The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 8

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

Captain Phylok pulled Jira back into the Bronze Circle, then hustled to Captain Anlayt’s side. “What—oh, gods.”

The stench of death, familiar to all who had survived The Madness, preceded the horror that congested the entrance. Worse than madfolk was an entire cohort of living dead, many still wearing recognizable parts of soldiers’ uniforms. Where clothes did not cover flesh, it hung loose and rotten, or was gone entirely. They choked the doorway, all trying to get out at once.

“Stop that noise!” Anlayt barked; several soldiers were keening a deathsong, mourning their impending deaths. “Stand like soldiers of Camac!”

“Retreat, you fool!” Jira snapped. “Draw them into the street!”

“Who is the fool?” Anlayt retorted. “If we bottle them up at the entrance, we need not fight them all at once! Perhaps you have forgotten how to count, woman? We are likely outnumbered more than two to one!”

“It’s not likely that our enemy has a functioning mage among them!” Jira bellowed. “Phylok! Captains, to me!”

Phylok hesitated. He trusted Jira, who as a Protector was part of the military, but was not sure why she intended such a tactical blunder. Still, she was the Protector. He turned and signaled an orderly retreat, and the Strikers obeyed. Anlayt, in turn, had the choice of facing the walking dead on his own or joining the retreat. He hustled to join the others.

“Strikers,” said Jira, “tell your archers to aim for the knees. Crawling dead are a less formidable enemy.”

“What is your plan?” Phylok asked her.

“Incapacitate as many as possible. Draw them as far as possible from the Library. Then set them afire.”

“Why could you not—ah.” Phylok nodded. “If there is anything to preserve inside, we don’t want it burning.”

By twos and threes, the archers found their marks. Walking dead, their knees wrecked by arrows, limped, fell, and pulled themselves along with gangrenous hands. The ambulatory skirted or clambered over the lame, driven by hunger for living flesh.

“What caused this?” Anlayt asked, cocking a crossbow.

“Perhaps a priest gone mad?” Jira answered with her own question. “Who knows?”

Once the last crawlers were a good fifty reaches from the entrance, Jira acted. Fire magic rode her intent across the short distance, and the crawling dead became crawling torches. Heedless, painless, they lurched onward. At last, cleansing fire undid the last shreds of ligaments and evil, and the charred corpses fell twitching to the pavement. The soldiers continued to retreat, keeping as much distance as possible, until there were only the living and dead.

“Well done, Protector,” said Phylok.

“I hope you do not intend that we wrap and mourn these as well,” said Anlayt.

“No,” said Jira. “We need not trouble these further. Their souls left them long ago.”

• • •

Above ground, among broken windows and the walking dead, the contents of the Library had not fared well. Underground was better; there was some water damage, but the drainage system still functioned. Jira was elated.

“Protector?” Anlayt asked, looking down one long row of shelves. “What of this would you bring back with us?”

“All of it,” said Jira. “North Keep has plenty of empty rooms. Who knows what someone will need to know, a century or two from now?”

“We don’t have—”

“Arms!” Phylok barked, drawing his sword. A strike of archers hustled forward to flank the Captains. Four more of the walking dead shambled toward them.

“Do you need my help?” Jira asked, as the Bronze Circle again tightened around her.

“If this is all that is left, no,” said Anlayt. Archers lamed the approaching undead, until they fell to crawl mindlessly toward the living.

“Spears!” Phylok shouted, and two strikes moved forward. Mindful of clutching bony fingers and snapping jagged teeth, the soldiers came in spearpoint-first. Several of them looked pale; fighting a pack of mythical walking dead was an exercise, a drill, in defeating an opponent without being wounded. Facing real examples, little more than a year ago, would have been as unthinkable as… as Camac being utterly destroyed.

Nevertheless, their training held. The lead soldiers rammed their spears into the open mouths of each crawling opponent, then stood on the shafts to pin the abominations to the floor by their own jaws. Others stood on or speared flailing arms, then waited for a Captain to strike off the head.

Jira whirled at a shout and scream from behind. Taking advantage of the distraction up front, one more had shuffled in and taken a soldier from the rear. It fastened its decayed teeth on the soldier’s arm, trying to tear away a piece of flesh.

Without thinking, the soldier punched the thing in the forehead. Its teeth tore back a piece of his arm, then it let go and the soldier jerked away. In his panic, he swung a beefy fist, and caught it in the temple as it came in for another taste. With a snap, its head jerked sideways, and it fell. A quick-thinking woman stomped hard on the broken neck, snapping the last shreds of skin and tendons, and the head tumbled away. The body twitched for a moment, then was still.

“Let that bleed,” one of the others said, pointing to the torn flap of bloody skin on the wounded soldier’s arm. “Flush out the poison. Maybe he’ll live.”

“Not if we let him bleed out,” said another.

The wounded soldier looked at Captain Anlayt in pale-faced appeal. “Is it true, Captain? Will I become one of them, now?”

“Just a fable, soldier.”

“So were they.” The soldier shuddered and fainted, as the others bound up the wounded arm.

Jira and Phylok conferred, as Anlayt berated the other soldiers for inattention in a combat situation. “Do you truly intend to bring all these books back?” Phylok asked.

“There was a ketch floating in the harbor,” said Jira. “If nothing else, I will fill it with books and call the wind to sail it home. By myself, if necessary.”

“Things have just become a little more complex,” Phylok pointed out, nodding to the wounded man in the rear. “We need to know there’s no more of those things in there, especially since we’ve left the exit clear.”

“I’m trying to imagine how they ended up in the Library,” Jira mused. “Did someone volunteer to become bait, to draw them inside? And who sealed the entrance? There were three or four sorcerers here, besides the First Protector, who were strong enough to do that. If one of them is still alive, there are several vacancies among the Protectors.”

“We need to vacate this place,” said Anlayt, joining them. In the rear, two soldiers helped their wounded fellow to his feet. “Immediately.”

“Counter,” said Phylok. “We need to make sure there’s no more of those things left. If the legends are true, I’m surprised we faced only a cohort rather than a legion.”

“Perhaps the mad ones saved us from that fate,” said Jira. “But Captain Phylok is correct. Let us clear the Library of walking dead, then I will seal the entrance again. The books can stay, for now. I will come for them later.”

“Well, it is good,” said Phylok. “We know that the important parts of the Library are largely intact. We have laid to rest a goodly number of undead. Let us proceed to the Palace, then to the Western Road.”

continued…

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 7

Previous: Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4 | Episode 5 | Episode 6

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

It was nearly High Summer, but the wind felt cold through Camac’s empty streets. Harbor Street, the thoroughfare that led to the Western Road, was strewn with litter and the occasional corpse. Many of the latter showed broken bones, and some bore marks of scavengers at work. Jira sent soldiers into dwellings to find blankets and linens to wrap the corpses; some of them came out shaken at the evidence of what had happened indoors.

“Do you think we’ll find anyone alive here, let alone an heir?” Phylok asked Anlayt. The two of them were the vanguard of the march.

“It is possible,” Anlayt ventured. “Any heir to the throne may well be waiting for us in the palace. Or what is left of it. If not, I think any survivors might retire to one of the villas outside the city. There may be crops to harvest, and the granaries were along the Western Road.” He turned to Jira, who had Lifted a corpse to make it easier for two soldiers to wrap. “Protector, how do you intend to put these—these citizens to their final rest? We do not have time to dig graves, and firewood is scarce.”

“We attended to many more than these in the Northern Reach,” said Jira. “Where mundane means are insufficient, magic will serve.”


The iron gates that once protected the Inner City were thrown down, and great holes riddled the walls. “Look,” said Jira, “the rubble is outside.” She pointed to the nearest hole.

“So the walls were breached from inside,” said Phylok, watching as much as he could. “But what did that?”

Jira gasped at a sudden mental image. She saw First Protector Nisodarun, screaming in pain, or anger, or both. He called Earth magic, that had been his primary element, sending it against the walls to tear them open.

“Protector?” one of the honor guard inquired.

“Magic.” Jira forced herself into the present and gave the soldier a reassuring look. “A vision, of sorts. A sorcerer, suffering from The Madness, could have done this. Perhaps the First Protector himself.”

“You have said often that the First Protector fell to The Madness,” said Anlayt. “How do you know this?”

Jira glared at the caption. “I received a message via falcon: The capital is in chaos. Over half the folk have gone mad, all at once, and they are destroying everything. The First Protector is one of them. May the Creator and the lesser gods preserve the empire. A senior apprentice sent it. The local Conclave here did what they could to keep order, but one may as well hold back the tide with a shovel and pail. Shortly after the falcon arrived, the chaos came to the Northern Reach as well.”

“You used these falcons to communicate with Protector Kontir, in Stolevan?”

“No. Protector Kontir has one of the Eyes of Byula. Another was here in Camac, at the Imperial Keep, in the keeping of the First Protector. Three were given to the Protectors in the East, so we could react quickly in case of rebellion. The sixth was in the South Sea Islands. The North was both near to the capital, and loyal in any case. The Protectors stationed in the Land of the Dawn Greeters and the Spine watched over peaceful territory, as well.”

“That tells us little,” said Anlayt.

“I am now coming to the point, Captain,” Jira growled. “The Eyes of Byula lend its holders many powers of an Oracle, including the ability to scry over any distance and to communicate with one who holds another Eye. It also allows a holder to speak to the mind of any other sorcerer, over any distance, which can also be done when two strong Talents share an emotional bond. But suffice to say, Kontir has kept me apprised of events in the south. I have not been able to tell him that we intend to visit the south, nor why, but he will find out soon enough.”

“The Library,” said Phylok, putting a welcome end to the discussion.

The Imperial Library was a complex of several grand buildings, all much the worse for wear after The Madness. Jira grimaced at the remains of books, old and new, strewn about the grounds. Nothing outside, after initial abuse and a winter of neglect, was worth salvaging.

“The most important works were kept in the basement of the main building,” she told them. “I hope most of them remain intact. In any case, we should see.”

To their surprise, the entrance to the main building was blocked. “If I didn’t know better,” said Phylok, looking over the huge stones and smaller rubble choking the portico, “I’d say that was deliberate.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Jira, brightening for the first time. “That means someone thought there was something worth preserving inside.”

“And I presume you can clear the way?” Anlayt asked.

“Of course.” Jira waved the others back. Performing magic before folk always involved unnecessary drama, and long habit reigned. She raised her arms, and called a light wind to toss her hair, then invoked the Earth magic actually needed to do the work. The rubble fell away, the great stones heaved. More stones fell to fill the gap, but Jira’s Earth magic moved those as well. In seconds, the entrance was open.

“Forward, my strikes—hoy!” Anlayt began, then recoiled. “Archers!”

continued…

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 6

Previous: Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4 | Episode 5

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

“Protector,” the runner stood panting at the door to Jira’s chambers. “The regular dispatch from Isenbund has been spotted, escorted by two fastboats.”

“Thank you, runner,” said Jira. “You are dismissed. Take a meal and rest in the guest chambers. You are familiar with the locations?”

“Indeed, Protector.” The runner saluted. “I presume you have no further message?”

“Oh. I do. Take this message to Hundred Perin, at the garrison: Captain Phylok is landing shortly. Please provide him with an honor guard. Have the runner at the garrison accompany the escort, and inform me when Phylok is ready to receive visitors. That is all. When you have spoken to Perin, you are on leave the rest of the day and all of tomorrow.”

“By your command, Protector.” The runner saluted and headed down the hallway.


“Captain? I trust your journey was uneventful?”

“Indeed, Protector.” Phylok saluted, then smiled. “Anlayt’s suggestion, to search Camac for an heir, was most interesting. I wonder what his ulterior motive is.”

“I believe it a gamble on his part,” said Jira. “If we can find a surviving, legitimate heir to the Pearl Throne, I expect that he will try to exert undue influence as an advisor.”

“That makes sense. I presume we depart for Ak’koyr in the morning?”

“As soon as feasible. I had left orders for Hundred Perin to dispatch the falcon when you arrived, so Anlayt will be expecting us.”


About a week later, one Protector and two Captains—the only surviving parts of a once-vast government apparatus—stood on the prow of the caravel Joy Beneath the Northern Stars, anchored in Camac harbor. Jira felt heartsore at the destruction of the beautiful capital, a place she had visited often, but resolved to show none of it to Anlayt.

Phylok, through lack of either pride or desire, was not so reticent. His voice caught. “This—this. You can hear of something, but to see it with your own eyes…” He turned away.

“This is bad,” said Anlayt, more subdued than Jira expected. “It is worse when you stand in the midst of it. I shed tears of my own at the things I saw.”

“Is there a single soul among the living here?” Jira sounded skeptical. “Can a sane one live among this rubble, knowing what a glorious city this was not two years ago?”

Anlayt shrugged. “I saw nobody among the living, when I made my survey at winter’s end. Unless you count the last few starveling mad wretches as ‘living.’ No, I did not order them slain, although that would have been a mercy. If one had been Her Sublime Majesty, or an heir…” he shuddered.

“The Imperial Library?” Jira asked. “I presume it too is rubble?”

“The entire Inner City, as all of Camac, was a ruin,” Anlayt sighed.

“But if we can reach the Inner City, we should search the Library,” Jira insisted. “Perhaps there is something worth preserving.”

The Great Pier was a solid single stone, said to have been laid in Camac’s harbor by the legendary Thurun himself. Some said that Thurun was a Maker, and Made the pier in place rather than transporting it from some other location. Jira wondered if the painting in the Imperial Keep, showing Thurun lowering the huge stone into the harbor, was still intact. She had always made a point of viewing the painting when she had visited the First Protector. Another stop on the tour, she thought.

But whether the painting survived or not, the pier itself was impervious to such trifles as the destruction of an empire. The caravel anchored in the harbor, and the landing party boarded two fastboats. They rowed to the Great Pier and made fast. One of the more agile sailors scrambled up the rough wall of the pier, then fastened a rope ladder up top for the rest of the party. “Have a care,” she called. “There are bodies on the pier.” She cocked a crossbow and kept vigil as the others joined her on the pier.

Jira reached out with her magic as Anlayt and Phylok set the marching order. She allowed the traditional Bronze Circle to form around her, protecting the mage, but she sensed no danger on the pier. Nor do I expect much in the city proper, she thought, beyond falling rubble. Four strikes coming ashore, and the greatest danger was likely to be overwhelming grief.

“On the way back,” Jira spoke as they passed the first of several corpses, long dead, “we shall wrap and mourn these. No sense in letting their shades add to the rubble.”

“Protector, we could spend a year or more, doing nothing but that,” Anlayt protested. “Besides, is that truly necessary? The souls in question departed the mad folk right away, no?”

“How do you know that?” Anlayt shook his head, and Jira continued. “A ruin it may be, but this is Camac. We will follow her laws. We need not scour the city, but those we find we shall treat with the respect demanded by law.”

“Look around you,” said Anlayt. “This is Camac. Are the laws not also in shambles?”

“If that is so,” Jira replied, “then why are we searching for an heir to Her Sublime Majesty?”

Anlayt scowled, but many soldiers nodded and a few grunted agreement. Phylok gave the “forward” whistle, and the expedition marched across the pier and into the ruined capital.

continued…

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 5

Don’t worry about me running out of steam… I’m working on Episode 9 now. I think Episode 10 will conclude the first season, but it might run a little farther. Just depends.

Previous: Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

“I have often thought Captain Anlayt a pompous fool,” said Jira, “but this?” She shook the dispatch, as if trying to jar some sense into it. “Now I wonder if he has contracted a slightly milder form of The Madness.”

“Until recently,” Perin replied, “I did not travel in the circles of Captains and Protectors. But as a Striker, I once overheard Captain Ruslem speak of him. His description of Captain Anlayt was, shall we say, not flattering.”

“Perhaps I should consult our codes and laws. There must be some good reason to remove him from office.”

“If Ak’koyr will allow it. Would you risk a civil war between two of Camac’s three remnants?”

“Four, if you count the southern coast.” Jira grimaced. “But they are so far removed, that there may as well be only three.”

“I find it interesting, that the good Captain would not spare so much as a ketch for carrying regular dispatches,” said Perin, “but he is willing to raise a small fleet to make war on the East.”

“Not only a fool, but a bloody-minded fool.” Jira thought of their visit, and of Anlayt’s off-hand admission; he had ordered Koyr’s mad slain, their corpses thrown into the harbor. Koyr will be haunted for centuries for that injustice, she thought. Perhaps eternally. Camac’s laws demanded that even the corpses of enemy soldiers be treated with respect, and Jira had followed those laws through the long year of rampaging mad folk as much as possible. She pushed aside the indignities of burial pits and mass cremations, and focused on the positive. They had wrapped each corpse, had sung names where they were known, and mourned each death. And they had done so once again, for forty-odd Eastern men who died in a needless raid. Perhaps it would be enough. If the Northern Reach stayed free of unhappy shades, if they could cling to some final shreds of civilized conduct…

• • •

Later, in her chambers, Jira began a reply.

Captain Anlayt, of Ak’koyr:

I have received your dispatch. I am truly glad to hear that you were able to deal with the raiders, especially with a day’s warning. The names of your four fallen soldiers were honored here in the Northern Reach, as is proper. But sinking five ships, with all 150 on board, seems excessive. Some of them may have become willing forced laborers in exchange for food, as are the eight Eastern raiders we captured here, not to mention the possibility for further intelligence.

Our Eastern captives tell us of food shortages, and of inequalities of distribution, at least in Ryddast and other nearby former provinces. The old provincial governors, or the “lords” who have replaced them, will be glad to send hordes of half-starved men to their deaths. They will be twice glad if it is enough to repel your force with heavy losses on both sides. Perhaps you yourself should offer their lords a duel to the death, winner take all.

There has been enough death in the last year. If you have the resources to mount a “punitive expedition to the East,” you certainly have the resources to keep the Royal Road open, at least between Koyr and this garrison. The cohort remaining here, and the folk, are willing to do their part. Keeping order and maintaining trade routes are the primary duties of Protectors and Captains in a general crisis. You have succeeded in the first part. We might debate methods, but in the end you have kept order and preserved a valuable resource.

Now for the second part. Captain Phylok tells me that the spring fishing near Isenbund has been excellent so far, and they are sending us much of their surplus of pickled glacierfish. We are sending them casks of wine in turn; a fairly recent vintage, but good table wine by all counts. There is plenty of both wine and fish, and both we and Isenbund would be glad to trade for salted beef and preserved orchard fruit.

Finally, there is the matter of the southern coast. Protector Kontir tells me that several cities are in reasonable order, and in no need of aid. This is fortunate, because we must assume that the provisioning stops, including Gran Isle and Westmark, are no longer functioning. Neither the cities under Kontir nor we can provide timely aid to the other. Therefore, I am of a mind to sever our ties, in as friendly a manner as possible, and allow them to determine their own fate. Have you any advice in this matter?

Signed, Protector Jira, Acting Governor, Northern and Gulf Provinces

Perin read the draft, and laughed at Jira’s strikethrough. “I note that you did not mention the aid packet we plan to send to Ryddast,” he said.

“If only there was a way to see that it gets to the folk, instead of their ‘lord’ or whatever he wants to call himself,” Jira grumbled.

“Perhaps there is a way. You know of the sea caves?”

Jira smiled. “Ahh. You suggest we land at the sea caves, and transport the aid packet overland to Ryddast’s border?”

“Indeed.”

“I promoted you for good reason, Perin. Who are you assigning to the mission?”

“Mostly former Easterners. Striker Nars, of course. He was born in Pyrlast, not Ryddast, but an Easterner leading the way will perhaps meet a… a less-unfriendly reception. They will take one of the prisoners, as a guide, so that our aid reaches those who need it.”

“Good thinking. But if he escapes?”

“Then our soldiers will leave the aid package where the Eastern folk will find it, and retreat with all haste.” Perin looked at her. “Protector, do you think he would try to escape? They all seem content with their lot.”

“So close to home? He might forget.”

“They use the term wol’it much.”

Jira raised an eyebrow. “Woldt? I know a little Eastern, but not that word.”

“Wol’it. Striker Nars says it describes a sense that anything has to be better than the present circumstance.” Perin chuckled. “It was used ironically, before, to mock one who was emotionally overwrought, but now? They use it in a literal sense. Better to be a well-fed slave than starving and supposedly free, they say.”

“Perin…” Jira grinned. “It occurs to me that we can do more—much more—than dropping a single aid packet. Send food, yes, but also send directions to follow the Eastrim Mountain Road to the plains. Anlayt said the cattle still roam free. They can hunt or herd, as they see fit.”

“Will Anlayt approve?”

“Anlayt is too focused on his own little fiefdom. If any settlers avoid the coast, he will never know.”

continued…

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 4

Previous: Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

Jira and Perin watched as the last fastboat, riding low in the water with its load of surviving raiders, rowed slowly away. Around them, on the breakwater and the harbor, the soldiers quietly performed their post-skirmish duties: securing the eight raiders who came ashore to surrender; towing the last floating fastboat into the harbor; and—worst of all—bringing in floating bodies and laying out the half-dozen of their own who fell to lightning or arrows.

“They look pale,” Jira whispered to Perin. “None of them have ever seen battle?”

“The hazards of a long peacetime,” Perin replied. “Unless you would call attempting to subdue a pack of the mad a battle. They have done much of that in the last year.”

Jira grimaced. “Our prisoners look half-starved,” she said. “If a cohort fights with its stomach, then it’s no wonder we gained the upper hand so quickly.”

“We did have the advantages of preparation, as well as superior arms and magic,” Perin reminded her. “And, of course, our force is well-fed. Although I suspect that many will go hungry tonight, by choice.”

“Hundred.” A runner joined them on the breakwater. “I was told to report to you, as you had a message to be carried.”

“Indeed,” said Perin. “Write this out formally. To Captain Anlayt, of Ak’koyr: We were set upon by four fastboats from the East. The cohort here repelled them successfully, sinking two and capturing a third, with light losses. However, the watchers spotted four more fastboats moving south toward the Straits. They will have likely reached you before this message—”

“Hundred,” said Jira, “I have a captive falcon. Let us send the message that way, to give Ak’koyr time to prepare.”

“In that case, we have the luxury of time. Runner, you are dismissed for now. Let us question the captives. Perhaps they will tell us what their fellows intend.”

• • •

The captives were indeed Eastern, by their looks and refusal to speak the language of Camac. They marched silently, hands bound behind them and legs roped together, across the breakwater and into the small detention area. It most recently had housed the least violent of the mad, until all finally succumbed to whatever it was that The Madness did to them.

Perin summoned Striker Nars, who himself was Eastern, to speak to the prisoners. He gave other orders, which lightened the hearts of the soldiers receiving them. “They’ll talk, one way or the other,” he told Protector Jira with a smirk.

Striker Nars looked at the eight raiders, then put his right arm across his chest and lowered his head in the traditional Eastern salute. One of the captives began speaking rapidly, but Nars cut him off. “I am not your brother!” he hissed in the Eastern tongue. “You attacked us with no provocation, and your mage killed several soldiers under my command!”

“Apologies, sir—” one of the raiders began, speaking in Camac’s language, then stopped. His fellows glared, but said nothing.

“Good,” said Nars. “We have established that you do speak the language of our nation—your former nation, as I understand it.” Two soldiers rolled a cart, covered with a large cloth, up to the cell. They saluted and departed. “Do you know what this is?” he asked them.

“Torture us all you will, barbarians,” another Easterner snarled. “We will die proudly, as soldiers of Ryddast.”

“I hope there is no need for that,” Nars said mildly. He whipped the cloth off the cart with a flourish, incidentally wafting the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread their way. He smiled, watching the wide-eyed prisoners trying not to lick their lips. “Answer a few questions, and then we’ll roll this cart in there. All of you look like you could use a decent meal. So tell me, what was your purpose?”

The Easterners looked at each other. “Food,” one said.

“After you answer my questions.”

“Eh? No, that’s why we came. The madmen. They destroyed much of our harvest last fall. Your Captain, the one who made his tour before the equinox, he and his crew looked well-fed.”

“Why not ask for aid, instead of throwing aside your allegiance?” Jira asked. “It was ever Camac’s tradition to see to the needs of our folk. Were we all that is left of Camac, we could have done at least a little.”

“Our lord is fond of asking, Why swear allegiance to a city of rubble?”

“And…” another looked at his comrades, scowled, then continued. “If we die, we die. That many less mouths to feed at home. Those who have the lord’s favor have what they need. Others…” he shrugged. Two of the others nodded.

“What of the other fastboats?” Perin prompted. “Where are they going?”

“Koyr. Their under-hill granaries should be intact. They will capture a larger ship and bring home what they can carry.”

Perin and Jira looked at each other for a moment, but Perin continued the questioning. “And the your fastboat, the one that retreated?”

“They will not return home, if that is your hope,” said one.

“As heavy-laden as they are, if they row hard, they could catch up with the others,” said another. “Are you finished with your questions?” This one stared pointedly at the food cart.

“One more question,” said Jira. “Why is your force all men?”

“It was always the tradition in the East to nurture and protect our women from harm,” one Easterner said piously. “Your crown has forced us to consider women little different from men, over the years, but we have regained more than our independence. We have regained our culture.”

A flock of harsh rejoinders came to mind, but Jira suppressed them. Waste not your words on those who will not hear, the saying went.

Perin nodded, and Nars opened the cell long enough to roll the cart in. The eight Easterners wasted no time setting to. “A fine last meal,” said one around a mouthful of meat.

“I would rather not see anyone executed, when so few are left,” said Jira. “You shall become laborers. Your first task, after you have eaten, is to name and lament your fallen comrades.” And you will be nurtured and protected yourselves, she thought sourly. And, like Eastern women, little more than property in time.

continued…

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 3

One of the good things about serializing this is that I can include definitions for Termag-specific jargon at the end of each post.

Episode 1 | Episode 2

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

Before The Madness, Jira had enjoyed the solitude of her posting. Near the tip of the Northern Reach, North Keep was near the important Straits, and only a few days’ sail from Isenbund and the islands of the cold Northern Sea. But the Northern Reach itself was rural, almost remote, a land of farms and hillside vineyards. Its primary settlement was the Keep itself and the adjacent military outpost. Like the rest of the world, most Reachers died in the Madness or its aftermath. But its relative isolation shielded many of the survivors from the after-effects, and the surviving soldiers, brave men and women all, helped Jira maintain some semblance of order.

A few weeks had passed since the unfruitful trip to Ak’koyr. Phylok was now in Isenbund, but they devoted a ketch to carry information and essentials between Isenbund and the Reach. Jira and Phylok had urged Anlayt to do the same for Ak’koyr, but the Captain insisted that all their resources were needed for rebuilding.

“Notable.” Striker—no, Hundred Perin now, she had promoted him to command the cohort that remained—stood at the door to her chambers. “The watchtowers are signaling an alarm.”

“Is a drill scheduled?” Jira could not remember a time when the watchtowers had ever signaled more than a drill.

“The flares are yellow,” he said. During a drill, the watchers would add copper salts to the fire, to turn the flames blue or green.

“I assume you have placed the outpost on alert?”

“Indeed, notable.”

Jira rose. “I will lend my aid, if needed. Ready a runner. If there is an incident, we should let Ak’koyr know.”

“Whether they deserve it or not,” said Perin.

“Indeed, Hundred.”

• • •

A runner from Point Watch met them at the outpost. “Eight fastboats, from the East,” she panted. “No banners. Four of them turned south toward the Straits. The others are heading around the Point.”

“Perhaps they are trying to establish trade routes?” Perin suggested.

“Given Captain Phylok’s reception, when he made his survey,” said Jira, “I will assume them hostile until I see otherwise.”

Perin nodded and gave orders. On either side of the harbor mouth, banners were raised: red, with a white horizontal stripe. No entry, was the message.

Another thing I have seen only in drills, Jira thought. She reviewed what she knew: a fastboat could carry two or three strikes. If these were indeed raiders, four fastboats could carry an entire cohort, equal in strength to this outpost. Whether they had a mage with them or not, Jira expected to take part in any skirmish. As a Protector, she knew combat magic, but had not specialized in it.

Well offshore, the fastboats struck their sails, deployed oars, and arrayed themselves. “Flying Diamond formation,” Perin spat, pointing to the approaching ships. “Fools. They’ve given away their intent.”

“If they land in the harbor, we could have trouble,” said Jira. “We need to repel them before they reach the breakwater. Let us reposition ourselves.”

“Indeed.”

Standing in a sheltered nook on the breakwater, Perin gave orders to the Strikers: “Keep the harbor clear. I don’t want a single one of them setting foot ashore, unless they’re surrendering. We’ve drilled in defending the outpost, you and yours know what to do. For the glory of Camac—” Perin swallowed past a lump in his throat— “the glory of Camac That Was!”

“For Camac!” the Strikers shouted as one, then hurried to their posts. Two strikes, one on either side of the breakwater, operated the concealed ballistas. These were fearsome weapons, like gigantic crossbows; a well-placed shot could breach a ship at the waterline or pin together half the rowers on one side of a fastboat. On shore, the catapults were ready. Jira held her breath as the attacking force drew ever closer.

The offshore mooring posts had a second use; they marked the effective range of the outpost’s larger weaponry. As the lead fastboat rowed through at full speed, the Strikers gave orders. Two ballistas loosed their bolts, aiming for the waterline. From the shore, the first catapult launched its own missile. Rowers in the lead fastboat, the focus of the defenders’ first response, broke rhythm as their ship took the onslaught. One ballista fell short of the mark, the bolt plunging into the water and slowing harmlessly. The second went high, wounding several rowers. But the catapult shot was true, sending a heavy bronze ball smashing through the hull.

Lightning crackled from the fastboat closest to Jira as it passed the mooring posts, slamming into one of the ballista emplacements. Jira stood and sent her own lightning in return, aiming to shear the oars along one side. The second ballista on Jira’s side of the breakwater returned fire, aiming toward the source of the lightning. A volley of arrows came Jira’s way, but she had already raised a fender and ignored them. She called the water, her primary element, and sent a mighty wave at their broadside, nearly capsizing two fastboats and swamping them both.

The battle had been joined only a minute, and already three of the fastboats were disabled or sinking outright. The fourth backed oars, trying to stay out of range of the outpost’s weapons, ignoring the shouts of their fellows and the taunts of Camac’s last cohort. Archers on the breakwater continued to shower the other three with arrows, confounding the crews who were trying to return fire or simply bail out enough water to keep their ships afloat. At last, Perin gave the order and the arrows ceased. A soldier struck the No entry banner on one side of the breakwater, and raised a banner of blue and yellow. This signal offered honorable surrender to any who reached shore unarmed. The attackers gave no response, but those who could on the lead fastboat abandoned ship. A few swam to shore to surrender, but most swam to join their fellows at one of the other ships.

Jira nodded, as Perin rejoined her in the sheltered place. “Do you notice something odd about yon raiders?” he asked.

“Besides their bent to war, when every living soul is more precious than ever?”

“Send your vision across the water, noted Protector. Tell me what you see.”

Jira closed her eyes. “One of the fastboats I swamped—there is no bailing out that one.” She sounded satisfied. “A man with a red sash floats dead in the water—your ballista crew aimed true, Hundred. Men scurrying about or swimming… hoy.” She opened her eyes and turned to Perin. “Not a single woman among them?”

“Indeed.”

“But why? The women in our cohort would make three, maybe four strikes.”

“And women or men, they fought bravely.” Perin grew grim. “But perhaps they…” He paused. “A dead woman cannot carry the next generation forward.”

continued…

---

Terminology:

Fastboat: a long, narrow ship with both sail and oars. Favored by raiders and navies for their maneuverability.

Strike: 10-12 soldiers, commanded by a Striker.

Cohort: 10-12 strikes, commanded by a Hundred.

The Lost Years, Season 1 Ep. 2

I have a good start on the next episode. So far, so good!

Episode 1

---

Credit: Roy Lathwell

“I wonder if this is a calculated slight,” Captain Phylok muttered. “Sending an open ox-drawn cart, instead of a proper carriage.”

“Perhaps.” Protector Jira sounded distracted, as she looked about. All around them, the once-proud city of Koyr lay in char and rubble. The main thoroughfare, River Run, was cleared—perhaps at the expense of side roads, most of which were blocked by debris. “But this is comfortable enough. The weather is agreeable, and seeing is easier. If all the world’s horses were as hard-hit as our own, perhaps they have nothing but oxen to pull us.” She paused. “I presume Isenbund is better preserved than Koyr.”

“Indeed, notable. At least the Old Town, the walled district, survived in reasonably good order. Much of the wooden structures outside did not fare so well. But the Old Town is more than enough to house the survivors.”

They said little else as the cart followed the road, which in turn followed the Vliskoyr River. But when they passed through a gap that was once the famed Iron Gate, Phylok spoke again. “What happened to the gate? No madman could have carried that away!”

“I rather expect to pass through it yet,” said Jira.

• • •

The acropolis was ancient, perhaps predating Camac itself. Seven walls, one inside the other, climbed the hillside. The acropolis proper was inside the highest wall.

Phylok nodded with approval at those who guarded the first gate. “One could choose a worse place to sequester oneself at the end of the world,” he mused. “A hundred good soldiers could defend this place from any army you could field today.”

“There are granaries and storehouses under the hill itself, I’m told,” Jira replied. “Koyr used some of them, but the shafts and tunnels go on and on. The sages say it might at one time have been a Goblin fastness.”

“Let us hope that none are left sleeping there.”

They continued up the hillside, gate by gate, until they reached the top. Jira chuckled at the sight. “The Iron Gate,” she said. “As I thought, our hosts took it down and moved it. They must intend to live here, far above the chaos and debris. An interesting statement.”

Through the Iron Gate, the acropolis showed no signs of the recent chaos. Yet, there was much evidence of patching and construction on the ancient buildings. Here, the narrow streets were laid out in rings, an echo in miniature of the walls outside. The cart wormed its way around and through, until at last the driver pulled the placid oxen to a stop before a squat circular building.

“I believe that was once a tower,” Jira replied. “The ancients could have seen for miles from here.”

From the outside, the building was unimposing, its circular walls the only distinctive feature. Workmen stood atop a roof that once was higher, laying brick and stone.

“The center of the center,” Phylok whispered. “I wonder whether this is a statement as well.”

• • •

The driver announced them: “Protector Jira, of the Northern provinces. Captain Phylok, of Isenbund.”

“Enter, in all peace and harmony,” came the sharp reply.

Captain Anlayt is not pleased to have us here, Protector Jira thought, as they entered the Council Chamber. The chamber took up much of the old tower’s ground floor. It seemed far larger than necessary, but perhaps they would close off sections later.

“Welcome to Ak’koyr,” Anlayt greeted them. “I trust your sail was uneventful?” His expression lacked the warmth of his words.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” said Jira. Spring in the North was often stormy, and the fastboat had been tossed like a rag before they reached the Straits, but Jira had resolved to make no complaint. “Captain, have you made a survey of the Gulf region? What is there to report?”

Anlayt gave her a dismissive look. “Forgive me, notable, but I report to First Protector Nisodarun. This is not your domain.”

Jira drew herself up, looking down at Anlayt, her swirling blue cape and her anger making her seem even larger. “The First Protector fell to the Madness! Have you forgotten the rules of succession?”

Anlayt fell sullen, as those nearby stole glances in their direction. “Of course I am familiar with those rules.”

“Good. Then you know, until we appoint a new Protector for the Gulf region, then the nearest Protector is to take charge. Of the nine Protectors, only myself, Protector Kontir of Stolevan, and Protector Borvin of the Spine have survived the events of the past year.”

“Truly? No word from the East?” Anlayt could not hide his surprise.

“I myself surveyed the East,” Phylok spoke for the first time. “If any of our mechanisms of government survived the last year, they have been swept aside. Those provinces not lying in anarchy and ruin have thrown off their allegiance.”

“Pah. Ungrateful wretches, the lot of them. And I myself am Eastern.”

“So what news of the Gulf?” Jira insisted.

“You saw the rubble of Koyr for yourselves. Vlis is much the same. Camac is worse.” Anlayt sighed. “The Pearl Throne was smashed. I have seen it myself. I cannot be certain, but I believe the scattered remains in the throne room were those of Her Sublime Majesty.” He turned away, and nobody spoke for a long minute. “And you?” he finally continued. “Have you other news?”

“Stolevan has fallen, but Protector Kontir tells us that several other coastal cities have maintained or re-established order. I will let Captain Phylok speak for Isenbund.”

“Isenbund lives,” said Phylok, “but the summers have grown shorter in the last few years. If that continues, we shall be icebound in a generation. Do you know of any other Captains in this region, besides the two of us, that have survived? No? We three may be all that is left of Camac’s governing mechanisms, outside the southern coast.”

Anlayt nodded, the silver plume atop his helmet bobbing in counterpoint. “Then you should urge your folk to gather here, Captain Phylok. The more we have working together, the more likely we can recover from this crisis.”

“They would not, Captain Anlayt. The Northern folk are proud citizens of Camac, and they will not lightly throw aside their allegiance. Nor will they lightly abandon their home, until it becomes absolutely necessary.” He drew himself up. “And as Captains, we should defer to the surviving Protectors.”

Anlayt gave Phylok a sour look. “Much of the old order, by necessity, must be put aside, no?”

“Perhaps,” said Protector Jira, “but it is our duty to preserve what we can. What of the eastern Gulf?”

“Only the cattle are left,” said Phylok. “They roam wild through the streets of the old fishing towns and across the plains. If any folk have survived, they stayed out of sight. Our remnant, Isenbund’s remnant, and the three of us are all that is left of Camac.”

continued…

The Lost Years, Season 1, Ep. 1

The four centuries between the fall of Camac That Was and the Age of Heroes is commonly called “The Lost Years.” These are the stories of the remnant who tried to re-establish order and civilization.

---

Year 1, Spring

Credit: Roy Lathwell

The last of the mad ones was dead, and Protector Jira felt a guilty relief.

“Bury her,” she told Striker Perin, looking out her window at the sea, grey and cold as her thoughts. “Do it properly, and erect a marker. She had a name—Linya sam Tiegs—so give her a proper grave.”

“It will be as you wish, notable,” said Perin. “But indulge my curiosity: why do for this one, what we could not do for the thousands of others?”

Jira sighed. “Most of those had no name. Or no name that we could put to them. And Perin, I am weary. We burned so many bodies over the winter, I fear the soot will cover the entire Northern Reach forever. We had to cover the burial pit last week for the smell. And the smell of death is one I hope to be done with for a good, long time.”

“Understood, notable.” Perin saluted and departed.

“It’s over,” Protector Jira said to herself, trying to believe it. Not a year ago, people began to go mad, for no known reason. It spread across Camac’s vast domain like a virulent disease. Many who kept their wits fell victim to those who did not, or simply died in the general chaos, or killed themselves in despair over loved ones. Jira herself had considered the latter.

Spring is the time of renewal, she reminded herself. But what is there to renew? Take twenty of the folk. Twelve of them fall to The Madness. Seven more perish, by the hands of the mad, starvation or accident, or their own hands. One is left to carry on, the horrors of the last few months forever etched on her mind. Could this tiny remnant re-establish order? Was it even worth trying?

Jira left the window, crossing the room to a map of Termag. Jira marked the places in her mind. Rumors said the great cities—Camac, Stolevan, Vlis, Koyr—were all smoldering ruins, and that seemed likely. There had been a brief message from Protector Kontir of Stolevan, claiming the cities east of Stolevan had managed to maintain a semblance of order. Captain Phylok of Isenbund had traveled across the Eastern provinces, to see how they had fared, and now his ship stood in the small harbor outside the Keep. Perhaps that was a good omen—Phylok’s safe return on the same day the last mad soul took her longest journey. Any hope was worth clinging to, these days.


“Notable,” a runner called from the door that Jira had left slightly ajar. “Captain Phylok.”

“Enter, in all peace and harmony,” she said. Phylok was a Westerner, short but broad and strong. Jira, a Northerner and a sturdy woman herself, stood nearly a head taller.

Phylok saluted. “Noted Jira, I am ready to make my report.”

“Good news, I hope.”

“As I see it, good and bad. The Eastern provinces were stricken hard, perhaps not quite as hard as ourselves. However, every one of them with any semblance of government has declared independence. Most refused us harbor. We can expect no help from the East.”

Jira shrugged. “And the southern coast is too far away to focus on anything but its own needs. As expected, it seems we are on our own.”

Phylok paused, gathering courage for a question. “Have you received word from any other quarter?”

“We have heard from Captain Anlayt. He was able to gather survivors in the acropolis outside Koyr. They have named it Ak’Koyr.”

“But not Camac?”

“First Protector Nisodarun fell to The Madness,” said Jira. “Perhaps Captain Anlayt has made a survey of the Gulf, but he did not see fit to give me any kind of report beyond the fact of his own survival.”

“Perhaps we should join him there. I’ve seen the acropolis, it’s defensible, and the climate is better.”

Jira gave him a sour look. “If relocate we must, climate be damned. I would rather relocate to Isenbund. Captain Anlayt is… intractable.”

Phylok looked down. “If summers get much shorter, we may have to abandon Isenbund. The remnant is in good order—we gathered three, perhaps four hundred sane folk into the city—and the farms above the city were not greatly damaged. We were organized enough to bring in the harvest, and we actually have a surplus of food, but this was the first winter in the last five that we were able to feed ourselves.”

“Good thing. There has been little we could have done here.”

Phylok nodded. “Indeed. So what do we do now?”

Jira thought a moment. “As unpleasant as Anlayt is to deal with, we cannot shun him—or any living, sane soul—in these times. We shall ask him if he has surveyed the Gulf, and what he has found. But, as much as it pains me to do so, I believe I must make this request in person.”

continued…

Apotheosis (#FridayFlash)

Jean Auguste Dominque Ingres,
The Apotheosis of Homer
Source: Wikimedia Commons

Earth, Air, Fire, Water. I needed them all for this magic, and a shoreline gave me that. Spells combining all four elements were the most difficult of all, but I had studied long and hard. I knew what to do.

I was born on this long, narrow peninsula that foreigners call the Land of the Dawn Greeters. I was never able to rise early enough to join the People and greet the sunrise, as they claim to have done each day since the Creator brought the First Dawn to Termag, but I always knew I was different in other ways. More significant ways. It has taken a lifetime to learn what those differences are.

I leave my clothes on the sand, and walk across the beach and into the ocean. The water is cool, but not uncomfortable, and the salt smell reminds me of my childhood among the People. This one morning, I was awake before the People, but only because I had been up all night preparing the magic.

“Tropir.” I turn at the sound of my name.

“Komu.” My oldest childhood friend, now a woman grown. Nudity is not a tabu among the People, so I feel no shame before her. “Please do not plead with me,” I tell her. “I must do this. If it does not kill me, then I will learn who I truly am.”

“It’s true, then,” she says. “Have you another to bear witness?”

“I do not, Komu. I would be honored if you will be my witness.”

She says nothing, but nods and sheds her own clothes. Naked, she joins me in the surf. I feel no yearning, even though we had lain together, in an illicit pairing, the last night before I was sent into the wide world. It had meant something to who we had once been; but twenty years, whether in one place or traveling the world, remolds a person as it will.

With Komu at my side, I turn my back on the shore. This particular beach is shallow for a long way out, especially at low tide. It is nearly twenty reaches before I stand waist-deep. Earth under my feet, Water to my hips, Air above, and the morning sun brings Fire. I summon—or rather, connect with—each element.

“What have you seen, out in the wide world?” Komu asks.

“Many things,” I reply. “Places where snow covers the ground year-round. Mountains that smoke. People in mortal combat with misshapen, twisted things. A vast forest, where the trees are awake and speak, and the Unfallen roam. And people… simply being people.”

“What have you learned?”

“Many things. But one thing I never learned was how to awake an hour before sunrise.” We share a sad laugh. “Stand away, Komu. I know not how this magic will affect what is immediately around me.”

She moves away, and I gather all four elements, my intent combining them all. While Fire and Water can never be combined on their own, the moderating influence of Earth and Air can allow all to join. The sea bottom churns, a hot mist rises around me, blown by strange winds. The elements pull at me from without, the magic pushes from within, and I feel the changes they work. There is some pain, but not as much as I would have thought. I will not die, but rather…

Komu gasps as I leap into the air, the sun making my skin glow like fire. I slam into the water, skimming the bottom, and leap once again. I release the magic, for I no longer need it. My witness shouts with joy as I leap and splash, leap and splash, flying into the horizon to join the rest of the lesser gods.

Preliminaries (#FridayFlash)

+Helen Howell gave me a challenge when I said I was trying to think of a #FridayFlash this week: “Write me a 100 word story using cylinder - goglet - liberate - off you go.” I made it a brief glimpse into Termag’s history.

(A “goglet” is a stone vessel, designed to keep water cool.)

---

Source: openclipart.org

Protector Ethtar watched his friend work. “What is this?”

“You’ll see.” Chelinn lifted the hot cylinder with bronze tongs, and placed it in a bowl.

“And what is my part, here?”

Chelinn turned up the goglet, filling the bowl with cool water. “This has to cool quickly,” the warrior-mage said. He stirred the concoction with a glass rod. “Ah.” The contents began to foam and smoke, and he took the bowl to the window. “Now! Call the wind. Send this all over the city.”

“Why?”

“Before we can resettle Vlis, we must liberate the spirits of the original residents.”

Launch!

I tuned the Launch Cannon to fire at B&N and Amazon pretty much simultaneously. That actually worked out pretty well. As I’ve been researching in the last month or so, I’ve learned several ways I could further streamline the formatting process. Now, I have extremely clean EPUB and MOBI output, which takes less than an hour to clean up from Scrivener, and a fairly easy way to get the text to a typesetting program for printing (the next frontier).

Next up, the dreaded Smashwords thing. Actually, I’m going to hand them an EPUB and see if anyone complains about other formats before I do the .DOC file thing… so if you depend on Smashwords for anything non-EPUB, let me know right away!

Just in case you missed the cover reveal and blurb last week, I’ll go ahead and repeat it for you here:

Infiltrating a nest of rogue sorcerers can be hazardous… to your heart.

Mik and Sura are growing ever stronger as apprentice sorcerers, but neither knew what living in Mik's hometown would do to their relationship. Torn apart by misunderstanding, Mik volunteers for a hazardous mission in a distant land. Now Sura must learn to trust, and Mik must learn the true meaning of home.

And now, I get to take a brief break from writing, editing, and production for a while. I’m going to read some stuff now!

Water and Chaos COVER REVEAL!

Let’s have a round of applause for +Angela Kulig, who put this thing together!

And what’s a cover without a blurb, right? Thanks to everyone who helped with this.

Infiltrating a nest of rogue sorcerers can be hazardous… to your heart. 

Mik and Sura are growing ever stronger as apprentice sorcerers, but neither knew what living in Mik's hometown would do to their relationship. Torn apart by misunderstanding, Mik volunteers for a hazardous mission in a distant land. Now Sura must learn to trust, and Mik must learn the true meaning of home.

Now, when will it be out?

Um… depends on whether I get the edits back this weekend. If I do, and they’re not huge, it should be on Amazon, B&N, and Smashwords before July 4.

Writing Wibbles

As you have certainly realized by now, I changed the blog template. Some readers have told me the contrast (or lack thereof) made it hard to read, and I chafed at the hassle of trying to make the sidebar wider. The old template, called Abrasive, was a third-party template. I was able to tweak a few things—most notably moving the tags to the top, and putting comment links at both top and bottom—but at last, it was time to move on. The new Blogger-supported template is from awesome.com, and I customized it a little: the online tools let me make the sidebar wider (yay!) and change the background. I now have a little nicer-looking mobile template. I had to hack on the HTML to put a comment link at the top, but haven’t yet figured out how to put the share buttons up there without breaking everything.

OK, on to the writing stuff…

Water and Chaos is still with the editor. I hope to get it back this weekend, then finish it up next week. If all goes well, it will be in Amazon, B&N, and Smashwords before the July 4 holiday, and the other stores after a couple weeks. Sales at B&N are pretty slow, so far, but the Nook Press webapp is cool enough that people need to support it. If you find a typo a few minutes after publishing (yes, this has happened to me), you can edit the book on site—no edit/respin/upload cycle to go through!

Now if you’re on my mailing list, you’ve already seen the cover and blurb for Water and Chaos. If not, you’ll get to see it tomorrow. I’ll have it on this blog, the Green Envy Press blog, and Goodreads. So while you’re waiting… why not sign up for the mailing list? If you want to get in on the announcement fun, leave me a comment with an email address, or email me at lkollar at gmail dot com, and I’ll shoot you some attachments. Book bloggers interested in a quick-ish read (it’s about 44,000 words) can get an ARC by request.

My brain is already on vacation, although it doesn’t start until July 6. I’m going to try spending the entire vacation reading instead of writing. I have a lot of catching-up to do.

Addendum: Thanks to Jim C. Hines for linking to my Writing Wibbles of two weeks ago. It’s one of the most-clicked of these columns to date!

Escape (Water and Chaos excerpt) (#FridayFlash)

Since I was out of town mid-week, and Water and Chaos is with the editor, I’ll post an excerpt. This is from the second of the Accidental Sorcerers adventures. I need to get the blurb done, preferably this weekend…

---

The guards unlocked the door and shoved Mik inside. He staggered across the cell, and caught himself on the empty cot. The guards departed without a word.

The other occupant watched the guards leave, a curious look on his face. Finally, he turned to Mik. “Peace and harmony?” he asked. Mik thought his looks and accent strange, both perhaps a mixture of Eastern and Western origins.

Mik sat on the cot, elbows on knees, chin in hands. “All peace unto you,” he grumbled.

“I’m Rihous sim Aren. Of Woldland. You?”

“Mik sim Mikhile. Of Mosvil.” He looked up. “You’re a Wold, then?”

“Indeed! You didn’t recognize me without my loincloth and leather tassels?” Rihous laughed at Mik’s sputtering protest. “I was joking. Where is Mosvil?”

“Up the Wide River from here. Woldland’s the far side of the Gulf of Camac, no? You’re a long way from home.”

“Eh. I’ve had no home but the ocean, for some years. So I’m close to home, indeed.” Rihous lowered his voice to a whisper. “And will be home soon, I believe.”

“How do you think?”

Rihous held a raised finger to his lips: The Hand That Begs Silence. “Your friends neglected to lock the door behind them,” he whispered. “They have considered my sorcerous abilities, and chose a lock that resists magic. Yet a lock left unlocked is one that needs no magic to defeat.”

“You’re a sorcerer?” Mik warmed to his story. “I’m an apprentice.” He looked down. “Or was.”

“I know it’s rude to ask, but what brought you here?”

“My mentor came to Queensport for research. There was… a girl. At home.” He thought of Sura for a moment, anger and sorrow lending credence to his tale. “I found a book on enchantments in the Conclave library, and it discussed love potions. But they refused to let me study it. They said it was ‘too advanced.’ So, I hid it away and took it.” He sighed. “They found me out, somehow.”

“Your mentor did not speak for you? Or the girl?”

Mik spat. “My mentor turned his back on me. The girl doesn’t know I’m gone. She won’t even think twice about me.”

Rihous seemed to pick his words carefully. “What if… what if you could continue your studies?”

“Not much chance of that.” Mik managed to sound glum. “They said they were going to put my name on a list. No sorcerer will be allowed to take me as an apprentice.”

“You could always take a different name. But there’s a place where they don’t worry about such things. All that bowgnoash about serving the folk, and the greater good of Termag.” Rihous spat in turn. “What good is having Talent if it doesn’t help you?” Mik shrugged, and Rihous continued in a whisper again. “You know that already, I think. Come with me tonight. We’ll get out of this gods-forsaken place and get you to where we can make a better mage out of you than could these fools.”

“Why would you do that? Where is this place?”

“Not here.” Rihous gestured around the cell. “The walls have ears. As for why? I get… a bounty for bringing in new Talent. So do you want to rot here until they let you out, and spend the rest of your life as a roustabout, or do you want a better destiny?”

“My father is a roustabout,” Mik grumbled. “There’s no shame in honest work. And yet… it’s worth a try.”


The night guard walked by, whistling the tune to a bawdy song, off-key. Rihous counted off the seconds, then said, “Now. Let’s be on our way.” He pulled on the door; it swung open and he slipped through. Mik followed, pulling the door closed behind him without much noise. He wondered why Rihous had not suggested they conceal themselves, but remembered that concealment and silence were part of the repertoire of combat magic that only his mentor knew these days. He remembered Charn’s surprise that Mik knew these spells, and thought of his own surprise that Charn did not.

“Not too close,” Rihous whispered, and they slipped up the corridor, two shadows in the dark. Most of the other cells stood empty, but those who occupied them either slept or ignored them.

They reached the door to the antechamber, and Rihous risked a peek through the little window. “Clear,” he whispered. “Duck to the corner, and that should keep us hidden.” He tapped Mik’s chest and pointed to the left. “Go!”

They slipped through the door and rushed to the corner. “Through the window?” Mik asked, pointing to the nearby window.

“That works.” Queensport was still warm in early autumn, and the window was already open. But as they made for the window, the door behind them opened. Rihous breathed a curse and leaped for the corner, shoving Mik behind him. Mik put a hand on Rihous’s back and concealed them. He felt Rihous start, perhaps feeling Mik’s magic, but stayed quiet. The night guard, now singing snatches of his bawdy tune, ambled across the antechamber to the door beyond. Mik held his breath, willing the man to move on without lighting a lamp.

The guard stretched, scratched himself, then veered to the window. He poked his head through for a long moment, perhaps catching a few breaths of fresh air. “All is well, when I’m with my Fel,” he sang. “And what we do, I’ll never tell.” At last, he closed the window and exited.

Mik and Rihous both let out their breath, and Mik let go his concealment spell. “I thought he’d spot us for sure,” Rihous whispered. “I was so nervous, I saw double for a moment. What was that magic I felt on you?”

“I… I was going to Lift him off the floor while we went out the window.”

“He’d have raised the alarm.”

Mik shrugged. “And he wouldn’t have, the moment he spotted us?”

“Indeed.” Rihous opened the window, climbed through, then floated slowly to the ground. “It’s not far!” he rasped. “Jump, I’ll catch you!”

Mik clambered through, breathed a quick prayer to the Creator, then remembered he could Lift himself. He floated down to join Rihous, who looked pleasantly surprised. “You’re more advanced than I thought,” he said. “That’s good. It gives us a better chance.”

“We’re free,” said Mik. “What now? How do we get to—to wherever we’re going?”

---

What? Why is Mik in jail? And where are they going? When Water and Chaos is released in the next few weeks, you can find out!

The Staff-Stealers (#FridayFlash)

This one runs a little long, I hope I’m forgiven…

---

Once, in the time of Camac That Was, before the Makers departed Termag for the City of Refuge, Thurun was the First Protector. Now Thurun was also a Maker, the most powerful of all mages—and among Makers, Thurun was the strongest. Some call him the greatest mage ever. But even the greatest mages have duties, and they do not forget how to laugh.

At times, one Protector or another might travel to grand Camac, to seek Thurun’s advice and wisdom on certain matters. Weather permitting, he would take such guests to a favorite tea garden, where they could enjoy the quiet and speak freely. It was on one such occasion that Jira and Pyanya, two young and mischievous girls, were walking in the garden. Seeing the First Protector in deep conversation with a colleague, they crouched behind a hedge to watch, whispering quietly and straining to catch an occasional word. After some time, the two sorcerers stood and walked away, perhaps to attend to necessities.

“Look,” said Jira, pointing. “Thurun left his staff. Let’s take it.”

“What would we do with his staff?” asked Pyanya.

“Whatever we wish!” Jira giggled. “We’ll have anything we want!”

So they burst from their hiding place, and snatched Thurun’s staff. They ran away, laughing and shrieking, as Thurun and the other Protector were returning to their table.

“Foolish children,” the visiting Protector sighed, watching the girls disappear. “Such impertinence cannot be tolerated! Go, and we’ll complete this matter after you have taught them a lesson.”

Thurun smiled. “It is only a stick of wood,” he said. “I will find it, and I will indeed teach them a lesson, and many more besides. But for now, your problem is more important.” So the two great mages returned to their discussion.


Any sorcerer worth the name can locate a missing item, especially a possession that he or she carries often. So Thurun found his staff, as easily as if it were calling to him. The girls had taken it to Jira’s house, in a scruffy district of the great city, and Thurun understood that they only wished to improve their lot in life. Hidden in a quiet corner outside, he sent his vision and hearing through the walls of the house. He saw the girls standing at a table. The family cat watched them from a cabinet, and a dog lay at their feet.

“Let me try now!” Pyanya insisted. “You’ve been at it for an hour, with nothing to show!”

“Take it, then!” Jira snapped, and thrust the staff at her friend.

Thurun smiled. They do not realize, it is only a stick, he thought. He prepared his lesson.

Pyanya waved the staff over the table. “Staff, I command thee,” she intoned, “bring us a stack of gold octagons!”

Thurun snickered and extended his Making magic.

“Look!” Pyanya gasped.

“Only three coins,” Jira sneered. “That’s not much of a stack.”

“It’s better than you managed!”

“But look at them!” Jira picked up one of the coins, and laughed. “That’s not the Queen’s face—it’s yours!”

Pyanya gasped and dropped the staff, snatching the coin to take a closer look. “That’s not me!” she protested. “Look, there’s a mole on her chin!”

Jira picked up the staff before Pyanya could recover. “It’s you in every other wise, though! Now stand back. I’m going to try again. Maybe it took a while to awaken the staff.” She waved the staff, and spoke in a booming voice, as Pyanya had. “Staff, I command thee: bring us a stack of gold octagons!”

Again, Thurun Made three more coins.

Pyanya looked at the new coins and giggled. “Now it’s your face. But there’s a mole on the end of your nose!”

Jira scowled at the visage. “Nobody would notice the face,” she said. “Three octagons each? We can buy anything we like with that kind of wealth!”

“But if we can make the staff work,” said Pyanya, wide-eyed, “we won’t need money! Let me try again.” Jira handed her the staff, this time without protest. “Now… staff, I command thee. Make me a beautiful dinner dress!”

Jira laughed at the shimmering blue dress that Thurun Made for them. “That dress wouldn’t fit a baby! It might fit your rag doll, though!”

“Here, you do better!” Pyanya snarled and pushed the staff into her friends hands.

“Maybe we need to be very specific,” said Jira, becoming thoughtful for the first time. “Staff, I command thee: make a beautiful dinner dress, that will fit us!”

Thurun thought a moment, then grinned and Made what they had commanded. The girls squealed at the dress, then moaned when they picked it up. “It fits us!” Pyanya pointed to the four sleeves.

Now, Thurun decided it was time to finish the lesson. “Silly girls.” The girls gasped and looked up at the cat, as Thurun spoke through it. “What do you know about working magic?”

Jira sniffed. “Well, we made you talk,” she said, trying to sound brave. “That’s something.”

“I’m hungry,” the dog said.

“You’re always hungry,” Jira protested.

“And he’ll let you know, now and forever,” said the cat. Jira gave the cat a horrified look. “Unless, of course, you do the right thing.”

“What is that?” Pyanya asked, nearly frantic.

“He whose staff you have stolen is even now walking up your street,” said the cat. “Return it to him, apologize, and offer to do whatever penance he demands of you.”

“I will!” Pyanya snatched the staff. “Jira, you too!” Jira nodded, and the girls dashed into the street, almost bowling Thurun over in their haste.

“Here, take this, it’s yours!” Pyanya gasped. “We’re very sorry!” Jira added. “We’ll do anything to make it up to you!”

Thurun took back his staff, and tried to give the girls a very serious look. “This is your penance,” he intoned. “You will become my apprentices, or my attendants if you have not the Talent for magic.”

The girls looked at each other. “Apprentices?” Jira squeaked.

“Indeed. You will work hard, and learn all that I can teach you.”

“We’ll—we’ll have to ask our parents,” Pyanya stammered.

“I will ask them for you,” said Thurun. “But I am sure they will be happy to know you will begin to make something of yourselves in life.”


It was so: the girls’ parents were elated to see them apprenticed to the great Thurun. In time, Jira and Pyanya learned that Thurun had tricked them, and the three of them often played merry pranks on each other. The girls grew into sturdy women, and strong sorcerers. Pyanya became a Protector, some years after Thurun departed Termag with many other Makers. They bore children, who were worthy sorcerers themselves, and their bloodlines continue to this day.

Marginalia (Accidental Sorcerers ephemera) (#FridayFlash)

Source: Wikimedia Commons

Charn sim Bas trudged up the steep street. “Such a waste, having to study on a day like this,” he grumbled to himself. After a week of cold rain, drenching Westmarch and washing it clean, the first true spring day felt all the sweeter for the bright noonday sun. Fetching books from the Royal Library was an burdensome chore in winter, but today it at least got Charn out in more pleasant weather.

Reaching the Royal Terrace, Charn turned to look at all of Westmarch sprawling below him, all the way down to the crowded harbor where Prince Nalfur’s navy anchored cheek by jowl with merchant ships. Puddles from the departed rains sparkled, bejeweling his city. Such a beautiful place to live, he thought, allowing himself a little pride before continuing on his way.

The librarian took the list Charn offered him, and his empty pack. “You can sit and wait over there,” he told Charn. “This shouldn’t take long.” Indeed, it did not. Charn barely had time to construct his favorite daydream, he and Isa in any private place, before the librarian returned with his pack.

“Those who have gone before you have abused your book enough,” the librarian told him. “If you feel the compulsion to add to it, make it something useful.” Charn nodded, took his pack, and departed.

The sorcerers of Westmarch lived and worked on Kestral Terrace, among the wealthier merchants and distant relatives of the Prince. Charn brought his burden to his mentor, Zharcon the White, who nodded absently and gave him one of the four books. “Make a thorough study of this,” she said. “I’ll see that we have time to go over things later this week.”

Charn mumbled consent and carried his book away. “The Portico,” he said to himself. It was outside, and had shades overhead if the sun got too bright. The other apprentices were likely there as well. Reaching the Portico, Charn saw he was right; all but one or two apprentices were out here. One of the missing was Vibeli sam Tatrin, which was a minor disappointment. Vibeli was a frequent visitor in Charn’s daydreams, even if she was unfriendly in real life. Charn shrugged and opened the book.

“A Survey of Magic Useful for the Intermediate Apprentice,” he mumbled, reading the title page. The mentor had not given him a specific area to study, so he looked over the summary. The most promising topic, COMBAT MAGIC, was crossed out. He flipped to the indicated page, to find the entire section had been excised. The book must have dated to before The Treaty, to have had such information at one time.

Choosing “Exercises in Two-Element Spells,” he opened to that chapter—and was immediately distracted by the marginalia and glosses, left by other apprentices down through the ages. “That’s what the librarian meant, then,” he said.

“What?” Charn looked up to see Portia sam Perin, a new apprentice, standing there and smiling. She always smiled when she talked to him, which made Charn a little nervous.

“Nothing,” he said. “The librarian warned me that other students had marked in this book, is all.”

Portia peered over the table. “Indeed,” she said. “Well, I have reading to do, too.” She took the table next to his and opened her own book. “Does this happen a lot?” she called to Charn. “The mentors leaving us to ourselves all the time?”

Charn shook his head. “No. There’s some politics.” There’s always politics when your ruler is crazy, he thought. “Nothing for us to get involved with. They’ll work with us some tomorrow, or maybe in another day or two. Until then…” he lifted his book, and Portia grinned and turned to hers.

The spring air and Charn’s hormones kept him distracted, or maybe it was the marginalia. Sketches of faces, detailed drawings of naked female torsos (and some male), insulting commentary about sorcerers or apprentices long on the final journey, even some interesting asides about the main text from time to time. Charn dwelt on one of the drawings, thinking about Isa and her own curvaceous torso. He’d see her at the Gathering, in a few months, and hoped he’d have a chance to see more of her (if the gods-forsaken mentors wouldn’t watch over them). Her letters were like her speech, long and rambling, and he enjoyed reading them even if his replies were much shorter. He let his mind wander, and thought about Mik and Sura for a moment. Sura was angular compared to Isa, even to little Portia, but Mik was completely devoted to her. Besides, there was a popular song about what happened to any, man or boy, who trifled with a daughter of the Matriarchy. Isa was a much safer fantasy—

“I’m sorry,” said Portia. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

Charn looked up at the girl standing there, politely not blocking his sunlight. “What?”

“It’s my Fire magic,” she said. “I’m supposed to light a candle, but—but I can’t get it.” She looked near tears.

Charn sighed, but nodded. “My mentor said that Fire magic is the hardest element for beginners,” he assured her. “Unless you have an affinity for it.” He followed her back to her table, where a squat candle sat.

He chuckled. “First thing, let’s make it a little easier.” He opened her book and stood it up on the other side of the candle. “There, that’ll keep the wind off it. Sit. Relax.” He pulled a chair alongside the table, keeping a little distance. “You know how to find your center?” She nodded. “Good. Find it, then this is the tricky part. Think of something that makes you angry, but not so angry you lose your center. Then, you focus…”

A minute later, Portia squealed with delight at the burning candle, and jumped up to hug the surprised Charn. Standing at the railing, Vibeli looked at them and smirked.

Launch #2!

BOOM!

And… there’s the Launch Cannon! I reversed targeting order for The Crossover, to give Smashwords a head start on Premium. Then again, the Smashwords version of Accidental Sorcerers has (as I type) only made it out to iBooks (where it’s erroneously listed as “Children’s Fiction”).

Anyway…The Crossover is now in the Amazon store. But it’s 99¢ there, until Amazon gets around to price-matching Smashwords (where it’s free), so grab it at Smashwords for now. If you want a Kindle copy, come back to the Kindle Store when the price adjusts. Or heck, if you want to throw some money at Amazon and me, go ahead and buy it. ;-)

Amazingly enough, I wasn’t fiddling with this book right up to Launch Day Eve, as usual. I had it done on Thursday, fixed up the .doc file on Friday, then made one final fix and re-spun everything on Sunday.

I’ve made a few adjustments in Scrivener, which should make it easier to get a clean .doc file to Smashwords, but there’s still a fair amount of tedium involved. For whatever reason, Scrivener doesn’t apply styles to RTF files, so I have to apply them all myself… then there’s building the linked Table of Contents.

So… that concludes the One World, Two Ages project! The raffle winner will be notified soon and I’ll get the prizes out in a few days.

Tomorrow, I’ll wibble about how Accidental Sorcerers is doing… so c’mon back!

Blog Tour: One World, Two Ages

Celebrating the Accidental Sorcerers launch, and the upcoming launch of The Crossover, I proclaim the blog tour to be on the road! Both stories are fantasy novellas, set in the same world of Termag, but in different ages.

Get it now!

In Accidental Sorcerers, magic is on the wane. “Folk grow in knowledge, and a little in wisdom, and the Principle of Necessity demands that magic steps aside.” Even so, Termag has only taken the first baby steps toward a technological future. Thus, there are fewer sorcerers in the world. Into this world comes Mik sim Mikhile, who turns out to have an incredible amount of magical Talent. Mik ends up apprenticed to a sorcerer, the clumsy (but kindly) Bailar the Blue. There he meets Sura, the sorcerer’s daughter and first apprentice. Love blossoms, and adventure follows hot on its heels.

The life of a sorcerer in this age is supposed to be sedate, but Mik and Sura must not have received the memo. And Accidental Sorcerers is only the beginning! Their second adventure, Water and Chaos, is coming this summer. And there’s a third on the way, with ideas for others.

Available Jan. 29!

Eight hundred years before Accidental Sorcerers, the Age of Heroes came to a close. The adventurers, warriors, mages, and Captains were still doing what they were doing, but things began to change.

One of the most well-known historical figures from that moment of time was Captain Chelinn, known as “The Madman” to his detractors. In The Crossover, he and a friend, Lodrán, end up by coincidence on a hostile flotilla. They pair up to thwart the actual goal of the flotilla, to recover one of the Eyes of Byula, but end up in a completely different world—ours!

Later in life, Captain Chelinn wrote several books. One of them, An Account of Different Worlds, captivated a young Bailar to the point of distraction. Perhaps, in a future Accidental Sorcerers story, we’ll hear what Bailar thinks of us.

But for now, you can read the books and decide what you think about them. Hit the rafflecopter for some neato prizes, and make sure you visit all the other stops on the tour:

Sunday, Jan. 20: Patrick Satters
Tuesday, Jan. 22: Taryn Raye
Wednesday, Jan. 23: Tony Noland
Friday, Jan. 24: Angela Kulig

Bookmark this post, or leave it in a tab in your browser, so you can hit each stop along the way. I’ll add last-minute entries (if any) as they arrive.

And now… the raffle!

a Rafflecopter giveaway