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…

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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

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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…

Gods on the Mountaintop

A high fantasy of sorts, this week…

If you’re in the mood to catch a serial at the beginning, I’ve launched The Lost Years this week as well.

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Image source: openclipart.org

I

They were not gods, but neither were they mortal. To such as you or I, the distinctions are not terribly significant. They watch. They judge.

Sometimes, they intervene.

II

Two were sent to watch us. As it is with gods, they chose a mountaintop as their dwelling place, and they made themselves human bodies, that they might interact with us where needed.

But not being true gods, there was a mistake. Both had planned to live as men, but their handlers misinterpreted the genetic blueprints, and both found themselves in the bodies of women, full and ripe.

“We can make it right,” the handlers assured them, “but we will do it one at a time.”

“Let it be so,” said the gods, and it was done.

But before the handlers could repeat the change, the human bodies, male and female, looked at each other and at the gods within. They came together and joined.

God-like sex is exhausting to a human body, but bodies recover with rest. The gods watched, coupled, rested.

III

As a disguise, the gods’ mountaintop home was a rustic general store. The lonely road that snaked past was once the primary highway, but now the interstate went around (and through) the mountain. These days, motorcycles and the occasional RV made up most of the traffic.

One afternoon, the gods lay exhausted in their bed, after a particularly satisfying romp. A screech, then a crunch, penetrated their sleep.

“What was that?”

“We have to see.”

The gods forced their weary human bodies out of bed, and into clothes. They shuffled into and through the public part of their dwelling, and out the door.

A small car rested against one of the concrete pillars that guarded the old gasoline pumps, long disused. The fender was crumpled, and steam rose from the front of the car. Behind them, skid marks showed their path; perhaps the driver was distracted and missed the curve. The doors were open, and two young men were surveying the damage.

“Is everyone all right?” the god in the woman’s body asked.

The men’s heads snapped around, their eyes riveted on the woman. “Uh—yeah, we’re okay,” they stammered. “Sorry about the damage. I guess we’ll need to use your phone to call a tow truck. I can’t get a signal up here.”

“It’s not that bad,” the god in the man’s body assured them.

“Are you serious?” They stopped. “No offense, but the radiator’s busted, and the fender’s smashed up against the tire. No way we can drive it.” They spoke to the man, but looked at the woman.

Worshippers could be useful, they thought to each other.

“Come inside,” the woman said, and they followed her willingly. The other god made sure they were out of sight, then moved the car away. The crumpled fender straightened, leaving a scuff and a small dent. Radiator fluid ceased to hiss, and that which puddled beneath dried away, leaving only the scent of ethylene glycol. By the time all was finished, both young men were exhausted—and entirely devoted to their service.

IV

The two young men reluctantly took their leave, but were invited to return whenever they could. They brought offerings of books, magazines, music, video, and anything else requested of them. They were granted the power to repair their vehicle as necessary, if another mishap befell them, and they used their power to heal the cars of the poor. Quietly, they spread the word.

Gods live among us.

They watch. They judge.

If they must, they will intervene.

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.

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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.)

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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!

Past the Witching Hour (#FridayFlash)

Image source: openclipart.org

Tap tap tap.

“Hmmmm.” Hattie the Swamp Witch opened her eyes. It was dark. The only other sound was the comforting tick of her windup alarm clock. A warm pressure on her feet told her that her cat, Mr. Sniff, slept on.

Tap tap tap.

“Not again,” she groaned, wrapping the pillow around her head. The cat squirmed and shifted off her feet. Again, the infernal tapping.

“I’m comin’!” she called, flinging the covers off the bed and scrambling to her feet. Mr. Sniff moved over and curled up, giving her a reproachful look. “Like it’s my fault?” Hattie grumbled at the cat, as she threw on her black dress. “Now where’s my—ah.” She jammed her pointy hat over her mussed hair. “Least this fool won’t see my bed head.”

The tapping came once more before she stomped across the living room floor and flung the door open. “What’d ya want?” she mumbled around a yawn.

“Miss Hattie?” It was one of the girls-almost-women from town, looking frightened. “I think I need your help. I’m… late.”

“Yer really late, if you come knockin’ on my door in the middle of the night. Don’cha know what’s out here in the swamp after dark?”

The girl looked confused for a moment. “No. I’m late late. Like with a boy.”

Hattie huffed. “Well, get inside, then. If the Swamp Critter don’t eat’cha, these bugs will.” She stepped aside, and the girl hurried in ahead of the mosquitos.

“Why is it so dark in here?” the girl asked.

“Contrary to what you and every other fool in the wide world seems to believe, witches gotta sleep just like everyone else. Only time I’m up at midnight is when one of you come a-knockin’.”

“I’m really sorry, Miss Hattie. I can come back tomorrow mornin’ if it’s a better time.”

Hattie sniffed. “Well, yer here now, so ya might as well get yerself taken care of. Besides, I suppose problems like yours are best dealt with when the rest of the world’s abed.” The witch scrabbled her hand across the table until she found the matches, then lit the kerosene lantern hanging above. “Here. Sit.” They took seats across from each other.

“This is real nice,” the girl said, looking around the room. “Cozy. Not what I expected.”

“Well, women like their places just so, ya know. I guess you was expectin’ a freak show.” She waved away the objection. “So, who was it?” Please don’t say ya ain’t sure.

A moment’s pause. “Cam—Cameron Lindsey.”

Hattie thought a moment. That name hadn’t ever come up before. “Wait. The smart one? Got a full scholarship to Loosyana State? He ain’t the kind to…”

“It’s not all his fault,” the girl admitted. “We both kinda got carried away. He promised he’d use protection next time.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t let there be a next time. Protection or no. Ya know he’s gonna find a girl at that college. One with an education. A future of her own.”

A sigh. “I know.”

“Well, gimme your palm. We’ll see what you got ahead of you, then we’ll take care of your other problem.” Hattie took the girl’s hand. Not like she’s got much future if she don’t get herself outta here. And get damn lucky. “Says here you… you got tough times ahead, but ya got a better chance of gettin’ by if you do good in school and finish up. Coupla years of tech school after ain’t gonna hurt neither, if you can find a way to pay for it.” She poked a random spot on the girl’s palm. “This here says, don’t take the first offer that comes along. Aim a little higher.”

“That’s what I was doin’ with Cameron. And look how that turned out.”

“Yeah. Not everything you try’s gonna work out. But if you got any friends or kin in Baton Rouge, maybe you move there. Find honest work, get some more schoolin’, and keep Cameron from forgettin’ about you.” Hattie stood. “Wait here. I’ll get what ya came for.” She trotted into the kitchen, and mixed up the recipe in a chipped coffee mug. She knew the recipe by heart; out here in Nowhere, Loosyana, there was a lot of call for it.

“Drink this down,” she said. “It’s gonna taste horrid, and yer gonna wanna chuck it back up, but don’t let that happen. It’s gotta be in ya to work. Then yer gonna have the worst cramps you ever had for a day. You can drink a little milk or something if you want, it ain’t gonna hurt.” She watched as the girl choked down the recipe, wincing all the way but only gagging once, then slid the glass of water across the table. “Here, drink this. It’ll get the taste outta yer mouth. But remember that taste, ‘cause you don’t wanna have to do this again. Ya hear?”

The girl nodded. “What do I owe you?”

“You got twenty? Good. That’s enough. And promise me you’ll be more careful from here on out.”

“I will. And thanks for not turning me into a toad.”

“Eh. I didn’t turn Martin Fontenot into a toad. Damn fool got off the path, and the Swamp Critter got him. You think about stayin’ on the path, and maybe you won’t think about chuckin’ that stuff back up.”

Hattie watched the girl go, and Mr. Sniff rubbed himself around her ankles. “Fool kids,” she said. “Y’know, kitty, I think I’m gonna make me a sign. Witching Hours, 9 to 5, closed at sunset. Yup. Stick that out there along the path, and maybe we can get a whole night’s sleep.”

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…

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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?”

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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…

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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.

Writing Wibbles

Hooray, I’ve finished cranking in the Water and Chaos beta comments! Of course, that means I can no longer put off writing a synopsis (aka blurb). And this story has been amazingly blurb-resistant. I’ve tried four or five times to get something down, and finally managed to do something on Sunday. I sent it to +Angela Kulig, who shredded the living **** out of it.

You know what that means, right? It means I wrote two more.

Now it’s your turn. Below are the three attempts, plus a few candidate loglines. I’d like to include a brief emailed quote from +Craig Smith, but he hasn’t told me it’s okay to use yet. ;-) So… vote for logline a, b, or c, and blurb 1, 2, or 3, based on which one makes you most interested in reading the book, or “none of the above.” Feel free to suggest modifications, or what worked (or didn’t) in each attempt. And thanks much!

Meanwhile, this article on CreateSpace might be helpful for your own blurbification: How to Write an Effective Book Description.

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Loglines

a. What is home, when everything has changed?

b. One does not see. One does not trust. Two are torn apart.

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

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1In the service of the Conclave, Mik returns to Lacota with his mentor and fellow apprentice. A hero’s welcome soon strains his relationship with a homesick Sura. After he and Sura are torn apart by a misunderstanding, Mik volunteers for a mission in a distant land. Far from home, his only friend an exotic girl, Mik must learn where his loyalties lie… and the true meaning of home.

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2A hero’s homecoming.
A tragic misunderstanding.
A dangerous mission.

In a distant land, sundered from Sura, his only friend an exotic girl, Mik Dragonrider must learn where his loyalties lie, and Sura must learn to trust.

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3Mik and Sura are growing ever stronger as apprentice sorcerers, but neither foresaw the strains that living in Mik’s hometown would put on 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.

Stonebelly the Dragon (#FridayFlash)

To celebrate the release of my new book, Pickups and Pestilence, I’m running a giveaway for my anthology Oddities through Saturday (May 11). If everyone who reads this #FridayFlash downloads a copy, I’ll be a happy writer!

Oh, and check out the Release Day post—there’s other goodies, links to interviews and reviews, and a Kindle 4 up for grabs!

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The Unlikely Tale of Stonebelly the Dragon

Image source: openclipart.org

Once upon a time, in the Strange Lands north of Aht-Lann-Tah, in a cave dug into the side of a mountain, lived Stonebelly the Dragon. Stonebelly mostly dwelt in peace, having roasted and eaten all the brave (but stupid) knights that thought to spit him on their lances. Mostly.

One summer morning, Stonebelly awoke to the scent of a human, walking up the steep path to his cave. He raised his head and peered over the edge. He saw: one old man, wearing a uniform but no armor, leading a cow by a halter. The cow wore a bell, and the clunking noise preceded them up the mountainside. Being an old dragon, Stonebelly was patient. He laid down to wait.

“Good dragon?” he heard at last. He lifted his head to see the old man, standing at the edge of the cave mouth. The cow looked resigned. Stonebelly understood the languages of most animals, and this one told him, Just eat me. Better that than walking back down the mountain.

The dragon snatched up the cow and swallowed it in two gulps. It didn’t suffer much. The old man, however, looked ill. “Please don’t eat me, too,” he begged.

“I had to quit,” Stonebelly assured him. “You’d give me indigestion these days. I presume that you want something from me? Humans don’t exactly bring free gifts.”

“Aye,” said the old man. “Crown Prince Chowming is held captive by the Rival Kingdom. We need him returned, by any means necessary.” He wrung his hands. “Just bring him home safely. Does that sound alright?”

The dragon put a huge claw to his flinty face, and scratched himself behind the ears. Humans still didn’t realize that was a secondary erogenous zone. “Needs more cowbell,” said Stonebelly, lowering his claw. He jiggled his head; the cowbell, dangling from a lower tooth, clunked again. He gave the human a significant look.

“Oh, aye, there’s plenty more where that came from!” the old man beamed.


Stonebelly flew among the clouds, contemplating the habits of humans. Not for nothing are these the Strange Lands, he thought, not for the first time. But he thought he might enjoy this little task—the Rival Kingdom had shortchanged him a (human) generation ago, when he had done a little service for them. They’d likely forgotten, but a dragon’s memory is long. Wreak a little havoc, rescue the prince, wreak a little more havoc, take the prince home, gorge himself on cattle. Not a bad plan, he thought.

Reaching Rival Castle, he loosed a resounding, roaring belch of flame. I need to slow down when I eat, he thought, but the effect was most entertaining. Guards on the castle wall ran for their lives, or fainted on the spot. He swept over the wall…

Oh, no. In the great courtyard, he saw Prince Chowming, bound hand and foot, propped up next to a stern young woman in a flowing white gown. Humans get so irrational when you interrupt their mating rituals, he thought. The guests—and the bishop—scattered to the winds. Prince Chowming stood his ground, only because he couldn’t move, and the bride-to-be-bereft slipped behind him.

“Begone, foul dragon!” the woman snarled.

“Glad to,” said Stonebelly. “But the prince comes with me.” The prince raised one eyebrow, and Stonebelly winked. Chowming gave a sigh of relief.

“Never! He’s mine! I stole him fair and square!”

“Look,” said the dragon, growing annoyed. “I’m taking him home. If you don’t give me any grief about it, I’ll forget the little matter of your mother cheating me, back in the day.”

The young woman’s eyes grew wide. “You remember—” She stretched out her hand, and a swarm of wasps leaped for Stonebelly’s eyes.

The dragon recoiled, and loosed a tiny puff of fire—just enough to turn the swarm into a constellation of sparks, fluttering to the ground. He stomped, making the ground shake. “Enough, puny human!” he roared, and the woman fled, letting Chowming fall over.

“Climb on,” he told the prince, offering a claw. Chowming hopped to him, and Stonebelly sliced through the ropes with a talon.

“I’m so glad to be out of that!” the prince sighed. “She was going to make me…” he shuddered. “Princess Hatchet is not subtle. Or kind.”

“Aye,” said the dragon. “I have the urge to wreak a little havoc. Payback, you know. Would you rather I leave you somewhere safe while I attend to it?”


After gorging himself on the cattle of the royals and rich families, Stonebelly flew Chowming home before returning to his cave. There, he curled up and slept for four months. Princess Hatchet tricked a traveling merchant into marrying her, and Prince Chowming played golf and drank beer whenever he pleased. And they all (except the merchant) lived happily ever after.

Joab Dower in the Great Cedar Swamp #4 END (#FridayFlash)

And now we come to the part you’ve all been waiting for… the end…

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3

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Photo Credit: Keith Survell,  Flickr (Creative Commons)

“Thou art no friend of mine,” Dower intoned, “nor of any man who calls himself a servant of the Lord.”

A darkness flowed over and above the altar. “Must it come to this?” the voice whined. “Once I was worshipped as a god, and then I had a place under the glorious stars. And now? Now I languish in this swamp. Thy God has forsaken those whom I hunt on the darkest of nights, old friend. He has not sent any to replace Reverend Martin. Who, I might add, was most tasty.” It paused. “Ahhh. Is this thy consort, or have thou brought me a morsel to feed upon?”

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” Sally snarled.

“A saucy one!” the voice held a hint of amusement. “Joab, I’m surprised. All this time, I thought you preferred boys.”

Dower held up his sword. It glowed in the firelight—or perhaps of its own internal light. “Twice have I defeated thee, Tolet. And the Lord has allowed me to curse thee thus: for thy pride, thy name shalt be ever used for that which receives the unclean things that come out of a man. This third time I confront thee, and thou shalt be banished from this world forever!”

The darkness seemed to recoil, but regathered and grew. Even the fire seemed to dim in this great shadow. “Joab Gideon Dower, I entreat thee a final time,” it said. “Take this woman unto thee. Satisfy thy desire in her flesh, and I will withdraw to a far place where thy kind shall not come, unto the third generation.”

“Never!”

“Then give her to me. Look at her, Joab. See how she grubs in the dirt, like a pig rooting in the midden? She is not worthy of thy attention. Perhaps she might be worthy of mine.”

In a showy maneuver, Dower flicked the sword upward, and shifted his grip to the hilt. He brought it around in the same motion. “Thou hast twice tasted the sword of God’s wrath, Tolet. Now, thou shalt taste it for a final time!”

The whining tone returned. “Men such as thee never see reason.” The darkness coalesced into a shape like unto a man’s, and a sword took flame in its hand. “Then have at thee, Joab. But thou will not find the battle so easy this time!”

The demon Tolet sprang at Dower, who brought up his sword to meet the assault. Light and darkness met, clashed, recoiled.

Sally, casting about in the fickle firelight for what she’d seen in the twilight, spared a glance for the nearby battle. The demon pressed Dower hard, but the preacher seemed to be holding his own. Lord God, she prayed, let me find what I thought I saw here. Let it do what my grandmother said.

Dower held up a crucifix. Wielding it as a shield in his right hand, he slashed and thrust with the sword in his left. Where the demon’s flaming sword struck the crucifix, the flames guttered and flickered, but soon regained their strength away from the symbol of the Devil’s ultimate defeat. Slowly, slowly, Tolet gave ground, backing toward the pagan altar that had housed it for a time. Placing a hand on the stone where so much blood had been shed over so many years, it fed again on the power the altar contained.

“For thy pride!” Tolet shouted, and struck Dower’s sword a mighty blow. Dower was thrown, landing on his back near the fire, his sword falling out of reach. He yet clutched his crucifix, and thrust it at his adversary.

“Ah, Joab.” The demon stood over him. “Where is thy God now?” It brought the sword down, but not where the crucifix could stop it—instead, it laid the flames along Dower’s left hip. Dower gritted his teeth against the searing pain, but did not cry out.

“Oh, Joab, thou will scream,” said Tolet. “I will have that satisfaction. First, when I deal thee a mortal wound, one that will not kill thee right away. When I have done that, I will have my way with thee, and thou will scream again and again. Thou will beg thy God for release. But first, I will tell thee a secret, dear Joab. Thy God has forsaken the world of Man. He is disgusted with those who do my Master’s work in God’s name, and has abandoned thee—indeed, all men—to their own devices. So when I have sated myself in thy dying body, Joab, I shall tear thy soul from its moorings, and carry it to my Master. We have prepared a place for thee, where thou may forever preach to the other damned. And they will laugh in thy face, as the living now laugh behind thy back—”

Tolet’s blasphemous taunt ceased, with the flat report of a pistol shot. A great wad of—something—struck it in the face. It screeched and clawed at the wad, and screamed more as it drove the stuff into its smoky flesh. Dower wasted little time, rolling heedless of the pain in his hip, grasping his sword and slashing through Tolet’s legs, bringing it shrieking to the ground.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” Dower snarled, “I consign thee to the depths of Hell, for all eternity!” He took the sword in both hands and drove it into the demon’s chest. Tolet’s final scream rang inside his skull, but the shadow faded and was gone.

“You—you got it?” Sally’s voice was shaky.

“By the hand of Providence,” Dower panted. He lowered himself to the ground, favoring his hip. “What saved me just now?”

Sally sat next to him. “My grandmother said this certain concoction of herbs would repel all evils,” she said. “I thought I saw what I needed to complete it, before it got dark, but then your demon came out. You kept it occupied long enough for me to find it again and make what was needed. It wasn’t enough to send that thing off, but it gave you enough time to get back on your feet. Now let me see to that burn.”

“Nay, woman, do not—”

“Oh, hush.” Sally reached through the remains of Dower’s trousers and laid a hand along his seared flesh. She lowered her head and whispered something, too low for the preacher to catch, but the pain faded.

“What witchcraft was that?” he gasped.

Sally laughed. “You think the devil would heal his mortal enemy? This is a gift that’s been in my family for generations. We can talk the fire out of a burn. It’s a certain Bible verse, that I can only pass on to a descendant. No witchcraft, only a gift from God. You won’t even have a scar.”

“If it is of God, why have I not heard of such a thing?”

“Are you so prideful, that you think you know all of God’s gifts to all His people?”

Dower lowered his head. “I accept your rebuke,” he said. “Now let us pull down this altar, that we may ever rebuke those evil spirits that would make it their home.”


With the altar laying in rubble around them, no stone left standing on another, Dower looked up. “Lo,” he said, “the clouds recede. The darkness upon this land is no more.”

“Amen to that!” Sally grinned.

“I am in your debt, Sally Harper,” the preacher said. “And frankly, I am at a loss as to how to repay it.”

“Well, let’s get back to town, first,” she said. “I don’t want tongues wagging at our spending the night alone in the swamp.”

“And how shall we do that?”

Sally pointed at the sky. “Follow the Irishman.”

“Irishman?”

“O’Ryan!” She laughed. “My mother was Irish, and she loved that jest. In June, his belt points the way out of the swamp.”

“Then we shall be on our way. But returning you home does not fulfill my debt.”

“Good. Because in the morning, I’m going with you.”

“You—what—I say thee nay—” Dower sputtered.

“Oh, hush,” Sally said again. “There’s nothin’ for me, here. And it looks like you could use a little help from time to time. You can teach me the trade, and I know more than what I showed you tonight.”

Dower followed her down the hill, and they struck out across the swamp. “I must pray about this,” he said. “And I suggest you do the same.”

“Oh, I will. But I’ll be up at dawn and ready to go. Now watch your step, the swamp is tricky at night.”

THE END

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If you liked this story, you’ll love my anthology Oddities, now available in the Kindle Store and (for Prime members) the Kindle Lending Library. More than a collection of #FridayFlash, Oddities brings you, as book blogger Eric Townsend said, “one entertaining story after another.” Some flash fiction, some short stories, some stories which have never seen the light of blog. Helen Howell said, “what could be better than a nice cup of coffee and a good short story to read” — and at 99 cents, you can still afford that cup of coffee!

Joab Dower in the Great Cedar Swamp #3 (#FridayFlash)

The wife said she liked this story! That’s a pretty big deal around here, I usually don’t write stories that she likes to read.

Now, the hero everyone loves to hate prepares to do battle…

Part 1 • Part 2

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Photo credit: Keith Survell, Flickr (Creative Commons)

They ate on the march, jerked beef and hardtack, and reached the hills well before dark. As Dower knelt to pray, thanking the Lord for returning his feet to solid ground, Sally wandered off to forage. She soon returned, her hat brim-full of early-season blueberries. The wholesome fruit reinvigorated their weary bodies, and they soon set forth. Winding their way around or over hills as Sally saw fit, they at last reached a hill thick with trees.

“Do my eyes deceive me,” the preacher asked, “or are those trees growing in circles around yonder hill?”

“That’s the place.” Sally’s voice was almost a whisper. “It’s like that, so you don’t walk up it unawares.”

Dower pressed his lips together. “Well, we are aware. Let us go.” But he made no move forward. “It would be best if you stay well clear of the field of battle, Sally Harper. Remember, the devil is the Father of Lies, and this is one of his unclean children. If it speaks to you, answer it not, for in deceitful words it will seek to trap you. And in the mouth of a demon, even the truth can be a mighty lie. If I fall, run. Run with the Lord’s Prayer on your lips, and your hand on a crucifix. That may be enough to keep it away from you—but better you drown yourself in the foul waters of the swamp, than to find yourself in its clutches. Understand you?”

“Yeah, preacher, I understand. But I’m done runnin’ and hidin’ from this thing out here. That’s my town back there, and so it’s my fight, too.”

“We face worse than death this night.” Dower gave her a stern look.

“You think I don’t know that?” Sally put her arms on her hips and looked up, staring Dower in the face. “I know worse than death. Worse than death is hidin’ in your house like a frightened rabbit on new moon nights. Worse than death is livin’ among men so afraid of their own shadows, none of them dare to court me, because I ain’t a mouse like them. Worse than death is starin’ at your life ahead, seein’ no family in it, no children.” She swallowed. “No purpose. Tonight, I got a purpose, and I ain’t gonna stand and watch it go by.”

Dower returned her glare with his own, but finally nodded. “Then kneel, Sally Harper, and be consecrated unto this task.” Bent over almost double, he dipped a finger in a vial of holy water and drew a cross on her forehead. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I consecrate thee, Sally Harper, and charge thee to be true to the Word. Now arise.”

“You’re the leader now,” she said, standing. “Tell me what I need to know.”

“First, we gather firewood.”


Standing just inside the inmost ring of trees, the two stared at the altar. Its builders had chipped off the tops and bottoms of each stone, so they lay flat upon each other. Three sides were steep slants; the fourth was straight. Its top was a slab of solid stone.

“An altar of sacrifice, I warrant,” Dower whispered, as they laid out the firewood they carried. “Such a dark purpose would, even after centuries, be a fertile garden to nourish the evil spirit.”

“There were rumors,” Sally replied. “This one band would sacrifice their enemies here. Even the other Indians don’t like to tell of it, they say it shames them that their own would do such a thing. But after the white man came, they’d snatch any of us they could, and carry ‘em out here, too. So the whites and the other tribes made an alliance, and killed every last one of ‘em they could find. That was like a hundred years ago. Then, a-course, we run the rest of ‘em off, too.”

“Aye. That is good to know. But speak no further of such things, in this place. This is a night of cleansing.” Dower knelt, took out his tinderbox, and put spark to the dry tinder at the bottom of the pile. As the sun went to slumber, unseen behind the clouds that had hidden it all day, the fire grew. “Prepare thyself for the battle to come, Sally Harper. Put on the gospel armor, as described in the Word, that ye may withstand the onslaught that is to come.”

Sally nodded, and took a flintlock pistol out of her bundle. “Maybe you should consecrate this, too,” she said, loading and preparing it with expert hands. “And if it don’t do for this thing here, maybe it’ll do for me.”

Dower nodded, and said a quick prayer over the weapon. “And I myself did not come unarmed,” he said, drawing a sword from under his cloak.

“Nice pig-sticker,” said Sally, looking over the shining blade and wide cross-guard. “Where did you get that?”

“It came to pass, that in my travels, I was led to preach the Word in a seaside tavern. A drunken Spaniard bade me hush, but I obeyed only the Lord. He drew this sword, and ordered me to smite him, that he might strike off my head in turn. But when I struck him, the Lord Himself smote him as well, and he fell dead at my feet. His companions were sore when I took up his weapon, but none dared press the matter. I carried the blade to one whom I trust, one who preaches the True Word, and he consecrated it to the use of the Lord.” He held it up. “It makes a fine crucifix as well. I had a blacksmith blunt the blade, just below the cross-guard, that I might use it as such. I have found it often as effective in this manner, as for its intended use.”

The dusky gloom deepened. “Ready yourself,” said Dower. “The battle is soon joined.”

“Joab Dower. My old friend.” The voice was oily and a little repulsive.

continued…

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If you’re enjoying this story, you’ll love my anthology Oddities, now available in the Kindle Store and (for Prime Members) the Kindle Lending Library. More than a collection of #FridayFlash, Oddities brings you both flash fiction and short stories, some of which have never seen the light of blog. Helen Howell said, “what could be better than a nice cup of coffee and a good short story to read” — and at 99 cents, you can still afford that cup of coffee!

Joab Dower in the Great Cedar Swamp #2 (#FridayFlash)

Soon after posting part 1 last week, I got the result I hoped for: the impetus to finish the story. It’s going to be four parts, and here’s the second.

Part 1

It occurs to me, I should maybe plug my anthology, Oddities. More than a collection of #FridayFlash, it includes short stories that have never seen the light of blog. “One entertaining story after another,” according to book blogger Eric Townsend.

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Photo credit: Keith Survell, Flickr (Creative Commons)

Sally Harper was gone and back, before the last of the folk left the church to their pursuits of the day.

“You are not dressed like a proper woman,” the preacher growled. She had changed her dress for loose-fitting pants and a man’s shirt, and her bonnet for a straw hat. Her pants were tucked into a pair of scuffed leather boots. She carried a bundle in a sling, tucked under one arm.

“It’s proper clothes for this work, preacher-man,” she said saucily. “You think me to hike the swamp in my Sunday best?”

Dower gave her a sour look. “You have all you require for our mission?”

“I do. You ready?”

“I am always ready in the service of the Lord.”

“Then let’s go.” Harper set out on the northbound road, not looking back to see if Dower followed. Her stride betrayed a purpose, but Dower’s long legs let him easily match her pace.

“This is the easiest way into the swamp,” she told him as he hauled up alongside. “It comes closest to town on the east, but there ain’t no road goin’ east. Couple miles up, this road comes alongside. I know a good place to cut in from there.”

“Very well,” said Dower. He swept his gaze around the houses and businesses lining the road on either side. “This place has been bereft of Christian comfort for five years, yet it seems to prosper well enough. What do your people for industry?”

“They cut cedar for shakes,” Harper replied. “A-course, they won’t go in the swamp until well after sunup, and not far. And they come home well before sundown. They spend a couple days cuttin’ cedar, then bring cut pieces into town and split the shakes, and that takes ‘em a couple more days. Today’s a splittin’ day, not a cuttin’ day. So we got the whole swamp to ourselves.”

“Perhaps that is for the best.”

They said little else until Sally led them off the road and down an embankment. “Watch your step,” she said. “It’s easy to fall through.”

“What manner of earth is this?” Dower looked incredulous.

Sally laughed and hopped in place twice, making the ground under Dower’s feet lurch. “It ain’t earth, preacher. It’s the cedar roots.” She glanced around, then knelt and punched an arm through. “Come look.” Dower raised one eyebrow at the black water, standing about a foot beneath them. “The leaves rot, and make dirt,” she explained. “That fills in the gaps between the roots. The water’s about three feet deep down there, in this spot. It gets deeper in some places, less so in others.”

Dower nodded. “A deceptive place makes a fine home for a deceptive spirit.”

Stopping and turning, Sally pulled off her hat and swung it at her side. “Preacher-man,” she said, “I get the feeling you know more about what you’re huntin’ than we do, and we’ve lived with it—or not—for goin’ on six years.” She stood and stared, crossing her arms. Her thin lips asked the unspoken question.

“I will tell you,” he said at last, “but to tell you true, I must speak of my wanderings. As a young man, the Lord called me to preach His word. Of course, I obey His commandments, and He led me to a flock. But when the true Word offended the ears of certain propertied men, they conspired against me and drove me out. In my despair, the Lord reminded me that great is the reward in Heaven for those who suffer for His Name’s sake. Thus, He sent me to correct the heresies of the Papist and the Unitarian. I suffered greatly for His glory, and some sought my life, so He led me unto the heathen savages that dwell in the hinterlands. As with Peter among the Gentiles, I found a warmer welcome among them than I did among my own kind.

“It was when I cast out a demon from an Indian boy, that the Lord told me my true calling. There are evil spirits and other foul creatures that plague this land, parts of which have not heard the Holy Word to this day. Some other heathens, so easily led astray, had fallen to worship of a demonic spirit. By the power of Almighty God, I drove it away, but it set itself up in the high places to the west. Again, I confronted and defeated it, although the outcome was in doubt for a time. It seems that it has now retreated unto this swamp. If by Providence I may defeat it a third time, it shall be banished to the depths of Hell, forever.”

To his surprise, his guide nodded. “I think I know where it’s gonna be, then.”

Dower looked skeptical. “How?”

“My parents and grandparents before me always made a living, huntin’ and trappin’ in this swamp,” she said. “Back before your demon came here, they took me with ‘em. A-course, they don’t come here no more, they’re old and happy on their little patch of farm, and they leave swampin’ to me. But there’s hills, over in that direction.” She pointed northeast. “One of ‘em has an altar on it, somethin’ the Indians set up forever-long ago. We never went up on that hill, though. Some places are best left be, eh?”

“Truly did the Lord lead me to you, Sally Harper. Can we reach this altar by dusk?”

“Sure. You gonna tear it down before it has a chance to wake up?”

The preacher shook his head. “Nay. Such would allow it to slip away. But after I defeat the unclean spirit for the final time, we shall pull down the Asherah. Then no foul thing may find a comfortable home in this place hereafter. Lead on, Miss Harper. Our Lord calleth.”

continued…