A Seeker's Journal

10.6

2010-03-19T23:58:00.003-05:00

Neruabald breathed deeply and sighed. The spring seemed to have just begun this far north, but Ethmar already hinted at smells of summer. 'Thirty-eight summers haven't dimmed the pleasure of that smell. Everything growing;' and to no one in particular, he added, 'but it has make riding somewhat less comfortable.' He dismounted, and the stable hand took his horse without comment, but Neruabald had to stretch for a long moment before his muscles consented to walking.

“There you are, I thought's they'd mistaken you for a horse and put a feed bag on your head.”

“You'll not be rid of this old man so easily, soldier. Is your master in?”

“First Citizen Eth is in his study, he's waiting for you, honored general.”

“Is he? That's too bad, I was hoping for a nap in his waiting room. Go on, show me in,”

Eth's castle had been designed by his father to inspire awe. Its towering arches and vast glass windows were carefully arranged to cast light on the throne at the head of the hall, and shine in the eyes of the guests without providing enough light to see by. Old Ethitorx's theory that the his government functioned best if the citizens were kept blind had application everywhere.

As First Citizen, Eth preferred to work from the small study room behind the great hall. It gave the impression, to the rest of the government, that he was a humble and simple man. Neruabald was not deceived. Eth was the king's son, and the reining monarch, whatever title he would take. Any election was pretentious, because no local leader could possibly muster support from the empire. Eth provided the people with a carefully worded 'referendum' from time to time; “Should we invade nation of barbarians who sacked the boarder town, or sanction their trade,” but the idea of opposing his rule remained foreign to the people. As first citizen, he was more emperor, more absolute, then King Crelocthen of Bharrak.

The study was an octagonal room with windows on four walls – apparently quite the fashion in Makhan.* Compared to the hall it was little more than a cabinet, but considerably more people crowded in. The tables were covered with charts and maps, and the whole place gave Neruabald the impression that a library's contents had been rapidly turned out as it caught fire. The space was equally filled with chatter as with paper, and Neruabald found the atmosphere disquieting.

Eth seemed quite at home in the raucous. He signed a new treaty with a client state here, and a then back to drawing up plans to feed the great army.

“Come over here, Neri, you should see it.” The young emperor showed great pages of tables to the gray-haired general. Figures and tables covered huge pages. Scribbled addition filled the margins. While individual numbers and the math in the margins was sensible, the bulk of the documents might have been written in elven. “See, we're doing something really unprecedented here. An army that can truly operate independently. With this,” he gestured to the documents, “the army will eat and march.”

“You intend to feed them paper?”

“I only like you for your humor, Neri.”

“To be honest, my lord, I do not understand these documents.”

“They're ration tables. Bakers and mobile kitchens will march right with, well, right behind, the troops. The men can eat like kings and march like pack hounds – not pack animals.”

“What will you feed them? Grain, I suppose, you can bring. But you'll have to forage for meat and fruit, or the men** will quickly grow weak.”

“Bring me a can,” Eth commanded a uniform behind him. In moments the lad produced a glass jar with a lid held on by loose metal hinges. It was a fine example of pottery, being of nearly transparent brown glass, and a lid that wouldn't be easily lost seemed advantageous to the old soldier. “Sir, I don't see what this will do.”

If you cook meats or vegetables inside a can, like this, they keep for months. The army can march with food that will last, and they can be supplied for a siege indefinitely, so long as we hold the roads. Why, we can unite the whole Goblin Nation in a summer or two. So? What do you think?”

Neruabald considered it briefly. “Genius, I think. If you can really supply an army without needing to gather anything, you can move faster than, and outflank other forces. ”

“Exactly!”

“But you didn't bring me here to look at dinner, First Citizen.”

“You went south with an army, Neri.” Eth stated the obvious.

“Tsorx's boys.”

“Yes, I've heard. Slaughtered, they say. And he with them. The old lady at Bharrak must still have some strength in her. No matter.”

“No matter? Two thousand dead and an ambitious general with them, you say no matter?”

“Tsrox's death serves the empire better than his life could have. Do you think he'd be content to challenge you alone as my second, or to wait for your death to replace you? There were rumors already that First Citizen might be a title to be passed on.”

“You sent him down there to die?”

“Not at all, that's why I sent you to look after him. He was supposed to give Putnmar and easy, early victory, then retire and be safely out of the way.”

“And out of public eye.”

“Now you're thinking politically.”

“Scheming, you mean.”

“You humor me, Neri! Yes, plotting, even. One must plot to be emperor, you know.”

“Henh.”

“Now tell me the truth, how did the army fail? My secret weapon is for the stomach, but what surprise do the southerners have for me?”

“My lord, they fell because of a rain storm. A druid,”

“A Druid!? So the rumors are true.”

“What rumors, my lord?”

“They say a man of magic is on the move in the south. Martialling all manner of armies to himself. So there is such a

*Political capital of dwarven empire. Some similarities to London and Rome.

** Yes, men. The sexual equality of the south has no hold here. Instead, strict labor division by gender is the norm, as it is in most elven and dwarven territory.

10.5

2010-03-19T23:58:00.001-05:00

Nasch's fever broke about dusk, and during the second watch he woke up for a moment. He said “ouch, my head,” ate a spoonful of cold stew (druids apparently prepare most meals in bowls), and went back to sleep. Tyisch arrived in a fit about midnight. Krina almost tackled him.

“He woke up! Oh, Tyisch, just for a moment, but he woke up!”

Tyisch's foul mood evaporated in a moment. “Wizard be praised, he must be a troll. They said it couldn't be done.”

Aytheur had fallen asleep in the corner of the tent, curled up in a fetal position, facing away from the wall with his coat wrapped around him.

“Did either of you offer the doctor a blanket?” Tyisch asked. “Didn't he have a pack with him?”

At the insistence of Nasch's cousin, the elf's belongings were sent for and delivered some time before dawn. “Thank you,” Tyisch said to him, “you saved his life.”

Aytheur woke up very confused. “Would you tell that to these two? They seem to think I've killed him.”

Nerith found he had to explain his dream again. “It was one of the dragons, Zephanarai”

Aytheur suddenly took notice. “Zephi? Why, he's appeared to me also. Now I know what you're worried about; Zephi is a darned old fool, and you've nothing to fear.

“You would insult an ancient?”

“Yes, I would, when he ancient is wrong. Nasch will recover, his body will heal, and he'll live longer this way than if I did nothing. But did you forget that I told you there would be a cost?”

The Kliet found that statement had slipped their minds.

“What I have done to cure him, orcs do all the time. It is a great change, and one that cannot be reversed. It would shorten his life significantly if he were an elf – maybe ten years, or twelve before he becomes ill and cannot be healed. But he is a goblin, and a soldier. If he lives another twelve years he will be an old man. It is better to die then and perish now, is it not?”

Nerith nodded. It sounded good to him, and would let him forget about the dream. Krina wasn't going to be swayed so easily. “What about abomination? Did you curse him?”

“You superstitious, backward people. There are no curses, there is only reality. He is not cursed now, any more than he was when he got stabbed. Nasch isn't an abomination.”

“Well,” Nasch coughed, “that's... good to hear.”

The reunion was tearful and prolonged. For a while, all doubts were driven from their minds. Nasch was restored to him, from the very edge of death. Even Aytheur was moved to moisten his eyes by the emotion around him. All was joy, until Nasch announced he was ready to rest again.

“Before you go to sleep, dear cousin, I should tell you all. Layonia, the princess, is traveling to Ethmar with a dowry, hoping to marry Eth. Crelocthen wanted you to go as the wedding escort.* Hurry, and get well, and we can go with them.

Nasch slept again. That afternoon, the rain finally subsided, and the whole wedding party left immediately. Eldad Gomaesh took Kliet Nasch's place as preferred on the wedding escort, and he insisted they make haste. “Because we shall make no difference at all if we meet Eth with his army in the field.”

When Nasch was finally well enough to walk; it took two days; the Kliet went, with Aytheur, to meet the king.

*the key, but not only, military part of the wedding party.

10.5

2010-03-19T23:14:00.001-05:00

The rain went on unabated for three days. For the first full day, Aytheur didn't move. About sunrise the second day he got up and allowed the Kliet to move Nasch into a real tent. By that night, Aytheur declared he'd done it.

“What have you done, Orc?” Krina and Nerith were playing cards. They'd been trading the same sixteen pennies back and fourth all day. The weather seemed to keep visitors away. Tyisch spent as much time as he could there, but duties of the festival kept him busy.

“I'm an elf. And he's cured.”

“Doesn't look cured,” she sneered.

“He'll get better.”

Nerith took the tall, frail-seeming elf by the arm, a little more forcefully than necessary. You'll come with me. You can eat, and if you're right, then we'll discuss the terms of your indenture.

“I'll stay will him.” And she did.

The druid's residence politely welcomed Neither and Aytheur, as it had for last two days.

“What indenture?

“King's decision, yesterday, while you were... working.”

“I have done nothing but help since I arrived, and now I am to be made a slave? I should kill your captain, it would be justice! Do you not realize I came here to help you stupid people?”

“We stupid people! Your magic may be like an orc, but you have the forked tongue of an elf. Your tongue is killing you. Stop your mouth before it kills you.”

“What, so you can kill me quietly? Were it in my power.”

“Shut up!” Nerith nearly exploded. “No one kills you today. All right, you're not going to be hung. Until you screw up. You've been assigned to care of the Kliet. You'll stay will us. Under Krina's direct authority. You hear me?”

Aytheur only nodded.

“Now, what did you do to Nasch?”

“You say that like you're accusing me. What do you accuse me of?”

“I had a dream. I never dream, but I had one. In that dream, one of the Elders came to me, one of the dragons. He told me you were changing him.”

“What is your name?”

“What?”

“Your name. Are you Kliet?”

“Yeah, I'm Kliet. Nerith. That's my name.”

“And his name is Nasch, right? Do your names have meanings?”

“Does your's?”

“It does. It's a composite. It means 'son of my healing.' My father named me, but it was my mother's magic that made me.”

“what, you were made my magic? Aren't elves born?”

Aytheur laughed. A clean, natural sound. It echoed in his own ears and felt out of place. Nerith laughed too, nervously, because he didn't know if he'd insulted the mage.

“You really know nothing about elves?”

“I know you're weak immortals, and that fills you with pride.” Nerith bristled. “Touched by the dragons so you think you're better than everyone else, and you make war on everyone else. I know you torch the homes of your allies and sow salt in the fields of your foes. That you would have the all be death beyond your forests, so you might be at peace in a dead world.”

“Is that what you think of elves?” Aytheur was taken aback. “We aren't like that at all. We're basically peaceful people. Well, Ballea is, anyway. Threanace can be a little bloodthirsty. And we'll pay back evil for evil. But we'd never burn the homes of our friends or harm to land of a conquered people.”

“You wouldn't, no? Tell me, you who live forever, do you remember Uerd? I was there, I saw the whole land ruined. Your twisted vines grew into the walls of the orc city, your moss dug roots into the bricks and ruined them. Your poisoned weeds sprung up on the fields so that no one could eat the grain, even the animals became sick from the grass. I saw it, I was there.”

“what are you talking about? That was... four hundred years ago. You can't possibly have seen it, you're, what, fifteen? Twenty?” Aytheur tried to convert to goblin ages in his head. Nerith looked like a young adult, a little older than himself. Maybe thirty years old, if he were an elf.

“I'm twelve.”

“Then how could you have seen it?”
“I remember it.”

The druid's servant brought them four bowls of hot porridge on a covered tray. They stepped back out into the drizzle, and the conversation died.

“He'll be ok;” Aytheur tried to explain, when they were back inside the tent. “We should move him as little as possible, but his body has the strength it needs now. It is fighting a war, in his blood. Many tiny lives threaten Nasch's life. I strengthened Nasch's life. His body will fight faster, heal faster, and he can win the war in his blood. You should help me feed him, he needs his strength.”

Krina asked Nerith, “A war in his blood?”

“I don't know. He didn't explain. He is always rude.”

Aytheur pretended he couldn't hear them, and tried to feed Nasch. The goblin choked, then coughed until the porridge ran down his face, so Aytheur resign himself to making his patient drink instead.

10.4

2010-03-19T22:12:00.001-05:00

Ayhteur kneels over Nasch's body. The patient is nearly lifeless, and the doctor is deep in trace. Magic flows invisibly from the druid's grove, from the land into the goblin. The elf is more than a conduit, he is the pilot of it. The spark that starts the first and the will which directs it.

There are no voices, but inside the head of the elf, as he is deep in the magic-commanding trance, a conversation takes place.

[This is the first such conversation I've posted, but I intend to write others if it proves effective]

Zephi: It is time we had a chat, young troll.

Aytheur: I haven't got the time right now, why don't you press your platitudes on me some other time?

Because this is the only time. You would not hear before this now [moment], and you will not be able to act after this now [choice].

Let me guess, the world's fate hangs on this one choice?

You spit upon the truth as you mock it.

He's one stupid goblin that's dying of gangrene.

You already suspect his importance.

Curse you, old man, why do you speak of my thoughts like you know them?

Why do you ask questions I have answered? We are[have been / will be] bound.

Why do you answer in riddles? Just tell me the simple truth.

You assume the truth is something that I know.

Bah! You're useless, leave off!

By healing this goblin, you ruin his future and set upon a course to ruin many more.

Ruin his future? He has no future, he's about to die. What are you talking about?

Every spirit has a future. If he dies, he's a martyr and a hero. You do this to him and he's an abomination.

He'll be alive, that's what I'm told to do. Who cares what kind of magic I have to use?

He'll care. Kliet Nasch will care, and it's his life.

How do you even know that?

That's not the right question. How do I talk to you while you trace?

Fine, if that's the wrong question, how about this one. Why should I trust you? Who are you even?

10.3

2010-03-13T22:44:00.000-06:00

Seven times during the night Nasch vomited. Krina washed him, and forced him to drink the spring's water. The spring night was warm and heavy with moisture. The acolyte slept beneath a blanket at the far edge of the grove, beyond the small circle of torchlight. The druid Jinkash returned near dawn, while Aytheur still knelt motionless next to Nasch. Nerith had to explain their presence, but the druid paid him little attention. He muttered something about the Fusp being to stupid to accept the inevitable and retreated to cabin with glass windows just outside the grove.

The next day dawned cloudy and bleak. Tyish brought the Kliet food and tents, explaining it was likely to rain. The grove didn't really become light, even at noon, because the clouds grew steadily darker. The orc-healer never stirred, though Nasch became increasingly fevered and fitful.
“What do we do about them,” Nerith asked aloud, “when it rains?”
“We should put a tent over them,” Krina said.
Tyisch said “You can't – these tents have iron buckles.”
“We can't let him lay there when it rains.”
“Maybe we should,” Nerith suggested, “the orc-elf said he needed to be on the ground, outside.”
A thin mist-like rain descended on the forest as they argued. Krina eventually charged them both to bring the tent inside and set it up, but the acolyte saw what they were doing. He stopped them, saying they could not contaminate the grove with metal that had been smelted.*

But Krina persisted, so as the mist turned to drizzle, they removed all the metal fasteners and buckles from the tent. The weather gradually worsened while they worked. Soon Nerith, Krina and Tyisch were soaked, along with the acolyte and the two young Kliet guards. They finally erected a crude but kosher cover over the healer and his patient as the rain became a downpour and settled in to give the world a good soaking.
As soon as they were under cover, Nerith set to arguing with the acolyte for permission to build a fire and warm up. “Though expedient, it would not be permissible,” the druid's assistance insisted.

They were interrupted by Aytheur, who suddenly woke from his trance. He spoke angrily, but his tongue was thick from long disuse, and did not respond intelligibly. He stumbled a bit as he got up, and then further diminished the goblins' opinion of him by bumping his head on the cloth ceiling. This threatened to bring the ramshackle structure down on the group, and had Nerith laughing on the muddy ground.
“You can't have this shelter here. You've got to move it, it changes flows.”
“It's called a tent, ancient** fool. It keep the rain off,” Nerith said.
“I can't help your friend if you don't listen to me,” Aytheur raged.
“He'll die just as surely if you let him freeze in this rain,” Krina said, bitterly. “Your healing has been making him worse, and the chill will surely kill him.”
Tyisch again tried to mediate, “He needs to be kept warm, surely you can sympathize with that? Do the best you can with the magic available, because he'll only get worse if you care only for the wound and not the body.”

Aytheur silently, and perhaps sullenly, accepted this. He returned to Nasch. After he'd settled into the blood-magic trance, Nerith commented, “arse-muncher.”
Aytheur, without moving, replied. “I can still hear you, you should know.”
Nerith was suddenly embarrassed, but Krina added, “Still an arse-muncher,” to general amusement.
Aytheur found himself quite unable to devise a witty retort, and left them with, “Am I going to save this guy's life or should I just leave it to you clowns?” He returned his concentration to the task before they responded.

*To explain: copper and gold both occur regularly in relatively pure forms in nature, so druids consider them natural. Like rocks. Iron and steel do not occur that way, and thus symbolize something distinct from the natural world. Brass and Bronze are excluded for the same reason. Silver and electrum would be acceptable. Druids sometimes take this to an extreme and wear only animal skins.

** [immortal / a synonym of sorts for elf]

10.25

2010-03-13T16:52:00.001-06:00

Zephi: It is time we had a chat, young troll.
Aytheur: I haven't got the time right now, why don't you press your platitudes on me some other time?
Because this is the only time. You would not hear before this now [moment], and you will not be able to act after this now [choice].
Let me guess, the world's fate hangs on this one choice?
You spit upon the truth as you mock it.
He's one stupid goblin that's dying of gangrene.
You already suspect his importance.
Curse you, old man, why do you speak of my thoughts like you know them?
Why do you ask questions I have answered? We are[have been / will be] bound.
Why do you answer in riddles? Just tell me the simple truth.
You assume the truth is something that I know.
Bah! You're useless, leave off!
By healing this goblin, you ruin his future and set upon a course to ruin many more.
Ruin his future? He has no future, he's about to die. What are you talking about?
What can you know about his future? Do you even know his name?
They called him Nasch.
His full name. His family
I don't know
The family name matters more than the individual name to the Wizard's people. Learn this.
Sure. We done now?
Let him die, let his family mourn their fallen hero, and they will have peace.
I can't let him die.
He was bound for death when you saw him, and you know what your healing will do to him.
The transformation I dance in his blood will let him recover.
And it will destroy who he is.
I'm tasked with keeping him alive. And anyway, what harm does it do?
By letting Kliet Nasch die, he will live. By reviving him, you kill him.
You gonna explain that to the savages? I promised to do this and I must – they'll stone me if I don't. And if I do as they ask, they'll accept me, and I can start to civilize them.
Would you destroy this innocent for that? Your means are a suffering, and you can not see the ends.
I would not kill this goblin on your word, old man.
So be it.

10.2

2010-03-13T16:25:00.001-06:00

“He's almost beyond reach,” the blood-mage proclaimed. Nerith must have been dozing off, he never heard the elf (or is it orc?) approach. While the day had come and gone, the exhausted Kliet kept watch in turns over Nasch's healer. They remained immobile the entire day, with the exception of a foul ooze that leaked from the wound in Nasch's side. The goblin healers had done their best to cauterize and seal the wound, and it had stopped bleeding much earlier. It seemed a degradation of condition. “Well? Are you ready sleeping or are you ready to act?”
“We're awake, orc.” Nerith snapped, putting the Kliet before the guest intentionally. “Do not patronize us; You'll not blame your failure on us.”
“My failure? This goblin was so near death when I saw him, his fingers were already black with the dirt. His body was broken long ago, and even now his spirit fails; Were it not for me, your Nasch would be gone already!”
Krina was awake now, “You bled him, I saw; and what cure have you worked? Nasch turns ever closer to a corpse while you are motionless over him!”
“How can I teach such barbarians the ways of medical science? His blood became poison to him, through his wound, tiny life eats his life. That is why I opened the wound. Now listen to me!”
“No, you listen. You are twice the Wizard's blood enemy, both elf and orc. You deserve death for the crimes of your clans [nations]. Yet we show mercy; You have your life only while Nasch has his.”
“Fine. Kill me, if you can. Nasch dies with me; if I do not act he will pass before the moon rises.”
Tyisch entered the room from his chamber, behind Aytheur. He had been all day at the festival, and seemed to have aged years in that time. “To save Nasch, what must we do?”

“The energy of Nasch's life passes out of him; He must be moved somewhere green. Somewhere full of life, that I might restore his strength. The tiny life, the parasites, consume him now...”
Krina cut him off. “He is very sick, we know. We'll move him where ever you tell us; now shut up.
“The druid's grove,” Tyisch stated. “A place green with life? There is no better place, it's magic is well known.”
Krina took over. “Nerith, go tell the guards at the gate we're moving Nasch and the orc.”
“Elf.” Aytheur said.
“Whatever,” Krina dismissed him. “Tyisch, can you help me get the litter?”

In minutes they were prepared to leave. Nerith insisted on helping carry Nasch, rather than letting the guards do it. Krina collected torches to light their way, and Tyisch sent one of the serving girls in his employ to run ahead and tell the druids they were coming. Aytheur watched the bustle, an out of place island in the activity of this goblin household. They turned to his instruction, but gave him no consideration.
The last of the sun's light faded from the horizon; somewhere, back that way, stood Belliea and the life he'd run from. The city elves had no place for the orc-blood Elrodore. Even the other Elrodore, the gatherers of the deep forest, despised Aytheur because of his father. Clouds covered the moon and the stars, pushing in low like a smothering blanket. Having reached Bharrak, Aytheur realized he was less alone when in the desert.
Krina and Tyisch's torches stood off against the night as the little band made their slow way to the Druid's Grove. The road consisted of hard dirt, a thin path marked by wagon wheels of varied sizes. It stood slightly north of the city, in a dell below the crest of a wooded hill. No one talked. The feeling of a funeral procession dominated the short journey. Tyisch explained to passerbys, in short words, that they moved Nasch for treatment, not burial.
The inky night only grew worse when the road passed under the canopy outside the grove. Torch light cast flickering shadows, which seemed to Krina to dance with Ethian soldiers. The girl they'd sent ahead met them there.
“The Druid Jinkash is not here, he is away, but he said you are welcome. He's gone to draw up water for you, from the spring.”
The grove was marked by wooden doors, inlaid with green copper and gold in ivy patterns, set in a thick hedge. Even to Aytheur, the place felt old. The trees here, just outside, hung heavy with moss. Tyisch told the girl to return home, and thanked her with a coin.
An acolyte carrying two buckets on yoke greeted Tyisch. “whatever your orc needs, I'll supply if I can. M'lord Jinkash is out on pressing business, and I don't know when he will return. I'll take your weapons;”
Each of the goblins surrendered a short sword and knife, but Aytheur balked at the idea. “Give up my sword?* This is all I have to defend myself, and you'll set upon me the moment he's healed.”
“If you don't give it up, we'll set upon you now.” Krina growled.
“No iron is permitted inside the grove,” the acolyte explained, “it would disturb the grove. You must leave them here.”
Relutantly Aytheur gave up his sword. The long, thin elven blade didn't fit in the slots on the shelf because it was nearly twice the length of a goblin sword. The acolyte marveled at its craftsmanship, but had to lead it against the shelf.
Once inside, the forest changed utterly. Where outside the trees with oaks and hazels with dark bark, these were silver birches. Their white bark shone in the torch light. Lamps were not permitted here, but Aytheur decided not to complain about the light. They laid Nasch in the center of the grove, on a flat rock which sometimes served as an altar for the druids. Aytheur knelt over him, and, without explanation, closed his eyes to re-enter the blood-dancer's** trance.
*[I don't remember mentioning that he even had a weapon before, but it occurs to me that I'd like to highlight the difference between elven and goblin technology, so I think I'll write this in. It fits, seeing as he went to a military school before setting off to the wilderness. This edition of the work is about finishing the story, I'll repair plot holes and bad ideas on the third go.]
**[Yeah, I use a different word for this every day. Elves connect magic with music, so they call the life-magic they use on plants “singing.” Similarly, Aytheur thinks of orcish blood magic as dancing, although the term would be unusual.]

10.1

2010-03-07T22:11:00.002-06:00

“Tell us of your fallen leader, Kliet.” one of the nobles requested. “How did he die?”

“He didn't die,” Krina bristled.

“He lives yet? Where is he?”

“Nasch recovers in the manor of Tyisch, his cousin,” she said. The noble bristled at this, because she put Nasch ahead of Tyisch, the commoner before the noble.

“I understand he was wounded beyond the skill of every physician in Bharrak to heal. Is this not true? Did you not dismiss the last this very morning?”

“Crelocthen, my gracious king, replaced them all. He presented a blood-healer from elven lands, who, even now, heals my captain.”

“Ha! I can see your foolish falsehood. What hope have you in an elven blood healer? Everyone knows blood magic belongs to the orcs alone.”

“To the orcs, yes, but not alone. Elf and orc were once one people; some are born with the other's blood even now. That is why he is an exile.”

“Then he will become an abomination!” The noble's mouth seemed permanently fixed in a sneer.

“No!” That elbow came to her side again. This time, Krina caught a tiny motion of the king, directing the hand of the huskarl. He was listening to her argue! “He will live, that is enough.”

“He has fallen, let him rest,” the noble said, “do not twist his life or deprive his spirit its fate.”

“He's not dead yet. The victor of Fuspmar, the first to face Eth...”

“Clan Redhorn is the first to fight, the first to charge!” The noble was on his feet.

“Not this time, you weren't!” Krina jump up after him. The benches rocked as others scrambled to get to their feet, or at least avoid being stepped on. 'so that's his beef. Your clan is minor now. And dwindling.”

The noble, he must be either Gathar, or his son (whatever his name was), laid his hand on his sword's hilt. Probably the son, rather than the patriarch. A short indigo cape had covered the blade, and the man threw it back with a flourish. The noble had a southerner's face, being very angular and completely bald.

“Draw it, Gunthar, and you'll not need Eth's army to face a battle.” The King interrupted. He stood up, and there was a sound like rolling thunder as every boot in the hall hit the ground. Then he looked directly as Krina and said, “please, escort her elsewhere.”

The huskarl at Krina's elbow led her outside, then to one of the bottom floor of one of the castle's towers, where they would not be overheard. “The king honored you by inviting you,” the huskarl began. His northern heritage was plain, as his hair [scalp and facial] was quite thick, black and relatively straight. In this close proximity Krina found it unsettling. It was at least as bothersome as his apparent rage. “He had planned an important mission for your Fusp. It won't happen now.”

Krina could almost hear the huskarl say, 'fool.' “His daughter, Layonia, is assembling a bridal party. They're going to Wapanix. To Eth. Our best hope to win this war is not to fight it. Any fool can see that. And Nasch's Kliet was perfect for the task; a victorious soldier is always respected. But now Gathar will have his way. His pompus son will be escorting the bride's party, and the dowry... the odds of Eth accepting fall drastically. The king will do it anyway, Layonia set herself on it. But you'll have no part. Get out of here, go see to your dying captain. Keep the blood-healer away from anyone important, and try not to screw anything else up.” The huskarl turned to leave, then added, over his shoulder “at least we found out you're incompetent before you were assigned anything important.” For the moment, she was too stunned to cry.

10.0

2010-03-07T20:15:00.001-06:00

“In the beginning all was ignorance,” the Druid Jinkash intoned.
“The elder ones taught us thought,” the assembled elders replied, following the same sing-song of the chant.
“In the beginning the land was ice. Men were wolves against the herds and against each other.”
“The elder ones taught us peace and construction,*”
“They took away the teeth of men so we might live with elves and devils**.”
“The elder ones wanted construction without warfare.”
“But the nephilim*** coveted rulership.”
“The elder ones instructed peace, by logic, as the way.”
“And so warfare came upon all lands.” Krina joined the chant, from the doorway. By her appearance, she had prepared for the feast hastily. While not sweat-stained, she still looked better prepared for a day's march and a pitched battle than a day of celebration.

*language note, construction is literally “city building,” and means civilization. The same word is both a noun and an intransitive verb. As a verb it means something like 'be civilized.' The term is also roughly equivalent with progress.
**Meaning dwarves. I may have failed to indicate the proper goblin-dwarf relationship. Using this word for dwarves in the old goblin tongue should help clarify it.
*** I had some trouble with old troll/new troll word choice, so I'm replacing old troll with nephilim. The meaning and intention fits better.

“The nephilim were stronger than all.”
“The People of the Wizard were near-destroyed.”
“But the elder ones could sanction no extinction.”
“So the Nephilim were banished.”
“And the elders promised they would never again interfere with the course of nations.”

So the story was told. It followed the announce-response pattern through the earliest history. These true stories serve the people like myths because no myths were available. Civilization started for the four sentients with the dragon's belief in the rational. The world of the mind, of spirits which grow to deities, of nature explained in terms of element-controlling personalities, never grew up. It was strangled in the crib. The explanation for all knowledge walked right there on the dirt, and denied before all people that such a thing as godhood existed. Denied, at once, all life but the present. Then achieved immortality by taking on an inanimate object and possessing – or sharing possession of – a member of the lower species.
The scene would repeat in homes throughout the goblin city, except only the most ancient stories were in paired-lines. Most were told by the head of the household,

One of the king's attendants signaled to Krina, and she was presented a seat at the primary table. She couldn't decline the invitation, it was such an honor, but it took an act of will to walk to greater table. 'Like a fish in the desert [in Ptah]*;'
*An idiom. Ptah is an arid land in the vicinity of Morketal.
The great hall was arranged with one long table running the center, and four shorter tables around the outside. Soldiers, attendants, artisans, and minor nobles would be seated at these. Krina was not prepared to join the King's personal table, with members of his household, key Huskarls. No place for grunts. But Crelocthen addressed her personally.
“Do you know the story of Gallifret? I think you should tell that one next.”

Krina wanted to say “I'm not really sure how it goes.” But you just don't say that to the king. He asks you to do a thing, you try it away.

“Gallifret marched to war on the Tordak*,
With bright-bronze the lads of Jaro* are clad,
Their shins and their crests are as the noon sun,
Their shields painted with the red rattan fruit,
And their spears tipped with red, as though
Blooded already.”

*City-states in the southern territory. Jaro's capital would eventually become Kael-Monjaro, before it was absorbed in the Corsair's empire. The story is not one that Bharrak brought down from the north, but one they've adopted in their time.

The poem built on itself, and Krina found it easier to continue than it had been to start.

“In the land of Tordak the skull-facéd
warriors made ready their spears; Their shields
of black-heart oak, enchanted by the elves
were stronger than bronze, and stronger than iron;
Their sword-claws welded to their hands, and tusks
protrude from their lips.”

“The brave lads of Jaro approached the wall,
'We challenge you, orc-kind, face us or die
in cowardice.' The skull-facéd fighters
answered them with arrows, and so cut down
the best and the eldest of the army...”
Krina, unwisely, looked up and realized quite a few eyes were on her. Too many eyes. Someone touched her elbow, probably trying to reassure her. She jerked away.
“...of Jaro; and left the lads.”

“Then the skull-faced fighters stormed out from their
stronghold; ten thousand strong. Then Jaro's lads,
said 'here we must stand, lest we be destroyed.'
Gallifret, the youngest, stood in left flank;
Each shield high, the phalanx hoped to repel
individual might with unity.

“The skull-faced fighters tore into Jaro.
Spear splintered, shield shattered; terrible strength;
the line could not hold. 'Back,' they cried, 'fly or
perish,' and the lads of Jaro fled. But
not Gallifret.

“He had no spear, his helm was split, but he
raised an orc-sword from the fallen and fought
as they fought him; Fury beyond blood or
muscle, more than bone could bear he fought with.
Alone he stood against them.

“And there he fell, Gallifret the mighty
but not invulnerable. Yet he piled
bodies of his foes as a wall about him.
The last to fall, he saved the lesser men,
that we might sing his name today.”

Krina finished the recital. It wasn't quite right, of course, but it was close. She did her best to become invisible. She did not succeed.

9.7.1

2010-03-07T19:30:00.002-06:00

[in order for this to work, I have to explain how Ket got caught. That retarded bit with falling down the great stair can be edited out. Instead Ket is captured earlier, and we can get some information revealed through basically standard monologuing. I feel like the reader might not understand these events in their proper context otherwise. Later on, I'll have to bend the plot to fit.]

The heavy door to the druid's private chamber within Bharrak Keep banged shut. The room, while not large, was decorated lavishly and lit with many lamps. The elder druid's fine cream robes and emerald sash (a symbol of rank) contrasted vividly with the simple, dirty garments Ket wore.

“A drought upon you, Ket!” Jinkash raged. “Do you have any concept what you have done?”

“Have I accidentally lengthened the growing season in the south? Maybe caused a far-away island to suffer a dry winter? Could it be I have actually made the great desert a tiny bit dryer by this storm?”

“Don't be insolent. We do far more than look after the rain, we look after the people. A king alone does not make the land, nor to the people. We are the only unity men have ever had, and we must stand aloof! It will be the sea-kings war again, can't you see it? I should have you drawn!” Jinkash's head seemed quite ready to explode, but he forced himself to calm. “As you seem to be aware. Fool! Running off in a peasant's clothes, where would you go? You are the hero here, would you run to the hands of your enemies to find comfort? Yes, they would offer you a bed, certainly. One beneath the dirt, not warm but quite cozy. Or did you seek to beg forgiveness of Chartamnet? You think Kael-Monjaro has weight still, and they would waste their influence to save you?” When Ket hesitated to reply, Jinkash shouted again for him to speak. Spittle sprayed the younger druid.

“I sought work as stormcalmer.”

“A stormcalmer! So you'd flee to the navy of the orcs? Has Ujardtis too little power, than you would throw your lot in to even their odds? They're driving Cafaria back at every turn. How many wars would you foil, boy? How many of Morketal's careful plans would you undo?

“I never got your message. Your reply. I begged to help them, but you never said no.”

“Oh, I didn't? Fancy that, I saw the message there. Yes, it arrived in more than enough time for your to stop your little disaster. The huskarls took it, yes I know, the messenger avoided the flood. But somehow you didn't receive it. Very convenient, I'm sure. But now you've trapped us. Don't you understand the doom we're facing?” Jinkash crossed the chamber with long strides and banged twice on the door. A guard entered, not part of the king's huskarls but a common soldier who could afford only a leather tunic. “Where is Goleph? Go and get him. I do not want to be misunderstood.”

Jinkash turned to Ket again. “I formally strip you of your rank. As you have so appropriately removed your garments already, there is no further ceremony to be preformed. You are no longer a druid, but the oath to Morketal which you once swore binds you more tightly now than ever.” Ket said nothing, so the older goblin continued. His raving passed blankly into rambling. “The Order is more important than any king – or any emperor. We are not above politics, but above such expression of them. So long as the Order survives, the people survive. Do you understand? Eth strands ready to wipe us out. Not some miserable tribe, bereft of lordship over clans and turned instead to pig farming. The whole of the goblin world turns on his axis, and you would oppose him? Do you think you would win this war in one battle?”

“It could be negotiated. Crelocthen has a position of strength, now, they can bargain with Eth.”

“Bargin! Eth bargins with those who have no position, he crushes those who show backbone. He will chew up Bharrak and vomit the pieces upon Morketal. At best. No, you have not won the war against Eth, but you have ruined a far greater war.”

Now Ket was confused.

“Here! See the extent of your crime!” Jinkash produced a letter from a small drawer in his writing desk. Booted feet tramped in the hall, and Ket hurried to read before the Huskarl Goleph arrived.

From Chartamnet , Druid of the Second Order, in reply to Jinkash, Embarrary of the Permant Order of Druids to Bharrak, High Druid of the Third Order.

My friend, I know your heart is with the people you have served for so long. Bharrak has a special relationship with the Wizard, and its people a special place among the Wizard's People. This will always be. They do not possess the constitution or the momentum the Wizard's People need now. The expansion of Uerd is well known. The unity of so many orcs, once warring states, to Knruerd is slowly being realized. But the extent of their power and the threat of their intentions is known by very few. This is the new Ured, the black-hearted empire revealed. Their oligarchs have become decisive: the blood-mages are superior to every other species. A species to themselves, and all lower forms can hope, at best, to be their slaves.

“I don't understand,” Ket said. “What does this have to do with me? I've done nothing to help Ured.”

“You have. You have betrayed your species. War will be upon us soon, and goblin-kind must be united to have a chance at survival. The new Uerd is out to exterminate any who might fight. They will keep some as slaves only to appease the elder ones – in case the Dragons might return and treat Uerd like they did the empire of Nephilim.”

Ket saw the horrible decision. “You Monsters! You accuse me of breaking the ancient neutrality. but the order shattered it long ago! How long have you planned our demise.”

“Listen to yourself, Ket. You are of the Order. More importantly, you are a Goblin. Eth must win this war, do you understand? There is no other choice. Bharrak must fade quietly. Their allies will desert them, their armies surrender in mass; There must be no question of the victor, not the slightest doubt of Eth's conquest. And then, as many as possible must be made ready. The Corsairs are failing. They have already failed, do you understand? There is nothing they can do to prevent Uerd from landing, now.”

Jinkash summoned the guard again. “Find somewhere for Ket to stay. He is to remain within Bharrak until further notice, do you understand?”

9.9

2009-09-22T01:21:00.000-05:00

Mornings smell sweet, the poets say, but they have never lived among goblins. To the more discerning senses of an elf, their city is a monument to a creative variety of stinks. Aytheur felt relief when passing out of it, despite the much-increased stares and whispers of the populous.
Aytheur's was quite relieved as they passed to the sprawling fields just beyond the gates. Just out of bowshot of the city wall (what must have been a valuable property), they came to a dense hedge, about the elf's height. A large gate was cut in this. Aytheur marveled, for a moment, that goblins had discovered the wall-hedge such as elves use around their forest fortresses. But as they came closer he realized this was a normal plant, carefully domesticated, cultivated, and manicured, but no magic supported it.
The gate was guarded, if you could say that, by a young goblin who seemed so weary he might have been lifeless. He leaned against the gate, dozing, until the approaching party woke him. “Hai, Kliet,” the leading guard cried. “King Crelocthen greets you, and sends a healer. Is your captain inside?”
“He will be beneath soon enough.” Nerith replied bitterly, hardly even glancing at them. They formed a single file to pass through the half-open gate, as Nerith made no sign of moving the other half for them. Curious hospitality.
Within the hedge stood a courtyard of patchy grass around flagstone paths. Three buildings formed an equilateral triangle inside: a house, a barn, and some matter of workshop. Aytheur supposed this must be a manor to the goblins, who seem to have no real energy for building. 'Or perhaps they have no patience for it,' he thought, 'even on the ground, a well-made house would take a significant portion of their lives.'
The moment they were within the hedge, a new smell assailed Aytheur. Rot, and death reeked from the house opposite the gate. “If that is the smell of the patient, he is well beyond any aid,” he commented.
The guards snickered. “If you're the master of all things, now this is beyond your magic. Tell us, what face will you wear next?” He prepared to spit on the elf, just in case his decision translated poorly. At the word 'magic,' Nerith looked at them for the first time.
“Are you an Orc?” he said, and was about to continue “did Ket send you,” but even in his exhausted state, Nerith remembered that should remain secret. Instead, he weakly finished, “a mage-physician?” The leader of the guards, in mock courtliness, introduced them both.
“Sir Kliet Nerith, I present the elf or orc or troll or somesuch who calls himself At-thur! And to you, mage-physician, I give the sleepy knight!” The others laughed.
Aytheur had the queerest feeling he was swimming up a waterfall. Or perhaps, he was standing beneath it, and wondering what swimming would be like. The realization, that most of his knowledge of goblins was a fiction, came upon him slowly. Plainly, though, he would need a different tack.

“I am here,” he said. “Let us go inside.”

The smell intensified. Nasch lay in the common room, which had the general appearance of a day old battlefield. There were half a dozen tall oil lamps, which smoked gently as they burned off the last of their oil. Two parchment tomes, commodities of great value, sat open on tables. A scattered collection of implements filled the room, each discarded when the need for it passed. Many had uncleaned blood on them. An open bottle of vinegar, and another of strong grain alcohol added to the overpowering fragrance. In the center of the space lay the patient, his woulds covered, but slowly oozing. He seemed to doze uneasily.

Aytheur noticed the books first. He supposed they contained medical suggestions which largely involved jumping around in circles or poking tiny holes in one's face. Real medicine, of course, sought balance in the four humors: the two biles, mucous and blood. Fortunately, Aytheur did not rely on such complexities to understand an illness. He wondered, while looking over the torturous* tools, whether the alcohol was for the patient or the practitioner. Nasch seemed to sense the new presence, and tried to roll over on the couch. He moaned, but did not open his eyes. It was impossible to be certain if he was awake or asleep.

*the older meaning of this was simple “causing torture,” which I can reasonable take as “torture causing.”

Great injury tends to provoke one of two responses. Either a compassion that boils over, or a clamped-down mechanical coolness. Aytheur had long considered himself the latter, but in this moment he had to fight to achieve it. Nasch's shoulder and ribs, his should right side, was crushed. It looked like something huge and heavy fell on him. To Aytheur, the injuries were the same as those that killed his father*.

*Gah! Did I never mention this? Dangit, it's in the notes. Look, Gheant was crushed by a falling tree. It happened while Aytheur was at the university in Ballea, not long after he started. He returned home rapidly, but his father did not recover. Since Gheant was alone at the time, there's no evidence of foul play, but the odds of one of the massive trees falling like that are very small. Even if it did, he'd called this portion of the forest home for so long, surely he would be used to, and prepared for it. Having been “the Wizard” is more than enough to deserve death, according to more than a few elves. Note to self: find a reason to tell this story before that one!

Embarrassment overcame Aytheur. It chased out the compassion, and made room for icy concentration. “Get out, all of you! And take your smoke and your butcher knives with you!” In an adjoining room, the physician Tyisch hired woke up. He burst into the common room, wearing only a nightshirt, and demanded information.
“What is this doing here? My patient is fine! With no thanks to any of you, the worst is behind us! Not even an assistant did you leave me,” he shouted. “If you touch my tools, you'll be cleaning them for a month!”
The guards had yet to move on either order. They were quite content to let these two shout it out before they acted. Nerith, though, was not. He had been up all night with the physician, fetching tools and dipping them in an increasingly bloody basin of water to clean them. He often found them discarded immediately afterwards on an increasingly blood floor. The physician, perhaps, had a great reputation, but Nerith had a few doubts. “Nasch would have been in better hands with a fence-maker,” he'd commented to Krina before she vanished for “practice.”
The physician shouted again, “Come now, collect the tools! We must wash them!” Then Nerith stepped in and summoned what authority he had left. “Pick them up, and go. Take the Physician with you! If Nasch has an hope left at all, it is with this orc.”
So the guards listened to Nerith. He was Kliet, after all, so in Tyisch's absence (where is he, anyway?), he should have authority. Besides, cleaning a bloody knife was a small chore, but remaining in that place would be far, far less pleasant. As they were leaving at last, Aythuer stopped one. “Can you help me take him outside?” The guard, a largish goblin with a found face and poor complexion, who happened to be the leader of this squad, obliged him. They moved Nasch and the entire table into the courtyard.
“That's not enough,” Aytheur said, “We need to take him off the table.” He laid a blanket on the ground, 'because dust won't help us. Yet.' then slowly they lifted Nasch off the table. Nerith tried to push in to help, but Aytheur kept his place at Nasch's head, leaving Nerith to awkwardly support his middle. He seemed more a corpse than ever, except the movement broke open the physician's wrappings and caused blood to weep from his side. Aytheur didn't want to waste more time, but he realized there was one thing more to explain.
“Do you know him well?” he asked Nerith. The Kliet had little patience for small talk, and so said nothing. “Look,” Aytheur continued, “what I'm about to do may save his life, for now. There's a chance he's too far gone, and there's a chance he could recover anyway. But if I do this, it will change him forever. Orc magic, like the kind my mother has, and I have, trades good for ill. I can not bind his bones like a mason filling chinks in brick. It is only within my power to increase his body's natural ability to repair itself, to fuel that power, and to hope it is enough.
“But once begun, this does not change is not reversible. He will recover, for now, but he will be immutably changed. Or, I should say, irreversibly mutable. His body will continue trying to grow, and heal, and advance, and no magic, orc or otherwise, can stop this. Fifteen years, perhaps, I can grant him. Twenty at most, before the changes I begin today will inevitably end his life. And the last of these years are decreed to be painful.”
Nerith looked at the orc, sizing up his honesty as best he could. It isn't easy to read the faces on strange species, particularly ones so pale and clean and featureless as this one. Nerith hasn't met many orcs, but this did not seem much like those he'd seen. He seemed thin, tall but weak. Breakable, fragile even; except for his eyes. They burned. Actually, his eyes reminded Nerith just a little of Ket, although he could not exactly say why, for color, shape and size all varied.
“At-thur,” he said, addressing Aytheur, “my captain is near death. I can not imagine a more painful way, than an infected wound from a minor battle on the first days of the war which may well decide if our tribe – our clan even! – will survive at all. Nasch will take your twenty years. Work your healing.”
“You don't understand. Nasch was born as well-made as he can ever be. This magic I can work – it is not a healing art. I can change him, but I can't improve him. The average must decrease. It is nature's law: no new creation. He's far gone, and if I can give him the strength to mend, he will loose that strength, and more, from somewhere else within him. Do you understand,” then Aytheur paused. He wanted to say the goblin's name. It seemed a powerful revelation that he hadn't asked it, but the name existed. “..clanmate.” Aytheur finished.
“I am Nasch's tribesman, and no clansman of a timid orc!” Nerith screamed now. His eyes flowed, though Aytheur could not decided if the tears were of sorrow or rage. Both, perhaps. Though the goblin stood shorter than his arm, at that moment the smaller man was terrifying and powerful. Nerith beat his fists against Aytheur, not in an attempt to cause injury, he did not hit so hard as that, but in sheer frustration. “Save him...” he said, “save him. He's more than a captain: he's the best of us. He's to foster* my son... so soon... But Nasch agreed...”

*Ok, I haven't mentioned this because... well.. it was only a footnote on a notes page, but I like it. Nerith's fiancé is pregnant, she discovered a little after the flood of Fuspmar. Only Nerith and Nasch know, beside Ealea (A-la) and her mother. When a goblin marries outside his tribe, the couple must choose someone as a foster-parent (of the same gender as the child). The child is born into the tribe of that foster parent. This insures there will be no orphans unclaimed by a tribe. Naturally, it also effects the child's prestige to have a high-ranking foster parent.

The commotion woke Tyisch, who had collapsed in an adjacent room. He saw them, and asked simply, “Are you the orc?” When Aytheur nodded, Tyisch gently guided Nerith from the room. He said, “start.”

Aytheur knelt beside the table where Nasch was stretched out. His breathing was shallow, gasping and very weak. Aytheur decided moving him now would be a mistake; they'd lose too much time. He lay his hands on Nasch's head and his wound. Then he made no visible movement for a very long time.

Krina returned, eventually. She was drenched in sweat, and nearly half the arrows in her quiver were broken. Nerith had long since recovered his control, but his face plainly showed the emotions. He and Tyisch sat restlessly in the garden, with a sleepy physician. The guards were not with them – probably breaking into Tyisch's wine cellar, but it was plain he didn't care just now. There was little need to exchange words, she's heard the important part. “The orc?” Krina asked.
“Working.” Nerith replied. His voice almost didn't shake.

She nodded, and silence closed about them like claustrophobic night in a cave.

9.8

2009-06-28T09:16:00.001-05:00

“Trust me, he'll come around,” the child said. But the King thinks the kid's beguiled. Heh. If I had that kind of magic, would I waste it on a kid? At least, on one I planned on following around anyway? But something told Aytheur to be patient. He could break out easily enough; the cell was barred with iron, but such an escape would be neither quiet nor invisible. Fighting his way through a city of angry goblins struck him as a poor plan.
They were supposed to revere him from he moment he arrived. Aytheur always figured a little show of magic and they'd hang on his every word. Most of his thoughts were on what he'd accomplish after that. But this city was so backward, he'd have to sell them on the idea of ideas. Just the possibility of improvement would be alien to them. He tried to stick his head out through the bars. The cell overlooked the rather impressive cliff on which the Polis was built. “What am I doing here?”

“It seems curiously appropriate that you and I should be asking the same question.” The King entered a hall adjoining Aytheur's cell. “Perhaps you would speculate?”
“Your highness...”
“Spare me the formality, elf. It is plain enough you think yourself above kings when you're free.”
Aytheur found the statement confusing. He'd done everything right. At least he thought he had.
“Why are you here?”
The question had a finality to it. Adding 'I won't ask again' would be redundant.
“I...” Aytheur began, but stopped. The King's words played in his head. Perhaps this wasn't the right time to talk about his personal mission. He did not exactly seem receptive. Aytheur suddenly needed another reason to be there. He was fortunate to have one. “A druid met me. He asked me to heal a friend. I am an orc-blood.”

The king appeared angry again. “First you are the Wizard's son, yet an elf. Then you say you are a troll. Now you claim to be an Orc as well? Tell me, fool, did you mother lay with dwarves as well? How many parents went into your making?”

Aytheur fought to control his temper. Thin smoke rose from his hands and his head. “I have two parents. My mother is an orc-blooded elf. Do you know what that means?” The King didn't answer, so Aytheur assumed he did not. “Elves and orcs were once one race. When nephilim, the true trolls, ruled the whole world. Our kinds split. We warred. Your kind joined us in that war, surely you have memory of that.”
The King's expression soured further as Aytheur spoke, but he continued. “But blood is never fully pure. There are always a few elves born with the magic of orcs. They suffer the same dangers and fears which drove our races apart in the beginning...”

The elf spoke of memory, like he expected Crelocthen to have seen the battle where orc were driven from the continent. Now he spoke of the separation of the races like he was there! Perhaps elves truly are immortal, as the fools believe. Or, perhaps his arrogance crushed underfoot the ancestors of the whole world without distinguishing them.

“Shut up.”
“What?”
“Stop talking. Or is that below you too?”
Aytheur shut up. He considered the appropriate curses for the stubborn ignorance of goblins. He said nothing but the truth, yet the king regarded him as though insulted. He'd said nothing wrong; this King was full of insults. Aytheur smoldered.

“Answer me simply. One word only. Are you skilled in the orc's magic?”
Aytheur paused before he answered. Not long enough for the king to repeat the question, but almost. “Yes.”
The King nodded to a guard. It seemed to Aytheur that he King never spoke to his men. They communicated, somehow. Telepathically. The guard opened the door to his cell.
“You will come with me. You will not speak. You will not act, unless I tell you to. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”

They left the prison, then the Polis. A tight phalanx of guards surrounded the King and his prisoner. Aytheur found them strange, because they had no uniform. Their armor, even, had no order to it. Some wore steel rings, others a cuirass (breast and back plate), and still others wore leather only. In elven cities, the guards were either outfitted with armor, or required to purchase their own from a uniform supplier. Their disorganization enhanced Aytheur's impression that the guards were a pack of thugs.
They escorted Aytheur out of town. Everywhere they went, commerce stopped so people could stare. Aytheur, being notably taller than the goblins around him, stared back. No one met his eyes, but at least they weren't throwing things.

9.7

2009-06-28T02:17:00.001-05:00

The gates of Bharrak opened at dawn. Commerce began to trickle through them shortly afterward. Two long hours passed before there was enough traffic for Ket and Maltharus to slide through without a guard catching Ket's face. He'd given up the druid's robe for a simple artisan's tunic. The guard might not recognize him, but then, why take risks? Nasch needed that healer. Great expedition; greater care.*
*(another druid mantra. Expedition's primary meaning here being 'speed')
A lad stood at a street corner, shouting the news. There was to be an execution in an hour. Mattur turned to Ket. “You don't suppose...”
The cryer contined “Elf spy caught!”
Ket sighed. Mattur joined him. “Do all trolls have a magic for pissing people off?”
“Maybe just this one.”
The druids took a direct route to the Polis. Ket once had friends there, but no longer. To him it was a den of assassins and thieves. Jinkash, his former superior, was the head of them. A sword hung over Nasch's head, and its thread seemed to be fraying.

Payte Ashnujhet had no love for guard duty. Being a huskarl to the King had certain benefits. Standing at the gate for hours at a time was not among them. Come evening, he would enjoy them and forget the day. Presently, he tried to count to cobbles on the road before the Polis. The approach of a druid proved a welcome relief. He hailed the traveler.
“The druid Maltharus of Kael-Monjaro seeks an audience.”
“With King Crelocthen or with the Arch-Druid? Or shall I summon them both?”
“The King, if he would have me.”
“Follow me.
So, Maltharus of Kael-Monjaro, what brings you north?”
It occurred to Mattur that a cover-story would have been very helpful. The guard was sharp enough to understand his silence. He opened the door to the Great Hall, and let it close again. The antechamber was empty, aside from them. Even so, Payte's voice fell to a whisper.
“And why is it you do not seek Jinkash? No, shh, do not speak yet. I am a friend to Ket. Do I guess you right?”
Mattur took the guard in. Middle aged, shorter and heavier than average. His head and face were perfectly smooth. Not the normally near-hairlessness of southerners, but shaved, as someone from a northern tribe might do to fit in. Fuspmar was of northern heritage; they'd joined Bharrak relatively recently (five or six generations back). His eyes, a steel-glint gray, did not seem to front a lie.
“I am Ashnujhet Payte. Trust me, as I have trusted you.”

Caution first. “How do you know Ket?” If Ket had friends here, he should have said so.
“I have never met him. I don't need to. He stood alone against an army for the sake of my clan...”
Mattur was convinced. “Wizard's Beard! Heroism is not lost on Bharrak.” He hugged the guard, like an old friend. “You're the first good news I've heard in weeks.”
“Is Ket here?”
“Yes. But that's not really why I need to see the King. Another of your countrymen, Nasch Kliet, is ill...”
“Ill? No, he was injured, yesterday. How did you find out about it so far away?”
“Yesterday?... No, do not mind. But his hurt is most grievous. Ket fears for him.”

A king is never quite alone, but Crelocthen was as close to alone as he might be when Payte knocked at the door. He was having a fruitless discussion with Creash. Payte saluted, bowed (rather lower than Aytheur did earlier), and announced the druid. Mattur and Crelocthen exchanged a few words, and then made for the door. The King turned to one of the huskarls that had been guarding him. “Would you beat some sense into the lad while I'm gone?”
“Lord?”
“Payte here can escort me. Both of you stay with my son.”

They met Ket in the street outside. His risks multiplied by being seen with the king, but it was his best chance. Crelocthen began the conversation.
“So you are the druid who sunk a clan-town. Shall I summon the Arch-druid? You might turn yourself in and we'll have a second execution today.”
“Lord, it is deaths which bring me here.”
Crelocthen snorted. “Death seems to go with you, druid. Or do you invite it along? Why should I listen to you?”

“Lord, I have done what I am accused of. But you can not believe that I acted wrongly, or for my own gain. I might be employed by a villain as surely as a noble clan. The vows of my order would have me ignore all morals. But there is a deeper law than the Order. A firmament which all vows must bow to. It is a law of the land and the spirit. My hands wrought drought and famine in Rix by the will of Eth. I will not see another suffer his 'equality.'

“You have my ear, druid. What would you have me do?”
“If it please you, sir, I am a druid no longer,” Ket said. The King nodded. “Kliet Nasch is grievously hurt. He is near death. Ask Tyisch, at whose house he lies. He should be rewarded among the best of your servants, not die in a sickbed unattended.”
“Kliet Nasch will not be unattended. His heroism in the Battles of Meiness and Fuspmar are well recognized; even by those without vision.”
“And would you have, for this hero, the best medicine you can?”
“Of course. Have you risked so much to ask this of me?”
“Then, lord, why would you throw that medicine out of your cliff-tower?”

That gave the king pause. “The elf?”
“He is a troll, and an orc-blood. Elf in name only.”
“And elf in his arrogance.”
“Lord, do not punish ignorance as vanity. Perhaps he means well.”
“Good intentions don't buy bread, stormcaller.” The King's use of the title implied respect. Only a Corsair could grant it officially, so of course Ket had not yet earned it.
“I only ask you to consider the good he could do.”
“Ket, I hear you. The elf's insults are more than enough to mark him for death...
Mattur cut in, quietly, “being an elf is enough for that.”

The King ended the discussion. “We each do as we must.”

9.6

2009-06-28T00:47:00.002-05:00

The Bharrak that opened before the half-elf was in no way the same as the one perceived by the Kliet just a few hours before. Oh, the material reality had not shifted in that time, but they were literally worlds apart. Aytheur saw a capital, yes, but it was the center of a savage, uncivil state. The mountain beneath the city might have been beautiful if they hadn't covered it in shit.
The graceful trees and hanging highways of Ballea had nothing in common with this city. The oil-fired lamps which adorned every significant or public building in Aytheur's home were replaced by braziers or torches in the few places that were actually lit. Most of Bharrak took on an thin glow from shrouded cooking fires and moonlight. The ground was had a sticky sheen.
Apparently the correlation between squalor and disease was unknown to these goblins. Or, their lives were already so short and miserable they did not care. The streets ran with filth. They were masses of mud anyway, with a bare attempt at gravel to camouflage them, so the sewage only added to the the urban disaster. And Creash was leading him into the center of it.
The King's Hall took the pattern to a new level. Its high walls probably tried to inspire awe with grace, but achieved neither. They were strangely knobby. The odd arcs which held them (or the ceiling?) up gave the impression the building was about to collapse.
Throughout their approach, Creash was full of chatter. He pointed out every place that might possibly be interesting in this city. There lived a baker who occasionally gave away sweetbreads (to the king's son, what a surprise!). There was a tanner who made uniforms. That's the place in the wall I fell off, you can still see place where they fixed the roof below it. You should have come here in winter, that hill is the greatest! And so on.
Only when they reached the doors of the great hall did Aytheur's guide finally stop the flow. The huskarl began to open a small door to admit them, but Creash stopped him. “No! Open the big door.”
“Why?” It was a reasonable question. Aytheur was wondering the same them. True, the small door was shorter than he was comfortable with, but at most he might have to nod his head to enter.
“Because he's the Wizard!” Creash said.
The huskarl considered this. The elf standing before him wore the robes of a Kael Druid. [these are essentially the same as a Morketal Druid's robes, but there are enough differences to distinguish them. Also, this guy has probably never seen an elf, so the subtleties of half-heritage would be lost.] He carried a staff, and a light pack, but no weapon. His nose wrinkled like he was smelling something foul, and he had yet to say a word. He looked vaguely displeased, but its hard to tell with other species. There wasn't anything the least bit Wizardish about him. It was hard to imagine him holding a sword, let alone fighting (elves are, by nature, oddly tall and thin), and there was no way people would actually follow him. The elf tried to scrap a bit of mud off his boots. He didn't look like he could command a spinning club, let alone the entire Goblin nation.
“Please,” Creash entreated.
Aytheur decided to go with it. “Permit the lad his grand entrance. What would denying it avail?”
The huskarl shook his head, but undid the bolt. It did not occur to him, at that moment, how odd it was that an elf knew their language. Creash began to push the door back, but Aytheur stopped him. The young goblin looked up, confused. Now the door to the Great Hall faced east, as was traditional. After a long night of feasting, there would probably be warriors of the King's household inside still. In the strange, sleepy limbo between drunk and resting. The fires would be low, just coals with almost no light, and those queer windows of tiny pieces of colored glass could not possibly let much light in.
“A moment more.”
Behind them, the sun broke over the horizon.
Aytheur pushed open the huge double doors. Light flooded the room, and several dozen sleepy goblins stirred. Aytheur could not immediately identify the king, but Creash rushed to a table at the far side of the hall. Several goblins bent over something there, perhaps a map.
Creash's introduction went off like firecrackers in a bonfire. “I found the Wizard!”
“Creash? What are you..”
“I was just going out to the stone, you know, like I'm supposed to, and he was already there. Waiting for me, because I,”
“Doing back?”
“slept in the monastery that night. Because Pummel got mad when he was leaving and he tried to burn it down, but Chartamnet stopped him. And Zephi said he was ok...”
“Burn? Burn what?”
“Hunh? Oh, everything. He was a mercenary. Anyway, he really is the son of the Wizard, Zephi said so, and he's never wrong. And then he took him away to the ruins, and he said I couldn't come...”
“Wait, Kael-Monjaro has been razed?”
“...but I did anyway, and what? No, no, its fine. They put it out. The fire, I mean. Anyway, they drew fancy lines in the sand, and I couldn't hear them...”

It occurred to Aytheur why the goblin have a tradition of sending their children into the swamp to sit on a rock for days at a time. He decided to introduce himself, and gently pushed Creash aside. He greeted the king with the salute his father taught him, a nod of the head and a fist over the heart. “Your son oversteps my claim. I am but a troll. My father was the Wizard....” Aytheur had a whole speech planned, but the moment for giving it seemed to be lost. This was not quite the entrance he had envisioned.

The king stood up. There was, against all reason, an elf in his hall. He looked like a boy, but they say is very hard to tell with elves. He'd never actually met one. There was no reason for his people to have contract with them. Except, perhaps, in battle, but that was two generations ago. King Crelocthen turned his back on the elf. It was a sign of disrespect even this fool could recognize. The words rang in his head. 'My father Was the Wizard?' Certainly it could not be.
That the Wizard might have a son was reasonable. The Wizard, while in the world, was like any mortal. He or she* might have a family if they chose. Many did. But that the Wizard should choose an elf ? He could doubt the boy was the Wizard's son, but he was clearly an elf. Such arrogance! My father. Like the boy was the more important of the two. Somehow the head of his family and above his most noble ancestor!
*(for the Wizard is the perfection of spirit, and gender is of the body. Other spirits might retain gender, but the Wizard did not)

“Impossible.” Crelocthen waved, and a handful of guards appeared. They closed around the elf.

Aytheur was frustrated again. A little spark of rage inside him, always burning. He blew on it a little, in case he had need of it soon. “How could I learn your tongue? Where is the elf who would teach it to me? Hear me, O King, I do not deceive you. Do you know of the burning of Romaybath? My father was named Firebringer for that. A goblin betrayed him that day, and your people fled him...”
Is the elf implying we are not goblins? How very strange...
“My Mother did not. Your Wizard fell by a trusted hand. He recovered in the house of an enemy. Hear me! I do not bring you harm, but a gift. The wise have entrusted me with a little, and I would share it with my father's people. Would you make a guest your enemy?”

“The guest-right is not to be extended to your kind!” Crelocthen was truly angry now. His job sometimes called for him to show fury, and he was good at it. But this elf's hauteur had no end. The Wizard betrayed? Bharrak abandoning him? Unthinkable. And Creash enthralled by his lies. His foolish young son, so much desiring to be a hero, would follow an elf. He waved to the guards, and they grabbed the elf to escort him outside. “No, take him to the cliff-tower. I won't give him the chance to bewitch anyone else.”

9.5

2009-06-10T11:57:00.002-05:00

Creash said “maybe a druid gave it to him.”
No one contradicted him. The hooded stranger moved on. About sixty feet away, he let out a breath he didn't know he'd held. Maltharus didn't hear him, at least not with his ears. But in the apprentice druid's mind, something clicked. He'd not seen the stranger's face very well. He hadn't even paid attention. The crazy elf did this to everyone, stop and jabber on the most innane subjects. They learned whose cousin was sleeping with whom now, and that someone's uncle bet away his entire wardrobe at cards, then had to return home naked. Aytheur seemed to find them fascinating. They were just peasants, not family and not significant, and yet this stranger...

“Creash,” Maltharus exclaimed, “you maginificant genius, he is a druid!” The middle aged apprentice hugged the boy so hard he lifted him off the ground. Then he took off up the road, after Ket.

There was no use denying it. His cover was blown. Ket was in no condition to run, either. He didn't know the country, and all the bruises from his fall were well formed by now. It hurt just to move. At least they had the courtesy to not shout his name for the whole world to hear. Ket loosed the strap holding Nasch's dirk to his forearm. This wasn't how it was supposed to go, but he couldn't afford to get caught. He'd barely started.

Maltharus reached him in moments, breathing hard from the sprint (the stormcaller's life is rather more comfortable than the druid's, even for those with moderate talent). Ket was a fairly tall goblin, but wiry. The sort of thin which comes to a person who has kept close company with famine and never quite recovered. To Aythuer, he needed to be made mostly from elbows and knees. Maltharus, on the other hand, looked at least half orc. He was a real bear of a goblin, even taller than Ket (this made him a bit less than shoulder tall on Aytheur), and probably twice his weight. The larger goblin threw back Ket's hood, to reveal his face. The bandages where there still, but even in the night he could see well enough.

“Ket, Wizard's blood it is you! Why, you magnificent bastard, you tried to walk right on by!” Maltharus gave him a rib crushing embrace while Aytheur and Creash caught up. “Don't you remember me? C'mon, we've the same master. I was training with Chartamnet when you reported in last year. We talked about stormcalling all night!”
“Good to see you too,” Ket moaned, “let me down and I'll explain.”
Creash, without waiting for instructions, made camp right there beside the road. Since the road parallels the river, the whole way is wooded. Ket related the events of the last year. At least, he tried to. Creash kept interrupting him, saying 'don't let me miss the good parts.'
Aytheur grew annoyed, so he hurried Creash's job along. He closed his eyes and knelt over the pile of sticks. He laid his hands on them. They burst into flame. Creash dumped an armful of branches on the fire and declared it was enough.
Ket laughed. It was a deep, pure sound. The sound of happiness that comes from relief after the stress of years. “Mattur [friendly version of Maltharus], it seems you have more stories to tell than I do! You're travel Trolls now?” He sized Aytheur up. The exercise of starting the fire should have been a very simple task, but it left the elf sweating. He pretended not to notice Ket's gaze, then crouched to warm his hands. It day's heat was still in the air, they couldn't really be cold, but he didn't want to show how much exertion the simple task took. Ket saw anyway, but he didn't comment. He just asked if Aytheur was an orc or an elf. Ket took the short answer, and Aytheur urged him to continue his story.
It would be late in the night before Ket reached a conclusion. Maltharus was amazed, though not as much Aytheur. Eth was a rumor in Kael-Monjaro, but to hear he'd sent an army south, and watched it ruined (though not singly by Ket. The way he told the story, the Kliet and the army did most of the work). Creash heated a porridge to serve as dinner, mainly because he couldn't sit still otherwise (goblin traveling food is basically either hardtack and jerky or porridge. The latter is the better of the two, but it requires more water).

Mostly out of courtesy, Ket finally asked Aytheur about himself. For a goblin, this question could only be answered by explaining one's family. Creash, who was returning from cleaning the three small tin bowls, answered the question quickly and loudly. “He's the Wizard!”
Naturally, Ket was taken aback. Aytheur explained, “My father was the Wizard, really. My mother was an Elodore orc-blood, so I've his gift. I'm no wizard, though.”
“Wait, you're an orc? But you said?”
“No, I'm an elf. My mother was an orc-blood. It's a very uncommon trait among elves, to be born with a magic like the orcs.”
Ket was too excited to let Aytheur explain further. “But you have the orc-magic?”
“I suppose so. I'm not very good...”
“You're better than nothing! C'mon, we've got to get back to Bharrak!”

The night was already quite long. Overhead, the moon declared the diurnal species should be long asleep. A cool breeze filled the air with scents of the farms that surrounded them. Ket explained Nasch's injury. His Achilles' tendon had been severed in battle, which caused him to fall while on the stairs. That fall had broken a lot of bones, some very badly. So Ket was hoping to reach Pthyonkaltis, or an orc-healer in Oipanxet. A stormcaller for a healer would be a fair trade

“How, exactly, did you plan to make this trade, if you're going alone?” Aytheur asked, as he stomped out the coals of their small fire.

“Like I have any choice? I'm a marked man in there – I can't trust anyone!”
“You trust us.” Creash pointed out, then wondered, “don't you?”
Ket wasn't particularly concerned with the boy's feelings just then. “Again, my choices? Come on, we must hurry.”
“You won't be coming inside with us, will you?” Maltharus asked.
Ket shook his head. Aytheur was quite pleased with the turn. It should put in well with the Kliet, who were clearly a powerful tribe in his father's clan. He'd have the king's ear sooner than he'd hoped! Unless this Nasch died. That might cause a few problems.
“You know orcish healing is a double-edged sword, right Druid?”
“He's about to die, Troll.” The word had venom. Aytheur had said druid just as a title,without considering that Morketal had Ket marked for death. “What's the worst you could do?”
Aytheur didn't answer aloud. The stormcaller was right, the worst thing he could do was nothing, if Nasch's condition was as bad as he said. A healing ceremony might work and it might not, but if the goblin's body had already lost the battle, it could not worsen things. And it might be just the entrance he needed.

The sun peaked over the horizon as they neared the gates of Bharrak. Maltharus decided his commitment to protecting the pair was fulfilled. Creash was the king's son. Whatever their odd customs of kingship, he should be safe in his own city. Whatever Zephi said about him, the troll's safety wasn't much of a concern for Maltharus. He and Ket set off south. A few minutes later, the gates opened, then closed again. This was an unexpected turn, but Ket wasn't sure whether the odd troll was good fortune or bad. What's worse, by leaving, he might never find out.

“You're worried about your friend?” Maltharus said. It wasn't really a question.
“More than a friend,” Ket replied. It meant yes. “he's family.”

“Family?” Maltharus asked.

“Such is the druid's life, Mattur. I never knew my real family. I don't even know their name. The monastery raised me. Like most druids. The order is supposed to be my family, but Rix was my family too. So were the Fusp. Do you know what it's like, Mattur, to be asked to choose half your family over the other half? He was my friend from the moment I came to Fuspmar. He pulled me out of the flood. I was chained to the polis floor. Set to drown in the flood I called, and powerless against it. He got to me first. He broke the chains. He carried me to the roof. He got me through that terrible night, and he offered me a place in his tribe.

[there is actually a blood bonding ceremony which one can use to join a tribe. Ket and Nasch preformed this in secret. Ket's not going to mention it now, but it's there. The Kliet are a mixed tribe, so adding members based on skill and desire to join is common. Most Kliet are born into the tribe, but normally a fifth are inducted in this way. Considering the present conflict, that number has probably increased.]

“So, yes. Nasch is family. That troll better be good.”

“Aytheur? I think he's mad.”

Ket chuckled at that. “Don't care if he's mad. Or if he's the Wizard... what's with that boy?”

“Creash? He's a imaginative little fidget. Nothing's just normal to him, it's always brighter, better somehow than that. I wouldn't pay much attention to him.

9.4

2009-06-10T11:57:00.001-05:00

Crelocthen's title as king of Bharrak is a little misleading. The uninformed might imagine he ruled the clan as a kingdom. One might imagine he could decide its fate as though it were his own. The reality of his position was rather less impressive. “King,” of the greatclan Bharrak is an elected position. A council of elders with representatives from every tribe within the clan, including the colony cities such as Fuspmar, chose the king annually. It is customary to reelect the king indefinitely if he's doing well. There are no term limits or timed elections in Bharrak, so every action was open to the will of the council. The official election occurs on new years' day, which is the first new moon after the winter solstice, but a two thirds majority in the council can replace the king at any time.
The council, with its typically archaic ideas of the clan's superiority, was only one check on Crelocthen's power. Bharrak is a relatively new clan in the southern region. About sixty years ago,* seven generations by the goblin reckoning, they were a people of warriors and herdsmen on the northern plains. They were not the first nor the last invaders to spin off from that land. Bharrak shares some heritage with the clan Eth. The saying “twins are the bitterest of rivals,” is the epitome of the clans.** Most southerners with a memory either see Eth as the second wave Bharrak's invasion, or Bharrak as the first touch of Eth. That the two were rivals worked to their advantage.
Political boundaries are unknown to goblins, but the idea of a clan's ownership of their land is typical. The land of Bharrak is a wide valley, some twenty miles by forty, with the river Swift through its center. The river runs from Meiness in the northeast to Kael-Monjaro in the southwest. The land surrounding this valley is rather rugged. It's a country of sharp hills and old rocks. Farming is difficult, though with terraces and irrigation it can be managed to a degree. The tribes that live in these hills once dwelt in the bottom land of the river. They were farmers there, but when Bharrak pushed them out, they learned to herd animals as well. Seven generations resulted in a lot of acclimation, but it is easy to remember old grudges when one has a chance to regain a favored position. If Bharrak proved weak, their nominal allies in the hills would at least expand into the valley. Each hill tribe is a clan unto itself, and therefore they are not likely to mount a combined offensive. But just by existing, they put pressure on Crelocthen and limit his options.

*[for my own memory: I'm using nine years as the goblin generation. Thus, seven generations is sixty three years. For humans, the typical “generation” measure it twenty years. I'm not really sure why it is that way, but I assume for a agricultural community it made sense. Given the goblin life cycle, cutting that number by a little more than half makes sense.]

**[This needs some explanation. It's not talking about siblings, but about contesting most strongly with those who are similar to yourself. Compare the probability of a religious person working with an nonreligious person with their partnering with a heretic. This doesn't mean they're identical, and Eth himself is just a little nuts.]

Options. The one thing he needed most, and the resource he had the least of. Crelocthen felt besieged. His oldest child, his daughter Layonia, was the single best resource he had. A marriage alliance would turn an enemy into an ally; and that is something he sorely needed. At tonight's feast for the new summer he would have to sell the idea. Layonia, for her part, was old enough to understand the significance of the marriage. The idea of marrying for love, had anyone suggested it, would be absurd to her. She was eldest child and only daughter of an important house. Her family was prime in the clan, but barely so. A good marriage could keep them powerful for years to come. A poor one could ruin family, clan and all the people tied up in them.

Eth was more than just a good choice, he was the only choice. His reach seemed unstoppable. Every year brought news of another tribe falling in line. That, by itself, was nothing to worry about. Layonia knew her people's history well enough to know that story was oft-repeated. Not just her clan but the whole of the goblin world, and maybe outside it, empires rise and fall. Bharrak seemed to be falling. Eth's on the way up. That's not what worried her. It was the idea that there is some sort of unique “goblin world,” or “goblin nation,” which might be really distinct from everything else.

One of her tutors, an elderly druid named Zephi, suggested this. Implanted the idea, really, because directly saying something was not his way, but it was still his idea. Eth's empire is something new because he's claiming it is for all goblins, everywhere. Not all men, but actually taking the dwarf word for their species like it was a compliment. Or at least a fair description. What did it mean? Surely, the old word didn't have the same ring when he said it. It seemed rather heroic to be a goblin when people talked about Eth. Just the idea of a universal empire was potent enough, but an empire which would encompass the whole world you know and still be exclusive? People liked the idea, and that gave it power.

What of Eth himself? No one down here knew much about him. The speculation was wild, of course, painting him in shades from wizard-sent hero to pit-called demon. Layonia shook her head to clear the thought. She'd traced those paths of possible futures hundreds of times already. Tonight, she could finally propose the marriage to the council. She was almost giddy with it, almost frantic. A part of her mind remained distant, wondering if being giddy would help sell the council.

9.3

2009-06-06T09:01:00.001-05:00

The eight day walk from Kael-Monjaro to Bharrak was, for Aytheur, a vacation. After the comparatively harrowing desert, just knowing your next meal was safely in your pack was a bit of a wonder. For his companions, Maltharus' silence provided a marked contrast with Creash' chatter. The young goblin, son of a king but not a prince, assailed him with trivia of every sort. He was at once intolerable and informative.

Night fell while they were still a few hours from Bharrak. Creash was eager to make it there on the new summers' feast. Maltharus was rather less interested, but accepted anyway. “Surely the Wizard's wishes are to be obeyed.” Aytheur had no doubt that was said in irony. Creash, on the other hand, seemed entirely earnest.

It was fully dark by the time the fires of the city were visible. The moon was waxing, but still provided enough light for Aytheur's eyes to distinguish a single figure on the road ahead. When Creash saw him, he announced it must be a druid. “Because he's got a staff!”
“Creash,” Aytheur said, “we all have staffs.”
“Right! Because the druids gave them to us!”
“Or perhaps because they're convenient for anyone on a journey?”
The young goblin was a bit confused by that. Before he thought of how to answer, Aythuer hailed the lone traveler. The man had his hood up, although the night was not particularly cold. When he got closer, Aytheur saw there were bandages beneath it, so he made no comment about it.
“How far to Bharrak?” Aytheur asked, mainly for talking's sake.
“Can your eyes see me but not the city? I've only just left.”
“Of course. And what leads you to leave at such a time?
The traveler seemed honestly taken aback by the question, so Aytheur explained. “Is it not new-summer's feast?”
“Why, I suppose it is. A good friend of mine is ill, and it must have slipped my mind. If you'll pardon me, I must be going.”

Ket continued into the night. After he departed, Creash proclaimed “I bet a druid gave him the staff.”
No one contradicted him.

9.2

2009-06-05T15:15:00.000-05:00

When they judged the sun was low enough, the two Kliet, with Ket and Tyisch enacted their plan. They wandered the shops of the city, meandering toward the polis. The feast would not begin until it was fully dark. Goblins count their days from nightfall to nightfall, so that would be the beginning of the first day of summer.* The four joked and laughed like old friends, in particular, “Nasch,” that is Ket, received the brunt of the attention.
[yes, “day” is a misnomer. A people with a primarily lunar calendar would probably not use the same word for the sunlit hours and a complete planetary rotation. Language is problematic sometimes]

They followed a route of comparatively lesser streets around Bharrak. Rather than approaching the polis from the great central road which led up the incline, they went around the northern side of the citadel. There, the summit could be reached by a series of steep stairs cut switchback-wise into the rock. The stairs weren't heavily traveled anymore, since the gates on the great road were rarely closed, but there were enough people there for the Kliet's demonstration. Particularly the couple of guards posted at the foot of the stair.

About forty feet from the ground, part of the stairs jutted out from the cliff. Just above it, “Nasch” slipped. He went down, backwards, and proceeded to tumble the short flight. And off the edge entirely. “Nasch's” scream was loud enough to draw attention, and the guards ran to him.

Druids train the body as well as the mind and spirit. Tumbling down stone stairs was painful and bloody, but hardly murderous. But a forty foot fall could kill the best athlete. Ket had a tool other athletes lacked. He pulled the air beneath him, making it thicker. The same magic which could direct the weather, drew wind up beneath him. The power needed to reverse his fall, or, for example, to fly was beyond any druid. He only managed to slow his descent. Ket hit the ground hard, rolling to absorb as much of the fall as he could. By the time anyone came to investigate, he was flat on his back and apparently stunned. He'd sustained a huge scrape on this forehead during the tumble. It bled profusely, but for the moment that was an advantage.

Down below, Krina took charge. She set the two guards to manufacture a stretcher, and dispatched Nerith up the stairs to the polis. By the time the guards returned, there was a notable crowd gathering. Tyisch announced they'd bring him back to his house. It hardly took four people to carry “Nasch,” (Ket is, after all, a small man) so the guards were permitted to return to their post. Without any prying eyes, the switch was easy enough. By the time Nerith arrived with a physician from the court, Ket was gone. The real Nasch would receive whatever care they could provide. Even if he survived, without magic's aid, he would never wield a sword again.

Ket set out in a heavy cloak with a hood. It covered his bandages well. Besides his staff – a druid's standard companion – and a small pack, he was alone. It seemed to him the greatest of ironies, that orcs should be invested with the potential to cure the sick and heal the injured. They, who once commanded that no species besides their own deserved a place in the world. That was another time, the orcs of an empire called Uerd set themselves to dominate or destroy everything they could reach. They poisoned wells, sent plagues upon the people, and caused children to be born crippled. But that was an ancient world, and Uerd was long gone. The orcs of Ujardtis, the southern continent, were of the same stock, but at least they recognized other species' the right to exist. It would be a risk, dealing with them, because an orc respects strength only. Still, Nasch saved his life when he was ready to die. Considering that, there was no risk at all.

9.1

2009-06-05T00:10:00.001-05:00

Bharrak threatened to overwhelm the two Kliet with every step. The paved streets and the stone houses spoke of a wealth and permanence Fuspmar only dreamed of. The first day of summer was welcomed with a cloudless sky. Every surface shown with reflected light. Not just wall or pavement, but it seemed every third person wore a weapon and the badge of a tribe. Not all tribes were so dedicated or specialized in warfare as the Kliet, but every tribe forwarded some military.

Buildings crowded together so close Krina found it impossible to mark one from the next except where the stone changed to brick, or dark to light. Every building seemed to be a shop. Commerce flowed from one to the next, and up every street. Carts glittered with precious metals—or stuff intended to look like precious metal. Even the two walls which formed concentric rings around Bharrak shone. Krina was more than a little awed by it all. Nerith was even worse. Twice he paused to bargain, and twice she nudged him away.
Despite the glamor the stench in the streets and alleys was as unbearable as the view was inspiring. The close buildings and high walls trapped air far better than anything in Fuspmar. Bharrak was, in many ways, different from her home only in scale. Every building was larger and brighter. The clothes richer, the beggars poorer. The walls stronger and the fire-trap slums more fetid.

A guard welcomed Krina and Nerith to the Polis. When Nerith explained they were Kliet, the immediately insisted they go and see the king. Krina could have stabbed him. Attention was the last thing they needed!
The guard wore the insignia of Bharrak over a suit of chain, indicating his status as a huskarl.* He led them immediately through the smaller gate. While he turned around to close it, Krina whispered to Nerith, “Would you please keep quite?”

*[Ok, I need to explain what a huskarl is. The English word is form house-chieftain (jarl or karl). It indicates the normal group of fighting men retained by a noble. The men of of the chief's house. Bharrak developed from a tribal world which I'm drawing from the Gaelic/Saxon/Norse world.
Although Bharrak has a quazi-representative government, the standing army loyal to the king would naturally keep its title.]

Most of Bharrak's stonework displayed the age of the city. Most buildings were built or rebuilt about four generations ago, when the Bharrak clan captured it. The great hall stood apart. It was a freestanding stone building in the center of the polis. The walls seemed too thin and too tall. Giant arches stretched from feet outside them to pillars impeded in the walls. They gave it a sort of insect-like appearance. Like a preying mantis. The guard led them half way around it, because in the style of traditional defenses the great hall could not be entered from the side nearest the main gate.

[I'm starting to think naming main cities after the clan associated with them isn't such a good idea. It's a bit annoying. I'll have to invent names and do a massive retcon to fix that, though.... I guess I'll work it out in version 3.]

The huskarl opened the door, spoke quietly to the guard inside, then left them. Krina gasped a little when they went inside. The new huskarl chuckled. “nice, hunh?”
'Nice,' as a description, seemed wholly inadequate. Neither Kliet had ever seen something the equal of the hall. The walls seemed made from glass. They stretched at least forty feet high. Green and blue and red tiles in geometric designs shaded the light that flooded the room. The ceiling arched so high above them, it might have been the sky. On the ground below, it was similar to their great hall. Long tables around a central fire pit, with the king's seat at the head of short perpendicular table. The fire wasn't burning now, and the tables were empty.
“This way,” the guard intoned. He wasn't much of a tour guide.
King Crelocten kept his normal buiness in a small room above the entry way. It, too had impressive windows, but they were open air. A gentle breeze brought the scent of grass in. About a dozen people milled about the room. They all wore relatively simple clothes. Clean and well fashioned, but not the elaborate garb of courtiers.
The Huskarl went up to one of them. Aside from a heavy gold amulet, he was no better dressed than the rest. The guard bowed to him. Krina stared. Then Nerith caughed, and she realized she ought to bow also.

“So you are the mighty Kliet! They say your tribe fought Eth's horde alone, and emerged triumphant. It is favorable that you have come on a this day.” The king turned to Nerith. “Nasch, I assume? You must join me for the equinox feast tonight! We shall drink to your victories!”

When asked if he was Nasch, Nerith opened his mouth to answer the question. When the king didn't pause to let him answer, he shut it again. Krina discretely stuck an elbow in his ribs. When Crelocten paused, he said, “I'm not Nasch. He's, uh, with his cousin.”
“Good Tyisch! Of course he would be. I've heard so much from him, but it is all second-hand. Won't you walk with me, and tell me of your exploits?”
Nerith was slow to respond, so Krina answered, “of course, lord.” Not that the king was waiting for a response. As they left, he dismissed the couriers who would have followed them. “You needn't come, I shall return to business soon enough. First let me hear a war story!”

They exited the great hall again, and the king lead them to the battlements. “I'm sorry I had to begin that way. Please, tell me your names.”
Nerith found his tongue and introduced them both.
“Up here, I can be Crelocten,” the king explained as he shook their hands. “I can't afford much time away from the courtiers before they go mad, but I really must hear the true story. Were you both at the flooding of Fuspmar?”
“It wasn't a flood.” Nerith began. Krina elbowed him again, but he kept on. “It was a battle. uh, sir.”
“I see. And did a druid fight this battle?”
“Yes! He was amazing. Stood up to an entire army by himself.”
“And do you know this druid?”
Krina did not trust Nerith to answer that question. The king seemed earnest enough. Perhaps, free from restraint, he would sympathize with Ket's decision. Nerith clearly thought so. But Crelocten had already reversed personality once. She would rather not take a chance. “Not personally, but we saw him, sir. We watched from outside the city, to ambush the army after they were disorganized. There's no doubt he called the storm. And that did give us an advantage.”
“And their numbers?”
Nerith replied factually. “At least two thousand. A tenth, or so, were dismounted high guard.”
“Two thousand! We expected a third that many! Eth must have had a greater plan than just recon.”
The king's statement was really a question. Krina tried to answer him. “I think they were supposed to capture Fuspmar. What's more, I think they were planning to start cutting a road through Meiness.”
“A road! That man's ambition has no ends. What makes you think that?”
“We found a lot of lumbering tools in the supplies we captured. It makes sense, really. If he could hold a road into Fuspmar...”
“The whole south would be open to him, from Bharrak to the Corsair coast. If you're right, then it is good fortune we defeated this first attack.”
Nerith spoke up again, “Not fortune, sir, as much as magic.”
“Yes, the outlawed druid. Do you know what became of him?”
That was a plain enough statement for Krina. “I suppose he perished in the flood he called.”
The king nodded, as though accepting it. Then he looked Krina directly in the eyes and said, “We each do as we must.”

Once they were safely inside Tyisch's villa on the edge of town, Krina had some choice words for Nerith. They were not precisely kind. She began with “What were you thinking!” Nerith, when he had a chance, chose to answer that.
“Look, we didn't know if the king would support Ket or not. I just wanted to find out.”
“You very nearly gave everything away!”
“I suppose you didn't find the orcish mercenary?” Tyisch said, mostly to ease the conflict.
Krina sighed quietly. “No. He was long gone. The best we can do is get to Pthyonkaltis. Hopefully, in exchange for Ket's service, they will send a healer.”

9.0 (ret con)

2009-06-04T19:27:00.001-05:00

[this immediately follows chapter 7.12, however I out the entirety of chapter 8 in between for the reader. Again, a retcon. Also, note that I'll be keeping up this blog for the moment. I think I'll finish writing the story before I jump into the next revision with both feet.]

Krina had never before seen anything so impressive as Bharrak. The city stood on and around a mountain so steep it might have been a stone pillar. The river swift passed adjacent to the base of that mountain, and the city polis (a vast stone fortress, not a single tower like Fuspmar's) overhung the crest. Around the city the land was low and fertile. The river presently flooded portions of them, but the people seemed to consider it no hardship.
From day Nasch took ill, Krina slipped into authority without so much as question from the other Kliet. Tolcten, now a warband leader in his own right, acknoledged her as an equal and Nasch's brother Maraesh called her to the meetings. Maentash and Phum accepted her. Among the Kliet this was all the ceremony a promotion required. Ket found himself also following her lead.

For a disgraced druid there is really one career choice open: the stormcaller. The Corsair are on friendly but equal terms with Morketal. A stormcaller has the same talent as a druid, but is employed by the Corsair rather than the Order. Morketal's monopoly is thus incomplete in this one area. From the day Ket began the spell that drowned Eth's army, he gave up any hope or plans for his future. Now that he was marked for death, his fears were confirmed. He could not fathom why the Order threw their weight behind Eth, but there could be no doubt. Krina wanted him to escape. Her plan was sound. For her sake, after Nasch died, he would. If Nasch died. He might recover... and Ket would still have to flee. Optimism seems a limited virtue, but the druid had no other power.
[The name stormcaller is a bit of a misnomer. “push-storms-away-er” doesn't make much sense, though. “Calmcaller” just doesn't have the same ring. Anyway....]

Nasch's cousin Tyisch is a councilman at Bharrak. He was a large, heavy goblin. Middle aged, but aging without much grace. His mind, however, was entirely keen. He had the ear of the king, and could claim more than a few favors from other councilmen. If Krina's plan had any hope, they needed his full cooperation. Fortuned favored them, and he admitted the fevered Nasch without question. He did not recognize Ket at first, but the northern accent gave him away. Then a servant from the King called to summon “the heroes Kliet: Nasch, Krina, and Nerith.” The messenger delivered this directly to Ket, addressing him by Nasch's name. The secret ceased to be hidden.
“He saved Fuspmar, lord Tyisch, do not judge him quickly!” Krina said, as soon as the messenger was out of hearshot.
Tyisch snorted. “Saved it? Henh. From what I hear, there's not much left.”
Krina would have opted for a direct rebuttal, but Ket spoke up in his own defense. “There is more to a city than wooden walls.”
“Fine,” Tyisch agreed, “there's also stone towers and planted fields. Not that your flood spared those.”
“The people lived. They will not starve, nor will chaos consume them.”
“Are you so sure they will not? Eth is coming here. Perhaps he would be content with one village, met without resistance, while we might broker peace. The King favors that, and with reason.”
Krina could not let that slide. “Would you sacrifice Fuspmar for your safety?”
Tyisch caughed. “You would sacrifice for your victory!” He turned to Ket, “and you for your revenge. Now the Order is deeper with Eth than ever. If we shall loose our druids entirely, we should be lucky. Because of you, we may be another Rix.”
The words wounded Ket. “You can not be a Rix. There is yet time to defend yourselves. Eth is mad for power; he would swallow the whole world. One village will not sedate him. I denied him a foothold across Meiness. That remains your best defense. As for the Order, I will not be counted among them.”
“No, Wizard's beard, you won't!” Tyisch interrupted. [that's an oath. Profanity, or what passes for it. Should I litter dialogue with these, or save it for the more profane people?]
Ket continued, “I have no home other than Fuspmar. It is the burden of the Druid. Yes, I wanted revenge. Eth ravaged Rix. But more than that, I would save my home. When I began that storm, I chose my course. I don't care if you help me or not, but take Nasch in. The day will come when Fuspmar can rebuild. He should be there.”

Until that moment, Tyisch had been stern and sarcastic with them. At once, his attitude came about. He clapped Ket on the back. “A druid with a homeland? What could stranger?”
Ket was unnerved by his sudden change in tone, but Krina took in stride. “Yeah, next month we'll assault Eth's Polis on an army of flying pigs.”

“So, how do you plan to save my cousin?”

7.12 (ret con)

2009-06-03T19:35:00.003-05:00

Nasch was unconscious by the time Krina returned to him. Nerith was already there. He'd bandaged his own wounds – nasty gashes in the upper arm and calf – and had Nasch's armor off. The older man's side was a mass of blood, mostly dry. Pieces of ribs broke through the skin. His shoulder was crushed also.

Ket, being a druid, was the tacit doctor. Medicine is a rudimentary thing among the goblins, but at least they did not suffer the overabundance of theory a society might develop [bloodletting, for example]. His triage categorized the wounded into those who can walk and those who would probably die. Nasch belonged to the latter. Still, he regained consciousness during the first night after the Battle of Tall Field (that's the name for chp 7.10-11. Like most such names, it developed after the fact).
“...Ket...”
“Shh. Good to see you awake.”
Krina added “You shouldn't talk.”
Nasch tried to sit up. She put her hand gently on his good shoulder. He flinched as though it hurt. “You shouldn't try to move either.”
“...What...”
“What should you do? Be still, my friend. Be of quiet spirit, let your body heal.” Ket's medical advice was sound, if frustrating.
“I call it curing by boredom.” Krina forced a chuckle. “It must be this druid's panacea.”
Nasch chuckled too, but immediately coughed up blood. His friends carefully rolled him over. He weakly spat the blood on the dirt floor of the cramped officer's tent. When he laid back down, they expected him to rest, but Nasch beckoned them near. In a slow whisper, he asked Ket, “What will you do now?”
“I'll tend to you and the others, of course,” Ket said.
“You can't stay here forever, though.” Krina said, “Morketal condemned you already, and Crelocten [the king of Bharrak] is going along with them.”
Nasch nodded to indicate that's what he meant. “Use me.”
Nasch's statement confused the others for a moment. “I don't think you're quite the corpse they're looking for. And if I have any say, you're not done with your body yet.”
Nasch gently waggled his head to indicate they had the wrong idea. “You be me... I'll...”
Krina put it together first. “Nasch's never been to Bharrak, you know. If you go in, saying you're Nasch, who's to know?”
“Jinkash, for one,” Ket said.
“So we'll keep you from meeting the Druid. That was kinda the plan anyway. Anyone else?”
“I did meet Crelocten, three years ago, when I transferred. He was just a councilman, then.”
“Ok, him too.”
“Krina, what's the point? Nasch?”
Ket turned to Nasch, but he had fallen asleep. By the next morning, Nasch had fallen into a fever. By the time they reached Fuspmar, his illness was very severe. Ket could do nothing more to help him; no one could. Well, almost no one. Orcs have a natural talent for living animals. Their magic was very powerful, but dangerous and unstable. While it was remotely possible for an orc to heal injures and illnesses like Nasch's, orcs aren't known for their philanthropic tendencies. Ket was determined even so. Rumor had it an orc was in Bharrak, attempting to sell his mercenary services to Crelocten. So they went.

A merchant named Kelph, who insisted on being called Corsair Kelph Tarouph regularly, agreed to bring them along. Krina, Ket and Nerith were to serve as crew. Ket's name was recorded as “Nasch” on the merchant's ledger, however. Nasch was not listed at all.

Kelph been summoned by the king. He talked of nothing else for three harrowing days on the overflowing river. He would be offered marriage into a powerful family. Position to recognize his wealth. Nasch's fever worsened on the journey. He never fully regained consciousness, only passing from sleep to delirium and back. The skin scabbed over the holes punctured by ribs. Ket did his best to keep it clear, but the wound turned foul. Gangrene in a limb might be saved with amputation, but an injury in the torso immediately entered the blood. It was a poison for which they knew no cure.

7.11 (ret con)

2009-06-03T19:35:00.001-05:00

The High Guard broke through the Kliet's thin line like an elephant (infamous juggernauts employed by the orcs in the great wars). Their leader was right front and center. Nasch had seen his face before, as he fled Fuspmar. Now Nasch stood his ground, on the edge of the forest, as the High Guard general descended upon him. Krina could seem them fighting from across the field. She might have paused to take a shot, but she certainly couldn't aim while running. Even still, there was a chance she'd hit Nasch. So she ran.

The High Guard's General was a large man, and his graying hair suggested cunning that kept him alive rather than weakness. At Fuspmar, he carried only a long legionnaire's sword, but he was without that weapon now. In its place he swung a massive iron maul; the two-handed hammer was sheathed completely in iron inlaid with silver. Every detail spoke of dwarven manufacture (his chainmail, though of good quality, helm and gauntlets did not appear dwarven, though). In another place, the maul would have been a work of art. To Nasch, it was a serious threat.

With his shorter sword and dagger, Nasch could barely parry the heavy weapon with both hands. He was forced to dodge it's arc and jab at the other*. Nasch did well, at first, inflicting small cuts on the enemy. Krina was no more than a dozen paces away when Nasch's luck ran out. Nasch parried the maul with his long sword, not stopping the momentum, but redirecting it so he could step out of the way. Before his opponent could recover, Nasch darted in an jabbed him with his dirk.
*[This is Nerual, although neither Nasch nor Krina would know the name at this time. The maul I'm describing actually belonged to another soldier, but Nerual took it after his death.]

The blade struck in the High Guard's ribs. It was a nasty sort of wound that would probably kill, but only after an agonizing month. Nasch's jab left him moving forward still, so he passed his opponent. For a deadly moment his back was turned. The High Guard General swing was in progress the moment his previous blow was deflected. It should have smashed the reckless southerner's brains out.
The reckless southerner's parry did nothing to slow the momentum of the great hammer Nerual weilded. It was not his maul. It had belonged Qintane, a half-dwarf from near Rix. Nerual lost his longsword in the same battle Qintane was killed. He would return it to Qintane's father, a goblin in Eth's court when he could. For now, he needed it. Still, a sword would have been far better. Perhaps a hammer feels natural in a dwarf's hands, but he Nerual had his sword this southerner would be long since dead. As it was, Nerual maintained the offensive, forcing his opponent to absorb the maul's weight again and again and keeping him largely out of reach.

Finally the southerner lunged at Nerual, parrying the iron-encased shaft with his sword. It was the opening Nerual saught. He turned the direction of his swing so it would come around and crush the southerner's spine. But the southerner's gamble paid off; his dagger found a soft spot on Nerual's side. Nerual might have ignored a lesser wound, but the deep jab distracted him. He twisted with it involuntarily, wrenching the southerner's dirk away. The maul came up. Following standard tactics, Nerual would have reversed the maul's direction while taking another step, and brought it down. Instead, he struck this southerner during the upswing. The hammer came up under his target's sword arm while the southerner was still facing away. It wasn't the full, killing force of a blow to the head of base of the neck, but the heavy weapon pulverized bones with the impact. Nerual was not the sort of man who enjoys hurting a man, but he felt exhilaration at the victory.

Krina reached Nasch a second too late. The High Guard General struck him terrible, and she could hear bones shatter. The General turned to face her, but reeled like a drunk while he spun. He swung the massive hammer in a level circle, but she dodged it, then lunged in to finish him. Then High Guard did something she did not expect. He let go of the maul. With his hands free, he avoided her sword, then hit her. It was an open handed slap, a knuckle-cutting slap, and he was wearing steel-scaled gauntlets*. “Go Home,” He spat. “Let men fight.”

*[these are something between the gauntlets of plate armor and leather gloves, favored by Eth's heavier forces. They're basically leather gloves with small steel plates studding the backs. The fingers are protected only with leather, because the intracity of m]

The slap was more than enough to catch Krina off balance. She slipped. Not exactly fell, she told herself, just lost her balance. The General retreated, his side a mess of blood and broken chain.
A moment later, the rest of the Kliet slammed into High Guard. Krina got up and ran to Nasch first. He was still alive, though in such pain he could not move. It was enough for her – she rejoined the melee.

The High Guard's formation fell apart by degrees. The Kliet, though less orderly, fought fiercely. Krina was the fiercest of all; a lioness avenging her pride. Even so, the High Guard had the upper hand. By the time Maraesh arrived, Nasch's Kliet were all but obliterated. The High Guard didn't turn to fight the new force. They fled north, into the forest.

Maraesh's pursuit was half-hearted. He divided his army so some could tend to the wounded – and defend them, in case this too was a ruse. Krina was one of the perusers. She scored a few kills, but never caught sight of the High Guard general again. Although the High Guard were not destroyed, the Kliet counted this last engagement as a victory. More than a victory, because this army was the last of the Eth's invaders of Fuspmar. In the end, a number of High Guard escaped, including the General. The wounded left on the field were given no quarter.

7.10 Ret Con (again).

2009-06-03T19:30:00.002-05:00

This is a ret-con; an adventure I'm adding to the story.

Five days after the “battle” of Fuspmar, most of the northern expedition could be counted casualties. The flood killed less than a quarter of the men, but it scattered them. They ceased to be an army. The forces of Bharrak, though still vastly outnumbered, never met a group more than half their size. There was no way for the invader to hide; they could not match the Fusp in their own terrain. Although these things were significant, they were not the real killers.

While Ket prepared his storm, he willed the land into an early spring. The weather turned warm and wet – perfect conditions for his flood. A fool's spring. Tsorx's Expedition was mainly composed of young, inexperienced, northerners. They knew the south was warm, and spring came sooner. Many of them discarded their bulky bedrolls and their heavy coats during the stuffy march in Meiness. When Ket's great spell ended, the weather returned to normal. Not just normal, it seemed nature countered Ket's tampering by becoming unseasonably cold. To the Fusp, this end to a fool's spring was so normal, it barely warranted comment.

There were no blizzards. But when temperatures at night fell below freezing, Tsorx's men lost their fight. They deserted in droves to seek shelter against the cold. They stormed farmhouses, unoccupied—or otherwise, and hunkered down. Tsorx was dead. Swept away by the flood or caught by the Fusp before anyone could regroup. The Fusp didn't need to root them all out, they ceased to be soldiers. If they were caught, they surrendered. If they were not, most wandered slowly home.

The High Guard were no so easily bested. Nerual and the larger part of the high guard were in Fuspmar when the flood hit. The supernatural speed with which it rose caused them no small trouble. But a soldier's practice is largely in dealing with things they are unprepared for. Before the flood, Tsrox's expedition comprised just over two thousand men. After it, some fifteen hundred lived, but the largest single group was a band of four hundred – a reserve led by a lieutenant that was slow to arrive for the battle. The High guard numbered some two hundred before the flood. By the first day after the flood, all but twenty men were accounted for.

For the first half-month after the battle of Fuspmar, the High Guard eluded Bharrak's army. They defeated or escaped every patrol which came upon them unprepared. All the while, battlefield shifted northward. Maraesh and Kmolash, the generals of Fuspmar, knew they must take advantage of ever favorable moment. All Bharrak knew Eth's was reaching out to swallow the south.

Eventually the generals cornered the High Guard. Nerual chose a path that skirted Meiness. This made an ambush difficult, but open territory favored the larger force. Maraesh and Nasch led two groups to encircle Nerual, each group's numbers were equal to that Nerual was expected to have.

Nasch and his force, including Krina, Nerith and Ket, hustled through the night to be north of the High Guard. The sun was just rising when they began the last advance. If luck was with them, they would catch the invaders while they were still in camp. Maraesh should hit from the south-east at the same time Nasch attacked from the north. For all their fearsome reputation, the High Guard were just men. They were still denied mounts. Without that mobility, they were no more deadly archers than the Kliet. They would be greatly outnumbered. Probably they had meager supplies to go on.

In the brightening twilight, Nasch explained their advantages to his men. For the last half-month he'd led this bunch. A few years ago, he would have called these two hundred souls an army. Now, they were just a warband. And a good one. “But don't underestimate the High Guard,” Nasch cautioned the troop. “They are fantastic soldiers. Their bloodlust on the field resembles that of orcs, and their tactics are as careful as the dwarves'. Be careful. May the Wizard favor your spirits.”

The all night run was tiring, sweaty and tense. It hadn't really been a run, not like Krina and the others had to do when this enemy was approaching Fuspmar. But it was still a fast march, and now they were the perusers. The night had been full of energy. Now that the enemy seemed to have slipped away, that energy deserted Krina. She tried not to think about how much she wanted to catch up with the, or why. “It's cold,” she said, to no one in particular.

Nasch answered her, “I feel it too. Something's wrong.” Krina didn't answer.

Things began to go wrong from that moment. At the forest's edge, Nasch could see the the High Guard's camp. It was quiet, but more than that, it looked wrong. There were no visible sentries, though the grassy field might hide a man. Nerith, who was too young to lead his own group, advised him “I'm getting a bad feeling from this.”

Nerith was one of the weak-magic children. He had a gift which was manifest in small ways: a certain ability to hear through the ground far better than most. With an effort, he could even send a few words through the dirt, to an ear on the other side. He did not have the innate strength to be a druid or a stormcaller, and anyway his talents were not for air or water. These enhanced senses are generally attributed to a noble heritage, connected to the Wizard or some powerful magician. Nasch didn't know why Nerith suspected a trap, but he knew enough to trust the kid's senses. And his own.

Nasch sent three scouts with Nerith, to sneak to the edge of thecamp. If they were discovered, Nasch would loose his greatest advantage: surprise. Of course, if there was an ambush, better a few than many be caught. This meadow was a wonderful area for an ambush. It was remote enough that no one came here to graze, so the grass was shoulder-high. A gentle morning breeze ripped the stalks.

Nasch turned to Maentash, a boy who served as his aide. “Go find Ket, I need a favor from him.” The boy turned to take off, but stopped.

“No need.” Ket said. “I'm here.”

“In this half-light, with this breeze, Eth's entire army could sneak through that field undetected,” Nasch explained. “Could you...”

Ket knelt in the grass before Nasch finished the request. He pulled up a few stalks of grass to expose the earth, and shook them. It was the dirt he needed. It fell away from the roots in small clods. Ket blew on them as they fell, and whispered “be still.”

All around them, the breeze suddenly failed. The grass went completely still. The four Kliet scouts were still moving, the disturbance of their location now clearly visible. But their's were not the only disturbances in the field. Off to the east, where the field rose in the direction of the sea, the grass still rippled.

“Ket, how far does your spell reach?”
“There is peace as far as you can see.”
Ket can be cryptic like that. It's a druid thing. “Not for long there won't be.”

The sun rose slowly. Red. Almost bloody already. Perhaps someone warned it what would transpire today, but Nasch did not share its privilege. The forest edge looked westward, toward the distant* sea. The horizon was a series of sharp hills all the way to the coast, the nearest barely out of bowshot. The forest made a semi-circle around the field where the Guard had camped, like its arms were reaching out to encircle it. The Kliet were slowly spreading out to the edges of those arms. Others wandered into the camp. Some tired to help the trackers, others rifled through tents. Here and there the warband commanders shouted at their groups to stay put. The all-night run had been extremely tense, and now, with no enemy, the tension seemed wasted. *[well, relatively distant. They're probably just thirty miles from the eastern ocean, but the land is rough and lightly inhabited.]

Someone shouted, off to Nasch's right, on the edge of the forest. In the field, Nerith tried to yell something also, but Nasch couldn't understand the words. Then Nerith dropped, straight down, as though the earth swallowed him. One of the other Kliet, an older scout, was running towards Nasch now. He also fell suddenly, but this time Nasch could see – an arrow stuck completely through his jerkin, just below the shoulder blade.

By the time Nerith fell, Nasch was shouting orders. By the time the old scout caught an arrow, most of the Kliet realized they were being ambushed. By that time, it was far too late to do anything about it.

The Kliet are a military tribe. Have been for generations, because a dishonorable patriarch lost their ancestral land. Fuspmar was their chance to build again, with land of their own and a place on the council. They retained, however, the style of their roots. A sword and a long knife, a bow and a leather jacket and good boots. No shield, no helm, no greaves, no breastplate. Those things were for soldiers with a home to defend. The Kliet were scouts and raiders; their strength was in mobility, in stealth, and in well-chosen battles. Today, they were stupid. Today they were caught.

The grass was suddenly alive with movement, mostly on the slopes of the distant hills. In the arms of the forest, the crashes of combat were sharp and clear. A black cloud descended on the exposed Kliet, like locusts on a ripe field. A more heavily armored force could absorb or deflect such a rain. On the Kliet, the arrows found their marks more often than not. Before they had time to react, hundreds of Kliet were killed or injured. The High guard were coming over the hill. They advanced by echelon – two groups ran forward while another kept up a hail of arrows. Then they changed. The lead group stopped and fired several volleys while the other two charged. Nasch had not seen it before, but the tactic made sense. It would be well suited to open fields and a numerous enemy.

The High Guard who had hidden in the grass around the camp and the edges of the forest were few in number. They were skirmishers – intended to prod the defenses of an enemy formation. The Kliet took them on individually, once they were exposed. But the Kliet had no formation. Those who were in the open retreated to the trees. Those in the woods took cover and returned arrow for arrow. Nasch had barely been in command from the time they stopped – each soldier tended to listen only to his immediate superior, if anyone. Now, with the enemy in sight, he tried to regain control. The High Guard were a tight, disciplined formation while the Kliet were spread out along the forest. The Guard now had the advantage of local superiority in numbers and order that the army of Bharrak had enjoyed over the remnant of Tsorx's expedition.

The Guard were created by Eth's grandfather out of the soldiers every king kept on retainer. As the tribe became an empire and the king an emperor, the house guard became the High Guard. They were the best horsemen, the best archers, the best swordsmen from the entire empire. Like all northern armies, they were all men. They were not expected to wear a uniform, but provide whatever armor and weapons they desired. All wore, by tradition, a steel helm which covers the face, the same general type as the dwarf legion wore. Most carried a short composite recurved bow, a lance or spear, a riding shield, and breastplate. After that, halberds and broad, short swords were common. Nerual's company left their horses north of Meiness, and a portion discarded their armor or shields during the flood. On the whole, though, they are a tight spear that jabbed at the Kliet.

At Nasch's command, the Kliet began to fall back, into the forest. They would give ground and let the trees break up the formation before attacking. It would return the intuitive to the Kliet, and let them fight on their own terms.

When the High Guard Echelon neared the forest edge, they suddenly changed direction. Rather than charging at the center, as they had been, all three groups ran into the woods on the north side of the field. Nasch didn't see this right away, because he was still running from commander to commander and giving orders. Krina saw it. The cold feeling was gone now, but she felt as though someone was whispering to her, telling her to lead the Kliet.

The right flank was failing quickly. The Kliet fell over themselves retreating from the High Guard, or were overrun and overpowered where their stood. To Krina, running away from that fight was swimming upstream. She shouted to the men to leave the forest, and charge the other side. Nasch had been running toward the right flank, she ran up the left. The Kliet have a loose leadership structure, but everyone recognized that she was a friend of Nasch's, and that gave her authority enough. Besdies, she told them to ran towards the enemy – not the sort of orders a soldier can normally question, whoever gives them.

The shape of the battle rapidly shifted. On the north side of the field, the Kliet's right flank, the High Guard advanced eastward while the Kliet fell back. The Kliet's entire left flank charged across the field, to trap the High Guard between them and the failing right flank.

New Blog, 275!

2009-05-17T08:30:00.004-05:00

I'm tired of using two email addresses for google, so I'm moving everthing to a new site.

This blog be recreated at crashburn275.blogspot.com

It's the "+1" version.

I'll use the move to reorder some aspects of the blog, and to reorganize the novel. Look for reposts of important things.

Novel, Retcon, 7.11

2009-05-16T23:15:00.001-05:00

The High Guard broke through the Kliet's thin line like an elephant–the animal juggernauts employed by the orcs. Their leader was right front and center. Nasch had seen his face before, as he fled Fuspmar. Now Nasch stood his ground, on the edge of the forest, as the High Guard general descended upon him. Krina could seem them fighting from across the field. She might have paused to take a shot, but she certainly couldn't aim while running. Even still, there was a chance she'd hit Nasch. So she ran.

The High Guard's general was a large man, and his graying hair suggested cunning that kept him alive rather than weakness. He swung a long, broad sword with bone-crushing power. Nasch, with his shorter sword and dagger, could barely parry the blade with both hands. He was forced to dodge it's arc and jab at the other*. Nasch did well, at first, inflicting small cuts on the enemy. Krina was no more than a dozen paces away when Nasch's luck ran out. Nasch parried the shining blade with his long sword, and lunged with his dirk. The blade struck home, in the High Guard's ribs. But then the High Guard brought his sword straight down, like an executioner's axe, overpowering Nasch. The blow was aimed for Nasch's neck, but the flat of Nasch's sword turned sideways and spread out the impact. The thunk was sickening. Nasch crumpled, and dropped his weapons.

*[This is Nerual, although neither Nasch nor Krina would know the name at this time.]

Krina reached him a second too late. The High Guard general brought his sword up, like a spear to impale her, but he had no momentum to swing it. She sidestepped the slow moving blade and tried to run her sword through his neck. It caught on his chain mail, barely scratching him. She began to turn away, still at a run, to make another pass. Then High Guard did something she did not expect. He let go of his sword with one hand, still swinging it upward with the other, and slapped her. It was an open handed slap, a knuckle-cutting slap, and he was wearing steel-scaled gauntlets*. “Go Home,” He spat. “Let men fight.”
*[these are something between the gauntlets of plate armor and leather gloves, favored by Eth's heavier forces. They're basically leather gloves with small steel plates studding the backs.]

The slap was more than enough to catch Krina off balance. She slipped. Not exactly fell, she told herself, just lost her balance. A moment later, the rest of the Kliet slammed into High Guard. Krina ran to Nasch first. He was still alive, and didn't appear to be dieing. That was enough for her – she rejoined the melee.

The High Guard's formation fell apart by degrees. The Kliet, though less orderly, fought fiercely. Krina was the fiercest of all; a lioness avenging her pride. Even so, the High Guard had the upper hand. By the time Maraesh arrived, Nasch's Kliet were all but obliterated. The High Guard didn't turn to fight the new force. They fled north, into the forest.
Maraesh's pursuit was half-hearted. He divided his army so some could tend to the wounded – and defend them, in case this too was a ruse. Krina was one of the perusers. She scored a few kills, but never caught sight of the High Guard general again. Although the High Guard were not destroyed, the Kliet counted this last engagement as a victory. More than a victory, because this army was the last of the Eth's invaders of Fuspmar.
Nasch had been hit on the side of the head with the flat of his own sword. The fleshy upper part of his ear had been severed, but the real damage was beneath the skin. The idea of a concussion would be foreign to the goblins, but it was easy to understand his brains had been jostled by the impact. He couldn't walk right, and slurred his words like a drunkard. His mind moved in similar disarray, and he had some difficulty keeping his tongue in his mouth. Nerith had been shot, but it as a flesh wound in his upper arm. His real injury was a cut across his Achilles' tendon, on the back of his leg. This had been inflicted by one of the High Guard, hiding in the tall grass, and was the reason he fell. Krina, who suffered nothing serious, had to carry them both men to an abandoned tent. Then she, and several of Nasch's Kliet, searched the field for wounded High Guard. They gave them no quarter.

Novel Retcon: 7.10

2009-05-16T22:22:00.000-05:00

<<<<<7.10>>>>>
This is a ret-con; an adventure I'm adding to the story. It is very long.

Five days after the “battle” of Fuspmar, most of the northern expedition could be counted casualties. The flood killed less than a quarter of the men, but it scattered them. They ceased to be an army. The forces of Bharrak, though still vastly outnumbered, never met a group more than half their size. There was no way for the invader to hide; they could not match the Fusp in their own terrain. Although these things were significant, they were not the real killers.
While Ket prepared his storm, he willed the land into an early spring. The weather turned warm and wet – perfect conditions for his flood. A fool's spring. Tsorx's Expedition was mainly composed of young, inexperienced, northerners. They knew the south was warm, and spring came sooner. Many of them discarded their bulky bedrolls and their heavy coats during the stuffy march in Meiness. When Ket's great spell ended, the weather returned to normal. Not just normal, it seemed nature countered Ket's tampering by becoming unseasonably cold. To the Fusp, this end to a fool's spring was so normal, it barely warranted comment.
There were no blizzards. But when temperatures at night fell below freezing, Tsorx's men lost their fight. They deserted in droves to seek shelter against the cold. They stormed farmhouses, unoccupied—or otherwise, and hunkered down. Tsorx was dead. Swept away by the flood or caught by the Fusp before anyone could regroup. The Fusp didn't need to root them all out, they ceased to be soldiers. If they were caught, they surrendered. If they were not, most wandered slowly home.

The High Guard were no so easily bested. Nerual and the larger part of the high guard were in Fuspmar when the flood hit. The supernatural speed with which it rose caused them no small trouble. But a soldier's practice is largely in dealing with things they are unprepared for. Before the flood, Tsrox's expedition comprised just over two thousand men. After it, some fifteen hundred lived, but the largest single group was a band of four hundred – a reserve led by a lieutenant that was slow to arrive for the battle. The High guard numbered some two hundred before the flood. By the first day after the flood, all but twenty men were accounted for.

For the first half-month after the battle of Fuspmar, the High Guard eluded Bharrak's army. They won or escaped every patrol which came upon them unprepared. All the while, battlefield shifted northward. Maraesh and Kmolash, the generals of Fuspmar, knew they must take advantage of ever favorable moment. All Bharrak knew Eth's was reaching out to swallow the south.
Eventually the generals cornered the High Guard. Nerual chose a path that skirted Meiness. This made an ambush difficult, but open territory favored the larger force. Maraesh and Nasch led two groups to encircle Nerual, each group's numbers were equal to that Nerual was expected to have.
Nasch and his force, including Krina and Nerith, hustled through the night to be north of the High Guard. The sun was just rising when they began the last advance. If luck was with them, they would catch the invaders while they were still in camp. Maraesh should hit from the south-east at the same time Nasch attacked from the north. For all their fearsome reputation, the High Guard were just men. They were still denied mounts. Without that mobility, they were no more deadly archers than the Kliet. They would be greatly outnumbered. Probably they had meager supplies to go on.

In the brightening twilight, Nasch explained their advantages to his men. For the last half-month he'd led this bunch. A few years ago, he would have called these two hundred souls an army. Now, they were just a warband. And a good one. “But don't underestimate the High Guard,” Nasch cautioned the troop. “They are fantastic soldiers. Their bloodlust on the field resembles that of orcs, and their tactics are as careful as the dwarves'. Be careful. May the Wizard favor your spirits.”

Things began to go wrong from that moment. At the forest's edge, Nasch could see the the High Guard's camp. It was quiet, but more than that, it looked wrong. There were no visible sentries, though the grassy field might hide a man. Nerith, who was too young to lead his own group, advised him “I'm getting a bad feeling from this.”

Nerith was one of the weak-magic children. He had a gift which was manifest in small ways: a certain ability to hear through the ground far better than most. With an effort, he could even send a few words through the dirt, to an ear on the other side. He did not have the innate strength to be a druid or a stormcaller, and anyway his talents were not for air or water. These enhanced senses are generally attributed to a noble heritage, connected to the Wizard or some powerful magician. Nasch didn't know why Nerith suspected a trap, but he knew enough to trust the kid's senses. And his own.

Three scouts, with Nerith, slunk through the grass to the camp. If they were discovered, Nasch would loose his greatest advantage: surprise. Of course, if there was an ambush, better a few than many be caught. Three left. Three returned. The High Guard had deserted their camp. Nasch cursed. Nerith was probably right, they were setting a trap somewhere. “We'll have to follow them. Maerck, take your patrol and run to Maraesh. Tell him they've deserted camp, and probably setting a trap somewhere.” Maerck went.

The all night run was tiring, sweaty and tense. It hadn't really been a run, not like Krina and the others had to do when this enemy was approaching Fuspmar. But it was still a fast march, and now they were the perusers. The night had been full of energy. Now that the enemy seemed to have slipped away, that energy deserted Krina. She tried not to think about how much she wanted to catch up with the, or why.
“It's cold,” she said, to no one in particular.
Nasch answered her, “I feel it too. Something's wrong.” Krina didn't answer. He raised his voice to the troops, who were already beginning to wander around. “Stay in the forest!”

Tracking an army is not difficult for the same reason as tracking an individual. With one person, it takes keen eyes to see and realize the significance of every bend twig or blade. With an army, the land displays their presence. But the order of their passing can be easily confused, particularly around a camp. At least the mess the Guard trampled into field indicated they had actually camped here. They probably learned of the Kliet's approach during the night, then snuck away without their gear. Which way did they sneak?
An army at camp doesn't leave one trail in the field, it leaves hundreds. There was no clear path – the Guard probably left in single file, just to camouflage it. So Nasch ordered the Kliet to hold back, on the edge of the forest, while Nerith and a handful of others tried to figure it out. Mostly, they didn't listen.
The sun rose slowly. Red. Almost bloody already. Perhaps someone warned it what would transpire today, but Nasch did not share its privilege. The forest edge looked westward, toward the distant* sea. The horizon was a series of sharp hills all the way to the coast, the nearest barely out of bowshot. The forest made a semi-circle around the field where the Guard had camped, like its arms were reaching out to encircle it. The Kliet were slowly spreading out to the edges of those arms. Others wandered into the camp. Some tired to help the trackers, others rifled through tents. Here and there the warband commanders shouted at their groups to stay put. The all-night run had been extremely tense, and now, with no enemy, the tension seemed wasted.
*[well, relatively distant. They're probably just thirty miles from the western ocean, but the land is rough and lightly inhabited.]
Someone shouted, off to Nasch's right, on the edge of the forest. In the field, Nerith tried to yell something also, but Nasch couldn't understand the words. Then Nerith dropped, straight down, as though the earth swallowed him. One of the other Kliet, an older scout, was running towards Nasch now. He also fell suddenly, but this time Nasch could see – an arrow stuck completely through his jerkin, just below the shoulder blade.
By the time Nerith fell, Nasch was shouting orders. By the time the old scout caught an arrow, most of the Kliet realized they were being ambushed. By that time, it was far too late to do anything about it.

The Kliet are a military tribe. Have been for generations, because a dishonorable patriarch lost their ancestral land. Fuspmar was their chance to build again, with land of their own and a place on the council. They retained, however, the style of their roots. A sword and a long knife, a bow and a leather jacket and good boots. No shield, no helm, no greaves, no breastplate. Those things were for soldiers with a home to defend. The Kliet were scouts and raiders; their strength was in mobility, in stealth, and in well-chosen battles. Today, they were stupid. Today they were caught.

The grass was suddenly alive with movement, mostly on the slopes of the distant hills. In the arms of the forest, the crashes of combat were sharp and clear. A black cloud descended on the exposed Kliet, like locusts on a ripe field. A more heavily armored force could absorb or deflect such a rain. On the Kliet, the arrows found their marks more often than not. Before they had time to react, hundreds of Kliet were killed or injured. The High guard were coming over the hill. They advanced by echelon – two groups ran forward while another kept up a hail of arrows. Then they changed. The lead group stopped and fired several volleys while the other two charged. Nasch had not seen it before, but the tactic made sense. It would be well suited to open fields and a numerous enemy.

The High Guard who had hidden in the grass around the camp and the edges of the forest were few in number. They were skirmishers – intended to prod the defenses of an enemy formation. The Kliet took them on individually, once they were exposed. But the Kliet had no formation. Those who were in the open retreated to the trees. Those in the woods took cover and returned arrow for arrow. Nasch had barely been in command from the time they stopped – each soldier tended to listen only to his immediate superior, if anyone. Now, with the enemy in sight, he tried to regain control. The High Guard were a tight, disciplined formation while the Kliet were spread out along the forest. The Guard now had the advantage of local superiority in numbers and order that the army of Bharrak had enjoyed over the remnant of Tsorx's expedition.

The Guard were created by Eth's grandfather out of the soldiers every king kept on retainer. As the tribe became an empire and the king an emperor, the house guard became the High Guard. They were the best horsemen, the best archers, the best swordsmen from the entire empire. Like all northern armies, they were all men. They were not expected to wear a uniform, but provide whatever armor and weapons they desired. All wore, by tradition, a steel helm which covers the face, the same general type as the dwarf legion wore. Most carried a short composite recurved bow, a lance or spear, a riding shield, and breastplate. After that, halberds and broad, short swords were common. Nerual's company left their horses north of Meiness, and a portion discarded their armor or shields during the flood. On the whole, though, they are a tight spear that jabbed at the Kliet.

At Nasch's command, the Kliet began to fall back, into the forest. They would give ground and let the trees break up the formation before attacking. It would return the intuitive to the Kliet, and let them fight on their own terms.
When the High Guard Echelon neared the forest edge, they suddenly changed direction. Rather than charging at the center, as they had been, all three groups ran into the woods on the north side of the field. Nasch didn't see this right away, because he was still running from commander to commander and giving orders. Krina saw it. The cold feeling was gone now, but she felt as though someone was whispering to her, telling her to lead the Kliet.
The right flank was failing quickly. The Kliet fell over themselves retreating from the High Guard, or were overrun and overpowered where their stood. To Krina, running away from that fight was swimming upstream. She shouted to the men to leave the forest, and charge the other side. Nasch had been running toward the right flank, she ran up the left. The Kliet have a loose leadership structure, but everyone recognized that she was a friend of Nasch's, and that gave her authority enough. Besdies, she told them to ran towards the enemy – not the sort of orders a soldier can normally question, whoever gives them.
The shape of the battle rapidly shifted. On the north side of the field, the Kliet's right flank, the High Guard advanced eastward while the Kliet fell back. The Kliet's entire left flank charged across the field, to trap the High Guard between them and the failing right flank.

An American Anatomy

2009-05-14T00:18:00.004-05:00

With my deepest apologies to John Donne.

We seem ambitious, God's whole work t'undo;
of nothing he made us, and we strive too,
to bring our selves to nothing back, and we
do what we can to work so quick as he.
With new diseases on our selves we war,
and with new physic, a worse engine far.
And new philosophy calls all in doubt,
the grand old party is quite put out.
Out of depression we shall spend ourselves;
and tax carbon, lest our air boil like hell's.
We'll hug the queen, and insult the PM;
folk's favor and congress support our whim.
What terrors would we find if we see,
in our leaders' thoughts' anatomy?

Novel, Chapter 9.0

2009-05-13T08:13:00.000-05:00

[It's been so long since updated this, I have lost whatever trains of thought I last had. In that time, I've probably come up with new ideas. I can't really keep straight. So if things are weird or don't quite jive, let it be for now. In the immortal words of many a director, “I'll fix it in post-production.”]

The city of Bharrak stuck out of the bountiful rolling plains of Kael valley, the stone chimney of a giants long-decayed house. Fuspmar's creeks become the swift river near the head of that valley. The river winds from the north-east to the south-west down the center of the valley, right past the base of that great rock. It was the perfect site for a capital; the top of that intrusive stone tower made the foundation for a castle-city that could not be easily stormed. Those cliffs force the river to divert south, around the rock, before resuming it's west-southwest journey. The land to the north of the tower is a much gentler slope, and the city of Bharrak sprawls on that plain.

For Nerith, Nasch and Krina it was a fantastic sight. They had little time to enjoy it, because the flooding river kept every hand on the dugout flotilla busy until the moment they pulled into shore. Well, nearly every hand. Corsair Kelph Tou did not feel he needed to engage in such labors, after all he was a wealthy merchant and emissary for the single most powerful clan. No one complained openly about him. In the half-dozen dugouts, there was only one other passenger. He was a Kliet, apparently injured or very ill, because he was kept covered and tended to at all times.

From the bottom of their boat, under his unnecessary bandages and blankets, Ket asked “What do you see? Why 'ooh'?”
“It's just that I've never seen Bharrak before,” Krina explained.
Ket chuckled. “Impressive, no?”
From the stern, Nasch said, “Quite down, Ket, we'll put in in a minute. You're supposed to be deathly ill, right?”
Ket let loose a sickly dramatic groan. That solicited a chuckle – almost a giggle – from the normally dour Krina. She'd been in remarkably high spirits since the battle of Fuspmar. Nasch was vaguely unnerved by it, but he couldn't complain. After watching her home torched by invaders then washed entirely away in a flood, he expected the Kliet to be miserable. Instead they, particularly Krina, were quite cheerful as they smuggled Ket out of the country.

Two weeks have passed since the battle of Fuspmar. By now, everyone knows the Druid Ket was responsible for the flood, but most believe he perished in it. It would be difficult to guess what the response would be to seeing him alive. Dead, he was a martyr who destroyed an invader. Alive, he might be the madman who destroyed their homes. For the Duidic Order, though, there was no doubt. It was clear now they sided with Eth, for whatever reason. They condemned Ket to death and even placed a reward for his capture.

For a disgraced druid there is only one real career path: that of the stormcaller. These are goblins with the druid's gift for weather who, for various reasons, evaded to left the Order. They make a living protecting merchant ships and ports from storms, mostly in Corsair territory.* Some were judged too weak or too unstable to be druids. Others were born in Corsair territory, where the Order is does not have the strength to insist on the conscription of all with the gift. For Ket, though, even hiding in the Corsair lands would not be enough. He would travel to Kael-Monjaro at the Swift's mouth, then to one of the Orcish trading towns on the coastal islands. The Corsairs do not permit Orcs to even land a ship on their coasts, considering they are in a state of perpetual cold war. But they do not have the power to drive the Orcs from all the offshore islands, nor can the clan leadership prevent individuals from trading with orcish merchants. In the last two or three generations (about thirty years) many sandy barrier islands have become wealthy ports in their own right. These would be a sufficient refuge for Ket, until such time as the Order and Eth could no longer reach him.

*[The name is a bit of a misnomer, but “storm push-away-er” doesn't have much of a ring to it]

The Kliet planned to part company with the merchant Corsair Kelph at Bharrak, and continue to help crew his dugouts all the way to the coast. Of course, Kelph had his own men for that work, but normally he used a few larger flatboats for the journey. The Swift is a naturally treacherous river, all the more at flood-high, a flatboat stood little chance of a successful journey. But a dugout could make it, and Kelph was loath to miss the first tradewinds of the season just before of a little flood. The merchant himself had been called before the King of Bharrak, and for most of the journey did nothing but talk of the King's daughter* and the marriage he was sure to be offered. While such a match would not put Kelph in line for the throne, the marriage alliance would improve his fortunes in Bharrak, possibly even giving him a seat in the Elder's council.

*[his eldest child. The terms prince and princess don't really apply to southern goblins because their kings are elected. In some tribes the law prevent the eldest child of the current ruler from succeeded him or her.]

Nasch would have preferred to leave Bharrak as swiftly as possible. He couldn't guess the King's mood toward Ket, but certainly if Jinkash received word of his presence things would be very bad for all of them. More than once Ket told Nasch he shouldn't risk his men. Ket was quite prepared to die with Fuspmar; he would rather take his chances than endanger the Kliet. Besides, Eth was probably raising another army at this moment. They Kliet would have no shortage of danger this year without seeking more on his account.

Nasch wouldn't hear none of this, and his team were with him. But neither Krina nor Nerith seemed to recognize their vulnerability. It was the day before the last day of spring; mid-way between the equinox and the solstice. Tomorrow would be Witjaro's feast, one of the three most important holidays in the calender of the southern goblins. Witnorjaro* was, by legend, the first goblin to touch the sea, and the first to build a boat.

*[This is spelled differently by intention. I figure names shrink or get cut short over time.]
[I can't really help but tell this story here, although the novel might probably flow better without it]

The first time the Wizard came, he led the goblins away from their servitude to the Dwarf-lords, they wandered the northern plains. But they were farmers, and the poor land combined with their poor herds caused many to starve. The Wizard returned; his second appearance. He led them through the dense forest of Meiness and across the mountains to a rich land on the coast. These lands, which now belong to Corsair, are the Goblin heartland. Here, Withnorjaro was a powerful king. He ruled a united nation immediately after the Wizard departed. Not only did he teach the people to build ships and sail, he taught them to fish and launched the first trade expedition. That expedition reached the great Orcish city on river Nifu (about the location of modern Cafaria). In more recent history, Withnorjaro was also the name of one of the Sea-Kings.

Krina and Nerith considered it a great hardship to pass through Bharrak on Withjaro's day without joining the celebration, but they reluctantly accepted it. That is, until the King summoned Corsair Kelph to his table for the feast, and invited all of Kelph's crew to attend also. Nasch had to accept. Nothing would arouse suspicion more than turning down such an offer, and in any case Krina and Nertih weren't about to let him pass it by.

Today, I love “The End Is Here.”

2009-05-10T00:04:00.002-05:00

Oddly, I commenced today. Isn't that hilarious?
Yeah, I didn't think so either.
Five Iron Frenzy. Live Album. I don't normally like live albums, for the same reason I don't actually like rock concerts. I can't be there alone, I'd hate the company.
There are a lot of places and people and things I miss, and I can't figure out whether it's animal vegetable or mineral I miss more. But this place won't even make the list. No, that's not symbolic or something, I just thought it was funny.
Heh. He just said “Today is a good day to die.” Heh.
Heh is a funny word. When I read it in LookingForGroup for the first time, I didn't know what it was. That word kept punctuating the old Tauren's sentences, I thought he was injured. Truthfully, I don't know how to spell it better (I'd try “henh” or “haenh,” but they're not better).

So, I'll stick this on the net so there's not confusion. I'm not dead or anything, just not real sure what to do next.

Well, that's not true either. I know pretty well what to do, I just don't know if I can do it.

Novel, Chapter 8.3

2009-04-16T20:08:00.001-05:00

Creash spent the night thinking about ways to answer “what do you know?” Well, at least he'd spent some of the night thinking about it. Most of yesterday was filled with excitement of Gaethric's, [Pummel's] departure. Creash missed the first act while he watched the Wizard's rock, and much of the second because Zephi told him to stay put. Of course Creash did not stay put, but he had to travel a path where the elder Druid would not notice him. By that time, Gaethric and his men were tearing the village of Kael-Monjaro apart. They didn't touch the monastery itself, of course, that kind of sacrilege wasn't their business. But Gaethric made a great squawk about his being insulted. The rough sort of man must answer injured honor with blatant injury. They knocked some buildings down, and set fire to one of the feed-granaries. The straw an hay made a great smoke. But in this marsh it was a great trouble to keep things dry, not to reach water, so the blaze did not spread. Gaethric probably didn't want it to.

The real reason for his great show of insult was to have clear reason, in his own mind at least, that Druids had breached their contract. Gaethric and his men were hired, at a healthy price, to defend the monastery and its lands for the space of five years. Chartamnet, the Arch Druid at Kael-Monjaro, feared that Orcs might attack. Gaethric had been employed just over a month, and Creash knew exactly what he was up to. He would take the full payment for five years' service and leave. With the safety of the town and the monastery as his “mercenary's” bargaining chip, the Arch Druid would concede payment rather than loose the safety. Breaking things and setting fires were just a sort of negotiation tactic.

Chartamnet actually had to face Gaethric down himself in the end. Creash was too far away to hear what their said, but at one point the mercenary actually tried to hit Chartament. The Arch-Druid, though a venerable forty or so years old [Creash doesn't know exactly. He's 39. The “venerable” age category for goblins would begin at 40], the Arch-Druid had very quick reflexes. Druids train not only mind, but spirit and body. That included some study of the unarmed martial arts. It was even possible for a master of such arts to become a druid without even having the gift of magic, although such things were rare. But Chartament was an administrator, not a master. He blocked most of Gaethric's blows, but 'pummel' earned his name and eventually pushed the old man into the mud. Gaethric, however, accepted a 'ransom' of barely a quarter the price he was offered to defend the monastery, so the Arch-Druid must have impressed him in some way.

Why had he bothered to hire mercenaries in the first place? It was just another thing Creash didn't know. The Corsairs had never been exactly family to this place, being more of a competing merchant than a trading partner, but they wouldn't actually attack. Would they? And the Orcs only fought themselves these days, or with Corsairs on far away islands, or with elves, so distantly than no one cared. They wouldn't come here. So that left the local clans, but they were all friends of Bharrak, and most of the elders of Bharrak had children or at cousins here. So, what then, the northern clans would come all the way here? They were even more distant than the orcs and elves. It seemed more likely the old days of elven crop-plagues would return, when water was poison and wheat would not grow, than that Eth would attack way down here.

“Tell me something that you know.” Zephi had said. Creash couldn't tell him even a simple fact, whether it be “twice two is four,” or “the sky is blue,” or “the moon moves through its phases exactly once every month.” If he said any such thing, Zephi contradict it and ask that he prove it. Such things can not be proved. If he chose some more obscure fact, then Zephi would ask 'how do you know,” and laugh when Creash finally came to some underlying assumption. Then Zehpi would say “see, in truth you know nothing.” Creash had played those games before, with other 'lessons.' They weren't fun.

The young goblin was so lost in thought that he didn't notice smoke rising from the Wizard's rock as he approached. When he entered the shrine around it, though, he noticed the fire. The shrine was just a ring of beautiful, arching, white-barked birch trees around a clearing that stood open to heaven. An elf might think nothing of the trees, because though they are sacred to goblins, they would seem pale compared to their elven cousins. The youngest species in an elven forest have been magically groomed for over a thousand years.

For a moment Creash wondered if he'd left his fire going, but of course he hadn't, and it wouldn't be burning now in any case. Maybe it was a sign from the Wizard? But did it mean it the fire was ok, or that he'd erred disastrously?

Aytheur was rather more observant than the goblin, and decided it was rather wiser to conceal himself than meet this one directly. But the goblin boy seemed to be alone, and alone he wasn't much of a threat. He was at least cleaner than the vagabonds who accosted Aytheur the day before, though he wasn't much better dressed. He wore a single garmet, like a long shirt which hung down to his knees. It was an attractive light yellow-orange color, but any idea of the garment having any style to it was lost with the overly massive leather belt that held it in place. There was no craftsmanship to it, it looked like it was ripped directly from the back of some unfortunate cow. The belt was tied, the boy lacked buckle, shoes and hat. Frankly, he seemed to be barely better off than Aytheur in his leafy bandages. Not his idea of civilization. But he was a goblin, after all. Aytheur really began to question what he was doing out here.

Sure, his father told endless stories of his life among the goblins. But Ghaent wasn't actually a goblin by birth. He belonged to the race of trolls, the elder race, which no longer existed in the world except in secret. By magic and by vow he could neither remember nor reveal the place of his birth. Of his life before he was called “wizard,” Ghaent only said “I wandered.” He had been an outsider among those he called his people. Just as Aytheur's mother had been. Aytheur sought out Bharrak, the tribe that adopted, or was adopted by, his father. He just hadn't planned on meeting them in so poor a condition.

Aytheur's left eye had swollen during the course of the morning. It was now forced shut. Clotted blood, mud and leaves tied with their own stalks formed the bulk of his clothing. He tried to change some of them, but any touch caused such pain that Aytheur nearly fell unconscious from it. His walk was a uncomfortable shuffle. Had he reached this place a day earlier, and never met with those thuggish goblins, Aytheur might have turned around at this moment. The stupid creature stared at the fire, memorized. When he noticed Aytheur's approach, the goblin instead stared at him. Reading the creature's face was impossible for the half-elf. But begin so close to a goblin filled him with revulsion.

The goblin addressed him, speaking quickly, “Sorry, I'm sorry, Are you the Wizard? A fire, not mine. When did you come? Sorry you wait. Don't tell?” The words were jumbled, whether though the goblin's confusion or through some change in the manner of language since Ghaent's time. That was, after all, about two generations ago for the goblins.

For his part, Creash did not realize what he was looking at until after he'd stumbled out an apology for starting a fire, which might be a disrespect, and for not being at his post. It would be a great shame on his head if he kept the Wizard waiting. But after his terror passed, he realized what he was looking at. Creash had never seen an elf, but he'd seen an orc once. A merchant. They said elves were like orcs, except littler and without teeth. They also said that elves weren't born, but grew out of seeds in their forests, and that they stood in the sun all day and ate dirt. But the description was accurate enough. It had long hair, a thin, pointy face with a sharp, pointy chin. Its body seemed too thin for its height, and both arms and legs were like those of a starving man. Creash knew at once this must be an elf – and obviously one which had been beat up pretty badly. It was a mass of blood. The innumerable strands that hung from its skull stuck together in cakes. Its body was poulticed with mud and blood, and great lilly-leaves were stuck all over. Aside from that, and some odd leg coverings, the elf was naked. Creash didn't want to make any guesses about its gender, though. Some of the stories he heard about elves made such things pretty confusing.

Aytheur reached the boulder, and nearly collapsed on it. He'd been fine this morning, but everything was more stiff now. Everything hurt more now. The eloquence of greeting from yesterday just wasn't in him. “I want to go to Bharrak, or to a polismar [a word Aytheur intended to mean “settlement.” Creash had never heard it before, but the meaning was clear enough]. I need help. Care. Yoonama [elven word: medicine].”

Aytheur had not tried to speak aloud since he met the thugs. It made him cough. Blood filled his mouth, and he choked, then doubled over and coughed it up. Then the world went black.

Creash was shocked, but not stunned. He took off at a run back to Kael-Monjaro, without even checking to see if the elf was still alive. It had to be a man, he decided, since it looked more like a man and it talked like a man. An elf-man.... But what was it doing here, at the Wizard's stone? Why did it ask for his clan?

Creash was shouting before he reached the monastery, but was hardly more coherent than he had been with Aytheur. “An elf came! To the Wizard's stone. He's dieing, or dead, and he might be the Wizard, and someone beat him, and... Go get Zephi! And Chartamnet! And bandages!”

Kelmartaen, one of the druids, was tending the garden just inside the monastery's wall. The monastery building itself was only one of several, some of stone but most of wood. The entire complex was surrounded by a stone wall in a loose triangular shape. Each corner was fortified with a tower, half again as tall as the wall. The three gates were at the bases of the towers. The whole affair was build up on a rocky island. Long wooden causeways connected the island to the forested marsh to the east. To the west, the forest fell off, as the delta met the sea. At the highest tides, Kael-Monjaro was only a few hundred yards from the water, but presently a wide expanse of brackish mud flats separated it from the sea. The monastery building was an extravagant stone structure, with four floors. The forth was level with the upper parts of the towers, and from its balconies you could see the mountain ranges far to the north and south.

The druid dropped his gardening tools and grabbed Creash as he tried to run by. “Calm down. What's happened?”

“Can an elf be the Wizard?” Creash asked, gasping.

That was arguably the strangest question Kelmartaen had ever heard. The Wizard is a spirit, immortal and powerful. He, or she, since spirits do not have gender, came among the goblins from time to time. They were the Wizard's people, and particularly the clan Bharrak, because the Wizard once married the chief's widow. That was (about) twenty generations ago, but still Bharrak was respected for its special place among the clans. Like any spirit, the Wizard might come back as any body. And the Wizard was the greatest among spirits. The idea of being all powerful is not exactly part of the goblin's belief, but they certainly believed the Wizard could do anything.

“I suppose he might. The elves too much be spirits, no? But don't talk nonsense. Who is hurt?”

"An Elf!” Creash nearly burst with impatience. “He came to the Stone. He's beaten. Might have died!”

Metaphysical problems were put aside. Kelmartaen, like all druids, was a protector of life. And if one elf, badly injured, showed up and asked for help, then he would do his best to preserve life. “Go on, Chartamnet is inside,” Kelmartaen indicated the monastery building. Chartament would probably be in his workspace on the second floor, but Creash knew where to find him. And the lad could probably convince the old man this was important. Kelmartaen wasn't interested in waiting, though. One of the newer wooden buildings served as a hospital. It was built during the plagues thirty years ago because the older stone building was foul with the stench. At present there was no real need for an entire hospital, so it served as a convenient place to store trade goods as well as healing supplies [medicine among goblins has a large spiritual element, but they care for the body in a common sense manner. Don't forget this when you try to describe the place!].

Strangely, Zephaniaz was in the hospital. The aged man sat on a heavy sack of Ktedu nuts [like a coconut in appearance, but with a “fruit” similar to pepper. They are often shipped whole and ground on site as spice, or for medicinal uses.] Zephi said, “The bandages are there. Bring a sling-bed”

Kelmartaen met another druid at the gate, and explain what he was doing. They ran down the causeway together. Inside the monastery, Creash repeated himself for the third time while Arch-Druid Chartament grew more frustrated. The Arch-Druid had been composing a message to the Corsairs. He was trying to decide if he should warn them about Gaethric. If they knew more about the “mercenary” than he did, they would laugh that Chartament was taken in. On the other hand, if they knew nothing, they would appreciate the tip. No ships could sail during the winter months, and overland trade with the Corsairs was every bit as impossible as overland trade with the orcish isles. That meant Chartament's newest news was going on half a year old. There had been rumors that orcs, from the Empire, were expanding their raids, but no more than rumors yet. The spring shearing would happen soon in Bharrak, and they would have bales of wool to ship south. Would the orcs trade? Would they turn their noses and pretend the goblins were not trading partners for the last hundred years? Or would they want to bring Kael-Monjaro under their “Imperial protection?” And without a warband like Gaethric's, he had fewer options. Chartament's mind was on such political matters. He had no interest in giving attention the mad shouting of a boy. Eventually Creash convinced the Arch-Druid that something significant had occurred. Zephi joined them, along with two fifths. They followed the worn path to the Wizard's Stone to see what the lad raved about.

[fifth: druid of the fifth order, rather like a druid-in-training. Presently Chartament has them acting like a town guard. Or redshirts.]

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Novel, Chapter 8.2

2009-04-13T19:47:00.002-05:00

Aytheur awoke before dawn. He was so sore that movement was difficult. The dew had settled cold upon his feet because he could not tuck them beneath the overhang of the great rock. For a while he shivered and tried to sleep, but gave up as the air turned gray with impending morning. When he sat up, the world swayed and Aytheur toppled like a felled tree. If his stomach had any contents, he would have emptied them. As it was, he caughed up only blood.

For the first time the half-elf saw the marshy forest around him. It seemed an even gloomier place in the light than it had in the dark. The trees were far too small here, and looked withered. They seemed just like those goblin thugs, short, ugly and mean. It seemed a great effort to move, let alone collect some manner of fuel, but he managed. It seemed better to move than guess whether he would bleed to death or fall into hypothermic sleep first. “Of course,” Aytheur thought dryly, “by moving at all I choose the bleeding instead.”

Starting the fire was another thing. In his home, it had been dangerously easy to connect with the elements. As a child, he'd done it by accident more than once. On one occasion, Aytheur overhead his father shouting at his mother that his son should never have gained “the curse.” When Ghaent spoke to his son, he called their magical connection to fire a gift. But Ghaent almost never used it anymore. There were so many things Aytheur had never asked him...

Summoning fire in the desert had been an act of terror, and for days afterward his head throbbed from the exertion. The thugs surprised him, but he could have probably done some powerful magic if he had a moment more. Now, hurt as he was, he had no inner reserve to draw a spark from.

Moving a hand to his head caused a new flavor of pain. Aytheur considered naming these types after spices. The one in his ribs was an immense sort, and omni-present. He called it salt. The feeling of trying to move was constant flaming injury, and he named it cayenne. This new pain which afflicted him as he tried to pluck several hairs from his head was more like that of chillies.

Like most elves, Aytheur had long, straight hair. His plan was to string a rudimentary bow and use it with a peg in a nook to start a blaze. Frankly, he had little experience with doing this, he'd never really needed to. This was the method most of the rural elves used to start a new fire, because they prized the ability to live without need of anything beyond the land. City elves used flint and steel, or even the expensive Dwarven firestarters.

To do a proper job of making a bow, you needed a knife to split the ends. At present he was denied that. Similarly, the knife would enable him to chip a point on the friction-stick and bore a half-hole to place it in. By the time Aytheur had manufactured his kit, the sun was up and the air beginning to warm. It seemed more foolish to quit half-way than to have never begun, so he started a fire. It wasn't exactly a merry blaze, but the morning was still chilly for an elf bereft of proper clothing, and it helped. The smell also made Aytheur think of food, and just how long it had been since he'd had a proper meal. He'd already made short trips in the surrounding forest to collect tender and fuel, but now expanded his range. Hopefully, he would find a sign of the settlement that was a bit clearer than a boulder, or at least something to eat. The bow he used for the friction-fire was not the sort that could propel an arrow – if he could even make an arrow. But he might find some fruit-bearing bush or tree. The elven forest literally teemed with such things. Nearly every plant, whether in the root or the fruit or the leaves or the bark, was good for eating or medicine. The greatest were also able to support the high houses of the more noble elves, but even those produced seeds which could be ground to make bread. It was a sad forest indeed these goblins inhabited, to lack such things.

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Novel, chp 8.1, Interlude

2009-04-12T08:57:00.001-05:00

([At one time I planned to tell this story at the beginning of the novel. I decided it made a very boring opening. However, these ancient stories are too important a part of the world to leave out. I definantly want to take occasional breaks in the action to tell the reader something about the ancient world. I'm not sure if I should keep this format, but it should convey the ancientness of the story. The brackets following this are spoken by the “translator” Lycroyon. Yes, that name intentionally connects the name of a Dragon.])

The record of Lycroyon, who touched the tree of memory. There is no known beginning of everything, because no memory remains. The first memories of the grandfathers of the eldest are of a colder world. There were four species in those days, but no cities. Families lived by the spear and by fruit of the land. In those days Dragons came to the world. They came to a remote world [lit. a horizon] which could barely support life as they knew it. The Dragons were not immortal, though some were very old. They sought immortality. Ours was an inhospitable, remote world to withdraw and contemplate.

The Dragons made their home in a great rift valley, and began to fill the air with the poison they breathe. The animals within that valley perished, but some in the valley were more than animals. These, who were eventually named the Troll, made their home outside the Dragon's-air. They had no food, for it was winter.

Dragons are not so different from people. Some believe in the hardness of nature. Some believe in the inevitable ruling of chaos. Some believe in compassion. Tupovinaz first appeared to the Trolls. The Dragons could leave their valley for only a short time, but they helped this tribe survive the winter. Tupovinaz took interest in the world, for these sentient humanoids were unexpected to them [lit. speechless thinkers. Dragon communication was not verbal, nor were they capable of hearing]. Tupovinaz wandered the world, and saw that it held not just one species of humanoid, but three. A race like goblins, the ancestors of the elves and the ancestors of the dwarves.

Tupovinaz told the others, and Royonagaz was greatly interested. They knew of no developed world with three sentient species. Royonagaz desired to observe these three at a distance, over great time, but warned the others not to interact, lest they dispose one race above another. Tupovinaz was not content to watch alone, but desired to see the humanoids exceed their low condition.

To the Trolls Tupovinaz gave suits of flowing stone [lit. skin of water-rock]. In these shells [word refers to the shell of a mollusk] the Trolls ventured inside the Dragon's air. Tupovinaz showed Khiikum [lit. prince] wonders of Dragon's world [lit. horizon]. He taught the Trolls to speak in the tongue of dragons, and to write. Tupovinaz told them to teach his wondrous gifts to all people equally.

Royonagaz told the Trolls of the world. It spins in the void, he said, and beyond the night sky are an infinite infinite [number of similar worlds]. But most are empty. Fortunate was the chaos which caused this world to bear not just one but many sentient lives. Species compete, he told them, and some die while others live. But sentients are very rare among animals. It was as wondrous to him that their world should support three sorts of sentients among so many varieties of life as his own towering homeworld seemed to the Trolls. Royonagaz also taught the Trolls to count, to measure, and to think logically [lit. with exactness].

It is believed that Old-Trolls had a natural magic for the shaping of stone, but it is possible they gained their magic through Tupovinaz. They certainly advanced in skill through him, and through the suits of flowing stone.

Zaethagaz [lit. Tiotan, everywhere] taught the Trolls to build stone upon stone, then the Dragons went away to meditate.

The Old-Trolls were a people driven to the margins of habitable land by stronger or more numerous neighbors. But they learned to make for themselves suits of flowing stone. In those days there were no swords or bows. In the suits of flowing stone, the Trolls could not be hurt. They build a great city. All peoples, troll, elf and dwarf became subject to them. Only a few who wandered remained outside their rule.

The Old-Trolls grew, and built many cities. They ruled without question, but also taught many things to many people. Beyond their lands some of wanderers, clans among both elf and dwarf, built cities also. But the Trolls were jealous of this, and despised rivals. They saw that beyond the city, wanderers were multiplying. These, who had little learning and no magic for fire or stone, they called Goblins. And the Trolls were jealous of these also.

So the Trolls were not content. They set to destroy the cities of their rivals. They knocked one block from another in the dwarves' cities, and leveled them with the ground. Those dwarves who survived dug into the rock so they could not be overcome again.

In those days the Elves build only one city. It was a great metropolis on the plain. They fed gardens with great wells, and kept herds on the grass [these may have been new concepts, possibly introduced by Dragons]. They could not fight the power of the Trolls.

Zaethagaz saw what the Trolls had done in the tens of tens of years and was greatly displeased [this may mean centuries, or it could indicate multiplication, meaning one thousand years]. She came to rescue of the city on the plain. She and the others banished the Old-Trolls, and denied those with the skins of flowing stone to ever leave. Then she warned those that remained to be always in civilization, and went away to meditate.

[Because these stories predate the trees of memory, they are unfortunately inexact. It may be that some of the Old-Trolls grew a new stone-like skin which enabled them to breath Dragon's air because this accompanied other physical changes. The reference to banishment for them, rather than simply denial of their suits, suggests this. However, the rest of the document fits better with the idea that the suits of flowing stone were something that could be worn. The phrase “tens of tens of years” is also strange. It may be that there were not names for large numbers at the time, but other scholars believe that the idea of multiplication did not yet exist. It seems clear that many, many years passed during the Dragon's meditation, because that must have been the entire space of the Old-Troll empire.]

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Writing...

2009-04-11T20:38:00.000-05:00

I've been playing with language lately, and coming to understand the definition of “immensely complex.” Before I started, I knew creating one realistic fictional language is terribly difficult. I set out to create half a dozen in full knowledge that I'll need more before I'm satisfied. Each of my species: Elf, Orc, Dwarf, Goblin has a language. But everyone of those is a spread out people, the Goblins most of all, so each of those languages is really a proto-language from which a family of modern languages evolved by the time of the story. In addition, there's the ancient Troll race, whose runic language serves as a proto-language to each of those. Furthermore, there's the much-separated Troll race, which, if it ever plays a part in the story, needs another language using old-troll as the proto-language but developing separately. “Immensely complex” mean anything yet? My admiration for Tolkien grows by the day. I have to admit that a lot of what I'm doing must be rather like a pale imitation of him. Not a happy thought, actually.

Still, about languages, I've had some fun. Norse runic language isn't too bad, their carvings tend to be pretty distinct. I can identify most characters now, although I don't know the words (or even which strings are words – they're not very good about using spaces). That, and Greek and Latin, are going into a blender along with a box of crayons and a ruler to make old troll. For elven, which I perceive had a root language even before contact with old trolls &c., I basically turned some Arabic text sideways, closed my eyes, and made some characters. The result, while odd looking, gave me the beginning of some symbols.

These symbols, these letters, don't mean anything by themselves. I've begun study of the International Phonetic Alphabet, and discovered that English is a truly remarkable language. We don't actually have 5 vowels and sometimes y, but by pronunciation we have something like fourteen (sixteen if you count Brooklyn). Not only does every character I create need a sound, it needs a name. In reading the IPA book and discovering an extra set of vowels which don't have names, I suddenly have a great respect for “A is for Apple.” Those funny squiggles need names. They need meanings and sounds. And they need to be arranged such that each language fits with the people who'll speak it, but does not exist in a vacuum.

Let me say this much. Everyone gets a phonetic alphabet, with between fifteen and thirty characters, five to ten vowels, and I'm not playing the “vowels are not a letter” game. There's good reason for this, and it goes back to the ancient history of the world. That's the sort of history that I don't know when I'll ever get to tell in the novel, so I think I'll polish a short story and post it as an addendum. Maybe I'll print an appendix or a Silmarillion that nobody will read.

Novel, Chapter 8.1

2009-04-08T01:11:00.000-05:00

Kelph Tou Corsair was no more than a local boy in the Mar of Tuojuht, but the Corsair in his title often made people forget it. His newly finished house might have helped them forget. It had four rooms and a low, decorative wall around it, with a separate stable to keep animals. He'd borrowed the idea of walling in a courtyard from orcish estates, and it caused no small amount of stir. That was okay, it served as a gauge for Toujuht's reaction to the unusual, and Kelph's hometown had passed.

As the youngest child of a proud family with a 'terrible streak of luck,' Kelph left home at the age of five. He'd traveled to Kael-Monjaro, then joined the Corsairs and found fortune's favor. Kelph went from cabin boy on a wide-hull Ketch to cargo master in one run, after he displayed a head for numbers. That the previous cargo master had managed to bring the wrath of every orc in Oipanxet down on them might have assisted Kelph's promotion. His predecessor was lucky have the chance to stow away on another ship after he was disowned.

Such was the life of a sailor, great ups and downs. He missed it, but Kelph knew about gambling from his father. “Never tell yourself you make your own luck. The only luck you control is when to walk away.” So Ketch had, with full blessing of the Corsair, moved back to Bharrak. But there were more storm clouds than just those in the sky this day, and promise of greater threat than the rising river. “Refugee” is a word almost unknown to Goblins. Sure, the rare soul like Kelph could seek his fortune, but to abandon home in search of sanctuary? Goblins did that once, in the most ancient times, at the command of the Wizard. Now, the whispers say, a Druid washed away Fuspmar entirely, and with it Eth himself and his host.

Kelph knew better. These people were so afraid of Eth's rule they were rather be landless than remain. But the world was full of incomprehensible things. Like being summoned to the court of Crelocten, the chief of Bharrak. Sure, he'd married Kelph's sister's sister [the goblin way of saying she and Kelph shared only one parent, in this case their mother], but he'd never met the fellow. Kelph would rather see to his estate, keep the landless from becoming squatters. Not turn them away, mind you, but see that if they would stay, they be fair tenants. Instead, he'd be going to Bharrak proper.

Mar of Tuojuht, never “Toujuhtmar,” like the newly founded cities, stands of the north-eastern end of the large valley that is the territory of Bharrak. It straddles a bend in the Swift River than turns to rocky rapids. Here, all trade must be portaged. It was trade bottlenecks like this which made the Corsair their money. Though Kelph had been home less than a year, he had four years of correspondence with the contacts to bring new wealth into the Mar. Of course, if most of that new wealth was his, they'd forgive him so long as he shared.

But politics often spoils the plans of economists. Now there were refugees, packing on to the land which happened to touch the river both above and below the rapids. They would, by his estimation, not consider the increase in trade worth the loss of growing space. So Kelph spent the morning drafting and redrafting a letter to his dwarven friends, asking them to “delay for an indeterminate time,” not “indefinably,” because surely within a few years this “present political strife of the clans will be anviled out.” Kelph would not be digging a canal and building a modern lock to bypass the rapids and take a descent sized ship up stream. Instead, it seems, he would preform some service for the chief. His cousin would then award him some small title and formalize his relationship with Bharrak and its towns. Kelph would rather have been a businessman and landholder than a lord and elder. But such were the fortunes of a sailor. He walked out of the courtyard to meet his guests.

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Novel 7.9

2009-04-02T10:37:00.002-05:00

Nasch watched the High Guard storm the Kliet house from an orchard to the east of the city. Maraesh had taken the rest of the Kliet to rejoin the army in Meiness, but he'd asked Nasch to wait behind. They knew what Ket was about, and the least they could do was keep a watch over him. The storm hit with fantastic fury, actually ripping some of the yearling trees up from the roots. Nerith had his ear to the ground again, but the thunder of so many feet combined with a myrid pounding droplets made him quite deaf. The excursion required to pick out feet from flood was evident in his voice. “I think they've panicked, I can hear lots of running.”

That was enough for Nasch. He did not know much about Druid's magic, but had great respect for Ket. By his estimation, if the storm was still blowing and getting worse, Ket must be alive to control it. And that meant he had the chance for a rescue. Nasch was a strong swimmer, and though this was the worst flood Fuspmar had seen in his memory, it was far from the only one. Krina was with him, along with about a dozen new Kliet, but Tolcten commanded a group of his own.* Nasch handed his bow to Krina, took off his boots, and told her to keep track of the new soldiers.

The rain fell so hard, it might have been hail. It felt like the winter's ice, denied from the land, was deciding to return with vengeance. Nasch kept his sword with him, strapped to his back the same way as Tolcten had done for his run, but didn't need it. By the time he reached Fuspmar, fighting to maintain direction in the current, the city held on soldiers. It did have a great number of people, mostly men, desperately trying to leave, but these paid no attention to one fellow swimming the wrong way. Some decided he might have a good idea, and let the current sweep them downstream.

Nerith shouted a message to Ket, telling him Nasch was coming, he just had to hold on. This left him exhausted, as though the that little magic was a hard day's work. He leaned against a tree while the rain pounded on him, oblivious to the world. Krina ached to go with Nasch. Not that she thought he had a chance of actually saving Ket, she expected he was insane, but it felt wrong to be on the sidelines. While they waited for Nasch to return, a handful of Eth's soldiers came upon them.

The storm was far too fierce for a bow, between wind and rain the arrow could not possibly fly true. But Eth's men were panicked and not expecting a fight, while Krina and her group had been waiting for something like this. Soon the rain was washing blood toward the ever-widening river.

After a full hour's wait, the storm had only grown worse. Nerith could move again, and Krina was more than impatient with Nasch. She shouldn't see Fuspmar, but their little grove was in great danger of being blown away. She ordered the soldiers to withdraw. That had been Nasch's last order, that she should take care of them. And that meant getting back to Meiness. They could circle downstream, pick off loose enemies, and look for friendly survivors, but they'd have to wait for the gale to calm down.

By the next day the waters were already receding. Eth's army had receded with them. It was scattered, mostly to the north and east. The main body of Bharrak's army should be engaging elements of them, while they were disorganized. Krina and her group, Nasch's group, if she could find him, were wading through Fuspmar. They had followed a trail of broken wood that had once been the homes of families she knew. Scattered among the mess were signs that a number of people had survived the flood, and a number hadn't. Krina lost count of the bodies she found, but they found very few of Eth's soldiers alive to add to their number.

When she reached the Polis, the only structure that indicated Fupmar had once been a city, she fully expected to find it lifeless. The ambush room, at the back wall of the main hall, had been broken open. Although it was empty, Krina could almost see the faces she knew among the Fusp who must have died in there. On the second floor, in the small room above the ambush room, she found the men she sought. Ket was bound in place, laying on his back and unconscious. Nasch stood over him. Although it looked like that took about all his strength, he had his sword out.

“You could have shouted something when you came inside!”
“Is that how you thank the group leader who rescued you?”
Nasch embraced her, then fell to the floor, but he wasn't about to let her jest go unanswered. “Assistant group leader.”
“Come, now, you don't want command back after this! Look, you've re-captured the Polis! I'm sure Maresh will promote you now.”
Laughing reminded Nasch he had bruised or broken some ribs in the swim. “fine, they're your's if I'm promoted. Now, go post a guard or something.”

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Novel, 7.8

2009-04-02T10:35:00.001-05:00

Before Eth's army actually arrived, Ket maintained some small illusions of saving Fuspmar, destroying the army, and still surviving. He had wondered whether he should submit to Jinkash for judgment, or flee to the Corsairs and become a Stormcaller, a freelance Druid. He could have fled with the rest of Fuspmar and completed the spell from a distance, but that would be cowardly. He'd be no better than the ancient Sea-Kings to fight an enemy that way. Besides, the timing had to be exact if he would wash away as much of this army as possible. There were soldiers, armed peasants really, dieing all over Fuspmar. And the volunteers from the tribe Fusp who held the Polis with him would not be able to hold off the attackers much longer. Ket should be with them, to make their deaths valuable.

The Fusp earned more than their keep against the poorly organized soldiers from the recruit army. They'd already tried to storm the Polis twice and been beaten back. Now, though, the archers on the roof with him were entirely out of arrows. Ket saw the High Guard, and their General, on the ground below, and realized it would be over soon. He offered them surrender, but apparently the General had yet to guess his plan, because he didn't accept. Not that Ket could have reversed the storm now. A Druid can influence the weather, but not control it. It would run its course now, following the path nature, and the Druid, had designed for it. Ket had no more power to reverse the storm than any normal man shouting at the weather.

The High Guard and their general had no trouble storming the Polis. They were better armored, more disciplined, and the Fusp were reduced to dropping wall stones on them. The rain began, but the Fusp did not even flinch. The first High Guard who poked his head out of the trap door lost it. Someone kicked the separated pair on those below, and from the sounds of it the head was crushed under some other High Guard's foot. The next High Guard had a shield above his head, and once he was up, more followed. Although Druids, by tradition, do not carry weapons, they are practiced in fighting without them. When one of the High Guards rushed Ket, he threw him off the roof. Another Guard dealt him nasty blow to the back of the head with something heavy, and Ket found himself on his knees.

Then the High General reached the lower roof. He was furious. There could be no doubt about Ket's action now. In the short space of the fight for the Polis, the storm had already intensified to nearly gale force, and it blew away huge mats from the thatched upper roof.
The High Guard dragged [drug?] him to a chamber below, oddly the one intended for visiting dignitaries, which Ket had long claimed as his own. They did not waste any time, simply order him to stop the storm. When Ket did not reply right away, the torturer smashed Ket's left hand against the stone floor with his mace. It broke nearly every bone. The torturer explained, “answer quickly now. Ready to stop the storm?”

Ket was not exactly coherent, so his defiance was rather less impressive than he'd imagined. Tears streaked his face. The terrible wind ripped the wide shutter off his window, and the rain camouflaged them. A small place of Ket's mind was grateful for this, but most of his mind was preoccupied with the pain. His mouth, quite unbidden, was repeating “I can't, I can't...”

The High Guard brought his mace down again, this time on Ket's other shoulder. Bones snapped. Ket had endured hunger and thirst. He mastered his body in meditation. He defeated the chaos of his own mind, and then imposed some of that order on the chaotic winds themselves. But for all his training, he had little experience with pain like this. After the High Guard brought his weapon down a third time, shattering his calf below the knee, Ket lost consciousness.

He woke up to discover a new flavor of intense agony. Someone was rolling him down the steep stairs of the Polis. The intense rain was already beginning to flood the room, because there was a small layer of water on the floor. Ket landed face down in it. The cruel Guard laughed, and left him to die. It was poetic, Ket supposed as he lay there, to drown in his own storm. They would tell the story to young druids: do not call disaster on a village, no matter whose village, or you shall die in it.

The Polis was not washed away like so many of the wooden dwellings as the rain became a violent flood. Not that this was much comfort to Ket. He lay on the flagstone floor, numb and mute with pain, as the room slowly filled with water. With all his discipline, forcing himself to breath water proved impossible; his instinct to live proved stronger than his will. Not that it would matter much longer. The Polis' door was ripped away in the current. The new river rose, lifting Ket off the flagstone floor. It gave him a new experience in pain, and threatened to force him unconscious again. It would be merciful, he though, to just let go...
As his head floated away from the floor, Ket thought it heard a voice. Just a whisper, but hoarse and loud, like a player on stage might whisper so the audience could hear. It said, “hang on.”

The Druid listened. The torturer had broken his right hand, left shoulder, and left leg before he passed out. He could still move his right leg, although his spine cried out when he did. Probably falling down the stairs did something to it. But he could move, a little. Ket crawled through the rising water to the ambush wall. There was a great hole in it now, where someone had bashed through. Climbing the ladders inside was as impossible as climbing the steep stair, but the ceiling was solid. Ket spoke to the wind, begging it to remain. As the room filled, when the Polis was completely flooded, he could a pocket of air in the ambush room. A small part in the back of his mind told Ket he was possessed with the strange foolishness of an optimistic man facing certain death. Oddly, he didn't mind.

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Novel, 7.7

2009-04-01T21:36:00.005-05:00

The druid Ket left the meager defenses of Fuspmar to meet with the general of Eth's army. He had worried, while they waited, that the army would not attack in time, or would not attack at all. They might have seen the entire body of Bharrak's army, minus the single tribe Kliet, departing to the south. Or they might have seen the tiny force of volunteer and idiot citizens who remained in Fuspmar and smelled a rat. But here they were. Were there any sun, their gold and steel standards would shine in it. If there were any wind, the countless streamers and plumes which ornamented their helmets and gear would have fluttered. Instead they stood, silent at this distance. Each of them, save the High Guard in the center, bore an expression somewhat between fear and excitement. They were young, born on the outside of a great empire and spoon-fed its rhetoric. Men, yes, but not the sort who think for themselves. Ket pitied them.
He took a position in the center of the battlefield, and waited for the general to approach. He would make Ket sweat there for a minute, to prove his superiority, before approaching. But Ket knew he'd come, because accepting a surrender is always better than a battle, even an easy one.
After a time, two goblins came forward. One of the High Guard, and another from just off center. It was odd, because Eth, unlike Fuspmar, didn't typically keep two generals. They wore stout leather armor that covered their entire bodies, and decorated steel breastplates. Both kept their swords sheathed, and removed their decorated steel helmets (a dwarven design). When they were a few paces away, they stopped, and Ket bowed to them but did not kneel.
He spoke in Northern, “if you come in peace to our humble village, we bid you welcome.”
The General from the High Guard stifled a laugh, but neither replied.
“But if your intention is not peaceful, the tribes of Fuspmar, whom I am representing at their grace, require you to make camp outside the city before continuing your journey.”
The general from the recruits replied, “The armies of Putnmar and of Eth are not accustomed to dealing with druids. Have the Fusp no elders left among them to offer surrender?”
Ket looked at the two generals, and decided the High Guard General must be letting his lieutenant speak, so he addressed the High Guard general directly. “Sir, you can see that we are a peaceful people, and we stand no threat against you. You have seen our lands, emptied before you. We are a lesser clan, and have no tribute to offer. Again, I ask you, if you desire to make war on a wealthy nation, show us your good will and pass us over in peace.”
Ket's careful language was not exactly surrendering. He asked that Fuspmar be considered a nonbelligerent city. There was a sort of custom of such neutral states among the goblins, but it was typically claimed by (and granted to) wealthy trading metropolises or respected religious cites. Were he a higher rank of druid and had more time to prepare, he might have been able to have Fuspmar considered the latter. As it was, he had little hope for the request.
He could not have predicted the rage which his request would be met. The general from the recruits said, “Get out of my way, Druid. This is no monastery. It is a mud hole, not a holy site. Your insult to me will not be forgotten. When we break apart the pathetic village you serve, I am certain my men will be quite unable to tell which of the hovels belongs to Morkatal. It would be a terrible shame if you were in it when it accidentally caught fire.
“Now be gone. Next time you beg mercy, Druid, do it on your knees to the master, not on your feet to the servant. I will ruin this land and every vile peasant who scratches upon it,” he said. Then glanced at the other general and added, “By the orders and might of Eth.”

Ket knew better than to wait around after that. He mentally kicked himself as he ran back to the gate. He told the peasants guarding it, “don't bother trying to hold it now. Get to the Kliet house, or come with me to the polis.” They had been very keen on standing here before, but found themselves inclined to listen now.

There wasn't really a battle for Fuspmar. Tsorx ordered a single volley of arrows as they charged, but did not want to wait for a barrage. Although they had not built much in the way of siege equipment – a dozen felled trees across the entire force – the High Guard broke Fuspmar's puny gate without so much as slowing down. There were three stout wooden buildings, probably tribal houses, which were somewhat defended. The High Guard stormed one of them, receiving a number of minor wounds but no deaths. The various bands of the armies piled into one another trying to storm the rest, or looting the empty homes. In the other tribal houses a number of people surrendered to the recruits. This might have presented a problem, considering the army was a long way from any behind-the-lines camps. But the recruits did not understand southern very well, and after the first time one stabs a sobbing peasant, one tends to stop looking at them very closely for a while.
Neribald stood near the base of the polis. Most of the defenders had emptied most of their quivers, to a surprisingly good effect against the recruits, already. Now they were reduced to throwing bits of masonry and rubble. The druid, or someone with a voice rather like his, shouted from an upper floor, “You are not welcome here, soldiers of Eth. Depart now, without even a surrender, and be forgiven your violence.”
“Surrender yourself, fools, and perhaps you will be spared!” Neribald shouted back. What could this fool be thinking? Were he a druid, there was no way he would stick around to watch a city fall. Loyalty to the people you're assigned is great, so far as it goes, but a Druid's service falls rather short of suicide.

The heavens opened. It felt more like standing beneath a waterfall than being in a rainstorm. At first there was no thunder or lightning, but the rain itself was a pounding rumble almost like thunder. And Nerual understood. “Get that cursed druid!”
The High Guard understood also. Ket's plan was clear enough, knowing that a druid had tried to negotiate for Fuspmar. Somehow the Fusp had bewitched or converted him. The High Guard were a fairly intelligent bunch, so only the most bloodthirsty among them needed to hear Neral add “alive! Capture him,” as they charged at the Polis door.
It was a good building design, a great hall at the bottom, with one 'false' wall at the back. Along that wall was laced with arrow loops from which defenders, who climbed in by the second floor, could inflict some last pain on their adversaries. Most of the archers were novices, though at least they had arrows left. They only got a volley or two before the High Guards plunged bloodied swords into the arrow loops. One clever fellow grabbed the sword as it entered the loop, either with heavy gloved or bloody hands, and took it. The sword's previous owner impudently stuck his arm in after it, and was rewarded by a powerful chop which removed it. The worst wound sustained among the High Guard thus far. Cor, who favored a great iron sledge for just such times, bashed a hole in the wall. One of the dislodged stones much have injured the archer inside, because he was already stunned when Cor dispatched him. Cor returned to his wounded comrade, but loosing an arm above the elbow was grievous. The best he could do was stem the blood, he'd need a healer like Neraul.
But Neraul was concerned with a larger scope at the moment. He saw someone stopped to help the soldier, and gave him no further thought. That cursed Druid was letting loose a flood, and he had to stop it if he could.
The steep, winding stair to the upper floors had already been secured with Neraul reached it. One of the steps, slick with the brains of an unfortunate, nearly tripped him. 'It would have been the most powerful blow that poor fellow inflicted,' Neraul laughed to himself. Combat always gave him a sort of grim humor.
The Polis' roof was reached by an open trap door. Rain poured in at a fantastic rate; the gentle outward slope of the roof was quite insufficient to direct it elsewhere. The druid was on his knees, bleeding from a shallow gash across one cheek. He still looked amazingly defiant, and did not wait for Nerual to speak. “I am Ket.” he said, “once the druid to Rix. I disobey no orders. Here, on Fuspmar, I grant to Eth the rain I once withheld.”
Nerual knew a zealot when he saw one. He cursed to himself. There would be no worthless conversation, no shouting of insults. This Ket had not called any accidental storm, but a true flood. The wind had picked up violently while he climbed the Polis. Now it blew rain sideways, and pieces of thatch ripped loose from overhead.
The Advisor-General felt himself a fool for not realizing it the moment he saw the druid. He had not been in Rix or known Ket, but he was well aware of the province's rebellion. Rix was a mountainous province with long tradition of fighting off invaders. Eth had recently concluded some powerful secret negotiation with Morketal when they cast out his representatives. He used his new authority the Druids to demand the rain be withheld from the worthless territory until they submit to his authority. Then he burned their storehouses, barns, and slaughtered their cattle. He posted armies at the borders of the territory. That was early in the spring, five years ago. Rix held out for nearly two years before starvation set in, although more than a few had been slaughtered in the passes that first winter. By the second winter it was done. Nerual had decided then that Eth was a harder man than he could ever truly call a friend. They remained close, and Nerual never officially disputed the decision. But the business of running an empire took something of viciousness in a man that Nerual did not trust. In truth, it seemed that it put that thing in a man, remembering Eth when he ascended to the throne.
The Druid who did that – or any druid, hadn't they been forced to call a new on in? – and held Eth accountable, would not be swayed by words. Nerual stripped the mantle from him, and used his sword to cut the robe off him, not being too careful what else the blade caught. Just as he ordered the Guard to drag him below and begin the torture, the magic-called storm moved into its next stage. Lightning struck the thatch covering of the Polis's roof.
Nerual hated to be forced into this situation. The Druid be cursed for it! He must have been preparing this flood for at least a month, for it to be weather to be so strong. This Druid, this Ket, must have caused it to be so unseasonably warm as they marched through Meiness. With warm, southern air, he convinced all the snow to melt. It filled the streams which ran by this town, nearly to overflowing already. And Fuspmar was perfect for such a plan. It stood in a valley at the southern edge of a hilly forest. Everything ran downhill toward it. And this dirt was mostly clay, the sticky sort which never quite drained. Curse the Druid! At best, one of the Guard could torture him enough to get him to start reversing it, but there was little chance of that. It was too long in the making for even a group of Druids with powerful magic to reverse in time.
So Nerual ran through the drenching storm. He figured, correctly, that Tsorx would be up in one of the sturdier buildings, going through what treasures the townspeople had left. Yes, left! That was why there had been no battle. No more than a token resistance to lure them in. Oh, but no one would expect treachery from a Druid!
Tsorx proved more difficult to convince than he should have been. A fool to the end, he was still convinced he should personally punish the Druid for insulting him, but talking directly to his “subordinate.” Nerual, as that “subordinate,” was the wrong person to convince him to evacuate Fuspmar. Nerual dragged the other leader outside, where lighting repeatedly stuck the ground. Fortunately for them, exact control over a force of nature is not really possible, even for the most advanced Druid. Ket could convince the winds to blow in a general direction for a time, and he might charge the clouds above with the power of lightning, but he could no more aim a bolt than convince the tide to flow the wrong way. If it could, he might have stuck himself first, because the High Guard wasted no time in inflicting pain.
The smaller huts washed away first. The palisade to the south, downhill, became a dam that trapped flowing debris. As the refuse piled up, Fuspmar rapidly turned into a lake. There was no dramatic wall of water, but in the space of half an hour the convergence of the creeks backup the valley half a kilometer. Below that point, a single vast torrent engulfed the entirety of Fuspmar. The High Guard knew what they were about. When it was obvious Ket would, and could, do nothing, they marched off smartly to the east. They did not even bother to end the Druid's life easily. Instead, they tied up to the ground floor of the Polis to let him drown.
In the absence of orders, a good number of the Expedition followed the example of the High Guard, although with less precision. By the time Nerual convinced Tsorx it was time to go, they were forced to fight the rising water. Some five hundred of Eth's expeditionary were caught the same way, or worse. To swim such flood was impossible – the bank receded faster than you could approach, even if the waves were perfectly still. In the space of an hour, Fuspmar, its battlefield, its defenders and its captors, were at the bottom of the widest river in the South.

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Novel, 7.6

2009-04-01T21:35:00.001-05:00

It hardly counts as an attack at dawn when there's a hike of ten kilometers to make first, but at least Tsorx finally got the men moving. The pre-dawn mist gave Advisor-General Neribald just enough light to review the troops. Six tribes of three hundred fifty fighting men each, not of any necessary relation, began the march through Meiness. Some nineteen hundred joined the ranks now. The rest were called casualties of the Fusp's raids, although the odds were most of the 'casualties' were desertions, hidden by their friends. Still, to loose only two hundred, one tenth, on a march like that was acceptable.

It was nearly noon, but still dark with heavy clouds and damp, by the time the army reached the gates of Fuspmar. “Gates” was hardly the word for it. The place was nothing more than a open muddy place in a world equally divided between places with trees and mud and places with just the mud. There was a sort of palisade erected, but it did not protect access to the water of the three fat creeks which converged less than a twenty meters Fuspmar. Mostly, it protected huts which were indistinguishable from those outside. There were a a handful of decently strong buildings inside it, however. They had multiple stories and balconies in the southern style, might provide some defense.

From the top of one of these, some fool launched an arrow in the general direction of the army. It fell quite short. “Surely they can't be serious,” Nerual said.

The guard beside Nerual, one of the High Guard named Udmer, bit his tongue to keep from laughing. He'd seen desperate defenses before, but this seemed like a parody of one. Their “wall” looked more like a child's toy; a great line of sticks poked into the mud. Their strange buildings were tall enough to be low towers, but mostly of wood. In the middle of the town, he could make out a squat stone polis, but even that had the fighting-floor built of wood. A place like this wouldn't be a challenge to recruits. Which was good, considering most of the expedition were recruits from the outer territories, including their “general.” Like the rest of the High Guard, he found Tsorx was more ambitious than competent.

Udmer had a bet going with another soldier. He'd placed five ounces [of silver, about a month's pay] that the Fusp would be unprepared for battle, against Cor's five that said Tsorx would embarrass himself more. As the army fell out of march into battle lines, he punched Cor in the small of the back an announced the debt had come due. Cor complained, of course, but it was clear the Fusp were the less battle-worthy. To the High Guard, though, it seemed as a dual between cripples. One of Fuspmar's cripples sent another useless arrow in their direction, with a long white streamer. A single person emerged from the grate of laced branches which served as a gate. He was a middle-aged goblin, hairless like the southerners, and he wore both the robe of the druids and the mantle of a warrior of Bharrak.

Neribald gave an unnecessary order for the men to hold fire – they'd all seen the sign, hadn't they – then justified himself by explaining they should 'remind' the troop around them. The High Guard, as with tradition, had taken a position in the center of the formation.

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Novel, 7.5

2009-04-01T18:34:00.003-05:00

When Aytheur finally came to, the sun was set. The sky had opened up significantly from the day, but the moon was new. Only the stars, brilliant though they were, provided light. First night of the goblin month, and what a beginning. Perhaps it was better he could not see, Aytheur felt like he had been under a felled tree, and actually seeing would probably frighten him unconscious again. He did not feel like he was bleeding, nor was he wet. More than anything, he felt cold.

The elrodore, the elves from outside the cities, were less stringent on the moral necessity of certain types of clothing than the city Aytheur recently came from. Even they would recognize this night, though not cold enough for snow, was far too cold to be disrobed.

Strangely, the bandits he met had left him his pants, though from the smell if it one of them too time to urinate on them. They had taken everything else. To be without goods or money was little hardship for Aytheur, he was raised elrodore. He could make what he needed. … if he could move, at least. Even sitting up and collecting his pants was an undertaking like to building a canopy-mansion. The foreman shouted commands from his head, and his limbs struggled to obey.

Still, Aytheur could walk, after a fashion. He remembered or invented the direction he had seen smoke rising during the day. Why hadn't he guessed those were raiders? Why else would a town be burning?... Any number of reasons, it is true. These were goblins, after all, not known for foresight or carefulness.

Aytheur passed into a marshy forest where the light died entirely. His ears were not clouded [elves, known for their keen senses, have a specific word for “poor or impaired hearing,” which is close to 'clouded' as we use for vision], so he found where the water moved easily enough. It was slightly brackish, and smelled strongly of the plants around it, but clean enough. Aytheur eased himself into the channel. The water was terribly cold. His skin had been nearly numb, but now it awoke and cried out. He must have been a quilt of bruises and cuts...

The half-elf decided to move slowly with the current, remaining in the water. Despite the temperature, which could do him harm soon, it make walking far easier. Swimming remained out of the question. Aytheur bound leafy water-plants, something like lilly pads, on the worst of his injuries with their stems. It was something between clothing and bandages, and not particularly good at either. The swampy forest was alive with small animals, though few insects added to the noise this early. With his new kit, Aytheur felt like some northern variety of crocodile, stalking prey just above the waterline.

The journey quickly wore on Aytheur, and long before he reached any sort of settlement, he found himself entirely exhausted. After a bend in the channel, he saw a place where starlight shown through the canopy. It was set back maybe a hundred fifty meters* from the channel, over soggy-smelling ground. Aytheur crawled as much as walked toward the clearing. It was hard to say exactly what drew him there, but he felt there would be some kind of life in it.

The open space was nothing more than that, but it was strange. The ground was a mess of mud and puddles, but the trees around it seemed to have been cut intentionally. They formed a nearly perfect circle. At the center was a great boulder, white in the moonlight, except for a few patches of dark moss. Aytheur was familiar to the concept of goblin rituals [that is, religion], and attributed this rock to them. He came up to it, half walking, half crawling. One of the spots he had taken for moss had a distinct smell of soot. This was a great sign, someone had a fire going here, a day ago at most.

That was no guarantee they would return to the location soon, of course, but Aytheur had no where near the strength to journey farther tonight. Unfortunately, the coals were quite dead, but at least the rock provided some shelter. One face of it sloped up and away from the ground, like the nose on a blacksmith's anvil. The night was still, and Aytheur huddled into it. He was too exhausted to be bothered with real shelter or attempting a fire. If no one came across him, he could deal with such things in the light. Provided he did not freeze to death while he slept. The last thought which occurred to him was the words of Brent Ricordon, the cousin of T’Ricordon mentioned earlier, a dwarf, who warned his northern wilds class that falling asleep in a blizzard was the surest way to die.

*[that would be a about a hundred of our meters. yes, I've decided the University teaches something like the metric system. For one thing, it's a pain in the ass with description to have no standard of measure. Their measurement is relatively the same, although the meter is probably scaled to a dwarf and thus shorter than ours. Yes, for all it's careful measurement, the distance light in a vacuum travels in one-three-hundred-millionth of a second (1/299 792 458 of a second, technically), the length is really chosen, arbitrary, conveniently. It's just the definition which is precise. No better or worse than a foot, except that you don't have to count to five thousand two hundred eighty to get the the next primary unit.

I figure a dwarf would have an arm reach of a bit less than two english feet, and an arm reach of a bit more than that. Their meter, like ours, would happen to measure something around those lengths. University, being established in close communication with dwarves, adopted their very sensible system of measurement. Elves had their own, ancient system, which I'll assume is used by orcs and learned southern goblins (the new dwarf system is used by Eth).

This is an example of ongoing creation, so any section prior to 7.5 won't have reference to effective measurement. When I go back and apply changes, I can include those details.

Do details like multiple systems of measurement detract or add to the reality of the world? I could just leave it at “meter, foot, stadia, cubit, pound, kilo, pascal,” and assume the values are unchanged. This would let me impart some cultural feeling without having to explain what everything means. What do you think, would that be better? ]

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Novel, Chapter 7.4

2009-03-30T20:20:00.000-05:00

Tolcten's first arrow flew a very high, slow arc. It passed above the canopy level in a small clear space, then turned about so the point came down first. It was an old custom, the first arrow of a battle was not for any target, but an offering to Tupovinaz, the hammer. The immortal of war. In the most ancient legends of the goblins, the immortals were beings of pure magic which walked the earth. They could take the form of a dragon or a man. Had the immortals not steadfastly denied the existence of such a thing as gods, they surely would have been worshiped as such. Instead, they were merely paid the respect deserving of the ideals they embodied. Or something like that. To Tolcten the philosophies were mostly just words. This arrow might have been an offering to the aspect of warfare, but it also served a more direct purpose.

The point struck the damp dirt with a noise somewhere between thunk and squish. One soldier watched it dumbly. Then the trees around the clearing were suddenly alive with arrows. Eth's men were far from prepared for this. Some had their armor slung over their backs. Others wore it, but still had shields slung. They had kept some marching sentries, but Tolcten and Ukan were both quite effective with a knife. Half the dozen or so soldiers were down in the first volley, and the rest fell before they organized any sort of resistance. That left the slaves who were serving as beasts of burden. The Kliet didn't much care to slaughtering them, but taking them captive wasn't exactly an option either. One fool made things easier by pulling the shield and sword off one of the soldiers. Tolcten had to fight back an unbidden memory of Crejuht when the fellow went down. The rest of the slaves had dropped their burdens. Some cowered where they were, and the rest fled down the trail. A couple of the fleeing received arrows in their hindquarters, but Tolcten had no intention of chasing them.

He signaled for the carry group to come forward. These were also Kliet, but they had left their bows behind so they could carry stuff. Tolcten when up to the slaves, and spoke loudly with lots of gestures to tell them to run away. Northern wasn't a completely different language from Southern, but they were fairly widely divergent. The slaves had very little trouble understanding, however. Most took off toward the west – away from both the Kliet and Eth's main camp. Within a few minutes the carry group had selected everything they would use and destroyed everything they couldn't. The Kliet stole away without a single loss.

That evening, Tolcten and Nasch recounted their adventures with the other group leaders. Tolcten had his feet up on a stump as he relaxed in a sling chair clearly destined for a much higher ranking officer. “This is how a war should be,” he said. “What kind of fool is Eth to send an army full of presents on invasion?”

The rhetorical question brought a chorus of laughter from just about everyone. Nasch wasn't laughing, though. “It's not foolishness. The king of six clans and ruler of, what, twenty two now? He's no fool.”

“Oh? What is it, then? They find an orc village in Meiness and pillage it?”
It was all in good humor, and the other group leaders took to Tolcten's ribbing. They all knew about Nasch's little speech about the ghosts of Meiness – the Kliet celebrated them just three days prior. And Nasch didn't feel insulted by the flippance, but he didn't like seeing all the officers get sloppy.

“Are you really such a fool to think Eth's brining you gifts?”
Tolcten snorted. Nasch never could really enjoy a party.
“This isn't a war like ours, Tolcten.”

Of course, this wasn't the right comment to get the officers thinking seriously. “No! We take plunder away from the enemy!”

“How far is Vacumar from here? How far is is Tehmar? Today I saw a a bunch of half-dwarves hauling goods for Eth. They must have been captured clear on the other side of the empire. We couldn't march there in a year! And yet they're done here, hauling salt pork for the invader. What do you think an empire like that wants with Fuspmar? The plunder they can carry off home?

Nasch was getting to them. Another of the Kliet's group leaders spoke up. “Nasch is right, you know. We're not doing enough to stop them. And it's nearly impossible to get a warband to chase us now. This general from Putnmar [yes, the Kliet have some intelligence on Eth's men] bunch is keeping the leash tight...”

Nasch knew where he was going. “We can't take their army out. Not yet, even with the combined army. But that's not the Kliet's job.” Now he found himself addressing all the lower officers, “We're just bleeding 'em. So enjoy your captured wines, but don't let it blur your heads tomorrow. Today we're the thorn bush in the tiger's side, but someday the tiger will get tired of our picking. Then we'll see something of it most of you have never seen.”
Tolcten watched him go. That man really knew how to spoil a good mood.

<<<<<<>>>>>>

Novel, Chapter 7.3

2009-03-30T19:13:00.001-05:00

For the fourth straight day Neruabald found himself guessing at the future's riddles in the smoke patterns rising from the general's tent. Marching through Meiness had been an excellent decision. Eth was right to give Tsorx permission for it, and Nerual, as Neruabald was called under the new system, had supported him. That decision turned torturous in execution. The trackless journey through Meiness forced the columns, normally strictly ordered, into disarray. So now general Tsorx sat and regrouped. And drank.

Officially Nerual served as Tsrox's advisor. In reality, Tsrox was not keep on listening to advice. From the moment his clan, Putnmar, was added to Eth, Tsrox seemed destined for high authority. From his record, he seemed a tactical genius willing to take risks in pursuit of an impressive victory. At present he seemed completely different as he feasted with his officers and drank to the triumph they would surely win.

Worse yet, Tsrox had been careful in denying mounts to the group of Horse Guard, Eth's person favorite. In the forest, he said, the mounts would be worse than useless. He'd been right, but Neruabald though Eth terribly foolish to agree. Not only was he denied the best weapon at his disposal to keep Tsorx from placing himself of Eth, but Neruabald also found himself totally dependent on the army's meager scouts for intelligence.

So here the army sat, on the greening edge of the Fusps' territory, occupying some worthless village and enjoying the benefits the camp could supply. The village was little more than a cluster of hut—that Tsorx and his officers preferred their tent explained the location completely. The men relieved their boredom by terrorizing the few locals who hadn't bothered to leave. There hadn't been many fires yet, but plenty of barns which had a sudden remorse against keeping animals captive. Like most recently freed, the cattle was typically in great danger of being slaughtered.

All the while, raiding parties from the Fusp [Kliet, actually, but Nerual wouldn't know] picked at the stragglers who wandered into camp. They were like flies, constantly buzzing around. Despite his annoyance, Neruabald admitted to himself that Tsorx's current inaction was the best solution. An army like this could not be used to swat flies, they would come all apart in the chase. No, you just had to accept a certain amount of loss, and know the Fusp will have no choice but to come to you when you stand at their gates. Not that Furpmar had gates. That much knowledge they had at the beginning. But all the more reason the Fusp would strike them in the field, before Tsorx was ready. Why must he take so long?

The smoke provided no insight. Neruabald did have some small skill in divination, though he lacked the magical talent needed for the druids to insist he join them. Like any personal magic, he needed something which belonged to the target to focus on. As of yet, Tsorx had been careful about that. The smoke itself, though some passed within the general's lungs and all pass through his space, lacked the magical connection to give much away. Neruabald felt only unease in it. He wondered that that feeling meant. A good general would always be uneasy when his men were exposed In a field of mud that used to be a village. At present, Nerual was doubtful this general was good. So what did the feeling mean?

<<<<<<>>>>>>

A dream of... $100 bills?

2009-03-29T12:11:00.002-05:00

Had an interesting dream this morning. I don't say “last night,” because even though it happened before I woke it, it must have been just before, or I wouldn't have remembered it.

I was helping a high school teacher unload his car. The trunk opened by swinging upwards, I think it was a hatchback. There was a half a wax figure, life size, in there. Extremely realistic. I thought, in the dream, it was a man turned to wax. When I looked at the figure, sort of a waist-up bust, I saw two other things at the same time. The first was the hands of Han Solo, frozen in Carbonite. The second was the figure in Honeywax,by Kiki Smith. I might point out that I saw these two things simultaneously whenever I looked at the wax figure, not that the figure actually looked like either of them – I could see it too, it was a calm pose of some historically important middle-aged guy – but my eyes and brain captured all three images (and feelings) at once.
There were three of us, the professor and some other guy helping me. As we unloaded the sculpture, I noticed a hundred dollar bill and a few pennies on the carpet of the trunk. Of course my natural inclination was to try and pocket the money, but I knew they'd seen it to. I just looked at it. And I realized the penny didn't have Lincoln on it, or the memorial. In fact, it read “1789.” It was marked with a harp, like the Irish coin, although I'm certain it was supposed to be colonial/continental American.
I picked up the hundred dollar bill, immediately realizing it was strange also. It was the same paper-cloth we use, but smaller, the wrong shape, and had none of the same markings. That is, excepting the value. It was also wet. I found this extremely strange, since this would certainly have value rather above the face to a collector.
I'm not quite sure about the conversation which followed, but I know that I concluded this teacher was, in fact, Benjamin Franklin. It also occurred to me that he, being Franklin and still alive, might well have been a good deal older than he was supposed to be. Fantasy, I know, but it is a dream afterall. The other student had left, with the bust I think. I never said “you're Benjamin Franklin!” or anything like it, I just realized it and he knew I had guessed it.
We talked for a while about history. Well, mostly I asked him stuff. I asked him what he thought about the American failure to honor our alliance with Revolutionary France. You know, that treaty he negotiated. The one that is historically credited with winning our Revolutionary War. He answered, “We backed the right horse.”

Novel, Chapter 7.2

2009-03-26T23:24:00.002-05:00

If Aytheur compared the landscape before him to the giant, lush forests of his mother's homeland, he would have called it a barren wasteland. But after wandering through a rain-shadow desert, the rocky hills and coastal cliffs with their sporadic trees barely thrice his height seemed filled with life. For the most part, that life had been of the animal sort so far. In the two days he'd spent walking north along the coast, Aytheur had seen signs of grazing but no real habitation. He followed the ridgelines, staying relatively near the coast, but mainly seeking water. Where there is water, there is settlement, whether in elven lands or elsewhere.

Finding the fresh water he was seeking proved to be more of a surprise than one would expect. The cliffs and drumlins [the word means an unusually steep, low hill. Although it is particular to Ireland, it describes the terrain well. I'll probably have to take space to explain better at some point.] gave way steeply to a marshy river mouth. Thick, black smoke was rising through the trees. The fire must have been relatively new, since the smoke had yet to reach a stable altitude of dispersion. The idea of meeting real, living goblins suddenly became a reality to the young half-elf. Despite the fact he'd set out to meet them, the prospect suddenly filled Aytheur with dread. The fact that smoke looked suspiciously like it belonged to a burning building –perhaps a raid?– only increased his fear. Still, when a small party of goblins caught sight of him and approached, Aytheur swallowed his fear.

In reality, he had good reason to be afraid. The party consisted of about twenty goblins, all men, and covered in a strange assortment of armor and weapons. Most looked like southern goblins, being relatively tall, although shorter than the average elf, with pale olive or grey skin and very little hair. The one in front, and a number of others, seemed to be of the northern type. These wore beards and had great, bushy eyebrows, and their skin tended toward darker gray or muted brownish tones. One even had some thin hair on top his head, but most of these wore hats of helms of one sort or another. The goblins seemed all out of proportion, with heads too large for their bodies and arms both too long and too wide. Most didn't wear armor with much protection for the shoulder or upper arm, so Aytheur could see their bulging, misshapen muscles. Back in Ballea, Aytheur had been the brunt of jokes that compared his relatively round, wide features and comparatively heavy, stocky build with a goblin. The truth is that anyone looks stocky compared with an elf, but these goblins resembled Aytheur in little more than bipedal locomotion.

For his part, Gaethric, the leader of that goblin band, saw a lone wanderer in fine but tattered clothing. He had little experience with elves, but knew from seeing orc slaves who did little or nothing to mutate themselves that elves were tall and sickly thin, with skin so pale as to nearly be white. They were also so frail of body that telling male from female was somewhat difficult, particularly at a distance. The person before Gaethric was probably male, and probably an elf, since no unmutated orc would roam freely. Only a slave went without at least a small tusk, and any slave who escaped would do their best to grow some quickly, so as to claim freedom when they could. But no one would dress a slave in red cloth, or... those leg coverings. Gaethric, commonly known as Krot [meaning 'pummler'], was not known for fasting thinking. When the word did come to him, it was a loanword from dwarven. 'breaches,' he thought. 'The fellow's wearing breaches. That must mean it's a fellow. Dwarfs wouldn't let womenfolk wear those, so neither world elfs [Pummel displayed his reasoning rather well]. Probably an elf too.'

The elf did have a stout staff, and a number of satchels or skins draped around him, but the short red robe he wore over the top was torn, faded and caked with dust. He didn't even have a proper hat, just a thin triangular thing which would probably do no good in the rain. 'Of course, he wouldn't need to,' Gaethric thought, 'it never rains in them lands, they just conjure trees from dry dirt.'

While he was the leader of this mercenary band, there was really no need for Pummel to give orders. Everyone was thinking the same thing. The elf, for his part, must have been too worn out, or too sun-baked stupid to run, because he just watched them approach. When they were closer, the elf called out in a very strange accent, “Hail, good Wizard's folk! I have anxiously sought your company from beyond the tracklessness.”

This was somewhat unexpected, and the men turned to Gaethric. That's the trouble with bein' in charge, you got to make decisions. And deal with what's unexpected.

“Uh. Hello?” he said.

Undaunted, the stranger continued. They were perhaps forty paces away, walking as casually as one can with one hand on a sword hilt. “Pray, friends, what land have I come to? Tell me, is the fair Wizard's country or some land unknown to me?” He was clearly nervous, but didn't seem quite about to run. The questions he posed would have been easy enough to answer. Bharrak wasn't often called 'Wizard's country' anymore, on account of the Wizard deserting them in battle or something, but the old name was not forgotten. Fortunately, the stranger didn't bother to stop speaking long enough for a response to be required. “I can see by your stride you must be noble wretched [oddly, the goblin word for goblin is a rather literal translation from elvish], and without doubt masters of what ever domain you survey. Would you, friends, extend the guestright to a stranger whose blood runs not half different from your own?”

When standing nose-to chest with someone it is generally difficult for the smaller man to be intimidating, but this elf was oozing with fear. Pummel paused a moment, locking the elf's gaze at an uncomfortably low and close position as though he was considering the question.

“Sure!” he said, “guest by rights, whatever.” He punched the elf in a friendly way, just a soft jab to the shoulder. Pummel figured the frail fellow would collapse immediately, like so many sticks bound only with woven grass. The elf bent with the force, but took it rather well. He seemed genuinely pleased when two of the men laid their hands on his shoulders. Perhaps the fool believed he was being accepted. The rest of the men crowded around them.

Aytheur really couldn't be sure if the first blow came from in front or behind. It shouldn't have come at all. He'd said everything right, and Father had taught him the guestright could never be refused. The marshy valley, he knew, marked the river that ran through Bharrak. Of course, those thoughts flew through his mind in the short space between uncomfortable greetings turning into an attack. Really, there was nothing he could do but collapse, and strong arms held him up so even that was denied him. He did manage to knock someone in the knee or groin (he couldn't exactly see where) with his staff, which treated him to his first goblin curse. Battle school was a required course in the university, being that Ballea was still a garrison-state (it was near goblin territory, after all). Aytheur learned something about marching, about using a spear or a sword, and he was already a competent archer. But that sort of training, though it might be useful if he could stand with a phalanx, simply had nothing in common with this. The only thing Aytheur could do was reach inside himself, feeling the earth and his father's magic, and call out the fire.

The thugs laid into Aytheur for just a few seconds, but each punch might have been a knockout blow. Gaethric's men weren't good soldiers. They weren't even much good as mercenaries. But they were extremely good at delivering a beating. Aytheur's last reserve of strength amounted to a sudden burst of flame, just as consciousness faded. It began at his right hand, which was limp at his side, but jumped on to Gaethric's fist as it collided with the elf's jaw. Pummel cried out as his skin blistered, instantly, as though he'd tried to carry cooking coals [that is, the charcoal of high, even heat used by skilled cooks and bakers] on the back of his hand.

But the flame died there, leaving a bit of burned-away skin and a nasty, bleeding blister. The men were less than sympathetic, with the great majority of their comments focusing on the remarkably high pitch of their leader's scream. Pummel offered to set them on fire so everyone might compare tones. The mercenaries, having already made out rather profitably from their short contract with Kael-Monjaro, found very little in the elf's pockets or gear to add to their plunder. They took his robe, seeing as it was once a rather nice piece of linen, (or was that cotton? It seemed far better than normal cloth), and everything Aytheur carried. But it seemed he had only a handful of small coins, not exactly the fabled wealth of the elves. Mostly because they found the garment distasteful, they cut his breaches open but left them.

For several years after the encounter, Aytheur found it difficult to understand why they didn't simply kill him. Perhaps, he guessed, they thought he was dead already. Or, at least, they he would die shortly after the beating. He found it strange, also, that they had only hit him. He realized they were all armed with some kind of weapon, ranging from clubs to long-bladed swords, but none were used. For a while he attributed it to a strange sort of honor, which saw nothing wrong with beating a man to death and robbing him but would not use a blade against him because he did not have one. He was wrong, in point of fact, the explanation was simpler. Gaethric is, at heart, a coward. One, admittedly, who expresses it through acts of violence on those he and overpower, but if there is any chance of his being hurt, he has a tendency to adopt remarkable pacifism. He rarely makes use of the sword because the feeling of power is much stronger for him with a more direct connection. And Aytheur's display of magic, even as a pitiful one, was plenty to scare Pummel. One simply does not attack a troll. It's bad luck. Killing one.. well, you never knew with trolls. Their magic was powerful, who knew what other troll might be watching? He'd met some orcs who were trolls, and even one goblin. They had a tendency to stick together. So Gaethric figured robbing someone who didn't have much worth taking wasn't enough to bring wrath done – at least, it had better not be – but killing his certain would be. And when it came right down to killing someone, if he had to think about it, Gaethric just about always thought up a good reason not to. Besides, they wander into a Corsair city and live like kings for a couple weeks on their 'payment' from Kael-Monjaro.

Novel, Chapter 7.1

2009-03-25T11:49:00.004-05:00

The druidic order is the caretaker of rain for an agricultural people, so they are naturally associated with life. The order developed during a period when the Wizard was with the goblins but they were not at war [this very intentional statement should not be overlooked, but I don't think I should elaborate here]. For the most part the druids peacefully replaced the existing tribal shamans or city priestly class, and adopted the sacred groves and other spiritual places as their own. When the loose druidic group settled down from their conversion period at the end of the age of the Sea-Kings, monasteries such as Kael-Monjaro rose out places teeming with life.

Kael-Monjaro is a vast [in goblins' scale] limestone complex of workspaces, places of meditation and reverence, homes, cells and storehouses that rises out of a swap. It guards the delta of the river swift, which runs through Bharrak from its headwaters near Fuspmar. It is surrounded by territory of the clan Corsair, and though on good relations with them, it is independent. [The monastery actually predates that clan's rise to power by a good number of years]

The legend of Kael-Monjaro's founding says a boy from Bharrak, which was the closest settlement at the time because the swap was uninhabitable, became lost in the swamp. He passed a giant boulder, and after much wandering, returned to it by accident. There, he begged the clouds to part so he might see the high hills through which the river Swift cuts, but they would not move. He begged the north wind to blow, so he might take a course from it, but it was still. He begged the sun to shine brightly so he might discern east or west, but it remained as in a veil of smoke. Finally, he begged the Wizard, who had saved his people before, to show him the way. But the sun set and he made his bed on the rock.

When the boy awoke he saw a trail of fire and smoke in the sky. It was only in the air a moment, but he ran toward it. Later, smoke rose and the boy followed that. Thus, the Wizard sent a mighty sign, and rescued a boy from the swamp. The story goes that the lad went to the Wizard, who was in Bharrak, and devoted his life to the Wizard, and his new order of Druids.

Although the truth of the story is never questioned, the new Monastery of Kael-Monjaro proved a great benefit to Bharrak. By dredging a navigable mouth to the river Swift and establishing a friendly (though not technically colonial) settlement on it, the Wizard's favored clan vastly improved its wealth.

This founding legend seemed rather inglamorous to the half-frozen Creash. He was the second son of Bharrak's elected chief, a goblin of eight years, old enough to be called a man. It was his great duty to keep up a vigil from the third month to the ninth [remember goblin months are measured in lunar cycles of sixteen days. They begin just after the winter solstice, so that would be from about February to May]. He was staying at Kael-Monjaro, but it was his duty for his family and people to keep watch every day at a great rock in the middle of the swamp, just in case the Wizard shows up.

He'd been here for the most of a month already, but today was a special torment because the ice was melting. A swap is a treacherous thing, dense with growth and trapped with bogs. One which is solidly iced over is, in fact, a good deal easier to walk through. But there is nothing worse then when an unusual warm spell thins the ice, and you fall through, face first, into mostly-frozen mud. Creash hoped, at least, he'd killed some hibernating frog or fish down there, or perhaps destroyed the spores of a mosquito. [Creash is somewhat educated in goblin biology, which teaches that insects hatch from spores in the bodies of other insects, rather like ferns. In fact their mosquitoes are egg-laying, essentially the same as ours. This error is forgivable, when one considers the life cycle ascribed to the medieval newt]

Creash coaxed a flame from some damp wood on the only dry surface around, that great boulder that served as a marker of the Wizard's appearance. He was supposed to sit on it as though it was going to hatch anyway, no one would mind a little ash. Eventually the blaze did its work and he turned around to dry his back. He thought about the sort of monsters his 'egg' might hatch into, and stirred a sticky mud puddle with a stick.

It might be a dragon, but of course those aren't around anymore. It would be scary if it were, because they say dragons are very wise, and old Marnatuke is called wise and he's always mean to us (Marnatuke served as a tutor to Creash's family and their friends). It might hatch into an elephant, he thought, and that wouldn't be as scary because the orcs can train them to do tricks and things. As he thought, the stick stirred faster. The mud began rather dense, but as it warmed it was becoming rather more liquid. Lost in thought as he was, the young man did not notice another goblin's approach until he called out.

Creash looked up suddenly, feeling a bit guilty about the fire and because he wasn't keeping good watch. The stick came up with him, along with a healthy dob of mud. To his instant horror, the mud took off flying. The much revered elder Zephaniaz, a resident of Kael-Monjaro, had called out to Creash. He now stood at the other end of the mud's perfect arc. It splattered all over him. His face, his bald head, in his large, pointed ears and all across his simple brown linen robe.

Creash momentarily considered his options. Zephaniaz' eyesight couldn't be that good anymore, maybe he wouldn't know who he was if he ran away now. On the other hand, there was ritual suicide, but he'd have to be quick or the embarrassment would kill him.

He said “Be still,” and Creash gave up all plans of running. Zephaniaz was one of those uniquely gifted people. It was not that he had a way with words or a commanding voice, nor was he of great stature. But he did have a vast presence, and although he used words sparingly, kings and high druids bowed to them.

Partly because he felt bad about it and partly so he could do something, Creash pushed the fire off the boulder into the puddle, where the sticks hissed and died. It was impossible to tell if the elder approved. The boulder was a great granite oval, about waist high for a tall man. Two men could lie on in long ways, and it was wide enough to serve as a bed (albeit a rather stiff one) for a family. Zephaniaz sat on the side opposite Creash. He had cleared the mud from his eyes, but it still streaked his face and clothes.

Creash began to apologize profusely, but Zephaniaz silenced him. “Put the stick down, child, and we'll have a lesson.” Creash was still holding the muddy stick. Being a relatively larger piece of wood, it made pushing the burning bits a good deal easier. Creash was hesitant to follow this command, but the elder just watched him. Creash knew something about lessons. They involved a great deal of sitting still and a fair amount of beating when sitting still was not accomplished. On the other hand, it wasn't worse than hatching this rock. Creash let the stick fall and stood up to go with Zephaniaz.

But the elder did not move. It took Creash a moment to figure out that the lesson was to be held right here. Normally a lesson was held by a tutor in one of the important family's houses. You knew they were important because their houses had more than one room and on winter days they could arrange for their children to learn from a scribe or a druid or a scholarly merchant.

When Creash sat down, and was relatively still, Zephaniaz said, “To train the mind you must discipline the body. You must not be servant of your body, as one of weak mind, but the master. That is the first and most important magic. This is why you must defeat your need for motion, for brightness, for activity. [the goblin word for brightness also means colorful and is sometimes used as a synonym for entertainment]”

Creash watched the floating stick bump lazily into the rim of ice at the puddle's edge. When he looked up and Zephaniaz felt he had his attention again, he continued. “I am here for your sake, child, but also for a greater cause. The spirits whispered to me that you shall be in the midst of great things. They do not speak loudly, but whisper only with purpose. Do you understand me?”

The young man was less astounded than someone should be on receiving a message like that. The whispers of the spirits are a minor element in most goblin religion, but Creash's father was in very active communication with them. In his father's case, they spirits had a tendency to give bad advice, change their minds often, and they were not very good at dice.

“Yes, revered elder, I'll be attentive to you.”

“Good. While I am your teacher, you may call me Zephi or master Zephi, yes. Now, let us begin. Tell me your name.”

This was an odd beginning. He said, in his most formal tone, “I am Creash. The son of Cretornix of the clan Bharrak.”

“Good, Creash. Tell me something that you know.”

“uuuh.”

Fortunately for Creash, a messenger from the monastery chose that moment to splash his arrival. Breathlessly, he told Zephi, “Pummel's. That is, Gaethric. He's quitting. Leaving. Takin' his mercenaries.”

“My earnest apologies, Creash, I must attend to this if I can.” To the Creash's amazement, the old man took off jogging up the trail toward Kael-Monjaro. It was a slow jog, but evidence of far more agility then he ever suspected. The messenger left with him. He was able to catch up, but not without some effort. With that, Creash was left alone again, trying to hatch a rock and figure out how to answer “tell me something you know.”

Novel, Chp 6.5

2009-03-24T14:39:00.001-05:00

On their way back to the Kliet house, Maraesh explained Ket's plan to Nasch.

“It's not exactly genius, but the only reasonable choice” he said. “We can not fight this army on his terms or battlefield, even to defend Fuspmar. And the druid is right, Eth intends to conquer the whole world in the name of 'goblins.' Even if we defeat this army, he can raise another. The year is very young, and time does not press him. To fight them will cost us... by all odds, everything.

“So we don't engage him. We retreat. Run from the bully.” Nasch understood, but he was not required to like it.

Maraesh's laugh felt terribly wrong. The older goblins' features contorted with apparently misplaced mirth. “Good, honorable soldier you are. Tamar would be proud, you're ready to fight without so much as a chance of success. Bull headed about disgrace nor commitment, just like your father. Don't you worry, there's more to this retreat than running from the bully.” Maraesh paused, as though with an idea. When he opened his mouth to continue, a terrible coughing fit shook him for a moment.

When it passed, he continued, a bit more slowly. “I have some-thing special, for you, to do. Do not let, me forget.” Maraesh paused, and recovered a bit more. “Eth's army here is far from home, a detachment, cut off from the main body. They would learn how strong we are, or where we are weakest. What can they get out of Fuspmar, the council wonders, because there is little here an army would want. For Fuspmar to serve as the host city to an invasion, he would have to hack a road through meiness... it would be years to make such an effort.”

“But Eth has the time. His boarders are secure, the people in Eth are passive or loyal, and Bharrak is cut off and not getting any stronger. Could he not hold this city and build his road?”

Maraesh nodded, “Perhaps. The empire Eth is more constrained in time than you imagine, and its king is not patient. Nor will Eth trust us to be idle while he carves an arrow toward our heart. I am sure he will strike with a full army this summer.”

“But if this is not a full army...” Nasch tried to imagine what a full army was. Imagine the confusion created by telling a football player you could not field thirty men at once. Where would you put them all? What could they do? War as he knew it simply did not account for numbers like that. Fifty men, perhaps a hundred, could raid for plunder or seek combat with other raiders.... “This army which marches on us, as many as live in the city of Fuspmar, probably more, is nothing but a Kliet for Eth?”

“Ah!” Maraesh exclaimed, then took a moment to catch his breath. “In one sentence, you learn all our plans. Yes, this is Eth's Kliet. If he fight them at all, and they return home, Eth will learn from them and they will succeed. We simply can not fight them directly, even if we somehow defeat them, we loose.

“But, cousin, you saw there is weakness in size. This army is a city... and like all cities it has needs. A party of fifty might forage from the land, but an army of two thousand.... it must bring its own supply. For that, they must have cattle, and wagons, horses or oxen.

“And I remember the special plan I need you for, Nasch. You, and your Kliet, and indeed the whole Kliet. Our army will avoid Eth, keep from engaging him, and you will fight as you always have. Seek out the greatest and the best plunder, and take it from them. Because that is how they are weakest: in their dependence on their own supply. Even if you burn rather than steal, and do not kill a single soldier, much will be gained. Then Eth's scouts will report to him “we can not find the enemy, but they are depriving us of food. The army grumbles that you do not take care of them, and they wish to return home.”

Now Nasch was catching on. “It is a good plan, General Maraesh, but what of Eth's cavalry? What of his fast-warbands? These could slaughter my Kliet and a fast enough to catch us. We need a way to fight them.”

They talked of possibilities, but only concluded that the marching and the fighting must begin the next morning. Fuspmar would have to be evacuated. The army moved south, away from Eth. And the Kliet would fight this invader as they always fought.

<<<<<<>>>>>>

From: Enchantment

2009-03-24T11:46:00.001-05:00

I called Card a good author for a long time, because Speaker for the Dead was an excellent book, even though Ender's Game and Children of the Mind were only good. And the Shadow series proved better than these. His insight, in some ideas contained in Empire is so reasonable that it terrifies me. But with all those, I assumed they were his best work and did not look at anything else, because they were good but not great. I have only so much time to read, and I'm trying to spend it on the great.
The assumption I made was the most people who read do so with the intelligence to recognize great writing and promote it above the good. I should know better than to believe that, but I did anyway. All I can say is the Enchantment is absolutely the best piece I have ever read within its genera. It is the proof that Card is not a mediocre writer who has clever ideas for stories occasionally writes marvelous things, but is qualified to be named among the best storytellers, he just also writes things which are popular and make money. Aaron said something along these lines to me, although he chose a different book to be his example.
I say these things because the quote I'm posting is good, but it has nothing to do with why the book is great. I'm not posting as evidence of my opinion, because this does not support it at all. I'm posting this for a more personal reason. The context is a scientific, grad-student, son explains to his scientific, doctorate, father that he directly experienced very real magic in the spells-and-enchantments sense of the word.
I'm posting this because I've tried to say that science is a faith before, and though many have agreed, I find these words better than my own to say it. I'm posting this because so many people have wished something like this would be true. It is little wonder that “fairy tales” retain their value and potency today, even if the exact treatment of the subject has changed over the few millennia of recorded human thought. We want to believe, we just don't know what.

from: Orson Scott Card, Enchantment

“Where exactly did I earn this reputation as an unskeptical believer of whatever bullshit comes down the pike? And you, Father, when did you becomes the supreme rationalist, the impartial judge of evidence you haven't even seen? It seem to me that I'm the eyewitness, and you're the one making judgments based soely on your pre-existing faith.”
“Faith in a rational universe, yes.”
“No, Father. You don't have faith in a rational universe. This is a universe where nothing can move faster than the utterly arbitrary speed of 186,000 miles per second, where feathers and rocks fall at the same speed in a vacuum, where a measurable but unexplainable force called gravity binds people to planets and planets to stars, and where a butterfly's wing in China might cause a hurricane in the Caribbean. But you have faith in all this incomprehensible mumbo-jumbo which you don't begin to understand, solely because the priests of the established church of the intellectuals have declared these to be immutable laws and you, being a faithful supplicant at their altar, don't even think to question them.”
“You sound like a convert to a new religion yourself,” said Father dryly.
“Maybe I am. Or maybe I'm the guy who crawled out of the cave, and you're still back inside it, trying to understand the universe by studying shadows on the wall. Well, Father, I've seen things that can only be explained by magic. Now, I guess, I'm really still a closet materialist, because I believe these things all have rational explanations, using principles of nature that are not yet known to us. But what I can't do is close my eyes and pretend that the tings that have happened to me will go away if I just say 'Einstein' five times fast.”
“I was invoking Occam, you'll remember,” said Father.

Why?

2009-03-22T22:43:00.005-05:00

It is strange, to realize how alone I have allowed myself to become. I enjoy, revel in it, in some ways. And it enables me to write, to have time to write. A recluse. But what sort of recluse? Am I just another 20-something no life outside of wow parent's basement guy? Well... technically, yes. God, that's depressing.

Gazelle Instensity. Have to get out of here. Yet it is a cacoon, warm and safe and easy. I'm tired, yes, and not even hungry. Let the world rot. I can see it from here, and there's noting in it worth joining. I'll escape soon enough, just not yet, because I'm tired. And with the words 'not yet,' the tar pit of the soul sucks down the unwary.

The rocks in time compress your flesh to coal, your blood to oil; enrich the soil. Not every body's goal.

Why? Because I am able. That is enough.

Novel, Chp 6.4

2009-03-21T23:01:00.001-05:00

The people of Fuspmar were less than appreciative of the council's decision. One man blamed Bharrak. “We sent our boys to fight with your's, and our tribute to your granaries, but when trouble marches down on us, you grab hold of your belt and run away.” [to hold your own belt is culturally similar to shoving your hands in your pockets.] Another was irate that Fuspmar was thought indefensible. “We have a Polis! We even have a wall, now. The Wizard himself said that was enough... it would be enough for you, if you had but one spine amongst that council.”
Ket heard the complaints. He had heard so many of them before. The people worried about what would become of their homes and their possessions when Eth's army came through. A few were already asking why they should fear the rule of Eth more than Bharrak. A report came in from a village to the north that a Kliet had returned, saying Eth's army was making camp just inside the forest. They could be in Fuspmar in a day. This worried some of the complainers into silence.
That Kliet also reported that it had begun to rain in those forested hills to the north. Taken with that news, many were looking at the sky, which seemed even lower than the day before, and casting questioning looks at the druid.
All these things, the complaints, the worries, the suspicion, Ket could handle. A young man covered his mule-drawn cart with a blanket which would keep out rain, and set his tiny daughter on it. Her words stuck Ket the hardest, out of all of these. She asked her father, “what will happen to us?” It was the simple, obvious, profound question of a child, and neither he nor Ket had a good answer for her.
The western and southern roads became slugs made of cattle and carts, horses and pilgrims [a traveler by foot, although the religious implication is a secondary meaning]. Travel at all is a fearsome thing to most goblins—that's why the merchants of the Corsairs made such profitable business. He was also evacuating, though for different reasons. He packed his belongings to transfer his lodging to the sacred grove, so he might be out of the way at the Polis. He suspected they would soon have need for the 'fighting floor' beyond his purposes of prayer.
By noon the city was nearly deserted. Some would stay behind, and some from the army would make a stand in the Polis and the tribe-towers. They would thin Eth's ranks far at the cost of their lives, and they were instructed to burn the town once it was impossible to hold. Ket had seen captured towns before, and lines of refugees. He knew very well what was coming.

<<<<<<>>>>>>

Novel, Chp 6.3

2009-03-20T18:38:00.001-05:00

The air had been still and quiet for days, and when the a breeze from the west finally picked up, Aytheur suddenly wished it had stayed quiet. It was good, he could suppose, to learn he was off course. Not lost, of course, he had made very careful study of maps and knew where he was. But he wasn't where he intended to be. Even so, the putrid smell of tons upon tons of rotting fish was enough to make him reconsider the virtues of breathing.
He could be off as little as a fifty miles, that's all the farther Bharrak was from the coast. That error would be fine, considering size of the desert, but he guessed he was farther south than that. Aytheur looked out over the south western edge of the world into the setting sun. Although photography was unknown to him, the art of representational landscape painting was not, and he could almost appreciate the aesthetics of the moment. The coast was rocky and at high tide the waves would crash against low, dark shale cliffs. The tide was low at present, exposing a dirty mess of tide pools and sand. A sea monster was rotting there, though it had clearly been dead for some time.
There simply wasn't a better word for the thing than sea monster. Ballea, the city-state nearest to Aytheur's home, was deep inland. Aytheur had been the the great river, but he had never been so near the coast. The sea, until he saw it, was an over sized blue puddle on a map, and it's inhabitants merely legends. Except this legend was quite real and fortunately quite dead.
It had a tale like a fish's, vertical (Aytheur learned about whales, which are like fish but air breathing, with horizontal tails, and he knew they were very large). It was, in height, perhaps so large as four or five men. The thing's body was stretched out, but much longer than that. It did not have a head, but it possessed a great number of necks. It was probable that if the creature had a head, it would have a good number of them. Its upper body swayed disgustingly in the surf, and those parts which were above water were a beehive of activity. Birds of various sorts were slowly tearing the monster apart. Aytheur decided he would find a zoologist... a marine zoologist, surely Cafaria or Romaybath, or one of the other coastal cities, would have some in their employ, if he should ever find himself there.
Prior to the breeze, Aytheur had been feeling hungry, but he was glad now to have eaten little. By dead reckoning, the wandering half-elf decided he probably followed the sun too closely during this journey west. He began to follow the coast north, despite the waning light, because it simply would not do to camp here. When the sun's light finally vanished, perhaps an hour later, Aytheur had to stop. The new moon would not rise for some time, and when it did it would not be enough light to walk be. Fortunately a land breeze hid the smell for now. Another few weeks walking, and he could meet his father's people.

Novel, 6.2

2009-03-20T12:57:00.005-05:00

“So we don't engage him. We retreat. Run from the bully.” Nasch understood, but he was not required to like it.

Maraesh's laugh felt terribly wrong. The older goblins' features contorted with apparently misplaced mirth. “Good, honorable soldier you are. Tamar would be proud, you're ready to fight without so much as a chance of success. Bull headed about disgrace nor commitment, just like your father. Don't you worry, there's more to this retreat than running from the bully.” Maraesh paused, as though with an idea. When he opened his mouth to continue, a terrible coughing fit shook him for a moment.

When it passed, he continued, a bit more slowly. “I have some-thing special, for you, to do. Do not let, me forget.” Maraesh paused, and recovered a bit more. “Eth's army here is far from home, a detachment, cut off from the main body. They would learn how strong we are, or where we are weakest. What can they get out of Fuspmar, the council wonders, because there is little here an army would want. For Fuspmar to serve as the host city to an invasion, he would have to hack a road through meiness... it would be years to make such an effort.”

“But Eth has the time. His boarders are secure, the people in Eth are passive or loyal, and Bharrak is cut off and not getting any stronger. Could he not hold this city and build his road?” Maraesh nodded, “Perhaps. The empire Eth is more constrained in time than you imagine, and its king is not patient. Nor will Eth trust us to be idle while he carves an arrow toward our heart. I am sure he will strike with a full army this summer.”

“But if this is not a full army...” Nasch tried to imagine what a full army was. Imagine the confusion created by telling a football player you could not field thirty men at once. Where would you put them all? What could they do? War as he knew it simply did not account for numbers like that. Fifty men, perhaps a hundred, could raid for plunder or seek combat with other raiders.... “This army which marches on us, as many as live in the city of Fuspmar, probably more, is nothing but a Kliet for Eth?”

“Ah!” Maraesh exclaimed, then took a moment to catch his breath. “In one sentence, you learn all our plans. Yes, this is Eth's Kliet. If he fight them at all, and they return home, Eth will learn from them and they will succeed. We simply can not fight them directly, even if we somehow defeat them, we loose.

“But, cousin, you saw there is weakness in size. This army is a city... and like all cities it has needs. A party of fifty might forage from the land, but an army of two thousand.... it must bring its own supply. For that, they must have cattle, and wagons, horses or oxen.

“And I remember the special plan I need you for, Nasch. You, and your Kliet, and indeed the whole Kliet. Our army will avoid Eth, keep from engaging him, and you will fight as you always have. Seek out the greatest and the best plunder, and take it from them. Because that is how they are weakest: in their dependence on their own supply. Even if you burn rather than steal, and do not kill a single soldier, much will be gained. Then Eth's scouts will report to him “we can not find the enemy, but they are depriving us of food. The army grumbles that you do not take care of them, and they wish to return home.”

Now Nasch was catching on. “It is a good plan, General Maraesh, but what of Eth's cavalry? What of his fast-warbands? These could slaughter my Kliet and a fast enough to catch us. We need a way to fight them.”

They talked of possibilities, but only concluded that the marching and the fighting must begin the next morning. Fuspmar would have to be evacuated. The army moved south, away from Eth. And the Kliet would fight this invader as they always fought.

<<<<<<>>>>>>

Novel Chapter 6.1

2009-03-20T09:01:00.001-05:00

In the middle of the night, Ket, on his authority as a druid, asked the council to reconvene. Strangely, Nasch was invited by the messenger who informed general Maraesh. The sky seemed low and the air unnaturally warm as the cousins from Kliet asked the guards to forget their departure. Ket was dressed in the traditional fur mantle and leather coat of the druid, although he perferred modern linens or woolen clothing. It gave him an authoritative presence in the shadow. The Kliet joined the generals from Fuspmar's other tribes during the short walk outside the city proper to the sacred grove.
Every goblin settlement, without regard to size, requires two things. The first being a supply of fresh water, which serves a practical purpose, and the second being a grove they could deem sacred. Some druids preferred to do their work there, and some went so far as to live permanently adjacent to the grove rather than in the town or city which employed them. Fuspmar's grove stood at the edge of a thin snow-melt creek, one of three that passed joined near the city. It was a simple cluster of white-bark birch in a forest darker trees, but even a stranger could feel the closeness of the spirit world there.
The worship of spirits in places like this grove is far more ancient than Morketal, but the modern druidic order owes much to its ancient counterpart. It was, in some ways, a symbol of Ket's authority. Most druids prefer to prefrom their rituals in groves like this, and some made their dwelling in adjacent patches of forest. To Nasch, though, the feeling was not of a representative of the order imparting wisdom to those he was sent to serve. It felt more like a conspirator, arranging support for a coup. [it is interesting to note that the idea of a coup d'etat is far more firmly established in the mind of most goblins than the idea of conspired crime.]
Ket only confirmed this by weakly explaining their absence. “I did not know where to find the leaders of the other clans,” he said. “And I thought it best not to disturb our guests' sleep.”
Apparently Nasch was not alone in this feeling. A man of the Ashnujhet tribe, who he knew only by appearance, spoke up. “My respects to you, druid, but this meeting is very odd. You have been silent at the council, and often absent, since we received word of Eth's coming. Why now, when his army is probably at our doorstep, do you summon us here?”
   All the while he spoke, Tacjorn, slowly stepped closer and closer to Ket. Nasch had good reason to remember Tacjorn's appearance. He was about the size of a bear, not so differently shaped, and wore a short, bristly beard. That alone identified as having some of the northern stock of goblin in him. He did keep his head bald, like a southerner, but Nasch found made him all the more intimidating. Ket stood his ground, but soon Tacjorn towered over him. “I am certain, druid, that you have a very good reason for this. I have no doubt you will enlighten us completely.” The last phrase carried more weight than the words imply, but Ket was not cowed. At least, no more than anyone would be, craning his neck backward to maintain eye contact with Tacjorn.
“The council is stuck in an impossible position. Fuspmar, except for it's forest, is entirely indefensible. I will suggest to you, soon, to do something very hard. But before I do, please allow me to enlighten you, as you have asked.”
“The Wizard has always appeared when our people need him most, and I need tell none of you of that first appearance. When we were in bondage, slaves in the fields above the dwarves, the Wizard came among us and led many of our people to freedom. To our own land. The dwarves have no magic of their own, and neither stone nor steel could stop the Wizard. Nor do I need to remind you of the great civil war which tore their plateau, and the endless city beneath it, apart for most of this last generation. You might already know that gave Eth's father the edge he needed to rise among the northern clans to the position he presently holds. Some of you have even heard the rhetoric of that dwarven civil war, that some claimed all men should be treated equally, and many joined them for the noble sentiment. Now Eth uses that word, equality, but he makes it a stench, because all men are equal to him: noble or ignoble, able or unable, honorable or dishonorable, except in loyalty to him. He has turned dwarven words into chains to bind clans to him.
“You,” for a moment, Ket spoke directly to Nasch, “told me you will fight Eth because he brings an army onto your ground. That is reason enough, I know, but none of you can know, as I do, the great need to stand against Eth, because only I have lived in Rix. I know why they starved.
“Eth has made Goblin into a word of unity. “We are one race,” he says, “equal and undivided,” but he would unite us with a dwarven sword, under the banned of a dwarven philosophy. All the while he despises the Wizard, claiming that every goblin should learn magic, freely, as he has.
“You wonder why my order has done nothing.” Ket seemed to deflate. “So do I. I am bound by the rules of my order, and I will not give you council in war. Nor can I tell you what you must do. But when you sit in the chamber tomorrow, and you see that I am absent, remember my words.
   “I have told you some things you know, and now some things you did not know. Eth is returning us, all of us, to slavery. Only rather than a hundred cities of the dwarves – or a single vast city, as it is now – he would be the sole beneficiary of the labors of all the Wizard's people. The chains he would bind us are dwarven forged, but though the Wizard is not among us now, we have already been freed. Let us not be bound again.”

Silence returned after Ket stopped speaking. The wind blew. A far away owl called out. More than one pair of eyes went to Tacjorn, asking him if he would continue to question Ket now. It was clear he would not, but Nasch felt like there was something missing still.
   “Ket,” Nach said, “you said our position was impossible, and then you say we must succeed. Can you...” Nasch wanted to say, 'give us a hint, perhaps? Something to go on? Must you be so bound of the rules of the order?' But he did not. He was heard just the same.
“I can not. I can only tell you what you know. You know that Fuspmar can't be held. You know that these three creeks converge to the south of the city, and you know why it was set back so far from their shallow banks. You know that Eth's army will come, very soon, to take the city. You know enough, if only you can make the hard decision.”
   Nasch is a fine tactician, but the strategy here eluded him. Whatever Ket saw, he would not say. Curse his order and their non-intervention. The Corsairs were the same way. Their merchant and his bodyguard took what wares they had not yet sold and left for the coast at the first word of trouble. Eth would come for the whole clan soon enough, and they had more than enough army to meet him in force – equal to his entire empire, not just this puny expedition. But they did not fight.
Maraesh put his hand on Nasch's shoulder, to lead him away. They had all brought long cloaks, but the night was so warm they were not needed, so Nasch had removed his. Maraesh's fingers were suddenly cold, and Nasch jumped at the touch. Something in his cousin's face told Nasch that he understood Ket's idea.
'I suppose that's why he's the general,' Nasch thought, as they walked back to the Kliet house in silence. The generals from Fusp and Ashnujhet, each with a relative, returned their separate ways, but Ket remained in the clearing. He was not stormcalling, just standing perfectly still. Nasch turned around as they left the forest, and thought he saw Ket fall to his knees, like someone begging, but instantly his vision was obscured again so he could not be certain.
   Ket's speech raised more questions than answers, and Nasch found the Kliet house stuffy and sleep difficult, but he was weary and it eventually came.

<<<<<<>>>>>>

Lyrics

2009-03-18T19:22:00.004-05:00

On the Other Side - Kansas (Monolith)
The empty page before me now
The pen is in my hand
The words don't come so easy
But I'm tryin'
I'm searching for a melody or some forgotten line
They can slip away from us so quickly
Don't be unkind
I'm not complaining
I only feel
It needs explaining
And though I've said it
All before I
Say it once again
Everyone needs something
To believe in
So turn around
Turn around
It's on the other side
Feel the sound
Feel the sound
It's comin' from deep inside
It will fill you with emotion if you
Let it be your guide
...

Us of Lesser Gods - Flogging Molly (Float)

There's a breeze that's blowin' in from the land
Instead of salt air all we breathe in is sand
Crippled the cloud that once brought the rain
Good job now we'll never see our coasts again

(Chorus)But those of us, those of us
Us of lesser gods
Won't eat till we're hungry
Won't drink till we're parched
But those of us, those of us
Who forget where we're from
Create now this hell where no devil could spawn
Take me back, take me back
To the way life used to be

A whisper's now sayin'
What words used to speak
Starve must the child, hungry sex on tv
For no act of contrition
Will pardon the soul
The damage now glistens
See how it glows

(Chorus)

Yesterday is better that it is today
And today will be better than tomorrow they say
We don't want what you know
But we know what we want
That's live and let live
We're all different that counts

(Chorus)

Dark is the shallow man
Proud without pride
Worn out comes the welcome
From a truth that never lies
Weep now for the tear
Cold on the face
So come down from your heaven lord
Let me show you hell on earth
Take me back
To the way life's never been

... Yeah, I kinda just picked a song on Float, because I've played that album a lot lately. Not exactly on loop, but as close to that as I get. It was hard to pick just one lyric, because it's really the feeling of the song, not the words. With Kansas, it's just a handful of the words which fit.

You should see the video
. Well, a video, anyway, because it's good.

Novel, Chp 5.4

2009-03-17T14:52:00.006-05:00

The courtyard behind the Kliet house was one great shadow. During the day it had been crowded, sixty or so soldiers at a time sparring and practicing, with more scattered about, sharpening swords, mending armor and making arrows. A good number took 'resting breaks' to help the residents of Fuspmar build their wall. The Kliet house was a great wooden building, the ground floor was a huge hall in the traditional goblin design, and the second floor served as half as barracks and half as officers' quarters. The floor above that was partially covered, but open to the air, and it served as a watch tower of sorts. The structure was built for a standard group of about fifty, and nearly three times that number now resided in the hall or the rooms above. Kliet, young and old, trained and half-trained, were pouring in to join up. There hadn't been a war like this in several generations and no one wanted to miss it, even if they'd never been in an army. Some of them weren't even related to the tribe, but were aliens or were rejected for service by their own army group and figured the Kliet, being somewhat irregular, might have them. To Krina, the air inside seemed filled with inappropriate excitement.

The axe was little more than a shadow itself as it hung in the air for a fraction of a second. A small, bright steel head with a long bearded blade caught an errant beam of light from the open door of the Kliet house, then the light shut off and the axe fell with a clunk. If she had her way, this dummy would be split in half, neck and left shoulder from torso, before the clan was out practicing tomorrow. They wouldn't mind, and she needed the practice. This long-handled thing is a weapon well suited to open fields. It could sweep a man off a horse, and it could keep a shortsword out of reach. Krina, like most Kliet, preferred to fight with bow from cover. If they did enter a melee, the Kliet normally chose to get as close as possible and take their enemy apart with short swords or knives, but this was largely dictated by the need of a scout to travel light. The Kliet simply couldn't use a shield, a halberd or a long sword, most of the time. But this would probably be a different sort of battle. The generals seemed to prefer to reinforce Fuspmar and fight Eth in the open. She didn't like it. But she could be ready. She would rather be busy now, and that was a plenty good excuse.

Nasch watched Krina extract the axe from the dummy's shoulder beam. A hit like that would probably dent shoulder armor, maybe pierce it, if it were leather. But she was a master with the bow and putting her on the line like that would be a crime, no matter how good she was. Besides, she swung that thing so obviously, anyone with half a brain could move out of the way.

“You're better with a bow,” he said. She didn't react, but plainly she'd known he was there. Nasch went on, “Your shot back there, taking out the warband's leader. It probably saved all our lives.” He paused again, and she swung again. Chopping wood, but this blow landed perfectly at the dummy's neck. She had a bit of a time prying it loose, but Nasch knew better than to offer help. “We were in a mighty tight spot, and you did well. You were solid. I owe you one, Krina, and with your skills, you might just be commander to me one of these days.”

She finally turned to him. She didn't exactly want to be alone, and she certainly wanted nothing to do with the jubilant crowd inside,* but she didn't really want to talk about what bothered her most, either. Third most, then, (and maybe work her way up, she avoided telling herself). “We didn't even go back for their bodies, sir. Just let 'em lie.”

“The warband will look after them. They'll want to know if they carried anything interesting, and they'll look after the dead as a courtesy. Eth may be cruel, greedy and aggressive, but he's civilized. He'll honor the valiant dead.” Nasch had no doubts, there. A soldier always wants to know the stuff he leaves behind wouldn't be abused. That was a rule no one broke. 'not yet, at least,' a rebellious thought suggested, but from Ket's speech about Eth, he might just break that rule too.'

Krina turned back to the dummy. Perhaps she'd satisfied his curiosity and he'd leave her alone.
No such luck.

“Tamar was a good fighter, and a good friend. After this is done, the whole Kliet will honor her as the first to fight and the first to fall in this war. Tough as she is, she's probably being born out there right now, trying to get back into this fight before it's over.”

Krina swung. Her hands were in a different place on the shaft now, and only tip of the axe impacted the dummy. But it did land right on it's neck. “What about Crejuht? Will his spirit be respected? Will Eth's warband honor him?”

“Yeah,” Nasch said, nearly calling her 'honey,' but catching himself before the word slipped out. “He wasn't a good soldier, and they know he was scared stupid. But he ran toward the enemy. Not away. It got him killed,” (and I couldn't stop him. I was too slow...), “but he'll be honored. These things are important.”

That kinda helped Krina with problem two. Set her mind a ease, a bit. Nasch was a good commander, really. He knew what to say to pull people together, but he wouldn't lie to you. She trusted him. And his plan had been good. The best they could come up with, and it had worked. Mostly. But that wasn't what bothered her the most. Now she wanted to admit it, even if she had to approach it sideways.

“It wasn't what I expected,” Krina said. “The fight, I mean. It must have been incredibly fast, but it seemed like hours....” Nasch just listened. “It was... ugly. Dirty. I don't know what I expected, but this was... stupid. Foolish. And people died.

“They don't talk about that, much. It's the heroism in the stories. The winners, the great acts. But fighting wasn't really like that...”

Nasch had already guessed why she was out here. The trouble she volunteered was conformation. He shrugged in the direction of the Kliet house, and though she wasn't looking at him, the gesture was felt. “It's no disrespect to be a bit rowdy after a battle. Or before one. And everyone,” (them, yes, and you also), “will be ready for this fight when it comes.”

She didn't say anything, but Nasch sensed something was still wrong. Krina was a tall girl, and the long axe didn't look over-large standing on end beside her. It was too dark to see her face clearly, but Nasch wasn't about to walk off until she unloaded a little. These three were his own children. That's how a commander should be. Orders pass downhill, and burdens pass uphill. Spirits save the generals. When it came, they both spoke at once.

“What's...”

“Will...”

Nasch stopped, and Krina started over, very quietly. “I liked it.”

Nasch didn't scream or shout or pat her back, she almost wondered if he'd heard her. “It was terrible and sacred shitless, and confused and rather near death. And I've never felt so alive. That's what scares me most. I liked it. I'm good at it.” She shivered a little. It was colder now than the last few days, even in Meiness, but that wasn't why she shivered. “They were people, I know, and I just stuck arrows in them. That commander... he was your age. Probably had a family. Defiantly some kind of noble, so he had friends. And he was scared of fighting too. Kept his head down until the right moment to charge, but he didn't see me, and I put an arrow in his eye. Right through his eye.

“You don't recover from something like that. It wasn't a glancing shot, right into his head. It went squish.... And I felt joyous....”

She was't a soldier anymore. Suddenly, she was hurt, scared girl, who wasn't quite as grown up or as tough as she thought she was, and Nasch pulled her to him. He was almost exactly her height, though much broader, and she had to curl up a little to lay her head on his shoulder.

And in another moment, she was a soldier again. That was her secret, she burden, and she passed it. He'd never speak of it. Wouldn't really need to.

Nasch knew that too. “You're not alone in that. Everyone likes a good fight. And a lot of fighters really live for it. Killing is nasty business, an art of death, but it is an art. Tamar was like that.”

“She was?”

“Yeah. Yeah, she was. She didn't talk much about it, but that's how she was. She was a perfect warrior, except maybe too self-reliant. (a) good soldier.”

“You think she'll be back soon?”

“I'm sure of it. Maybe he spirit is here now, with you. You came awake** when she was dieing...”

They were silent a little longer. Then it was, “Thank you, sir.” and “good night.” The dummy got to keep his head a little longer.

* [Yes, I know I'm describing their mood differently. Two things are at work here: first off, she's been out here for a long time and the party's wound down a bit since sunset. Also, her mood reflects colors her perception, just as Nasch's does. I'm change narration perspective constantly, but I tend to hang over the shoulder of one character at a time, so their thinking provides some of the 'facts' of narration.]
**[part of the idea of reincarnation which goblins believe in is realization of who one is. Or was. Tense works strangely when dealing with the past and present simultaneously. This is to “come awake.” Some philosophies suggest this is the moment when a body and it's “inherent” spirit is imprinted with “permanent” spirit, which the inherent spirit becomes a member of. The permanent spirit reaches completion when enough inherent spirits join it. This concept is not universally agreed on, but does fit the same basic pattern of thought of most goblins. I have not yet decided which goblins or groups ascribe to this interpretation, but it isn't all that significant. Nasch has heard of it, at least, and he might believe it.]

Novel, Chp 5.3

2009-03-17T09:24:00.001-05:00

In truth, Ket had made his decision days ago. Tonight, with the new moon, a new month would begin, and that always increased the power in magic. Tomorrow would be the Wizard's day.* This was the time for the honorable rebel to speak out, but Ket would hold his tongue a while longer. No one questioned him when he made his way to the platform at the top of the polis. A druid often went up there to preform rituals which would ensure good weather. Well, improve the chances of good weather, the earth is a big and strong place, and though many men, well coordinated could do great things, there were limits. For someone to do what Ket was doing could be very difficult, but it was certainly not impossible. The sea-kings had conducted war this way. So did Eth.
Ket stood the flat top of the polis, a wooden roof with high, wooden battlements which were mostly there because that's the way a polis ought to look, rather than any intent to protect a soldier. The air was still and the clouds already low. He'd begun the chant days ago, and the clouds began to build. With the message from Jinkash, though he would probably never read it's exact words, he began to work in earnest. Ket took the rune-inscribed stones from their satchel and laid them out in the proper patten. These were unusual rocks, collected in the volcanic southern islands specifically for their unusual property of being quite full of air. They were soft, tended to be shard, and difficult to carve, but they let one write troll-runes in air, which was notoriously difficult to do. Some preferred to use a smoking stick, but Ket found the stones superior.
He filled the basin in the center of the roof with water. The sun would set soon. Before he began the dance, Ket watched the townspeople planting their stakes. Any other year they would tilling fields, maybe even planting a first crop (to try and get two in) if he could promise the weather would hold. Instead they planted pointy dead trees. Down below the generals argued. Nasch was down there, pleading with his cousin to act. And Eth himself wasn't here, which meant whatever general led the army was just a man, protected, probably, by his master's magic but without any of his own.
The generals would unite when they had to. Bharrak was strong enough for that. Either they'd agree or the people would banish the lot of them and let someone else do the job. And Ket would give the defenders the edge they would need to win this fight.
He began to dance. Silently at first, and slowly, but as the light faded his pace quickened and he began to sing. It was a haunting tune, using only a handful of words, some southern (that is, the language of southern goblins), some old-troll. At his will, the wind lifted the words. Ket would continue until near midnight, and return every day until Eth's army arrived, but there was no question if it would work or not. Even if Jinkash realized his plan and tried, with the whole order, to stop him, they were too far away and Ket already too far along to be held back.
It occurred to Ket that Eth might try again – perhaps even this summer – were he to be stooped this time. But he couldn't help that now. Bharrak would have to prepare for the next battle after they won this one. Ket could only make certain they won this time.

[The goblin year is mostly lunar, beginning with the first new moon after the winter solstice. Each month is based on the fifteen and a half day orbit of the moon, with the last day used to cut off to make things fit. With a month of only sixteen days, the subdivision of week was hardly necessary. Instead, each day had a name, chosen from ancient history which blended into myth. The Dragons, a highly powerful, long-lived but mortal species which came to the earth before there was history, were atheists. They were powerful in magic and knowledge, and their belief crushed the idea of all-powerful gods early on. But goblins believe that mortal are bodies that hold spirits, and over many lifetimes a spirit could become great through strength of character. This meant Moral, spiritual, physical and magic discipline, control and power. These were great people on earth, and their spirits were great in the world of spirits. They weren't gods exactly, but nearly-deified people. Something like enlightenment granting entrance to Valhalla. Every clan claimed some such spirit as their own, and the whole goblin world accepted the Wizard as great among them. That's why his day was the first of the month. And Bharrak claimed a special relationship with the Wizard, which made Harrakyote [wizard's day] special for them. One could consider this calendar and relationship not so different from our own, because our week is dedicated to the sun, the moon, to Tyr and Woden, to Thor and Ferya, and to Saturn. Though these names mean almost nothing to us, they were once gods and kings over gods. Even with powerful religions sweeping through our world, those old names remained acceptable. Christ, the church and the saints get holidays of all sorts, but fifty-two times a year we complain about the moon's holiday and celebrate Ferya's.]

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Novel, Chp. 5.2

2009-03-17T07:48:00.003-05:00

Curse it all, Eth's army was coming and there was nothing they could do about it. Night fell over Fuspmar, and Nasch rejoined the Kliet at the edge of town. Their tribe owned a great hall off the main path. It was just inside the brand new city “wall.”

The fire-lit hall seemed bright and joyous after the cloudy night. The mood was sober, almost somber, but Nasch found it a great relief after the high tempers and confused inaction of the Polis. He'd heard an orc showed up in Bharrak, trying to offer assistance. They hadn't even let him in the gate. But the fact he'd tried said that everyone was watching Fuspmar now. And everyone could see they weren't going to make it.

The “wall” was just more of the same. There was no plan to it, just a spontaneous effort by townspeople and those nearby, just a line of upright stakes, sharpened both ends and driven into the ground. Some were perfectly vertical, while others leaned outward at various angles. While Nasch had been with the council, stretches of wall popped up all over the city. They mostly didn't connect, and even if they were connected the wall looked like a circle draw freehand by a man blind and drunk.
A friendly face passed Nasch a pint. 'Well, maybe the mood isn't exactly sober,' he corrected his thoughts, 'but this isn't much of a party either.' Among the Kliet in wartime there was rarely a need for small talk, so Nasch quietly scanned the room. Tolcten sat near the great hearth at the end, lounging in a comfortable fur-lined chair. It had been a prize, carried off from some raid years ago. Furniture, well, furniture like that, was a luxury in Fuspmar; the wicker-wood-ivory and fur chair might have been a throne, and Nasch was glad to see the runner have a place of honor. Both his feet were still bandaged. At a convenient pause in the story telling, Nasch sat down, cross legged, near Tolcten's throne.
“So there I was, with only the lower half of a spear and the tiger just staring at me, not a stone's throw away.”
This wasn't the story Nasch figured Tolcten would be telling. “Go on, ya myth-writer! Last time it was a northern bear you stuck with half a spear!” Nasch addressed his audience, mostly young boys and girls, though some were old enough to be quite pretty, “I do hope this cad isn't taking you for a ride. You'd best watch what stories he tells!”
Tolcten rose, as if in fury, “Why you overgrown, toothless old beggar...”
Nasch stood too, and hugged him. They'd met, of course, and Nasch had already returned his bow, but both were busy and had little time to catch up. Tolcten sat down again quickly, and put his feet up again.
“I've already told these good listeners heroic saga of running through the forest... twice...”
“And I bet it would be even more impressive on your third go, but I needn't keep you. Have you seen Krina or Nerith?” The unspoken part of the sentence went something like 'you're obviously doing ok, and I need to check in on them.'

Tolcten laughed, then held his side. When Nasch seemed alarmed, he explained, “I tripped over a root, might have cracked a rib.” This did worry the commander. Torn up feet would put you out of action for a couple days, but broken bones might never heal right. Tolcten continued, “I'll be fine, though, since I've got such good company.” He introduced his audience, beginning with the girl, perhaps eight, who managed to wink at Nasch without the slightest give away to Tolcten. Her father would be choosing a husband for her soon, and she seemed to favor the old fibber – though he was nearly middle-aged. He'd begin his second decade soon, but Excepting the injuries, Tolcten really didn't look that old.
“Well, Nerith went upstairs with...” Tolcten said.
“Mehtina,” a girl filled in. Her short hair, a northern trait, made her exotic enough one might not notice if she was half his age. She was probably a bit less.*
“Right. So you really ought to check in on him. That sort of behavior say he's not taking Tamar's death well.”
Nasch laughed. He might be hiding it, but leading the younger daughter of a member of the council off for the night was standard Nerith. Tolcten went on,
“He wasn't sweet talking for more than half an hour when they went off together. And she's not the most beautiful girl in the room...” Tolcten's eyes clearly twinkled for his audience when he said that. “Now, Krina, she's on her own, probably cutting dummies down to size. Out in the courtyard, I'd wager.”
Nasch tool his leave of his tall tail telling friend to look for Krina. It was little surprise Krina was practicing. She'd been practicing almost non-stop since she joined the army a year ago. And she was already a fine soldier. Tamar, who was never generous with words of compliments, had called her an eaglet. An eagle, they say, can focus on it's prey from any distance, any altitude, and it never misses, so that was a great compliment to an archer.
Tamar. She'd been Nasch's group leader long before he was hers. She'd said his plan was foolish. Foolhardy. And he couldn't save her. Maybe it was a bad plan... but curse it all, what choice did he have. It was no different from those bickering generals, even his cousin Maraesh was partially to blame. Inaction will soon force poor decisions because only poor options would be left.
If he'd stopped sooner, when they were better rested...
That warband would have been less tired too. He now knew, thanks to another band of Kliet scouts, that Eth wasn't with them, but if his spirit had been with that warband when they stopped, Nasch's little ambush would have resulted in everyone's death. Just like Tamar thought.

This trail of thought went nowhere. Tamar and Crejuht would return to the world someday, though he probably never meet them, and wouldn't recognize them if he did. Maybe Crejuht's spirit could learn from this, and grow a little. Maybe Tamar could forgive him...
Nasch went back out into the night, to look for Krina.

*[Since this has come up before, I'll lay down my guidelines to be sure I'm consistent. Goblins, with a lifespan of a bit over thirty-five years, would hit puberty by six or seven, and in most cultures marry by age ten. To pair a man of twenty-something and a girl of eight or nine would be rather like pairing a forty year old man and a sixteen or twenty year old girl. Nasch, in his late twenties, is past middle age, but goblins tend to age well until they're in their mid thirties. Though to live past forty would be like a human living past one ninety, at least they don't suffer a along, crippling old age.]

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Novel Chp. 5

2009-03-16T19:47:00.002-05:00

Ket saw the messenger arriving. He sat in a spartan upper room of the polis. Though the space was cramped, nearly the entire wall was a great window, so it did not feel small. The window wasn't glass, of course, only the very rich could afford something like that. The wooden wall swung down on great hinges on ropes that came from the ceiling. Ket leaned against a low railing with intricate geometric patterns carved in it, which matched the room's trim. This cell was his home in Fuspmar, where he might meditate in peace. He was rarely here very long, Ket much preferred to be out among people, in the crowds, laughing with them or teaching, as the situation permitted. The last few weeks had brooded here more and more. His friends worried.
And they were right to worry, although it might be for the wrong reason. It had already been two days since the wounded Kliet, Tolcten arrived. The rest of that band, including Nasch, the leader who even now argued with the generals, finally straggled in during the third watch of last night. There were four generals below, and various important people from the tribes and clans related to Bharrak, perhaps fifty people crowded into the polis' hall, which would normally seat thirty or so. Eth was a strong leader, and every lieutenant within his army was similarly capable. These generals, for all their decoration in their wars, were no more than children with lead soldiers compared to him.
The generals squabbled like children too. But Fuspmar deserved to survive. Tamar had taught him that. He came to love the clan, the people he served. That wasn't supposed to happen, he knew. Morketal took precautions against it. Even if he did nothing, Ket would be transferred to another clan during the good traveling months of the summer, just to be sure he remained loyal to the order. And he was loyal to the order, but now his heart tugged him away.
The messenger had returned quickly. That alone was enough to tell Ket the monastery had denied him permission to help Fuspmar. But Tamar was dead. She was more than a sparring partner to Ket, she was a friend. A mother he never really knew, seeing as he was raised by the monastery. By law he would never know his mother, or even what tribe she was from. And Eth killed her. He couldn't blame Nasch, Ket had heard the story. Nasch did the best he could – very well under the circumstances. If only those toothless old men could have the same courage....

The caretaker of a polis is a servant, but he his about the highest ranking person in a clan, because it was not uncommon for nobles to be in his debt. If Laght had the job of butler explained to him, he might agree that he did buttle from time to time, but the caretaker's primary job was of house management. And no self-respecting house manager would permit an important message to pass through his care without reading it.
Only minutes passed between the messenger's arrival and Laght's knock on the door of Ket's private cell, just enough time for polite conversation with the rider and arrangement for him to stay for a day, so he would not return empty handed. In that time, though, the brief letter from Jinkash [already printed] had divulged its secrets to Laght.

Ket knew this too. “So, how bad was the news?”

Just as no self respecting caretaker would fail to read a message, none would admit to it either. “The messenger didn't say, sir. He didn't have a chance to see D. Jinkash, owing that he left in a hurry. [I figure D. could function as a title for Druid.]

“Of course, Laght, I'm sure you wouldn't know.” Ket's voice was a sigh. “But, supposing you did know about it, and it were bad news,”

“Oh, but I wouldn't.” Laght liked Ket. He was normally amiable. An open sort. But of late he'd been acting just like their former druid, except that he didn't drink so much. It might be something about this dismal weather...

“Hear me out,” Ket said suddenly more forceful. “If, supposing you knew what that letter said. And supposing it were bad because my superior told me to go off and hang myself, to atone for some breach of law, do you suppose you might be right to... delay its delivery a bit?”

“Oh! No, sir, there's nothing like that in here!” Of course, not all caretakers are so precise with their words as they are in managing the affairs of the polis. Ket ignored the slip because it was incidental to his point.

“But you might help me?”

“Without hesitation, sir. I know you too well, you've done nothing wrong.”

Ket's thoughts were almost loud enough to hear, “but I'm going to.” Instead, he said, “And what if, perhaps, it wasn't me who was in trouble, but a close friend? Someone who didn't deserve the punishment they were about to receive?”

“Messages gets lost all the time, D. Ket, you know it might happen. But I'm sure this letter isn't anything like that, sir, the messenger would have said if it were business like that. And anyway, Jinkash wouldn't order such a thing.”

“But Caretaker,” Ket said, using the formal title in a tone of respect, “I believe it is that bad. In fact, it is worse.

“This is my second posting, you know. I first served the clan Rix, up near the dwarves' land. They were a good lot, once you got used to them.”

“Hard to get used to anyone with that much hair, sir,” Laugh interrupted.

Ket laughed. It was a heart, natural laugh, and for a moment the tension was broken. But in another moment it returned, and Ket again became grave. He turned away from Laght, toward the open window, and said, “There's a story they tell, about a bear who liked to hunt sheep. This was a mean old bear, and he troubled the shepherds for years, but he was very strong. The bear could fight a dozen dogs at once, and arrows bounced off it's fur like it was iron. For a long time it only took a few sheep a year, and the hunters let it be. It was too tough to fight and didn't require too much. But after many years the bear's hunger grew—I don't know why. Maybe it had cubs to feed, or maybe it just because gluttonous after so many easy hunts. It took more and more sheep. Ten in a year, then twenty. Neither the shepherds or the sheep dogs could stand up to the bear. Until one spring, it saw a little lamb eating near its mother. The bear pounced at the lamb, but it never landed. The ewe, though she had neither horns nor claws, rammed the bear in mid-leap.

“The bear couldn't have been hurt by it, but he was so astounded, he turned and ran off. That bear was never defeated by shepherd or dog, but from that day on it took two sheep a year, and it never once took a lamb.”

Laght was quite for a while. He was good with making things fit, and he never forgot a detail, but he never much liked the subtleties of philosophy, and this story stunk of them. “I'm not sure what you mean,” he said.

The druid ignored the question for the moment. Laght would get it well enough when he was done. “Rix was a good clan. They had strange ways, but the wealthy families always took the poorer ones. The important families stood up for the those with less heroic ancestors. But Eth talked about equality, and they people thought he meant they'd all get a bigger share. Eth told them that all people should work together for everyone's good, but the only one who's good was really helped was his.”

Ket turned back to face the caretaker. His face was awash with emotion. “They ordered me to hold back the rain. No one knows it, because the order kept it quiet, but they ordered me to hold it back. After Eth took over Rix, almost without a fight because everyone liked what he offered, he started telling people what to grow. He rearranged the ancient plots in to near squares –just like the dwarves– and everyone got the same size. It was equal, he said, but the land isn't supposed to be square like that. One family's entire square was in the lake! They weren't fishers, but “you'd best learn, then” was all the general told 'em. And Eth's general really made all the decisions. He talked about everyone getting to choose a leader, but “they're clearly not ready for autonomy yet, first they need firm, fatherly guidance.” And when the people argued with him, they ordered me to hold back the rain. ” Ket silently added 'and I did.'

Were Ket a man of less discipline, he would have been crying down. As it was, he just turned away again, and stared out the window at the fields of Fuspmar. They would be furrowed soon, he knew, and planted. That was what these people knew. They were farmers, simple folk, who liked to drink and dance and tell epic stories of heroism.... That's all they fought for anyway, to look heroic, to win something and take it back with them. They weren't really a violent people.

“I...” Laght began, then paused. When Ket turned to him again, his eyes were soft. “I think I know what you mean, sir. And I think this letter is that bad.” He paused again, because this was treason they were talking about. For both of them. For Laght to fail to deliver a message was a high crime, and the judge would punish him for it. For Ket to defy the will of the order was worse. Far, far worse. Laght would certainly be removed, and probably forbidden to live in Fuspmar proper, but he could stay with the clan. Ket, though... he would either be killed outright or banished from any realm the order touched. To to banished from all goblin lands was, by far, the worst of the fates. But Ket knew this. And he still thought it was worth it.

Laght would help him, if he could. If Ket never saw this letter, then he might claim he acted as he saw fit because he had no orders. Morketal would certainly punish him because he so blatantly defied their will—they side with Eth ever more openly these days, but they'd probably just execute him. They might even let him live as a servant back at the monastery. And Laght wouldn't be that bad off as a peasant. His brother lived in near the forest to the east, he'd probably take him in. Always said he needed more hands when harvest came. Laght slid the letter back into his belt, and turned to go.

“What ever happened to that ewe, sir? The one in your story?”

“I think the bear took her, Laght. I think he came right for her the next time he went hunting, and he got her.”

Laght's expression made it obvious he didn't much like the way that story ended. It wasn't the sort of heroism the Fusp were used to.

“But it was worth it, Laght. It was worth it.”

Novel Chp 4.4

2009-03-15T23:23:00.002-05:00

There is a ritual for the cleansing of water. The elves know it, though it is magic of water and few elves are skilled at it, because water is only one part of the song of life they sing. But Aytheur knew this ritual. The mist cleared a little, and he could see the muddy puddle was only an outlying drip of a spring-fed lake, bubbling up from limestone which formed sheets below the earth and boulders above it.
The mist grew faces. Haunted, skull-like faces. If Aytheur knew anything of mummification, he would recognize the drawn skin as looking very similar to these. Aytheur climbed a somewhat impressive rock on the opposite side of the spring, and took a small knife from his pack. He carefully carved into the rock a few words in ancient troll, “purity,” “water,” “life,” “death,” and “fall-away.” Old troll is a runic language, made up of straight lines which look rather like a picture of piled sticks, but it is very easy to carve. Old troll magic is always deeply connected to the land, to the rocks, and such a language, though poor for books, is perfect for magic.
  Aytheur lay on the stomach over the writing, and reached down to touch the water. It was chill, but just with the cold of the deep-earth, not with a magic lifelessness. There must be some magic over it, yet the water was pure of poison. He cupped a little in his hand and drank.
  Crenith, loudly enough for Aytheur to hear, said “This troll had best succeed, I do not wish to be stuck with him for eternity.” From the other murmur within the crowd of skeletal faces, it was clear they agreed, and found the idea humorous. He lay there, mimicking a prayer so he might have time to think about what had happened.
The elves believe that the spirit inhabits the body, and upon death it must ascend to the heavens. For a people with such long lives, with some understanding of medicine, death is normally approached with some ceremony. The body of the deceased is normally guarded for one rising and setting of the sun, but his or her closest friends. Thus the spirit has time to say goodbye, and to leave this life peacefully.... but Belien did not have that chance. Aytheur, who owed him so much, abandoned him...
Focus! There is something wrong with the spring in this valley. The elves poisoned it? To cut of communication with their allies? That's not the way it was written! The goblins turned about and attacked elves before the mud had even settled behind the retreating orcs' ships. They struck first!
And there was the truth of it. The orcs' did not simply retreat. They were a wiser enemy than that. They planted seeds of unrest in their enemies, and were they not consumed with civil war immediately after landing in Ujardtis, they might have reclaimed a space on the homeland. This was their doing.
With this in mind, Aytheur sought out life in the water, and he found it. Tiny, very tiny, but alive. An animal, or sorts, nearly a fundamental it is so small, but the water teemed with them. Water would normally be alive with such creatures, and some might cause sickness, but most did nothing. Though magic like his mother's, Aytheur could sense them, and these were different. They did not breathe air in, but they took in food and excreted poison, and they were tainted with all the hatred and malice of the orcs. Aytheur had never seen an orc, but a olive-skinned face, so covered in scars and bony protrusions it made the goblins' seem plain and pretty, with wicked tusks curving up from the lower lip over the upper, appeared before him. The orc laughed, and the tiny life clawed at Aytheur.
A curse must be fought on its own ground, but this was different. It was a plague, it was life ending life, a war and the legacy of a war. And Aytheur knew about wars. He studied under his father, and with the University, for tactics was foremost among their disciples, along with mathematics and science, rhetoric and the aesthetics. He knew something of war, and all life responds badly to fire.
Deep within the spring and within his mind, he set fire to the laughing orc. For hours it lay there, mind out of body, and fought with the long-dead creator of this plague. In Aytheur's mind they wrested in a world made of ice, each naked before the other's magic. Aytheur's strength was nearly gone...
But he reached inside and found the place of himself which fought with the scorpion's poison. This knew of poisons, and of wars. Though it was barely rested from a trial, this place within him was rallied from the victory, while the magic of the orc was cold from nearly a thousand years of poisoning those whose magic, if they had any, could not touch him.
Aytheur won. When he opened his eyes and rolled over, every bone and every tendon ached. The sun was high overhead. Crenith turned to mist before Aytheur's eyes, and said, “I sense there may truth in you. Seek my son, who lives now! Go and find Creash, troll-blood, if you would find your destiny!”
The army of the dead burned away, just mist under the hot, dry sun. Aytheur now saw he stood in a vast, desolate valley. A crater, with only a small gouge leading out of it to the “oasis” he'd found before. Well, it was desolate now, but with the spring restored, perhaps it would again support life. If Aytheur chanced to return this way, perhaps he would bring an elf who could plant, and they would seed it with good things.
  Aytheur guessed at which way was west, filled his water skin, and continued his journey. What was his father, really? Why had he attacked Romaybath? Did he know about the phantom army here? And what was a wizard to the goblins? Elves always have respect for those with great power over magic, just as anyone has respect for one skilled in his art, but they way they sounded... this was something different. Something... powerful, glorious, but dangerous.

Elves have little concept of religion, because those dreams were crushed early on by the atheistic Dragons. Elves believe in spirits, and in a unity of the universe, but the idea that a spirit could leave the world and return to it in another body, or that a spirit might exert power over earth while it did not possess a body were highly alien concepts to them. Aytheur's owed his magic to his mother's action, and most of his training in thought came from her people. He ran toward the goblins, to Bharrak, but he did not yet understand them.

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Novel, Chp 4.3

2009-03-15T16:18:00.002-05:00

If Aytheur understood goblins at all, he would have known those were the wrong words. After claiming authority and displaying ability, he should then have asked permission to help them. But he was too much an elf, and thinking of them as enemies came naturally. In the abstract, of course, goblins were his father's people, and he longed to know them and to make them his people. But in the specific, particularly when faced with the deathless spirits of those who are unable to move on, Aytheur saw each goblin as a threat, an enemy.
And that release of fire staggered him. Fire grows out of wood, that is the natural way, and fire is part of life, warmth and all things. But this cracked desert pavement had very little of wood or life in it, and thus the magic required to draw fire from it drew more from him. It was an over-bold move, but sometimes fortune favors the bold.
The second goblin approached, right to the edge of the already dwindling flames, and bowed. “I can see you are a troll, one with fundamental magic.” He said.
Troll is a strange word. There is a species of creatures apparently of living, flowing rock, far stronger and tougher than any other humanoid species. But it also means someone with extraordinary magical ability, in the gift normally belonging to their species or in the fundamental magic, given by the Dragons to the first trolls.
The goblin turned to address the ghostly army, “The Wizard has many sons, you know this. Many of you are of Bharrak, are at least partially descended from the Wizard. You are proud of this, well I know since I joined you in your exile here. If you, who are mighty, are proud to be the Wizard's children, why should this frail half-elf troll-blood not be even more proud?”
The army didn't back away, but they didn't charge either. For the first time, while the goblin paused as though for breath and turned around, Aytheur noticed how perfectly silent it was within the mist. He'd known that if he called out for help, no one would come, because there was no one to come. But now it felt as though the sound would not even escape the soup around him, and somehow that was more frightening.
“I am called Crenith. Once, I was a swordbearer for the Wizard, called firebringer by his enemies. I was there when he was slain, I saw the army turned to route while the tree-city burned and the vicious archers rallied. But I never saw him fall. Tell me this, elf-blood, how was he saved?”
Aytheur knew better than to insult them by avoiding the question, but to make it sound like their wizard, his father, needed help might be worse. “Someone near to him attacked him with sorcery, and the magic with which he lead the army faltered. That magic would not fail unless he were dead, so it is little wonder he was presumed slain, probably by some sniper's arrow. But in fact, only the amulet [picture something in the Egyptian style] was stolen from his neck, though he was badly injured. When he awoke, the elves had abandoned the burning city, and his army was scattered.
“though surrounded by enemies, and far to weak to rely on magic, he hid in the empty forests between elven states. There, live many who are elves but are not elves. In time, he made his home among them.” Aytheur said, hoping they would not ask who struck their wizard. His father was certain one of his trusted goblins had attacked him. He'd spoken of the stolen amulet like it was his best friend, those few times he spoke of it at all.
“I, see,” Crenith said. Aytheur had a sinking feeling he saw right between the lines of Aytheur's omission, but the goblin did not press the point. “You are insolent like the elf-kind, but you are a troll, and may serve us.” He turned to the first halberdier, and said something in the strange language. They spoke for a long moment, and then Crenith again addressed Aytheur.
“They have agreed. We will spare you if you can free our spirits from the curse the elves placed on this land.”
Aytheur still had trouble believing any action of the elves trapped these spirits in the mortal world, but he was diplomatic enough not to say that bluntly. Instead he asked, “what caused you to die and remain?”
The first goblin answered the question, and Crenith now served to translate him. “We fought with the betrayers [elves] against the vile [orcs] in time beyond remembering. We fought them on the sea and the land, we burned their castles and their cities, but they could not touch ours, for in those days the betrayers guarded us with a mighty fleet. But after our triumph, when the vile were driven from all the land, we returned and found the betrayers burned our homes! In our absence, they slaughtered our sisters and our children. We left them with the sheep, and they became wolves, then climbed into their great oared ships and vanished. But the betrayers, we thought, were not beyond our reach. When this mighty army returned to cinders of families and homes, we turned on the betrayers in wrath. We ran so swiftly that we might have reached their home even before their ships, so great was our right [or righteous] anger.
“But the betrayers were keen. They poisoned the wells across the desert. Their plants, too small to see, fill the water with un-life, which extinguishes life like smoke smothers fire. [It does, if unvented.] That is why the Wizard returned, to burn the tree-city. He knows we perished here, unavenged. And though he succeeded, the Wizard could not lift our curse, because the un-life is still in the water.
“Cleanse the water, troll-blood, half-elf, and we shall pass from life and you shall live.”

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Novel chp 4.2

2009-03-14T23:13:00.002-05:00

And the scene changed. Now he was back in Bellea, at the university, learning weaponscraft from T’Ricordon, a dwarven master-smith. There was Vera, the activist, who swore she'd change the world, and said she'd try not to hold it against him when she found out who his father was. Then the room was empty, except for the dwarf. He was shouting, because Aytheur'd asked him about how the principle of proportion applied to the shape of a sword. T'Ricordon was a quiet man, but this elven assumption of superiority, he could not tolerate. In life, T'Ricordon had been quite reasonable in his explanation, but the anger was there, because the entire concept of 'proportion' belonged to the elves. It was a mathematical concept, and the dwarves were the world masters, but the elves laid claim to it. But the mists of the poison were clearing.
Aytheur felt very, very cold. And wet. Wet? Here? His mind snapped into focus rather suddenly. It wasn't much water, but a tiny bit of dew had fallen. Aytheur's mouth was so dry, he couldn't stick it tongue out to lick it. As he shivered, the droplets shook from his shoulders. He was cramped in a fetal position up against the rock ledge. His joins creaked as he pushed off to turn around. Aytheur tried to stretch out... and decided that should wait a moment longer.
The shadows were very long. The sun must either be setting or rising, but it was hard to tell which. The dew could have been a give-away, but who knows, he may have been laying there for days. The watering-hole was still silent. When he could move again, he drank a little, and went back to sleep. The arachnid which stung him was long gone. He dreamed of the people from University, the faces. They threw rocks through the paper windows of his room. They came with torches, shouting about the firebringer. They shouted about Romaybath. Strangely, they shouted about Beilen, calling him just murderer rather than Dragon-murderer. It was strange, because though to end the life of an immortal was a sin beyond explanation, the death of Belilen weighed far heavier on Aytheur. In life the ambassador had saved him from that mob.
When he woke up again the sun was setting, but Aytheur had no way to know how many days had passed while he recovered from the poison. He was hungry again, but the watering hole provided. It was better to walk in the daylight, but the moon was waxing a bit past half and the desert sky let light enough to walk by. And he couldn't stand to lay there another night. It was already thick with memories.
For a time he walked in the moonlight. The ground was cracked mud, deadly dry. The wind smelled strangely. He couldn't detect what was wrong with it, but it didn't smell right, but he walked in to it anyway, because following the low area away from a glade, even a muddy watering hole like that, was the surest way to find another source.

The land ahead didn't look quite right either. A desert rarely has mist, though in the day's heat it might shimmer as though it did. But now mist formed ahead of Aytheur. And strangely, behind him.

Out of the mist, a voice spoke. It sounded like gravel pouring down slate, it was a voice without breath, a whisper in death.
“We do you a favor, elf, by addressing you before you die.”
The word elf was pronounced, if you can call such the action of such a voice pronunciation, as though it were rotten meat in the mouth. Aytheur spun round to see it's source, but the mist formed around him in a most unnatural way. It was freezing cold, but not wet. A wet mist might have some life in it.
   “Your kind betrayed us years ago, and we have no rest from the strength of your wicked magic. For this, elfblood, you die.”
Out of the mist, directly in front of him, the gray silhouette of a goblin emerged. The short man seemed to be made out of mist. He had very long ears (pointed, of course, as anyone's were) that stuck above his head, and wasn't just bald, but hairless, save for thin eyebrows. His face was far more round than any elf's, and cracked like weathered wood. His muscles, too, were knobby rather than smooth. He was dressed only in a fur mantel and short woolen kilt, and carried a long, curved halberd. Even in the ghostly form, Aytheur recognized weapon's the shape, T’Ricordon had one nearly it's twin. This was an ancient weapon, of bronze, from the wars before the orcs were driven from the continent. This revelation came as the cost of time, because the phantom charged at him. There wasn't a moment's time to remember what war was fought in this desolate country, or what act of an elf might have caused this one's death... but this ghost had spoken to him in the Elven tongue.
“Wait!” Aytheur shouted in the language his father taught him. “just hold.” And strangely the phantom stopped in mid stride.
   It replied in a tongue that sounded much like goblin, but it was so fast, Aytheur could barely understand it. The words were all strangely shaped, but he caught 'know' and 'here' and something that sounded rather like the word for cattle, but that didn't make much sense. It was clearly a question, and he didn't know the answer, but it was better than a phantom's halberd. Hard to tell what such a blade would do, but it was best not to find out.
“I, I don't know what you said. I'm only half-elf. I'm half goblin. Or, at least, my father lived among the goblins. He was a wizard.”
That should have helped, but the spear came up again, now only inches away from Aytheur's face. The blade took on a golden luster, and the shaft grew a bit of color, though the goblin soldier remained a body of mist. He spoke again, this time a shout, almost a bark, and none of the words made sense.
   In the mist behind him a great number of faces formed. It was as if the mist itself was made of goblins. One formed more solidly than the rest, and as Ayhteur watched, the blade slowly waving around up near his throat, this goblin took on color and even a semblance of life. When it spoke, in goblin, the words made sense. They were not arcane, but quite the same as Ghaent had taught.
“A wizard? You look like an elf, and you speak like an elf, though you know the tongue of Bharrak. My friends in death,” the new goblin gestured to the halberdier, “do not take kindly to elves. Neither do it,” his eyes narrowed, “because their poisoned water caused my untimely and lingering death.”
“But it was only fair,” he went on, “after the Wizard, the Firebringer, died, my squad was fortunate to come this far. And then only to be killed by thousand-year-old treachery. I will be glad to spill your blood, but first I must hear what you know of my people. You do not speak the ancient tongue which a scholar might know, or the northern tongue that a friend of dwarves might learn, but the language of the south, of Wizard's closest clans. How did you learn it?”
When you talk with diplomats, Belien once told Aytheur, say as little as you can. They learn more from every word than you could learn if they wrote a book for you. These words came back to him now, because if ever a situation needed diplomacy, this one did.
“My father taught me.”
The mist was full of whispers and murmurs now, but the halberdier only shifted his footing to insure the stroke would completely remove Aytheur's head. The second ghost spoke again, “and who was your father?”
“His given name was Ghaent, but he was called the firebringer.” Aythuer said, thinking it best of avoid “wizard” around this savage, seeing the way the first reacted. The blade seemed to grow sharper.
“How could you know the firebringer, elf? He was killed at least two generations ago,” [forgive his counting, it's been about four goblin-generations. It's hard to remember how many days one's been a ghost.]
“My mother is an elf, and their generations are longer than ours,” Aytheur said. The weapon waggled a little on “ours,” but it did not swing. Aytheur tried not to flinch. Showing weakness to goblins might get one killed. “but the firebringer did not die at Romaybath. My mother nursed him to health.”
The mist's murmur crescendoed.
   “Then you are the son of the Wizard, and an Elf?”
Aytheur did not answer aloud, but only nodded. To argue the point again would be an insult the barbarian's intelligence, and insulting them was foul business. Everyone slipped into silence for a time, but Aytheur soon could not stand it.
   “My mother's people and your's were allies once. We saved our lands from the orcs together.”
   This had an effect far worse than the word “wizard” on these people. Suddenly the mist formed into entire regiments. Ranks, many goblins deep, all wearing the simple kilt and mantle, both male and female. And every one among them raised his or her weapon toward Aytheur. His mind filled with choice profanity, but he tried once more to reason with the goblins.
“Whatever wrong the elves committed, let me rectify it, so maybe you can have peace.”
It didn't work. The halberdier nearest him swung. Aytheur saw it in his eyes milliseconds before the blade moved, and only the raw power adrenaline adds to magic saved him. The blade, which by this time looked completely material, fractured in mid air. The earth and stone within the fire-worked blade turned as though to glass and shattered. The shards cut him, of course, and Aythuer bled from his chin and throat, but his head remained attached.
The ghostly horde charged at him, their weapons taking on color as they crossed the short distance. In Aytheur's mind the smell of cooked flesh jumped up at him, and he, thought what the fire should do.
A ring of dirt burst in to flames in a wall around Aytheur. The halberdier, his weapon just a wooden shaft now, sprung back and beat his kilt with his hands to put out the flames. Aytheur was pleased to see at least the phantom goblins could burn.
“The Elves rejected my mother, and the Goblins betrayed my father. I am a strange middle-born, without a species of my own. But by the immortal dragon's spirits you will not strike me down without a fight!”

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Novel chp 4.1

2009-03-14T17:29:00.002-05:00

Aytheur came to the valley of the spirits the day after his food ran out, but before his water was quite gone. The first night there, a scorpion stung him, but it proved the least of that valley's trials. It was stupid, really, to be stung while sleeping after so good a day. He hadn't gone hunting for big game, nor had he found any. But where there is water, there is life, and where there's life, nearly everything is eatable. The city-elves could keep their agriculture, they would look at this scrubby, muddy puddle and turn up their noses at it, but to a elrodore like Aytheur, it was filled with food. [the elven word is literally “outside the city,” but it also means “uncivilized,” although it's not so harsh as “barbarian.” In context it is rather like “redneck.”]
A watering hole like this should support larger animals and the beetles and grubs he found, but strangely there were none. Even the desert birds he'd often seen seemed to avoid the place. At the time, this was a curiosity, because the water was sweet and, as well as he could tell, quite healthy. He ate, and drank, and fell asleep on a bed of twigs, leaning against a spine of rock. And there the scorpion stung him.
For a time he could not count, Aytheur fought with the poison, and while his body battled, his mind retraced, in strange dreams, the things which lead him to this wilderness.
Aytheur didn't have much of a plan after he left Ballea. He'd barely had a plan back at the University. He'd arrived early in the planting season, nearly a year ago, with quite a bit of wealth but very little idea how to use it. Both were on account of his unusual parentage.
The split between orcs and elves is ancient history, before the Wizard first came to the goblins, before the Trees of Memory were planted, in the days when the immortal-seeking Dragons interacted with the thinking species of the earth. Elves had a natural talent for the life-fire within animals and plants, and the Dragons saw this. They taught the elves songs, which shape the growth of a seeding or a
calf. The younger the life, the greater change one might make, and this magic is magnificently potent on those not yet born. An old-elf, skilled in the song, could ensure a child is born strong and healthy, could shape the details of his face, or the color of his eyes. The same sorts of changes might be made to a plant, in a single generation an elf could adapt a grain to an environment that nature would take hundreds of years to alter. Even fantastic changes were possible: a child could grow to be a giant, or to have the head of a wolf, or to have four fully-capable arms.
   But this power was too drastic for many old-elves to accept. They feared it, and soon every natural ailment of the body was placed on those elves who had the gift of singing to life. Only those few elves who lacked the magic to sing to animals, and could only sing to plants, could be trusted. The rest became orcs. Most lost their ability to sing to plants, just as their cousins lost the magic to sing to animals, and many songs were forgotten. Orcs were banished outside the elven cities, and after more than a thousand years conflict, from the northern continent entirely.
   But magic is a gift often given from parents to children, and sometimes even parents without it can give it. Thus, in every modern-elven generation, there are a few born with the ability to sing to animals. These are orc-bloods, and instantly feared, and hated, from the moment their magic becomes known. Yemone, Aytheur's mother, was one of these. She might have hid her gift forever, if a rival in the senate of Scobosa, a republic city-state adjacent to Bellea, had not used it to discredit her family. She fled, as there was no other choice, and joined the loose friendship of elrodore between the cities. But although orc-blood is a fearsome ability, nobles often recognize how important it is. They sought Yemone out, and paid well that she might look in on unborn children; and remain mute as to whose children they were. The elrodore are not poor, but they live with the land and by the land, the bounty of the deep forest is enough for them. They have little use for money, because they need few things they can not make, so Yemone was able to provide a great many books for Aytheur's education, and she with her husband were his teachers. Aytheur might have done very well at the university, because his mother's name was forgotten by those that feared her and remembered by those she had been good to. He might have done well, except that his father's name became known, and after the accident with the retired Ambassador Beilen, who lectured at the university.
   Magic is talent, and an art, and it is rooted the physical, spiritual and mental worlds. Some magic takes the strength of a marathon runner, the precision of a surgeon, or the quiet patience of the ascetic. Magic requires great training, and as with any artist's development, accidents do happen, canvases are ruined. A young high-elf, for those who are born with the gift of singing are called high, often kills a hundred seedlings before a single, healthy and changed sprout emerges. But the magic Aytheur inherited from his father was more dangerous than even an orc's magic.
It had been an accident, he had not even intended to release magic, but just the same, it had struck Belien. The only one at the university who truly stuck with him, after his father's name was known.
   And so Aytheur ran. Fled. Once, his father had been important among the goblins. Ghaent was his name, before he went to them, but they called him a wizard. The elves called him Firebringer. He taught Aytheur the goblin's language, and some of their custom. Although many generations would have passed among the short-lived people, Aytheur was sure they would take him in, for his father could not be completely forgotten.
   In the way of dreams, Aytheur saw himself standing over Belien, fire still licking his fingers like a half-charcoal log pulled from the fire's heart. The smell of burned flesh instantly made him sick, he was gagging, coughing, and at the same time the power made him feel so alive. He was drunk with it, and, in his dream, he examined his handiwork on the fallen ambassador. In reality, Aytheur had fled, witless, without so much as retrieving his cloak from beside Belien's door. But in the dream, the burned flesh took on a smell like perfectly cooked meat. The ambassador's blood appeared to boil within him, as though it were oil and Aytheur's hand set spark to it. His entire body burned from the inside out, his eyes afire.
And now Belien's wife was there beside him, turned to stone as her husband of one hundred twenty-three years, and eleven children (Aytheur did not know their names, let alone how many grand children they must have), burned as though in a pyre. And then the room became the pyre. Instead of a beautiful house carved in the boughs of a great tree just inside Bellea's thicket-wall, he stood at the foot of the tree of memory. Aytheur was now in Romaybath on the river Nifu, an ancient elven city with a long memory of wars with orcs and goblins. It was the gatepost of the elven confederation in the orcish wars, but it was also one of the great founding cities, one of the fifteen with a tree of memory. These trees held the immortal spirit of a dragon, and were the most sacred thing to an elf. And it burned. All trees in elven cities are great, hundreds of feet high, supporting vast numbers of houses and farms within their branches. [part of the food supply of an elven city is standard grain-and-livestock agriculture, but they also depend on a sort of air-plant-potato, which no doubt they invented, and special breeds of fruit-bearing trees which do not make for very good housing].
And it burned. In the dream, Aytheur was his father, and the horde of goblins were around him, and in revenge for a thousand generations of elven mistreatment and double dealing, they burned Romaybath, and the tree. Ghaent rarely spoke of his time among the goblins, and he never knew exactly what happened after Romaybath burned. But in the dream, perhaps as a vision, Aytheur, from outside his body, saw a goblin sneak up on him with a wicked knife. But this goblin didn't plunge the blade into Aytheur's (his father's, really) back. He just held it near his head, and Aytheur watched his body crumple, as though the blade had cut him horribly. Then the goblin took the knife, and pried a large gem in it's setting off the wide golden collar Aytheur wore. This, he knew, was a symbol of his status among the goblins, and a good part of his respect.
And the scene changed, as the scorpion's poison worked its way through Aytheur's body. Now he was back in Bellea, at the university, learning weaponscraft from T’Ricordon, a dwarven master-smith.

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Novel: Chp. 3-2

2009-03-11T16:21:00.004-05:00

<--- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ---->

To, Ket, druid of the fourth order, assigned to Furpmar, From Jinkash, druid of the third order, in Bharrak.
My good friend and brother in the service of the Wizard and the Drudic order, do not forget or neglect your calling, but be at all times above and apart from the clan you serve. You intervene with the elements on their behalf, and pray to the dragons who grant esum that they may find wisdom in all things, but you must take on no further chore for their safety! These things are enough.
How impudent is the student who questions his master's sight, and how foolish. For does not the parent know better than the child what is best, though the child disagrees? You are wise because you know that even the sacred groves tremble with the times upon us, but your vision is small that you think Eth alone causes these things.
You write to the Corsairs as though they were allies to you, but you know nothing of the trouble they face. You talk of forgetting purpose, but none is forgotten. You speak rightly that Eth blasphemes the Wizard's truth, but will this keep the Wizard away when he is next needed (doubting that is equal blasphemy)? Corsair stands at the gate, and beyond is the uncountable Orc. Once they were divided and driven from the continent, and beyond the islands. But in Ujardtis (the southern continent) [the orcish language is less developed than goblin in my mind, and even that is subject to change] they have more than regrouped, they are united. Do you really believe the great-clan Corsair is able to fight on two fronts at once? Or, with enemies at their front, they would pay from their great wealth that the strong man might watch their back?
I do not presume to know the will of the Arch Druid, nor do I question Morkantel, because their sight is the greatest and their wisdom the highest among our people.
Ket, my good friend, be at peace and remember your place with patience.

Signed in my own hand, Jinkash of the third order, servant of Morkantel and the Wizard, in Bharrak.

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Novel: Chp. 3-1

2009-03-11T15:57:00.007-05:00

<--- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ---->
[a letter, as older styles of literature often include. Four copies would be made and sent, one to each addressed]

From Ket, Druid of Fuspmar, the fourth order, To His Serenity, Arch Druid of the second order, Chartamnet, oversight of the Bharrak region, to Jinkash of Bharrak, High Druid of the third order, and to all the students and philosophers of the Monastery Morkantel, and our friends the esteemed great-clan Corsair.
Still body, quiet mind, and calm spirit to all of you, for as I write the turmoil is most extreme here. The seasons themselves come in their course, rain and moonlight as they should and drought is not suffered; I keep my prayers and duties unceasingly as all should. Yet is the the world of men is greatly disrupted, and even the sacred grove trembles with it. A brave band of Kliet have met with the army of Eth in the forest Meiness. Even now his iron-clad soldiers break the choice abandoned-ground, bringing fire and conquest to the old clans which love peace (for it is an axiom that the old clan loves peace).
It has not the place of the Druidic order to interfere with politics or succession for many generations. Since fathers nearly uncounted our order has been holy from strife between clans. Yet our order, like the capital Bharrak, is established by the Wizard for the good of all in his absence. Once, Bharrak was the high clan, respected above all, because the Wizard chose them to be his people. Now, Eth denies the Wizard is, saying only that he was. Eth tramples on nobility in the name of common-wealth [that word will will cause far, far more trouble than the writer can imagine], by taking a common name. He flaunts the rights of succession, loved for one hundred generations and ten dozen returns of the Wizard. “No prince shall rule two kingdoms,” is written in the Wizard's own hand on the stones of Morkantel, yet Eth rules already seventeen!
Remember, sirs, the days of the sea-kings, when conquest and succession were made by the strong and not by law. Sirs, have you forgotten why the Wizard instructed the Drudic order? We sing to heaven and to the dragons who gave us Ecck [an ancient troll loan word meaning everything-we-know or the-universe-as-it-now-is], that rain should fall in season and hurricanes be diverted. But we also care for succession by denying princes and kings the magic that devastates neighbors. Only the Wizard has the right to extreme magic, for only the Wizard communes with wisdom so he may use high magic well.
But Eth is not the Wizard, nor does the Wizard walk with him, for he declares the common man—under his control, of course—is worthy to wield all magic. Indeed, Eth himself is said to control fire and stone in ways of the Wizard. But in his great evil, he does these things for only his own gain.
Fuspmar can not stand. How can Bharrak? How can the south? Even here, there are commoners who speak of Eth as a joyous equalizer. How blind they are! Are you, esteemed sirs, blinded also? Has Eth burned your minds with his words? With Fuspmar falls Bharrak, and with Bharrak falls the whole south. How long will the great-clan Corsair survive on the sea, with the whole world an enemy at its back? How soon until the blasphemer against the beloved Wizard is the unchallenged master of the world, if we do nothing?
If you have lost hope, regain it! I need only permission to aid the Kliet, the Fusp and the Ashnujhet [the tribes of Fuspmar], and the avalanche Eth rides to domination will come to a low place and cease. In peace, calm, empty and quiet, I beseech you to hastily reply to me that I may stand up for the Wizard, his law, and the greater peace.

Ket of Fuspmar, Druid of the forth order.

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Notes about the Novel

2009-03-11T15:56:00.001-05:00

[Having reread the first chapter, I find I am quite unhappy with it. It is, as they say, weaksauce. The characters are uninteresting, even to me, and I know the background information which should make them both cool. Tapenois is actually a “failed” experiment of Ætheur's mother, in which she attempted to recreate the now-extinct dragon, based on the fertilized egg of a large desert lizard. Seeing as this lizard remained functionally the same as any other during its early life, she declared it a failure. Two things kept the young Tapenois from “speaking.” For one, she kept it only six years, and a dragon's (like an elf, whose DNA she unintentional incorporated) mental development requires more time than that. The second thing, which is related to the first, was this lizard had nothing to say.
None of that information was presented, because neither character knew it, and the narrator was too limited to explain. To explain as the narrator would be more annoying than anything else.
Furthermore, while Tapenois isn't too bad, Ætheur is bloody annoying. Sure, it's clever to use a Saxon character, seeing as the Goblins are based on Celtic and German tribes, but everything else is written in English and that bit of cleverness just isn't worth it.
Therefore, I'm throwing that chapter out, as it stands, and I figure I'll put something more interesting in there. Ætheur is now Aytheur, (said A-thur, actually saying the letter name A), which isn't Aurthur, but vaguely reminiscent of it. That's kinda the point. This is my hero-in-the-making, and while I want to tie it to other figures, he's also something different.
Where am I going with this? You'll see :-P ]

Novel, Chapter 2, Section 4

2009-03-09T08:38:00.004-05:00

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   Despite the chill in the air, Crejuht was sweating. 'It is quite possible,' he thought, 'I've never run this hard before in my lives. I mean, I've never had so many people intent on killing me before.' Crejuht was fortunate among the clans associated with Bharrak, because he knew he had been. Everyone lived, and died, and lived again; incarnations of self, repeating in cycles. Those on the earth move as the stars and the moon and the earth itself, returning and returning. But most didn't know who they had been. Crejuht knew. He had been a wealthy man, a skilled merchant. He still was, but unfortunately the times didn't call for merchants anymore. So here he was, sweating in a half-frozen forest, next to a commander who liked to make speeches and a half-wild man, barely old enough to enlist, from the outskirts of Fuspmar. Sure, Nerith had some noble blood, but who didn't? They were all Kliet, and Kliet was a smallish tribe, as tribes went. Even now, the wild boy had his ear in the mud, divining the location and strength of their pursuit. It might be there was no pursuit, and the only the diviner could hear in the dirt is his own pounding heart and imagined fears. Nusch, the commander, nocked an arrow. Crejuht did too, although he told himself it was 'just in case.'

   “They've stopped.” Nerith proclaimed, in a whisper. Nusch cursed. This confused Crejuht. If the warband stopped, then they might have lost their trail. They could still get away. Or, they might miss us altogether. “if they even exist,” Crejuht reminded himself. “they're listening.” said Nerith.

   For Krina, the minutes turned into hours. It was too early for there to be many insects out, but a fly had homed in on her anyway. “Ladies don't sweat,” she informed the bug, “there's nothing to attract you here.” The bug disagreed. She, like the other soldiers, had trained in stealth. In holding still, in focusing on a target. The southern tradition didn't care about gender when it came to fighting, although men were expected to be soldiers and women really weren't. But Eth and the northern herders were very strict on a woman's place. More property than people. Everyone had a reason to fight, that was her's. 'What was Tamar's?' Krina wondered. She was a soldier when Eth was a distant story, when this was a man's world, and wars were something to be fought one day an celebrated the next. Why did she do it? The fly landed on the back of her neck. Perspiration collected on the edge of her eyebrows. The rope, fastened around her waist, grew progressively more uncomfortable. Krina tried to keep her mind from wandering; she focused on each branch in the ridge beyond the creek, memorizing them. And still they waited.

“If they're moving,” Nerith said, “they doing it too slowly for me to hear.” The split bit of wood at his arrow's butt, the nock, slowly expelled the bowstring it was stuck to. He pinched it between two fingers to hold it in place.

“But they must be close by now.” Nasch said. “Be ready, Kliet. Stay ready.” The archers waited. An errant songbird suggested the commander need not sound so dire, but, for a long time, nothing else stirred.

   Tamar saw them first. She stood a little higher and a little closer, and she knew what to look for more than the children—neither Krina nor Nerith had seen their tenth summer yet—and her eyes were still at least as good as Nasch's. She didn't move or make a sound, but by the telepathic bond between old soldiers, Nasch saw them too. He pivoted, by degrees, toward them, and the rest of the Kliet saw them too. Nerith lifted his head off the ground, while still laying down, nocked an arrow. It was hard, but not impossible, to shoot like this. Tamar saw him laying there out of the corner of her eye, and made a mental note to thrash him for it if she got the chance.

   Three goblins advanced up the creek, moving slowly, trying not to make a sound. They succeeded rather well, but the empty forest left them visually exposed. Well behind them, another group of three came over a low hill and started down the long, gentle slope to the creek. Far to the left, a third group picked its way, rather noisily, through a thick bit of brush. Only Tamar could see these, but Nasch and the others could hear them.

   These were clearly Eth's soldiers. Their leather armor was heavily studded with steel and they wore blood red woolen mantles in place of the traditional fur mantle. The wore no cloaks and carried no packs. It was probable they had collected their gear before fanning out to look for their quarry. That was the move of a commander who was quite sure of himself, not a cautious tactician. Like the Kliet, this warband carried both bow and sword. None of these had a shield. Rather than the simple kilt or leather leggings southerners wore, the warband wore heavy looking graves and thigh armor. To Nasch it was even more amazing they could overtake his band.

   Nasch was certain the warband was more numerous than the nine—probably nine—he accounted for. He had to see more for this to work. He needed a leader. Someone important, or else they wouldn't stop. “Wait a little longer. Just wait a little longer, let me see more,” he willed the Kliet band.

   Tamar couldn't wait any longer. The three who threatened to flank them were caught in a patch of briars. They had they bows slung and their swords out, and they hacked at the thorns. If they moved any farther, she'd wouldn't be able to take a shot without giving up her position. She cursed. And fired.

It is commonly believed that arrows fly in a perfectly straight path, as the saying goes, but even the novice archer can easily see they do not. One has to imagine where the arrows belong, to guess at range and elevation and wind. Tamar was no novice archer, but even she could not pretict that her fortunate target would slip and fall on his face at that particular moment. His unfortunate comrade happened to be behind him just enough to catch the dart, but rather than a clean, instant shot through the throat, it struck him on the shoulder and bounced off. He cried out.

Nasch cursed under his breath, but loud enough Nerith and Crejuht could hear. By the time his second arrow was flying he regretted that curse, because they needed all the morale he could give them.
His first shot was perfect. Eight left. Seven if Tamar didn't miss, he couldn't tell. Nerith's arrow went quite wild, and the lad decided it would be wise to get up. Crejuht's found a mark in an exposed knee, and Nasch finished the third attacker in the creek bed.

   On the right flank, Krina felt an unexpected relief to loose an arrow. She had always been an excellent shot, and it seemed very easy, now, to think of these as no different from the wooden blocks she practiced on. In fact, it was rather fun, to watch them duck and slip, dodging invisible missiles from phantom sources. Their red mantles made the perfect target. The first was easy, his mantle hiding the blood from his neck. The second was just as easy, because the fool had apparently figured out where Nasch was shooting from, and in hiding from him, he opened his side to Krina. Her first arrow caught him in the rear. He looked at it for a second, dumbfounded, then nocked an arrow and turned on her. She was already loosing another, and this time she aimed at something more vital.

   Despite her difficulties, Tamar dispatched her three with five arrows. She chided herself, thinking it should have been three, and then began to worry. This wasn't enough for the entire warband, unless Nerith was mistaken. The child might be. That thought might have been comforting, except now she saw movement again.
Tamar put it together. That entire group was just a diversion, nothing more. The real threat was no more than a dozen paces behind her, already out of her vision, and sneaking closer. This was no archer, he would engage her with a knife, then go after the rest of the Kliet... she saw it all in her head.
She fired the arrow on her string at a tree so far away it was sure to get Nasch's attention, then moved as though to draw the next arrow. The man behind her, this assassin, was not taken in. He lunged the last two paces, with his hatchet drawn to ward off a blow and his short sword straight out like a spear. Tamar barely had her sword moving, there wasn't time to fend off the blow, so she threw herself backwards, loudly breaking the branches of her cover.

Nasch loosed an arrow with such force that I drove right through the assassin's armor into his upper chest. “nice tumbling.” said.

Crejhut said “is that all?” It had the ring of a statement rather than a question. In an abstract way, Nasch found it hilarious, because at that moment the arrows started flying.

   The nine goblins they'd caught out in the open were only part of the warband. Not intentionally a sacrifice, by all odds, but less than half the group. And the leader was among those unhurt. Although most of the Kliet did have cover, they were prepared for an ambush, not a dual. And not everyone had cover. Tamar was completely exposed. One arrow bounced harmlessly off a shoulder pad, but immediately a second found a seam in her patched armor. It made a sickening, wet sound as it hit her. Nasch's head was similarly exposed, but he was more fortunate because the arrow intended for him only grazed his bald head [southern goblins have very little hair by nature].

Nerith saw the arrow that struck down Tamar as it flew. Before he had time to think about what that arrow was doing, he followed it to its source. There, leaning up on the muddy shoulder of the creek bend, was an archer, keenly watching his work. Nerith let go of an arrow, but didn't watch it fly. He was already watching another shot that seemed destined for him, and he swung behind the tree. Crejhut was launching arrows with abandon, apparently wildly, and shouting something incoherant. His quiver was nearly empty already. Krina remained hidden, apparently, because she was not yet under fire. She carefully picked out a target and dropped it. It was simple, really.

   Nasch tried to stop him. He grabbed Crejhut by the shoulder, to restrain him or calm him. Perhaps the blood that now flowed freely down his face was less than comforting for the already terrified man. One of Crejhut's arrows struck home, entirely by accident, and in a strange moment of elation, and perhaps courage, he stood up and drew his sword. Nasch tried to stop him, but Crejhut only glanced at his face before he charging down the hill toward the creek. Before anyone had time to even scream, he took on the appearance of a loadstone in a dish of sewing needles.

   The warband's leader took that as a sign his opponents were demoralized and out of ammunition, and that meant it was time for the kill. For the first time, he exposed himself so his men could see him, and drew a huge two handed sword.

Krina saw a smallish man appear from behind a tree. He was shouting something in the northern language—more than half dwarfish, that strange tongue—and wore not just a red mantle, but a great sash of the same cloth. He had to be a commander. He must also be a wealthy man, she realized, and either cautious or foolish, or very strong, because he wore a breastplate of steel and bronze. Such armor was common enough among wealthy professional soldiers, but no scout would every wear something so heavy. He even wore a heavy-looking helmet.

The armor served him well enough, because Nasch, too, saw the leader he was looking for. He put Tamar and Crejhut out of his mind, with an effort, and tried to hit this man in the thigh. His arrow bounced harmlessly off his stomach. The other goblins were all breaking cover now – no, not all, someone was still shooting – but at least a dozen were appearing from all across the crest of the hill.

Krina let out a breath and let go of the string. It twanged as the arrow flew. That cowardly commander, in all his fine gear, was quite unprotected from her. Right in the eye. There was nearly no blood, the the thing went in well past the head. The warband's commander fell mutely, like a tree tipping over.

“Run!” Nasch horsely whispered to Nerith, “run!” Then put an arrow in the exposed knee of a charging goblin before retreating himself. He didn't stop to see that three men were not crowded around their leader, perhaps trying to keep him alive, perhaps listening to his dieing curses.

   Tamar was dead. Crejhut was dead. Tolcten could be dead for all he knew.... it was just the three of them. A poorly placed shot bounced off Nasch's back just before he ducked behind Krina's boulder.

“I had a nice hiding spot here 'till you showed up!” she complained in jest. “Now they're all shooting at me!” Nerith was already running up the crevasse toward the creek, and after Nasch dropped down, Krina took time to wound another. Eight hits, by her count, three dead for certain. Only a handful of the warband were still chasing them, half a dozen, perhaps. After the two young soldiers rounded the bend to follow the winding creek bed southwards, Nasch leaned against the mud and nocked three of Tolcten's arrows. He let fly at the first face to poke around the boulder, but didn't wait to watch one pierce his upper arm, just below the shoulder plate. Then he too was running. Maybe, Nasch thought, just maybe, Tamar and Crejhut had bought enough time for the three—no, four. Still four as far as he knew—of them to make it.

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