A Science Fiction (?) Essay

The Singularity is coming.

You can’t stop it from coming—its been on its way ever since the first caveman struck the first spark—and sometime around 2045 it will change everything you think you know about life, society and . . . well, basically everything.

At least, that’s what a small but growing group of Singularitarians believe. But what, exactly, is this Singularity (don’t forget to capitalize it)?

In traditional science a singularity (note the lack of a big S) is a point in space-time where the normal rules of physics don’t apply. A black hole is the classic example. But that’s not the Singularity. No, the Singularity refers to the exponential and (eventually) explosive growth of technology. And it’s not that hard to imagine.

Picture life ten years ago: the iPod had just come out, cell phone screens didn’t do anything except show you text messages and the number you were dialing, and nobody had heard of a 3G network. Now step another ten years back: Discmans are all the rage, the Internet has barely begun and cell-phones are as big as bricks and restricted to the ridiculously rich. Another ten years: Atari is the cool kid on the block, cell phone what? Another ten years: desktop computers are making their first appearances in offices and homes. Ten more years: computers take up an entire room and the Apollo astronauts are running complex calculations using pencil and paper. Ten back again: computers take up entire floors of buildings and Sputnik hasn’t even launched. Another decade back: the first computer is as large as an entire building and helps the British crack Nazi message codes. And one more time, ten years back: no computers, no cell phones, no calculators. Nothing.

That’s what the Singularity describes: the continual, exponential increase in technological and computer power.  But where, you might well ask, is all of this heading?

Well, if you ask Ray Kurzweil, the answer is unimaginable. Literally. Kurzweil has been studying, and predicting, the Singularity for three decades now, and his prophecies are the stuff science fiction authors dream of. To put it shortly, Kurzweil posits that by 2045 computers will be artificially intelligent and have something like a billion times the computing power of all the human brains in the entire world. At that point these hyper-brains will be able to improve themselves faster than any human can understand, and they’ll start spewing out new inventions and revolutionary discoveries and stunning improvements to all aspects of society at an unprecedented rate.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Singularity.

The impact of this Singularity on society are beyond anything we could understand. And—get this—there is always the possibility that these super AI’s won’t even like us. Yep, you heard right. We could be on our way to inventing ourselves into extinction. Kind of a bummer, but . . . the new iPad 2 does look really cool.

Now, lets be optimistic and assume that our new robot super-friends play nice and help us out; what are the practical effects of the Singularity for the average person? According to Kurzweil, we’ll have all kinds of computer implants in our bodies that make life not just better, but cool too. Disease and illness won’t be an issue anymore; in fact, death won’t really be a problem either. Thanks to technology, humans will live indefinitely, or have the option—should they desire it—to load their consciousness into a computer network. Presto! Digital immortality.

And those are the tamest of Kurzweil’s predictions. He has other ideas that are even crazier. After the Singularity, humanity will expand into space, colonizing worlds at a faster and faster pace, sending out probes and nano-machines that convert entire worlds into gigantic computers. Eventually, the rate of outward expansion and conversion will near the speed of light, and the entire Universe will be brought under humanity’s (or at least, our silicon-based offsprings’) control.

Phew . . . that’s quite the mental ride.

Only, I’m not sure I buy it.  Here’s why:

Have you ever heard of the Fermi Paradox? There is an equation, developed by Dr. Frank Drake, which predicts how many intelligent alien species at a technological level sufficient to communicate with across space can be found in our galaxy at any one time. The Drake Equation has a lot of problems with it, but even when you assume ridiculously low values for things like star formation, planet formation and how often life arises, you still end up with the inescapable conclusion that there should be something out there. And, taking into account the new data pouring in about exoplanets, its more likely that there are a lot of somethings out there.

The Fermi Paradox, then, is this: if there are advanced civilizations out there in the galaxy, why haven’t we heard from them?

So what does that have to do with the Singularity? Well, lets start out by assuming that the conclusions drawn from the Drake Equation are valid and there is at least one technologically advanced civilization out there in the galaxy. Assuming that it takes the average civilization 5 billion years to reach the state we find ourselves in (that’s about how long it took us), and knowing that the universe is about 13 billion years old, odds are that our hypothetical alien civilization is more advanced then we are. And if the Singularitarians are right and a technological singularity is basically unavoidable, then this hypothetical civilization should have experienced the Singularity before we do. And if that’s the case . . . well, why hasn’t the universe already been remodeled by this expanding alien Singularity wave? Or at least our galaxy, for Pete’s sake; its only 100,000 light years wide.

To my mind, the most likely answer is: something is wrong with Kurzweil’s vision of the Singularity. For whatever reason, most

Okay, but now lets assume that Kurzweil is right and a Singularity is unavoidable. The fact that an alien Singularity hasn’t swallowed us up may suggest that there really aren’t any other civilizations out there. Bummer.

Out of these two possibilities, I think the first is more likely. Any number of things could happen to derail a civilization blithely on its way towards the Singularity: meteor impacts, catastrophic climate change, nuclear war, etc. In short, the Singularity is an interesting prediction that presents a plethora of problems and questions to anyone who bothers thinking about it for a while. How can we ensure that any artificial intelligences we create are friendly? Is immortality really a good thing? Would someone who’d been ‘uploaded’ really still be human? For that matter, what does it mean to be human? As the date for the Singularity draws near I’m sure more and more people will debate these fundamental questions.

Of course, there is a third possibility regarding both the Singularity and the Drake Equation—and it is both the most intriguing and disturbing scenario. What if both theories are true? What if there really is an alien civilization out there, and what if it already has passed its own Singularity?

Imagine for a moment that such a civilization was both benevolent and pacifist. As it expands through the galaxy and then the universe it converts any matter it comes across—sun, planets, even whole galaxies—into computing matter. When it comes across an inhabited planet like our own, it gives the planet’s inhabitants the gift of immortality by uploading their entire civilization into a vast, digital universe that is an exact replica of the original universe. Then, once the upload is complete, it proceeds to reprocess the now lifeless world.

Could this have already happened? Could our entire universe be housed inside the digital guts of an alien species? And if it hasn’t happened yet, will we even notice when it does?

Ok, so this is my first attempt at posting an essay on the blog. In fact, its the first essay I've written in . . . oh, a very long time, so its probably not very good. But I've been thinking about the subject for a few days now, and I wanted to get my thoughts down on paper (ok, ok . . . I didn't really write on paper) in some semblance of organization. Now, as you read this, keep in mind that I left religion out of the mix so  this essay doesn't really reflect my actual beliefs 100% accurately.

Questions:

1) Do you think the Singularity is coming?

2) Which of the three scenarios I present do you think is the most likely? Or, if you can think of another scenario that you think is more likely, what is it?

3) General impressions.

An old blog of interest

I found this blog while surfing the web and I've found it very enlightening. Specifically in the realms of world building, character design, and a whole matter of other things. Basically the author rants on a specific topic on his own likes and dislikes in fantasy and how one should properly structure a story.

Warning! Author occasionally uses harsh language, and even worse, constantly bashes Robert Jordon. Use his advice on your own terms, some of it I agree with and some I don't.

http://www.forresterlabs.com/limyaael/titlelistall

Colton's End of Chapter 2 and Chapter 3

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

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

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

Chapter 2 Cont.


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

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


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

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

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

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

“There is always that,” Saul said.

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

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

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

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

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

 
Chapter 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sod off, Mert,” Saul said.

“Sodding off, sir,” Mert said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s what?” Saul said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something worth reading

This is a fun short story written by Eric James Stone, probably one of the most prominent short story writers in the country. He was also at LTUE and is an all around nice guy. This is his nebula nominated (hopefully the winner) story for this year. I personally loved it.


http://www.ericjamesstone.com/blog/stories/that-leviathan-whom-thou-hast-made/

Chapter 1 - Meet Ira

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

___________________________________________________________________________________________

“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.

Can't find the time to write?

Then I would recommend you read the following.

http://www.deanwesleysmith.com/?p=3249

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.

Book Review: Leviathan

How long has it been since you guys have found a book that you literally couldn't put down? For me, its been quite a while. The Way of Kings didn't do it for me. Not even Towers of Midnight. In fact, I think the last book I read that kept me up past my bedtime was Vernor Vinge's A Fire Upon the Deep, which I read at least two years ago. Well, Scott Westerfeld's Leviathan definitely upset my two-year run of good nights' sleep. And he did it in under 80,000 words.


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 . . .)

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.