abdomen. She fell and crumpled to the ground.

Sylthanians were vicious opponents, but only if they got the initiative. If you struck first and never let up, they quickly lose their endurance and present an opening.

Saul closed the distance and brought the claymore down like an executioner at the chopping block. A moment before the blow would decapitate the Executor, a flicker of movement caught his attention. The huge warhammer wielded by Sargoth’s life-ward blocked his blow a moment before he took the Executor’s head off.

Saul looked from the life-ward, and then to Sargoth. “What is the meaning of this, Prelate?"

1. Is the action very vague?
2. How about specific details? Are they clear or not?
3. How is the pacing? Does it slow anywhere?
4. Anything else?

Colton's entry where he needs to find a decent numbering system

Alright, we're now getting into the realm of stuff that I'm probably going to cut. Why? Because my first draft more or less was a lot of character building for me, and now I'm going to go back, finish outlining, and restart in hopefully a month or so. So until then, I'll continue tossing out pieces of story for people to read so that I can fulfill my posting obligations

Summary: They met with Prelate Sargoth, and he sent them off to fetch two of his acolytes while he dealt with other matters.

The rain had reduced to a light drizzle as the pair of them stalked across the steppes. The ranch they could see was a dim outline on the flattened horizon of vast open expanses of Lorhal. Saul brushed his thin beard with one of his hands. Mert looked back at him. The rain had flattened his graying hair, and his triangular beard on his chin was still damp from the rain.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?”

“I’ll wait and see. I’m not going to spend very long running errands for Sargoth while he assembles his favorite lapdogs and sycophants. He’s up to something,” Saul said. Up to something didn’t even explain half of it. Sargoth was a shred one, no doubts there, and he always had a goal in mind. There was more to his agreement than what had appeared on the surface, and Saul intended on figuring it out.

“Have you given any measure on how to get this mercenary on our side?” Mert said.

“Some. Everyone has a price. I think I can stall her for a bit at least until I can get a better idea of her character. She’s under Sargoth’s employ at the moment, so I’ll try to extend that little contract as long out as I possibly can,” Saul said.

“Maybe you can trick her into staying under Sargoth? So he pays the bills and we reap the benefits?” Mert said.

“It’s possible,” Saul said. “I’d prefer to leave him as little reason as necessary to turn against us. In either case we need him to take control of Thorozean. Not just taking control as well, but hold it. Once we do hold the area, we’ll be hard pressed to hold onto the region. I need someone who can work logistics to find a way around that. Thorozean is already weakened and when we hit, everyone who has been looking for a chance will jump.” Looking for a chance didn’t begin to describe it. The Lorhalian Khan was technically allied with his southern Thorozean neighbor, but that didn’t stop Lorhalian hussars from moving through the uncontrolled regions of north Thorozean without any concern. “Thorozean is on a knife’s edge, and the Praa seems to be the only person in the region that doesn’t recognize it. The Khan will move in fast if there is even the slightest hint of a weakening regime. Blackwell too. The Circle of Oak wouldn’t turn a blind eye to having the chance to enclose the Shintaur gnomes.”

Saul scanned the plans. Light dots moved across the horizon towards the ranch. “Shintaur would go after it for precisely that reason as well. They don’t care about the land or the cities in Thorozean. The Shintaur Paramount is smart enough to know what would happen if he got encircled.”

“Speaking of encircled…” Mert said, his voice trailing off.

The dots on closer inspect appeared to be hussars, converging on the ranch from further out in the Steppe. Mert and Saul instinctively dropped close to the ground and out of line of sight. Saul distinctly recalled Sargoth’s words about raiders and bandits in the area but he cursed the odds that they actually would manage to happen upon them anyhow.

He nodded back towards Mert and the two of them crept forward through the light vegetation of the Steppe. Their path brought them less than two-hundred yards away from the ranch, just in time to see the riders surrounding the front door. Some were lingering around still on their avian mounts while a few had gotten off their cockatrices and were approaching the house. The large birds squawked amongst each other, swishing their long tails back and forth across the ground.

Their calls sounded out over the plains and their acrid smell was sharp on the wind. Blast it all, not again. Saul got a good look at the mounted men still idling in front of the house. Just as he suspected, they weren’t hussars. While they still wore the standard ensemble most Lorhalians wore, several wore handkerchiefs wrapped around their faces, and their attire was worn and muddy beyond the norm. None carried any sign of allegiance to one of the local lords as well, identifying clearly their identity as steppe raiders.

Saul took a quick headcount. There were eight of them total, three of them dismounted and approaching the ranch. The reins of the riderless birds were held by the idling raiders that were watching their allies’ movements closely. Those not holding reins carried very finely crafted muskets held across their laps. The three approaching the ranch stopped at the door.

Saul’s hand gripped the heavy mace he wore at his side, while Mert fingered his own claymore that was strapped to his back. Things were probably going to turn ugly fairly quickly. Saul, using the battle-signs both of them had developed over twenty years past, passed a message to Saul. Move around and flank to the side of the house. Mert nodded.

The darkening effect of the still cloudy skies masked their movement through the grasses. The ones who had knocked at the door stood waiting for an answer, and chattered amongst themselves. Probably checking to see if anyone was home. If they ran in with guns blazing they could find themselves in trouble quickly. Mert recalled a similar event some decades past where half a dozen robbers tried storming a fisherman’s hut that Mert and a dozen other veteran soldiers had been using for shelter. Evidently these bandits were smarter than that and were first checking while posing as officials of some sort. No answer came, and the three at the door turned to go back to the rest of their party.

Mert continued moving only to suddenly pause. The door clicked open, and the bandits turned to look. A boom like thunder cracked across the Steppes, and one of the bandits crashed to the ground. One of the cockatrice mounts screeched an ear-splitting cry as it stumbled to the ground, a victim of the passing bullet.

Saul remained crouched against the ground as the bandits ran about in disarray. Several of them scrambled to load their guns, while another tried to urge his mount forward. When cockatrices got into close quarters they became a frenzy of talons, feathers, and sharp jaws.

Mert came into view edging around the house. The man crouched closely to the walls with his claymore in hand. Saul caught his eye and signaled for him to stay back. To Saul’s relief, Mert understood the signal and remained still.

An unearthly scream ripped through the air a moment later. Saul turned to the house, looking for the source of the. A man appeared in the doorway bolting towards the bandits like a feral dog.

He was easily past his sixth decade, and had the look of a vagabond who hadn’t combed his hair once. His scraggly hair whipped behind him as he ran, and his dirty alchemists robes fluttered with each step. Each of the man’s hands held a small vial but at this distance Saul couldn’t tell what was contained within.

The man continued his war cry as he ran at the bandits. Several of the raiders broke away from the group with terror creased over their faces. The wild haired alchemist threw his arms forward, hurling the vials like rocks. Saul hoped the man was a far better thinker than thrower, for one missed the closest bandit by twenty feet and the other overshot a mounted bandit by at least ten.

Both exploded with flames that burned so intensely that Saul had to look away. When he looked back, fire of the most brilliant blue had been summoned on the steppes. The blaze spread like a flood of water through the grasses and set raider and vegetation alight. A few heartbeats later the spread of the fire stopped leaving an inferno several yards in diameter. One raider turned into a human torch that shrieked as he writhed in the grass.

A cockatrice with its plumage a brilliant conflagration was ran into the distance, shrieking loud squawks of pain as it raced off to Daiya-knows-where.

Crazy was what Sargoth had said. The alchemist would be Malchanor, the maddened runaway the Prelate had told them about. Which meant the markswoman, Lilo, lurked somewhere in the area as well. She must have fired the first shot.

The bandits who had not fled instead stood their ground as they loaded muskets. The decision on the bandit’s part not to preload was wise in the rain of the earlier day, but was no a poor choice.

Saul stood and nodded to Mert. The older man raced around the corner of the house, swinging his claymore like a farmer at harvest. Saul held his mace close, and raced into the melee. The raiders were edging away from Malchanor who had a menacing look in his eyes as he fumbled about in his pockets. One man finished loading his musket and aimed. A shot from the ranch’s front window rang and clipped the man’s head off. His headless body fell to the ground.

Saul crashed into the closest man like a lightning bolt. The mace slammed into the man’s legs like a blacksmith’s hammer, and the raider shrieked in pain as his legs snapped. A down-sweep from Saul silenced his cries.

“Ambush from behind!” one of the raiders shouted.

A rider urged his cockatrice towards Saul. The animal screeched as razor sharp talons flashed through the air, and Saul threw himself to the side. The bird leapt after him ready to bite.

Saul bashed the animal on the skull. The glancing blow had little force behind it, but the bird still shook from the impact. The rider on top was taking aim on Saul when the bird spun away chattering in pain. The bandit gave a yell of rage and readjusted in his saddle, trying to get a shot off.

Saul took the opportunity to knock the legs out from another man who jabbed at him with a long hunting knife. While the man fell, Saul rose to his feet, and slammed his thick boot into the man. He felt the snapping of ribs as his blow impacted.

Mert swung past Saul like a whirlwind of steel. The claymore flashed and spun through the air, cutting the head off of a cockatrice and sending a raider to the ground, holding his entrails in his hands. The decapitated of the cockatrice stumbled about and a sickening rasp came from the stump of the animal’s neck before the headless beast fell to the ground and trapped the struggling rider beneath its lifeless bulk.

The cockatrice that Saul had smacked recovered from the blow and was back in the fight, slashing and biting at him. Saul rolled between the animal’s legs, and came up behind it. He swept the mace in a wide arc aiming for the animal’s flanks. The blow cracked into the cockatrice’s chest and the snapping of bones broke the air. The beast shrieked in pain, but raced back towards him. Its rider had finally thrown his gun aside in desperation and pulled out a spear.

The raider jabbed down towards Saul with a thrust that Saul dodged with a deft side-step. Years of honed reflexes aided him as if he were twenty years younger. To his experienced eyes, the spear moved at a snail’s pace. Saul’s mace snapped the haft like a twig.

His follow-through slammed into the bird again, shattering more bones. The cockatrice screeched and fell to the ground. The rider yelped as the bird crushed his leg. Saul put both out of their misery with powerful slams from his mace. Another musket crack and the last mounted survivor, already fifty yards away, fell from his mount. The mount gave a pathetic cry before it ran on.

Saul turned toward the house and a vial shattered at his feet. He flinched, but instead of the explosion of fire, an odor, like sweaty feet, filled the air. The liquid around his boots coagulated and hardened. Elixir of immobility. The goo would set instantly, leaving him completely immobilized from the ankle down.

Saul looked to Mert who was trying to pull his feet apart. Malchanor stepped towards Saul but stayed out of swinging distance. The old man’s face was morose and serious as he looked at them.

“You’re not one of them,” Malchanor said in a gruff rasp. “You don’t smell like raiders. You’re with the Guild, aren’t you? Another glory seeker come for the reward?”

“You’d best unstick us or—“ Saul started.

Malchanor laughed. “I’d best unstick you? Ho, that’s rich! You must think me stupid! When has a demand like that ever convinced anyone? Assassin, you’d best remember the name Malchanor Hamagesh. It is the last name you’ll remember. “

“You should really—“ Saul started again.

Malchanor interrupted him again. “Why do you waste my time with such awkward demands? You know they won’t…” he trailed off. The man looked over Saul’s shoulder.

“You think I should?” he spoke. “They smell like Guild assassins. They’re after the… no. No. No. No!”

Saul looked to Mert who held a confused expression. Saul held his mace out to test the weight and balance. He was more than a decent thrower. Malchanor stood only fifteen feet away and was close enough to hit with a thrown mace. The alchemist continued talking with an invisible entity.

“Killing them would work,” Malchanor said. “But do you think it would matter? They’ll keep coming, no matter how hard I try. I won’t ever—“

“Ever be sane,” a voice finished. The woman wore a light duster and wide brimmed hat on her head. Her hands cradled a musket aimed at Saul. Her black hair ran loosely across her dark skin, save for two small braids that hung from her ears.

Malchanor continued his conversation, unaware that she had said anything. She sighed and walked across the grass to the side of the crazy alchemist. She jabbed him hard in the shoulder, and he jumped like a startled dog.

“Do you ever pay attention to anything I say?” she said.

Malchanor glared at her. “Only when you’re not spreading lies. I know all about you, Lilo.”

“Good. You should. I’ve been protecting your sorry hide for too many months,” Lilo said.

Saul cleared his throat. “As fun as this is, you should unstick us.”

“Why? I don’t know who you are,” Lilo said. “The enemy of my enemy may just be a cunning opportunist.”

“Or a stinking Guild hireling!” Malchanor said. “Another filthy rat here to—“

Lilo shushed him with a hand wave. “Everyone is a filthy stinking Guild hireling, Mal.” She looked back to Saul. “Why should I trust anything you say?”

Saul caught her eyes. “Because Sargoth is working for me now. And since you work for him, that puts you under my direct control.”

“Bold claim,” Lilo said. “And… how do I know I can believe anything you say? Maybe you really are Guild assassins.”

“They are Guild assassins,” Malchanor said.

“Fine, you want proof? Should have just given you this in the first place,” Saul said. He reached into his pocket, and grabbed the medallion Sargoth had given him. The sylthanian males kept ones like it as identification for breeding purposes. He threw the copper trinket at Lilo who didn’t bother catching it and instead watched it fall.

She kept her musket and eyes leveled at him while she knelt down and grabbed the medallion. Once she had straightened up, she took a long look at it, before finally nodding to Malchanor.

“What, that’s it?” Malchanor sputtered. “How do we know they didn’t kill Sargoth and take it?”

“Because, Mal, why would they kill Sargoth, steal an token from him, come here, risk life against raiders, and then give us said medal?” Lilo said.

“Because they’re Guild assassins! They’re relentless! They could be anyone! The Guild, they have methods that…” He looked into the distance again and paused. “Oh, an excellent idea! And if you added a half-pinch off—“

“Malchanor!” Lilo yelled. “Pay attention! Stop listening to whatever the hell you’re listening to!”

Malchanor jumped again. He glared at Lilo. “Woman! You’re making things difficult on me! What do you want?”

“Unstick them? Now.” Lilo said.

Malchanor looked at both Saul and Mert and his eyes filled with recognition that turned to rage. The alchemist muttered under his breath until he grabbed two vials from one of the pockets his robe held.

“Shoot them if they try anything,” Malchanor warned.

The alchemist edged forward, keeping an eye on both Mert and Saul as he moved. He hurled one vial at Saul and another at Mert and then bolted away. He stopped next to Lilo, and already held more vials in his hands.

Saul waited as the mixture holding his feet dissolved. When the goo fell off, he straightened up.

“Now. To business.”

Questions :

1. Gunpowder weapons? You thoughts on em in a fantasy setting?

2. Malchanor. Did he seem suitably nuts? I'm not going for a specific psychological condition here.

3. How did the action go?

4. Anything else you saw?

Colton's End of Chapter 2 and Chapter 3

Nothing new to report in relations to this post, at least as far as we're concerned with. Editing both here and on paper is continuing, and you'll see a shift toward Saul's PoV, mostly as a design decision. Motives are being fleshed out a little be more as are characters.

I'll be getting to reading everyone's stuff tonight and tomorrow.

Summary: Saul Rawne and his Dragon, Mert Asherban are talking to a sylthanian tactician in hopes of recruiting him.

Chapter 2 Cont.


“So the two of you deserted?” Saul asked.

“Fah. How could I desert them? They deserted me. To lead in battle, fight the enemy, and die a shrieking corpse on the field of battle was all I asked. There was nothing left for me there. Were anything different now, I would go back immediately. But change comes slowly. It was only three centuries ago we sylthanian men were nothing more than chattel. Bred like common animals. I fear I may never see my homeland again in this incarnation.”


Sargoth paused as Kazarranar put a big mug of whiskey in front of him. “My point is this: I am not some drunken layabout drinking beer, and dreaming of a return to glory. I am not some washed-up advisor who has fallen on hard times and turns to drink. I am a bored tactician, looking for something entertaining.”

The Sylthanian popped his knuckles and then rested both hands under his chin. “You want me to help you get revenge on those who wronged you? Who killed your wife? As callous as it sounds, I have no care for your problems. The only enticement that can rouse me now is the opportunity to go against insurmountable odds.”

Revenge? Callous or not, that is everything. It is all that matters. Saul leaned back. “I’ll give you that.”

Sargoth laughed. “I figured you could. At first I might refuse your offer. You haven’t tempted me with anything in return. You thought you could get the old Prelate’s attention by enticing him with the thoughts of a grandiose revenge that belongs in legends told around a campfire”

“There is always that,” Saul said.

“Quite. I was always partial to bold plans. I’m in,” Sargoth said.
“Just like that?” Mert said, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, there’s always more to it. Come walk with me. This isn’t a conversation for other ears to hear,” Sargoth said. The big sylthanian pulled himself out of his chair and started for the exit.

Saul followed him. Kazarranar, the Life-ward fell into step behind them.

“So if you’re not here as a washed-out drunk, then why are you drinking by yourself in a bar?” Mert said.

“What can I say? I love whiskey,” Sargoth said.

 
Chapter 3

Saul followed Sargoth out into the rain, and the smell of unwashed bodies vanished replaced with the crisp smell of the downpour that had washed away the pungent stink of the cockatrices. The large birds, tethered outside, gave them quizzical looks as they passed by, but quickly returned to preening their feathers with their long narrow beaks.

Sargoth paused and turned to Kazarranar. He spoke crisp, sharp words in Sithar that Saul tried to follow. Far too long had passed since he had heard Sithar, the sylthanian language and his sense for understanding the words had dulled.

“You’re not keeping something from us, are you?” Saul asked.

Sargoth looked towards Saul. “The streets in any city in Lorhal are never safe, Master Rawne. I counted at least three druid informants, plus seven other spies for other factions. Shintaur. Blackwell. One for the Empire of Heaven. You’d be surprised how many significant events start in taverns. We’re proof of that.”

Sargoth continued a moment later. “I have my own secrets, Saul. I am not working for you. I am working with you. Many of the native Lorhalians are veterans of the wars perpetrated by Blackwell, and they see me as an enemy. Reputation on my part is the only reason that they haven’t succeeded in killing me.”

He turned back and led them out to the edge of town. The Life-ward faded back, watching for anyone trying to listen in on them. The rain became a dull roar around them, pattering off the rooftops and tuning out the noise several paces beyond them.

“I assume you already have some plan in place? This isn’t going to be something you just do overnight,” Sargoth said.

Saul paused. He hadn’t set anything vital in motion yet. He had never been able to manipulate anyone worth a damn. Too blunt for that, but where you can’t manipulate, you predict. “Nothing is set right now.”

Sargoth grunted. “You’re probably looking at a multifold plan to start. Establish popular support. Erode official support. Install yourself or someone else as the person in control. I know all sorts of people who could support what you’re doing, but no one ever works for free. I’ve noticed you have little in hard currency. “

“You just have to find something they’d be willing to do for nothing,” Saul said. “You’re already proof of that, Prelate.”

“You’re talking about making Thorozean your own,” Sargoth said. “Civil ordinances and governmental nonsense doesn’t interest me. If you want me to play world builder, you’re out of luck. I can knock it down, but I’m not going to rebuild it. Unless you two have an army somewhere that I don’t know about, then we’re going to need specialists to crack this nut.”

“What kind of specialist cracks nuts?” Mert muttered.

“Sod off, Mert,” Saul said.

“Sodding off, sir,” Mert said.

At that moment several hussars appeared out of the misty gloom beyond the city. Each rider held one of their long-barreled rifles close to their body, covering the fire-dust opening with a hand to prevent the powder from turning into a soggy mash. They passed by the three of them without a word, heading further into town at a quickened trot. The smell from the cockatrice’s passage invaded Saul’s nose before the pouring rain wiped it away. I’m never going to get used to that stench.

“Word has it that a legion of my comrades has infiltrated into the continent this far,” Sargoth noted. “The Khan is already dealing with it. The local commander has outriders combing the Steppes looking for them. Fate, it seems, always has a way of catching up to us.”

“You think your Shaman Queen wants her trophy back?” Mert asked.

Saul sneered down at him. “Perhaps. But I’m not going anywhere. I may be old, but I am not a mewling infant. And don’t let Kazarranar fool you. She’s incredibly good at what she does. I would have expected her to be the Shaman Queen’s own Life-ward by now.”

Saul could believe that. Watching the Life-ward gave him all sorts of new insights into personal protection. Life-wards weren’t just average bodyguards but soldiers bred specifically in sanctioned breeding ground back in the Pollos Expanse across the ocean. Conditioned from birth, Life-wards trained exclusively to protect their ward, and as a result, all ranking sylthanians had at least one. Life-ward’s honor was linked to the one they protected and, male or not, Kazarranar would protect Sargoth to her death.

“What specialists are we going to need?” Mert asked.

“You solicited my services less than an hour ago, and you expect me to have devised a brilliant solution? Either you flatter me or insult me,” Sargoth said.

“I know your reputation, Prelate,” Saul said. “You’re just having fun at our expense.”

“Then allow me to make it more fun. How familiar are you with the Dawnfire Guild?” Sargoth asked.

The Dawnfire Guild. Now there was a name that Saul hadn’t expected to come up. The guild of Blackwell Alchemists was the worst kept secret in existence. Everyone knew they existed and everyone knew what they did, but Saul had no first-hand experience with anyone who had even met a Dawnfire Alchemist.

“They do all the potion and elixir making for the Circle of Oak in Blackwell. Also deal with training Magi,” Saul said.

“More or less,” Sargoth said. He coughed several times and snorted, clearing phlegm from his throat. “This damn weather. I doubt you’ve heard of Malchanor Hamagesh?”

Oddly enough, Saul could recall the name, but he couldn’t recall the context where he had heard it. A distant memory from another time. “Sounds familiar.”

“Oh, he’s got a great tale to tell.” Sargoth said. “You see, he left the Guild.”

“I thought the only way out was death,” Mert said.

“Correct,” Sargoth said. He reached into his coat pocket and grabbed some of the bar nuts he had hid away. While munching one, he continued. “But he was gone when they finally uncovered his departure. The motive he claims as true changes every time you ask him. Alchemists discovered the philosopher’s stone and he stole it and ran. Alchemists remade dwarven fire and he stole it and ran. Alchemists remade dwarven fire; he burned the guildhouse to the ground, and ran off with the Guildmaster’s wife. He gave one of the Circle of Oak a potion that turned the druid into a striped-rot grub.”

“He lit an apprentice on fire just to watch him burn, and then ate the boy’s right foot,” Kazarranar added, walking up to them.

Sargoth chuckled nervously, “Ah yes… I forgot that one.” Saul’s nervous smile was replaced by one of mixed apprehension. “The Guild was about as amenable to his departure as you’d expect. Their constant pursuit has driven Malchanor crazy.”

“He’s what?” Saul said.

“You heard me. Years of inhaling toxic fumes and the constant paranoia of hired assassins following him have turned him into a paranoid maniac. If you want a favor to get him under your thumb, offer him protection and he’ll immediately accept. He has a particular knack with volatile potion making, as well as a decent skill with about everything else.”

“You said you had two in mind. Who is the other?” Saul asked
.
“The other I hired to keep an eye on Malchanor,” Sargoth said. “Local, this one, but she’s proven to be a diamond in the rough. She’s a mercenary, with one of the local raiding warbands that operates in this region. Or she was, until about a year ago. Evidently she shot the wrong person and has been on the run from his friends for the past year. Probably less likely to go for any free employment though. She takes all money up-front regardless of what it is you want. But she’s an effective sharpshooter and won’t give any of this ‘thrill of the chase’ nonsense you get with bounty hunters now.
”
“You expect for us to need a sharpshooter?” Mert asked.

“Would you feel better without one?” Sargoth said.

“Point,” Saul said. “Any other ideas?”

“Several, but nothing sure enough to be worth sharing,” Sargoth said. “I have business I need to deal with here. You go find the other two. Malchanor and the markswoman, Lilo, are holed up in a ranch about five miles straight north from here. Malchanor’s tendencies have the unfortunate effect of drawing attention so I had to move them a decent way away.”

“I do find it odd than in less than an hour you seem convinced to work with us,” Mert remarked.

Sargoth sighed. “You have the reputation and the means to get work done. Besides, it's been a long time since I’ve had to plan a proper war.”

Chapter 1 - Meet Ira

Chapter 1 Ira’s Normal Life (Balance)
The lights went out in the auditorium, leaving nothing but a rotating spot light that panned left to right and up and down to the beat of the obnoxious 90’s hip-hop. There were cheers, a smattering of clapping for a moment, and then over the loud speaker, in that let’s-get-ready-to-rumble voice: “NOW INTRODUCING, THE VICTORS YOU CHOSE AT THE CLOSE OF LAST YEAR, TO BE YOUR LEADERS...YOUR STUDENT BODY OFFICERS!!!”

From behind a large piece of crate paper stretched between 2 volley ball posts, a group of students burst through the paper. They cheered and clapped. All of them wearing business attire: suits and ties and skirts, but topped with baseball hats and trimmed with tennis shoes. The audience screamed in unison with applause.
There were 6 of them. They walked onto the mini stage that had been wheeled into the auditorium as a riser for the podium. The spot light focused in on one of the officers. It was a girl. She wore a black blazer and had on beneath it a cheerleader skirt. “Standing a whopping five feet and 6 inches, Michelle Princeton, captain of the cheerleading squad, holding a 4.0 GPA and a long time advocate for the Mel Bay Buckaneers! We present to you YOUR NEW ACTIVITES COORDINATOR!!!” the crowd cheered. She threw the blazer onto the ground revealing her full cheerleader outfit, and then did a sort of high-kick cheerleader move.
The spot light shifted from one student body officer to the next introducing each of them the a unique but similar fashion. It reached its culmination, introducing the Student Body President: Ira Conrad. He stood with a super-man-stance, both hands balled up in fists at his waste. He wore a stunning pinstripe 3 piece suit and no ball cap or tennis shoes.
“...lead his team to victory on the soccer field as a right wing. Ira is a native of Mel Bay Oregon, and spends his time playing soccer or participating in rock climbing championships... the student voted in last year’s Year-Book as the most likely to become the next President of the United States, your new STUDENT BODY PRESIDENT!” Ira did an imitation moon walk to the podium. The cheers were everywhere. There were a few pockets of booing however.
Ira reached the podium. The spotlight centered on him. He stood behind it and sure enough, his presence was that of a politician. The crowd grew quiet. He waited.
“I know you all don’t want a speech today but I’m going to say a few short words nevertheless.” Ira rested one hand on the podium and scanned the audience. The booing commenced. There was sort of a groan that rippled through the audience. Someone yelled, “your already in office, you can stop campaigning!” there was a reaction rippled of laughter.
Ira put up a hand. “I know. I know.” He waited for silence once more. “The truth is, this is the last year of high school for many of us. High school isn’t the most important thing, and we’re going to move onto bigger and better things. So let’s make this the most memorable year EVER!” he shouted the last word and it echoed like a heart attack through the PA system. The crowd cheered. When the eruption had ended, Ira leaned up close to the microphone. “Our Student Body Officers and myself, along with the best Student Counsel in the history of Mel Bay High!” cheers, “Wish to present to you our motto for this year, focusing on uniting every student in the school, we proudly declare, EVERY FELLOW STUDENT IS A FRIEND!” the other student body officers removed a large sheet and the words were written in black on a large piece of wood. There was a smattering of cheers, but not very powerful. Someone yelled “LAAAAME!”
Ira pushed his way on. “I just want to say, enough with the click’s exclusiveness. Enough with the jocks, nerds, gamers, thespians, whatever. The clicks and what they represent aren’t inherently evil, it’s the exclusiveness we wish to dethrone! So I say to everyone of you!” he pointed a sweeping finger from one side of the bleachers to the other. “Everyone of you is a friend—to ME! Let’s make this year memorable!” cheers again. Ira stepped out from behind the podium to take his bow. And to the surprise of everyone there, Ira was now only wearing polka dot underwear. Somehow, unknown to the crowd, Ira had removed his slacks. The underwear was obviously a gag and Ira was wearing something beneath it, but the crowd died laughing. The other student body officers took a bow next to Ira.

Ira turned the corner in the hallway and saw her. Michelle was at her locker. School had let out some 15 minute before and there was still a rather prominent bustle of students. He didn’t see anything but her though. Her hair seemed to bounce like in a shampoo commercial. She wore skinny jeans and a white blouse that was sort of frilly around the edges. Ira took a deep breath. It was the first day of school, and if this was going to be the most memorable of years Ira had be confident and bold. Things were moving into place just as planned. Ira was student body president, he had just purchased his jeep, he had won the largest rock climbing contest in Oregon over the summer, and was preparing for another in October. Yes everything was going right. He just needed the girl, to make things perfect.
“hey Michelle.” Ira said as he approached her locker. She turned and smiled; what a smile!
“You knocked ‘em dead today, Ira. That was really cool!” Michelle was getting books out of her locker.
“Thanks. I...uh. Yeah, I was worried I lost the crowd... too preachy, maybe?”
“Could have been. But it wasn’t.” She closed her locker and leaned her back up against it. Her bag was bulging. She let it sink to the ground.
“That’s quite the load. Let me carry it for you. I’ll give you a ride home in my jeep too. Did you know I got a jeep over the summer.”
Michelle smiled. “Yes, Ira, I knew you got a jeep. You told everyone in student counsel the day you bought it.”
Ira looked down at his feet. He remembered telling everyone before, he wanted to pound his forehead, but that would have to wait until he was alone at home, then he could scold himself for being so stupid.
Ira reached for her bag. “here, let me get that for you.”
“I got it Ira.” She said hefting the bag over a shoulder. Ira tried to take the bag anyway, but she resisted. The result was that when Ira let go of the bag, it sent Michelle stumbling backwards like the losing side of a tug of war.
“Oh my gosh! Sorry. Sorry! I really didn’t mean to...” Ira said stepping next to her. His face was red again. I’m such an idiot! He said to himself.
“It’s okay Ira. I should get going. I actually have a ton of homework, gotta love those AP classes, and then cheerleading practice in the morning, and Student counsel... its gonna be a hefty year.”
They turned and began walking down the hallway.
“let me give you a ride at least.”
“Ira, Lisa is probably waiting for me.”
“She’ll understand. Come on, do you really want to be with Lisa? Or me?” Ira said with a pseudo-debonair smile. Michelle laughed. She stopped walking and looked directly at Ira. “What?” Ira said looking around himself to make sure it was him she was looking at.
“You’re really gonna make a good Student Body President aren’t you?”
Ira’s mouth dropped. He didn’t know what to respond. So he shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m gonna try...”

They rode without speaking in the jeep. Ira only stalled it once, when they were first leaving the parking lot. They bounced along in the beautiful sunny afternoon. It was still august, the last fading days of summer, and it smelled rich of grass and pine trees as they sped along the windy road out to Michelle’s house. She lived a little bit further inland, where the forest blocked ones view of the ocean.
They pulled up to her house and she was stepping out of the jeep. “thanks Ira.”
“Listen, what are you doing tonight?”
“Homework. James is gonna be calling me too.”
“Are you still seeing that lame college-man!” Ira said patronizingly.
“Yes, he has a name and he is my boyfriend.”
“Isn’t he in Michigan or something?”
“Yeah, OSU doesn’t start classes until the 8th of September.”
The jeep pulled into a long driveway up to a rather large home, with pillars and a pond in the front yard.
“Come on. I won’t keep you out late.” Ira prodded. If he weren’t sitting in the jeep, he probably would have gotten on his knees. Now that Ira was succeeding in a social life, he found himself wanting more of it. He was sick of sitting at home reading, like he had done all through junior high.
“How about instead, you let me bum another ride to school in the morning.” She shut the door of the jeep and walked into her house without looking back. Ira stared at her the whole way. She was beautiful. She had it all: intelligent, gorgeous, rich, and not to mention, what made her more attractive than perhaps anything else, was the simple fact that she was unattainable. She was currently owned by that dopy college boy. Ira was positive James was a nobody at college. But to a young high school girl, any remotely attractive college boy meant a status also out of most girl’s reach.

Ira pulled his jeep up to his home. It was a modest split level home. 3 bedroom including the master. Large kitchen, 2 car garage, lots of space. But the drawback was simply, the house was getting older. The carpet could have been from the 70’s, everything was brown. Brown wallpaper, brown countertops, brown cupboards, and not wood-brown, but paint-brown, that was cracked and peeling.
Ira walked into the house and threw his things down next to the piano in the front room.
“Uh oh! Look who’s back.” Ira’s father, Terry, said hunching to look into the dining room in between the snack bar and the overhang of cabinets. “Its MISTER STUDENT BODY PRESIDENT IIIIRA COOONRAD.” Terry was mixing up his famous potato rolls in a green mixing bowl the size of a small lake. He wore a pink and red apron with hearts on it, shielding his work suit: slacks, blue button up, and tie.
“Come off it dad. Its not a big deal.”
“It is to me!” he said with a big laugh. “Come on, how was the first day. Did you do it?”
“Do what?” Ira feigned ignorance.
“You know, the boxers at the end of the speech.”
Ira wanted to maintain his cool composure, but it was his dad’s idea in the first place. So Ira broke down and described the entire thing. Terry was chuckling through the whole story. “No one noticed during the speech than, that anything was different?”
“I don’t think so. We kept the spot light on mainly my upper half you know, and the rest was shadows. I’m sure to get an earful from Mr. Hink tomorrow but it was worth it.”
“Well, he has to say something. He is an advisor. But you wanted to show the clicks you were everyone’s president right? Making people laugh brings down barriers like crazy.”
Ira loved talking to his dad. He had wished all growing up to be more like him. Terry was the perfect balance of adult temperament with child like reveries. He knew when to joke and when to be serious. He commanded a room like a president and a comedian. It had been his idea to surprise the student body with the phony underwear, and it had worked. Of course it had, Dad knew how to win peoples respect and devotion. It wasn’t a facade either. He cared about people.
Ira went upstairs to change out of his suit and tie. He jumped on MSN for a few minutes but after seeing that Michelle was not online, he abandoned it. When Ira came back downstairs he found his mom in a skirt and blouse. The table was set with their best china, and the table was packed for a feast.
“What’s with all the...” Ira asked with a frown. He hated when his parents left him in the dark.
“A new co-worker at the Hospital. He’s a surgeon, they have a daughter your age, and they just moved here from Chicago. I offered to treat them to dinner tonight.”
Course you did. Ira scowled some more. He didn’t want to put on airs tonight. There were always people coming over. It was the flip side of that coin: Dad being cool attracted company all the time. It was always really boring conversation too. Especially on first encounters. Dad held back the really fun jokes and stories, and told the long time successful stories. The one’s Ira had heard many a time, but Dad seemed to add new details or change things up...but still. Ira did not want to entertain tonight.
The door bell rang, and in came the family of 3. They were a perfect mirror of each other. Dad tall and slender and talkative. Mr. Townsend was round and quiet; he wore a contemplative expression which Ira was sure was just a mask to hide an empty mind. Stephanie, Ira’s mom, was also tall and thin. She was a busy body and a hard worker. Mrs. Townsend was more of a homebody, Ira could tell. For the simple fact that she brought a casserole and wouldn’t stop smiling. Not a fake “putting on heirs” sort of grin, but a genuine “I like everyone” beaming like a star smile.
To his surprise, Emily Townsend, was actually cute. She was sort of rugged looking. Like she didn’t wash her hair everyday and didn’t care about designer jeans or Abercrombie and Fitch. She wore a boys old button up plaid shirt with torn up jeans that might have been cool 10 years back but now they were left wanting.
Stephanie introduced Ira to Emily. They both said hello in the same teenage “I’m here but i’m not really here! Kind of voice. They didn’t speak another word the rest of the night, which came as a relief to Ira. He was worried he’d have to think of things to talk about.
Dinner dragged on. Ira had eaten as slowly as possible but adults don’t eat, they talk and nibble. He had cleared his plate a couple of times of mashed potatoes, corn, roast beef and rolls. Mrs. Townsend, (she asked to be called Mable) could not stop commenting on the food. Terry loved it, and soaked it up, he and Mable talked of food the rest of the night. Terry practically ate 4 servings of her split pea casserole. Dad loved to cook. Mom and Mr. Townsend had some unintelligible conversation about hospital stuff. They were like their own mini-episode of ER, and without a medical dictionary Ira was lost most of the time. Mr. Townsend really seemed to open up when talking about his field. Stephanie was a nurse but she was interested in going back to school to be a PA so she was uber-interested in whatever Townsend had to say about his schooling.
It was a like a constant cross fire of conversations across the table seeing how fathers and mothers sat across from each other and yet were talking to the opposite. Ira spent most of the time avoiding making eye contact with Emily and checking his watch.
“...so Emily, you excited for school here in Mel Bay?”
“Not really. But I’m supposed to say yes.” Emily’s parent’s frowned at her. “What. I’m not gonna lie. I’m sure he understands.” Mable huffed trying to stop her, but dad encouraged it further.
“Understand what?” Terry asked tipping back his glass, sipping at the ice which was all that was left at this point.
“Moving to a new school senior year. Starting from scratch.”
“Yeah. I can understand that. Can be hard, but depends on how you approach it.”
“How do you mean?” Emily said with a squint.
“Well, you can dwell on life in Chicago and all the things you missing out on, or you can look at the good happening around you right now.”
Ira had to save her. Dad was getting on a soap box and they were all about to hear a speech. “Dad, please. Spare us a lecture.”
“what, no lecture. This is no lecture.” Terry said smiling. He was always enjoying himself.
“I would like to hear what he has to say.” Mr. Townsend urged. Emily was clearly not happy with the move and Townsend welcomed anything that supported his decision that had brought the family to Mel Bay.
“Well, for one thing, the student body president is sitting right in front of you!”
“Dear!” Stephanie chimed in at the same time that Ira moaned, “you’re really bringing that up.” Ira was glad for his mother’s support. He would need her to thwart a flood.
“What? It’s the truth. What a perfect connection. You’re making right now. I bet Ira can show you around school tomorrow and everything.”
“I can’t!” Ira interjected. It was rude, but he had to put a foot down somewhere. “I mean, I would love to. But I have to be at the school early, and...”
“Perfect. You can give her a ride!” Terry said.
“No I can’t.”
“Why’s that Ira?” Stephanie was turning on him. He had been too bold.
“I’m already giving someone else a ride.”
“And the jeep can hold on 2 people now?” Terry leaned back in his chair.
“Mr. Conrad, it’s okay. I’m sure I can manage.” Emily said. Ira was surprised. She fared well with the adult discussion. She wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.
“No. Ira, the jeep is actually mine, and if you want to be driving anything to school tomorrow, you’ll be taking Emily too.” Terry lost his smile. Ira knew he had lost. He faked a cheeky smile and said they could work something out, but inside he was a bubbling volcano. Michelle and Emily in the same car. How could Ira strut his stuff for Michelle with an audience. Emily seemed the type to speak her mind. It was Ira’s intention of making Michelle a regular part of his daily routine. Michelle didn’t need a ride. Her dad owned like 3 BMWs and 2 Corvettes. She could drive a different fancy car to school every day of the week. She had accepted to ride with Ira because she wanted to be with him. A 3rd wheel would be the end of it.

Ira drove the black jeep up the winding road to Michelle’s mansion. The top was down, but it was a windy morning. The ocean breeze was billowing in from the bay and pushing past the trees, moaning of an early autumn. Emily grimaced most of the way. Ira glanced at her on a few occasions but there was no talk between them.
Ira felt a twinge of guilt for not being receptive. He tried to think of a commentary he could make, but somehow “its a blustery day huh?” just didn’t seem to fit. Emily would know he was being fake and Ira wasn’t in the mood to pretend.
They reached Michelle’s house. She stepped out the door in a striped button up shirt that was undone revealing a snow white tank top underneath. Ira’s heart jumped. She was so attractive. He thanked his lucky stars that she had won the election for activities coordinator.
As Michelle reached the car she hardly took note of Emily’s presence. Ira then realized the catastrophe. He should have picked up Emily second. Ira wanted to pound his head on the steering wheel as he watched Michelle hop gingerly into the open back seat of the jeep. Ira now cursed that same luck. How could this be happening? He knew that with a girl like Michelle one wrong move meant it was over. Resigned to his fate, Ira pushed forward.
“Michelle, this is Emily. She just moved in and her dad works with my dad.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” Michelle said in a tone that almost seemed sincere. Emily mumbled a thank you without looking back.
The drive to school was equally silent. Twice Ira endeavored to kindle a conversation but Michelle gave short one-word answers. Emily stared out the passenger window the entire way. She hardly moved. Ira began to worry that if they didn’t get there soon enough moss would begin to grow.

The day dragged on. Ira spent about 10 minutes showing Emily around the school and then dismissed himself. He felt more guilt but he really had things to get done. It was his job to give the morning announcements over the loud speaker and hadn’t time yet to put together the details.
Classes were the usual run of the mill. Ira found a friend in each class and spent a lot of time talking when he could get away with it. 2 different professors had scolded him for it, using his title as leverage against him.
At the end of the day, Ira made another attempt at rekindling things with Michelle but she declined, simply saying that things were better this way. Ira cursed that stupid parents for being so social, and cursed himself for having picked up Emily first, not that it would have made much difference. And he cursed himself again knowing that he would be taking Emily home again as well.

Ira pulled the jeep into its spot in the driveway. He was feeling better about life again, and trying to forget the social complications. He need to focus now on school. There was much to keep track of; all the things that were already assigned for homework. Emily would have to be sorted out later. Dad had ordered him to make it a permanent situation but Ira would talk to Emily. She seemed to be enjoying Ira’s company about as much as he was hers. He was sure after talking she would agree to dispense with the rides to school.
He grabbed his bag from the back seat and waltzed into the house feeling light and fancy-free.
He found his mom in the front room staring out the window with a hand covering her mouth. Tears were streaming down her face and she was holding a wad of tissues. Her eyes were red enough to illustrate hours worth of shed tears. When she said hello her voice was shaky.
“What’s wrong.” Ira furrowed his brow. He could feel a blow coming to his world.
“It’s your father, Ira.” Stephanie Conrad swallowed reluctantly. “He’s been in an accident at work.”

"What happened!" Ira said dropping his backpack to the tile with a thump.
"He's..." Stephanie broke down and bawled before she could get the words out.