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.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Spawn of the Void 2/2
Ok, here at long last is a post from me. Sorry it's been so long. This finishes up my world-building short story. Here are my questions:
1) What do you think of Danel?
2) How about the voidspawn? I had trouble putting my mental images of the creature down on paper. What worked and didn't work?
3) How about the "gateway"? For those of you who read my earlier story "What May have Been" the doorway is a passage into the other world explained in that story. I don't think I'll stick with this version of the gateway, but let me know what you think.
4) How was the action sequence? I feel like action is really hard to write.
5) General Impressions
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“Gholem prefer high places . . . cliff faces, dead trees and the like.” Danel said. “Gholem usually follow Soulless packs, feasting on the dead, but they too serve the whim of the Blood Lords. They are spies and assassins, winged and cunning. But these webs”—swinging the lantern high he gestured to the ghostly bits of thread snapping fitfully in the wind—”these were spun by a different creature all together. They’ve been called many things through the ages: great-roaches or dread-spiders, the Black Swarm or simply the Hive. Myself, I’ve always preferred the druan name chaq’huar’ttiq. It means ‘all-consuming nest’.”
“They’re . . . bugs?” Jarrod managed, unable to take his eyes off the undulating strands. Webs! Faith, some of those threads were as thick as his wrist!
“Bugs, yes,” Danel said and he shuttered the lantern again, plunging the wall back into shadow. “Though not like anything you can imagine.”
“What do they look like?”
“There are more breeds than I care to recite,” Danel said and he motioned for Jarrod to follow him. “Each bred for a single purpose.”
The old man crunched over the gravel that dusted the pitted surface of the wide gray flagstones that surrounded the tower on all sides and Jarrod hurried to follow, juggling the strange waterskin to his other arm and shaking the numbness out of his now-free hand—the skin on his arm pimpled in the cold night air.
“In the swarm there are creatures that might remind you of spiders, others that seem more like wasps or yellow-coats. Some toil out their lives working like ants and others hunt living prey from dawn till dark. All of them, small as bees or large as houses, are slaves, bound to the will of the Mattron. Many centuries have passed since that black queen stirred from her deep catacombs in the far south, many centuries since her spawn spread death and pestilence from Treimonte to Laradesh. In those days she called herself the Dark Mother. Who know’s what name she fancies now.”
“She’s still alive?” Jarrod asked. “After all those years?”
“Never mistake the Dark Mother for a mere mortal, she is as much insect as any of her children. But an older blood flows in her veins. Much older. Her cunning is deep and her wisdom the cold calculations of a thousand thousand years. And, like the Blood Lords, she is bound blood and marrow to the Ancient Enemy.”
Rounding the tower they passed into the harsh moonlight that cast deep shadows and bleached the tumbled stone and ruined walls bone-white. The old man wound his way through the maze of shattered rock and the dark roots that hoved up out of the earth without pausing, as if he passed this way every morning, and it was only by dancing from foot to foot like a hay-struck fool that Jarrod managed to keep pace.
The wall beyond the tower had crumbled away in the distant past, and the gap provided a stunning panorama of the mountains beyond, their blocky forms cast in sharp relief by the moon that was setting beyond them. Overhead, the diamond-dust band of the Wardwall glittered like silver, a broad band of stars that split the deep black sky in two.
Framed by moonlight and standing directly in the center of the broken gap in the wall was a square block of somesort, its long shadow stretching across the uneven courtyard to brush at Jarrod’s toes. From twenty strides away the block—it was stone, wasn’t it?—was featureless, as black as the sky above. But staring at it, Jarrod couldn’t help but feel that something was stirring just within the block’s inky shadow.
Skin prickling with a thrill of fear, Jarrod licked his lips and asked, “There wouldn’t be any darkspawn still lurking about, would there?”
“Hmmm?” The old man shook himself as if coming out of a trance, and tore his gaze away from the dark stone block long enough to frown at Jarrod. “Don’t be a fool boy. Didn’t I tell you the signs were all old? Now, hand me the bag.”
Only when he’d pulled the waterskin from beneath his cloak did Jarrod realize that the thing warm. Faith, whatever was in the ‘skin was warmer than soup fresh from the pot! And still glowing like the sun at noon!
The bulging ‘skin was halfway to Danel’s hands when Jarrod pulled up short, the light spilling from the seams of the bag throwing back the shadows around them and casting the old man’s face in harsh relief. For a moment, Danel only looked at the ‘skin, confusion wrinkling his brow, then with a grunt of displeasure he grabbed the bag and gave it a sharp tug. It barely moved.
“Give the bag over, boy!”
Jarrod held on tight, amazed at how weak the old man suddenly seemed.
“You said the Soulles killed my da.” Narrowing his eyes, he gave the bag a hard jerk, pulling Danel closer. “How’d you know that?”
Grunting, straining to pull the bag back, Danel hissed through gritted teeth, “I read the signs, you fool! They’re plain enough. Now give the bag over. I’m running out of time!”
“You and your bag can rot beyond the Ward for all I care. How’d you know? Were you there? Did you watch my da die?”
A low rumble moaned across the sky behind Jarrod—the last of the retreating storm no doubt—and Danel paled in the golden light from the ‘skin. For a long moment his wide jaw worked silently, then, passing his free hand over his brow, the old man said, “I would have done something had I known the ruqai were waiting. A moment sooner . . . I might have been some help. You must believe me. I never wished such a fate on Matinew.”
Jarrod went limp and only Danel’s quick fingers kept the waterkin from falling. He barely noticed. The sight of his da’s broken body tumbled through his mind over and over, the terrible way his throat had been slashed open, the gaping hole where his stomach had been. The men who’d brought the body in had tried to hide it from Jarrod, but he’d broken free and torn away the bloody canvas they’d thrown over his da.
His da.
Oh Faith, his da.
Then what Danel had said finally sunk in, and all other thoughts fled. He looked up, and Danel took an involuntary step back, towards the black stone between the broken wall.
“How do you know my da’s name?” The words came out as cold as a corpse three days dead.
Thunder groaned again, closer this time, defying the clearing sky.
“Now listen to me, Jarrod,” Danel said, holding up a hand to ward him off. The old man was breathing hard now, eyes wide. “Your father came with me willingly. He understood the importance of my work. I’ve no time to explain now, but if—”
“Shut up!”
Lunging at the man, Jarrod grabbed the waterskin, feet skittering over loose stone when Danel fought back. For a moment neither man moved, arms locked around the glowing ‘skin, faces nearly touching, chests heaving and breath fogging in the cold. Jarrod’s whole body was trembling, screaming to unleash the rage and fear that he’d kept bottled up for so long. Here was the one responsible for his da’s death. Here was the monster who’d taken everything from him.
Without warning, Danel’s leg snaked around Jarrod’s and pulled hard, sending him tumbling to the ground. Faster than thought the old man was on him, striking over and over with impossible speed. A clenched fist struck Jarrod hard just beneath his chest, driving the wind from him, and then in rapid succession the old man landed blows on his neck, stomach and back with blizzard of stiffened fingers, elbows and the heel of his foot.
Fast as quicksilver it was over: Jarrod doubled over on himself, scrabbling weakly at the muddy stones, Danel standing over him, the waterskin in one hand, the other held helf-out, like part of him wanted to help Jarrod up. The old man’s face was a mask of anguish, but finally his free hand dropped and he turned away from Jarrod, back towards the dark block.
“I won’t ask you to forgive me for what I’ve done, boy.”
Pushing himself to his feet was like lifting a haywagon with only one good arm, but Jarrod managed it and only swayed a little when he finally stood upright. His head was pounding like the all the drums in every army of every nation in the world and his chest screamed with every breath. Who’d have thought the old man had such an arm. Spitting blood, Jarrod drew his sleeve across his chin then followed after Danel, who was now standing directly beneath the dark block.
“I’m going to kill you, Danel Terram.” The words sounded strange in Jarrod’s ears; somehow, he’d never imagined himself the murdering type. But what shocked him more was that he meant it. Of course, after the hiding he’d just taken, he doubted he could actually carry through with the threat. He stopped two strides short of where Danel stood and doubled up his fists. “You hear me old man? I’m going to kill you!”
Again thunder crashed, and this time the earth beneath Jarrod’s feet actually trembled. Faith, it felt like the whole hill was shaking!
Danel turned around slowly, face still twisted in a mask of pain. “Oh Jarrod,” he said, and his voice was lower than a whisper. “How I wish you could.”
In a single, smooth motion the old man ripped away the drawstrings that secured the waterskin. Light—golden, pure and fresh as dawn—burned from the bag, rippling like the air on a hot summer day as it curled in a million tentacles up into the dark air. Jarrod stumbled backwards, hands shielding his eyes, crying outloud at the sudden brilliance. Grabbing the bottom of the ‘skin with one hand, Danel spun on his heel, spraying the shining contents of the bag in a blinding, arcing wave towards the black face of the huge block. For an instant the face of the block was revealed, a blank stone face, purest black and streaked with thin veins of silver and pearl that glittered like stars. Then the wave of light—was it really liquid?—slammed into the stone. Jarrod’s hands fell from his face and his jaw dropped as he watched the light sink into the rock, like drops of water sinking into a pot of oil. The blinding light faded as the wave sank deeper into the stone, growing dimmer and dimmer until the unnatural day that had burned in the ruined courtyard was gone, and night reined again amongst the ruins.
For a long moment silence reined, except for the blood pounding in Jarrod’s ears.
“Danel. . . What by the Faith and Ward was that?”
Before the old man could reply, the sky was rent with a massive groan, like a thousand peals of thunder striking at once. The ground lurched and swayed like a drunkard, throwing Jarrod and Danel from their feet. One arm curled protectively around his head, Jarrod lunged toward the dark stone block, careless of trampling the other man, the stones beneath his feet bucking like a horse new to the saddle. Pressing his back against the cold stone, he looked up over the far wall just in time to see the next hill crack in two.
For the space of a heartbeat Jarrod’s mind grappled with what he was seeing. The far knoll was shaking itself apart, rivers of dirt and loose stone sliding down its shuddering flanks, the larger rocks beneath cracking and grinding as they were torn apart and sent crashing down as well. Even as its sides collapsed the crown of the hill pushed higher with spasmadic jerks, almost as if something were pushing from below . . .
Hands were pulling at Jarrod’s shoulders, tugging him to his feet, and someone was shouting in his ear, but he barely noticed.
From somewhere deep within the crumbling hill a fire flared and grew. Clouds of smoke and black vapor gushed from the rending rock, churning and spitting fire and ash. Higher the hilltop rose, the fire at its base growing, spreading and splitting into twin orbs of crimson flame. Finally the last of the hill’s crown shattered and fell, some boulders crashing through the maelstrom of swirling ash and smoke, others melting in the heat of the twin fires that raged in the heart of the storm.
Something struck Jarrod on the back, hard, and reality crashed home. Danel was pushing him from behind and frantically shouting, “Run boy! Run!” in a voice shrill with terror.
They both managed two steps before the buckling ground threw them down again. Rolling onto his back, Jarrod cried out as the two burning fires moved through the swirling smoke towards them. Wind lashed their hilltop, stinging Jarrod’s face with grit and dust, but clearing the smoke and ash above just enough for him to glimpse a darker shape moving through the storm, crowned by the twin fires.
Suddenly Jarrod realized what he was seeing. There was a creature up there, as tall as a mountain and moving through the billowing plumes of vapor. Moving towards them. Those fires were eyes—eyes larger than a house and fixed on them.
A warm wetness spread from between his legs, and Jarrod realized he’d wet himself. They were dead men.
“What is that?” he shrieked, fighting at the panic that had frozen his innards.
“Voidspawn!” Danel shouted into his ear as he roughly dragged Jarrod to his feet and with a mightly last shove sent him stumbling towards the tower. “Go lad! Run!”
Jarrod ran, chest still aching, eyes burning from the ash and smoke and sulprous fumes. All around him the ruins were collapsing, shaking to dust with each massive step that the creature—the voidspawn—took. He reached the tower and flung himself against the ancient stone, unable to hold himself upright any longer.
Above him a firey chasm opened in the darkness beneath the voidspawn’s eyes, a mouth like a gaping pit large enough to swallow the manor whole--Faith, it was lage enough to swallow a dozen manors whole. Ash and smoke funneled into glowing maw as it yawned wider still, only to explode out seconds later when the beast roared. The blast struck the ruins like a hammer, tumbling the section of the outer wall nearest the voidspawn, what few stones that were still standing loose, and pressing Jarrod flat against the tower wall. Hands cupped around his ears, Jarrod risked a look back towards the black stone; back towards Danel.
The old man stood alone, feet apart, hands clenched at his side, cloak flairing in the hot blast from the beast’s mouth, head held high in defiance. Behind him, the block of black stone was—Jarrod’s battered mind struggled to understand what he was seeing—the stone was splitting open, revealing a brilliant white doorway that silhouetted the old man’s scarecrow frame. Slowly, calmly, Danel reached beneath his cloak and pulled out a shining vial—a small star brighter even then white fire of the opening gate, clenched in the man’s fist.
The voidspawn took another step closer—Jarrod could feel the tower crack and tremble against his back—and spread arms that seemed to span from horizon to horizon wide, as if it mean to embrace the entire hill.
Using his teeth, Danel uncorked the vial and downed its shining contents in a single pull.
The ground bucked again and the tower lurched. Loose stones showered from on high and pummelled Jarrod down.
He looked up, ears ringing, blood leaking from his ears—and gasped. Danel was gone. In his place stood another man—at least, Jarrod thought it was another man; some hero out of legend, maybe—taller than anyone he had ever met and half again as wide. The man turned from the voidspawn and met Jarrod’s gaze.
The man spoke, the words barely a whisper, and Jarrod reeled backward in shock. The face was new, but the voice . . . the voice belonged to Danel.
“I’m sorry, boy.”
With a roar that matched the voidspawn’s howl, Danel spun back towards the beast and brought one arm up, fingers together, palm out.
Fire split the darkness, light like a thousand suns lancing from palm to voidspawn faster than thought. Where the beam struck the darkspawn it exploded outward, burning back the smoke and ash to reveal a vast pile of hard scales and twisted spines, darker than midnight that lunged towards Danel, pushing back the pulsing fire.
Then the darkness closed in again, obscuring the nightmare. Danel stumbled backwards, arm falling, the light about him fading. The voidspawn’s huge paw slammed down on the hilltop and the tower above Jarrod shattered. He had one last glimpse of the old man running towards the glowing gateway, ash and smoke raining from above.
Then the falling stone struck home, and he knew no more.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Another day, another post, also ham
Alright, since I edited this, I guess I should make mention of story changes (as this was written almost 5 weeks past). Firstly, Saul was imprisoned in a maximum security prison (the Tomb), until authorities deemed him to no longer be a threat wherein he was moved to a lesser prison and promptly broke out the first week. He was there partly for harboring a cosmic-touched (his wife, but they sort of said don't do it again and gave him a warning), and on the charge that he was supporting Markos of Soydan's escape. (this one landed him in prison)
Terms to know that have been made clear in preceding chapters
Markos of Soydan - A shepherd's son who grew to be a great military leader and orator who led a rebellion for control of Blackwell about 20 years previous to current story line. The druids won, and he was imprisoned but not executed, as his death would have thrown the populace into a frenzy. Followers are called Markosians. Supports removing druids from power.
Wanderer - Apolitical druid. They stay to the wilds of all lands and don't get involved save where the Balance is concerned/being upset.
Shepherd - Political druids that following the Gnomish uprising and the dwarven genocide, took control of human lands, seeing themselves as having to shepherd humanity into the way of the Balance.
Dwarven Genocide - Five centuries previously, the dwarves held the gnomes as a slave race. Incited by the invading Western Legions, the gnomes rose up and exterminated the dwarves, becoming the dominant power in the continent.
Graft - The item of power granted to a druid by Daiya. Represents a metaphorical grafting of the person to the planet and vice versa. Generally just a common twig or stick.
Daiya - The embodiment of the planet's consciousness. Represents the grand cycle of life and reincarnation where upon death and individual's life force returns to the planet.
Chapter 2 cont.
A pungent smell, from the tied up cockatrices outside, wafted in through the doors behind them as the two came inside. The tavern’s spacious common room bustled with people who casually ignored the loud tapping on the roof from the rain pouring down outside. Patrons shouted in half of a dozen different dialects, and crammed themselves together into such overflowing conditions that Mert became squeamish at the mere sight. The room burst with native Lorhalians at every corner. All wore some manner of worn leather duster, with a wide brimmed hat resting atop their heads. No distinguishing style of clothes distinguished the men from the women, leaving one darkened figure similar to the others.
Scattered like cashews in a sack of peanuts, there was a motley assortment of those who did not belong among the crowd. A Thorozean priest in his splendorous white robes, checker-boarded sash, and blackened eyes discussed a topic with a pair of Shintaur Fists that listened intently. The two gnomes had red Fist battle robes equipped and the light from the lamps in the room glinted off their shaven heads, making them look like a pair of polished throwing balls. A squat but fierce Norvendarian rune-warrior, signified by the complex blue tattoo painted onto his forehead sat drinking by himself. Occasionally he shifted his almond shaped eyes around for anyone who might be scrutinizing him.
But the individual that Mert spied straight away stood out like a coconut in that sack of peanuts. Prelate Sargoth, previously seen at the doorway had made his way back to his table where he sipped on a mug of local whiskey while scrawling on a piece of parchment in front of him. The elderly sylthanian sat alone, ignoring the patrons that cautiously scooted around him.
Mert nodded at Saul and the pair continued towards where the Prelate sat. Mert approached to within several steps when loud footfalls sounded from their right, and a massive figure loomed in front of the pair. Prelate Sargoth, the one they were looking for was at least a foot taller than Mert. This newcomer would have dwarfed Sargoth in return. Where the tactician’s armor glimmered with bright enamels and polished surfaces, showing an eye for ornamentation and ceremony, the large female sylthanian warrior’s armor was dull and worn. Scrapes from deep sword cuts and repair spots from a blacksmith’s hammer dotted the surface of her full-body scale male.
Covering her head was a tarnished gray helmet with an etched image of the skull of some ferocious beast plastered across the face. The sharp angles and natural gaze of the morbid etching suggested a great carnivore glaring down on them. The piercing eyes of the warrior, shining through the eye slits were doubly as menacing as the mask was. Mert felt himself almost take a step backwards before training kicked in and he moved in front of Saul.
In one hand the female sylthanian held a massive double ended war-fan whose gleaming half-moon blades at each tip were half as large as the tables the patrons drank on. The war-fan was a powerful weapon to be sure, but Mert had already calculated swing distance in the room and knew if there was a fight, she’d be at a disadvantage in such close quarters.
“State your business,” the bodyguard said in lilting tones.
“We’re here to speak to the Prelate,” Saul said.
“The Prelate speaks to no one. He has far better business to deal with than your petty squabbling and malcontent wishes,” the bodyguard said, keeping one hand gripped tightly on the weapon while poking Saul with the other. Mert caught patrons nervously watching their exchange out of the corner of his eye but ignored them.
“Squabbling? Isn’t that what we’re doing right now? I have to say, Mert, my only malcontent wish is to beat this upstart sycophant out of my way, and get to more important business,” Saul said
The bodyguard’s grip tightened. “Hoping to draw me into a fight for whatever twisted reason you have, pinkie, isn’t going to work. What makes you more special than the last moron? Sargoth personally gave a more than satisfactory response to his presence. Perhaps you saw?”
“I’ll warn you. I’ve killed men for snoring too loudly. I could kill you before you realized I had even moved,” Saul said, keeping a deadpan expression.
Mert buried his face in his hands. “Stop playing around and give him the damn insignia.”
Saul rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small golden coin. He flicked it over towards the Prelate. The bodyguard snatched it out of the air with surprising quickness, and examined eyed the insignia closely. Her eyes narrowed at the two as she handed it back to the Prelate who hadn’t even reacted to their presence.
A gruff voice came a moment later. “Kazarranar, let them over.”
Kazarranar, the bodyguard, looked back towards Sargoth who focused still on writing. His words must have been the only necessity needed, for she yielded the path towards the Prelate.
Sargoth scratched something on the parchment as Mert and Saul approached. Mert spied some sylthanian pictographs but Sargoth seized it before Mert could read the symbols. The big sylthanian’s other hand grabbed the mug of whiskey and he sipped it while he analyzed the paper.
The sylthanian’s long face reminded Mert of a goat or a sheep. It was broad and long with large nostrils and piercing eyes. A pair of eyeglasses rested on the bridge of Sargoth’s nose. Braids of white hair spilled from his head and chin in an ornate plait. Gray fuzz and several small boney horns sprung from his balding head, giving him the appearance of a wily old buck.
“Please excuse Kazarranar. She’s quite protective of me. She suspects that my advanced age has deteriorated my abilities down to the level of a simpleton,” Sargoth said. He looked up, glancing to them while he fingered the medallion.
“So Saul Rawne has come to visit. Do what do I owe the pleasure? I hope you’re not looking to finish some score fought out on the battlefield many years past?”
“Let’s not shout my name for everyone to hear. I’d prefer to not have to burn down another inn,” Saul snarled.
Sargoth’s eyes narrowed at Saul and he looked to Mert, then back.
“Right… Saul.”The Prelate’s lips curled into a smile. “I see where you’re going. Discretion is ideal. After all, you’re supposed to be dead in the waste of Norvendar. Or imprisoned in the unspeakable depths of the Tomb. Or gone traitor to become the Marshal for the Empire of Heaven. One traveler swore you had become consort to the Shaman Queen. I particularly liked the last.”
“Were this about a grudge you’d have a knife in your head. We’re not here for that,” Saul said.
“Of course not. Both of us belonging to different sides, both serving out nationalistic duty only to face betrayal and abandonment by those we once bled for,” Sargoth said. “You and I are more alike than you’d think.”
“You speak as someone with personal ties,” Saul said.
“In part, I did. Or rather I knew Saul the general, my opponent, worthy adversary, bane of my existence, and all around aggravator. I saw you both several times on the battlefield. My adjutants always forced me to back down from challenging you out. They needn’t bothered. You and I both know the general who singles out his equal on the battlefield asks to be a casualty.”
“Quite,” Mert said.
“You needn’t worry. Your secrets aren’t in danger from me. While the bounty on your heads is quite sizable, I have no need for money. Such brazen audacity is refreshing.” Sargoth’s lips curled into a smile.
“You did mention it, and we are looking to settle a grudge but not with you. Imprisonment came with a reason,” Mert said.
“Suspicion of being a Markosian,” Mert finished.
Sargoth lowered himself down to Saul’s level. “And the allegations were?”
“True, of course,” Saul said with a triumphant smirk.
“I suspected as much. Markos always did have disciples in high places. The Circle of Oak weren’t ones to suffer inciters proclaiming the decadence of the shepherds. Nor were they willing to risk his escape through the actions of his supporters.”
“He was more than an inciter,” Saul snapped.
“Of course. One can never favor the rule of those who by mere cosmic circumstance happened on power. Surprising for you to hear from me, no doubt.”
It was. Sylthanians were too destructive for Daiya to ever grant them grafts. Rather they stole the grafts off dead Druids and harnessed them onto sensitive sylthanians.
“So the rumors about you two trying to help the Waylayer escape…?” Sargoth asked.
“Also true,” Mert answered. “One of us managed to get caught when someone got scared, and the other got sent on a trip to the Tomb.”
“Interesting. But that doesn’t explain what you want with me,” Sargoth said.
“We intend on making Markos’ dream a reality. And we also intent to apply a subtle application of stabbing to the heads of the druids responsible for the past twenty years,” Saul said.
Sargoth snorted. “So you’re planning on inciting a rebellion and overthrowing Blackwell? Looking for someone to plan logistics? No, couldn’t be. Blackwell is too big, too resistant. You’re looking elsewhere.”
“We’re going for Thorozean,” Mert said.
Sargoth nodded as he glanced down at the table. “Thorozean is unsurprising. The Praa there has little control of anything beyond the capital. The kingdom would work as an excellent base of operations. An easy choice for a takeover. And you want me to help you?”
“Of course. But I’m sure such a powerful Prelate as yourself has done actions pale this in comparison, so we’ll understand if you’d rather look for meaning in whiskey and with logic puzzles,” Mert said.
Sargoth’s face remained expressionless and he casually looked to the parchment, the logic puzzle, crumpled at the side of the table. Sargoth suddenly barked out a laugh that paused conversation for the nearest four tables for several moments. “Let me tell you something, Saul. Forty years ago, I was given my first command. Such an action had never been done but the Shaman Empress ordered it.”
Sargoth paused to drink from his mug. In the background Mert heard a shouting match break out between several drunks over the result of a game. The commotion continued unabated in the background while the Prelate continued.
“Me, in charge of three hundred veterans. My seniors scoffed, regarding me as a joke. I took that force, and never lost once. I was promoted to a force commander and while I lost my winning streak I was still considered one of the best. My success became my downfall. I had become a symbol of progress and opportunity to the males who spent their days in the stables never attaining anything. The Empress judged that my lucky streak would come to a close and my death would be a powerful demoralizing force.”
Sargoth reached to drink from his mug. Finding it empty, he eyed the bottom of the flagon. “All for the sake of morale.” The bodyguard, Kzarranar, came and grabbed the empty mug from him and strode off in the direction of the barkeep.
“Retirement was fine. I was well provided for with everything I wanted. The life was enjoyable for a time. I wrote my memoirs. Hiked the length of the Pollos Range. Attempted rose husbandry. Eventually I tired of it and left. If I couldn’t fight there, I would go somewhere else. Kazarranar was already my appointed life-ward and as such was honor bound to follow.”
Questions:
1. How was dialogue and character interaction? Did you perceive a character voice in there for each one?
2. How about the setting and place? Was it clear and consistent? What did it remind you of?
3. Anything draw you out of the reading, force you to stop reading the text and have to reread something?
4. Anything stick out to you as far as plot is concerned? Anything you thought typified a more overused trope?
5. Anything else worth noting.
Terms to know that have been made clear in preceding chapters
Markos of Soydan - A shepherd's son who grew to be a great military leader and orator who led a rebellion for control of Blackwell about 20 years previous to current story line. The druids won, and he was imprisoned but not executed, as his death would have thrown the populace into a frenzy. Followers are called Markosians. Supports removing druids from power.
Wanderer - Apolitical druid. They stay to the wilds of all lands and don't get involved save where the Balance is concerned/being upset.
Shepherd - Political druids that following the Gnomish uprising and the dwarven genocide, took control of human lands, seeing themselves as having to shepherd humanity into the way of the Balance.
Dwarven Genocide - Five centuries previously, the dwarves held the gnomes as a slave race. Incited by the invading Western Legions, the gnomes rose up and exterminated the dwarves, becoming the dominant power in the continent.
Graft - The item of power granted to a druid by Daiya. Represents a metaphorical grafting of the person to the planet and vice versa. Generally just a common twig or stick.
Daiya - The embodiment of the planet's consciousness. Represents the grand cycle of life and reincarnation where upon death and individual's life force returns to the planet.
Chapter 2 cont.
A pungent smell, from the tied up cockatrices outside, wafted in through the doors behind them as the two came inside. The tavern’s spacious common room bustled with people who casually ignored the loud tapping on the roof from the rain pouring down outside. Patrons shouted in half of a dozen different dialects, and crammed themselves together into such overflowing conditions that Mert became squeamish at the mere sight. The room burst with native Lorhalians at every corner. All wore some manner of worn leather duster, with a wide brimmed hat resting atop their heads. No distinguishing style of clothes distinguished the men from the women, leaving one darkened figure similar to the others.
Scattered like cashews in a sack of peanuts, there was a motley assortment of those who did not belong among the crowd. A Thorozean priest in his splendorous white robes, checker-boarded sash, and blackened eyes discussed a topic with a pair of Shintaur Fists that listened intently. The two gnomes had red Fist battle robes equipped and the light from the lamps in the room glinted off their shaven heads, making them look like a pair of polished throwing balls. A squat but fierce Norvendarian rune-warrior, signified by the complex blue tattoo painted onto his forehead sat drinking by himself. Occasionally he shifted his almond shaped eyes around for anyone who might be scrutinizing him.
But the individual that Mert spied straight away stood out like a coconut in that sack of peanuts. Prelate Sargoth, previously seen at the doorway had made his way back to his table where he sipped on a mug of local whiskey while scrawling on a piece of parchment in front of him. The elderly sylthanian sat alone, ignoring the patrons that cautiously scooted around him.
Mert nodded at Saul and the pair continued towards where the Prelate sat. Mert approached to within several steps when loud footfalls sounded from their right, and a massive figure loomed in front of the pair. Prelate Sargoth, the one they were looking for was at least a foot taller than Mert. This newcomer would have dwarfed Sargoth in return. Where the tactician’s armor glimmered with bright enamels and polished surfaces, showing an eye for ornamentation and ceremony, the large female sylthanian warrior’s armor was dull and worn. Scrapes from deep sword cuts and repair spots from a blacksmith’s hammer dotted the surface of her full-body scale male.
Covering her head was a tarnished gray helmet with an etched image of the skull of some ferocious beast plastered across the face. The sharp angles and natural gaze of the morbid etching suggested a great carnivore glaring down on them. The piercing eyes of the warrior, shining through the eye slits were doubly as menacing as the mask was. Mert felt himself almost take a step backwards before training kicked in and he moved in front of Saul.
In one hand the female sylthanian held a massive double ended war-fan whose gleaming half-moon blades at each tip were half as large as the tables the patrons drank on. The war-fan was a powerful weapon to be sure, but Mert had already calculated swing distance in the room and knew if there was a fight, she’d be at a disadvantage in such close quarters.
“State your business,” the bodyguard said in lilting tones.
“We’re here to speak to the Prelate,” Saul said.
“The Prelate speaks to no one. He has far better business to deal with than your petty squabbling and malcontent wishes,” the bodyguard said, keeping one hand gripped tightly on the weapon while poking Saul with the other. Mert caught patrons nervously watching their exchange out of the corner of his eye but ignored them.
“Squabbling? Isn’t that what we’re doing right now? I have to say, Mert, my only malcontent wish is to beat this upstart sycophant out of my way, and get to more important business,” Saul said
The bodyguard’s grip tightened. “Hoping to draw me into a fight for whatever twisted reason you have, pinkie, isn’t going to work. What makes you more special than the last moron? Sargoth personally gave a more than satisfactory response to his presence. Perhaps you saw?”
“I’ll warn you. I’ve killed men for snoring too loudly. I could kill you before you realized I had even moved,” Saul said, keeping a deadpan expression.
Mert buried his face in his hands. “Stop playing around and give him the damn insignia.”
Saul rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small golden coin. He flicked it over towards the Prelate. The bodyguard snatched it out of the air with surprising quickness, and examined eyed the insignia closely. Her eyes narrowed at the two as she handed it back to the Prelate who hadn’t even reacted to their presence.
A gruff voice came a moment later. “Kazarranar, let them over.”
Kazarranar, the bodyguard, looked back towards Sargoth who focused still on writing. His words must have been the only necessity needed, for she yielded the path towards the Prelate.
Sargoth scratched something on the parchment as Mert and Saul approached. Mert spied some sylthanian pictographs but Sargoth seized it before Mert could read the symbols. The big sylthanian’s other hand grabbed the mug of whiskey and he sipped it while he analyzed the paper.
The sylthanian’s long face reminded Mert of a goat or a sheep. It was broad and long with large nostrils and piercing eyes. A pair of eyeglasses rested on the bridge of Sargoth’s nose. Braids of white hair spilled from his head and chin in an ornate plait. Gray fuzz and several small boney horns sprung from his balding head, giving him the appearance of a wily old buck.
“Please excuse Kazarranar. She’s quite protective of me. She suspects that my advanced age has deteriorated my abilities down to the level of a simpleton,” Sargoth said. He looked up, glancing to them while he fingered the medallion.
“So Saul Rawne has come to visit. Do what do I owe the pleasure? I hope you’re not looking to finish some score fought out on the battlefield many years past?”
“Let’s not shout my name for everyone to hear. I’d prefer to not have to burn down another inn,” Saul snarled.
Sargoth’s eyes narrowed at Saul and he looked to Mert, then back.
“Right… Saul.”The Prelate’s lips curled into a smile. “I see where you’re going. Discretion is ideal. After all, you’re supposed to be dead in the waste of Norvendar. Or imprisoned in the unspeakable depths of the Tomb. Or gone traitor to become the Marshal for the Empire of Heaven. One traveler swore you had become consort to the Shaman Queen. I particularly liked the last.”
“Were this about a grudge you’d have a knife in your head. We’re not here for that,” Saul said.
“Of course not. Both of us belonging to different sides, both serving out nationalistic duty only to face betrayal and abandonment by those we once bled for,” Sargoth said. “You and I are more alike than you’d think.”
“You speak as someone with personal ties,” Saul said.
“In part, I did. Or rather I knew Saul the general, my opponent, worthy adversary, bane of my existence, and all around aggravator. I saw you both several times on the battlefield. My adjutants always forced me to back down from challenging you out. They needn’t bothered. You and I both know the general who singles out his equal on the battlefield asks to be a casualty.”
“Quite,” Mert said.
“You needn’t worry. Your secrets aren’t in danger from me. While the bounty on your heads is quite sizable, I have no need for money. Such brazen audacity is refreshing.” Sargoth’s lips curled into a smile.
“You did mention it, and we are looking to settle a grudge but not with you. Imprisonment came with a reason,” Mert said.
“Suspicion of being a Markosian,” Mert finished.
Sargoth lowered himself down to Saul’s level. “And the allegations were?”
“True, of course,” Saul said with a triumphant smirk.
“I suspected as much. Markos always did have disciples in high places. The Circle of Oak weren’t ones to suffer inciters proclaiming the decadence of the shepherds. Nor were they willing to risk his escape through the actions of his supporters.”
“He was more than an inciter,” Saul snapped.
“Of course. One can never favor the rule of those who by mere cosmic circumstance happened on power. Surprising for you to hear from me, no doubt.”
It was. Sylthanians were too destructive for Daiya to ever grant them grafts. Rather they stole the grafts off dead Druids and harnessed them onto sensitive sylthanians.
“So the rumors about you two trying to help the Waylayer escape…?” Sargoth asked.
“Also true,” Mert answered. “One of us managed to get caught when someone got scared, and the other got sent on a trip to the Tomb.”
“Interesting. But that doesn’t explain what you want with me,” Sargoth said.
“We intend on making Markos’ dream a reality. And we also intent to apply a subtle application of stabbing to the heads of the druids responsible for the past twenty years,” Saul said.
Sargoth snorted. “So you’re planning on inciting a rebellion and overthrowing Blackwell? Looking for someone to plan logistics? No, couldn’t be. Blackwell is too big, too resistant. You’re looking elsewhere.”
“We’re going for Thorozean,” Mert said.
Sargoth nodded as he glanced down at the table. “Thorozean is unsurprising. The Praa there has little control of anything beyond the capital. The kingdom would work as an excellent base of operations. An easy choice for a takeover. And you want me to help you?”
“Of course. But I’m sure such a powerful Prelate as yourself has done actions pale this in comparison, so we’ll understand if you’d rather look for meaning in whiskey and with logic puzzles,” Mert said.
Sargoth’s face remained expressionless and he casually looked to the parchment, the logic puzzle, crumpled at the side of the table. Sargoth suddenly barked out a laugh that paused conversation for the nearest four tables for several moments. “Let me tell you something, Saul. Forty years ago, I was given my first command. Such an action had never been done but the Shaman Empress ordered it.”
Sargoth paused to drink from his mug. In the background Mert heard a shouting match break out between several drunks over the result of a game. The commotion continued unabated in the background while the Prelate continued.
“Me, in charge of three hundred veterans. My seniors scoffed, regarding me as a joke. I took that force, and never lost once. I was promoted to a force commander and while I lost my winning streak I was still considered one of the best. My success became my downfall. I had become a symbol of progress and opportunity to the males who spent their days in the stables never attaining anything. The Empress judged that my lucky streak would come to a close and my death would be a powerful demoralizing force.”
Sargoth reached to drink from his mug. Finding it empty, he eyed the bottom of the flagon. “All for the sake of morale.” The bodyguard, Kzarranar, came and grabbed the empty mug from him and strode off in the direction of the barkeep.
“Retirement was fine. I was well provided for with everything I wanted. The life was enjoyable for a time. I wrote my memoirs. Hiked the length of the Pollos Range. Attempted rose husbandry. Eventually I tired of it and left. If I couldn’t fight there, I would go somewhere else. Kazarranar was already my appointed life-ward and as such was honor bound to follow.”
Questions:
1. How was dialogue and character interaction? Did you perceive a character voice in there for each one?
2. How about the setting and place? Was it clear and consistent? What did it remind you of?
3. Anything draw you out of the reading, force you to stop reading the text and have to reread something?
4. Anything stick out to you as far as plot is concerned? Anything you thought typified a more overused trope?
5. Anything else worth noting.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Book Review: Leviathan
Leviathan is a dieselpunk alternate history, set in Europe on the day the Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated in Sarejevo. On the one side we have the Central powers: Germany, Austro-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire; collectively known as 'Clankers' because of their mighty walkers, airships and other machines. On the other side we have the Triple Entente: Great Britain, France and Russia; called 'Darwinists' in this world, a name they've earned by manipulating the 'life-threads' (read DNA) of animals to create giant creatures of war, living counterparts to the Clankers' dreaded war machines.
Caught in the middle of this brewing war are two unlikely friends: Aleksander, the son of the Archduke and secret heir to the Hapsburg throne and Deryn, a girl posing as a boy in the Royal Air Navy.
For the sake of avoiding any spoilers I'll stop the plot re-hash now. Just take my word for it, the pace is fast, the action masterfully executed, the dialogue witty and fluid, and the characters as real as they come. But the thing that I really loved about this book was exploring the striking contrasts and similarities between Westerfeld's book and true history.
I'll admit that there was one point on which I disagreed with the professional reviewers. Most of them made some kind of comment or another about the ingenious language Westerfeld had invented to go along with his Clanker and Darwinist creations. Well . . . other than Clanker, Darwinist and actually naming some of the man-made Darwinist creatures, I think Westerfeld only added in maybe a half dozen new words. Fun, but hardly noteworthy.
All in all, I would recommend Leviathan to anyone looking for a good read, regardless of what type of fiction they're interested in. I'm already halfway through the sequel Behemoth and hungry for the final installment, Goliath.
Go Clankers!
(ok, ok . . . I've always had a soft spot for the big machines . . .)
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Colton's next post.
Finishing Chapter 1, and going a bit into Chapter 2.
Firstly, this is hopefully the last of the unedited pieces. I've started editing for Sanderson's class, which is about a week ahead of our group, so the next stuff will be more refined. I'm not too fond of this piece, but it still has an important event happen near the end of the chapter.
I'll go ahead and put the things of note you should be aware of here, so you know now. This is stuff that has not been referred to in these chapters, but are in later chapters.
Firstly, Saul (the general) was imprisoned in a maximum security prison (the Tomb), until authorities deemed him to no longer be a threat wherein he was moved to a lesser prison and promptly broke out the first week. He was there partly for harboring a cosmic-touched (his wife, but they sort of said don't do it again and gave him a warning), and on the charge that he was supporting Markos of Soydan's escape. (this one landed him in prison)
Markos of Soydan - A shepherd's son who grew to be a great military leader and orator who led a rebellion for control of Blackwell about 20 years previous to current story line. The druids won, and he was imprisoned but not executed, as his death would have thrown the populace into a frenzy. Followers are called Markosians. Supports removing druids from power.
Wanderer - Apolitical druid. They stay to the wilds of all lands and don't get involved save where the Balance is concerned/being upset.
Shepherd - Political druids that following the Gnomish uprising and the dwarven genocide, took control of human lands, seeing themselves as having to shepherd humanity into the way of the Balance.
Dwarven Genocide - Five centuries previously, the dwarves held the gnomes as a slave race. Incited by the invading Western Legions, the gnomes rose up and exterminated the dwarves, becoming the dominant power in the continent.
Graft - The item of power granted to a druid by Daiya. Represents a metaphorical grafting of the person to the planet and vice versa. Generally just a common twig or stick.
Daiya - The embodiment of the planet's consciousness. Represents the grand cycle of life and reincarnation where upon death and individual's life force returns to the planet.
1. How does the dialogue work?
2. How about descriptions? This is already marked on my list of redrafting portions to work out more evident descriptions.
3. How does Mert and Saul's camaraderie feel?
4. Anything else you saw that felt confusing or odd? Remember this is marked for heavy redrafting.
Previous events: The general is breaking out of prison. They fought some druids, killed them and fun times were had by all.
Chapter 1 cont.
The main concourse ended in the stairwell that led up to the surface. The only access in or out, guarded by a dozen men at the top and bottom at all times. The same dozen lying in pools of their own blood, surrounded by the bodies of the prisoners who had fought for their freedom. Saul strode past without giving them a second glance. He stood straighter, walked more boldy, ignoring the pain from the main wounds he had suffered. No one came to challenge him as he stepped into the stairwell and began the ascent that the non-extinct dwarves had carved centuries back.
Every step brought him closer to the surface. Every step forward was a chance to avenge Leeya. The druids that had killed her, the guards that had captured him, even the wanderer, had all been Thorozean. As soon as he finished here, he would see that they payed. He knew all of their faces by heart, for they had haunted his every dream for the past twenty years. His foot touched down on the stone steps with a light sound, and brought him another step closer.
Then he was at the top. A long non-descript hallway led out from the staircase, and at the end lay a sight that forced him and Gromli to stop in their tracks. The stun only lasted a moment and then he was moving, faster and more hurredly. He was at the enterence in a few heartbeats, unsure if what he was seeing was real or not. It was. The nights sky opened out before him as he exited the Tomb. Stars glittered far above him, as if welcoming him back to the surface. A slight breeze from his right wafted across him, slightly bristling his prison clothes. The wind on his skin after twenty years of nothing was the touch of ecstasy whispering across his skin, and filling him with such pleasure he never imagined he could have garnered from such an experience.
He ignored the bodies of the guards that lay about him, with their eyes now staring blanky towards the heavens. Escaped prisoners, the first of many were already disappearing off into the woods at the base of the mountain, and their hoots of joy faded off into the distance as they bolted to Daiya knows where. They’d be captured within a day and hanged in twice that.
His eyes spied a stream trickling down off the mountainside several hundred steps away, and he found himself compelled to go towards the trickling fresh water. The very air about him smelled fresh and clean as if he was completely reborn. His compusion brought him to the edge of the water, and he peered back briefly towards Gromli. The Fist had simply fallen to the ground, laying on his back, staring into the starry sky.
Saul turned back towards the stream and splashed the water in his face. The refreshing waters drove new life into him, and he finally felt complete and secure. The peace didn’t last for longer than several moments. Shouting rose up from behind him, and he spun, silently but quickly. Gromli had stood up immediately, and was staring off towards the trees on the opposite side of the mountainside. Torch-light shone through the conifers, the heralds of what the freedman had feared. The druids in the nearby town had regrouped and were coming to reinforce the area. He cursed himself for getting so caught up in the exhilaration of freedom. He needed to get to work, and he needed to do it fast. He started back for Gromli, to guide the gnome out of this place.
A moment later the druids came out of the trees. There was at least a half dozen and probably four times that in armed guards, shift workers for the prison who had been roused from their sleep. Saul immediately hid behind a nearby tree. It was far too many to take in a standup fight. Gromli had been caught out in the open, and the guards and druids spied him immediately. The gnome managed to topple one before they subdued him. Saul saw Gromli looking straight at him, his gaze locked. He started to charge forward, to defend his brother in arms, who had already saved his life at least once today. The freedman froze a half step later. Even if he got into the fight, he couldn’t stand against that many. At best, they’d both be imprisoned again and probably never have a chance to escape. At worst, they’d be dead. I’ve come too far.
His last sight of Gromli was the proud gnome’s eyes looking expectantly towards him for aid, before the freedman turned his back and ran into the night. Saul Rawne is a free man.
Chapter 2
Two years later.
Thunder crashed overhead as the storm swept in off the Norden Sea. The rain began to fall in torrents and quickly the streets of Koldar Hollow were muddy and flooding. Mert Asherban, or so he had called himself, pulled his coat tighter around his body, and cursed the raid for what had not been the first time.
Saul Rawne led the way into the city, boldly striding forward, as if he was daring the weather, the force of Daiya herself to stop him or impede him. Nothing did. He was very much playing the part of the bold Lord, a striking difference between the man who had wandered out of the forests of Deolatia and into Verdesberg. Mert was the first person Saul had found when he had arrived in the city. Mert had always been loyal to the core to Saul, and was willing to do anything for the man.
A native Lorhal hussar stepped past astride his massive cockatrice mount. Mert’s gaze lingered on the man for a moment, but the hussar continued past undaunted. His mount ‘s clawed talons sunk into the mud with each footstep, and the hussar calmly urged it on with subtle motions with his feet. The man’s thick leather coat and wide brimmed hat, the standard fashion in Lorhal seemed to be giving him enough protection from the rain, and Mert envied him slightly. He took his gaze off the man and focused ahead of them.
Saul was silent as he kept forward, occasionally craning his head, looking for the appropriate sign over one of the buildings. Mert likewise kept a watch for the correct place. They were looking for an inn, called the Silent Wench. They turned a corner and stopped. Two druids were walking through the streets jovially conversing with one another. There was no way they could recognize Saul now, but that wasn’t reason to be cautious. Mert idly thumbed his beard with on hand, and scanned off into the distance as if he was looking for someone.
The druids passed by close enough for Mert to see the grafts they held in their hands. One a graft of command, and another a graft of storms. Definetly not worth bothering. As soon as they were past, Saul continued forward, walking slightly less boldly. Mert watched the druids for a moment before turning back to Saul.
They stopped a moment later at their destination. The pouring rain was obscuring vision, but Mert was more than capable of seeing the sign above the large building. Big bold letters proclaimed this to be the Silent Wench. A large painted carving of a woman carrying several mugs of whisky in one hand and her own severed head was seated behind the name placard. Saul and Mert both looked at the darkly humerous carving.
“So tell me more about our fellow inside,” Saul said.
“Prelate Sargoth, is probably the most decorated male anything to have come out of the Pollos Expanse. Were he a female, he probably would be supreme commander for the entire Western Legions. As it is, the Sylthanian’s own sexism forced him into routinue and ultimately pointless buerocratic tasks. He left, caused quite an uproar too. Apparently he was the most requested… well for lack of a better word, studding male,” Mert said.
Saul remained passive. Most people would have flinched at the odd customs of the Sylthanians. Seven females for every one male for no explicable reason anyone had ever come up with meant the females fought, governed, and worked while the males spent their time either in philosophical debates or reproducing. Whenever Mert explained it, any nearby male humans started paying attention around that bit.
“He’s got all the money he needs. You’d be surprised how many people are looking for a freelance strategist, regardless of where he came from. Now he only does the business for the pleasure of the game. We take down Thorozean, we’re going to need him to do it,” Mert said.
Saul nodded. “I hear he’s getting on in years. Are you sure we can count on him?”
Before Mert could answer, the door to the inn swung open. The flailing body of a drunk came hurtling out of the inn, letting out a sharp wail before he splattered into the mud sending a splash of gunk all around him. The one who had thrown him caught Mert’s eye. He was easily a foot taller than Mert, and Mert was not a small man. A glittering robe of scale male was covered under a tabard of pure unmarked white. His feet were likewise adorned with polished plates of brass and silver. The figure’s long legs were jointed in a digitigrades fashion like those of the cockatrices he had seen hussars riding out in the streets.
Before Mert to get a better look, the door slammed shut.
“I think we found our man,” Mert said.
Firstly, this is hopefully the last of the unedited pieces. I've started editing for Sanderson's class, which is about a week ahead of our group, so the next stuff will be more refined. I'm not too fond of this piece, but it still has an important event happen near the end of the chapter.
I'll go ahead and put the things of note you should be aware of here, so you know now. This is stuff that has not been referred to in these chapters, but are in later chapters.
Firstly, Saul (the general) was imprisoned in a maximum security prison (the Tomb), until authorities deemed him to no longer be a threat wherein he was moved to a lesser prison and promptly broke out the first week. He was there partly for harboring a cosmic-touched (his wife, but they sort of said don't do it again and gave him a warning), and on the charge that he was supporting Markos of Soydan's escape. (this one landed him in prison)
Markos of Soydan - A shepherd's son who grew to be a great military leader and orator who led a rebellion for control of Blackwell about 20 years previous to current story line. The druids won, and he was imprisoned but not executed, as his death would have thrown the populace into a frenzy. Followers are called Markosians. Supports removing druids from power.
Wanderer - Apolitical druid. They stay to the wilds of all lands and don't get involved save where the Balance is concerned/being upset.
Shepherd - Political druids that following the Gnomish uprising and the dwarven genocide, took control of human lands, seeing themselves as having to shepherd humanity into the way of the Balance.
Dwarven Genocide - Five centuries previously, the dwarves held the gnomes as a slave race. Incited by the invading Western Legions, the gnomes rose up and exterminated the dwarves, becoming the dominant power in the continent.
Graft - The item of power granted to a druid by Daiya. Represents a metaphorical grafting of the person to the planet and vice versa. Generally just a common twig or stick.
Daiya - The embodiment of the planet's consciousness. Represents the grand cycle of life and reincarnation where upon death and individual's life force returns to the planet.
1. How does the dialogue work?
2. How about descriptions? This is already marked on my list of redrafting portions to work out more evident descriptions.
3. How does Mert and Saul's camaraderie feel?
4. Anything else you saw that felt confusing or odd? Remember this is marked for heavy redrafting.
Previous events: The general is breaking out of prison. They fought some druids, killed them and fun times were had by all.
Chapter 1 cont.
The main concourse ended in the stairwell that led up to the surface. The only access in or out, guarded by a dozen men at the top and bottom at all times. The same dozen lying in pools of their own blood, surrounded by the bodies of the prisoners who had fought for their freedom. Saul strode past without giving them a second glance. He stood straighter, walked more boldy, ignoring the pain from the main wounds he had suffered. No one came to challenge him as he stepped into the stairwell and began the ascent that the non-extinct dwarves had carved centuries back.
Every step brought him closer to the surface. Every step forward was a chance to avenge Leeya. The druids that had killed her, the guards that had captured him, even the wanderer, had all been Thorozean. As soon as he finished here, he would see that they payed. He knew all of their faces by heart, for they had haunted his every dream for the past twenty years. His foot touched down on the stone steps with a light sound, and brought him another step closer.
Then he was at the top. A long non-descript hallway led out from the staircase, and at the end lay a sight that forced him and Gromli to stop in their tracks. The stun only lasted a moment and then he was moving, faster and more hurredly. He was at the enterence in a few heartbeats, unsure if what he was seeing was real or not. It was. The nights sky opened out before him as he exited the Tomb. Stars glittered far above him, as if welcoming him back to the surface. A slight breeze from his right wafted across him, slightly bristling his prison clothes. The wind on his skin after twenty years of nothing was the touch of ecstasy whispering across his skin, and filling him with such pleasure he never imagined he could have garnered from such an experience.
He ignored the bodies of the guards that lay about him, with their eyes now staring blanky towards the heavens. Escaped prisoners, the first of many were already disappearing off into the woods at the base of the mountain, and their hoots of joy faded off into the distance as they bolted to Daiya knows where. They’d be captured within a day and hanged in twice that.
His eyes spied a stream trickling down off the mountainside several hundred steps away, and he found himself compelled to go towards the trickling fresh water. The very air about him smelled fresh and clean as if he was completely reborn. His compusion brought him to the edge of the water, and he peered back briefly towards Gromli. The Fist had simply fallen to the ground, laying on his back, staring into the starry sky.
Saul turned back towards the stream and splashed the water in his face. The refreshing waters drove new life into him, and he finally felt complete and secure. The peace didn’t last for longer than several moments. Shouting rose up from behind him, and he spun, silently but quickly. Gromli had stood up immediately, and was staring off towards the trees on the opposite side of the mountainside. Torch-light shone through the conifers, the heralds of what the freedman had feared. The druids in the nearby town had regrouped and were coming to reinforce the area. He cursed himself for getting so caught up in the exhilaration of freedom. He needed to get to work, and he needed to do it fast. He started back for Gromli, to guide the gnome out of this place.
A moment later the druids came out of the trees. There was at least a half dozen and probably four times that in armed guards, shift workers for the prison who had been roused from their sleep. Saul immediately hid behind a nearby tree. It was far too many to take in a standup fight. Gromli had been caught out in the open, and the guards and druids spied him immediately. The gnome managed to topple one before they subdued him. Saul saw Gromli looking straight at him, his gaze locked. He started to charge forward, to defend his brother in arms, who had already saved his life at least once today. The freedman froze a half step later. Even if he got into the fight, he couldn’t stand against that many. At best, they’d both be imprisoned again and probably never have a chance to escape. At worst, they’d be dead. I’ve come too far.
His last sight of Gromli was the proud gnome’s eyes looking expectantly towards him for aid, before the freedman turned his back and ran into the night. Saul Rawne is a free man.
Chapter 2
Two years later.
Thunder crashed overhead as the storm swept in off the Norden Sea. The rain began to fall in torrents and quickly the streets of Koldar Hollow were muddy and flooding. Mert Asherban, or so he had called himself, pulled his coat tighter around his body, and cursed the raid for what had not been the first time.
Saul Rawne led the way into the city, boldly striding forward, as if he was daring the weather, the force of Daiya herself to stop him or impede him. Nothing did. He was very much playing the part of the bold Lord, a striking difference between the man who had wandered out of the forests of Deolatia and into Verdesberg. Mert was the first person Saul had found when he had arrived in the city. Mert had always been loyal to the core to Saul, and was willing to do anything for the man.
A native Lorhal hussar stepped past astride his massive cockatrice mount. Mert’s gaze lingered on the man for a moment, but the hussar continued past undaunted. His mount ‘s clawed talons sunk into the mud with each footstep, and the hussar calmly urged it on with subtle motions with his feet. The man’s thick leather coat and wide brimmed hat, the standard fashion in Lorhal seemed to be giving him enough protection from the rain, and Mert envied him slightly. He took his gaze off the man and focused ahead of them.
Saul was silent as he kept forward, occasionally craning his head, looking for the appropriate sign over one of the buildings. Mert likewise kept a watch for the correct place. They were looking for an inn, called the Silent Wench. They turned a corner and stopped. Two druids were walking through the streets jovially conversing with one another. There was no way they could recognize Saul now, but that wasn’t reason to be cautious. Mert idly thumbed his beard with on hand, and scanned off into the distance as if he was looking for someone.
The druids passed by close enough for Mert to see the grafts they held in their hands. One a graft of command, and another a graft of storms. Definetly not worth bothering. As soon as they were past, Saul continued forward, walking slightly less boldly. Mert watched the druids for a moment before turning back to Saul.
They stopped a moment later at their destination. The pouring rain was obscuring vision, but Mert was more than capable of seeing the sign above the large building. Big bold letters proclaimed this to be the Silent Wench. A large painted carving of a woman carrying several mugs of whisky in one hand and her own severed head was seated behind the name placard. Saul and Mert both looked at the darkly humerous carving.
“So tell me more about our fellow inside,” Saul said.
“Prelate Sargoth, is probably the most decorated male anything to have come out of the Pollos Expanse. Were he a female, he probably would be supreme commander for the entire Western Legions. As it is, the Sylthanian’s own sexism forced him into routinue and ultimately pointless buerocratic tasks. He left, caused quite an uproar too. Apparently he was the most requested… well for lack of a better word, studding male,” Mert said.
Saul remained passive. Most people would have flinched at the odd customs of the Sylthanians. Seven females for every one male for no explicable reason anyone had ever come up with meant the females fought, governed, and worked while the males spent their time either in philosophical debates or reproducing. Whenever Mert explained it, any nearby male humans started paying attention around that bit.
“He’s got all the money he needs. You’d be surprised how many people are looking for a freelance strategist, regardless of where he came from. Now he only does the business for the pleasure of the game. We take down Thorozean, we’re going to need him to do it,” Mert said.
Saul nodded. “I hear he’s getting on in years. Are you sure we can count on him?”
Before Mert could answer, the door to the inn swung open. The flailing body of a drunk came hurtling out of the inn, letting out a sharp wail before he splattered into the mud sending a splash of gunk all around him. The one who had thrown him caught Mert’s eye. He was easily a foot taller than Mert, and Mert was not a small man. A glittering robe of scale male was covered under a tabard of pure unmarked white. His feet were likewise adorned with polished plates of brass and silver. The figure’s long legs were jointed in a digitigrades fashion like those of the cockatrices he had seen hussars riding out in the streets.
Before Mert to get a better look, the door slammed shut.
“I think we found our man,” Mert said.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Here it is.
Sorry, I've been quite busy this week and last, but here is the next post. This one is a follow up to the escape from the Prison to the character. Said character i changed to be dubbed "The General" as you may recall. As per usual, this is a rough unedited draft, so keep that in mind.
Chapter 1 Cont.
Lorn to his credit didn’t blench. The General had once made greater men wither beneath his gaze. Lorn sneered back, holding the Graft of Command in his hand. Such a tool wasn’t terribly useful down here in the rocks and stone of whatever dwarven hold this had once been. No plants or animals to control. The white shaggy bear druid on the other hand, his Graft of Shifting allowed him to transform into the feral beast that now stood in front of him. The General didn’t know which druid that made him. A large portion of the druids in the Tomb were shifters.
“You should have been killed the moment you were captured, you freak. I guess we’ll just have to take the pleasure for that ourselves then,” Lorn said. In a deft motion, he pulled a labyrinth mace from his side, bringing it up to his side. “Get the doorstop, Kel. The cosmic bastard is mine.”
Ah, that explained it. Kel was another of the warden’s cronies. Kel roared and surged forward in almost fluid motion towards Gromli. Lorn wasted no time either. Druid though he was, he was a master of armed combat with that mace. The General’s own club wasn’t meant for such tight quarters fightinas the labyrinth mace was.
The General didn’t even watch to see what happened to Gromli as Lorn was all over him like a Novenden alfen on a glass of mead. The General had been a master of arms in his heyday, but he had spent the last twenty years languishing below ground. He dodged nowhere near as deftly as he once could have.
Lorn was a frenzy of steel as he hammered at the General with well aimed precise shots that jarred the General’s own club in his hand, sending tingling pains up his arm. The clatter of metal on metal rang in the air as if a demented bell-ringer were with them playing his instrument. The General’s heart thundered in his ears, pumping blood to his system, trying to keep him running long enough to find a flaw in the druid’s attack.
Lorn feinted suddenly and switched the blow of his mace at the last instant. What had once been a downward slam that the General had started to dodge turned into a sideways sweep that glanced off his left arm. He felt a sudden pop as something that shouldn’t break did, pain surged up his arm almost blinding him with agony. He stumbled back, clutching his limp arm. He knew this had always been the problem. Twenty years had left his muscles atrophied and his skills long neglected.
Lorn smirked a fiendish smile and stepped forward after him. The General swung his club with his good hand but without his other arm to counterbalance it, the blow went wide and Lorn casually knocked the weapon out of his grasp.
“They killed your wife for what she was. Spawn of the stars, the unholiest of the unholy. And you had protected her. You were just as bad. No. You were worse. The stars chose her. You abandoned Gaiya to go seek the company of the cosmic touch. That was all your choice,” Lorn snarled. He arced out a leg, catching the General in a blow that knocked him to the floor. He slammed into the wall behind him, and for a moment everything went black.
He was back in Thorozean. Shadows reached across the landscape as the sun slowly dropped down beyond the horizon. Kark and Nark were slowly becoming visible in the sky as the two moons raced each other in their eternal pursuit. Judging by his memory of astronomical events, Kark would soon overtake the other, and leave him far behind, only to eventually come up behind his brother moon in around a month and pass him again. It was the epitome of persistence in the face of overwhelming defeat. Nark always being passed by Kark, yet still advancing forward, never letting anything stop the larger moon. The General didn’t know why he liked the story, but he did.
It was almost a year since the event in the woods. He had taken Leeya and they had fled Blackwell. At best she would be made into one of the Magus. The weapons of war used to fend off the western legions. At worse she would be killed on the spot. She still had no control over her outbreaks. They came and went, and everytime they did, he would make them leave to another area. Thorozean was a lawless country. The king had little control over anything beyond his capital city. It was the perfect place to hide. They had long since been forced to sell their horses for money and had little more beyond the clothes on their backs, a simple tent and the sword at his side.
Leeya sat underneath a large tree, staring out at the rapidly dimishing sun with an inpassive gaze that suggested a blank mind. That’s really all she did then, was stare off into the distance as if she was looking for something. She rarely spoke, and hardly ate. The woman he had fallen in love with had turned into a puppet that was content to play through the motions of life. There had been a wandering vagabond they had encounted out on the trails. His name was Mikal and he was a man out to see the world. The General’s cover story had always been that he was a simple traveler who had encountered Leeya all by herself in the ruins of a farmstead destroyed by raiders. The General had lavished Mikal with tales of finding her caked in blood, and surrounded by the desecrated corpses of her family members. Not one to leave her to his fate, he took her along. Mikal had eaten the story right up.
That was when she had gone into one of her fits. She fell to the ground in convulsions and both the General and Mikal leapt up, one from surprise, the other from fear. Her body acted as a conduit for the forces of the cosmos and the entire field around her was consumed by chaos and fire. A tree vanished in a white burst of light and heat. Soil and grass was lifted into the air, as if suspended by strings when nothing was there. Flames arced out of Leeya’s body as the cosmic forces threatened to annihilate her through sheer strength.
In swift but resigned motions, the General leapt for his sword while Mikal gaped. The wanderer would have known what he seen, and he would run for the authorities. There was nothing else the General could do. As the General spun to hack the man down where he stood, Mikal bolted like a gazelle.The General had chased him for almost a mile but the strength of the adrenaline surge traveling through Mikal allowed the man to run as if the very wolves of the cosmos snapped on his heels, threatening to devour him. The General returned to the camp. Leeya had regained control and sat on the ground gazing off into the distance again. He sat next to her and put his arm around her, knowing there was nothing he could do. The druids arrived the next morning.
A flash of pain and he was back in the Tomb.
“I said get up you worthless bag of mulch! I’m not done with you yet,” Lorn screamed in his face.
The druid slammed his boot into the General’s side again. He dully moaned as his senses returned to him. His head throbbed as if a blacksmith was using his skull for an anvil and he tasted blood in his mouth. His left arm hung limply at his side, and at least one rib was cracked. Pain flared at him from all sides.
“So much for the great Lord of the Fields! The one who so valiantly stood against the Western Legions!” Lorn laughed. The gaunt man knelled down next to him, holding his mace in his offhand while he got close to the General. “So how much of that was really for show, huh? Leading our own boys into the Meatgrinder? Did you enjoy sending them to their deaths? Was it just another act to get as many of our kids killed? Then the sylthanians can come in and walk all over us with their heretical ways? They’d greet you as a savior?”
The General craned his neck to look back at the druid. Lorn’s psychopathic gaze locked onto him and his lips curled up in a sneer. “You got something to say before you die, you karking freak?”
“I loved my wife deeper and more devoutly than a sadist like you could ever imagine,” the General said. He spat directly into the druid’s face a moment later. The spittle splattered into the druid’s eye, punctuating the General’s remarks, and Lorn threw out a curse as he raised his mace for a killing blow.
The shot never came. Gromli’s fist smashed into Lorn’s stomach, knocking the druid back a pace. The mace he had once carried slammed to the ground as his hands shot out under him to keep his balance. The General moved lightning quick, grabbing the mace with his good arm. Before Lorn had a chance to recover, the mace caved in his skull, crunching his head into a formless pulp. The Graft of Command clattered to the floor, glistening with the blood and brains of its once master.
The General leaned up against the wall, gasping in exasperation. He wiped the dripping sweat off his face and shifted his long gangly hair out of his eyes, before he got a good look at Gromli. The gnome was caked in blood, and his clothes had been shredded to a point that the General gaped they even retained some semblance of form.
“You managed to get the shifter,” the General said.
Gromli shrugged and gestured with his chin towards the ruined hulk of the druid. Already the form of the shifter was starting to reassemble back into his human form. The General had no idea how the gnome had managed to tackle such a big opponent, but won he had, and it had not come too soon.
“I knew I couldn’t leave you hanging,” Gromli said.
The General nodded. “I’d do the same for you. Let’s get to the surface.”
Other convicts still swarmed around them as they advanced down the main concourse of the prison. Bodies of both guards and prisoners lay strewn about in a bloody mess, the result of a fierce melee that the General was glad he hadn’t been present to see. There were far more bodies of convicts than there were of guards.
“From here, we’ll break for the forest. We’ll have to go somewhere they won’t expect us to,” the General said.
“To Koldar Hollow?” Gromli asked, referencing the infamous thieves city in Lorhal.
“No, they’d expect us to flee there. No, we head right for Verdesburg,” the General said with a grin. The pain from the gesture made him wince, but it still made him happy to think about it.
“Lorn must have hit you harder than I thought. You’re touched in the head!” Gromli muttered.
“Hit me he did, but where is the last place you’d look? The place closest to your base of operations. Who would be mad enough to hide there?” the General said.
“Us,” Gromli said.
“Right as right,” the General said.
The main concourse out of the prison wasn’t terribly spectacular. Nonetheless it was impressive to his eyes because the last time he had seen it was almost twenty years ago. Then he had been nothing but a broken shell of a man, and had not resisted as his captors hauled him down to the depths of the tomb. A man whose only crime was protecting the one he loved. They had hauled him away before he could see them do the dead. But he had still heard it. The moment Leeya returned to the cycle, he had known, and all strength had dropped out of him. He become so far gone with his depression they had to literally drag him into the prison.
Not now.
Questions:
1. How were the flashback sequences here?
2. What about the druids? I think I didn't have their magic distinctive enough here.
3. Who do you like better? Gromli or the General?
4. Anything of note in the flashback? Blocking, names, actions, etc?
Chapter 1 Cont.
Lorn to his credit didn’t blench. The General had once made greater men wither beneath his gaze. Lorn sneered back, holding the Graft of Command in his hand. Such a tool wasn’t terribly useful down here in the rocks and stone of whatever dwarven hold this had once been. No plants or animals to control. The white shaggy bear druid on the other hand, his Graft of Shifting allowed him to transform into the feral beast that now stood in front of him. The General didn’t know which druid that made him. A large portion of the druids in the Tomb were shifters.
“You should have been killed the moment you were captured, you freak. I guess we’ll just have to take the pleasure for that ourselves then,” Lorn said. In a deft motion, he pulled a labyrinth mace from his side, bringing it up to his side. “Get the doorstop, Kel. The cosmic bastard is mine.”
Ah, that explained it. Kel was another of the warden’s cronies. Kel roared and surged forward in almost fluid motion towards Gromli. Lorn wasted no time either. Druid though he was, he was a master of armed combat with that mace. The General’s own club wasn’t meant for such tight quarters fightinas the labyrinth mace was.
The General didn’t even watch to see what happened to Gromli as Lorn was all over him like a Novenden alfen on a glass of mead. The General had been a master of arms in his heyday, but he had spent the last twenty years languishing below ground. He dodged nowhere near as deftly as he once could have.
Lorn was a frenzy of steel as he hammered at the General with well aimed precise shots that jarred the General’s own club in his hand, sending tingling pains up his arm. The clatter of metal on metal rang in the air as if a demented bell-ringer were with them playing his instrument. The General’s heart thundered in his ears, pumping blood to his system, trying to keep him running long enough to find a flaw in the druid’s attack.
Lorn feinted suddenly and switched the blow of his mace at the last instant. What had once been a downward slam that the General had started to dodge turned into a sideways sweep that glanced off his left arm. He felt a sudden pop as something that shouldn’t break did, pain surged up his arm almost blinding him with agony. He stumbled back, clutching his limp arm. He knew this had always been the problem. Twenty years had left his muscles atrophied and his skills long neglected.
Lorn smirked a fiendish smile and stepped forward after him. The General swung his club with his good hand but without his other arm to counterbalance it, the blow went wide and Lorn casually knocked the weapon out of his grasp.
“They killed your wife for what she was. Spawn of the stars, the unholiest of the unholy. And you had protected her. You were just as bad. No. You were worse. The stars chose her. You abandoned Gaiya to go seek the company of the cosmic touch. That was all your choice,” Lorn snarled. He arced out a leg, catching the General in a blow that knocked him to the floor. He slammed into the wall behind him, and for a moment everything went black.
He was back in Thorozean. Shadows reached across the landscape as the sun slowly dropped down beyond the horizon. Kark and Nark were slowly becoming visible in the sky as the two moons raced each other in their eternal pursuit. Judging by his memory of astronomical events, Kark would soon overtake the other, and leave him far behind, only to eventually come up behind his brother moon in around a month and pass him again. It was the epitome of persistence in the face of overwhelming defeat. Nark always being passed by Kark, yet still advancing forward, never letting anything stop the larger moon. The General didn’t know why he liked the story, but he did.
It was almost a year since the event in the woods. He had taken Leeya and they had fled Blackwell. At best she would be made into one of the Magus. The weapons of war used to fend off the western legions. At worse she would be killed on the spot. She still had no control over her outbreaks. They came and went, and everytime they did, he would make them leave to another area. Thorozean was a lawless country. The king had little control over anything beyond his capital city. It was the perfect place to hide. They had long since been forced to sell their horses for money and had little more beyond the clothes on their backs, a simple tent and the sword at his side.
Leeya sat underneath a large tree, staring out at the rapidly dimishing sun with an inpassive gaze that suggested a blank mind. That’s really all she did then, was stare off into the distance as if she was looking for something. She rarely spoke, and hardly ate. The woman he had fallen in love with had turned into a puppet that was content to play through the motions of life. There had been a wandering vagabond they had encounted out on the trails. His name was Mikal and he was a man out to see the world. The General’s cover story had always been that he was a simple traveler who had encountered Leeya all by herself in the ruins of a farmstead destroyed by raiders. The General had lavished Mikal with tales of finding her caked in blood, and surrounded by the desecrated corpses of her family members. Not one to leave her to his fate, he took her along. Mikal had eaten the story right up.
That was when she had gone into one of her fits. She fell to the ground in convulsions and both the General and Mikal leapt up, one from surprise, the other from fear. Her body acted as a conduit for the forces of the cosmos and the entire field around her was consumed by chaos and fire. A tree vanished in a white burst of light and heat. Soil and grass was lifted into the air, as if suspended by strings when nothing was there. Flames arced out of Leeya’s body as the cosmic forces threatened to annihilate her through sheer strength.
In swift but resigned motions, the General leapt for his sword while Mikal gaped. The wanderer would have known what he seen, and he would run for the authorities. There was nothing else the General could do. As the General spun to hack the man down where he stood, Mikal bolted like a gazelle.The General had chased him for almost a mile but the strength of the adrenaline surge traveling through Mikal allowed the man to run as if the very wolves of the cosmos snapped on his heels, threatening to devour him. The General returned to the camp. Leeya had regained control and sat on the ground gazing off into the distance again. He sat next to her and put his arm around her, knowing there was nothing he could do. The druids arrived the next morning.
A flash of pain and he was back in the Tomb.
“I said get up you worthless bag of mulch! I’m not done with you yet,” Lorn screamed in his face.
The druid slammed his boot into the General’s side again. He dully moaned as his senses returned to him. His head throbbed as if a blacksmith was using his skull for an anvil and he tasted blood in his mouth. His left arm hung limply at his side, and at least one rib was cracked. Pain flared at him from all sides.
“So much for the great Lord of the Fields! The one who so valiantly stood against the Western Legions!” Lorn laughed. The gaunt man knelled down next to him, holding his mace in his offhand while he got close to the General. “So how much of that was really for show, huh? Leading our own boys into the Meatgrinder? Did you enjoy sending them to their deaths? Was it just another act to get as many of our kids killed? Then the sylthanians can come in and walk all over us with their heretical ways? They’d greet you as a savior?”
The General craned his neck to look back at the druid. Lorn’s psychopathic gaze locked onto him and his lips curled up in a sneer. “You got something to say before you die, you karking freak?”
“I loved my wife deeper and more devoutly than a sadist like you could ever imagine,” the General said. He spat directly into the druid’s face a moment later. The spittle splattered into the druid’s eye, punctuating the General’s remarks, and Lorn threw out a curse as he raised his mace for a killing blow.
The shot never came. Gromli’s fist smashed into Lorn’s stomach, knocking the druid back a pace. The mace he had once carried slammed to the ground as his hands shot out under him to keep his balance. The General moved lightning quick, grabbing the mace with his good arm. Before Lorn had a chance to recover, the mace caved in his skull, crunching his head into a formless pulp. The Graft of Command clattered to the floor, glistening with the blood and brains of its once master.
The General leaned up against the wall, gasping in exasperation. He wiped the dripping sweat off his face and shifted his long gangly hair out of his eyes, before he got a good look at Gromli. The gnome was caked in blood, and his clothes had been shredded to a point that the General gaped they even retained some semblance of form.
“You managed to get the shifter,” the General said.
Gromli shrugged and gestured with his chin towards the ruined hulk of the druid. Already the form of the shifter was starting to reassemble back into his human form. The General had no idea how the gnome had managed to tackle such a big opponent, but won he had, and it had not come too soon.
“I knew I couldn’t leave you hanging,” Gromli said.
The General nodded. “I’d do the same for you. Let’s get to the surface.”
Other convicts still swarmed around them as they advanced down the main concourse of the prison. Bodies of both guards and prisoners lay strewn about in a bloody mess, the result of a fierce melee that the General was glad he hadn’t been present to see. There were far more bodies of convicts than there were of guards.
“From here, we’ll break for the forest. We’ll have to go somewhere they won’t expect us to,” the General said.
“To Koldar Hollow?” Gromli asked, referencing the infamous thieves city in Lorhal.
“No, they’d expect us to flee there. No, we head right for Verdesburg,” the General said with a grin. The pain from the gesture made him wince, but it still made him happy to think about it.
“Lorn must have hit you harder than I thought. You’re touched in the head!” Gromli muttered.
“Hit me he did, but where is the last place you’d look? The place closest to your base of operations. Who would be mad enough to hide there?” the General said.
“Us,” Gromli said.
“Right as right,” the General said.
The main concourse out of the prison wasn’t terribly spectacular. Nonetheless it was impressive to his eyes because the last time he had seen it was almost twenty years ago. Then he had been nothing but a broken shell of a man, and had not resisted as his captors hauled him down to the depths of the tomb. A man whose only crime was protecting the one he loved. They had hauled him away before he could see them do the dead. But he had still heard it. The moment Leeya returned to the cycle, he had known, and all strength had dropped out of him. He become so far gone with his depression they had to literally drag him into the prison.
Not now.
Questions:
1. How were the flashback sequences here?
2. What about the druids? I think I didn't have their magic distinctive enough here.
3. Who do you like better? Gromli or the General?
4. Anything of note in the flashback? Blocking, names, actions, etc?
Thursday, January 27, 2011
A Question for Writers
Hey folks.
I was reading an article by Jo Walton on Tor.com the other day, and it really interested me, and I wanted to get all of your opinions on this. the article was about Religious science fiction, and here's the line that got me thinking:
"There’s the kind of SF where the writer is themselves a member of some religion and this imbues their writing—I think Connie Willis would be a good example of this. Look at the stories in Miracle, or her novel Passage. I don’t have a problem with this unless it spoils the story, but I don’t find it all that interesting either."
Now, my question is this: to what extent should an author's personal life (personal history, religion, culture, personal beliefs, etc.) be evident in his/her writing?
For example, lots of people have a problem with Orson Scott Card's work because they feel his Mormon heritage is too evident in the plot and characters.
Personally, I'm not sure how I feel about this question. I don't have a problem with Card's work, but that's probably cause I'm a Mormon too so the Mormon-esque parts of his stories don't jump out at me unless I'm looking for them. C.S. Lewis was an Anglican and the Chronicles of Narnia are overtly Christian, but that never really bugged me . . . of course, I'm Christian, so maybe thats why. Is Lord of the Rings too preachy for anybody? What about Wheel of Time, or Brandon Sanderson's stuff?
I do think that in our society we try very hard not to be religously pushy . . . but if the author tries to drain his/her writing of everything that is him/her . . . well, we might as well pull a 1984 and just have machines mix and match formulaic plot devices into something new every few weeks. What's the difference?
Please, give me your opinions and what-not.
Later . . .
I was reading an article by Jo Walton on Tor.com the other day, and it really interested me, and I wanted to get all of your opinions on this. the article was about Religious science fiction, and here's the line that got me thinking:
"There’s the kind of SF where the writer is themselves a member of some religion and this imbues their writing—I think Connie Willis would be a good example of this. Look at the stories in Miracle, or her novel Passage. I don’t have a problem with this unless it spoils the story, but I don’t find it all that interesting either."
Now, my question is this: to what extent should an author's personal life (personal history, religion, culture, personal beliefs, etc.) be evident in his/her writing?
For example, lots of people have a problem with Orson Scott Card's work because they feel his Mormon heritage is too evident in the plot and characters.
Personally, I'm not sure how I feel about this question. I don't have a problem with Card's work, but that's probably cause I'm a Mormon too so the Mormon-esque parts of his stories don't jump out at me unless I'm looking for them. C.S. Lewis was an Anglican and the Chronicles of Narnia are overtly Christian, but that never really bugged me . . . of course, I'm Christian, so maybe thats why. Is Lord of the Rings too preachy for anybody? What about Wheel of Time, or Brandon Sanderson's stuff?
I do think that in our society we try very hard not to be religously pushy . . . but if the author tries to drain his/her writing of everything that is him/her . . . well, we might as well pull a 1984 and just have machines mix and match formulaic plot devices into something new every few weeks. What's the difference?
Please, give me your opinions and what-not.
Later . . .
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Spawn of the Void 1/2
Ok, here is another world building piece that explains the nature and history of some of the various monsters/expendable soldiers in my fantasy story. As far as questions, I'd mostly just like to know what you thought of the whole piece (especially Danel) and what you thought of the creatures/monsters introduced so far. I'll post the rest next week. Enjoy:
The old man arrived in the tall hours of the night, on the wings of a storm.
He had to have been pounding on the dog-door for hours by the time Jarrod roused himself enough to realize what all the banging was about—poor old blighter’s right hand was raw and bleeding at the knuckles and his thread-bare cloak clung to him, soaked through by icy sleet that was howling in off the sea, wind screaming near fit to cover the lower noise of the thunder.
“Well don’t ye be standin’ out there, sir,” Jarrod hollered, raising the lantern higher and letting go of the latch long enough to beckon to the stranger. “There’s worse coming behind this rain, or I’m a five colors of a fool. Come in! The master won’t like it if you lay down and die against his wall.”
“That’d be me, sir,” Jarrod admitted, trying—and failing—to hide a frown. Blast the rain and the dark! He couldn’t see a thing behind the stranger, try as he might, and the lantern was less than a help. Where could the old blighter have come from? Folk didn’t just wander the wilds between manor houses. That was a good way to wind up dead.
Turning back to the old man, he tried again. “Will you not come in sir?”
Shaking his head, the stranger used his bloody hand to motion Jarrod closer. “I’ve seen you before, wandering between here and Daerondal Hold.” The man’s voice was deep and vibrant, so at odds with the fellow’s cadaverous appearance that it gave Jarrod a start. “Do you know the lay of the land to the west?”
Jarrod should have held his tongue—honest Faith fearing folk had nothing to do with the dark hills and darker ruins of tumbled stone that lay westward—but he was nodding almost before he knew it. “Aye, sir,” he half shouted over the rising storm. “I do at that. My da and I have wandered our fair share amongst the hills.”
“Your father?” the old man sounded surprised. “I’d never noticed him about.”
Part of him wanted to demand just how long the stranger had been spying about the manor; instead he found himself saying, “Da went missing two summers back. He’d gone to the hills hunting. We--we never found his body.” The pain welled up inside Jarrod, like old wounds breaking open, and he was suddenly grateful for the darkness—it wouldn’t do for a stranger to see the gate warden crying like a wee girl barely off her mother’s aprong.
“Forgive me for prying,” the stranger continued, taking a hesitant step closer. Jarrod knew he should have put a stop to that—no one approached the gate without permission from the Master, especially not at at this Faith-forsaken hour—but again, he did nothing. The old man extended his hand—again the one he’d worn bloody with knocking; his left hand he kept tucked beneath his cloak—and Jarrod shook it reluctantly, insides still churning.
“My name is Danel Terram, boy,” the old man said, and his eyes burning with an inner fire like blue starlight. “I’ve come to ask a favor of you, and give one in return.”
“A favor?” Jarrod repeated, unable to look away from those brilliant eyes. “What favor?”
“I’ve a burden to carry,” Danel said, gesturing to his hidden left and hefting something weighty beneath the folds of his cloak. “A rather heavy burden and no strength to carry it in this weather. Come with me, share my burden and some of your good light, and I’ll show you what happened to your father.”
Jarrod was two steps out the door before he came to his senses and pulled up short, heart pounding fit to match the thunder. His da? This old man knew what had happened to his da?
“How could you possibly know what happened to my da?”
A thin smile split Danel’s lips. “Come and see.”
West of the manor the land rose in long, tumbled steps towards the distant peaks. The pitted lane that Danel followed wound ever higher among scattered, wind-stunted elderoaks and huge bone-gray boulders that dotted the slopes like half-buried skulls pale in the darkness. The rain held steady and the tall curtain walls of the manor were soon buried in shadow, but the old man ordered the lantern shuttered until they had topped the first ridge and passed out of sight of any prying eyes.
“I’ll take the light now, my boy,” Danel said, pausing at the base of a particularly large outcrop of stone. “And you may take my burden, if you please.”
Passing the old man the light, Jarrod in return received a bulging water skin that Danel produced from the depths of the cloak. It was much heavier than it appeared—much heavier than it should have been—and it was only luck that kept Jarrod from dropping it on the ground.
Danel must have seen the fumble, for he hissed and gritted, “Careful, boy!” But Jarrod barely heard the man.
The waterskin glowed. Eyes wide, Jarrod stared at the light—pure, clean golden light of the kind you only saw in autumn and that if you were lucky—shone through the tight seems of the sack, and he couldn’t help but wonder if a miniature sun was trapped within the leather.
Danel’s weathered face was hard in the gentle light, but for a half second his sky-blue eyes gleamed hungrily, then the old man jerked his gaze away and grunted, “Cover it up! Quick lad!” Then he spun on his heels and marched into the night, the lantern opened just a crack to light the path before him.
Head spinning, Jarrod plunged the waterskin under his cloak and hurried after the strange old man.
The trail climbed higher and higher, and however old he seemed, Danel showed no sign of flagging. Soon, Jarrod was lagging behind, shifting the strange waterskin from arm to arm and regretting ever having left the manor.
Three hours passed without a word passed between the two, and then Danel paused in the middle of the trail and asked, “Why did your father take up hunting in these hills, boy? Your kin and neighbors avoid this place.”
Jarrod nodded, eyes on the trail. “Ten years back the crops failed and then kept failing, a famine or some-such—I was too young to remember much—but we had no rains for three seasons.”
“I heard tell of your troubles,” Danel muttered, tugging at his beard, “But I was far to the south at the time.”
“All of the freemen on the estates pulled out after the second year,” Jarrod continued, “And by the third year many of the serfs had too. The Master kept promising that the High King would send aid, but none has ever come. Food was so scarce . . . the-the lowlands had hunted nearly clean so my da started stalking the game up here . . . what little there was.”
“Your father was wise not to wait on the High King’s help,” Danel said, and then: “Arvad Telmar was murdered on his throne five years ago, his wives and children slaughtered not long after. Even now a traitor—the fifth since the High King’s death—sits on the Last Throne and all Ellandar’s High Families and generals are carving out kingdoms of their own. Help was never coming.”
“I-I can’t believe . . .” Jarrod had to clamp his mouth shut to stop blathering. The High King dead? Ellandar fallen? The sun might as well refuse to rise tomorrow.
“With the High King’s fall,” Danel continued, “The watch on the northern marches failed, and the Blood Lords”—Danel ignored Jarrod’s fearful hiss—”the Blood Lords have sent their spawn forth, down from their mountain holds. Dark things now range freely between the holdings of men, wandering the marshes and wild places. Wild places like these hills.”
Jarrod jerked around to stare at the old man. “Are you saying my da was killed by . . . by darkspawn?”
When Danel turned to face him, his eyes were haunted.
“Yes.”
Jarrod had seen the ruined tower from atop the manor walls, a shattered ring of stones and a tumbled tower that crowned a far hill on the edge of the horzion. But now, standing in the shadow of the broken arch of the wall’s ancient gate, he was struck by how large the ruins really were.
The storm had broken only minutes past, and the clouds were thinning overhead. The full moon was a bone-white eye framed in the only whole window of the old tower. Danel was already threading his way between fallen blocks of stone into the shadows beyond.
“I can feel their stink even now . . . it’s coating everything like oil on water.” Danel gestured to a far corner, “Some of the ilk camped there. Can you see the firepit?”
Stomach churning, Jarrod turned away from the corner and tried not to imagine what ‘spawn had been cooking. “What were they?”
“You mean what breed were the beasts that killed your father?” Danel turned ‘round long enough to frown at him. “What difference does it make, boy?”
“I just need to know.”
Heaving a sigh, Danel turned around and strode back to Jarrod. “And what do you know of darkspawn, boy? What could I tell you that you’d understand? Your father is dead, killed by darkspawn. Accept it and be done with it.”
“Just tell me. Please.”
The old man shook his head in exasperation, then walked over to the darkened corner where he’d seen the firepit. He paused and toed the ground, head cocked to one side as if he was listening to something. Then he began sniffing, edging back and forth, nose thrust out like a hound on the hunt.
“Rukai camped here, though I cannot say how long.”
Jarrod edged closer, apprehensive of what he would find, but unable to keep away. “What are rukai?”
“Soulless,” Danel said, and it came out a growl, “Life-reaved, some call them, the Dead Who Live. They are the remnants of men and women taken captive by the Blood Lords.”
“Remnants?”
“The Black Kings feed on mortal souls, yes. The life energy of mortals is the source of their power, though it was not always so. What is left after the . . . feeding, is an empty husk, neither living nor dead and bound to the will of the Blood Lord who consumed its essence.”
Sniffing again, Danel moved closer to the crumbling wall. “But there were others here.” The old man unlatched the shutter on the lantern, spilling light across the broken stone face.
Stumbling backwards, Jarrod bit of a hoarse curse. The wall was drapped with thick strands of dark, mold-covered webbing that stirred fitfully in the cold breeze. The jagged rim of the wall was crusted with rough spheres of mud, some crushed and broken, only a thick rind remaining, others were whole—two paces tall and half again as wide. Dark holes gaped at the bottoms of the spheres, almost like they were huge . . .
“Nests?” Jarrod said in a strangled croak. “Are those nests?”
“Gholem prefer high places . . . cliff faces, dead trees and the like.” Danel said, and he shuttered the lantern again, plunging the wall back into shadow. “Gholem usually follow Soulless packs, feasting on the dead, but they too serve the whim of the Blood Lords. They are spies and assassins, winged and cunning.”
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