War Games (“Lost in Nightwalk” excerpt) (#FridayFlash)

If you’ve been avoiding my post-launch giddiness… I can’t blame you. But Lost in Nightwalk is out, and I didn’t have a #FridayFlash put together, so why not excerpt something?

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It’s out!

“Strike, forward march,” Firgar ordered. “We are now in hostile territory. Our torchlight gives us away, but all we can do for that is to be at the ready, aye?”

They reached the next intersection. “Here begins the test,” the Grand Commander whispered. “We’ll put two soldiers on each side, shields out, and dash across one by one.”

“Grand Commander,” said Sura, “with your permission. Mik and I had an idea last night, and it might be worth trying.”

“It was mostly Sura’s idea,” Mik added, “but we worked out the details together.” He explained what they had in mind.

Firgar chuckled. “Let’s try our try,” he said. “It hurts nothing if it doesn’t work.”

Soldiers lined up before the corner, and Bailar held the torches, as Mik and Sura shed their white cloaks. Away from the entrance, Nightwalk was equally cool in summer and winter. The cloaks were meant to protect them from bruising by the practice weapons, but they did keep their wearers warm. The apprentices waved their staffs, as Bailar had taught them to do in front of folk, and the cloaks drifted from them. Two torches joined the cloaks, and they floated into the intersection together. The apprentices made the torches move back and forth, as people would if they were deciding which way to go.

From their left came: thwock, thwock, the sound of two crossbows, and a practice bolt struck one of the cloaks. Bailar brought the False Dawn, lighting up the corridor, as two soldiers dived into the intersection and loosed their own crossbows. They rolled across, and two more soldiers did the same.

“Five!” one of them shouted. “Now three!” the other added. “No, two!”

“Charge!” Firgar and Narvin whooped a battle-cry and rushed the remaining defenders. Each threw a spear as they charged, then drew their practice swords. One of the spears found its mark, and the victim sat down. Three of the four mock casualties scrambled out of the way, as the last defender standing drew his own practice sword and tried to back away. It was over quickly.

Four of the defenders lined up against the wall. “What’s with him?” one of them asked, gesturing at the last man lying on the floor.

Bailar made his way down the hall, using the wall to keep his balance. He knelt next to the man, who gasped and sat up. “You died in your sleep,” Bailar explained. “I cut your throat.”

“Five to one,” one of the defenders said, shaking his head. “From what I’ve been hearing, that’s the best showing from your side yet.”

“Five to none, actually,” Narvin grinned. “Our mages floated empty cloaks into the intersection for you to shoot at.”

“Clever.”

“Hundred Thora is an excellent tactician,” said Firgar, “but Lady Sura descends from the finest tactician in Termag’s history.” He nodded to Sura, approaching with Mik and the rest of the strike.

The defenders looked at each other. “A girl planned that? Is that the Matriarchy girl, then?”

“Aye. She’ll make a fine warrior-mage, the first in centuries.”

“Good work,” the defenders’ leader said. “Perhaps we’ll have another round of this. Both sides can learn from its mistakes and successes.” They lifted torches and shuffled away.

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Things get messy from here—get “Lost in Nightwalk” with Sura, Mik, and Bailar and find out just how messy!

The Voice of the Forest (#FridayFlash)

This one runs a little long, not quite 1300 words, so I hope you’ll forgive me. This is Bailar the Blue’s “origin story,” which takes place when he was 13…

Thanks to Catherine Russell for providing a quick beta read.

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Image source:
openclipart.org

“Drunk again?”

Bailar sim Prensin caught his footing, not falling this time, and kept walking. Farl’s gibe was hardly original, after all, not worth responding to.

“Crazy lout,” the older boy muttered as Bailar stumbled by. “Someday, the Forest will eat you.”

At this, Bailar smirked. In this little farming community along the edge of the Deep Forest, children tested their nerve by venturing into the trees, daring each other to go a little farther in. But the Forest never held any terror for Bailar—indeed, to him it was a welcoming place. Even as a child, he had oft embarrassed Farl and other older children in their game, wandering farther into the trees than any.

“Don’t know why the mothers let you watch their babies,” Farl sneered, turning away. Bailar often wondered the same, but it was one of the few useful things he could do to earn some coins. He was too clumsy for most physical labor, and there was little call for intellectual pursuits here in the hinterlands of the Stolevan Matriarchy. Still, babies enjoyed his company, and he prided himself on never dropping any of them. As for the mothers, they seemed to like him—or perhaps they pitied him.

He left the road and walked the edge of a rye field, using the fence to help with his balance. A few younger children capered ahead, probably nerving themselves up to dash into the trees beyond. They slowed as they drew closer to the edge of the Deep Forest, though, and he caught up to them. Bailar could hear the trees whispering, even from here, although there was no wind. He knew why: ages ago, the Unfallen had once dwelt in the Forest. The trees awakened under their care, and Unfallen and trees protected each other. The last of the Unfallen had passed on, transcended, centuries ago—but the trees still remembered.

“Crazy Bailar,” one of the bigger girls said. She looked about two years younger than Bailar’s thirteen. “He wins.”

“I’m not playing the game this time,” Bailar retorted. “And yes, I’m just a boy, but I’m older and you should have at least a little respect.” The girl stuck her tongue out at him.

“What are you doing, then?” one of the boys asked.

“I’ll show you.” Bailar stepped past the first trees. “Hoy!” he called. “My eldest sister is sick. Will you allow me to gather everbalm and flameweed to help make her better?”

The trees whispered a reply. Bailar could not make out words, as always, but the whispers sounded agreeable. The younger children gaped as he found his balance and hiked away.

“If a boy can do it, I can do it,” he heard behind him. A girl jogged toward him, the one who had insulted him. “Hoy! Bailar! Wait!”

Bailar stopped to oblige her. It will be interesting to see how long she lasts, he thought. It would be a new experience, hiking the Forest with someone at his side—even a sharp-tongued girl.

“How do you know what to look for?” she asked, matching his stride but stealing glances over her shoulder.

“Healer Rosha told me,” he replied, looking around. “Flameweed to help with her fever, everbalm for the coughing.” He stifled a laugh, thinking about the conversation with Rosha and his mother:

“If I had the herbs,” said Rosha, “I could cure her. But the barge won’t be here for a week, and who knows if it’ll carry any?”

“I can get them,” said Bailar.

“Where?” Mother cocked an eyebrow, perhaps knowing the answer.

“I’ll ask the Forest.”

“The Forest?” Rosha looked horrified. “You’ll go… ah. I forget.”

He had laughed, but thought at last, this might be my calling. Rosha had an older apprentice, but perhaps if he could bring her what she needed, she might take a second…

“How do you know where to go?” The girl’s question brought him back to the present. “Do the trees talk to you?”

“No,” Bailar replied. “You have to have magic in you to hear what the trees say. That’s what the old grands say, anyway. But you know how you can tell someone something without words?”

“Indeed.” She stopped, a step behind Bailar, and looked back. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for the trees to point the way.” He crouched and pointed. “See how the leaves are mounded a little, going off that way?”

“No. Ah, ah, I’d better go back. I shouldn’t be alone with a boy anyway, and someone has to look out for the others.”

“It’s all right,” Bailar assured her.

She turned away, but looked up and screamed. “A dragon! Oh gods, a dragon!” She dashed to Bailar and hid behind him, making him laugh.

“It’s just an Oakendrake,” he said. “They won’t hurt you unless you try to grab it, or get too close to its nest.” Bailar had read everything he could find about dragons, which was not much. But he had seen Oakendrakes before. He looked up at the green dragon, only as long as his arm, crouched on a tree limb. “Hello, dragon. Would you fly away long enough for my friend to run back to her other friends?”

The Oakendrake squawked, making the girl cringe, and disappeared above the trees.

“That way.” Bailar pointed, and the girl wasted no time sprinting away. He shrugged and followed the path the trees laid out for him. The Oakendrake returned, flitting from branch to branch. They were curious creatures, after all.

The line of leaves led to a clearing. The north edge held a riot of different herbs, all vying for a place in the sun. Bailar found what he needed, and gathered a small bag of each as the dragon watched from a short distance.

“Thank you for your aid, O Forest,” he said, bowing with palm to forehead. “And to you, Oakendrake, for watching over me.” The little dragon squawked and flew away again. “I should have asked for a stick to use for a staff,” he muttered, as he left the clearing. “I could—”

His foot caught an exposed root, and he went sprawling. Somehow, he kept a grip on his bags. His free hand caught something hard.

Take up, he heard. A whisper like the trees, but as clear as any voice.

“What?” He pushed himself to his knees. “Who said that?”

Your staff, came the reply. Take up.

In his hand was a dry root, as long as he was tall. He stood, stick in hand. One end was a gnarled knot, the other a ragged break. There were no cracks in between. It would make a perfect staff, with minimal work. “I—I—thank you again, O Forest.”


Later, braced against the work table, the stick clamped down, Bailar sawed off the broken end. He kept his free hand well away, and took his time. He could often avoid hurting himself if he took enough time and care. His sister, already feeling better, had offered to sew a leather boot for his staff, and Mother had donated a handful of fat to help cure the wood. But his mind was elsewhere. I heard the trees speak, he thought. ‘Prenticing himself to the Healer was no longer the best he could do.

He had a little money from caring for infants. But now, minding children was in his past. With two older sisters, he had no inheritance to speak of. So, when the barge came, he would leave his old life behind. Surely a sorcerer downriver would take him as apprentice. He had heard the voice of the Forest, and all things were possible.

The Boy and His House

The Boy closed on a house on September 15th. Over the weekend, we took a truckload (plus half a vanload) of stuff down to him. He and his bride had filled the back of her car on Thursday with a bunch of small things—plus Mason. They have a room set up for him, and I really wish I thought to get more pictures than I did.

But I got a picture of the front of their place:

Ready for Hallowe’en, I see…

Here at FAR Manor, I don’t have to put up spider webs. The spiders do it for me:

At least this one isn’t in the walkway

The Boy’s house is sitting on a little over 2 acres; he was showing us all the things he has planned (including a garden along one side). Amazing… he’s embraced this home-ownership thing big-time. The only downside is that it’s pretty close to his in-laws. Experience has taught me that such a location is hazardous to your mental health. But her dad paid cash for the place. The wife and I looked at each other at that news… I said, “I guess he married well.” If I got FAR Manor for free, I wouldn’t complain about it very much at all.

So October is here, and I’ve been taking the work laptop outside in the mornings when it hasn’t been raining. The mosquitos are a little plentiful, perhaps the result of a few buckets left out in the rain. I’ve dumped them out, though, so now maybe the spiders will do for the mosquitos.

The Last Lightkeeper (#FridayFlash)

The knock sounded urgent. Farl forced himself upright, knees popping. He shuffled to the door, trying to tame his unruly tufts of white hair.

“Are you a Lightkeeper?” the young man on the other side blurted, the second Farl opened the door. He looked concerned enough that Farl could forgive his skipping his manners.

“I am,” said Farl, pulling the door open the rest of the way. He stood aside and motioned the young man to enter. “And you are?”

“Bin,” he replied. A common enough name. “Glad I am, that I found you at last.” Bin made to put his hands on his belt, but one hand strayed close to the dagger he wore to one side. He waved his hands for a moment, perhaps trying to decide what to do with them, then ended up clasping them before him.

“And I am here,” said Farl. “But let us have tea as we talk. Putting an end to any problem is best begun with a cup of tea, I have found. Take a seat.” He busied himself with serving his guest. A pinch of leaves in each cup, and the water was already hot. Is this the one, come at last? he wondered as he worked. He would have his answer soon enough.

“So,” Farl prompted, setting a cup before his guest before seating himself. “Tell me why you have come.”

“I am an emissary from Linden Grove, the last free realm,” Bin replied, sipping at his tea. “We are beset by the Dark, that now rules over all realms but our own, and hard-pressed. I was charged to seek a Lightkeeper and beg for aid, that we may repel them, but all of those near to us are gone.”

“I am not surprised,” said Farl. “For I am the last. My fellows have succumbed, some to fear. Some to treason.” He looked directly at Bin. “Many to treachery.”

Bin quailed. “It is true then? You are the only Lightkeeper left to roam the world?”

“Aye.” Farl smiled. “But the last is not least, and I am not powerless. I have set plans into motion that will drive the Dark into the deep fastnesses from which it came. Only one thing is left to do, and then nothing the Dark can do shall avail them.”

“Then there is still time?” At Farl’s nod, Bin leaped across the table and drove his dagger into the old Lightkeeper’s chest. “Fool,” said Bin, jerking the dagger out, “you have given the world into our hands at last…”

Bin’s victorious boast trailed off, as he stared at Farl’s chest. Instead of blood, Light poured from the wound.

“That was the last thing,” said Farl. His voice held both pain and satisfaction, and he managed a smile. “I have faithfully kept the Light, and now I may at last release it into the world.”

“No.” Bin backed away, eyes riveted to the growing torrent of Light.

“You have given the world its salvation,” Farl insisted. “Be sure to tell your master that, when your shriveled soul flees to its dark bosom.” The Light poured out of Farl, stripping away Bin’s disguise, revealing the hideous minion of the Dark beneath. As Bin screamed in pain and terror, the Light dissolved the minion’s hide, bones, sinew. The bodies of both Farl and Bin crumbled to ash as the Light burst forth, free at last.

“Now,” said the Light, in Farl’s voice. “The world shall know both Light and Dark, in equal measure. Thus, the people will choose which path they follow. No thralls, content in their bondage. No slaves, begging for release. This day, they become their own masters, now and evermore.”


In the last free realm of Linden Grove, as the brave folk prepared to make their final stand, a soundless explosion of Light burst upon them from the east. It rolled forth, slow and relentless, pushing back the howling Dark and leaving the folk confused in their victory.

This was the First Dawn.

The Sentinel Tree (#FridayFlash)

This originally appeared on Google+ in one of +MJ Bush’s “tell me a story” prompts. I’m using a similar but different photo here to avoid copyright issues.

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Image sources: Wikimedia Commons

Lis looked at the ancient tree, the sentinel of the gods, standing watch under the night sky. When her ancestors first came to this place, uncounted generations ago, it had stood on this hilltop. She shifted her burden, nestling in the crook of her arm, and began.

Climbing up to the hollow space one-handed was difficult, but not impossible. Lis teetered at the edge for a moment, then hopped down and crouched. The hollow was safe and inviting, and people often came here to meditate or leave offerings. Lis knelt and laid her infant son on the smooth floor. “O gods,” she whispered, tears streaming, “I am dispossessed of my home, through no sin of my own. Do with me what you will, for none are innocent, but do not allow this child to starve in a heartless world.”

As she stood, she heard a whisper: Take up your child.

“You reject him?” she sobbed. “You would have him starve?”

No, the whisper replied. Take him up, go south to the old road, then follow it west.

“But we'll starve before we go far!”

There are trees and vines whose fruit will sustain you. And streams of clean water. Follow the road, and you will find a welcome and a home.

Lis looked up the hollow at the sky. A star streaked across the Highway of the Gods, toward the west. Trust. Follow.

“I… I will.” Lis lifted her son and scrambled out. The way south was easy, all downhill. She could do this. More stars streaked to the west, perhaps preparing her new home.

Behind her, the tree returned to its long slumber.

Red's Basket (#FridayFlash)

Image source:
openclipart.org

Once upon a time, in the Strange Lands north of Aht-Lann-Tah, a pretty red-haired girl dwelt with her stepmother. Being a red-headed stepchild, Red (as she was called) was often called upon to do the hard and hazardous tasks, and today was no different.

“Take this basket to your granny,” the stepmother told her. “Visit with her, and help her out if she needs it.”

“Whatever,” Red sighed, because Granny always had work needing doing. But she pulled on her favorite red hoodie, the one with a large G on the front, stuffed a few essentials in her pockets, and took the basket. Getting out from under her stepmother for the day was worth the hassle, after all.

As Red made her way through the woods, a rather large and impolite wolf heard and saw her. He sat in the path and waited for her to approach.

“Good morning, little girl,” the wolf purred as Red stopped short.

“Don’t give me that,” Red growled. “I know you’re after my goodies.”

“Actually, I was more interested in that basket. But if you’re offering…”

Red reached into her pocket and pulled out a chrome snub-nosed .38 revolver, the only thing she had kept of her mother’s belongings. “Back off. I’m taking this to Granny’s.”

“Okay, okay.” The wolf slunk off the path, but ran on ahead. Red was a tough customer, but Granny was the baddest badass in the Strange Lands. It would take careful planning and a little luck to get that basket.

Arriving at Granny’s place, he saw her hoeing in the garden. “Get outta here!” she greeted the wolf, brandishing her hoe.

“Sheesh. I just came to tell you there’s five cows gone through the fence. Such gratitude.”

“Right.” Granny grounded the hoe. “Chase ‘em back in, and I’ll give you two chickens.”

“If I chase a cow, I’ll probably eat it,” the wolf said. “Nature just kind of takes over.”

Granny cursed. “If any of them chickens are missing when I get back, I’ll make your hide into a scarf for my scarecrow!”

The wolf stared at the scarecrow, the mummified corpse of a dragon stupid enough to cross Granny in the past, and gulped. “I don’t feel like chicken. I’ll make sure nothing else gets in there, either.” He laid in front of the chicken coop, but Granny was already gone, hoe and all.

Not long after, a fox came by. “Morning,” said the wolf, “what do ya say?”

“Oh, that’s original,” the fox sniffed. “Who let the wolf guard the henhouse? I thought that was my job.”

“The early wolf gets the goodies.”

“Whatever. I’ve got a taste for some grapes, anyway.” The fox trotted off.

The wolf hid in the grass as Red arrived. “Granny?” she called. Hearing nothing, she slipped inside. As the wolf peeked in the window, Red laid the basket on the table and took out her cellphone. She and the woodsman hadn’t seen each other for a while, after all, and he was working nearby.

Red searched the entire house, making sure Granny wasn’t hiding somewhere, until the woodsman arrived. “My,” said Red with a grin, “what big hands you have!”

“The better to grope you with, my dear,” said the woodsman, licking his lips.

“My, what a long tongue you have!”

“The better to taste you with, my dear.”

Nature took over, as the wolf would say, and they skipped right on by the last part. As they got down to business, the wolf slipped inside. He grabbed the basket, thinking so much for the goodies, and departed. He was long gone before Granny came back, fuming.

“Blame wolf was right about the fence,” she muttered, “at least the cows all went back in—” her old ears finally picked up on the noise, and stormed into the bedroom. “In my bed, of all things! If you two are gonna do that, take it out back of the woodpile or something! Of all the—you got two minutes to get dressed.”

It took them half that to throw their clothes on and agree to meet behind the woodpile after lunch. The woodsman slipped out the window to avoid Granny’s wrath, and Red walked out alone.

“Where’s your friend?” Granny demanded, glaring at the bedroom. “Out the window? Good. Too bad you didn’t get here sooner, I had a fencing problem. You brought lunch?”

“It’s on the table.”

“No it ain’t.”

“What?” Red ran into the kitchen. “I left it right here!”

“That wolf was skulking around,” said Granny. “He musta grabbed it while you and your friend were busy. Serves him right; that stepmother of yours can’t cook for squat anyway. It won’t take five minutes to fix something better than what she sent. Then after you change my sheets, you can help with the garden.”

Meanwhile, the wolf inspected his prize: ham, store-bought cheese, and home-made rolls. The rolls were hard as bricks, so he donated them to the birds and wolfed the rest. Red stayed on with Granny, until the woodsman divorced his ill-tempered wife and built a new cabin, then she moved in with him. They made sure Granny was well-supplied with firewood, and she had them over for dinner on Sundays. Except for a touch of indigestion on the wolf’s part, and occasional interference from the woodsman’s ex, they all lived happily… enough.

(“Happily ever after?” In the Strange Lands? Yeah, right.)

“Into the Icebound” — setting sail May 29!

The fourth Accidental Sorcerers book is just about ready to depart!

Sura, Mik, and Bailar set sail for the Northern Reach, with Lord Darin in pursuit. Their journey is anything but smooth, with storms, raiders, and the prince of Westmarch standing in the way. Joining an expedition to the ruins of Isenbund, Bailar disappears in the night. Now, Mik and Sura must help rescue their mentor from a legendary foe thought long extinct.

The book’s about ready (just have to go through the checklist), and OMG just look at the cover…

May 29, folks! Add it on Goodreads, tell your friends, all that good stuff… and re-download the first first two during the first week of June, because I’m going back and re-formatting them to reflect all the stuff I’ve learned since.

Par for the Curse (#FridayFlash)

We now return you to the regularly-scheduled weirdness…

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Stan nudged Cal, sitting next to him in the golf cart. “Ten bucks says Ricky sinks this putt.”

Cal turned to gape at his friend. “You’re serious? That’s a forty-footer if it’s an inch!” he rasped.

“Yup. So. We got a bet?”

“Easiest ten bucks ever. You’re on.”

They shook, and turned to watch Ricky, squatting on the green to check the slope. Cal thought nothing of that—Ricky was shooting for par, and even the most unlikely par putt demanded careful preparation. Their friend lined up, looked at the pin again, then shifted his feet ever so slightly. Ricky looked up one last time, then swung the putter with more follow-through than usual.

Ricky’s ball arced up the slope, then arced back. “Damn,” Cal whispered, “it’s gonna be close—holy shit!” The ball caught the rim of the hole, followed it halfway around, then fell in.

“That’ll be ten dollars,” said Stan, with a grin.

“Hell,” said Cal, fishing a pair of fives out of his wallet, “it was worth it to see someone sink that!” He ambled over to Ricky’s cart. “Awesome putt, Ricky.”

Ricky was not as elated as one might expect, having just hit a nearly impossible putt to make par. “Thanks,” he said, and dropped his putter into his bag. He looked at Cal, and put on a smile. “How much did Stan take you for on that one?”

Cal laughed. “Ten bucks. But like I told him, it was worth it. If we were in a tournament, that would be the shot they’d show on all the sports newscasts.” Cal made a minute more of small talk, then rejoined Stan in their cart. The electric motors whined as the carts climbed and coasted the slopes to the second hole.

“You knew he’d sink that,” said Cal.

“Ricky always makes par,” Stan said, watching the cart ahead. “Unless he slices a tee shot or something.”

“He didn’t seem too happy about it.”

“I never got a straight answer out of him. If you want to ride with him, go ahead. If he doesn’t tell you a line of crap, I’ll give you your ten bucks back.”


The next hole was a par three. Ricky’s tee shot was awesome, flying straight and true, landing on the green not two feet from the pin.

“That’s a birdie for sure,” Cal murmured.

“Ten bucks says he misses,” said Stan.

Cal opened his mouth. “No bet,” he replied. “I don’t know why, but you know something.”

Stan shook his head. “All I know is, he’ll miss this shot.”

Sure enough, Ricky’s putt caught a piece of debris that none of them had seen, and his ball stopped two inches short of the hole. His string of profanity had a resigned tone to it, though. All three of them made par on this hole.

Curiosity got the better of Cal, and he ambled over to Ricky’s cart with a beer in each hand. “Hey,” he said, “want some company?”

“Sure.” Ricky took the beer, and Cal took the shotgun seat. The carts whined and whirred on their way to Eleven; a faint smell of ozone from the electric motors wafted past.

“What’s the deal?” Cal asked. “You sunk that forty-footer, and then… hell, if you’d asked for a gimme on that last hole, I’d have given it to you.”

Ricky sighed. “You really want to know?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m cursed.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah. It happened at Glenoak, last year. I sliced into the brush, but not too far. There was this sapling in the way, and I pushed it over and stomped it to keep it down. Then this girl steps out from… from behind this big oak tree behind me, and asks me why I abused her tree. I told her I needed it out of the way to get onto the green; I figured I could at least make par. Then she goes, ‘you will par any hole where possible, but no better,’ and walks into the tree. Into it, man, I swear. I looked for her all around that place, but she was gone. And that’s how it’s been ever since.”

“Uh…”

“Yeah, I know. Sounds nuts.” Ricky chugged his beer. “But I swear by the hops in this beer, it’s true.”

As Ricky teed up at Eleven, Stan nudged Cal. “He tell you anything?”

“Yeah,” Cal whispered. “And I think he believes it. But you won’t.”

“The curse? Yeah. Ricky’s a great guy, but I think he’s a little nuts. You can have your ten bucks back, anyway.”

“Fine. But I’m buying the first round at the Nineteenth.”

They watched Ricky make par at Eleven, and all but one of the rest. Cal watched and wondered. If I land in the woods at Glenoak, he thought, I’ll just take the penalty.

The Swamp Witch and the Deacon (#FridayFlash)

We’ve met Hattie before, in Past the Witching Hour. The two of us have some plans for more, but at our own pace.

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“Knitting’s good for the soul, Mr. Sniff. And it keeps my fingers nimble.” Hattie held her project in one hand, and used the other to scratch her cat behind the ears. “Now go take that nasty old mole off and eat it, or whatever you plan to do with it. Good kitty.”

Hattie resumed rocking on her porch, the creaking of the porch boards a counterpoint to the click of her needles. Add some boom, she thought, and it would sound like what the kids play in their cars. Out here in the swamp, though, only sirens carried to her door.

Mr. Sniff hopped back on the porch, then hissed and jumped onto the rail. He crouched, watching.

Hattie followed her cat’s gaze, and saw that flash of color. “You be good, kitty. That’s my friend.” She prodded the cat with a toe, and Mr. Sniff jumped down and glared before slinking away. The parrot glided under the porch, and alit on the perch that Hattie had made for him. “What news, Rainbow?”

“Visitor,” Rainbow croaked. The parrot had come to the swamp about a year ago, probably an escapee from some birdcage in Nawlins or up north, and had struck up a friendship with Hattie. He warned her of people on her path, and she gave him shelter on cold nights. Mr. Sniff thought he would make a fine feathered feast, but Rainbow knew to be wary of the cat. The bird was smart enough to carry on a limited conversation, too.

“Thank you, Rainbow,” said Hattie. She took a bag of nuts from a pocket, and shook at few into her hand. “Snack?”

“Snack. Thank-oo.” Rainbow flitted down to the arm of Hattie’s rocker, and picked the nuts from her hand, before flying away.

“Here, kitty,” said Hattie, laying down her knitting. “Let’s look like we know all and see all.” She chuckled. Nobody walked through this part of the swamp unless they wanted something from the Swamp Witch.

So when Scott Devereaux reached the clearing, where Hattie’s house perched on one of the few firm spots in the swamp, he saw the witch standing on the porch with arms crossed. Her black cat sat on the rail next to her, glaring at him. How did she hear me? he thought, then shrugged.

“What’cha needin’?” Hattie snapped.

“What makes you think I would want what you have to offer?” he said, a little more boldly than he felt.

“Nobody comes out here ‘less they need my help,” she said. “C’mon up and sit, Mr. Devereaux. Whatever it is, it stays ‘tween us. I ain’t stupid enough to go blabbin’ ‘bout people’s bidness.” Though I sure was tempted to turn in your daddy, back when you were in diapers, when he wanted some help for that thirteen year old girl he knocked up. But being strict about keeping people’s secrets was part of being a Swamp Witch.

“You know who I am, then.”

“Course I do. Your daddy’s the preacher at that big ol’ Protestant church. You’re the deacon, and he’s settin’ you up to take over when he retires next year.” She took her rocker, and waved a hand at the other one. “Pull that chair around. Tell me what’cha need, and I’ll tell ya if I can help.”

Instead, he stood, looking down at her. “What I need is for you to get gone. You’ve been a blight on this community long enough, and respectable folk have had enough. You do the Devil’s work out here, letting people escape the consequences of their sins—”

Hattie snorted. “You think you’re the first self-righteous fool who come out here to run me off? You might be surprised at the ‘respectable folk’ around here who I let escape the consequences of their sins, little boy. Me and your daddy went to school together, he knowed me all his life, and he’s been preachin’ ‘round here longer than you been born. He never seed fit to do nothin’ but live and let live, least by me. I know he taught ya to mind your own business, too.”

“Don’t you dare talk about my daddy,” he hissed.

“Okay by me.” Hattie sounded not at all intimidated. “I know he didn’t send you out here anyway, and he ain’t part of this. Maybe we should talk about you instead. Or, you wanna pay for your own sins, nobody’s makin’ you come to me.” She gave him a significant look.

“I am not interested in hearing your lies and innuendo.”

“Well, you don’t want my help, and I ain’t goin’ nowhere. So I guess we got nothin’ more to talk about.” Hattie picked up her knitting, ignoring how the younger Devereaux glared at her and tried not to fidget as the evening light dimmed.

“This ain’t over, witch.” Devereaux finally spun around and stomped down the porch steps.

“I know what’cha need, boy,” she called, and Devereaux spun around. “Yep. You think I don’t know what people need before they come a-callin’? I figgered you wouldn’t wanna talk about it, so I left it along the path.” She nodded at Devereaux’s wide-eyed stare. “So count off fifty paces after you pass that first tree, you’ll come to a little break on your left. Go through it, and count twenty more paces. It’s there.”

Devereaux nodded once, then turned and walked away without another word. “He didn’t offer to pay, I notice,” she muttered. “Theft is a sin, and sin has consequences, eh kitty?”

Mr. Sniff looked down the path, and arched his back at two faint splashes.

“Oh, dear,” said Hattie. “Dern fool got off the path, and the Swamp Critter got ‘im.” She returned to her knitting. “Time to find a new girl to take over, kitty. I’m gettin’ too old for this.”

Uncovering "The Sorcerer's Daughter" …

Uncovering the cover, anyway. Uncovering Sura might be the express lane to a messy and very painful demise. Things do get a little messy in this story:

In the third Accidental Sorcerers story, as Bailar and his apprentices help the Conclave prepare for conflict with the rogue sorcerers, Sura learns that she is a descendant of a noble House in the Alliance. But when she discovers the price of her history, it may be too late.

Now I’m sure you all expect that Sura, Mik, and Bailar will just shrug and accept fate, right? Hahahaha!!!

It has been a grueling year—this will be the sixth story of mine launched this year! It’s with the editor now, and (OK, let’s be realistic) we’re looking at firing the Launch Cannon some time in early December. This story has quite a bit of action, especially toward the end, but I don’t want to give it away just yet.

As usual, +Angela Kulig provided the cover art, and there’s been a lot of ooh-ing and aah-ing over it by members of the mailing list. (You’re not on my mailing list? You really should be. You’d have gotten a first peek early this week.)

Stop yakking and show us the cover already!

Oh, right… here it is.

I’m just not sure how Angela’s going to top this one. I’m already pounding away at the fourth story, Into the Icebound, and the first draft is so close to being done I can taste it! (Uh… I jutht put my tongue on a glathier…)

Feel free to reblog this, share it on Google+, or whatever you like. +Patricia Lynne has a companion reveal post on her blog, with a mini-interview—go check it out!

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 11

Previous:
Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4 | Episode 5 | Episode 6 | Episode 7 | Episode 8 | Episode 9 | Episode 10

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

Several soldiers peered around the corner, while the rest listened to the Imperial Keep’s collapse, then flinched back. “It’s gone,” one said. “The walls buckled, and one—” Stones tumbled and bounced by, showering the sheltered expedition with small debris.

“We need to go back,” one of the Strikers said. “Acrom jumped. If nothing else, we need to recover his remains.”

“Why?” Anlayt demanded.

“He was the one bitten by the walking dead,” the Striker explained. “One of the men tells me Acrom was growing sick. Acrom told him he would die but once, then when the wall fell away, he dived out. Head first.”

“Likely a fruitless pursuit to find him,” said Phylok, “as with this entire expedition so far. But we should at last make the attempt.”

As expected, Acrom’s body was buried under the rubble that was once the Imperial Keep. They sang his name at the place they guessed the stairwell had been, offering his soul to Heaven and beseeching the Creator that his body lie still, then returned to Harbor Street and marched west.

Passing through a poorer part of the city, Jira thought of her namesake, Jira the Brown. That Jira had come from such a neighborhood, perhaps this one. She and her friend Pyanya had become Thurun’s apprentices, so legend went, after they stole his staff. Pyanya the White was the more noted, a Protector revered as the Lady of Isenbund in the North. But the original Jira had done well enough for herself, a strong sorcerer and enchanter by all accounts. I will be happy, Jira thought, if they say of me that I was able to keep a remnant of the Empire alive.


The Western Gate was destroyed, and they clambered over the remains to reach the Western Road. “Looks almost normal out here,” one soldier grunted.

“If you don’t look behind you,” said another.

Indeed, for those who only faced west, it could have been an unusually quiet afternoon outside the capital. Grasses and brambleberries grew wild, but the clear zone around the city walls was allowed to grow and seed itself. Two years ago, the poor would have been gleaning the seeds and fruits, or tending small garden plots granted by the crown. The nearest villa was beyond the first rise, where the road disappeared on its long journey to Westmark.

“Patrol formation,” Anlayt ordered. “Captains on point.” The Bronze Circle formed around Jira once again. After what they had seen in the last few hours, she found the protective ring a small comfort. “For Camac… forward!”

The Captains called a halt before they topped the hill. Phylok sent two scouts forward; they slipped through the tall grass and returned after a short time. “The villa is damaged, but inhabited,” they said. “Windows are boarded up. There’s debris piled around the perimeter, and gardens inside. We saw the smoke of a cookfire.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“No.”

“They must be there,” said Phylok. “I would venture that the noise of our difficulties in Camac carried outside the city here, and the inhabitants are hiding. Perhaps watching us, while they gauge our intentions.”

“Strikers, form a defensive perimeter,” Anlayt ordered. “Protector, can you scry about us? Can you locate these residents?”

Jira nodded, and sent her vision outward. “There are no ambushes,” she said, her voice distant. “Nobody stands between us and their makeshift ramparts.”

“Are they in the villa?”

After a long silence, Jira smiled. “In an upper room. They appear to be having a heated argument. One woman is watching from the window, but as engaged as any.”

“How many?” Phylok asked.

“Eight… eleven. They do not carry weapons, but I saw crossbows in the receiving room. Implements that can be used as weapons: axes, scythes. A few hunting spears.” She came back to herself. “A young man looked around as I scryed the upper room,” she warned. “I would assume he is a sorcerer, but I don’t remember him from my earlier visits.”

“I am sure that Protector Jira is more than equal to any mage they have,” said Phylok. “I suggest we form up, and request a parley.” He nodded toward the bugler.

“I have no better idea,” said Anlayt.


The soldiers lined up along the Western Road, staggered formation, so that arrows or other missiles could only strike one at a time. The Captains stood before the villa’s makeshift gate, with a few of the Bronze Circle shielding Jira; she in turn covered them with a fender.

The bugler winded his horn, sounding the “parley” signal. Minutes passed, with no response from the villa.

“Give them another,” Phylok suggested, and the bugler blew again.

After a long minute, the front door cracked open. The Captains felt, rather than saw, eyes upon them.

“Citizens of Camac!” Anlayt bellowed. “Come forth, in all peace and harmony! We seek only survivors and information!”

Finally, the door opened. “Nine,” said Jira. “I expect the other two are covering us with crossbows.”

“Who are you, and what do you want?” It was the young man that Jira had noted during her scrying.

“I am Protector Jira, of the North,” she replied. “With me are Captain Phylok of Isenbund, and Captain Anlayt of Koyr, and four strikes of Camac’s army. We hoped to find other authority here.”

“Protector.” The young man bowed, hand to forehead, in the salute to a superior; Jira and the Captains noted how the others shed their wariness. “I am Arbul the Blue, of the Camac Conclave, until the recent trouble. Fortunately, I earned my sash before all that happened.”

“Are you all that is left of the population of Camac, then?” Anlayt asked.

“Indeed, sir. Many others fled the city, by road and by sea, so they may live on. You had no refugees arrive in Koyr?”

Anlayt frowned. “Neither by road, nor by sea, mage,” he said at last.

“Troubling.”

“So there is no authority,” said Phylok.

“We are the emperor!” An older man twisted free, and pranced forward. Arbul and several others gave each other exasperated looks. “Grand and glorious Camac lives on, so long as ourself!”

Arbul stepped forward, close enough to whisper, “Forgive him, notables. The others say he was mad long before The Madness, imagining himself to be His Sublime Majesty.”

The mad “emperor” joined them. “Good Captains, worthy Protector,” he purred. “Together, we shall conquer the other half of the world, then all will know the benevolent rule of glorious Camac. My court shall accompany us on this grand quest, and all will sing our praises.”

“Majesty,” said another, gently tugging the madman back, “your servants have just returned from an expedition on your behalf. Let them find their barracks, and take the rest they have earned, before sending them forth anew.”

“Wise counsel,” said the man who would be emperor. “Go, in all peace and harmony. Captains, your men have earned extended leave with pay. See that they reacquaint themselves with their… with their families.” He paused, looking confused. “You are all that… no.” He turned and stalked back to the villa, muttering all the way.

“Authority,” said Arbul. “I did not think to see this many sane people in one place, ever again. Let alone any remnants of governance.”

“Do you know who awakened the Cave Wyrm that was under the Keep?” Jira asked.

“No. I presume it was Nisodarun, or perhaps another mage gone mad.”

“Whoever awakened it, had control of her faculties,” Jira countered. “It told me that it swallowed Nisodarun by his own request, then allowed me to dispel it as commanded by the one who awoke it. The Wyrm, I presume, undermined the Keep. It collapsed.”

“That’s what we heard, then. I hope you did not unseal the Library.”

Anlayt grimaced, and Jira nodded. “We did. The walking dead are no more, but I did re-seal the entrance.”

“One of the mages was bitten,” said Arbul, his face twisting. “He lured the remaining walking dead into the Library, then I sealed them all together. If you released him, then… then I thank you. He was a dear friend.”

“He, and the others, are at peace,” Jira assured him.

“Protector,” said Anlayt, looking at the sky. “If we march now, we can reach the pier before sunset. I suggest we do not spend the night in the open, nor in the city.”

“And we would be an undue burden on the villa,” Phylok agreed.

“Arbul, you and your companions are welcome to come with us,” Jira offered. “North Keep has plenty of room.”

“As does Ak’koyr,” Anlayt insisted.

“And Isenbund,” said Phylok, “although you may not want to go that far.”

Arbul looked at his companions, then turned back to Jira and the Captains. “We will stay here,” he said. “For better or worse, Camac is our home. Our gardens, and the gleaning fields, are sufficient to feed us. We did rescue some livestock as well.”

“Arbul, I name you Protector of Camac,” said Jira. “I charge you to keep the peace, to train those who have Talent, and defend your home.”

“I…” Arbul fought to control his emotions. “On the name of Her Sublime Majesty, I do swear to these things. And, come winter, we shall bury the dead and clear the rubble. Perhaps, by next summer, the living will again dwell within Camac’s walls.”

“Strikers, marching formation,” Anlayt ordered. “For Camac… to the pier, then home!”

---

Here ends Season 1. Season 2, “Dissolution,” will begin soon.

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 10

Previous: Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4 | Episode 5 | Episode 6 | Episode 7 | Episode 8 | Episode 9

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

“Cave Wyrm!” Jira shouted. She dimly remembered a chamber, down in the foundations of the Keep, where the bones of a Cave Wyrm had lay waiting for a time of need. She worked a spell of binding—not the proper spell to bind an Elemental Dragon, but there was no time to prepare that one—and the Wyrm hung in place, not quite frozen but not moving toward them. “I’ll try to hold it! Go! Get to the ships! It won’t come for you through water!”

Who are you, mage? Everyone heard that voice of grinding boulders, even the first strike clattering down the stairs.

“I am Protector Jira, of the Northern provinces,” she replied. The Bronze Circle parted before her, but the strike flanked her, retreating no further. Brave soldiers, she thought, knowing that the Cave Wyrm could blast the skin from their bones in an eyeblink.

What is your purpose here?

“We seek the Eye of Byula that was in the keeping of the First Protector. If we find the remains of the First Protector, we will mourn him and lay him to rest.”

What you seek is gone. The Eye I swallowed, along with the First Protector, when the mad fool demanded I do so. Now dispell me, mage, if you would save yourself and your companions. I will respect your weak binding while you do your work, in accordance with the commands of the one who awakened me.

Jira bit back the questions she had, as the dragon was unlikely to answer them. A little searching along the Cave Wyrm’s flanks turned up a darker splash of brown, the dried blood of the mage who had awakened it. “A cloth, and water,” she commanded the Bronze Circle, and they were brought. Awakening an Elemental Dragon was simple enough—even a fresh apprentice could do it, given good Talent—but the binding spells, needed to keep the dragon from killing the mage and rampaging about, were more complex. It was said that pure motives were as effective as binding, but who had those?

Nevertheless, the Principle of Closure held. Blood and intent awakened an Elemental Dragon, and removing that blood dispelled it. Jira took the wet cloth, wiped the blood from the rocky skin, and the Cave Wyrm dissolved into a pile of stone and sand. Still, the floor swayed; the Cave Wyrm’s growth had come at the cost of the Keep’s foundations.

“Quickly.” Jira followed the Captains, following the Bronze Circle, down the long staircase. Their footing became more stable as they descended, but the rumbling continued.

“Will the building hold together much longer?” Anlayt shouted above the noise. Below them, soldiers shouted as a piece of the outer wall fell away.

“I have bound the stairs, from here to the ground,” said Jira. “We will reach the ground. After that, if the Keep falls, it falls where it will.”

Soldiers, men and women, spilled from the stairs and onto the ground floor. Strikers urged them forward, urged themselves by the Captains.

The Captains burst into daylight, then whirled about. “Protector Jira!” Phylok shouted. “Captain Anlayt, get the others away from here!” He bolted back into the crumbling Keep as Anlayt gave orders.

“Protector!” Phylok bellowed.

“Here!” Jira pelted over the rubble. Above her, rubble fell over but not upon her—she had raised a fender, a spell of protection. “Phylok, go!”

A large stone glanced off Phylok’s helm; he shook his head to clear it and stumbled toward the light. He felt a hand on his arm, pulling him forward, a voice urging him to move, move. Dim changed to bright, yet the hand and the voice pulled and pushed. He shook his head again, quickly, and lucidity returned. “Which way did they go?” Jira asked.

Phylok shook her arm away, but smiled and pointed. “That way. Protector, what happened?”

“I was rescuing an important piece of our history,” she said. “It has no power like the Eyes, but we need to remember a time when Camac and magic were both thought omnipotent.” She showed him the faded painting, of a man standing atop a vast monolith, itself hovering above a waterfront. Ancient script read: When Protector Thurun bringeth the Great Pier to Camac Harbor. MCLGPE.

“What’s that last part?” Phylok pointed at the letters.

“The apprentice closed his message the same way,” she said. “May the Creator and the Lesser Gods Preserve the Empire.” She sighed. “And we’ll need all their aid, I fear.”

continued…

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 9

Previous: Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4 | Episode 5 | Episode 6 | Episode 7 | Episode 8

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

The throne room had the appropriate grandeur for an empire that spanned half the world. Phylok thought, with some irreverence, remove the rubble and rotted corpses, and it would look almost right.

“There.” Anlayt pointed across the room, to where pieces of the throne lay scattered. “Go and see if I am right.” He looked pale.

Jira, accompanied by some of her honor guard, crossed the room. She too, remembered what this place once looked like, and her mind kept trying to superimpose the was over the is. She saw a dismembered corpse among the rubble—Her Sublime Majesty, greeting her from the Pearl Throne—shreds of red and gold strewn across the dais—the robe of state—a hand outstretched in welcome, wearing the Three-Gem Ring—a dried hand on the dais, the Three-Gem Ring dangling from one finger—

“Oh gods,” Jira gasped, staring at the torn hand. She turned to the others. “What happened here?”

“Speculation is unhelpful, at this moment,” said Anlayt, but without his usual force. “Protector, do you verify that those are the remains of Her Sublime Majesty?”

In a year of difficulties, Jira would later write, the most difficult moment of all was this one, the hardest thing was to keep the tears from her eyes and the sob from her voice. “I do,” she said, letting her voice echo through the ruined chamber.

“Then let us gather her remains,” Anlayt suggested. “We can lay her in the tombs. Then, we can see about finding a successor.”

“A dim hope, that,” said Phylok. “But the attempt must be made.”

“And so, to the Western Road? Protector?”

Jira hesitated. “I wish to visit the Imperial Keep first. It’s a slim hope, but perhaps the Eye of Byula, that was in Nisodarun’s keeping, is still there. Having two Eyes, this one and Kontir’s, would let us hold together what is left.”


The Imperial Keep was another place where Jira’s memories kept trying to impose themselves over the present reality. That it was High Summer now, the time she had always come to share wisdom with the other Protectors (as other mages gathered in Stolevan), did not make it easier. A musty smell, the odor of disuse, had long replaced the familiar scents of tea, sweaty apprentices, and that storm-like smell of Air magic in use. She thought about sharing tea in the sumptuous Meeting Hall with her peers, laughing over a forgotten trifle, and a wistful smile came to her.

“Protector?” Phylok brought her back to the present. “Lead the way.”

“Where should we look first?” Anlayt asked.

“The First Protector’s private chambers,” said Jira. “I know not where Nisodarun kept the Eye, but his work area would be the logical place to start looking. Protector Kontir likely spoke to him regularly, as he has an Eye. That is the place to start.”

Unfortunately, those chambers were up ten flights of stairs. They set a marching order, Jira behind the Captains to guide, and began the climb. As they reached the first landing, Jira laughed.

“What about this situation is amusing?” Anlayt scowled.

“The First Protector used to run up this staircase, at least once a day,” said Jira. “He said it kept him young and fit. Indeed he was fit, for a man past his sixtieth summer.” On the other hand, a year of heavy burdens had left Jira and the others fit as well. So they marched, stopping halfway up for a brief breather, until they reached the final landing.

“This entire floor is—was—the First Protector’s chambers,” Jira explained, gesturing at the overturned furniture. The dented remains of a tea service lay heaped in one corner. As with most other places here, it smelled of disuse and decay. “This first room is a public receiving area. I only visited his work area once, but I doubt he moved it.”

“What should we look for?”

“A small box, about a span each direction.” Jira frowned, thinking. “I don’t think it’s ornate.”

“Could you not just scry for the Eye?” Anlayt asked.

Jira gave a sad laugh. “One would think so,” she said. “But the Eyes only find by magic. They cannot be found by magic. Odd, but powerful enchantments often include such oddities. Not always by design.”

“What was that?” a soldier asked.

“A tremor,” said Anlayt. “Perhaps the foundations have been undermined. Let us find what we came for.”

“This way,” said Jira, leading them through wide doors. “Oh!” She stopped, as a stronger tremor shook the Keep. “Captains, I suggest you lead your strikes down and into the street. I can protect myself if—” The tremors became a constant shaking. Tumbled furniture slid across the floor, tapestries swayed. “Captains, go!”

Too late—the floor in front of them burst upward in a shower of rubble. Something that looked like a maw of pointed teeth, at the end of a ridged tube, reared above them.

continued…

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 8

Previous: Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3 | Episode 4 | Episode 5 | Episode 6 | Episode 7

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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!”

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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.”

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